novelraw Chapter 113: The Harp’s True Whereabouts
Chapter 113: The Harp’s True Whereabouts
The shop door, kicked open, failed to close after three burly figures blocked it.
The gusts rushing in from the slick alley carried a briny, fishy tang, whipping the dim kerosene flame into violent flickers and casting warped black shadows across the cluttered, antiquated furniture.
What had started as an academic, verbally probing visit suddenly escalated into a dangerous, physical confrontation.
Lin Jie tensed. His right hand hung at his side as if casually, but his fingers already rested on the Serene Heart fixed to his waist by a leather strap beneath his coarse wool vest.
He could sense the killing intent radiating from the three "longshoremen" opposite them, the kind only men who had survived bloody brawls would know, and he knew instantly these were no ordinary street thugs.
Julian reacted even faster than Lin Jie. Facing the pressure of the three-man human wall and the antique shop owner Finn’s cold, appraising stare, the elegant French curator showed no fear or panic. Instead, his scholarly face bore a look of compassionate amusement.
He stepped forward of his own accord, lifted his cane, and lightly tapped its tip on the dust-covered floor of the shop.
Then, in French infused with rhythm and melancholy, he slowly recited a line of verse that seemed totally unrelated to the tense scene.
“Let impure blood water our furrows!”
That bloody, revolutionary line was one of the most famous and rousing lines from La Marseillaise, the French national anthem.Finn’s eyes narrowed. The three murderous-looking men at the door also showed expressions that mixed confusion with a strange stirring.
The scar-faced leader spat out the words in broken, heavily accented English through clenched teeth: “France… revolution…”
Julian smiled and nodded, “Yes, the French Revolution.”
He then switched back to English, but his voice retained the persuasive, infectious authority of a university lecture.
“Gentlemen, I know who you are, and I know what you fight for.”
“You are warriors of the Fenian Brotherhood, brave sons of Ireland. You seek to drive out those who occupy your land, erode your culture, and have forced your people for centuries to survive on hunger and humiliation under the English tyrants.”
“The line I just recited was sung a hundred years ago by my ancestors—people equally dispossessed and oppressed by nobles and clerics—when they stormed the Bastille!”
Julian’s voice rose, filled with passionate fervor: “We washed Versailles’ shame with the blood of kings and queens. We planted the banner of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity across Europe. We proved to the world that no monarchy is forever, and no nation is born to be enslaved!”
His words struck at the most sensitive chords in the hearts of the Irish present.
For oppressed peoples in the late nineteenth century who longed for independence, the French Revolution was an irresistible totem—an example forged in blood and guillotine steel.
In that moment Julian stopped being a stranger academic. He had artfully cast himself as a spiritual comrade from the sacred birthplace of rebellion, inheriting the honored tradition of resistance.
The hostility on the faces of the three men at the door visibly melted away and was replaced by recognition and identification.
Even Finn, who had remained vigilant behind the counter, loosened his grip on the Irish short sword at his side.
Finn’s hostile tone had vanished: “Sit down, friends from France. Tell me why you seek the lament of Blind Tarlough. That is not something an ordinary scholar should touch.”
A crisis possibly leading to conflict had been defused by Julian’s erudition and his deep insight into human nature and history.
Lin Jie withdrew his hand from the pistol grip and felt a new respect for his seemingly bookish curator friend.
He watched Finn’s gaze return to that evaluative sharpness and, with equal sincerity, took up the conversation: “Because we believe that inside that lament lies one of the most important secrets of the Gaelic revival.”
“We believe Blind Tarlough was not merely a musician but a powerful prophet bearing Druidic heritage.”
“On the surface his dirge curses the O'Connor family that betrayed him, but behind it there may be a musical code we do not yet understand—one that records a prophecy about Ireland’s future!”
Lin Jie’s half-academic, half-speculative explanation elevated their investigative motive from a seemingly unrelated family curse to an issue tied to the “fate of the nation,” a pitch that touched every radical Irishman present.
Finn’s eyes flickered with skepticism and keen interest—“Druidic prophecy” was a phrase that held irresistible appeal for these revivalists who treated ancient Celtic culture as their credo.
Finn’s gaze sharpened again: “Why should I believe you? You could be spies sent by the English.”
Lin Jie paused to think, then smiled, “Of course we are not.”
He produced an item from his breast pocket and laid it gently on the cluttered counter.
It was a business card made of black, stiff calfskin, stamped in pure gold with an intricate family crest of roses and lions—the private card of the noble hunter Ethan.
When Finn saw the crest his pale green eyes widened dramatically, even more shocked than when he heard La Marseillaise moments earlier.
He almost spat the name: “Redgrave… the lone Tory mad family who actually voted for the Home Rule Bill in Parliament?!”
Julian followed Finn’s reaction and nodded, “Exactly.”
The Redgrave family were not only wealthy top-tier aristocrats but were politically known for their independent streak. Though aligned with the Conservative ranks that represented English ruling interests, several generations had shown a romantic, ambiguous sympathy toward Irish independence.
