Tag: death

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

The bottle had been opened but little drunk from it. “As you can see, I haven’t been overindulging.” He pulled the cork out of the neck, poured two glasses and handed one to Caitlin.
“Thank you, Padraig.” As Caitlin placed the glass of wine on the table beside her, she noticed an old, soiled envelope. “This is addressed to my father,” she said, turning to look at Padraig.
“Yes, your father gave it to me when I left Corrymore to go to university.”
“You’ve kept it all this time?” Caitlin idly picked up the envelope.
“Yes. Seven years I’ve had it. You can read the letter if you wish.”
“No, not if it’s personal.”
“No, it is nothing private or secret that you have no right to read. It is addressed to your father after all, not to me.” Padraig took the envelope from Caitlin, removed the letter from inside and unfolded it. “It makes for rather disturbing reading though.”
Intrigued, Caitlin accepted the letter from Padraig and started to read with difficulty the untidy scrawl in which the letter was written. It was dated “Kyle of Lochalsh, Ross and Cromarty, Scotland, 11th March, 1902.” Caitlin turned to the last of the letter’s several pages; it was signed by Dr. Hamish Graham.
Dear Mr MacLir,
Thank you for your letter of 2nd ult. I apologise for my tardy reply but my practice has been busy of late, as is not unusual at this time of year. You requested any information I might have concerning the boy Padraig, over and above what little I was able to communicate to you during our brief meeting in November. You tell me that you have formally adopted Padraig as your son, so I can appreciate your desire to learn more about the laddie. However, until the month of July, 1899, we knew very little, not even his surname which he refused to divulge for fear, I believe, of being returned to the care of his uncle from which he and his mother had been so cruelly expelled. That part of Padraig’s unhappy history you are already familiar with.
What transpired in the month of July following Padraig’s arrival in Kyle was a disturbing court case in which a farm labourer from a community twelve statute miles from Plockton, a man of well-established bad character, was tried and convicted to hang for the brutal rape and strangulation of a vagrant woman who had been given permission to sleep in the hay in a barn belonging to this man’s employer. At the rapist’s trial, about which I read in several newspapers, both local and national, it was revealed that the woman’s father, the Rev. Magnus MacArtan,

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Redemption

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these voices of the innumerable people, pagans as they were called,
the ones who had died under the knife of the first Christians, who
exterminated thousands and thousands, as the scholars claimed,
perhaps even millions, to establish the new religion? It was written
in certain books, not of course in the regular books taught in
schools, that millions of Hellenes were eliminated so Christianity
could spread over the lands, and perhaps these voices and groans
Hermes was hearing coming from the depths of the earth were none
other than the pain those millions of Hellenes suffered.
He stood motionless as if to listen to a discourse coming from
somewhere deep under the floor of the monastery, groans of people
killed and buried under the soil of this church, when unexpectedly
a thought came to him: did the purpose justified the means when a
man is condemned to death for the success of a movement, did the
death of a man in the hands of another was rightfully approved by the
system which always craves to retain power over the people? And what
about the killing of a brother by brother, only for the killer to gain the
approval and help of a superior? Such thoughts overtook Hermes to
the point of feeling sick, indeed he felt the need to run away, far away
from this place, which he had visited with all the positive intentions of
looking into the monastery correspondence. He felt suffocated. He put
the papers away, he walked out of the church, he didn’t stop to thank
the monk who helped him, he just walked out at a fast pace as if to distance
himself from voices and images he wanted to forget.
Then, when far out, he felt his heart had calmed down as he
climbed a short hill since he wanted to change his route and followed
a narrow trail towards the top of the hill to reach his village on the
other side. He surely felt a lot better, and quite unexpectedly, a tune
rose from within his essence to his lips, and he started singing a local
tune; soon, he reached the top of the hill and found an old man on a
donkey right ahead of him. He greeted him and then asked,
“Are there any partridges around here, Uncle?”
“I have seen a couple of flocks over that mountain,” the old man
pointed to the other side of the horizon.

