Tag: abuse

Arrows

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excerpt

She was scrutinizing me as though willing herself to see
my soul.
Her hand came up to my cheek, and her thumb followed the line of
my cheekbone. An insurrection was taking place inside me. I wanted to
be close to her. Closer. My hands hurt with desire to touch her. My
breathing became jerky, and I felt myself grow hard in the way I knew I
must not, and the urge to satiate that hunger was ruining my
judgment. She said something, but I could only admire the fascinating
movements of her mouth—a ripe fruit, sweet and yielding.
Thank God she buried her face in my neck, though her breath,
warm on my skin, only added to the mayhem inside me, for it gave
me the time I needed to rally my wits about me. I pushed her softly
away. “Noli me tangere,” I breathed in Latin. Do not touch me. Her
big, dark pupils looked up at me, searching my face. I swallowed
awkwardly, conscious of the movement of my throat. “Chi’ka,” No, I
added in Carib. But it came out more like a strangled plea.
She knelt back, her hand on my thigh. I pushed it off, noticing as I
did the stake lifting my frock obscenely. She saw it, too. I pushed my
knees up, giving my privates the only touch and pressure they
would get. I breathed deeply, swaying softly back and forth.
Thoughts of Jesus on the Cross, at Calvary, flooded my mind,
slowing my heart.
Apacuana left me, a bit confused, I dare say, by my pushing her
away as I did. She fumbled for a long time at the entrance, building
some sort of barrier. I found it a sweet demonstration of her care for
me, but then began to worry she might have a more solid reason for
taking such precautions. I was left with a small fire burning and
enough kindling within reach to feed it.
I slept like the dead but woke up suddenly, certain I had heard
something. I tossed a handful of twigs into the glowing embers and,
moving gingerly, poked the fire until a timid flame revived. I
listened with expectation. Had I dreamed it? No, there it was again,
as if someone were shuffling at the entrance. My spirits lifted at the
thought of Apacuana’s return. But why not come in? I called to her.
Was it perhaps a beast instead?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Savages and Beasts

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on to Father Jerome and having a smirk on her face she left.
Mary, who couldn’t stay longer either since her working hours
had started, gave Anton another deep kiss and left; but just before
she walked out of his door she turned and whispered to him, I
love you which made Anton’s day.
During the breakfast the children ate without any incident
and soon after Anton having shared his coffee with Mary,
left to go and check on Dylan. Anton by nature and internally
always recognized and related to the misery of the world in such
a strange way that he believed it was inescapable, therefore something
one has to survive by standing up to it and fighting and that
way he felt he could discover where his sense of justice was laid.
This was his feeling this morning driving to the hospital and a
stressful sensation overconsumed his mind. Truly, this was his
feeling when he arrived at the hospital and went to Dylan’s room,
though he didn’t find him there. The nurse supervising that section
informed him that most unfortunately Mr. Kelly had passed.
“When? What happened?” Anton questioned.
“The doctor will see you soon,” the nurse replied.
Soon, the doctor who was looking after Dylan appeared
and took Anton on the side. An aneurism, he said, an aortic aneurism,
something building inside Mr. Kelly for some time caused
a sudden rupture of his aorta. Cigarettes contributed to it, so did
unhealthy food habits and unhealthy lifestyle, the doctor opined.
They did all they could. He bled profusely, nothing could be
done; he bled to death in just five minutes.
Anton was stunned. He couldn’t utter a word. Didn’t know
what he could say. What one says in such situations? He left the
hospital. He drove to the Residential School not even paying attention
to anything as if dazed, absorbed in his thoughts. He walked
to Dylan’s room, his room now, and sat behind the small desk.

