All rights reserved. This may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. All characters and story lines are the property of the author and your support and respect for this is appreciated.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living and dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This is Book One in The Bulldog, Palomino and Ratboy Supernatural Sagas.
Cover created by Rebecca Berto at Berto Designs.
Photocase images
For Marie Elizabeth Prendergast
(BIG HEART)
‘All the night are days … till I see thee’
Stuck 1907
“Poohey, what is that vile smell … it smells like … garbage … it’s disgusting!” The girl’s face falls as she suddenly realizes what the smell is. “Oh oh … no … it’s you … isn’t it!” She flaps the patched eiderdown up and down on the bed she shares with the culprit and then leaps out to stand by the closed door, leaving behind her windy sister in a fit of giggles.
The small child at the foot of the bed laughs too, “Well you know, it surely wasn’t me!”
"Sorry,” squeaks the girl still in the bed. "Cabbage does me in!"
“We are supposed to be saying our prayers … compose yourself sister. What are we up to? Ah yes I remember … If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul shall take,” is chanted in a careless singsong unison.
The eldest sister tries not to look at her littlest sister, now hovering close to her as she gets back into the bed.
“Not long to go now?” The little one asks hopefully. “Can’t be much longer? Can it?”
The eldest sister smiles kindly before she shuts her eyes and shrugs, “Course not!”
“Course not what?” asks the middle sister.
It is now her turn to sniff the air suspiciously, “I can smell cake again freshly baked, it smells delicious,” she inhales deeply. “And I know it’s not Ma baking and I am not going mad.” She slips out of bed and looks out the window. “Where is it coming from? It feels so close and comforting.”
The eldest sister remains in bed and looks up from her rosary beads and says anxiously, “It is probably the foreign woman from across the road, she’s got very peculiar habits. I don’t trust her … or him. Baking in the middle of the night on a Sunday, scandalous!” She is careful not to look at the little tot to her side.
“Ridiculous!” retorts the middle sister, “They are good people … the lady is lovely and you’re making her out to be the next Sweeney Todd!”
“I am not! Now you’re being ridiculous,” humphs the eldest.
The youngest sister resumes her spot at the end of the small bed and begins to cough, the eldest sister now looks straight at her and the middling child follows her sister’s gaze to the edge of the eiderdown and smiles nervously, although she sees nothing, just the moonlight dancing in silvery patterns on the coverlet.
“Is she here with us now?”
The eldest sister takes forever to answer, “Yes … yes she is … do you believe me?
“Yes, of course I do, with all my heart I do.” She kisses her big sister on the cheek and moves her doll in between them to share.
“Thank you for believing me, I thought I was going mad,” she squeezes the young girl’s hand.
“That heavenly scent it’s her … isn’t it … the home baked goodness, it’s part of her isn’t it?”
“Yes,” smiles the eldest, “now let’s finish off our prayers, in case we die in the night!”
“Pfftt,” replies the middle sister, “I’m not dying any time soon and if I do I will stay here with you too … I wish we could recite Shakespeare instead of prayers … so very dull! I think this sounds much nicer … don’t you think? Hark! Hark! The lark at Heaven's gate sings.”
“It does sounds pretty, what does it mean?” asks the small child, coughing again.
“It’s probably lewd and profane, Shakespeare is always lewd and profane,” snaps the eldest.
“Rubbish,” says the middle child. “It’s lovely, it means when you die your soul will hear the lark singing at the pearly gates and they will open for you, anyways … that is what I reckon it means.”
“I like it,” says the smallest child sadly. “But I am still waiting to hear it.”
“I don’t think that is the real meaning … but I like yours best,” says the oldest. She stops suddenly as she hears her mother’s footsteps in the hallway. “And now I really hope I’m not struck dead in the middle of the night, it would be just my luck.” She places her hand on her heart and rubs it as she chuckles. The three sisters laugh gaily but only two release the frosty clouds of life into the cold night air.
One hundred and something years later but who is counting … just one … the Glorious Dead, asleep for now …