Tag: Books

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

…lack of ambition contrasted remarkably with that of Clifford Hamilton who had different aims on human brains. Yet when Caitlin thought about it, she could not avoid the conclusion that maybe Liam’s desire to fill young brains with learning was more worthy, if less prestigious, than Clifford Hamilton’s desire to open them up for medical probing. She admired Liam all the more for his altruism. He was indeed a true disciple of his idol, Father Padraig.
Beyond the school the pebble-dashed, two-storey rectory stood back a bit from the lane. Lamplight shone through the window of Padraig’s room upstairs; the rest of the house was in darkness. Padraig shared the rectory with Father Donagh Costello, the priest of the neighbouring parish “over the bridge” in Aughnashannagh. The pious widow, Brid O’Flaherty, lived in the same house as servant and cook to the two parish priests.
Caitlin paused outside the rectory, then passed by and climbed the rough-cut steps to the church. Aligned along the ridge, Our Lady Star of the Sea church occupied a spread of flat ground covered with the same beach-pebbles as the footpath from the road. Caitlin paused in the doorway at the west end of the church, stayed for a moment by the clarity and peace of the evening. She gazed out over the gravestones and the grass to the errant line of the cliff-top. Dark grey was the sea beyond, and blue the sky above. The blueness of the sky paled to limpid opalescence where the sun had set. No sound. No movement. Only a shiver in the short grass where the breeze blew across it. Inland the evening shadows darkened the purple hills, the green fields, the grey stone walls, the yellow flowers of spreading whins. Lights in farmhouse windows twinkled like stars. Thin twines of smoke uncoiled from cottage chimneys.
Caitlin felt a surge of joy within her. No-one knows how much I love this land, she thought.
She opened the church door with a click of the latch and closed it gently behind her. The hush of the evening out of doors deepened between the white walls and the dark, varnished roof-beams of the church. Three small windows high up along each wall admitted light by day but they were gloomy now. Below each window a picture hung. Padraig had told Caitlin their stories. Along the right-hand wall that overlooked the sea the first picture showed Jesus calling the disciples Andrew and John as they worked at their nets by the shore; the second showed Him in a crowded boat ordering the stormy waters to be calm; and the third showed Him walking upon the sea, holding an outstretched hand to Peter. Along the opposite wall the first picture was of Jesus pulling ears of corn as He walked through a field with…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Fury of the Wind

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them in soap and water and set the table with them. She had stoked
up the fire in the range to prepare a casserole of scalloped potatoes
and warm up the pork shoulder Mrs. Thompson had cooked during
the week.
Yesterday, with the intention of making a pie, the two women
had gone out to the bushes north of the farm to pick Saskatoon
berries. But when they came to make the pastry they could not find
any lard in the house, so there would be fresh berries with sugar
and thick cream for dessert.
When Ben came in he looked surprised to see no meal laid out
on the kitchen table. But he did not wear his usual scowl when
something upset him. Taking this as a good sign – and in a moment
of coquettishness – Sarah took him by the hand and led him to the
front room. He did not withdraw from this first gesture of intimacy
they had shared. A faint smile crossed his face when he saw what
she had done with the table.
“Long time since we had a tablecloth and nice dishes in this
house,” he said.
She hoped he would change back into the suit he had worn for
the wedding but he sat down at the table in his overalls. Because she
promised herself she would not start off their married life by nagging,
she let it go. But she still wore her white dress. Removing her
apron, she tossed it over a chair and sat down across from him.
He appeared to enjoy the meal but he ate in silence, as usual. Sarah
longed to talk about the wedding ceremony, but fear of invoking
his anger towards the townspeople in general, and Mr. Andrews in
particular, made her hold her tongue. Ben had been less than complimentary
about the station agent as they drove away from the
church, saying in a loud voice, “Interfering old bastard.” Sarah had
quickly rolled up the truck window.
She tried to think of a safe topic of conversation, and finally decided
to ask about his family. “You told me your mother died three
years ago, Ben, but what about your father? When did you lose
him?”
“He died when I was seven years old. Killed in the first war.”
“Oh, how terrible for you.”
“Didn’t bother me none. I hardly knew him. All I remember is
that he was tall and skinny. He left when I was four…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073530

