Heart of Ashes

Baring Bad News

It had started raining when Caine set foot on Irish soil. He walked up an empty street as a cool wind caressed his face and played with his hair. Rain poured off the brim of his hat and the smell of ozone made the air crisp and clean. A lightning bolt split the sky with a monstrous clap of thunder that rattled the windows of the houses that lined the street on either side. It was a beautiful night.

Caine found the house he was looking for. It was a single story house that had been painted a lovely, pale blue. The garden was neat and lush. White roses bloomed along the half-size perimeter wall. There was a car port next to the house and two cars in the driveway. One was an old white Toyota and the other was an old green Ford. Caine unlatched the little picket gate and walked down the cobbled path up to the front door.

He raised his knuckles to the door and knocked. When there was no answer - which was not surprising for one o'clock in the morning - he knocked again. There was a shuffling from the other side of the door and a key turned in the lock. An elderly old man answered. What little hair he had left on his head stuck up at odd angles and he wore a checkered dressing gown. A woman walked up behind him, tying her own dressing gown around her waist.

"Who the hell are you?" the man grumbled.

"Dermot, who is it?" the woman asked. She had a sweet voice and it reminded him of Freya's.

"My name is Caine," he replied, "I'm a friend if your daughter's."

Dermot Craven raised an eyebrow, "Son, what are you doing on our doorstep? Do you know what time it is?"

Caine checked his watch, "Yes, Sir, it is exactly five minutes past one."

"Yes, lad," he said, "so what are you doing here?"

"May I come in?"

"Tell me what you want first and then we'll see."

"It's a matter I wish to discuss with you about Freya," Caine was in a hurry he wanted to finish this before dawn.

Missus Craven had come closer, "Who did you say you were, lad?"

"Caine, Madam," he said.

The old man's eyebrow travelled further up his forehead, "If you're here to ask me if you can marry Freya, you'll have to ask her."

"No, sir," Caine said, "this is far more important."

"What could be more important then our daughter's happiness?" Sarah Craven - the caring mother she was - asked.

Caine felt a wave of grim sadness wash over him, "Sir, Madam, I would prefer to discuss this inside."

Mister Craven frowned, "What do you want, boy?"

Caine sighed, "Sir, your daughter is... dead."

Their faces fell and they both whispered, "What?"

"Get in here!" Mister Craven growled "What happened?"

Caine stepped over the threshold of the Craven home and removed his hat. He was led into the lounge and told to sit down. Mister and Missus Craven sat across from him and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Start talking," he said, his blue eyes gleamd with anger.

Before he started explaining, he took a moment to acknowledge how much Freya looked like her mother.

"She died a noble death, of that you can be assured," he began, "now the tale I am about to tell is going to be unbelievable but I must ask you to bare with me. You might have noticed that your daughter has been somewhat distant for the last three and a half months. She's been in Romania."