Scottish vocabulary
Minister – A person ordained in the Church of Scotland to hold services. The Church of Scotland is what eventually came out of the Reformation in the 16th century and is a non-catholic branch of Christianity, they call themselves Presbyterian. It is not the same as the Church of England, who’s official head is the Monarch of England.
Papa – Common Glaswegian term for grandfather. Nana is the grandmother equivalent.
Roaster – slang term for idiot/wastrel.
Story
There’s a lot of mysteries in the shop, a lot of unanswered questions. About the antiques themselves as well as the creatures and people who frequent the aisles. Madam Norna, Chronos, even Reid. But I think the biggest question mark has to be Fionn.
It’s strange when you become pals with someone. You get to know them, their likes, dislikes, sense of humour, tolerances, level of competitiveness with a cat, but what do you really know about them? Where were they born and grew up? Their education, their life up until the point they came into your story?
I don’t know much about Fionn’s life before I met him, apart from his relationship with my boss. There’s been mention of heiresses, of coming across some of the antiques before, but details are few. I don’t even know how old Fionn is, only how old he looks.
When I found that jewellery box the other day Fionn had come in the shop. I noticed his agitation, his unusual reluctance, at the time, but I’d been too preoccupied to ask. I feel bad about that now. I should’ve made time, should’ve pulled my head out my arse. I’ll not make the same mistake in future. By the time I’d got back down to the shop he was gone.
He came in a day or two later, and the shop was back to being full. I was trying to concentrate on some course reading whilst one eye kept drifting over to the strange, unnamed game Reid and Chronos were playing. The bell rang, we all took the obligatory look to check for a customer, and then sighed in bored disappointment when we realised it was Fionn. Instead of coming over to the counter or going upstairs to see the Madam, he beckoned me over to one of the aisles of the shop.
This was unusual, but didn’t raise my suspicions. I put my book down and went to join him. He was acting in a similarly nervous manner, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, checking to see if I’d come alone or Chronos had snuck over the antiques to listen. I hadn’t taken notice before, but the more I saw the more anxious I became. Fionn was always calm and levelheaded, he always knew what to do. When a person like that begins to act shifty, it’s never a good sign.
He began to tell me that a pal of his had died recently, and he wanted to go to the funeral and pay his respects. The pal was an old one, so it was important he attended. He glanced up at me, gauging my reaction even though there’d been nothing to react to. He asked if I’d go with him. I chuckled, wanting to belly laugh, but the anxious atmosphere that had descended prevented me. Did he want me to protect him? I joked, expecting the tension set in his face to lighten.
Yes, he told me.
The silence was filled with my attempts to form a sentence, a question, even make another joke. Before I could manage Reid’s voice cut through informing us that he was coming as well. I don’t know when he’d left the game with Chronos, but I could feel him behind me, determination lining his usual frown.
Fionn, to my surprise, didn’t object, and I never got to ask him why he needed an escort to attend a pal’s funeral, or what he thought he needed protection from.
Our trio cut a sombre figure in the shop dressed in our deepest black clothes. Reid had even managed to find a suit I was certain was only used for special occasions. Fionn was the last to arrive, accidentally or purposefully looking as dapper as an actor from the 30’s. He led the way in silence whilst Reid and I kept exchanging glances at each other encouraging the other to ask questions first. Neither of us worked up the courage on our journey to the church.
I expected us to get there, console with the other guests, make our way into the church and listen for an hour about how much of a saint the deceased was. As we reached the gates a procession was making its way out, pallbearers walking in sync, a heavy burden resting on their shoulders. Fionn’s step slowed as he saw the crowd, a stream of black following behind a lacquered box. I noticed Reid look away, as if he thought death was contagious. If he was uncomfortable with funerals, I wondered at him wanting to come along.
