The White Plague by Frank Herbert
John listened. The sounds of girls at play were gone. A masculine voice barked a one-word command in the distance, the ringing sound of a bullhorn amplifier in it:
“Inside!”
“They’re only warning us off,” Father Michael said.
“Not Brann McCrae,” Herity said. He peered into the swale and the ridge beyond it. “Follow me.” Keeping his head low, Herity ran down the shallow hill into the pines, crashing through branches, turning to present his shoulder to the worst of the obstructions.
John and the others followed. John’s arms and shoulders were slapped and buffeted by springing limbs.
“In here!” Herity called.
They burst through a screen of limbs to a small clearing with cottage-size outcroppings of granite in its center. Herity dove behind the rocks, the others with him. They lay panting on grass that smelled of dust and flint. Father Michael crossed himself. The boy cowered against the priest.
“Why are we running?” John asked.
“Because I know Mister McCrae,” Herity said.
Silence settled over the clearing, then a hissing roar sounded from the mansion’s valley. A deafening explosion erupted at the road they had just quit. Black shards of road surface and rock showered the area.
Herity looked at Father Michael. “He doesn’t cooperate, that Brann McCrae.”
John’s ears were ringing from the explosion. He put his hands over them and shook his head. O’Neill-Within had stirred to something near wakefulness. Explosions were only bombs to him, not rockets. Bombs killed your loved ones.
“You have no loved ones left,” John muttered.
“What was that?” Herity asked.
John lowered his hands. “Nothing.” He could feel O’Neill-Within returning to quiescence but there was no solace in this respite. What if O’Neill-Within should come out fully in Herity’s presence? That would be disaster.
“We must get away from here,” Father Michael said.
Herity raised a hand for silence. He stared off into the pines to the north. A limb cracked there and something large could be heard moving through the branches. Herity pointed at John’s pocket and mouthed the word: “Pistol.” Placing a finger to his lips, his machine gun cradled close to his chest, Herity crept off toward the sound, wriggling along under the branches. He was lost from view within only a few heartbeats.
John slipped the pistol from his pocket and stared after Herity. He felt foolish. What good was this little peashooter against a rocket launcher? There was no more sound of the large something moving through the pines.
Father Michael had found a rosary and fingered the beads, his lips moving. The boy had pulled his head almost completely into his anorak.
The silence dragged out – oppressive, weighted. John crept forward past the priest and turned until he could sit up with his back against the warm rock of the outcropping. The low pines were directly in front of him only a few paces away, tall brown grass in the foreground, thick green limbs beyond. It was an almost perfect screen to conceal anything outside the clearing.
A masculine voice shouted from up toward the ridge on his right. John could detect no word in the sound. He felt exposed here, set out as a target for anyone in the concealment of the trees. John lifted the revolver and cocked it. Sounds of movement in the pines – Herity?
“Yank!” It was Herity’s voice. “It’s friends. We’re coming in.”
John lowered the pistol, uncocked it and returned it to his pocket.
Herity emerged from the trees followed by two tall men – scarecrows in green uniforms, dark green berets, the harp insignia of Eire at the shoulders and on the berets. Both carried automatic rifles. Herity held his machine gun casually cradled in his right arm.
John studied the two men with Herity. They were enough alike to be twins, although the one in the lead appeared older, more lines around the eyes, skin somewhat more weathered. Wisps of sandy hair poked from beneath their berets. Their pale blue eyes stared out warily over flat cheeks and short noses. They had softly rounded chins and full lips.
The three men strode up to the rock shelter as John and Father Michael arose. The boy remained seated, peering up from the hood of his anorak.
The men stopped in front of John.
Herity said, “This is John Garrech O’Donnell, Liam. Father Michael you’ll be knowing. And this down here…” he glanced at the boy on the ground “. . . is the boy.”
The older of the two newcomers nodded.
For John’s benefit, Herity said, “This is Liam,” indicating the older man, “and his cousin, Jock. They’re Cullens, the both of them. Liam and Jock are with the eight full squads of regulars to keep watch on Mister McCrae’s fine establishment there, it being a tempting morsel for unsavory types.”
“God be praised,” Father Michael said. “Nothing must harm those young women.”
Liam glanced at Father Michael, a heavy-lidded stare full of animosity. Seeing it, John wondered at this show of anger. There were undercurrents here that troubled John. Herity knew these two men. They knew Father Michael. The priest’s early question was appropriate. Why had they come this way?
“The Arrrmy be praised,” Jock said, a heavy burr in his voice.
He doesn’t sound Irish, John thought.
As though he read John’s mind, Herity said: “Doesn’t he have a wonderful sound in him, our Jock? He’s one of the Catholic Scots from Antrim, John.”
“Leave be,” Liam said. “You knew that road was off-limits, Joseph. Why do you tempt McCrae and his rocket launcher?”
“To use up his ammunition,” Herity said, a chuckle in his voice.
“Aren’t you the funny man!” Liam said.
“Not as funny as you nor as sharp,” Herity said.
“We’ve a sort of agreement with McCrae and you know it,” Liam said. “Those girls down there must be preserved, no matter that they’re in McCrae’s dirty hands.”