Water in the Wilderness

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excerpt

“Coffee, soup and ham sandwiches,” she announced as she laid the tray down on the table in front of them. She handed a paper napkin and a bowl of soup to Tyne. “Now eat. I don’t plan to take any of this back to the cafeteria.”
Tyne grinned at her aunt, and told herself she would do her best to comply.
Their lunch finished, they waited for Moe to come from the ward to tell them they could go in again. When Tyne looked at her watch, she realized that little more than an hour had passed. Then suddenly Moe, in her crisp white uniform, appeared at the door.
“Okay kiddo, you can see Bobby again. He’s rousing, and his vital signs are stabilizing.”
Tyne jumped to her feet and turned to her aunt. But Millie shook her head. “You go ahead, Tyne. I’ll see him tomorrow. He doesn’t know me well, and he doesn’t need to see a strange face staring at him when he wakes up. And take your time, dear. I’m fine here.”
Tyne reached down to pat Aunt Millie’s hand before she followed Moe through the door and towards the childrens’ ward.
“How about Ronald? Has he settled? He was upset when I saw him.”
Moe opened the door and motioned Tyne to go ahead of her. “He had a sleep, and he ate something when he woke up. He’s going to be all right … except for the frostbitten parts. Those are still a question mark, I’m afraid.”
Tyne stepped through the door, but stopped when she saw Dr. Bryce Baldwin speaking to a white-clad nun near Bobby’s bed. Moe left her side and walked towards them, and the three of them conversed for several minutes. The sister was making notes on a chart – Bobby’s chart, presumably. Then she turned her head slightly in Tyne’s direction. Dark lively eyes below her wimple highlighted a pretty face as she spoke to the two people with whom she consulted. Moe said something, and nodded in Tyne’s direction. The sister turned towards her, a smile lighting her eyes. She handed the chart to Moe and started towards the door where Tyne stood.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

The Circle

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excerpt

“Come in, my son, come in. Let me introduce you to the Minister of Finance,
Omar Salem. Here’s one of my sons from the United States, minister. His name
is Talal Ahem.”
Omar Salem looks at Talal and smiles.
“He’s one of the seven?”
“Yes.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” Talal says, and shakes the man’s hand.
“You, too, Talal Ahem,” says the minister. “Should we expect you to return
to your country soon?”
Ibrahim smiles with obvious pleasure as he tells the minister, “He’s a
chemical engineer.”
“A chemical engineer, very good; now, this is a man our country needs, don’t
you think, my good friend, Ibrahim?”
“Yes, of course. Yes, our country needs all her talents to help her in our years
of development.”
“Please tell me, Ibrahim, when your dearest son Hakim will visit us?”
“I hope very soon in the new year, minister.”
Talal shakes the hand of the minister once again and leaves him with Ibrahim
in the study. He finds Emily in the garden and they walk together for a while.
She’s curious to know what happened.
“Who’s meeting with Ibrahim, honey?”
“It’s the Minister of Finance for Iraq.”
“Well, it certainly seems Ibrahim is well-connected here.”
“He’s well-connected all over the world, my love. What surprises me,
though, is that there are seven of us in the United States.”
“What do you mean, seven of you?”
“Hakim and I are in the United States thanks to Ibrahim’s money. Now, I
find out there are another five who have gone to the states for studies, just as
Hakim and I did. I only know Ahmed, in Los Angeles whom I see often, but who
are the other four and where are they?”
“Why did Ibrahim send you if you are not a blood relative?”
“My mission is to be with Hakim and make sure he never feels alone, nor gets
into trouble. To make sure nothing bad happens to him.”
They walk hand in hand, silently, while Talal tries to figure out who the rest
of the seven could be and where they may be now. There must be a reason the old
man sent us all to the United States. Talal knows he needs to find that out before
they return home, so he can brief Hakim before he gets involved with Bevan and
his plans.
“Tomorrow we’re going to the gulf. Are you not excited?” he asks Emily.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Jazz with Ella