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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The captain merely laughed. Finten continued, “I should have known your words
were false. I will not submit to be collared like a dog. I am a priest of God.”
“Yes, you sound like one.” The Norse leader stepped into the pen and came face
to face with the fiery Finten. “I am Hjálmar, Captain Hjálmar.” Taller by far and
stripped to the waist, he lunged at Father Finten, pinning the scruffy priest to the
deck. The captain grinned at his victim and spoke almost in a whisper. “You are
about to have your first bath and trim, my hairy friend, and I am delighted to be your
bather. Washing priests is my specialty.”
The Norse crew gathered to watch the sport. They shouted encouragement to
their captain like rowdy boys at a schoolyard fight. Finten struggled, kicked and
punched. Momentarily, he gained his freedom, but was tackled and held down by
the Norse captain once more.
“Never will you force such an unholy and unchristian rite on me. Bathing is immoral
and evil and unnatural,” Finten howled. He thrashed at his opponent, but was
no match for the powerful wrestler.
Captain Hjálmar stripped him of his cassock and sat sideways on his heaving
chest. He was forceful but almost gentle at the same time, addressing his remarks to
Finten in a calm, steady voice. “No different than any other man I have known. You
do have all your parts I see. I had been told that priests of Rome were snipped of
their manly marvels to keep them from a woman’s bed.”
“I’ll snip you of your manly marvels, you boastful pagan beast,” Finten yelled.
He struggled to cover his privates but two Norse crewmen held his arms to the deck
while another two grabbed his feet. Finten squirmed wildly from side to side while
Hjálmar snapped the cord of twine that held a copper Celtic cross around the priest’s
neck. The captain flung the metal object in an arc to the white-capped waves. “By
Aegir, ruler of the seas, no thrall of mine will spread his fleas and stench of sweat and
piss and shit upon my ship.” Then, he tossed the priest’s garment to his lieutenant,
“Here, Bjorn, boil this nest of fleas for rags while I rid this Roman monk of sanctimonious
stink. Phew.” Dipping into the sudsy bucket of salt water, Hjálmar lathered
a sheepskin cloth with a block of bright yellow soap and proceeded to scrub Finten’s
heaving torso, still talking to him in the same steady tone.
“Ah, you should be bathed by a woman. Then you would no longer wish to be
so full of vermin. We men of the Danelaw, bathe, comb our hair, and change our
woollen garments on every Laugerdag, which you call Saturday. We scrub no matter
the season, even when we are absent months on end from wives and sweethearts.”
The Norseman looked around to his crew who were enjoying such sport on a chilly
morning at sea. “Ah, yes. Our wives and sweethearts – may they never meet.”
“I will not submit to pagan practices,” the struggling monk bellowed.
“You, my friend, were created by the god Ríg to be a servant to all. And so you will
be, and work among my other thralls. Only those in mourning need not wash. It is
said that Odinn, king of the gods, left his hair unwashed as a sign of mourning for
the death of his son, Baldr. You are neither a god nor in mourning.”
“Of course I’m in mourning. I’m in mourning for dead friends and lost liberty.”
Father Finten’s quick reply did nothing to change his situation. Alternating between
the sheepskin cloth and a brush of pig bristles, Hjálmar scrubbed the struggling
monk from head to toe.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Arrows

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excerpt

She could barely restrain herself from making a second
public accusation.
“You might get the answer to your question if you asked our
friend, Gregorio,” I replied, looking at Gregorio instead of Josefa.
Gregorio immediately understood. He grabbed Josefa by the arm
to forcibly remove her. I stood rooted to the ground, hoping he
would drag her away and that could be the end of it. But Josefa
remained feisty and broke away from him, running to me with a
pained expression. She leaned forward and whispered devilishly in
my ear, so that only I could hear. “I know what happened at the
river,” she said. “I know everything. I know you let her touch you!”
I jerked back from her, as though she had slapped me in the face.
The servant, she had seen me, and Josefa could barely contain the
power she had over me. There was no point in trying to deny
anything. I walked away, horrified by Josefa’s misplaced jealousy,
and dumbfounded by my inability to eradicate her secret
knowledge.
Right then, I decided I did not want to learn whether Apacuana
had bitten Josefa or not. There was a part of me that hoped she had.

