Therese Walsh - The Last Will of Moira Leahy

This book is dedicated to my Amelia.
Fly, my pretty bird, fly .

And to Sean, for nurturing my wings .

The First Will
THE KERIS

FOR THE JAVANESE THE PURPOSE OF KNOWLEDGE (KAWERUH) IS LOVE, NOT AMBITION OR CLEVERNESS . K NOWLEDGE COMES FROM CARING ENOUGH TO SUFFER AND LEARN .

P AWARTOS J AWI

CHAPTER ONE

PRODIGY

I lost my twin to a harsh November nine years ago. Ever since, Ive felt the span of that month like no other, as if each of the calendars thirty perfect little squares split in two on the page. I wished theyd just disappear. Bring on winter. I had bags of rock salt, a shovel, and a strong back. I wasnt afraid of ice and snow. November always lingered, though, crackling under the foot of my memory like dead leaves.

It was no wonder then that I gave in to impulse one November evening, left papers piled high on my desk and went to where Id lost myself in the past with a friend. I thought I might evade memory for a while at the auction house, but I slammed into it anyhow. It was just Novembers way.

Only this time, November surprised me.

I HAD TO have it.

Just over a foot long, the wavy dagger looked ancient and as though itd been carved from lava rock. The grooved base was a study in asymmetry, with one end swooping off in a jagged point and the other circling into itself like a tiny, self-protective tail or the crest of a wave. Gemstones filled a ring that bound metal to a cocked wood handle. Intricate engravings covered the silver sheath. If not for a small hole in the blades center, it wouldve been flawless.

I leaned in to touch it but was jarred out of my study by a poke to the thigh. The poker, a little girl, almost capsized me, and not from the poking, either. I dont believe in ghosts, but if I did I might think I was looking at my sister from years past. My sister, a child. Eyes like the sea. Long, red hair like hersand mine, before I snuffed out my pyrotechnics with several boxes of Platinum Snow and found a pair of scissors.

My vision grayed a little as I stared at her. She mightve been seven or eighta few years younger than Moira and me when wed filched a sword like the one I intended to have and lost it in the bay. Well, Id lost it, pretending to be Alvilda, Pirate Queen.

The girl poked me again.

Can I help you, little one? I asked. Are you lost?

She didnt answer, just pointed toward the far back of the viewing table. There wasnt much there: a bust of JFK, a pearlized candy jar, and an indigo bottle that mightve been Depression-era glass. Noel wouldve been able to say for sure.

Do you want that? I took a guess and pointed at the candy jar. Maybe there was a secret stash of chocolate in there; who knew? But she shook her head. I looked again and saw a small black box slathered with pink roses, the buds as sweet as frosting. Of course. The box? She nodded.

I cradled it before her, and she reached out a hand pudgy with youth. Careful, I said. I looked for parental figures but saw no one exhibiting missing-child panicor with the right hair color. The girl didnt take the box, just left it in my hands and opened the lid.

Music swam up at me. The Entertainer. The girl giggled.

Do you My voice turned to rust. Do you like music?

I love dancing to the music. Her voice was whisper-soft, as shy as her smile. She was so much like Moira, but whole, able to run and laugh. I missed my sisters laughmaybe most of all.

Do you play any instru

Jillian! There you are! A woman with dark hair strode toward us, her face a combination of annoyance and relief.

I was looking at the music, Mommy, the girl said. See how pretty?

The mother bent before her daughter. You scared me. Next time you want to look at something, well go together.

The girl nodded, serious, just as the lights flickered.

Lets find a seat. The woman pulled her daughter behind her as the girl lifted her hand to me. Good-bye. They disappeared in the crowd.

I shook off my melancholy thoughts and turned back to the blade. My fingers itched to touch it, but just as I reached, an auction attendant pulled it off the table, sheathed it, and placed it in a cardboard box. Viewing times over, she said.

But

Fallen in love, have you?

Id never seen another blade like the one Id lost to the sea, and the desire for it tugged at me as if a line were rooted in my mouth. I have to have it.

The woman added items to her container: the blue bottle, the candy jar, the music box. Youd better get out your checkbook, then. Old George thinks that sword will go for hundreds.

Fine, then. I had a checkbook.

After a few minutes of dodging elbows and purses, I registered as the temporary owner of one beat-up paddle (number 51). Snippets of conversation danced around me as I wedged my way between wide-shouldered men and women.

John would love that old clock for Christmas.

Lets get through Thanksgiving first.

Thanksgivings just a day. Christmas is an event. Besides, its never too soon to buy for Christmas. Dont you think hed love that clock?

I veered away from them, closer to the stage. That stage and the old floor, pockmarked from where rows of shabby velvet seats used to reside, were all that remained of the theater that had once been a revered landmark in Betheny, New York. At least, thats what Noel had told me. Id only been a resident since college.

Id just reached the front when George Lansing, the owner of Lansings Block, appeared center stage. There was a blur of activitythe sale of someones stamp collection, a worn set of stools, a mahogany china closet that would break backs. I saw the blue bottle poking out of its container at Georges feet and knew the blade lay there as well. The bottle sold, and then George grasped the music box.

Going once! he said, after a token amount of haggling with the crowd. A middle-aged woman with a sour expression had raised her marker and placed a bid of $5.

Where was the girl? Wouldnt her mother buy the box for $6? I looked around but didnt see her.

Going twice!

My arm lifted almost of its own volition. Ten dollars.

George didnt even look at me, probably just wrote the bidder off as a sucker. There were no further offers.

I didnt need a music box. I didnt want a music box. In fact, Id hate that music box. But the child who looked so much like my sister should have it. I couldnt seek her out, though, because just then George held the sheathed dagger over his head, and the raucous room grew hushed. I leaned closer; everyone seemed to.

Now heres something you dont see every day, Lansing said, his voice as gritty as his wares. This heres a keris . Its a little roughed up with a hole through its middle, but not in bad shape when you consider it was made somewhere in Indonesia probably two centuries ago.

Somewhere in Indonesia. Probably two centuries ago. I smiled. Lansing had never been big on factssomething Noel had taken profitable advantage of in the past.

And then Lansings pitch rose, and the chant began: Wholl bid two hundred dollars, two hundred dollars, two hundred dollars?

It seemed half the rooms occupants held their markers high, and the price rose to $225, $250, $275. I gripped my marker with slick palms. Noel had taught me how to bide my time, to don a face as still as the water on a windless bay; the slightest ripple would attract Lansings attention.

This blades worth at least double that last bid, and I wont sell it for anything less than $350! He pounded the podiuma technique that probably wasnt in the Christies handbook, even if it did work. I looked over my shoulder as number 36 grumbled his bid of $350.