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excerpt

A sad story, Lona thought. She wondered how many other homes had buried treasure—perhaps the owners didn’t even know it. Back in New York the buyers would be interested in stories like this one.
When she got home should she find a buyer for the icon, too? No, she wanted the icon for herself. She would not be turning it over to the businessmen on her return, but somehow, she would have to account for the cash—it had cost $50 U.S. dollars—that she had been given to purchase these items. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. She considered its size, weighing it in her hand like tomatoes at the grocery store. She checked once more that the door was locked, then she carefully unwrapped the distinctive Beryozka wrapping paper from a newly purchased balalaika, a musical instrument with a long narrow neck and a triangular body. There was no mistaking its shape even in wrapping paper. Once the paper was removed from the balalaika she wrapped the icon in her kerchief, then squeezed it into the space between the strings and the body of the instrument. It just fit. She re-wrapped the Beryozka paper around the balalaika, being careful to tape it in exactly the same spots as before, then held it up for inspection. You could hardly tell a thing—just the merest suspicion of something rectangular. She placed the wrapped balalaika into a mesh shopping bag such as the Soviets seemed to carry everywhere. This one she would be taking on the plane with her and stowing in the overhead baggage compartment. That done, she pulled out a kit from her suitcase that contained some acrylic paint such as children use and bottles of powder and Vaseline.
The jewellery, a pendant of solid gold and very old, was easy to doctor up; it was not of religious significance, although Krov had tried to tell her otherwise. It would find a buyer who was simply looking for something pretty and special. She considered if she had time to invent a provenance for it—a story about some czar giving it to his mistress, perhaps? The consortium had rapped her knuckles once before for inventing but she couldn’t resist. Who’s to say that it was not true? What Russian peasant before the revolution would own such a rich thing?
She removed the elaborate gold chain and put it with her own modern jewellery, then re-hung the locket on a leather strip. She put the locket into a tiny, leather, filigreed sack. She would wear it around her neck.
The prayer scrolls were also easy. They would be placed among the pencil sketches of St. Isaac’s Cathedral that she had completed…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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“I mean no disrespect, whatsoever,” Ken said. “I know the symbol well.
But that is the wall.”
Albert exchanged a few words with Leon and then nodded. The painting
would go on that wall. Then Ken and Leon tackled the problem of
hanging the massive painting on a marble wall. The maintenance staff
concluded they would have to drill into the ceiling beams and suspend
the painting from thin stainless steel wires.
They hung the painting after business hours. Ken invited the media.
He had the panels delivered to the lobby where he bolted them together.
Salvador and his staff came along to help. Many members of the young
professionals group also arrived on the scene. The media asked how much
the painting had sold for. “No comment,” Ken said.
“Was it a lot of money?”
“No comment.”
“How did you contact Mr. Reichmann?”
“No comment.”
“You’re an artist,” one of them said. “How do you know how to do
all these other things? Artists don’t know how to be entrepreneurs. Who
helps you?”
“That’s a big question,” Ken said. “It’s a spiritual matter. I don’t wish
to discuss it.”
“What do you mean it’s a spiritual matter?”
“Just that. I get my knowledge, inspiration, and advice from a higher
authority and beyond that, I don’t want to discuss it. But, I will say one
thing – my advisor is Mr. Albert Reichmann.”
“Yes,” Albert said, when a reporter asked. “I am honoured to be Mr.
Kirkby’s advisor. He is doing wonderful work.”
Those few words gave Ken the credibility he’d been looking for. He had
achieved what his father had always had – the power to command respect
and attention wherever he went.
Later that night, when he was one of the last to leave, he paused to look
at the painting that he had envisioned hanging in that space so many
times. It looked exactly as he had imagined. It was in perfect proportion
to the immense lobby. It wasn’t until one walked closer to it that one felt
the full impact of its size.
His greatest debt was to Salvador, who had arranged the meeting, but
when he told him that he wanted to give him several paintings, he refused.
Ken painted several canvases regardless and delivered them to his home.
Before getting back to the task of Isumataq, Ken returned to the Arctic.
Keith Sharp, the burly Englishman, had moved to a parcel of land near
Rankin Inlet and extended an invitation. Ken included Michael as well as
Avril the photographer, and Roberto and Egidio, the filmmakers, in his
entourage; in mid-July, the somewhat motley crew – loaded down with…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