They were seen in English high society as “pro-Ireland,” and by Finn’s radicals as the kind of enemy’s enemy that might be won over.
A private card from the Redgrave heir himself was more convincing than any honeyed words.
All suspicion evaporated in that instant. Finn and the three Brotherhood members at the door redirected their looks at Lin Jie and Julian from “distrust” to the warm trust of comrades.
Finn stepped out from behind the counter: “Please, take a seat, honored friends.”
He cleared away the clutter and made room for two chairs that were still usable, then opened a locked cabinet and produced a bottle of his own treasured, robust Connemara peat whiskey, pouring two stiff glasses.
The conversation that followed warmed noticeably.
After a round of academic sparring and probing, and with Finn’s invitation to a senior historian within the Brotherhood, Lin Jie and Julian learned the bizarre, quasi-miraculous true story behind the Silver-Stringed Harp and the fragmentary score.
The elder republican, after three shots of strong whiskey and with Finn’s approving look, spoke in a tone of pride, awe, and fearful reverence—revealing a secret that would shake Dublin’s occult circles.
Lowering his voice, the elder said: “Gentlemen, your conjecture that grave robbers only found the score is partially correct. A friend of ours did retrieve fragments of the Blood-Tear Dirge from the family crypt, but the harp’s fate is stranger than you imagine.”
He inhaled sharply, as if recalling an unforgettable horror.
“After obtaining the score, we desperately sought the corresponding national relic. So about two months ago we organized a pilgrimage team of our most devout and courageous ten brothers and returned to the legendary Weeping Blood Hill.”
“At first we found nothing. But our leader, an old man skilled in ancient Druid divination, insisted the relic could not simply vanish—that it must still be on the hill, existing in ways we mortals could not comprehend.”
A fanatic light shone in the elder’s eyes: “So we made the boldest decision and, atop the hill, performed the oldest ritual—collectively chanting the fragments of the Blood-Tear Dirge, attempting with our song to awaken the relic spirit that had slept for centuries!”
Fear crept into his voice: “Then a miracle occurred.”
“At the crescendo of our chant, thousands upon thousands of blood-red heather plants began to sway though there was no wind. The little natural mound at the hill’s center, formed by tangled ancient oak roots that we had overlooked, started to beat like a living heart!”
He swallowed and continued: “Under everyone’s gaze a semi-transparent, moonlit, milky ‘root’ speedily pushed up from the pulsing earth, entwined with red heather vines. Its shape was exactly the frame of the fabled Silver-Stringed Harp!”
“We were terrified. Three fainthearted brothers tried to flee, but our leader told us this was a sign—a true miracle proving the relic had not died but merged with the blood-soaked land and come alive!”
“With all the courage we could muster, we hacked away the heather vines like arteries and ‘harvested’ that portion of the harp’s remains.”
A flash of coldness passed through the elder’s eyes: “Those three cowards who tried to run all died in bizarre ‘accidents’ on the way down—one crushed by a falling boulder, one slipped from a cliff, another bitten by a venomous snake. This, to us, confirmed that our ‘god’ is real: it protects the brave and punishes traitors!”
Hearing this bloody, eerie, and ignorant “treasure hunt” tale, Lin Jie and Julian exchanged horrified glances and understood, without words, what these pathetic lunatics had done.
In their crude ignorance they had roused an UMA that had reached a strange ecological equilibrium with the land, and they had hacked a piece from it!
The elder republican evidently did not grasp the terrifying implication behind his account;
he still luxuriated in his miracle story, his face flushed with fanatic expectation.
“We brought the fragment back and commissioned Dublin’s best shipwright and instrument restorers,” he said, pride and reverence in his tone. “They repaired the missing parts with the finest Irish yew and strung it with the strongest silver strings!”
“We have recovered the complete score that can awaken the sleeping Gaelic soul in every Irishman!”
His voice trembled slightly as he leaned in and, in a conspiratorial tone reserved for comrades, announced the final plan.
“Tomorrow night, the eve of Saint Brigid’s Day, the Fenian Brotherhood will hold the largest secret assembly in years at an absolutely secure abandoned quarry outside Dublin.”
“There we will publicly play the Silver-Stringed Harp we literally delivered from the earth’s womb, in front of our core brothers and Dublin citizens who share anger at English tyranny!”
“We will use Blind Tarlough’s sorrowful, defiant dirge to awaken our nation’s spirit dulled by whiskey and potatoes!”
“We will sound the horn of a new revolution long in the making—a movement to win Irish independence and liberty!!”
His rousing, idealistic speech left Finn and the other three Brotherhood members flushed and cheering, raising cups and shouting in Gaelic.
But Lin Jie and Julian felt only a chill. They exchanged glances that mirrored the same sense of absurd dread.
These revolutionaries, intoxicated by noble patriotism and nationalist romanticism, had no idea of the monstrous weapon they now held.
They did not know that this impassioned, romantic “revolutionary gathering” would, under another world’s rules, become a bloody, cruel sacrifice of souls.
And that sacrifice was planned for tomorrow night—the last night foretold in Kevin O'Connor’s prophecy.