The Walls of Jericho

Not As It Seems

The drive from the Titanic Quarter to the Queens Quarter is uncomfortably quiet and awkward. Channing keeps a low level of alpha pressure on as we pile into the car and it’s obvious that both Damien and Ferdi feel it. They both look so contrite that I almost feel bad for them.

Almost.

It’s a little hard to feel entirely bad for people who feel bad because they failed to kill you. I consider it a confession of character.

For her part, Fia does her best to fill in the silence by pointing out various sites along the way and sharing different anecdotes and stories which only add to my belief that Northern Ireland is a charming country with a rich history, including the incredible city of Belfast.

It also highlights the fact that the Irish don’t do anything by halves. We’ve already seen that proved in the restaurant at our hostel. At home in Crossroads, had Channing and I gone out somewhere, we might have had a single beer or glass of wine with our meal. Not so for the Irish. Here, they water themselves copiously, and the raucousness that ensues is rousing and chaotic and full of entertaining stories that smack with similarities to our guide’s.

True to her heritage, Fia’s ‘histories’ ring with a generous sprinkling of the grandly embellished folklore that comes with a rightly proud people with a lot of verbal history.

The Ulster Museum is located at the city’s Botanic Gardens, a few blocks from Queens University in the Queens Quarter. It’s a huge, modern building organized into several ‘zones’ and galleries spread throughout the museum’s exhibiting four upper stories.

Given the sheer magnitude of the place and the volume and caliber of the exhibits, I’m surprised to find there’s no admission fee. I’m also pleased to see that Damien, Ferdi and Channing immediately and generously contribute to the donation boxes strategically close to the museum’s entrance. Werewolves, it seems, have an appreciation for arts and history of which I wholly approve.

Once we’re inside, all eyes are immediately drawn upwards in the building’s five-story open center to the three huge dragons, jaws gaping and wings extended, suspended from the ceiling.

“Amazing, aren’t they?” Fia comments. “They’re the work of a master basketmaker lives in Cultra. Made from different species of willow that can be found in Northern Ireland. He keeps a willow grove with over forty species of the trees in his garden to create these kinds of willow rod masterpieces.”

Crossing his arms over his sculpted chest, Channing grumbles, “’Masterpieces’ isn’t the word I would use.”

“Art resembling life a little too much for you, beefcake?” I tease, tugging at his arm. We bring up the rear of our party as we cross the museum’s first floor Welcome Zone, heading for the elevator. Here, there’s a café and a combination bookstore-gift shop for museum guests to enjoy before or after taking in the galleries on the four floors above.

Since we’re out of everyone else’s direct line of sight, I extend my palm to Channing. “Where’s my ring?”

“It’s safe in my pocket,” he replies, gripping my hand, but not returning Amber. “If you’re here to do research, you’ll need your head clear.”

“What if there’s something more I need to see? I might miss something important,” I counter, circling him and patting at his pockets looking for it.

Covering my hand with his and holding it firmly against his hip, Channing gives me a suggestive wink and smile, then whispers, “What you’re looking for is a little more to your left.”

“Not here, it’s not,” I reply blandly, quickly noting his suggestion would land my hand on his crotch.

He by-passes the elevator where Ferdi, Damien and Fia load in, unwilling to chance being trapped in a tiny enclosed box with them and leading us to the stairs instead. “When did the visions you were having at the Titanic Belfast start?”

“Almost as soon as I got out of the car.”

“And now? Are you having them now already?”

“No, but I’m not wearing the ring either. It’s like a pointer. It enhances my ability to tap into that ancient wisdom and recall specific, relevant events from the past. If I’m not wearing it, I might miss something critical.”

“Jericho,” he stops on a stair a few below the first floor landing, “I have the distinct impression by the way you handled that last little adventure you dragged me into that it’s not the first time this has happened.”

“No, it’s not,” I admit. “But I’ve always been wearing the ring.”