In the morning, when Losada was notified of the incident, he
preferred to dismiss it as mere female hysteria rather than discern
which party was responsible. It was the prudent decision: to
concentrate on completing his negotiations with the cacique Chacao.
After mass, Losada ordered the captives brought to him and untied.
“We want to be your friends. You see we have not harmed you,”
Losada told Chacao. “We can decide to do this in peace, or we can do
it in war. We are powerful. To show you my goodwill, I give you all
your people back.”
Chacao was a middle-aged man with deep lines running down
the sides of his nose to his mouth in a permanent scowl. He did not
answer, just stood there, hands folded in front of him. It was
important for him not to appear grateful for Losada’s benevolence.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Savages and Beasts

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“Yes, I do. I’ve been in this position for almost five years
and since my first month, one November night, around nine
o’clock I was paid a visit by the Head Master of this facility,
Father Jerome, who, that night for the first time but not the last
violated me in the most disgusting way; He has been doing this
occasionally, whenever he would feel up to it, no questions asked
no permissions granted…”
“Father Jerome” Anton talked to himself, “somehow the
impression I got for the man, the first time I met him, was that
he would never take no for an answer…”
Mary turned a little so her eyes would dive deep in Anton’s
and smiled at him. Her smile seemed forced, stressed smile, yet it
was her smiling lips that Anton looked at and enjoyed their shape
and promising tomorrow. She took his hand before she continued.
“Yes Sister Gladys and Father Jerome are lovers, for a long
time, I’d say from the day of his arrival here, they seem to match
in many different ways and the way our rooms are lined upstairs,
you’d notice when you come for some reason upstairs and spend
time you’ll realize that her room is next to Sister Helen’s and next
to hers is mine, all the men’s rooms are on the opposite side of
the upstairs hallway with Father Jerome’s in the middle. He’d
just walk out of his and within ten or so feet he accesses Sister
Gladys’ room or mine.”
She stopped and took a breath, the freshness of the August
day just outside the truck window and the freshness of the slow
flowing water of the Thompson River blew certain moist on her
face moistening it; she pulled Anton closer to her and kissed him.
“Sister Gladys followed Father Jerome each time he paid a
visit to me and since she saw me as a competitor who I never have
been nor would I ever want to become, in fact each time Father
Jerome came to my room, he plainly and simply raped me,

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Finten took the potion, looked at it and handed it back without
even tasting.
“What is this vile green stuff? It’s going to make me retch again.”
“It’s allium and mint. Drink it. You’ll feel better.”
“Garlic juice! If it kills me, I’ll be relieved.”
Finten closed his eyes and quickly drained the cup. He took a deep breath, then
another. Slowly, the nausea passed.
“Ah, my dear, good friend. Thank you. Thank you. Bless you, Brother. Now look
after your patient, Father Gofraidh.”
Rordan moved toward the old man but Gofraidh motioned him away. Rordan
sat and closed his eyes to the impending headache that always came in stressful
situations.
As the sky grew dark, the wind intensified to gale force. The sea roiled and heaved.
Mountains of angry water tossed the small craft dizzily through the air to the top of
a white-capped wave.
Brother Ailan cried out above the howling wind, “Holy Mother of God.”
Father Finten completed the prayer, “Ora pro nobis.” A reflex bred out of habit.
“Lord, save us,” the usually jovial Ailan whispered as the cauldron shifted, the lid
popped off, and the hapless cook grabbed to rescue a chunk of peat. “Ouch! Damn!”
The tiny craft slipped back, down, down, down. A fountain of icy water washed
over the six miserable monks, huddled together, holding on to the shifting struts.
Leather bulged and snapped against bleeding fingers.
Brother Ailan struggled to unstop a bag of whale oil to pour the contents on the
frothy waves. The bag slipped from his grasp. Putrid smelling oil ran over his feet
into the bottom of the boat and sloshed over Rordan’s and Finten’s feet. “Merda!”
Shit! Rordan swore. Father Finten didn’t even look up.
Once more, Ailan lifted the bag over the side. A wave crashed in, spreading more
oil in the currach than on the waters. While he struggled to return the remaining
whale oil to its storage under the floorboards, Brother Ailan watched a wall of water
crash in to knock the lid from his peat cauldron once more and swamp the smouldering
contents with a mighty hiss.
The shape of the boat seemed to change with each twist and turn. Like a struggling
sheep nipped in shearing, the currach pranced, kicked, and butted with creaks
and groans. The wind howled like demons in agony.
Each time a wave broke against the bow, a torrent of spray swamped the boat. The
Brothers bailed for their lives with buckets and cooking pots.
Father Gofraidh lay half submerged by water in the bottom of the currach. The
old man held a crucifix firmly in his left hand while his right held desperately to the
seat above him.
Mountains of water marched, threatened, marched on. The wind tore the tops
off the waves. Sleet drove horizontally, caking hair and clothing in dripping slush.
Brother Rordan, to stem his own fear, chanted, shakily at first then with increasing
gusto,“Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae.” Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy.
His voice rose above the wind and waves as though the angels sang. The wind paused
to listen. For an instant, there was calm. Then, a mountain of dark green water rose
above the tiny craft and the miserable mortals were about to be flattened by one giant
slap. Miraculously, the currach glided slowly up the sheer wall.