Father Michael moved suddenly, stationing himself beside John. “What’re you saying, Liam Cullen?”
“Stay out of this, Priest,” Liam said. He glanced at his cousin. “Go back and tell the others it’s all secure here. They can inform Mister McCrae it’s only innocent pilgrims on his road.”
Jock turned away. His green-clad form appeared to melt into the pines. Soon, even the sound of him vanished.
Father Michael was not to be put off. “Dirty hands, you said, Liam Cullen. What have you seen?”
“Well, there’s two of the older girls pregnant, and that’s for sure,” Liam said.
“Does McCrae have a priest with him?” Father Michael demanded.
“As to that,” Liam said, “Mister McCrae no longer holds with your Church.”
Father Michael shook his head from side to side.
Herity had watched this exchange with unconcealed amusement. He turned now to Liam: “Do you have a head count yet?”
“Not to be certain, but we’ve identified nine older women and there’s maybe thirty of the younger ones.”
“Where did they all come from?” John asked.
“Oh, that we know,” Herity said. “Our Mister Brann McCrae scooped up the young ones at the first sign of trouble. The luck of the devil, he had. Not a sick one in the lot. As to the older ones…” Herity looked at Liam.
“They’ve been with him for years.”
“What do you mean, scooped?” John asked.
“He told the parents they was to be hidden away safe from the plague,” Liam said. “And that’s true enough.”
“Only the one man?” John asked.
Liam nodded.
“I must speak to him,” Father Michael said.
“You’ve nothing to say to him, priest, that he wants to hear,” Liam said. “McCrae and his women are followers of the Druid religion now, so they say.”
“Another blasphemy!” Father Michael glared at Liam. “You said you’ve an agreement with him. You speak to him. You told Jock…”
“W
Father Michael ignored this thrust, keeping his attention on Liam. “Unless you arrange for me to speak to him, I’ll give you the opportunity to shoot me in the back as I go down there. I’ll not have their souls in hell!”
“Well, why not?” Liam asked. “The priest talking to Mister McCrae, that’d provide a bit of sport for my boys. It’ll be on a field telephone you talk to him, and that at least five hundred meters from his perimeter. You can’t go nearer. If it’s only talk you want, we can provide the means. If y’ mean to confront him in person, though, you’ll get your bullet… in the back or anywhere else we care to shoot.”
“When will you arrange this?” Father Michael asked. He sounded calmer.
“Tonight.”
Liam turned away and strode toward the trees. “Keep your heads down as we come level with the road. We’ve shelter beyond the ridge where you can wait.”
As the others followed Liam, John brought up the rear, dodging the whipping branches, ducking for the larger ones. Pine needles clung to his yellow sweater. He could feel them in his hair. Spiderwebs bridged some of the passages. He brushed them away, feeling then for the small pistol in his pocket.
While they were concentrating on the priest, another person might slip away and approach McCrae’s château. This thought filled his mind with confusion. Herity would know for sure who John O’Donnell was then.
But who am I?
He heard a ringing in his ears and wondered if he was going to faint. John O’Neill wanted no women to survive in Ireland. There were women at the château.
He heard Herity and Liam Cullen arguing up ahead. Liam’s voice lifted suddenly:
“You’re a fool, Joseph Herity! Always have been. You’ve exceeded your orders the same way you did that other time. I’ve warned you before and I’ll warn you again: You’ll not endanger my charges!”
Herity replied in a voice inaudible to John, but John was not listening. Orders? What orders?
He felt an extreme caution. What was going on here? O’Neill-Within could be felt there, questioning, crouching, listening. This march across the Irish countryside was not what it appeared to be. How long had they been about it now? More than a month. Why so long to get from one place to another? Why the detours and the ramblings along byways with Herity saying they had to go only the safest routes?
Gannon had sensed something wrong. Was Gannon’s assessment correct?
If we depend exclusively on defense measures, we shall increasingly behave like hunted creatures, running from one protective device to another, each more complex and costly than the one before.
– René Dubos
“THIS CASTLE’S haunted,” Kate whispered. She shivered next to Stephen in bed, glad for once that the slight inward curvature of the mattress forced them to snuggle close together all night.
“Shush,” Stephen whispered. “It’s no such thing.”
It was dark in the original pressure chamber from Adrian Peard’s research laboratory and there was only an occasional shuffling of feet or a cough from the night guard outside.
“It is, I say!” Kate whispered. “My grandmother could tell when ghosts were about, and I’ve inherited it. This is an evil place.”
“It’s keeping you safe from the plague,” Stephen said, his voice louder. He had given up trying to go to sleep for now. Kate in this mood would not be mollified.
“The ghosts want me,” Kate said. “I’ll not leave this place alive.” She took one of Stephen’s hands and placed it on her abdomen. “And this poor child shall not come alive into the world.”
“Kate, stop it!” he said.
She went on as though she had not heard. “There’s fighting among the soldiers here, Stephen. Evil spirits cause that and we both know it!”
“We know nothing of the kind!”
“You heard about Dermott Houlihan and Michael Lynskey. Them raging because of the memory-sound!”
