The Walls of Jericho

Belfast

It’s raining when I wake.

Not a light mist or even a steady downpour.

It’s a drenching, soak-you-to-the bone kind of rain that has the little hostel’s drains rushing noisily with rooftop run-off and the street gutters visible from the windows of our room flow fast in filthy bouncy rivers, rechanneling the water away from buildings and out of the wet streets.

Still, Ireland profits marvelously from the rain in the seductive rolling hills of luscious green grass and picturesque lakes that look like they’ve been plucked from a fairytale. It fills me with a strange sense of homecoming. A sense of peace. Despite the weather and a pretty harsh case of jet lag, I long to explore—not the cultivated trails like Tassler Heights, but to wander the wild Irish countryside.

There’s a round-faced, heavy-set woman with merrily dancing dark eyes and a generous smile behind the counter in the pub-like restaurant downstairs when I finally get cleaned up and leave our room in pursuit of the source of the strong coffee smell that woke me. She wastes no time in introducing herself, or the rest of what must be the restaurant’s regulars.

“Hey, how are ya, lass? I’m Nora,” she says, wiping the already clean counter before me again as I sidle up to the bar, then sliding a paper placemat into position. She sets a napkin-wrapped bundle of flatware to one side. “Behind ya is Brianna and old Kieran. That there in the corner is Finn. What can I get you?” she finishes, sliding a short, laminated menu into position on top of the placemat.

In the interest of courtesy, I pivot on my wooden barstool, nodding to each of the folks she’s introducing in turn and quickly note though Brianna and Kieran are drinking coffee, Finn is drinking a frothy glass of beer though it’s not yet noon. I’m amused to get the same greeting as Nora gave me when I first sat down—‘hey, how are ya?—from each of them, and catch on quickly that this is an Irish colloquialism, similar to saying 'hi', that doesn’t require an answer.

Even among these four, there’s a rich variety of Irish accents, some more dense and difficult to process quickly than others, but all of them full of superfluous filler words. I also note that they all seem to be fond of the pointless interlocuter, ‘so’, tacking it on to the end of sentences almost like a period.

“I’m Jericho,” I reply, even though I wasn’t asked for my name. I glance down at the menu, which is presented in both English and whatever the Irish language is called—Gaelic, I think. It reminds me a lot of French in that there are an excessive number of unnecessary vowels spattered among the consonants, which makes the pronunciations impossible to gather from the complex spellings.

There’s a rumble of something unintelligible to me from younger fellow, Finn, who’s tucked into a corner table near the rain-beaded windows, and Nora replies, “Not that one with all the tattoos. With the other strapping lad, with the fine eyes.”

“Blue eyes?” I ask, and Nora arches her brows and smiles as she nods, appreciative of even the memory. I can’t blame her at all—he is pretty damn dreamy. “That’s Channing," I supply. "The one with the glasses is Damien. And the one with all the tattoos is Ferdi.”

My answer gets chuckles all around, then Nora politely advises, “Och, we know Ferdi. The lad’s made a name for himself among the lassies already.”

I give a soft groan and wonder why I’m even surprised. “I apologize for him. He’s the same way at home.” I make a mental note to bring it up to Channing, and wonder how much luck even the Alpha has reining that wolf drive in or if it even seems necessary. “Nora, may I have a cup of coffee, please, while I decide what to eat?”

“Ah sure so,” she replies, and within seconds there’s a steaming cup of caffeinated brown liquid life support sitting in front of me, along with a cute little individual cream and sugar set.

“Thanks.” Stirring cream and sugar into my mug, I select a breakfast plate, not really knowing what it is. “May I have the breakfast bap and eggs, please?”

“Aye, lass. With the meats, like the lads? Or the veggies?”

Taking another look at the menu, I realize there are two—one with bacon, sausage and potato hash, and the other with bell peppers, onions, mushrooms and potato hash.

“I prefer the veggies, please,” I answer in the interest of not making waves and push the menu back towards her.

“And your eggs?”

“Over medium, please.”

She scribbles something illegible on a food order pad like I used to use at Esteban’s, tears out the ticket and clips it on a rotating holder, ringing a bell afterwards to notify the cook. I can’t help my slight smile of nostalgia. I guess there are some processes that are the same no matter where you go.  

There’s another string of heavily accented English from Finn, and Nora translates quickly. “Those lads spend their time working mostly—.”

“Excepting Ferdi,” the gravelly voice of Kieran cuts in. “Lad works, aye, but he devotes the bulk of his time to carousing.”

I grimace as they all laugh, then connect quickly to my phone in my pocket. It takes barely a second to complete an internet search and learn that Belfast has a population of roughly three hundred and fifty thousand. At least for the next eight or nine months. After that, I suspect there’ll be a population spike, compliments of Ferdi.

When the laughter dies down, Nora poses the not-quite-question. “Since they brought you, you’ll be needing a guide so?”

“I will, definitely,” I nod, taking a sip of my coffee. “I don’t know how familiar Channing is with the area, but he won’t be available until evenings.”

A little bell over the door rings and draws all of our attention as someone enters. Wiping his feet on the mat by the door, Channing shakes the rain from his leather-brown hair. It hangs fetchingly over his brow as it settles and he looks more like a GQ model than ever.

