Read Online Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) by Jodi McIsaac - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jodi McIsaac
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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
“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
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