“Then it won’t be the last. Pay attention to everything you think is significant here.” Facing me, he stares down into my eyes, the fingers of one hand threading into my hair while his thumb traces a path over my freckled cheekbone up to my temple. “We can’t afford to have another public showdown. Especially not here. It’s an enclosed space with a lot of valuable stuff exhibited, and a lot more witnesses. You can review what you see here today once we’re back in our private room. If there’s something else we need here, I trust the ring will bring us back.”

I shrug and nod an agreement, even though I don’t share Channing’s faith. Frankly, the way Amber exerts herself by just taking over pisses me off and I’m not overly inclined to entertain it. Still, I need more answers.

“There’s galleries here in the History Zone covering Northern Ireland’s history from the earliest times to the very recent past,” Fia explains. “This gallery has a tremendous exhibit devoted to the explanation of The Troubles, much of it focusing on the last three decades of the 20th century.”

Finding all eyes on me, I consider what I need. “Will I find what I need about Cadmus Boyle here?”

Fia’s eyes narrow and she glances upward, wracking her memory. “There might be a bit about him in there. There’s centuries of history contributed to The Troubles. Big part of that happened while he was here in Belfast.”

Though she leaves off, I understand what she’s implying. Having the background that led to the events surrounding Cadmus Boyle might help in unraveling why he was important enough that Amber forced him into my consciousness. “Alright. That’s where I’m starting.”

It’s difficult not to notice the many cues still in existence in the city of Belfast that are blatant reminders of where her people have been on the road to where they are now. As I make my way through the exhibit, soaking in contributing history from as early as the seventeenth century, I realize the struggles of the past have shaped some of the unique beauty of what the city has become.

There’s a lot of background to take in, some of it particularly difficult to understand as a foreigner, and my gut tells me not to worry overmuch about that. Instead, my instincts bring my focus to the Irish revolutionary period, roughly a decade between 1910 and the early 1920s, when there were several waves of civil unrest here, stemming from a shift in the popular political opinion.

It doesn’t take much to see how the actions of a few individuals from both sides escalated the conflict to the point of a low-intensity war. One that bears a striking similarity to the one of direct interest to me between the dragon and the werewolves.

Various comments I hear peripherally from Damien mostly, but even some from Ferdi, reinforces that belief. Even as essentially an outsider to the inter-species conflict, I can see how the dragons got their reputation among the wolves with targeted executions and forced hardships. I can also see how the wolves’ fears and prejudices prevented them from evaluating the dragons’ far-reaching visions for the true benefit they might have had.

Overall, it’s simply sad. A sad historical testament to the heartache that comes from the breakdown of communication, and I wonder how much death and destruction might have been avoided had both sides simply attempted to be humane.

Cadmus Boyle’s death is glossed over here, almost a footnote among the myriad stories of political intrigue and machinations, quiet assassinations and deadly riots. With an historian’s eye towards truth based on factual evidence, it does state he was murdered by a gang of hitmen known as ‘The Wolves’ and staged to look as though it had been both an act of nature and a foolish miscalculation of man. Cadmus and his housekeeper, Jillian, had been taking late dinner and star gazing with his telescope in the garden of his estate on a rare, clear, moonless night. Drawn by the smell of food, a pack of wolves had attacked, killing both of them before they knew they were beset.

It’s not much—not really even helpful—and I realize I’m going to have to direct this search differently. When we emerge from The Troubles exhibit, meeting near the elevator and stairs again, I ask Fia, “Is there any other history about Cadmus? And I’d like to see anything you can think of here that pertains to dragons.” I point to the willow sculptures hanging over our heads.

“Aye,” she replies. “The next floor up is more of the History Zone. It includes a history of Ulster’s textile production. There’ll be more about him there.” She draws a hissing breath through her teeth, glancing up at the willow-work dragons hanging overhead. “On the dragons, there’ll be a bit more upstairs, mostly in the tapestries.”

“Lead on.”

Fia is correct, occupying about half the next level, we find more of the History Zone, in particular, a Fashion and Textiles Collection. In general, this section reflects over the history of fashion and dress, and has thousands of pieces, including garments, accessories, historic and contemporary jewelry, and a collection of dolls and toys. There’s a significant amount of information here on the rise of linen and fabric production in Northern Ireland, including more specifics on Cadmus Boyle.