As soon as his eyes land on me, they light with that glow. It sends the familiar stream of steady sparks up into my head and down into my core and by the time he swings his leg over the barstool to perch beside me, I’m feeling flushed despite the damp weather.

“Kiss me, babydoll,” he murmurs, leaning to me. He steals a quick kiss—one that’s far too quick for me—before turning to the rest of the restaurant’s occupants. “Hey, Brianna. Kieran, how are ya? Finn, good to see you again. Afternoon, Nora.”

There are murmured greetings of ‘hey, how are ya?’ in return.

“Och, you’re done early today so,” Nora comments, wiping the already clean counter for him, then setting out a placemat, flatware and a menu.

“Not done until this evening, unfortunately,” Channing replies, setting a large warm hand on my thigh possessively and caressing up and down from my knee to my hip. “Just came to check on my babydoll and grab some lunch.”

“Aye, same’s always?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Immediately, Nora turns to the kitchen. She adds something to my ticket, then shouts something unintelligible in Irish into the kitchen.

“Channing, they were asking about whether we’d like a city guide.” Resting my hand on top of his to still it, I try to regain control of my reeling senses. As soon as he turns his attention to me, he sets them whirling faster.

The white-blue sparks are already twinkling in the depths of his blue eyes, and the wicked smile he flashes me states his intentions now that he’s here more clearly than if he’d spoken. “That sounds great.” Especially while I’m gone. I don’t want you out there by yourself.>

I bristle immediately at the imperious alpha tone, and as if he senses it, Channing soothes and simultaneously stirs me with a caress over my thigh.

It’s about this time that the savory smell of freshly baked bread begins to drift to me and my mouth starts to water. “That smells really good,” I tell Nora as she refills my coffee.

“Who’d you have that can guide us?” Channing asks her.

“Kieran’s granddaughter, Fia. She’s out of work again so.”

“We can pay her. I’d love to see some of the historic sites—City Hall. Queen’s University. The Peace Walls. The Botanic Gardens,” he suggests. “Jericho might like Victoria Square and St. George’s Market. Did I hear right that the High Kings are playing Ulster Hall?”

“Aye, ya did,” Brianna says, and we both pivot on our seats towards her. “And the Coronas are playing the Olympia Theater in Dublin this weekend too, if you’ll be along that way so.”

“How far is it from here to Dublin?” I ask.

Channing shrugs. “Couple hour drive?” he suggests and gets nods from the room.

Finn babbles something in response, and this time I manage to pick out the words ‘charter flight’ and ‘forty minutes’.

“What about the Giant’s Causeway?” I ask.

As if he can’t help himself, Channing leans over and nuzzles my neck. “That’s north of here, babydoll. Dublin’s south. But I intend to take you up there. Don’t worry.” He puts a soft emphasis on the words ‘take you’ that leaves nothing to my imagination about his intentions. He turns to Kieran. “Have your granddaughter come by this afternoon to meet Jericho,” he tells the old man.

“Ah sure so.”

**

Despite Channing’s concerns about Belfast being a perilous town, to me it doesn’t feel dangerous at all. It has a bit of a colonial feel, but mostly it’s a calm but busy city—a place like any other—where the locals go about their business, earning their livings. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up sleeping on a park bench in south Crossroads. By comparison to daily gang violence, this place seems normal.

There are some hints of some long standing unrest and disputes though.

Like a lot of local billboard postings of page-sized notices for protests and debates on everything from national to social issues that affect the city. But what surprises me are the heavy-duty fences in certain parts of town—called ‘peace lines’— that are there to keep the conflicts to a minimum. To avoid stirring the tangible and still present mistrust between the Protestants and Catholics, which refers to the two sides though it wasn’t a religious conflict.

Much of this stems from a period known locally as ‘The Troubles’ but known internationally as an ‘irregular’ or ‘low-level’ war called the Northern Ireland conflict. I learn from Fia this was mostly a political and nationalistic conflict that had a lot to do with the constitutional status of Northern Ireland. It happened long before she and I were born.

Or, at least, before I was reborn as Jericho.

Despite Channing’s suggestion, I have no interest in Victoria Square. It’s a huge shopping area with over fifty of the most luxurious and expensive shops in the entire United Kingdom, and the kind of place more suited to Rebecca’s tastes than mine.

That gets my jealousy chafing for a while, at least until we get to St. George’s Market. It’s one of the city’s oldest attractions with a bunch of cute little booths that sell all kinds of delicious-smelling treats and fresh foods, and various wares and crafts. It has a dreamy Victorian era feel to it, and given was built over one hundred years ago, I guess I’m not surprised.

Fia returns me to the hostel as the day ends, just as Channing, Damien and Ferdi return from whatever Avernus location they’ve been working at today. She agrees to return tomorrow in the afternoon to take me to the arts festival and afterwards to the Titanic Museum.

Once Channing gives her some money, she also takes care of getting us tickets to the to the Ulster Hall performance by the High Kings in two nights. It’s the last thing we’ll do here in Belfast before Damien and Ferdi depart for home, and Channing drags me off to wherever it is he has determined to take me.