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In Turbulent Times

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…no doubt hoping that the audience might have been larger. Denied by religious difference the pleasure of verbally crucifying Liam in front of his congregation in church, the Reverend MacNevin had decided to get compensating satisfaction by birching him in the barber’s shop. Unfortunately for the Reverend MacNevin only the barber was present. The other chairs were empty. Jackie Harrison’s assistant came in from Carraghlin only on Friday evening and Saturday.
‘I would have preferred not to inform you of this highly distasteful matter, Mr Dooley,’ the minister went on disingenuously, ‘but the act was witnessed inadvertently by two teenaged boys, one of whom happens to be my son. They went to collect waste paper at your house and it so transpired that they caught sight of the adulterers through your kitchen window. Fornicating on the floor. On the floor, I repeat. In their lustful passion they could not even wait to go to bed. I have extracted a promise from my son that there shall be no spreading of this unseemly scandal on his part, and he has endeavoured to extract a similar promise from his companion. But I fear the damage may already have been done. You can, of course, imagine the effect that such a sordid narrative must have on the imagination of adolescents. And what kind of an example does it present to them? The schoolmaster’s wife and an officer of the Royal Navy. By the greatest of good fortune, your wife is no longer a teacher at your school. You showed commendable prudence, Mr Dooley, in removing her from that position of responsibility. But I shudder to think what she might have been instrumental in instilling in the minds of her charges while she was so employed. That is why I have made it my painful duty to draw your wife’s gross indecency to your notice. It cannot be allowed to happen again. Furthermore, as a moral lesson to the young people of this village, it cannot be permitted to go unpunished. The very least you can do, Mr Dooley, is to forbid your wife ever to be seen in public with Joseph Carney again. What further steps you take to ensure that your wife does not repeat such immorality is, of course, up to you. I should think, however, that in view of the house from which she comes, such immorality and gross misconduct are indelible aspects of her character. Good day to you, Mr Dooley. And to you, Mr Harrison.’
With that the Reverend Lucas MacNevin, touching his hat to the two men, abruptly left the barber’s.
Jackie Harrison turned to finish the cutting of Liam’s hair. ‘None of this will go any further than these four walls, Liam,’ he promised.
But Liam did not hear what the barber said and would not have believed him if he had.

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Arrows

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Guacaipuro surveyed the damage.
“Your god,” he panted, “is evil.”
Then he seemed to see something in the shadows of the bushes
illuminated by the firelight, and all distress lifted from his
countenance. He reached out, but life left him at that moment. He
collapsed onto Urquía, his face buried in her bosom. I gawked at
them. He had trusted me with her life, and there she was, dead. And
he saw her die.
I was on my feet. Where had all the air gone? I gasped, trying to
suck it in, and stumbled away. My knees buckled, and I held myself
by the middle. A shout emerged from the centre of my soul, a long
throat-shredding, “No!”
She hadn’t converted either.
The Spaniards stepped back. I would have liked to see them try
and touch his body, chop off his head and take it as a trophy.
Something stopped them. Horror, I guess. As they fled uphill,
leaving only desolation behind, I felt Benjamin’s big hand on my
shoulder.
“Coming?”
I shot him a loathing look; pain choked me, tears stung my eyes,
my head throbbed. I saw in the fleeting expression that crossed his
face that that was the last thing he expected from me. He strode
away, looking back over his big, swaying shoulders a couple of
times. It was not his fault, of course, but at that moment he became
the Spaniards, a group I did not want to belong to any longer. My
reaction was unjust, and I knew it, but couldn’t bring myself to be
like Jesus.
Had I ever?
The next hours were filled with the numbness of incredulity. I just
sat there until the hut was nothing more than a glowing mass of
smouldering thatch. Desolation after the storm. Not a breath of hope
in the air. Nothing but pain and sorrow. Fragments of the person…

