The Crows of Morrigan: An Irish Yakuza Novel

Crows of Morrigan

Prologue

People always think that when you die you see the grim reaper. Well, I can’t say nothing for the folks who died of old age or illness. But for those who died fighting, I know this: our reaper is a goddess. Her hair is long and black as crow feathers; her dress dark as raven wings. She is the most beautiful woman you will ever lay eyes on. When you see her, you will know. She is the Queen of War. She rules over life and death. She takes life in order to give it. It is she who heads this symphony of blood, smoke and carnage we call war. It is then, as your life trickles away like a river losing to a draught, you know: You are her servant. A crow fighting for her love.

She is the Goddess Morrigan of the Tuatha Dé Danann. You belong to her now.

War Journal of Shane O’Herrow

March, 1957

Streets of Dublin, Ireland

Winter, 1956

Shane O’Herrow really liked the American M1-Garand. He liked the sound an empty cartridge made as it was automatically ejected from the top of the rife. He enjoyed how it felt. How it bruised his shoulder after every round. He loved smell of gunpowder and the taste of the smoke. After getting it two years ago, he had loved it. Twelve Years Old and he was already a seasoned soldier.

The dirty streets of Dublin were always a warzone. An urban battlefield unfit for life. The green flags of the Irish Republican Army flowed through the smoke and blood. The Celtic words “Óglaigh na hÉireann” were painted on the walls of several buildings. It was a taunt to the British. The term was just another name for the IRA, but it was enough to show who the owners were fighting for. It was in this urban warzone that four children became soldiers in order to survive.

“I tell ya, boys. Them Brits ain’t nuttin.”, said Bridgid Malone. The Eleven year old red head was named after the Goddess of Poems and nobility. She knew of neither. In her hands was a scoped Russian Mosin-Nagant rife.

“Den why are we gettin’ our asses kicked fer forty years?”, Allyn McFinnigan grunted. The Irish-African boy was big for a Twelve year old. An AK-47 strapped to his shoulder.

“I dunno. I think we be doin’ a bang up job.”, Jerrel O’Harris smiled. The black Thirteen year old hardly ever frowned. The Colt M11911 in his right hand was the last firearm in his arsenal. His own AK got lost sometime last week. He survived without it.

Shane let out a laugh. “Well we survived this far on our own. What’s sayin’ we can’t survive longer?”

Throughout their conversation the sounds of battle roared around them. The four sat behind a brick building as Her Majesty’s Armed Forces fired at them. They were trapped. The only way to live through it was to either surrender or kill them all, and there was no way they would be prisoners to the British. The only option was death. They would defeat their enemy or die trying.

Shane aimed his M1 around the corner an