Excerpt from Bury the Living by Jodi McIsaac

Nora tagged along with the group, half-listening to the tour guide and craning her neck for anything that might remind her of Thomas or her dreams. They watched a short film about the history of the jail and some of its more prominent prisoners, but Thomas wasn’t among them. Then they toured the old section of the prison, three floors of claustrophobic corridors, cramped cells, and peeling paint. As they rounded a corner, Nora noticed something written in large block letters on the wall above a barred window: “Beware of the risen people that have harried and held, ye who have bullied and bribed.” 

Nora shivered, frozen in place for a moment, then hurried to catch up with the group. She listened as Liz told them about the dark, desperate years of the Great Famine, when people would purposefully commit crimes in front of the authorities. They knew they were guaranteed at least one meal a day in prison, which was better than starving to death on the outside. 

How bad must it have been, to want to come to this place? 

Next they were onto the East Wing, which Nora recognized from the film In the Name of the Father. The soaring ceiling gave it an open, airy feeling that reminded her of a cathedral. It was shaped like a horseshoe, with cell doors all around the outer edge on three levels. An iron staircase descended from the third floor down to the main level, where they stood. Liz explained that this layout had allowed the wardens to see every single cell at once. Nora craned her neck with the rest of the tourists, scanning the three floors to see if this was true. Then her eyes fell back on the iron staircase, and her hands flew to her mouth. 

Dozens of women were descending the staircase, but not willingly. Soldiers dragged them by their hair, slamming their heads against the iron rails as they pulled them down. One of them landed at Nora’s feet, and she stepped back, nearly colliding with the man standing behind her. The woman on the floor looked up at Nora, blood running into her eyes. Her lips were clenched together. As Nora watched, the woman rose and charged at the staircase, only to be tackled and wrestled to the ground. 

Nora spun around wildly to see if anyone else was observing the same thing. Perhaps it was a special effect, some part of the tour. But no one else seemed to notice the women piling up at their feet. They were all either listening to Liz or blandly surveying their surroundings. When she looked back at the staircase, the women were gone.

Nora closed her eyes tightly. Her breath was ragged and shallow, and she struggled to control it. What the hell was that? The group was dispersing to look inside some of the cells, but the tour guide came toward Nora. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly. 

“I . . . I . . .” Nora stammered. “I just thought I saw some women on the staircase, that’s all. Must have been a trick of the light.” Liz looked at her thoughtfully. “This place has a long and tragic history. You’re not the first visitor to get a glimpse of the past. I don’t often say this in my tours, but I believe some of the inhabitants of Kilmainham have never left.” Nora smiled awkwardly. “I think . . . I’m just tired,” she said, pulling her arms close to her chest. The bright sunlight shone through the large skylights in the ceiling, but it did nothing to dispel the chill she felt deep inside. She cast a nervous glance back at the staircase, then meandered over to one of the open cells. Carved into the doorframe were the words, “The Manse.” Who had carved that, and why? She stepped inside. It looked as if it had been recently whitewashed. A small window was set into the far wall, a good distance above her head. It let in a tiny ray of sunlight. Nora stood in the beam of light, willing it to warm her. 

“Creepy place, isn’t it?” asked a middle-aged woman who had entered the same cell. 

“Oh, aye,” Nora answered.

“Are you a local?” the woman asked in an American accent, a delighted look on her face. 

“No. I’m from Belfast.” 

“Oh, I see,” the woman said, looking concerned. “Do you know anyone who’s been bombed?”

 

“What?” “They told us we shouldn’t go to Belfast because of the bombs. Have you been bombed?” 

“No,” Nora said, turning away. 

“Well, that’s good,” the woman answered. She continued gazing around. “I wonder who was kept in this cell.”

 “Annie Humphreys,” Nora answered without thinking. How did she know that? And yet it was true; she was sure of it. 

“Oh, you’ve done the tour before!” 

Nora turned around slowly. Her eyes skimmed over the woman’s excited face and kept turning, taking in the four walls of the cell. “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t.” What was going on? First the women on the stairs, then this. Was her mind even her own anymore? She pushed past the woman back into the open atrium, where she found Liz. 

“Do you recognize this man?” she asked, showing her the photograph of Thomas Heaney. “I’m wondering if he was a prisoner here.” 

