Page 11 - Archangel

and daft as Sean in a Godly way. Saved my brother’s life more than once,
you did. You two dreamers saving thousands of others while up to your
arses in their shite. You were a better brother than I was, or they would be”,
motioning toward the two sentries that Skye finally registered as spitting if
stouter images of Sean.
Suddenly remembering a major character in Sean’s family
remembrances and letters, Skye mumbled in exhausted
recognition, “Rory?”
Sean’s oldest brother turned his glance away from the grave destined
to soon swallow his sibling, softened his stare and admitted, “The same.
Sean mentioned the fire in your eyes which could back off butchers, even
unarmed.” Throwing caution to the wind, he spat , “And it’s that fire
I’m counting on. Sean was a saint, as good as a priest and 10 times more
useful with his medical skills. I imagine he ‘saved’ thousands. Got practice
patching us up he did, when we caught an English bullet here and there
before he left this insanity,” motioning toward the blazing Belfast skyline
in the distance.
Rory mused, “Versus myself and my two brothers here, who like me are
probably headed to Hell. But not before all of Ireland is free – and united.
We should be the ones whose pieces they pour into that hole behind you,
not Sean’s.”
Unapologetically, he posed, “Ack, the unfairness of life which leads three
murderers, if the English fascists are to be believed, to ask another favor of
the humanitarian hero. When he’d already saved our Sean twice and more,
at the threat of his own death, he did. And has just now brought what was
left of our family’s finest back to us – in a fuggin’ jar.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Skye inquired, yet offering little
help to blunt the obvious despair of a family broken - hearted and focused
with the resolve of three grieving killers. His own heart barely fueled his
breathing through the sadness and Northern Ireland torrents.
“So ‘What now’ MacIain?” Rory repeated. “We’ve come to beg for your
help to find who did this to our Sean, your Sean. A name, a lead, anything
which will lead us to the bastards who stole hope, goodness and Godliness
from our lives. We’ll take it from there, we will.”
In hearing these words, something snapped in Skye – either a puzzle
piece falling into place, or a fracture of the wounded soul which may
never heal.
The Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA) commander continued,
“In return? I and my brothers pledge to help you in any way you need, no

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