CHILD OF WAR The New York Times Book Review called Child of War, “an earnest first novel.”  (March 17, 1985 Sunday issue) Named a Notable Book in Social Studies by the National Council of Social Studies and Children's Book Council.

All verse found in this novel is taken from the book Irish Fairy and Folk Tales, edited by  W.B.Yeats, and used by permission of Random House, Inc. Copyright © 1984 Mary Ann Sullivan All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Second Edition Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Sullivan, Mary Ann. Child of war. Summary: The war in Northern Ireland becomes a bitter reality for thirteen-year-old Maeve when her little brother is killed and, urged on by her militant schoolmates, she determines to seek revenge.    [1. Northern Ireland__History__1969__Fiction. 2. War--Fiction] I. Title PZ7.S9532Ch   1984    [Fic]     84-47832 ISBN  0-8234-0537-0

CHILD OF WAR



Come away, O human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
             than you can understand.

                                    W. B. Yeats
                                    "The Stolen Child"



CHAPTER ONE

            It was dusk in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and a cold, damp air moved through the streets as Maeve walked with her younger brother, Brendan.  She felt her cheeks redden from the cold and moved briskly to keep warm.  Several steps ahead, her brother played.

          "Maeve, watch!  I'm doing the boogie!" Raising his hands and shaking his hips back and forth, Brendan jumped on a small curb.

          Maeve smiled.  She needed Brendan's happy pranks.  "Behave yourself!" Maeve said, still walking.

          Brendan stopped dancing and ran to his sister.  "Can we stop and see Old Fra?  Please!  Please!"

       "Sure.”

            They walked the next block in alert observation.  On Sundays their father, after he had a few drinks, always took them through Fra's alley to see Fra: the oldest man in Belfast.  Fra told tales of leprechauns, fairies, and ghosts.  He also told tales of war.  Every Sunday, Fra proudly dressed in his uniform, pinning medals on it that he'd earned in the Easter Rising of 1916 when the Irish Catholics fought to gain their independence from the British Protestants.  Old Fra was just a boy when he won those medals.  He had lots of stories to tell about how he ran as a messenger in Dublin back and forth from the post office to St. Stephen's Green.

          Maeve and Brendan hadn't seen Fra in weeks, not since the fighting broke out in his neighborhood.  When they turned down Fra's alley, it was not the same.  Brendan laughed nervously and ran ahead a few feet.  A startled brown mongrel dog jumped out from behind a metal trash can and darted away.  Scores of unattended cans smelled like garbage.  Broken glass and spilled red paint, left over from a street battle, littered the alley.  There was blood on the ground.  Maeve walked over to her brother, put her arm around his shoulder, and guided him away from that part of the street. 
            But Brendan playfully pulled away from her and sang as he kicked along a piece of glass toward the one thing in the alley that was unchanged: Fra.
             In his rocker on the street, Fra wore his uniform. "Children, you be running home now!" Fra shouted when he saw them.  "Noel Connors killed a soldier this morning, and they'll be wanting blood for it."

Neither brother nor sister had heard about a killing that day; but there was an unusual silence in the alley, and Maeve, having seen the blood, did not doubt Fra.  She walked faster.

A dog yelped in pain.  The sound pierced the street.

"What was that, Maeve?" Brendan asked, taking his sister's arm.

"Go home, Maeve Doherty!" a voice warned.  It seemed to come from the top of one of the buildings.  "And take your little brother!"

That was Bridie's voice.  Maeve moved even faster.  She decided not to stop and speak with Fra.  Their grandmother would be angry if she learned Maeve had taken Brendan through this back street.  Maeve would have to swear Brendan to secrecy.  Hurriedly, she pulled her little brother through the trash and rubble.  When they reached the end of the street and turned the corner, they saw the barricade.  They saw the brown mongrel dog bleeding by the wall, its tail cut off.

"Maeve, I want to go home," Brendan said, his face pale with horror.

Maeve took her little brother's hand and turned away from the roadblock and the hideous animal.  They would have to go back the way they came.  Maeve was scared, but she was responsible.  She was the oldest.  "Come on, Brendan." Maeve ran back with her brother.  She knew about these kinds of fights.  She had often seen the Protestant constables and Protestant British soldiers shooting their guns on the streets of her neighborhood.  Passing Fra again, she and her brother stumbled through the debris.  She wanted to be out of there, fast.

Just then, five British soldiers turned into the small street, followed by an armored personnel carrier and a Land Rover filled with armed security forces.  Maeve grabbed Brendan and pulled him from the street into the open doorway of Fra's home.  It was hard to see at first, since the room was dark, cold and damp.  Once oriented, though, Maeve took her brother to a back corner of the room and made him crouch down with her.  From where she sat, Maeve could see Fra outside the door sitting in his chair.

"Do you think the soldiers saw us, Maeve?" Brendan whispered.

"Yes, but I think they're looking for someone else.” Maeve stared at Fra as she spoke, wondering if she should try to bring the old man in from his chair.  It was too risky.  What if the soldiers saw her again?  Then they might come in and get Brendan too.  Gazing around

the room, Maeve examined their options for escape.  Fra's one-room home had two chairs, a table, a radio, and a kitchen sink with two towels hanging above it.  Nothing else.  There were no other exits, only the door and a window to the same small street.  Maeve planned to stay in the comer, then, all night, if necessary.  She felt her little brother's muscles tighten and looked closely at him for the first time since they entered the room.  Terror flared in Brendan's eyes.

       "The dog." Brendan began to cry.  "They cut the dog's tail off!"

       "Shhhhh.  It's all right, Brendan.  Don't cry." Maeve rearranged her position so she could embrace him.  "Shhhh," she whispered in Brendan's ear to soothe him, stroking his hair.  "It's all right.  It's all right." She cradled her brother back and forth, wishing it were over, wishing they were home.

       "Fra, get inside your house or you'll be burning"

       That was Bridie's voice again.  A bottle crashed in the street and a petrol fire slid across the pavement, advancing toward Fra's house.  Orange-blue flames be­gan to move around the old man as shooting echoed from the street into the small chamber.  Maeve saw Fra stand up from his chair and raise his arms.  He was shot and fell to the ground outside the doorway.  Maeve watched as his uniform caught fire.  She could smell the burning cloth.

       Hysterical, Brendan pulled away from her and ran around the room frantically.  "They're going to kill us!" he screamed and cried at the same time.

       "No, Brendan!  Come here!" Maeve caught her little brother and pulled him close, embracing him again.

       Maeve herself felt numb and nauseated, unable to withstand the smell of Fra's burning body.  Maybe they should try to run through the flames.  But how could they get through without being burned?  She looked around the room again.  "Brendan, you have to do what I say." She brought Brendan to the sink.  "We're going to take our clothes off and soak them in the water." Maeve began to undress.  Brendan cried as he imitated Maeve.  They thoroughly saturated their clothes, then quickly dressed again.  "Now dunk your head under too, Brendan!" Maeve pushed Brendan's head under the water, took the two towels that hung on the wall, wet them, and wrapped one around Brendan's head, the other around her own.

       "Now stay with me, Brendan.  Don't leave me." En­couraged by her idea, she took Brendan's small hand and walked him to the doorway.  She was convinced they would escape unharmed.

       "Let's go!" Maeve ran, pulling her brother through the flames.  There was a burst of shooting, and Brendan tripped and lost his balance.  Maeve dragged him for a few feet, then picked him up and held him.  Running with Brendan in her arms, she stepped through and over the rubbish, she passed the rows of trash cans.  Finally, she ran out into the main street.  They made it!

          A crowd of people stood around, their eyes on Bren­dan.  Breathing heavily, Maeve held her brother closer as she saw their shocked faces.  She looked down.  Her brother's head was shot and bleeding.  Her brother's side was bleeding.

          "No!"

 CHAPTER TWO

Maeve lay on her bed watching candlelight move in waves around her unkempt room.  Edges of the long beveled mirror across from her, catching beams, spar­kled blue, red, green, and yellow around a reflection of her wavy brown hair.  Her dark eyes and pink lips were swollen from grief.  Three weeks had passed since Brendan's death, and Maeve couldn't forget the fire, the blood, or the smell.  She had spoken with no one.  Father O'Brian prayed over her, Dr. Michael took her temperature and pre­scribed fresh air, but she preferred the sanctuary of her room.  She cared for nothing.  She listened passively as the noises on the street floated to her second-floor window.  She cried silently, wondering again and again: What if they hadn't run through the fire?  She wished her mother were still alive. 
            Rain pelted on her window in a steady, firm rhythm, and it comforted her as her mind, weary from grief, jumped to childhood fantasies: trooping fairies were at the window tapping and smil­ing, calling her to their caves, singing in wondrous tones.  But there was another sound at the window, not rain, not the fairies, a sound that was repeated at odd moments.  Maeve sat up and looked over, yet saw noth­ing.  She stood and walked quietly to the window.  On the outdoor sill, shaking water from its feathers, a sparrow brushed its wings against the pane.  Maeve bent closer to the small bird.  It did not startle, but continued gently brushing its wings.  Beyond the bird, two stories below, puddles formed, large puddles reflecting lights from the homes all around.  Maeve stared down at the sparkles in the puddles, mesmerized.

          That's when she saw Fra, wearing an old raincoat and hat, on the street in front of her building-one of the poorest high-rise structures in the slums of Belfast.