“We’ve asked them to stop using women announcers on the wireless,” Stephen said.
“Dermott saying the woman on the wireless had the exact sound of his dead Lileen and Michael saying, no, it was the sound of his Peg. I heard Moone describing it, Stephen, and there’s no escaping that! Them fighting there and rolling on the floor, bloodying each other, tears running down their cheeks all the while.”
“But afterwards, Katie darling, they went off to the saloon bar arm in arm. Remember that. ‘O, it was a grand fight,’ they said.”
“It’s a madness,” Kate said.
“That’s as may be, Katie.”
“Don’t call me Katie! I’m not a child!”
“Darlin’, I’m sorry.” He put out a hand to soothe her but she thrust him away.
“It’s ghosts,” she said, her voice hushed. “There’s no women now to lay out the corpses. The faeries are causing the ghosts. Oh, the faeries are getting many souls now.”
“Kate, you must stop this. It’s not good for the baby.”
“This whole world’s not good for my baby!”
“It’s just the lateness of the hour, Kate. It must be three or four of the morning.”
“The great cost, that’s what’ll do it,” she said. “They’ll tire of paying to keep us here and we’ll be turned out into the plague.”
“I’ll crab the man who tries!” Stephen said.
“And how could you stop them? With that little pistol?”
“I’d find a way!”
“Stephen, what if there is no cure?”
“Kate, you’re crazed,” he said. “No cure? Why… why…” Stephen broke off, unable to call up a thing terrible enough to put down such a thought.
“They’ll not even give me a fine funeral,” Kate said. “There’s no priests.”
“There are priests.”
“Then why can’t they find one to marry us?”
“They’ll find one. You heard Adrian. They’re looking for this Father Michael Flannery right this very instant.”
“The middle of the night, looking for a priest? They only do that when they need the last rites. And that’s what I’ll be needing before long.”
Stephen remained silent. Kate in this mood daunted him. And her talking of faeries! She was almost a nurse. Faeries! What a nonsense.
“Where’s the flying column can free us from this misery?” Kate whispered.
She was thinking about her father, Stephen realized. Flying columns! That had been her father’s recurrent plaint, so she’d told him.
“We used to go to the horse fair whenever there was one near enough,” Kate said. “Once, we went to the Dublin Horse Show. I was so small he had to hold me up in his arms for me to see. It was so exciting!”
She shouldn’t be talking about the Dublin Show, Stephen thought. She knows what happened there after the plague and the quarantine. She’ll be on to that next.
“They’ll find a cure, Kate,” he said. “And we’ll be worrying about schools for our children, where best to send them.”
“It’s only one child in me, Stephen, and too early to be talking of schools.”
“They’re reconstituting St. Enda’s school,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be grand, a child of ours at…”
“They’re idiots!” she said, her voice fierce. “As though they could call up the spirit of Patrick Pearse to bless us. Beware when you call up spirits! That’s what my grandmother always said.”
“It’s only a school, Kate.”
“What a terrible fantasy to wish upon us!”
“I’ll speak to Adrian again about the priest,” he said.
“A fat lot of good it’ll do. He has us where he wants us. He doesn’t care if my soul burns in hell.”
“Kate!”
“All that’ll be left of me here will be one of those little brass plates on the memorial at Glasnevin – ‘to the heroines of Ireland, may their memory
How like her! he thought. Fill me full of her fears, full awake, then we’re to go to sleep!
Ireland was warped by the Penal Laws. The English forbade us our religion, forbade us any form of education – then dared to call us uneducated! We could not enter a profession, nor hold public office, nor engage in trade or commerce. We couldn’t live in or within five miles of a corporate town! We couldn’t own a horse of greater value than five pounds, couldn’t own or lease land, nor vote nor keep arms nor inherit anything from a Protestant! We couldn’t harvest from the rack-rented lands any profit exceeding a third of the rent. The law compelled us to attend Protestant worship and forbade the Mass. We paid double to support the militia that suppressed us. And if a Catholic power did harm to the state, we paid for it! You wonder we still hate the British?
– Joseph Herity
HERITY AND Liam Cullen stood in a clearing below the sheep-grazed meadowland that fronted Brann McCrae’s great house, aware that they were watched by John about a hundred meters above. The two men appeared to be admiring the dusk as it crept down the hills toward the valley and the château. Swallows dived after insects in the orange light above the men. Somewhere off in the trees, a soldier could be heard playing a flute – a thin and haunting sound in the gloaming. The air smelled of pines and trampled grass.
“He’s up there watching us right now,” Liam said, his voice low.
“I saw him. You’ve posted good shots along the way?”
“You think I’m foolish enough to tempt fate the way you do?”
“They’re to bring him down, not kill him, hear?”
“I’m one who obeys his orders, Joseph.” Liam glanced back up at John, then looked at the valley. “Is he the one?”
“Sometimes I think he is and sometimes I’m sure he’s not. They’ve no help for us Outside, the Panic Fire and all. He could be the one and he couldn’t. There’s nothing left where he lived, that little town – the wart on a pig’s ass, and no one remaining there to tell us.”