In Turbulent Times

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‘You’re too smart for them, Joe.’ Michael gulped a mouthful of tea that was still quite warm. ‘Your mother says you’ve been in America.’
‘Yes. I did a bit of travelling there.’
‘Must be a great country.’
‘Yes, it is. I loved what I saw of it. I told Nora that I was going to live in the States when the war was over.’
‘That’ll prepare her,’ Caitlin said in a heavy voice.
‘So you’re going to become a Yank, Joe?’ Michael said.
‘I think so.
‘Good for you. That’s where the future is, I’d say.’
‘Yes,’ Joe agreed. ‘That’s where the future is. In fact I’d say the future was already there.’
‘Grab your share of it, Joe. And good luck to you, son.’
҂
Nora waited anxiously as the days passed. She hoped heart and soul, more fervently than she had ever hoped for anything, that Joe had made her pregnant. She even prayed for it in church, pleading with God, who had robbed her of so much, to grant her this one compensating favour. And then she remembered that God did not reward sin but punished it. Would He punish her? Could He, who had already punished her so cruelly, continue to show only heartless vindictive ness towards her? The time of the month, as Nora reckoned it, had been most propitious for conception. The occasion itself, so beautiful, so transcendental, so highly infused with the passion of pure and overpowering love, could not have been other than providential. If she never had another possession in her life, Nora wanted Joe’s child with a ferocity that almost choked her.
‘If I can’t have him,’ she prayed, ‘allow me to have his son or his daughter, to love and care for as I would have loved and cared for Joe himself. Oh God Almighty, harden not Your heart this time. Wipe from Your mind all memory of the wrong we did to attain this end and give to our undying love, so true that only You could have inspired it, the divine consummation it deserves.’
Nora was tense, anxious, irritable and easily upset. She had a violent row with her mother that began with a purely innocent and casual remark from Caitlin about Owen Joe’s being too warmly dressed.
‘You’re one to be giving advice about looking after babies,’ Nora shouted heartlessly. ‘I’m surprised your incompetence as a mother didn’t kill me.’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

The Unquiet Land

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Caitlin has repented. She has accepted God and Christ. She came to me of her own free will, Finn. Jesus Himself said that ‘there shall be joy in heaven upon one sinner that doth penance, more than upon ninety-nine just who need not penance.’”
“This house is no church, Padraig,” Finn said. “You needn’t preach a sermon. Joy there might be in your airy, fairy-story heaven, but your soul-saving here brings nothing but sorrow and sickness and ill-will.”
Padraig made as if to object, but Finn would not stop in his bull’s rush. “Caitlin has become a nervous and sickly wreck. Ask Jinnie there. She’ll tell you. A strong, healthy, independent, life-loving girl reduced to a headachy, lack-lustre prissy. Is that one of your miracles? Is that the kind of transformation that makes you proud and causes joy in heaven? Damn your miracles. Damn your pride and your heavenly joy. And damn you too, Padraig. Damn you for your treachery; your baseness; your snivelling, spineless, milk-and-water cowardice.”
Finn was shouting in a passionate rage. Anger had possessed him, and he did not pause to think of what he was saying. Mother Ross had not believed him capable of such anger, and with Padraig above all. She left lying on the kitchen table the bread she had buttered for the priest and slipped unnoticed into the scullery. She stood in front of the sink, holding tightly to the rim of it, unable to do anything, while Finn’s lashing tongue continued to scourge Padraig in the kitchen.
“You would not love Caitlin like a man. You would not take her as a man would when she offered herself to you. She was too much of a red-blooded woman for your puling sanctity. So now you are trying to water her down to your own thin gruel. You cannot marry her and so you want to make a mincing virgin out of her. A useless nun. A body of dry bones and shrivelled veins and a mind as free and lively as a clod of clay. Damn you, Padraig, I say again. Damn you, damn you, damn you.”
Finn’s loud shouting died to a hoarse whisper, but the fierce anger flashed from his eyes and glowered in the dark cloud of his haggard face. He seemed to be struggling to overcome a powerful desire to vent his anger physically on Padraig’s thin, milk-white body. He was obviously having difficulty in bringing himself under control. Then in a somewhat calmer voice he said, “You have destroyed Caitlin’s happiness with your missionary mumbo-jumbo. You and your type are not concerned about human happiness, but human ‘salvation’—whatever that unfortunate word might mean. Salvation from what? Salvation for what?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Questions of Survival
“Why does Father Finten dislike me so?” Rordan held the post in place while Keallach
lifted the beam into position and secured it with two strands of vine.
“I’m sure you are mistaken, Brother. Father Finten cares for all of us. Hold that post
steady. I cannot tie it secure if you keep waving it around.” Keallach lashed the two
pieces together. Now he stood and faced Rordan. “I think Father Finten likes his Brothers
to be trusting, not always thinking the worst will happen as if abandoned by God.”
Rordan shook his head and spat a tiny mosquito onto the sand. “Do you really
believe that? Finten does his own share of complaining. Then he tells us to have
faith in Divine Providence.” He wished he could say what he really felt about Father
Finten without having to feel so guilty about it, like he was speaking against some
great saint.
“Be happy; we’re free of those Viking slavers.”
“That big wrestler could kill us all in our sleep.” Rordan did not really believe that,
but he hated to be put in his place.
“If Blonde Bear slits anyone’s throat, I am sure it will be yours. Now let’s get
this other end up and perhaps we’ll have a place to sleep tonight.” Keallach lifted
the other end of the beam into position and secured it, while Rordan held the
post almost steady.
White Eagle greeted the young brave, Broken Wing, with calm patience.
He himself would investigate. Mountain Lion, levelheaded in times of emergency,
would accompany him. This time, they’d approach the camp with great
care. These hairy strangers were unpredictable. This much they had already
learned.
“Vikings have been raping and killing innocent people since I can remember.
Why should Illska and Hrafen be any different?” Finten spoke as he took the lance
Bjorn had cut for him from a straight sapling. He felt the sharp barbed tip with his
thumb, having never before held such a weapon in his hand.
Bjorn was cutting another sapling to form a lance for himself. “In the old days, it
was different. Usually it was kill or be killed. Better to kill them first. Some fought
for land. Some fought for family. Of course, many raided for profit. And yes, many
were cruel and loved killing, raping and burning. But not all Norsemen are pirates.”
Having trimmed off the side branches, he now began to cut a point at the small
end. “My father and my father’s father were hunters. We lived on the land in peace.
My father treated his thralls with care and respect. They were allowed their language…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