Turns out, he was very influential in the growth of the linen industry as an employer. Upon arrival in the Belfast area, he purchased a bleaching mill, converting it into a cotton and later a flax spinning mill, which would become the largest linen mill in the world for the next twenty years until his death. All told, he sunk an estimated two-hundred thousand pounds into the business and into improving the lives of his fourteen thousand Belfast employees. He built homes for his workers and set up a school for both children and adults – the children went to school during the day, and the workers and locals attended evening classes—and shortly before his death, contracted for a sports pavilion, a reading room and cinema.

Channing stands beside me as I read through the brief blurb about Cadmus Boyle, reviewing the exhibits photos of him and their captions.

“Did you read all this?” I ask quietly, keeping my voice low so the rest of our party looking around nearby don’t overhear.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head as if disappointed. “These people were lucky and they don’t even know it.”

“How do you figure that, Channing? He came in here, brought industry and employed fourteen thousand people.”

“In mills.” There’s an edge to his tone and I can feel him getting defensive. “Do you know what working in the mills was like? Did you gloss that part when you were skimming over all this stuff in your deep reading?” He thumbs towards that portion that was described near the exhibit’s entrance. “Need to go back and review it?”

“I read it.”

“The mills employed laborers a young as ten, Jericho, and the majority of the workers were women and children because they were cheap to employ, didn’t complain as much and were easy to suppress when they did. A lot of families were so destitute, even with whole families working in the mills that they’d lie about their children’s ages so they could get them working earlier.” With a quick glance up at Damien and Fia nearby, Channing takes my hand and draws me further away.

“The work was hard and the day started very early. The noise of the machines coupled with the dampness and smells made it miserable. Employees in the preparing rooms suffered lung problems and breathing difficulties from exposure to the dry flax dust, or pouce. Tuberculosis spread like wildfire through the mills, killing both the young and the old. Working under these conditions was little more than a death sentence—the people were unhealthy and their life expectancy was drastically shortened.” He stops me with him, looking down into my eyes. “I know what you see when you read this guy’s historical bio. You think like they did, that his money brought industry and built nice things in the communities here, but it wasn’t all roses, Jericho.”

“I’m not saying it was. What I’m saying is that it wasn’t any better anywhere else either. In a lot of cases it was worse. We were just at Titanic Belfast. The working conditions in the shipyards were dangerous and miserable too,” I counter. “Maybe he could have done better by his employees. I’m not in a position to say one way or another on that. Was there another dragon here? Before him?”

“Not to my knowledge. Damien would know better,” Channing admits.

“Which means the mill and the shipyard conditions, and especially the violence in Belfast didn’t start with him, Channing. They didn’t end with him either.” Reaching up, I rest my palm against his scruffy cheek. “What we know about the past is often very different than the reality of that past. We have to have humility about it. We have to be willing to accept that we might have it wrong.”

“Babydoll, I’m not looking for a fight with you—frankly, I have enough to stress right now—but I know what I heard on the waterfront not long ago from your own lips. I also know how what you just said would come across to Damien and Ferdi. It would sound like you lie.”

“All he wants is his mate.”

“No, Jericho. What he wants is you. I don’t care what his reason is. He can’t have you.”

I can see the futility of this effort. Now I understand why Rebecca keeps her little research project quiet. Clearly, she’s had this conversation before too. “You’re right. And he won’t. It’s just—if—if you’re going to fight, somebody’s going to get hurt, Channing. You’re not the only one with something invested. If it can be managed peacefully, would you do it?”

“Sure. I don’t have any overwhelming urge to die, least of all in a plasma ball of dragonfire. It’s not as easy as you think it is, babydoll.”

Sighing heavily, I look away. 

“Was there anything here that helped you?”

I nod. “Yes. There was more about the mage. Jillian. But I haven’t sorted all of it yet in my head. I need to take a look at the tapestries Fia mentioned too. The ones that survived The Troubles bombing.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look.”