          Immediately, Maeve dressed in warm clothes, put on her raincoat and rubbers, and ran from her room, through the kitchen, to the cold cement hallway, down two flights of stairs, and into the rain slicked street.  She could see Fra ahead, walking up Falls Road.  Maeve's whole neighborhood was called "The Falls" because Falls Road was so long.  She ran at first, but then slowed her pace and followed at a distance of about twenty feet.  Was Fra a ghost?  Was Fra offended because Maeve hadn't tried to save him?  Maybe the aged Fra was playing a trick.  Finally, at one of the small brick buildings, the figure climbed a stairway; and as he stood getting his key to open the entrance door, Maeve saw his face in the light.  It was not Fra.  It was just some other old man.

     Of course it wasn't Fra.  He was dead.  His wake had been on the same day as Brendan's.

Both had closed coffins.  Maeve stood in the rain and watched the old man slowly opening the door, walking down the hall, climbing the stairs.

     Then there was nothing.

            Nothing but dim lights and the pelting sound of rain.

       Alone and drenched, Maeve began walking to Fra's street, repeating the route she and

Brendan had taken three weeks ago.  Water soaked through her raincoat into her shirt and jeans.  Her rubbers squeaked with each step.  She could taste bitterness in the wind as her body shivered.  Again, some inner compulsion and de­termination drew her toward Fra's home.

          When she turned the corner, it was gray, black, abandoned and solitary.  Burned out.  Soot covered the brick buildings on either side of the alley. Her eyes hunted for clues as her body moved toward Fra's home.  Wooden scraps, probably left over from the rocker, lay outside the home, which was completely destroyed inside.  Obviously, the entire room had been consumed

by fire and smoke.  There was neither kitchen table nor chairs.  Ashes and soot had settled everywhere; some glass and melted pieces of plastic and metal from the radio were visible through a mound of ash.  Maeve turned away slowly, her innermost question answered: if she and Brendan had stayed in Fra's home, they would have both died.  But still, she felt responsible for her brother's death.

Two dogs barked in the distance, almost a warning, as Maeve stood in the doorway of Fra's home.  She stepped into the rain again and walked toward the bar­ricade where she and Brendan had seen the small tail­less dog.  There it was!  Dead!  Floating in a puddle of water, the dog's body had partly degenerated.  Instinc­tively, Maeve removed her saturated raincoat and then her sweatshirt.  Kneeling, she gently scooped up the dog with both hands, laid it carefully on her sweatshirt, and tied it in with the sleeves, making her shirt into a satchel.  The dog gave off a pungent odor.  She put her wet raincoat on over her undershirt and, picking up the bundle, turned back.  She would bury the dog in the cave.

Maeve had no notion of time, but as she walked through her neighborhood, she saw that most lights were out.  It was late.  No cars passed on the streets.  The rain was stopping.  High over Belfast, a strong wind was blowing clouds past the full moon.

Two blocks ahead, a faint light glowed in Lusmore's shop.  Lusmore worked long hours balancing his books and reordering supplies.  When Maeve reached his shop, she looked through the window and saw him in the back sitting at his desk, staring at the wall.  Lusmore did not have a wife, probably because he had a large hump on his back.  His small grocery shop was one of the busiest of its kind, because Lusmore kept his prices down.  Most of the Catholics shopped there instead of at the large modem super-market, which was in a Prot­estant neighborhood.  Catholics and Protestants lived in different areas and tried to stay away from each other.

       Maeve placed the dead dog on the sidewalk and knocked at the fly-specked window.  Lusmore stopped his staring, stood, and walked directly to the front.  When he saw Maeve, he smiled paternally and opened the door.

       "Maeve, wee lass, you're soaked as a white trout.  Come in and dry off.  What have you been up to that you're so wet?"

       "Do you have some matches, Lusmore?" Maeve asked, walking in and leaving the dead

dog outside. 
    "Maeve, I asked you how you come to be so wet!"
            "I've been walking."

              Lusmore sensed that Maeve was not in a talkative mood.  "I won't be asking you more then, wee lass.  I am sorry for your little brother and more for you, for surviving his bloody murder.  And you being only thirteen years old.  If it's matches you're wanting, take a box from the shelf then, by the coffee. Choose one of those pretty tins to put the matches in."

            "Thank you, Lusmore."

          Maeve walked to the shelf and picked up a box of matches.  Then, taking a few minutes, she chose a blue and green tin on which was pictured a scene of children playing in the street.  When she left the store, Lusmore was clicking his adding machine.

          Maeve picked up the dog again.  Carrying the remains in one hand and the small tin in the other, she pro­ceeded.  She knew a way to sneak by the Protestant neighborhoods.  The sky was clear now and the moon brilliant.  She walked for miles, with no sense of time or distance, down the street, by the river, past factories, over the tracks, through the outskirts of Belfast, toward the hillside and the waiting cave.  It was miles and miles away.  She smelled the wet earth and clay; she observed drops of rain on the grass, sparkling silver from the light of the moon.  Off the road, the dark cave was one mile up into the mountain.  Maeve's body seemed very strong as she stepped through the bushes and tall grass.  Only her arms ached from carrying the dog.

          Finally, Maeve arrived at her intended destination.  It wasn't a natural chamber.  It was formed from an old stone factory cellar.  The stones in one area had col­lapsed and formed a hollow cavity about seventeen feet wide and seven feet high.  Maeve and Brendan discov­ered it three years ago and called this special place their cave.  They built a little roof with spare wood and bricks.  It had holes and leaks, but they didn't care.  Brendan had been convinced that fairies lived among the rocks.  He had even sworn to Maeve that he'd seen them dancing lightly in the bushes.

Maeve crawled through the entrance, which was low to the ground and very narrow.  She left the dog outside since she knew the putrid smell would fill the small area.  Inside, she opened her tin of matches and lit one.

Candles that she and Brendan had played with were still on the walls, and she lit them.  In the corner there was some kindling and a pile of heavier wood.  She and Brendan had collected it just after they built the fireplace and created a flue. She took the kindling, which was slightly damp, and made a small tepee with it. Then she put about ten matches under her tepee to make enough heat to dry the moisture from the kin­dling.  The wood sizzled and steamed in protest at first, but soon began to crackle and catch fire.  Maeve slowly fed larger pieces of wood into the fire until she was able to add one of the huge logs.  Then she removed her raincoat, rubbers, socks, and jeans, and hung them on sticks.  Her skin absorbed the warmth as she sat on a smooth stone and watched the fire.  She had time enough to think about Brendan now, and as she stared toward the flames, her eyes caught the orange light glowing on the match tin, on the scene of children playing in the street. 
            Maeve was alone.

She cried.

After a while, she got on her knees and began to dig a hole.  She dug about a foot into the soft clay and sod.

          Then, without further thought, she crawled into the hole and cuddled the ground.  She felt safe in there.  After a while, she crawled outside, got her sweatshirt that held the dog, scrambled back into the chamber, and buried the dog quickly to cover the smell.

          The lowered fire needed another log; she placed one ­on it. 
          Maeve had been an insensitive and selfish girl lately, disregarding her father's and grandmother's feelings and staying in her room.  She would be good now and help them, like her mother wanted.

          She lay on her back over the dog's grave and looked up at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling.  She could see bits of the moon.

          The fire crackled, causing her to sweat a little as she began to drift off into sleep.  In those first tender mo­ments of slumber, she amused herself with thoughts of the trooping fairies dancing around the stones of the cave, smiling at her.  They knew where Brendan was!  She turned on her side, cuddled herself, and fell fast asleep.

          When she awoke, a lark was singing outside and it was early dawn.  Her body was cold and stiff, and her neck and upper back were cramped from sleeping on the ground without covers.  The fire was almost out; only cinders smoldered.  Maeve stood and dressed in her dry clothes and rubbers.  She decided to carry her raincoat, so she could feel the morning air through her undershirt.

She crawled out into a world covered by an unusually beautiful morning sky of pale blue, faint pink, and yellow.  There was a soft orange color where the sun fell on the green leaves of the mountain ash and the hawthorn.  Maeve tied her wrinkled raincoat around her waist.  It was a pleasant morning for her, and she walked as if her legs were a horse's, tramping at a pleasure trot through the hedges, down the mountain for a mile, until she came upon the road.

Maeve's face was red from the exercise, and she felt as if with every breath the grief she had for her brother was leaving.  Continuing at a rapid rate, she saw the river Lagan at morning time with sunlight reflecting off it.  Cars passed, but there weren't very many at this hour.  Mostly it was quiet, except for country sounds.

When Maeve did reach the city center, it was at the time of morning when workers are on the streets, wait­ing for buses, going to trains and walking to factories, warehouses, and stores.

 CHAPTER THREE

              Maeve's grandmother rushed over and hugged her.  "Maeve!  You're home!  You've come home!" She kissed Maeve's eyes, cheeks, and forehead.  She squeezed her tight again and again.  Then she stopped suddenly and stepped back to look at Maeve.  "Where have you been?"

Maeve knew she should explain everything about the dog and the cave and the fire.  She had promised herself she would be good to her grandmother and father.  But now, all of a sudden, she didn't want to.  It was too difficult.

          "What's all the noise about?" Her father entered the room and saw Maeve.  "Darling!" he stammered.  He walked over, put his arms around her, and snuggled his head against her neck.  "I was worried." His voice trembled and he started crying.  "I thought you'd been killed.  "

       Maeve felt his tears on her neck.

         "It's Brendan, isn't it, Maeve?" Her father spoke to her as he held her in his arms.  "You've been worried about Brendan."

            Maeve had only seen her father cry once.  That was three years ago, when her mother died.

       "Save the crying." Maeve's grandmother pretended to be tough and pulled Maeve's father away.  Then she spoke to Maeve.  "Now you sit right down and tell us where you've been!"