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Arrows

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amazement, our eyes locked often, for my face was in darkness and
my eyes half-closed. She somehow sensed my gaze. My heart
rushed a little every time, as if some strange and invigorating
connection had established itself between us.
The men had been tied around a tree, including the boy who
had fought to free Apacuana. I wondered who he was, likely her
brother.
Losada, along with Gregorio and Pánfilo, had entertained himself
in pacifying the Indian boy, but the youth’s courageous rejection of
every kindness didn’t amuse Losada long, and he had ordered him
tied up with the men.
My head throbbed. I was feverish again. I lay with my back to
the fire, concentrating on the frogs and crickets singing their night
song, hoping their music could distract me from my growing
queasiness. The fire crackled as sap pockets exploded, sending
fiery dots into the sky.
The moon was full, though there were some clouds. I was still
learning to read the signs of the sky in this new land. The rainy time
had just begun, and I was surprised at how suddenly the water
poured from the heavens and, just as suddenly, stopped and the
skies cleared.
My head felt ready to burst. I put a hand to my head. A moan of
agony and desperation stuck in my throat, and I sat up, closing my
eyes and swaying with dizziness. My breathing had gone from
heavy and deep to shallow and fast.
I crawled on all fours to the nearest tree and puked bile that made
me shudder with its bitterness. I had nothing in my stomach in the
way of food. A temporary moment of relief came over me, and I sat
with my back against the trunk, blinking owlishly, until I
remembered Apacuana again. What would become of her?
A head popped up in front of me, silhouetted against the fire. It
was Tamanoa. “What is the matter?” he asked. “You are sick again!”
“I’ll be all right in the morning. Don’t worry, I know these pains. I
get them occasionally.”
“What pains? Where does it hurt?”

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Perils of the Sea
As if the wind heeded Finten’s prayer for a quick return to Ireland, a stiff breeze
blew the tiny craft steadily southeast, along the coast of Mull. By noon, they were
in sight of Colonsay but the wind died before they came close to Islay. Now they’d
definitely not reach Kintyre before dark when the North Channel currents would be
most treacherous.
Rordan felt miserable that Finten had chosen to sit next to him as if to make sure
he said his prayers aloud with the other Brothers. Why can’t we just pray silently
on our own. I’m not up to all this chatter when we’re cramped together like this. In
chapel it’s different, I don’t have someone breathing down my neck. He tried shifting
away from the priest but Father Finten just seemed to lean in closer.
As evening approached, a chill wind whipped up waves and enclosed the craft in
clinging fog. The monks bobbed around until they lost all sense of direction. For a
few brief moments, the moon appeared through the mist and, by her position, the
seamen knew they were heading north instead of south.
Keallach exclaimed, “My God, we’re sailing in the wrong direction.” He pulled in
the sail while Laoghaire manoeuvred the side rudder to bring the currach around.
The turn took all of fifteen minutes, an eternity in the choppy sea.
The moon hid behind a black cloud as the sky darkened. Chilly sleet drifted over
the huddled crew and icy rivulets seeped down their necks. Finten crawled between
furs, shivering violently, praying his Pater Nosters and Ave Marias. Brother Ailan slid
a cover loosely over his cauldron. He had just gathered the uneaten supper from
wooden plates to be saved for a later meal and had secured the supplies in leather
bags against the mounting storm. The currach began to be walloped by waves, as she
moved up one side and down the other of each mounting swell.
The dizzying lift and drop made Finten nauseous. Soggy bread that had slipped
from its package swished about in the seawater among smelly slices of semi-preserved
whale meat and kippers. All that and the stench of the dying hermit priest
were more than Finten could stand. He grabbed the wooden bucket knowing he
was about to throw up before he could reach the side. “Out of my way.” He knocked
Rordan from his seat as he leaped up dropping the bucket. “Lord, Lord of the Seas.
Ohhh! My churning gut.”
Father Finten stumbled to the leeward and heaved his stomach contents to the
sea. Swiftly, Brother Ailan moved and grabbed his priest to save him from being
washed overboard. He led him gently back to his seat amidst the furs next to Brother
Rordan who turned his head away to avoid the sickly smell of the priest’s breath.
“Brother Rordan, for the love of Jésu, what have you in your bag to soothe this
wretched sickness?” Finten groaned.

