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Authors: Frank Herbert
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with its thick smells of wet wool and beer. Mulvaney’s, a two-story whitewashed building with slate roof and three massive chimneys, was one of the island’s natural assembly points. It was soon crowded with men talking too loudly, their faces angry, their gestures abrupt and latent with violence.
A small Garda patrol car pulled up outside, bringing a lull in the conversations as the word of it was spread through the bar. Denis Flynn, the local Garda, emerged from the car. Flynn, a small blond man with light blue eyes and a boyish face, appeared pale and trembling. Way was made for him as he entered the bar, pressed through the crowd to the western end and climbed onto a chair.
In the expectant silence, Flynn’s voice was a thin tenor, which broke in unexpected places. “We’ve been quarantined,” he said. “They’re sending medical teams by helicopter. No one is to enter or leave the island except the medical people and officials.”
In the sudden babble of shouted questions, Flynn raised his voice to demand silence, then: “We’ll just have to be patient. Everything’s being done that can be done.”
Mulvaney, a soft giant of a man with a bald head as shiny as his polished bar, thrust his way through the crowd to stand below Flynn. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, Mulvaney said: “It’s my Molly sick back there and only the one doctor. I want to know what it is.”
“I’m only the Garda,” Flynn said. “It’s the medical men will have to answer that.”
Mulvaney glanced out the windows beyond Flynn, looking toward Knockmore and the village of Droega, which lay hidden beyond the hills in the hollow that protected it from the worst of the Atlantic gales. His brother, Francis, had called from there not ten minutes ago to report another death, his voice full of the tears as he spoke.
Turning a hard stare up at Flynn, Mulvaney said: “Your womenfolk are living safe beyond Mulrany. You can take the official view. But it’s my sister-in-law, Shaneen, died this morning.”
A man back in the press of people shouted: “And my Katie has the sickness! We want answers, Flynn, and we want them now!”
“I’ve told you what I know,” Flynn said. “That’s all I can do.”
“What’s this about officials coming?” Mulvaney demanded.
“From the Health Office in Dublin.”
“Why do they have soldiers barring our way?” someone else demanded. “They’ve even guns up on Corraun!”
“There’s no need to create a panic,” Flynn said. “But it’s a serious matter.”
“Then why do we not hear it on the wireless?” Mulvaney asked.
“Haven’t I said we don’t want a panic?”
“It’s the plague, isn’t it?” Mulvaney asked.
An abrupt silence settled over the room. A small dark man with pinched features, standing at Flynn’s right, cleared his throat.
“There’s our own boats,” the man said.
“There’ll be none of that, Martin!” Flynn snapped, glaring down at the speaker. “The navy’ll be here in a few minutes to collect your boats. My orders are to prevent your leaving Achill… using what force necessary.”
His voice hoarse, Mulvaney asked: “Are all of our womenfolk to die then? Nineteen dead since yesterday and only the women and girls. Why is that, Denis?”
“The doctors will find the answer,” Flynn said. He jumped down off the chair, steadying himself against Mulvaney, but not looking the man in the eye. Flynn’s own superintendent had voiced that same fear less than an hour earlier, speaking with gentle firmness over the telephone.
“If all the women die there it could be very bad, Denis. And there’s talk it was done deliberately. You’re not to speak of that now!”
“Deliberate? By the Ulstermen or the British?”
“I’ll not discuss it, Denis. I speak only to impress you with the gravity of our situation. You there inside the quarantine will be alone for a bit to represent authority. We depend on you.”
“Will I get no help
A small Garda patrol car pulled up outside, bringing a lull in the conversations as the word of it was spread through the bar. Denis Flynn, the local Garda, emerged from the car. Flynn, a small blond man with light blue eyes and a boyish face, appeared pale and trembling. Way was made for him as he entered the bar, pressed through the crowd to the western end and climbed onto a chair.
In the expectant silence, Flynn’s voice was a thin tenor, which broke in unexpected places. “We’ve been quarantined,” he said. “They’re sending medical teams by helicopter. No one is to enter or leave the island except the medical people and officials.”
In the sudden babble of shouted questions, Flynn raised his voice to demand silence, then: “We’ll just have to be patient. Everything’s being done that can be done.”
Mulvaney, a soft giant of a man with a bald head as shiny as his polished bar, thrust his way through the crowd to stand below Flynn. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, Mulvaney said: “It’s my Molly sick back there and only the one doctor. I want to know what it is.”
“I’m only the Garda,” Flynn said. “It’s the medical men will have to answer that.”
Mulvaney glanced out the windows beyond Flynn, looking toward Knockmore and the village of Droega, which lay hidden beyond the hills in the hollow that protected it from the worst of the Atlantic gales. His brother, Francis, had called from there not ten minutes ago to report another death, his voice full of the tears as he spoke.
Turning a hard stare up at Flynn, Mulvaney said: “Your womenfolk are living safe beyond Mulrany. You can take the official view. But it’s my sister-in-law, Shaneen, died this morning.”
A man back in the press of people shouted: “And my Katie has the sickness! We want answers, Flynn, and we want them now!”
“I’ve told you what I know,” Flynn said. “That’s all I can do.”
“What’s this about officials coming?” Mulvaney demanded.
“From the Health Office in Dublin.”
“Why do they have soldiers barring our way?” someone else demanded. “They’ve even guns up on Corraun!”
“There’s no need to create a panic,” Flynn said. “But it’s a serious matter.”
“Then why do we not hear it on the wireless?” Mulvaney asked.
“Haven’t I said we don’t want a panic?”
“It’s the plague, isn’t it?” Mulvaney asked.
An abrupt silence settled over the room. A small dark man with pinched features, standing at Flynn’s right, cleared his throat.
“There’s our own boats,” the man said.
“There’ll be none of that, Martin!” Flynn snapped, glaring down at the speaker. “The navy’ll be here in a few minutes to collect your boats. My orders are to prevent your leaving Achill… using what force necessary.”
His voice hoarse, Mulvaney asked: “Are all of our womenfolk to die then? Nineteen dead since yesterday and only the women and girls. Why is that, Denis?”
“The doctors will find the answer,” Flynn said. He jumped down off the chair, steadying himself against Mulvaney, but not looking the man in the eye. Flynn’s own superintendent had voiced that same fear less than an hour earlier, speaking with gentle firmness over the telephone.
“If all the women die there it could be very bad, Denis. And there’s talk it was done deliberately. You’re not to speak of that now!”
“Deliberate? By the Ulstermen or the British?”
“I’ll not discuss it, Denis. I speak only to impress you with the gravity of our situation. You there inside the quarantine will be alone for a bit to represent authority. We depend on you.”
“Will I get no help
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