       "I can't tell you.  It's too hard!" Maeve was upset.  She could barely hear her grandmother.  She watched her father.  He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned away from Maeve.  He sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and began rubbing his forehead with his hand.

  "Just look at you, Maeve!  You're a sight for sore eyes.  Your hair needs to be combed.  Your face and hands are all covered with dirt.  Now wash yourself."  Her grandmother put a washcloth, a bar of soap, and a towel on the counter.  "I'll fix you some breakfast."

Maeve obeyed her grandmother and washed her face and hands and hair.  After she dried them with the towel, she walked to her room and closed the door behind her.  She felt different.  Her room looked a little unbalanced, although she didn't know exactly what was wrong with it.  The first thing she did was look into her favorite mirror.  Something about the cave and the fire and burying the dog had made her change.  She looked a little older than thirteen now.  While she was running home, she thought all the sorrow and guilt about Brendan's death were leaving her.  Now they rushed back into her stomach and head.  Maybe if she started to do ordinary things again she'd feel better.  She went to her bureau, opened a drawer, took out some clean clothes, and got dressed.  Her jeans were really too small for her.  The bottoms of them came to the top of her ankles.  It was embarrassing to wear them but she had no others.  She put on her white cotton shirt, then put a thick sweater over it.  She put on wool socks.  With an old horsehair brush, she began to brush the dirt from her shoes.

          "Maeve, can I speak with you?" her father asked, standing outside her door.

       "Yes, come in."

          Her father opened the door and slowly entered the room.  "You look healthy as a flower now.  Your grand­mother will be happy."

          "Thank you," Maeve said.  She put down her shoes, and leaned on the window ledge facing him.

          "You know, Maeve, last night while I waited for you, I thought of your mother." He sat down on Maeve's bed and patted the bedspread, indicating that Maeve should come sit with him.

   Maeve joined her father.  He took both her hands and held them between his large, rough palms.  "I loved your mother, Maeve.  More than anything.  For weeks after she was killed, I cried.  I didn't want to believe she was gone."

   "I remember you cried a lot then," Maeve said.  Her father looked like a little boy.  He had never spoken to her like this before.

   He continued to speak.  "Back then, I went to the grave every day.  I just sat there and listened to the birds and looked at the pretty flowers.  It was very peaceful there, with the trees and the water and the grass.  "

   More pain was growing inside Maeve.  Her father was being kind now, just for her.  He was telling her about his own suffering.  Maybe he could understand.  Maeve bent over and put her head onto his hands.  She wanted him to help her.  She began to weep.

   Maeve's father rolled her head gently onto his lap and ran his hand through her hair.  "Hush, now," he whispered.  Then he outlined her nose and ears with his fingers.  "What's the matter with my darling?" He picked her head up and held it between his two hands.

   Maeve's face narrowed.  "I miss Brendan too much!" she cried.  "I miss Brendan!  I'm the one who killed him.  It was my fault!"

   "Oh, Maeve." Her father put his arms around her and held her tight.  "Don't ever think that, Maeve.  You didn't kill him." He whispered very softly and then started crying.  He just kept holding and holding her and wouldn't let go.  She thought she saw a golden light surround them.  It made her feel warm and safe.

    "Darling," her father spoke.  "I have an idea.  Let's take Grandmother with us and go to the cemetery today!  We'll visit Brendan and your mother."

          Maeve moved away from him.  She was feeling very tired now.  But, she knew he must have a reason for wanting to take her there.  "OK," she agreed.

          "Good," her father said.  "Your grandmother should have your breakfast ready now.  After you eat, we'll all go." He stood up and kissed her on the cheek.  "Do you feel better now?"

          Maeve didn't know if she felt better yet.  She wanted him to hold her more.  "Yes, I feel better," she told him.

          "Good." Her father patted her on the shoulder, then quietly walked out of the room.

          Maeve only ate a small portion of her breakfast be­cause she wasn't very hungry.  When she was finished, she walked out onto Falls Road and up to the cemetery with her grandmother and father.

          People waved hello as they passed and said things like, "How are you?" "Sorry about Brendan." "Are you getting over it?"                  

          Maeve's father answered all their questions.

          It was about one mile up to the cemetery, and when they reached the gate, Maeve's father took her hand. "This is the hardest part, Maeve," he said.

          Her father was right.  As they passed through the gate, her heart pounded so much she thought her chest would burst.  It was hard for her to put one foot in front of the other.

     "Come on, let's not follow the path.  I know how to get there by walking up the hill and over a little bridge on the stream." He let go of her hand and walked a little ahead of Maeve and her grandmother, leading the way through trees in full bloom and grass that was plush and deep and green.  They passed a brook that purled through small rocks and pebbles.

     "There!  On that hill! Where that hawthorn is!  That's where the graves are!" Her father was excited.

     Maeve and her grandmother looked up to the top of the hill.

     "I'm running ahead," her father said.  He scampered forward like a young boy playing in the fields.

   As Maeve and her grandmother walked up the hill after him, Maeve thought she saw a blue ribbon tied in the hawthorn.  As they got closer, she saw that it was a blue ribbon.  It seemed that rain had fallen on it, and it was ripped by the wind.

   This was the section of the graveyard with no large monuments and few tombstones.  The poor people bur­ied their dead here.  There were only tiny little markers and small stones.

   Maeve saw her father kneeling by a grave and walked closer.  Her mother's grave!  Brendan was buried next to it.  Side by side.  Brendan's was a fresh mound of dirt in the shape of a rectangle, with grass seed scattered on top of it.  Her mother's grave was already overgrown with grass.  This was the first time Maeve had come to Brendan's grave since the funeral three weeks ago.

          Maeve's father stood up.
            "Look, on the tree there, Dad. There's a blue ribbon." Maeve tried to cheer her father.  She thought he might be sad.

          "I know, Maeve, I put that ribbon there last night.  When you didn't come home, I thought you might be here.  I was bringing the ribbon for you.  I know blue is your favorite color.  It used to be your mother's favorite color too."

          "So that's what you were up to last night?" Maeve's grandmother laughed.  She stood up and walked over to the tree and took the ribbon off.  "Playing with rib­bons in the cemetery.  That's a new one."

          Maeve knelt down at her brother's grave and made the sign of the cross.  Could Brendan and her mother see and hear her pray?  Father O'Brian said Brendan went straight to heaven because he was too young to commit real sins.  But her mother?  Maeve had heard so many different things from the neighbors and from other children.  She had heard her mother was a rebel and killed people.

       "Is Mom in heaven, Dad?" Maeve asked.

          "Not unless they take murderers into heaven, God rest her soul," answered Maeve's grandmother.

"Don't be saying things like that in front of Maeve," Maeve's father scolded.  Then, turning to Maeve, he said, "Yes, Maeve, your mother is in heaven."

"Don't you be telling me what not to tell this child." Maeve's grandmother was angry.  "She is thirteen years old now.  She is old enough to know the truth, so that she don't make the same mistakes as her mother.  So she don't make the same mistakes that you're making right now, being in the Irish Republican Army, the I.R.A."

"Don't say that.  " Maeve's father looked around to make sure no one was near.  "You know you could be arrested for saying the words Irish Republican Army or I.R.A."

       "Well, what would you have me say, then?"

       "Call it being a rebel like we always have."

          "All right, I'll change the word, but it's the same thing.  You're a rebel, Maeve's mother was a rebel, and Maeve should know the truth."

          "Yes, you're right." Maeve's father was angry now. "She should know the truth.  Look!  Our Catholic cem­etery!  Our dead!  For centuries we've lived with British Protestant rulers.  They took our country away from us.  That's why we need rebels, so we can win our freedom again."

          Her grandmother yelled back at her father.  And they continued to argue.  Their voices became more and more distant in Maeve's mind.  She wished they would stop arguing.  They fought like this a lot.  Her father was an I.R.A. rebel.  Her mother had been an I.R.A. rebel.  Maeve knew that much.  Maeve also knew that her mother was murdered, but she never knew why or by whom.  No one ever told her about her mother's secret life.

          When Brendan was alive, he had his own ideas.  He thought their mother was still alive and that she was a United States spy.  He was convinced their mother would one day come and save them from British Protestant rule.  Brendan thought that way because he never saw his mother dead in the coffin like Maeve had.  Three years ago, when their mother died, he was only two years old.

          Maeve remembered the night before her mother was murdered.  That evening, her mother came into Maeve's room and gave her some light blue fabric.  She said, "Make something beautiful with this, Maeve." Then she said, "Take care of Brendan."

          "OK," Maeve had answered.  She thought her mother was just going out for a few hours.

Then her mother said, "Take care of your father and grandmother too." When she heard this, she knew her mother would not return.

          Her mother walked out of Maeve's room and left the house.  Maeve couldn't stop crying.  It seemed the pain in her stomach filled the space around her.  And then it traveled outside her room.  And little Brendan started crying in his crib in the kitchen.  She walked from her room, took Brendan from his crib, and brought  him back with her so she could hold him.  She whis­pered the secret to him.  "Mommie wants me to take care of you, Brendan."

