But my attention is drawn to where a few townsfolk and Neelix are clustered around a scrubby oak tree, gazing upwards. Michael's shirt is torn, blood trickles from his mouth, and he ignores the stares and murmurs below him. It steals my breath and freezes my blood. I made him a more learned and questing man, but even that could not quench the dark, longing nature of his Irish soul. He sounds like a banshee, keening a death knell.
Some people gape and point, shaking their heads, but a few nod in deep, empathetic comprehension.
He cries my name a third time, and my heart beats like a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil. I hear echoes from my past, my own wailing grief when my father and Justin died. With a wild-eyed stare, he searches the crowd, then lifts his head to the heavens. I'm trembling now, with rage and shame, and my voice cracks as I try to stop the playback. Then Neelix moves forward, his hand outstretched.