We watched the procession make its way through the graveyard to a distant 6-foot deep, freshly dug grave. We kept our distance at the back. It was like Fionn didn’t want to be noticed; wasn’t even sure he should’ve come. With every step past a grave, Reid’s eyes didn’t know where to look, and by the time we’d finished our short journey he was practically perched on my arm. It’s unusual for me to be the sane one.
We watch from a distance as the minister finishes his sermon and the coffin is eased into its resting place, handfuls of dirt thrown solemnly onto the lid along with roses and tulips. The mourners begin to disperse, ready for a strong drink at the wake, condoling with the family as they appear reluctant to leave the graveside.
Fionn tried to fold into himself, make his body smaller, make his presence disappear. But it was too late, someone from the crowd had already spotted him. It’s a middle-aged woman with grey streaks in her hair and a softness to her eyes. She leaves the other mourners and makes her way over to us. I think she must be a pal or acquaintance of Fionn’s as he straightens up beside me.
There’s a sudden, almost unnoticeable change to her features. There’s a spark in her eye, and before anyone knew what was happening her right fist whipped out and struck my familiar hard across the face. Fionn stumbles back a few steps, blood already dripping between his fingers from his nose. Reid reaches an arm out to steady him.
Fuuuuck, I was supposed to protect him. Whoops.
To remedy any blame, I stepped in front of Fionn as he attempted to stop the bleeding, blocking any more punches from this woman. She gives me such a look I think I’m going to be the next victim of her temper. Instead, she tries to peer around me, but it’s not to admire her handiwork. She starts calling Fionn all kinds of names, and none of them are tame. I haven’t heard language like that since my grannie found out my papa got scammed. My being in the way didn’t stem the verbal tide. I didn’t know what to say, and Fionn took the abuse without a word.
The woman took one last parting shot by telling Reid and I that we should stay away from Fionn, as we were the only ones who’d end up paying the price of his friendship.
That’s always nice to hear about a person you’re contracted to be pals with.
The spectacle had drawn the attention of some of the other mourners, and not wanting a repeat performance, Reid and I steered Fionn out of the churchyard and down the road, dried blood beginning to flake off his face.
All that excitement made me hungry, so we went to the nearest MacDonalds. Whilst Reid and I were bickering over what to order Fionn went and cleaned himself up in the bathroom. We all congregated outside in the car park. We picked a quiet corner and spread out our feast, but Fionn stared at it as though it’d told him he was going to die tomorrow.
Almost at the same moment, Reid and I, in our usual tone-deaf way, asked why he’d been punched. Perched on the kerb at the very edges of the car park, hearing the traffic go by and the drive thru window open and close, gorging ourselves on handfuls of fries, Fionn began to tell his tale. One of them, at least.
He hadn’t always been the reliable level-headed wyvern he was today. Living a long life, longer than humans, twisted priorities and behaviours. Made the world different, shifted perspectives and motivations. Death was a large motivator for humans, but what if that wasn’t really a factor?
Debauchery, apparently. About 200 years ago, freshly single from his relationship with Madam Norna, Fionn did the rounds of the back alleys and dens of iniquity in Europe, gathering followers, fans, and sworn enemies alike. Gang, cult, something less sinister, call it what you like, Fionn was at its centre, the fearless leader that set the tone and made the decisions. His minions followed suit, and wherever they went chaos and destruction was never far behind. They broke more than their fair share, from objects and homes to people and lives.
My familiar wouldn’t look at me or Reid, he stared at the untouched pocket of fries we’d handed him, that must be offensively cold by this point. It was like we weren’t there, he didn’t have an audience, didn’t have people to hear of his sins and bear judgment. Reid and I remained silent, our burgers growing stale.
One victim became one too many when they turned out to have thorns. I don’t think I can name a better example of the term “a woman scorned”. Men, women, they all became the same to Fionn, people to use, seduce and discard as he saw fit, when they got boring, which inevitably, they always did. He used to play games, ones he made the rules to, and didn’t tell them he was playing. This woman, a famed beauty amongst the salons of Paris, was his final victim.