            Now, in this cemetery, Brendan was dead too.  He was under this soft ground, beside his mother.  Brendan had thought fairies played around the graves of little children to keep them company, like in cartoons, so the dead children wouldn't be sad or lonely.  Maeve looked around for hints or clues of the fairies.  There were tiny markings in the dirt.  Light markings.  She got down on all fours and began to crawl on top of Brendan's grave, looking for more signs.  She was get­ting dizzy and sleepy.  Gradually, she felt herself rise from the ground.  She rose straight up into the air!  She could see down onto herself and she could see her father and grandmother.  They were still arguing.  She rose even higher until she saw the entire graveyard and all the gravestones.  She gazed at the brook and lovely rosebushes and trees.  She scanned the people in Belfast who walked on the streets.  "Look at me!" Maeve shouted to them.  She did a turn in the air and a flip.  Then she began to float down to the earth again.  She saw herself below, lying on Brendan's grave.  Brendan was with her, crouching at the head of his grave.  He looked frightened, like he did that day in the alley.  He was alive!  Maeve wanted to lower herself closer to Brendan, but she couldn't.  She was stuck in the air; she couldn't get down.

       "Maeve!  Maeve!  Come on.  Get up.  Come on, darling.  Get up . Her father was holding onto each arm, pulling her up onto her feet.  "Are you all right?"

       Maeve was covered in dirt.  She must have fallen asleep on the ground.

          "Sorry we were fighting in front of you, Maeve," she heard her grandmother say.  "But you know your father and I always fight.  Don't put serious meaning to it."

       "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come here," her father said, brushing the dirt off Maeve.

          They walked away from the graves and this time took the road out of the cemetery.  Maeve's grand­mother walked on the right and her father walked on the left.  They were holding her hands.  Maeve felt as if she were floating above the ground a little bit.  She was glad they were holding her down.

"Are you all right, Maeve?" her father asked several times.

"Yes, I'm fine, Dad," she told him.  She just wanted things to be normal again.

"She needs some hot soup and some fresh bread," Grandma said.  "She'll be fine once she eats.  She hardly ate any breakfast."

 CHAPTER FOUR

                The following weeks were not so easy.  Despite Maeve's determination to resume life as before, she couldn't forget Brendan.  Maeve depended upon fantasies to complete the daily tasks she and Brendan used to share.  In the morning, when she lugged fresh milk home from the store, she imagined she was an ancient Egyptian carrying jewels to the top of a pyramid.  Instead of being Maeve, who checked rat traps in the flat and hallway, she was the renowned Saint Patrick, capturing evil demons and casting them into the trash barrels.  When she swept the floor and rug, she was a primitive dancer swaying her arms back and forth to the tune of  ancient rituals. The daydreams went on and on.  She bathed like a dolphin playing in the water.  She did the dishes like a programmed robot.  Every task had an accompanying fantasy.  When her father, always with a hangover from drinking too many beers in the illegal pubs, woke up and left for work, she turned on the radio and opened her math book; then the musical notes on the radio became mathematical formulas and problems to be solved.

          When it was time to go to school, Maeve shut off the radio, closed her books, and kissed her grandmother goodbye.  The streets of Belfast wore a scarier face when she walked to school without Brendan.  They looked like history-book pictures of Germany after World War 11.  She hid her tears.  Everything was dif­ferent.  Maeve barely spoke in the classroom.  Sur­rounded by broken windows and smashed chalkboards, she counted the minutes until school was out.  Before, she had pretended there was really no danger, no war.  But then, her brother was shot....

          Now Maeve realistically saw the ugly city in which she lived.  And she did not like it.

  When everyone was dismissed from school, she ran to Lusmore's, where, stacking the shelves, she became an old woman counting her pickle jars in the basement.  Flattening boxes, she was a karate expert.  Lusmore paid her three pounds a week as he always had and asked no questions.  The kind shopkeeper was proud of Maeve's rapid recovery, just as her father and grand­mother were proud.  That's why Maeve had to be secretive-so they wouldn't be disappointed, so they wouldn't know she functioned in a make-believe world beneath which there were horrible dark images and emotions.

       Maeve stayed late at school to try out for the summer choir.  While singing the Ave Maria, she noticed Rory Friel enter the classroom, remove his hat, and sit down.

It wasn't until after the rehearsal that he approached her.

"Let me walk you home," he said.

       “No, thank you, Rory." She didn't want anything to do with him.  He had a sour reputation.  "I have to stop by Lusmore's shop and work for an hour."

"So I'll walk you to Lusmore's and wait around for an hour.  Then I'll walk you home."

       "That would be foolish.  " For some reason, Rory always reminded her of the old piece of leather nailed into the corner of her room that she couldn't pull up.  His only good feature was his soft light blue eyes, but even they were hardening and creasing around the edges.

       "It's dangerous to be walking alone on the streets so late!" Rory persisted.  "I'm walking you home whether you like it or not."

       "No!" A spurt of anger streaked out of her.  Maeve wouldn't let any boy imply she couldn't protect herself on the streets.

"All right, suit yourself, then.  " Rory put on his beret.

"Walk alone!" He bustled out of the room.

     Relieved, Maeve put her sheet music on the shelf, then walked slowly out of the chorale room and down the hallway to her classroom.  It seemed Rory left his anger in the hallway air.  He was tough.  Some people admired that in him.  They said he would be a protector of the Irish Catholic people when he grew up.  Others, including Maeve's grandmother, called him a young criminal and an outlaw.

          "Please shut off the lights when you leave, Maeve." Sister Therese Jude popped her head into the classroom for a second.

          "Yes, Sister," Maeve said as she tied a book strap around her books.

          When she shut off the lights and exited from the classroom, she still thought of Rory.  His father had been in Long Kesh Prison for ten years.  Last year, Rory and his mother moved into an abandoned building on Maeve's street.  No one asked them to leave.  You didn't ask Rory or his mother to do anything they didn't want.  Rumor claimed Rory's mother was a rebel.  Was Rory training to be one, too?

          Still split from a soldier's bullet, the front door to the school remained slightly ajar when Maeve closed it. She noticed a group of boys forming on the corner of the block ahead as she walked down the school steps.  She could tell they were not boys from her neighbor­hood.  None of them was familiar.  She continued walk­ing.  Maybe they would ignore her.  Moving closer, Maeve noticed the boys wore orange armbands.  British Protestants!  She stopped for a moment.  The boys formed a line across the street and held hands to stop her from proceeding.  There was really no other way for her to go but forward.  If she turned around, they would taunt her and call her chicken.  Maeve continued walking and tried passing through their arms.

"Where are you going, you Fenian?" one of the boys asked her.

     Protestants referred to Catholics as "Fenians." They didn't even know what "Fenian" meant.  Maeve knew what a Fenian was.  She learned in her history class that Fenians were a secret group of people who fought for Irish freedom from 1858 to 1867.  They lost.

       "I'm going home," Maeve insisted.  "Now, let me pass.  You shouldn't be in this area anyway." Feeling strong and protected in her own neighborhood, Maeve tried to force her way through their arms.

     One boy pushed her back.

       Almost losing her balance, Maeve realized they were stronger.

       "Oh, this is the wee slip who murdered her brother," said an older boy, pushing her again.  "I saw her picture in the Belfast Times."

       Why was he saying she murdered her brother?  She didn't murder Brendan!

       "That's what Fenians do," the Protestant boy con­tinued.  "They kill members of their own family.  I read about it in the newspapers."

       It was an accident!  A soldier killed Brendan by mistake!  Didn't he know?  Of course he knew.  He was just being mean.

          "Look, she's trembling.  The poor wee Fenian.  We'll let you pass, all right.  But first do us one favor." The boy opened his jacket and pulled out a piece of ma­terial.  It was the Protestant flag of Ulster.  The boy held the flag up at his waist.  "Kiss the Ulster flag!  We'll let you go if you kiss it," the boy added.

        Maeve bent down, closed her eyes, and kissed the flag.

       "Now, in the name of the Orange Order, get down on your knees and say you love it and want to kiss it every day," the boy continued.

       Maeve didn't hear what the boy said.  Not one word She saw his mouth opening and closing and there was a ringing noise in her head.  Hot and dizzy, she heard herself crying out loud.  Whistles were blowing, and she could see a group of young boys, wearing berets, approach.  Rory was with them.

       The Protestant boys ran off.

       "Go follow them!  Find out what neighborhood they're from!" Rory ordered.  His voice broke through Maeve's delirium.  "Willie, you stay with me," Rory called to one of his friends as he ran directly to Maeve.

       "Are you all right?" Rory asked, out of breath.

       Still quivering, Maeve wiped her eyes.  She didn't want Rory to notice her weakness.

     "Are you all right?  What did they do to you?"

     Maeve didn't answer.

       "I saw what they did!" Rory was very upset.  "They made you kiss an Ulster flag.  They'll be sorry they ever came near you!" He put his arm around her shoul­der.  "How do you feel now?
            Maeve pulled away from him.  She didn't mind that those boys made her kiss the Protestant flag of Ulster.  Who cared about flags?  Who cared if the British Prot­estants or Irish Catholics ruled?  What worried Maeve was that those boys said she killed her brother.  How could they say that?  She didn't kill Brendan, she pulled him through the alley to save him.  It was an accident.  It wasn't her fault.

          "I'm taking you home," Rory said.  "And I don't care what you say or do to me.  I'm escorting you to and from school for the next week."

CHAPTER FIVE

            The following morning, after doing her chores, Maeve sat at the kitchen table.  Fearful images had haunted her dreams throughout the night.  In the worst dream, the Protestant boys lined up, holding an enormous Ulster flag.  They held it like a net and looked up at the sky.  Something was falling.  They wanted to catch it in the flag.  It was falling very slowly.  It was Brendan!  He landed in the flag; the boys wrapped him in it and put the bundle at Maeve's feet.  "Kiss the Ulster flag," they said, one at a time.  Maeve could hear Brendan crying.  She bent down and embraced the flag.  When she woke, she thought she held Brendan in her arms, but she held nothing.  Nothing.

       It was only a dream from which waking gave no comfort.