Liz examined the picture closely and then turned it over to read the inscription. She handed it back, shaking her head. “I don’t recognize him, no. But there were hundreds of political prisoners here in the early nineteen hundreds. Was he a relative of yours?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Well, once the tour is over you can ask the museum staff; they might be able to help you.” Turning away, Liz called out to the rest of the group, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve one more stop on our tour.” Nora followed her through a narrow doorway and down a claustrophobic corridor, her fingers trailing the stone walls. Liz opened a door and motioned for Nora and the others to step outside.

This is it. She knew it with the same unshakable surety with which she’d known so many impossible things lately. It was the courtyard she’d visited last night in her dream. 

She stepped into the center of a stone yard, surrounded on all sides by thick, windowless walls rising at least thirty feet high. She spun in a slow circle as the tourists milled around her. The highest branches of a single tree waved just above the wall, a taunting reminder of the world outside this cold monolith. A small cross, only a foot tall, stood at one end. She held her breath and waited, looking for some vision or sign that would guide her next steps. But there was only the sound of Liz’s voice as she explained the significance of the yard. Once used for hard labor, it was the site of the 1916 executions that had fanned the flames of the War of Independence. 

Is this where Thomas Heaney was killed? 

She walked slowly around the yard, touching the stone walls, listening for a voice from the grave. “Thomas?” she whispered. 

Nothing. She was the last to leave when Liz directed them back into the museum. Disappointment settled in her stomach. She took one last glance back at the empty courtyard before the door closed behind her. 

The museum was fascinating, two floors of informational plaques and glass-covered displays containing everything from old prison locks to playing cards to heartfelt letters prisoners had written before their execution. But there was no indication Thomas Heaney had ever been here. As she wandered through the brightly lit room with other tourists, the tension in her gut lessened slightly. 

She bent over to examine a collection of small autograph books. The sign beside the glass cabinet said the prisoners would sign each other’s autograph books as a way of commemorating their time behind bars. Nora peered in closely, examining the books lying open under the glass and reading the poems and slogans that filled the pages. 

“How are you feeling now?” Liz asked from behind her. “Any more visions?”

Nora swiveled around. “No.” She hesitated before saying, “But I did have the impression that I knew whose cell I was standing in earlier. A woman named Annie Humphreys. I don’t know why—the name just came to me.” 

Liz raised her eyebrows. “Annie Humphreys? She was here during the Civil War. Have you read about her?” 

Nora shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her before. It was just a feeling.” “How interesting,” Liz said, her dark eyes fixed on Nora. “I believe that some people are more sensitive to the spiritual realm, if you don’t mind me saying so. Maybe some of those who have passed on are trying to speak to you.” 

Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope not. The dreams were maddening enough. Did this mean she was to start having visions of the dead in the daytime, too? “I should get going.” 

She stumbled past the rest of the displays and squeezed through a group of German tourists who were clogging up the entryway. Once outside, she walked briskly to the bus stop. 

Go to Kildare. 

“Fine,” she said out loud, startling the man standing next to her. Maybe going to Kildare was the only way she’d find answers. Then she could get back to her life and forget this madness. 

Excerpted from BURY THE LIVING © Copyright 2016 by Jodi McIsaac. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

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About the book

“McIsaac puts plenty of history and a little fantasy and romance into this entertaining time travel tale. McIsaac has an undeniable talent for immersing the reader in the plight of the Irish in the 1920s, at the height of the Irish Civil War. Comparisons to Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series are inevitable.” —Publishers Weekly

Rebellion has always been in the O’Reilly family’s blood. So when faced with the tragic death of her brother during Northern Ireland’s infamous Troubles, a teenage Nora joined the IRA to fight for her country’s freedom. Now, more than a decade later, Nora is haunted by both her past and vivid dreams of a man she has never met.

When she is given a relic belonging to Brigid of Kildare, patron saint of Ireland, the mystical artifact transports her back eighty years—to the height of Ireland’s brutal civil war. There she meets the alluring stranger from her dreams, who has his own secrets—and agenda. Taken out of her own time, Nora has the chance to alter the fortunes of Ireland and maybe even save the ones she loves. In this captivating and adventurous novel from Jodi McIsaac, history belongs to those with the courage to change it.

About the Author

Jodi McIsaac is the author of several novels, including A Cure for Madness and the Thin Veil Series. She grew up in New Brunswick, on Canada’s east coast. After abandoning her Olympic speed skating dream, she wrote speeches for a politician, volunteered in a refugee camp, waited tables in Belfast, earned a couple of university degrees, and started a boutique copywriting agency. She loves running, geek culture, and whiskey.

Links

Website: http://www.jodimcisaac.com/

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Twitter: @jodimcisaac