Fionn never gloated, never said it was easy or a challenge, never went into detail, but he wooed and seduced her, let her love him, let her assume they were engaged, and then moved on to someone else, someone new. To his surprise, and centuries old regret, this woman wasn’t the type to let go, and she had just the power to ensure she never had to. Fionn had a type, then.
How was Fionn still standing here talking to us if this woman had done her worst? There’s the catch. During their romance, Fionn had never given her his real name. Instead, he’d used one of his pal’s. He used to do this a lot, he confessed. It was in case any of his conquests wanted to try and catch up with him, they’d end up tracking down the wrong person.
To curse a specific person, you needed their name. This woman had a name, just not the right one. She let loose a vicious curse on Fionn’s blameless pal, and he briefly surmised she must’ve had a helping hand from everyone’s favourite anti-Madam. The curse itself was relatively simple. The cursed would age, but never die, not until their suffering was the same as hers. I mean it doesn’t sound great, but it didn’t sound that terrible either. Fuck, was I wrong.
The curse almost immediately aged Fionn’s pal, stripping him of whatever youth and vivacity he possessed, making him a bent-backed, shaky old man. That was only the start of his troubles. Just like a human old person, he began to get every disease in the book, but he’d never die from them. Normal people, humans, are old for a few decades and eventually pass away. This poor sod had been old for two centuries and had suffered through everything that age and infirmity brought with it.
When Fionn found out about this curse he wanted to go and beg her to reverse it, beg to be cursed in his pal’s place. But he never did. He was too afraid after seeing what it’d done to his pal. He’d moved on, from the curse, from his pal, and from that debauched life. Vowing he’d never repeat those mistakes.
Eventually, mercifully, the curse had loosened its grip and allowed its victim to pass away, after centuries of suffering. Fuck sake, people can be so vicious.
I finally understand why Fionn can’t look at us. Why he probably couldn’t look at himself in the mirror this morning. At least as humans we don’t have long to live with our regrets, but what happens if time is no longer finite? If you have even longer to make those mistakes and live with them?
I didn’t know what to say. Reid did. As he was picking up the empty packets, he stood up and threw that he always knew Fionn was a piece of shite and walked away. I wasn’t sure he was coming back. It wasn’t mg place to forgive Fionn, it wasn’t my place to absolve him. Did it change my opinion? Yes. Was my familiar one bad breakup away from relapsing back into those destructive behaviours? I couldn’t tell.
How do you come to terms knowing that someone you care about has done one, or many awful things? Did it change who Fionn was now? Did it change our friendship? Should it?
There’s no such thing as good or bad people, only good or bad deeds. People don’t fit into neat, polar opposite categories where judgment and punishment are easy. Fionn is neither good nor bad. He’s just Fionn. But he tries, he’s trying to be better, to be reliable, level-headed, supportive. He’s still my pal.
Whether or not he’s been held accountable for his actions isn’t for me to decide, or even know. I can only affect what happens now, what happens in the future. But you can bet if he does something similar again, I’ll be teaming up with Madam Anora to make sure he doesn’t get away scot-free twice.
I could see Reid loitering around the bin, giving me heated glances, wanting to leave to make his point, but reluctant to leave me behind. What a fuckin’ roaster. I let out an exasperated sigh and got up, using Fionn’s shoulder as support. I let my hand linger, squeezing ever so slightly. I turned to go but his voice called me back. He was looking at me this time, his eyes saturated with an eerie kind of concern. He asked me if I’d noticed anything strange about Madam Norna recently. I said no. He nodded in understanding, but I could tell he didn’t agree. It was only when I was halfway over to Reid that I remembered what had happened the day I’d found the jewellery box. I’d taken it up to her and given her the fright of her life. I’d thought it was strange at the time. Is that whit Fionn meant? Was there something else? If he, of all people, was asking, then there must be.