       "Good morning, Maeve.  " Her grandmother entered the kitchen and hugged her.

  "Good morning, Grandma."

            Her grandmother stepped back, looking at Maeve.  'Maeve, I've been telling you to take care of yourself.  Look now, you haven't even combed your hair today and your clothes are untidy.  Is there something on your mind?" she asked.

            "No, Grandma.  " Maeve hadn't told her about the Protestant boys.  It might have frightened her. “There’s  nothing. "

            "Was that Rory walking you home yesterday?" Maeve's grandmother sat down beside her.  "I don't want You being seen with Rory.  He's trouble."

       Maeve felt her stomach turn nervously.  "I know, Grandma."

     Maeve's father came into the kitchen.  His hair was messy and his clothes were wrinkled.  He must have slept in them.  "Morning, my two wee angels.  " The smell of stale liquor filled the room as he walked over to the basin and splashed his face and hair with water.

          "Morning," Maeve said as she watched her father shake the water off his face and stick his fingers into the pickled egg jar.

          Someone was coming up the stairs.  There was a knock on the kitchen door.  "Maeve, are you ready?"  it was Rory's voice.                         

      Looking carefully at her grandmother, Maeve stood up from the kitchen table.  "Come in."

       Rory entered the room.  "I've got someone with me,"  he said.

Bridie walked in beside him.  She was the girl who yelled the warning in the alley the day Brendan died.

          "Hello, Maeve." Bridie walked toward Maeve. “I haven't seen you since that day in the alley."

          Maeve's body tensed, her heart beat fast.  She could see Bridie had a knife in her front pocket.  "I don't want to talk about it!" She glanced sharply at Rory.  She didn't want to walk with him to school, and she certainly didn't want to walk to school with Bridie. "Rory, I told you I don't need you escorting me to school."

            "How are you, son?" Maeve's father swallowed the last bite of his pickled egg, wiped his hands on his pants, and extended his hand to Rory.
            “ I’m fine, thank you, sir.  I've come to walk Maeve to school."

          "Maeve doesn't want you walking her to school." Maeve's father stuck up for her.  "Why do you want to walk her, when you know she doesn't want it?"

          "Didn't Maeve tell you about the attack yesterday?"

            "What attack?" Maeve's grandmother blessed herself as she spoke.  She turned toward Maeve.  "You didn't tell me about an attack!"

       "A group of Protestant boys stopped Maeve outside the school and made her kiss the Ulster flag.  There's  no telling what else they might have done to her if I hadn't chased them away with my gang.”

            There was a silence in the room.  Maeve's father looked at her grandmother; then he made the first move.  He put his arms around Rory's shoulders.  "You're growing into a brave lad, Rory.  I'm grateful to you.” 

            Maeve ' s grandmother walked over to the pickled egg jar and compulsively closed it.  "I never thought a day would come when I'd be thanking the likes of Rory Friel.  But you've done good by Maeve, and that deserves thanks." She moved toward Rory and kissed him on the cheek.

      Disgusted, Maeve gathered her books from the table and walked out of the kitchen to the hallway.  She descended the cement stairs.  They probably wanted  Rory to walk her to school now.  Didn't Maeve have any choice?

        "Wait, Maeve!" Rory yelled.  "Maeve, don't act this way!" He caught up with her at the bottom of the stairway.

       Maeve Stepped out into a damp and gray morning.

            "I want you to see something, Maeve.  That's why I've been trying to walk with you.  It's an excuse to show you."  Rory moved closer and whispered, "Bridie is going to bring us.  It's something you need to see ... about your brother, Brendan."

            Maeve raised the collar on her jacket, shielding her­self from their presence.  "You couldn't show me any­thing I don't already know!" She turned away, wondering what they wanted to show her.

"Maeve?" Rory said.

Maeve walked a few steps and then turned.  "What?"

"Come with us."

"Where are you going?"

"The police barracks near Botanic Avenue." Rory  sauntered off.

Maeve wondered what the police barracks near Bo­tanic Avenue had to do with Brendan.  "Well, how about school?" she yelled after him.

          Rory turned around.  "Now, I ask you, what's more important, school or your brother?"

Was it possible that Brendan was still alive?  It was a closed-casket funeral.  Maybe Brendan was still alive and everyone was keeping it a secret!  "All right, Rory." Maeve moved toward him.  "I'll go."