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Arrows

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Gregorio, mounted on Babieca, joined half a dozen riders who
were pursuing the runaways. Several of the riders were herding the
natives with the points of their spears. There were older men among
the natives, but no warriors.
In the distance, Gregorio chased a young woman who refused to
stop. He took his foot out of the stirrup and landed a kick on her back
that sent her flying. She fell head over heels in the tall grass. When I
saw Gregorio leap off Babieca and throw himself upon the girl, my
legs began moving before I had time to think.
I could see Gregorio’s back in the tall grass and I feared he would
rape her. Beneath him, the girl shrieked. From a distance, I could not
see her face. Losada had explicitly forbidden any harm to the
natives, as the king had forbidden their enslavement, apparently to
the same effect.
I could see them struggling. I called him again and again, still
forty long paces away. He fumbled at his breeches, while keeping
her down one-handed, and pushed against her. Again she shrieked.
Damn his soul. He was not much better than Pánfilo. I came from
behind and kicked him in the ribs, which thudded like a broken
drum. I tumbled over him. He fell on his side. I scrambled away and
got a glimpse of his disgusting member besmeared with blood.
Gregorio stood up, furious, and grabbed a handful of her hair. He
raised her by the hair, and I beheld her face as she threw up her
hands, her eyes round with terror. A dead weight sank inside me.
Horror, mixed with a shameful joy, gave way to a surge of wrath as I
took in what had happened. It was the girl by the river, the girl with
eyes like the setting sun.
Something moved in the grass at her feet, something with
grey-brown fur. The monkey. My hands curled into fists. As I fought
the urge to punish Gregorio, the monkey clambered up his side and
bit him on the ear.
With a swift motion, Gregorio let go of the girl and grabbed the
monkey by the feet. He swung it against the trunk of a massive
rubber tree as it howled and whined, eyes unfocused but terrified.

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Savages and Beasts

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“Oh, no,” she said and covered her mouth with her free hand.
Anton pulled her close to his body and held her tightly
when at that moment the laundry door was opened and Sister
Gladys made her appearance saying,
“Oh my, oh my…what have we here, lovebirds?”
Anton let go of Mary who pulled a little away, “it’s not
what it looks, we were talking of Mr. Kelly,” Mary said to Gladys.
“Oh, don’t mind me, sweet Mary and you Mr. Jonas, your
secret, or whatever it is you two have, is safe with me…only,” she
left her phrase unfinished.
“What do you mean, Sister Gladys?” Mary asked.
“Only one thing for you, sweet secretary…shut your door
from now on don’t let anyone come in…not anyone, ok?”
Mary lowered her head as Anton looked at her, dumbfounded,
and though without her saying it a whisper came out of
her lips, “I never invited anyone, nor have I ever provoked anyone.”
“You could be stronger,” Sister Gladys insisted.
“I know,” Mary admitted and her head was lowered even
more than before.
“Okay then, what of Mr. Kelly? What should I report to
Father Jerome?”
Anton told her in a few sentences the news about Dylan
after which Sister Gladys left them. Mary still stood away from
Anton with her lowered head and tears coming down her eyes.
Anton neared her, took her hand again, raised her head with his
other hand and kissed her lips softly.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be concerned, let it be, Mary, let
it be,” he whispered and hugged her tightly. Time passed like a
flood of sunlight flashing on them, light was there, at the end of
the tunnel Mary and Anton had passed, and now they were out
in the open, out in the beautiful summer August day.

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