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

The Qliphoth

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excerpt

Kraskolkyn pulls delicately at the creases of an expensive grey mohair suit,
but his tie is loose, his smart shirt is open, the hairy fruit of his paunch sports a
chunky gold chain. He’s adorned with gold—wristwatch, rings, tieclip, fountain
pen. Fancy leather luggage bulges on the back seat. Pauline would have
been appalled at this display of conspicuous affluence. That dongle on the
chain has a phallic shape. This is not a correct person.
“Never mind, it don’t matter . . . I get everyone out of the shit, know what I
mean? I put ’em in deep. Oh yeah! But I get ’em out again . . .” The laughter
bellows on and on. Lucas can’t find the correct verbal register for dealing with
this big Kraskolkyn.
His fellow-traveller is delving into a pocket and pulling out cigars. Lucas is
queasy about smoking, he’s only tried timid experiments with Wicked
Trevor’s hash behind the gym at Westway, but now he feels obliged to take
part in another kind of machismo, its camaraderie, matches, blue smoke,
coughs, expectorations.
Kraskolkyn slaps him on the back. “Crazy damn kids. Always on the run.
Give bastards the runaround . . . Just have a nice cigar . . . then you be OK.
Enjoy the sights.”
Lucas isn’t OK. All he can hear is this bullying laughter.
“You gonna love those sights, I tell you. Better than any nutty house, you
know? I put loadsa money inna sights, believe me kid, crazy peoples gonna love
it all over the Seaside.”
Mr. K chuckles, chews purposefully on his cigar, as if waiting for a confession;
and Lucas realises that he should have the willpower to keep silent. The
slopes are becoming thickly wooded. He doesn’t know this edge of the Moor,
nor can he relate it to the location of distant Oakhill—or the coastal resorts.
His rescuer (abductor?) is asking him if he wants to learn any good jokes.
Lucas moves his head ambiguously. Too late, a fruity narration is already underway:
a Ukrainian, a Serb, an Englishman and a Croat went to the toilet. In
the toilet, see, there was this big telly—
The car lurches over potholes, compounding his difficulties in following
Mr. K’s polyglot diction, so he can only nod weakly at the gaseous explosions
of mirth. His head starts to throb with the noise and tedious obscurity of it all.
They’ve just roared past the darkened ruins of a station. He thinks the
crooked signboard said Abbots Oakham—for Oakhill Hospital. There, there’s
no way back, not now, it’s too late, best to close down that area, keep his eyes
open.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508