CHAPTER SIX

Silent hatred passed between Maeve and Bridie as the three of them walked down Divis Street to King Street and onto Royal Victoria Avenue.  Since the Catholics and Protestants insisted on bombing the city center, the police had set up checkpoints on the corners of major streets where they searched pedestrians, cars, and trucks for bombs. There were no checkpoints on the streets Rory and Bridie chose, so they wouldn't be searched. Not that Maeve had a weapon on her. She just hated being searched.
     "Well, we're not going to make it to school today." Rory was trying to break the tension between Maeve and Bridie.
     "I'm in no rush to be in that school." Maeve acted tough. "It's one of the last days before summer vacation, and Bridie doesn't even go to school anyhow. So I'm sure she' not minding."
     "There's only one thing I care about, and that's killing the lousy Prods." Bridie pulled out a six-inch knife and swished it back and forth in front of her, as if she were in a street fight.
     There were plenty of people on the street at this hour. When they saw Bridie with the knife, they crossed to the other side.
     "When are you joining the rebels, Maeve?" Bridie asked, stopping for a moment.
     Maeve wished Bridie would put the knife away. "I'm not joining the rebels, ever!"
     "Never?"
     Maeve hated Bridie. She hated the knife. She hated being reminded of war. Her stomach pained her, and her ears began ringing again, like they did the day the Protestant boys trapped her.  She was getting dizzy.  She shouldn't be with Rory and Bridie. She should go to school.
     "Maeve!" Rory spoke loudly. He made a gesture to take Maeve's schoolbooks from here. "Snap out of it!"
     Maeve pulled away.
     "Maeve, get ahold of yourself. You have to stay alert!"
     Ahead, a security patrol was walking down the street in triple formation. One soldier was watching the roofs of the building for snipers, another was watching the street, and the third soldier guarded the other two.
     "Watch." Bridie became alert.  "See how a real Irish lass treats the British," she said. "Hey!" she screamed ahead. "You orange Protestants! Down with the Queen!"
     One of the soldiers heard Bridie and stared over at them. British soldiers didn't like to hear words against the Queen of England.
     Maeve grabbed Rory's arm. "come on, Rory, we're staying until you see!"
     "You don't scare me, you bloody hun, for you don't know how to shoot a gun!" Bridie taunted as she picked up a rock and hurled it at the soldier who was watching them.  It hit the soldier in the leg.
     "Halt!" one soldier yelled. Another fired a warning shot into the air. Then the three soldiers began running toward them. Maeve wanted desperately to leave. She had nothing to protect  herself with.
     Having heard the warning shot, another soldier, pantherlike, appeared from a street behind them, and just as Bridie was ready to hurly more rocks at the advancing patrol, the soldier grabbed her. They struggled.
     "Bloody Brits!" Bridie hollered as she was wrestled down and cuffed at the wrists and ankles.
     The soldier kicked her in the face.
     Within moments, the three soldiers surrounded Maeve and Rory. Maeve noticed one of the soldiers was disfigured. One half of his nose was normal; but the other half was covered with a thin film of skin, and the left side of his face was badly burned. That ugly soldier moved close to her.
     "You dirty little girl," he said, holding his rifle in front of him.  "Are you carrying a knife?"
     Rory stepped between Maeve and the man. "Don't you come near here!" he said, grabbing Maeve's books and throwing them at the officer's ugly face.
     In a quick, professional move, the soldier retaliated by shoving his rifle into Rory's ribs.
     Rory doubled over and fell.
     "You Fenian!"  The soldier directed his words to Maeve.  'I've seen you somewhere before.  I'm going to give you something you won't ever forget.  I'm gonna frisk you.  You might have a knife."  He laughed.  "You three," he ordered the other soldiers, "go help take that other little brat from here.  I've got this situation under control."
      The other soldiers ran to aid in carrying Bridie away.
     "Don't you come near me!"  Maeve raised her voice.  She was afraid.
     On the ground, Rory opened his eyes, saw the ugly soldiers' boots, and without taking time to plan, reached over and pulled him down.
     The rifle feel from the soldiers' hands.  Rory grabbed it and hit the soldier on the head.  "Come on, Maeve, help me drag him.  We should put him out of sight."  He looked around.  "There!  In that alley!"
    It seemed Rory had done things like this before. It was all happening so fast.  Maeve helped him drag the body over to the alley. Then they ran back to where Rory had left the gun.
     "Pick it up," Rory ordered.
     Maeve picked up the gun.
     "If you can, sneak the gun back to your house."
     Rory was very excited.  "Now, Maeve, you must understand, I have to go tell the boys the Brits have taken Bridie. I have to tell her parents. I'll meet you at Lusmore's in a few hours. Please understand."  Rory took a few steps backward, then turned and ran.
     Alone, Maeve stared at the weapon in her hands. She knew all about his gun. Her mother used to bring guns home and show Maeve how to use them. "You never know when you'll need a gun." Her mother had said.  Maeve knew what was inside this gun too. NATO - North Atlantic Treaty Organization -- bullets. They were used  by many countries and could be loaded into lots of different guns. NATO bullets had killed Brendan.
     Maeve pushed a lever, releasing the magazine, allowing it to drop and clank to the ground. She could see bullets in it.  She stooped, put the gun down, and began to pick each pointy bullet out of the magazine, casting them one by one into the air, against the sidewalk, against the brick buildings. She hated those bullets!
     When the magazine was empty, she flung it into the street.
     There was one bullet left: in the chamber of the gun.
     Maeve picked up the wood and metal death instrument and yanked the bolt back,, making the cartridge drop silently onto a small mound of soil. The sight of that one last dark bullet released a torrent of emotion.
     "Why me!  Why did I end up with this gun?" she screamed and smashed the gun on the ground.  If she had gone to school instead of listening to Rory and Bridie, she'd be safe; she wouldn't have dragged a wounded soldier into an alley and taken his gun. She wouldn't have seen those NATO bullets -- the bullets that killed Brendan.
     Rory's hat had fallen and it lay beside the gun. Maeve picked it up. She picked up her books. Then, arms full, she followed the path Rory had taken back to their neighborhood.
     When she saw Rory sitting on the steps in front of Lusmore's' store, not speaking, she sat down beside him. Rory was happy to see his hat and took it and held it in his lap.
     "Maeve?" Rory asked.
     "Yes?"
     "Bridie and I sort of planned this whole thing. I feel responsible that they arrested her."  He put the hat on his head. "We didn't expect there to be a fight. Bridie just got out of hand. We only wanted you to see."
     "See what?" Maeve asked.
     "That soldier, the one without a nose, he's the one who killed your brother.  He always patrols the streets near the police barracks. That's why we brought you there."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Days passed unimpressively. There were no bombings, and school was out for the summer. There seemed to be a lull in the fighting in Belfast; people walked the streets with a safer and more independent air; some children were off to Cave Hill Park on day-camp expeditions designed to intermingle Protestant and Catholic children. The summer choir met every Tuesday night at St. Cecilia's School.
     Knowing that Father O'Brian wanted the curtains made for the presbytery windows, Maeve volunteered to sew them as a summer project.  It kept her busy. Ever since she saw who killed her brother, she needed to keep busy, for she constantly pictured the Protestant soldiers' disfigured face.
     Every day, after saying the early mass, Father O'Brian gave Maeve a colorful bag of sweet cakes made by the housekeeper. On this particular morning, while cutting fabric for the curtains that would hang in the foyer, Maeve saw Father O'Brian bringing the usual bag of pastries. When she accepted the bag, she did not simply say thank you. She asked Father if she could talk with him about an important matter.
     "Such a fine lass you are, Maeve, fixing the presbytery curtains, I'd have a full day for you anytime," Father said.
     "Well, Father, could we go somewhere more private, then?"  Maeve looked around, expecting the housekeeper to peep in at any moment.
     "Sure, we can go to a special place, to the sacristy behind the old altar."  The priest took Maeve's scissors from her hand and laid them on the sewing table.  He put his arm around Maeve's shoulders and led her to the kitchen, where he removed a large, red-plated key from the wall. He stared at the key for a moment in silent meditation and then led Maeve out of the presbytery to the old bombed-out brick church that had been officially locked up for two years, ever since some radical Protestants fired grenades into it.
     When father opened the front door to the church, an animal scrambled back in the direction of the altar. Maeve assumed it was a rat. She wondered how the priest could call this a special place.  It was damp, musty, and full of spider webs. It was dark and smelled of mildew and stale smoke.
     "Come along, Maeve. This way."  Father O'Brian encouraged  her to follow him into a little room behind the altar: the sacristy.
     Maeve was surprised. The sacristy seemed untouched by the grenades or the fire they had caused. It was clean, lit by four glass ceiling windows, and furnished with plush red and purple velvet chairs, couches, and cushions. Maeve recognized the two red velvet chairs on which the bishop and cardinal sat during high masses.
     "Have a seat," Father O'Brian said, smiling, indicating that Maeve should sit in one of the red velvet chairs.
     Maeve carefully sat down, honored.
     "What is it, Maeve? Are you needing a confession?" Father asked, opening one of the ceiling windows with a long pole.
     "Yes, Father."
     "Well, then, you should be starting it off in that fashion."
     The priest sat himself in another red chair opposite Maeve and attentively waited.
     "all right."  Maeve shyly blessed herself.  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
     The priest made the sign of the cross with his hand.
     "It has been a while since my last confession, and these are my sins." Maeve looked up at the priest and raised her eyebrows. She was afraid to tell.
     "What is it, Maeve?" Have you been kissing some boys, now that you're of age?"
     "No, Father."
     "Is it your home life, then?  Have you been honoring your grandmother and your father?"
     "Yes, Father.  I'm very good to them."  Maeve didn't want to say she'd been hiding her feelings from them.
     Father O'Brian arranged himself in the seat.
     "It's my brother!"  Maeve said.
     "But your brother is dead."
     "I mean it's how my brother died."
     "In the alley?"
     "I know who murdered him!"  She immediately stood and turned her back to Father O'Brian, prepared to cry.
     "Maeve, remember this is a sacrament and take your seat."  Father spoke gently.
     Maeve turned toward the priest and, still standing, responded very quickly.  "Bridie saw him murder my brother!  And I know who he is.  I want to kill him.  I think of his face, it's very ugly.  I saw it one day when I was with Rory and Bridie. So while I'm making curtains for the presbytery, I think of how he murdered my brother and I feel that I want to kill him.   A picture of his hated face comes into my mind at night and it makes me want to see his blood running out of his body!"
     "Maeve, sit down and be calm now.  This is all very confusing to me.  What you have just said is serious.  Are you considering murder?"
     "Father!"  Maeve remained standing.  "He killed my brother, and there's no telling how many other Irish boys he killed or will kill."
     "Still, Maeve, that is not reason for you to wish to kill.  Murder can become an endless circle in that way. Someone has to stop the circle somewhere. Why don't you be the one?"
     "Father, it doesn't work like that, it's not so easy.  If I don't kill, then he does all the killing, and then it's just a straight line.  A straight line of unchecked murder!"
     The priest was silent.
     Maeve, exhausted by her confessions, sat down in the velvet chair again. Feeling fresh air on her face, she stared up through the overhead windows.
     Father O'Brian stood and walked to one of the doors that led to the basement of the church.  Maeve watched him take a brass key from a hook beside the door and put the key into the lock.  Then Father did something strange: he didn't turn the key or open the door. Rather, he removed the key and replaced it on the hook.  Apparently, Father was going to show something to Maeve, something in the basement, but then changed his mind.  The holy man returned to his seat. After a while, he spoke.
     "Maeve, do you realize what you have said is a sin?"
     "Yes, Father."
     "And are you truly sorry for this sin?"
     "I want to be, Father, but it's difficult for me."
     "This can't be an honest confession, Maeve, unless you are sincere."
     Maeve did not respond.
     "All right, my daughter, for your penance I want you to try with all your strength to develop the power within yourself to love the soldier who killed your brother.  Now you may say the act of contrition."
     As the priest blessed her, Maeve bowed her head and prayed aloud.  "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee."  She could hear an animal playing in the corner of the room.  "And I detest all of my sins, because of They just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God."  It distracted her.  "Who are all-good and deserving of all my love.  I firmly resolve, with the help of They grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin."  Eyelids low, she secretly searched for the animals.  

CHAPTER EIGHT

For a full week since Father O'Brian inserted the brass key and almost opened the church cellar door, Maeve had been curious. Not knowing where the light switches were, she first descended the stairway to the basement of the old church with a lit candle in her hand. Father O'Brian was to have brought her some curtain rods from there, but the priest had forgotten and was now in Derry for the entire day. Maeve had seized this opportunity to investigate. She had stolen the red-plated key when the housekeeper wasn't looking. It was dank and very dim in the basement. With the candle she could see only a small distance around her. Taking care not to disturb a large black spider stationed in its web between the railing and the stairs, Maeve cautiously stepped over a rotted wood step.
     She heard a faint, persistent trickle somewhere in the darkness.
     Curtain rods were stacked several feet away, and Maeve knew she should simple gather them and leave the basement. But she wanted to know what else was there. why had Father almost opened the door?  Holding the small candle high to increase her field of vision she ventured forth. Wood beam supports were rotting. The ceiling was low. The basement floor, composed of matted clay, was littered with small pieces of broken brick from the crumbling walls. The trickling sound echoed from what appeared to be a small room off to the left. Maeve advanced toward it.
     As she stood in the open doorway of the small room, she saw it was empty except for a few scattered pieces of newspaper stuffed into holes in the wall. There was also a rusty piece of metal in the center of the floor.
     The sound of dripping water continued.
     Maeve walked guardedly through the room and, bending, examined the rusty piece. It was an old gun bolt. After scrutinizing it for several minutes, she pivoted to her left. A long beige string dangled before her face. Looking up, she saw it was attached to a light. She pulled the string, and the room was illuminated. Now the source of trickling was apparent: water seeped into the basement from a corner of the ceiling. Near that corner and lower down, there was another dark doorway. With lit candle, Maeve slowly walked toward the entrance and, reminded of Christian catacombs, cautiously passed the threshold of this unknown room.
     In the center of the dark room, she lifted her candle and saw the shadows of about seventy rifles on wooden racks. Father was hiding weapons under the church! Maeve approached, slowly moving the candle over each gun in the center rack. They were standard automatic British rifles, FNs, like the one she had taken from the noseless soldier, like the one that had killed her brother. She didn't touch them. They were frozen poisonous spiders waiting to be warmed by her touch.
     On either side of the wooden rifle racks there were open metal cases that held guns five shelves high. Maeve immediately identified two tommy guns. She'd seen enough pictures of them in the hands of old and brave I.R.A. rebels; her grandfather had owned one. Maybe even her father owned one now.
     The trickling water in the next room grew louder. Each drop was like a leather beater sounding a large metal gong.  It was unnerving.
     Above the two tommy guns were other types of guns, ones with very wide barrels. Maeve recognized those as the kind the British handled when shooting plastic bullets into crowds of Catholics.
     The guns, stored as neatly and orderly as prized suits and shirts in a wardrobe, sickened her. Cans of calcium chloride mixed with a poisonous chemical were placed around the room to absorb moisture. They gave off a sharp odor that was nauseating. There was a dead rat in one of the cans. In disgust, hating the smell, the sounds, the inert wood and metal images, Maeve turned to flee from the room and abandon the basement.
    But just as she was passing through the door, her eyes caught sight of a singular, black metal submachine gun on a small gray metal table.
     The dripping water became cadaverously quiet.
     Like a crying child suddenly hushed by the sight of an unusual toy, Maeve found her distaste instantly turning into curiosity.
     She had never seen a gun of this nature before, and she walked toward it. The gun was folded compactly. Maeve lifted the weapon with her free hand. It wasn't very heavy. She had to put the candle down in order to unfold the shoulder piece. She carried the gun to the lighted room, blew out the candle, and, heedless, dropped the wax stub.
     Like a snake, a puddle of water slipped around her feet.
     The shoulder piece would not unfold. Impatiently, Maeve discovered a small button attached to a swiveling point between the butt and the extendable shoulder piece. She pushed the button, and the shoulder piece moved. She opened it out!  It was a much longer gun now, and she held it up to her right shoulder. Her right index finger on the trigger and her left hand holding the magazine, she aimed the black gun at the wall and squeezed.  It did not click.  Disappointed, she brought the weapon down from her shoulder and began to examine it more closely. She wished  her mother were alive to tell her how to use it. There was another button on the left of the gun. She pressed it and the magazine released, allowing her to examine the inside. There were no bullets in it; she snapped it back onto the gun.
     She pulled the bolt to a notch marked S, where it locked in place. That was the safety. She squeezed the trigger, but it would not budge. Unexpectedly, the bolt released, and her left hand, being in the path of the bolt, was pinched and caught by the metal. She tore her hand away, ripping the web between her thumb and index finger. It bled.
    "All right, against the wall!  I'm gonna shoot you!" Mimicking a soldier, ignoring her pain, she occupied herself with childish monologues. "Why did you kill my brother!  Why did you kill my brother?" She imagined that the noseless soldier was before her, and Bridie and Rory were with her. Bridie was flashing her knife; Rory pushed the soldier down onto the ground.
     Time passed unattended in that macabre tomb until, bored with her unloaded gun, Maeve folded it up. She replaced it on the small table in the dark room, relit her candle, and turned off the light. Then she carefully climbed the basement stairs.
     When Maeve stepped outside into the fresh summer air, she realized she had forgotten to get the curtain rods.  It was getting late, and she didn't want to go back.
     Instead, she entered the presbytery, disassembled her sewing table, neatly placed her material in the corner of the room, put on her jacket, and said goodbye to the housekeeper. She walked out onto the street. She would see if  Lusmore needed some work done at his store.

CHAPTER NINE

The Flannery brothers were secretly handing out rebel pamphlets and selling "freedom fighters" T-shirts outside Lusmore's shop. 
     "Hi, Maeve, how've you been?" John Flannery asked.  He was handsome, with dark black hair, and wore a three-piece navy blue suit.
     "I'm fine, thank you," Maeve said.
     "And your family is recovering from the death of your little brother?"
     "Yes."
     "I've some information here, Maeve, on the hunger strikers. Four of them have died already. Also, I'd be honored if you would take one of these freedom fighters T-shirts to wear at the march for the strikers in two week."
     "I'm planning to go," Maeve responded.
     "Well, then, take this shirt, Maeve, and wear it with us!"
    Maeve examined the shirt. Rory and Bridie had shirts like it too, and they looked very brave when they wore them.  Maeve wanted to be brave.
     "Maeve?"  John Flannery's voice pulled Maeve from her thoughts.
     "Yes?"
     "I don't know what I would have done if one of my brothers were shot."
     Maeve simply nodded and took the T-shirt. She pushed through the door of Lusmore's shop.  Smelling raw fish, she walked back to where the old shopkeeper religiously recorded data into his ledger.
     "Lusmore?"  Maeve's voice perforated the scene.
     "Maeve!  Good to see you, wee child."  Lusmore stood up and walked forward to greet her.
     Maeve embraced the old man, who was very warm and smelled of tobacco. When younger, Maeve had thought that if she squeezed Lusmore tight enough, the hump would jump off his back. There was a children's fairy tale about a humpback named Lusmore who sang so wonderfully in the woods that, one day, when the fairies overhead him, they magically removed his hump.

     Lusmore, Lusmore
     Doubt not, nor deplore
     For the hump which you bore
     On your back is no more;
     Look down on the floor,
     And view it, Lusmore!

     Maeve repeated the fairies' song in her mind as she held the deformed man close.
     Lusmore pulled away and walked toward his desk.  "How are you today?" I haven't seen you in a week now. Where have you been? Off with Rory and Bridie, I suppose, and helping the priest more?"
     Maeve smiled.  "Yes, I've been busy."
     "You know, I don't like Rory and Bridie," Lusmore said. "What's that in your hand, now?  A freedom fighters T-shirt?
     "John Flannery gave it to me, to wear during the hunger strikers march."  Maeve stared into Lusmore's warm green eyes.  "Are you going?"
     "No. I'll not be there."
     "Why?" Maeve had always trusted Lusmore's opinion.
     "Maeve, they were put into prison because they're rebels. They're hunger-striking because they want special privileges in jail. They want to be treated like political prisoners, not like criminals."
     "They should be treated better," Maeve said.
     "I agree," Lusmore said. "But, I don't like what they're doing."
     "What do you mean?"
     "They're starving themselves to death, Maeve!  Giving up their lives!  Four rebels have died in that prison from starvation already. It's not working!"
     "But they're heroes, Lusmore! They're doing it to show people in the world what's happening here in Ireland."
     "A sorrowful thought." Lusmore took a pocket watch out of his vest pocket and fumbled with it. "Would you go and lock the front door, Maeve. It's past hours."
     Maeve took the key from a hook on the wall of Lusmore's office and dutifully walked to the front door.
     Through the dirty glass window she observed the Flannery boys. She envied the way they were dressed.  Her old tattered gray jacket and gray pants did not compare with their fine new suits. Unlike Maeve's father, who was a milkman, their father was a respectable professor at Queen's University. Mrs. Flannery, their mother, was considered the most beautiful woman in Belfast, and she attended all the social functions; her picture was frequently in the papers. Maeve thought about her own mother. If she were alive, she would be more beautiful than Mrs. Flannery and would make beautiful clothes for Maeve.
     The Flannery brothers were laughing, punching each other on the arms, sparring. A small gun slipped out of John Flannery's pocket. Looking around to see if anyone had spotted it, he picked it up and replaced it inside the pocket of his navy blue jacket; then the brothers continued to play.
     Maeve walked back to Lusmore's office. "Lusmore?"
     "Yes?"
     "Do you know much about guns?"
     "Well, now, that's an odd questions for you to be asking. What particulars of information would you be needing?"
     "I was just looking at pictures of guns the other day, that's all, and there was one that interested me. I didn't know what kind it was. It's black, very small, and looks like a machine gun."
     "Why don't you bring the pictures in and I'll see if I'm familiar with it?"  I was a war volunteer. They wouldn't take me as a soldier because of my hump, so I carried food to the men and I handled guns. Although I'll never know as much as your mother did about guns."
     "Well..." Maeve stalled.  How could she bring in a picture that didn't exist?  She couldn't tell him that she found the gun in the basement of the church.
     "If I can't identify the gun, then maybe we can pick out the stamp on the gun with a magnifying glass."
     "The stamp?"
     "Sure, most guns are stamped with a number and code."
     Maeve didn't remember seeing a stamp on her gun in the church basement. But then again, she hadn't been looking for one.
     Lusmore opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a large old red leather photo album. "Maeve, come over here and look at these pictures."
     Maeve moved closer to the desk and looked down at the pictures in the album. There was a picture of Lusmore in a uniform dishing food out to the soldiers.
     "You look very handsome, Lusmore," Maeve said.
     "No, Maeve, I'm not looking handsome there, I'm looking ugly."
     Maeve turned the pages of the album, seeing pictures of other soldiers, and some very sad photos of half starved men and women.
     The edge of the black paper of the photo album sliced open the cut web of Maeve's hand as she turned a page. She hoped Lusmore didn't notice the sudden bleeding. She put her hand into her pocket.
     "There's no such thing as a handsome soldier, Maeve. All those young men back then joined the service to dress up in their colors and badges and hats. And the girls loved them for it and it made them feel handsome and important."
     When Maeve was younger, she had wanted to be a soldier and wear the boots and the beret and carry a fancy gun and knife.
     "But they're no handsomer than a shark's jaw when you think of what they do in those uniforms."
     "But Lusmore!"
     "And their flesh rots when they die in those uniforms, and their bones become as dry as the clay on your shoes.  It's death, Maeve. Death! Like your brother!"
     Maeve slammed the photo album shut.  "Lusmore, you have no right to talk to me this way!"  She began to walk toward the front of the store.
     "I don't mean to be so hard on you, Maeve. But you have to know!"  Lusmore walked toward her.  "It's not all just a dream of courage and braver and goodness.  It's war, Maeve, and war is death. And it's not noble. It's cheap and beggarly.  It's wretched and it's hurtful. And that's why you're hurting now, Maeve, Because someone killed your brother, and you are having trouble accepting it. Most of the time, you stroll around here acting like it never happened. I haven't seen you cry once since Brendan died. Face it, Maeve! He's dead, forever!  Death isn't something you can forget about whenever you want."
     Maeve never cried in front of Lusmore because she didn't want him to worry. She preferred him to think she was a grownup. But now her mouth trembled and her eyes brimmed with tears. Lusmore's words jarred her. Mad at the whole world, Maeve raised her arms to hit him. Terrible pictures flashed through her mind: the hot, burning alley, the wounds in Brendan's head and side. Lusmore was right. Maeve shouldn't fake happiness for him. She lowered her raised arm. How could she hit this gentle man?
     Lusmore stepped closer and put his warm arms around her. His arms were safe, like the cave.
     "Cry," he whispered. "Cry."
     Maeve began to sob for little Brendan until each tender pulse of grief swelled into terrible sorrow.

CHAPTER TEN

When Maeve finished crying, she and Lusmore separated silently. With regular motions, they began their usual chores, he making ledger entries, she stacking shelves. The routine, ordinary tasks tranquilized her as she piled the cans and bottles high and evenly. Lightheaded, she entertained herself with the company of delicate fairies. That's what Brendan had done when he was sad. He played good and bad fairies. On the shelf, in back of the cans, Maeve saw the good fairies. One was wearing a red cap with hundreds of white owl feathers. Another began to sing a song about the evil queen.

       She is so mean
       and slips unseen
       into our caves

     "Go to the door, Maeve. See who it is!"  Lusmore said without raising his head.
     The fairies became silent and stared at Maeve. They knew she had to go away. "Go, Maeve!" one fairy said. "Go!"
     Maeve stood, got the key from the wall, and went around to the front. He was young, blond Willie, Rory's friend, tapping on the window.
     She opened the door.
     "Maeve!" Willie was all excited. "Rory and Bridie asked me to come et you! They got more information!" He was talking fast.
     "What kind of information?" It wasn't easy to shift from the world of fairies to Willie's harsh reality. Maeve shook her head.
     "I don't know," Willie pleaded, jumping up and down. "They're on the steps at Rory's and they need you!"
     Maeve focused on Willie. What could be so important? More news about the soldier who murdered Brendan?  Her mind jumped suddenly. She had a freedom fighters T-shirt now. She could show it to Rory and Bridie! She could feel brave. "I have to get away first," she whispered to Willie. "Wait here!" She turned and walked to the back of the store. "Lusmore?"
     "Yes?" Lusmore raised his head.
     "It's Willie. He says Father O'Brian wants to see me."
     Lusmore closed his ledger and extended his arms, calling Maeve over to give him a hug. "OK, lass, you be on your way." He was smiling.
     Feeling a little like a traitor, Maeve hugged him back. But she had to lie, she told herself. She really did. She was facing Brendan's dea5th now, the way Lusmore wanted.  If there was something more to know about his murder, Lusmore would encourage her to find out.
     "You feel better now?"  Lusmore asked.
     "Yes." Trying not to reveal her sudden excitement, Maeve picked up the freedom fighters T-shirt from Lusmore's desk.
     "I'll lock up behind you," Lusmore said. He took the key and walked her to the front of the store. "Remember what we talked about, now."
     "Yes, I will." Thrilled, Maeve felt as she had in the basement with the gun. She stepped outside the shop and Lusmore closed the door behind her.
     "I'll show you the shortcut," Willie said, "come on!"
     As they hurried, Maeve's mind fabricated all sorts of reasons why Bridie and Rory wanted her. She felt important, like an exhausted soldier, who, after fighting for two days, had been chosen to run a message five miles to headquarters. She was honored that Bridie and Rory wanted to see her and include her in their plans. She glanced at Willie's face. He looked a little bit frightened.
     Noticing that Maeve was staring at him, Willie said, "I get scared when I do bad things."
     Maeve wondered why Willie, a fragile boy with delicate white skin and so unlike a criminal, associated with Rory and Bridie. She wanted to ask him, but this was no time to start a discussion.
     They reached Rory's tenement and ran up the cold, damp cement stairs.
     "Goodie!  Goodie! Come on, Goodie, be good!" Mrs. McBride's voice echoed off the walls as she called her cat.
     "Look!" Willie pointed.
     Preening himself, licking his front paw and rubbing his ear, the cat sat in the stairway.
     "Isn't he cute?"  Willie said, taking a moment to pet him.
     Maeve pulled him along. She wanted to see her new friends. Continuing up the stairs, they met with Rory and Bridie almost at the top.
     Both were wearing their freedom fighters T-shirts.
     Maeve trembled with anticipation as she tried to catch her breath. For a moment, she mistrusted her actions and wished she were safe again in Lusmore's shop, with the cans and jars. Why was she excited? Just moments ago, in Lusmore's store, she had been very tired.
     "Hi, Maeve," Rory acknowledged her. He tapped Willie on the shoulder. "Thanks, Willie." Then he turned his attention to Maeve again. "We were just talking about the boy who made you kiss the flag, Maeve. We found out who he is and where he lives.
     The boy who made her kiss the flag had said Maeve murdered her own brother. She hated him for that. She wanted to know all about him.
     "We're going to avenge you, Maeve." Rory spoke up. "We've got two plans. First we're gonna get the kid who made you kiss the flag, and then we're gonna get the soldier who killed Brendan."
     An abhorrent expression flashed onto Rory's face as he spoke. He looked almost like an ancient monster.  Maeve had heard a few days ago from other teenagers in the neighborhood that Rory killed someone.
     "First we'll take care of the flag boy. We'll steal a car, speed into his neighborhood, and toss a few petrol bombs at his house."  Rory smirked.  "Are you with me?"
     "I'm with you," Bridie answered and sat on the steps beside Rory, excited to hear more details of the plan.  She pulled out her knife and began playing with it, turning it around in her hands, grinning.
     "You're always with me, aren't you, Willie?" Rory asked.
     "Yes," Willie said.
     Maeve couldn't imagine Willie doing anything wrong.  He wasn't mean.
     Rory and Bridie turned their attention to Maeve. It was her turn to agree to the deed. That's why she came here, wasn't it?  Why she sped from her safe world, with her T-shirt in hand. To become one of them. Wasn't that what she wanted?
     "Remember how that boy made you kiss the flag?" Rory said. "Now he need to be put straight so he won't come into our neighborhood again or . . ."

     "Grow up to be a murderer like the soldier who killed Brendan!" Bridie finished Rory's sentence.
     Maeve did not answer. She knew she shouldn't do it. It was bad.
     "We're stealing a car from the university area . . . "  As Rory detailed his plan, Maeve stood and began walking down the stairs, away from them. It was wrong. She would get caught. Someone might really get hurt. Plus, Rory was a murderer.
     "It doesn't suit you, Maeve?" Bridie turned to Rory. "The stealing and bombing don't suit her!"
     "Well!" Rory raised his voice and began following Maeve down the stairs. "Well, it doesn't suit me that a Protestant boy made you kiss the Ulster flag! He can't get away with it!  Willie is with me and Bridie is with me!"
     Maeve turned around and looked up the stairs. Willie was nervously pulling his hair at the front.  Maybe Willie was feeling confused too. "The last time, we nearly got caught," Maeve said. "The time you showed me the soldier who killed Brendan."
     Bridie stood up now.  "I remember that time! Do you? The police kicked me." Bridie's face turned red with anger as she moved down the stairs. "Like a bag of garbage. I was taken in the police Land Rover and dumped in a Protestant neighborhood where boys pulled my hair and old men laughed at me, and I had to run as fast as I could to get out of there." Bridie raised her knife as if she were about to use it.  "But I'm not afraid of the soldiers for it. I'm mad, and more willing to harm them. We can't let them think they can get away with murdering us and degrading us!"
     "I know what we can do!" Rory said. "You don't have to do it with us, Maeve. Just watch u s!  Be the lookout!"
     "Yes, good idea!" Bridie nodded.  "Just watch! Be there with us, Maeve! It's for you we're doing it! You'll see!"
     "We'll make sure no harm comes to you." Rory moved closer to Maeve and turned her around by the shoulders. "Does it suit you now?"
     Maeve thought about it. Why was she afraid? Because her grandmother would find out?  If Maeve were the lookout, she would never be caught. What if Lusmore and Father O'Brian found out?  Well, Father O'Brian was hiding guns in the basement of the church; being a lookout certainly wasn't as bad as hiding guns. And Lusmore?  Well, Lusmore would never know.
     Maeve looked at Rory. "I'll go with you. But I'll only be the lookout."

     Rory smiled. "Good."
     "What's that in your hands? A freedom fighters T-shirt?" Bridie asked.
     "Yes." Maeve held it up in front of herself.
     "See, you are one of us, Maeve. We're a team! And wait till you see how good it feels."
     Maeve glanced at the top of the stairs. Willie sat nervously twirling the hair on the front of his head.
     "Goodie, come on Goodie, be good!"  Mrs. McBride still called her cat.


CHAPTER ELEVEN

Almost two weeks had passed since Maeve agreed to be the lookout. Now she stood across the street from Rory, Bridie, and Willie as they prepared to steal the car. "Watch only for security patrols," Rory had taught her, "scan the tops of buildings; attend the foot patrols; observe the traffic lights; follow the movements of the Land Rovers, the personnel carriers, the tank."
     Devising the plan thrilled Maeve. Excitement pumped into her body when they discussed stealing the car, tricking the security forces, and bombing the flag boy's home. But now that they were actually d