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Redemption

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mother had waited for him to get up so she could talk to him, so she
could look at him, so she could look at her first and only child, a man
now, a graduate from the university, her pride. All night, she wondered
about what to prepare for him, what to treat him with. She knew it was
difficult for him to live away from his mother’s touch while studying
in the city, attending classes, writing exams, and all. She had prepared
some cheese pies of her own recipe with lots of sugar and cinnamon,
which she knew he loved. She expected him to rise late since he had
travelled all day yesterday; she fixed his coffee and walked to his bedroom.
To her surprise, he was not only awake but also dressed.
Hermes’ father, George Dragakis, was a fifty-two-year-old man
who grew up in the orphanage, placed there by his mother, a young,
unmarried woman who got pregnant out of wedlock. George grew up
in the orphanage until he reached the age of eighteen, when he went
back to the village where his mother and natural father lived. He had
two stepsiblings on his mother’s side: a brother, Demetre, who lived
in Athens, where Hermes stayed while in school, and a sister, Katerina,
who lived somewhere in Germany. He also had a few stepsiblings
from his natural father’s side, but his father had never told Hermes
how many there were and whether they had any children.
Hermes’ father was a reticent man, and it was rare to be able to
start a conversation with him. It was Hermes’ mother, Despina, who
told him the story about his father and how they got married soon
after he came back to the village from the orphanage. Despina was a
chubby sixty-four-year-old woman, a saint, as her son thought of her.
She had only love in her heart, so much love for everyone, but mostly
for her only son Hermes, who was her pride.
“Oh, Mother,” he said affectionately and embraced her. “I will
have to leave you soon after breakfast because I need to go up to the
monastery. I promise we will have a long talk when I come back.”
“Why do you need to go to the monastery, son?”
“I need to look for something in their library. I will go by the
orchards to say good morning to Father first and then carry on from
there. I will be back for lunch.”

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Brother Rordan, tied up alone in another hut, wondered about his new friend, Ul.
So far, no one had been able to get him to say more than a few words. Rordan still
knew nothing about him except for his strange name.
Brown Bear and his son, Running Deer, returned from mourning at the Island
of the Dead to find the camp deserted. Corn Mother was gone but had drawn into
the sandy soil at the door to his lodge a picture of the hunt. He erased the message
meant for his eyes alone.
A young Native with spear stood watch while Rordan relieved himself at a long
pit, dug some distance from the huts. As he squatted, he looked toward the hut
where he’d spent the night, hoping for some sign of the others but he was alone
with his guard. Perhaps they were only being let out one at a time. His business
done, Rordan was led back to one of a dozen or more small huts. The huts were
slung low and covered with sheets of thick birch bark woven between saplings. At
the centre of the camp, several Native women ground corn and roots on a large flat
rock surface with wooden mortars.
In the semidarkness, Rordan’s guard tied his hands behind his back and attached
him once more to the centre lodge pole. Another Native came in with a wooden
bowl of corn mush and baked fish and tried to feed him but he refused to open his
mouth. Rordan heard distant drumming and felt a headache coming on. His eyes
burned but he couldn’t close them. The Native gave up his attempt to feed him and
finally left with the food bowl. Rordan preferred the quiet and darkness.
Brown Bear asked to see the captives. He looked in on two but did not recognize
either. In the farthest lodge, he saw Bjorn, his companion from the night of
the hunting feast, tied to the lodge pole, refusing to eat the food being offered by
Broken Wing. Brown Bear took the bowl and sat facing Bjorn. As soon as Broken
Wing left the lodge, Brown Bear untied Bjorn and handed him the food bowl.
Neither tried to speak. Bjorn wolfed down the corn and fish while Brown Bear sat
and watched his friend eat.
Rordan opened his eyes and gazed down at his previously bare feet now dressed
in gold slippers. His body was covered with brilliant, multicoloured feathers. Rordan
looked up to where a low ceiling had held him in darkness. The sky was filled with
stars. He extended his arms, no longer tied to the lodge pole behind his back and
effortlessly floated up, high above the captors’ village.
He flew with a myriad of birds of many colours, over forests, rivers, and great
expanses of desert landscape with deep canyons and pink sandstone plateaus.
He flew on between mountains capped with snow. Rordan glided above their
frosted solitude then down over a steamy jungle to a vast city on a lake. There
he saw exotic flowers and sparkling fountains and heard strange and beautiful
instrumental music. The birds led him on to another city on a hill. Here were
many pyramids of white and pink stone. People dressed in flowing robes of multicoloured
feathers moved up and down countless steps.

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Redemption

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insisted, so his uncle and auntie said their farewells at home. Eleni
and Hermes met in a nightclub a couple of years ago on the island of
Ios, where they were both vacationing. Hermes loved to play with her
blonde hair, and he mostly enjoyed letting his eyes dive deep into her
blue eyes.
He walked toward the deck bar, passing by the pretty tourist
girl sunbathing. It was not easy to walk along with all these people
sitting or lying around on the deck.
He ordered a cold coffee and glanced around. Next to him was
an old man drinking his lemonade: tough features, wrinkles on
his face, white hair, black circles around his eyes. The old man felt
Hermes’ glance and turned toward him:
“And where are you from, young man?”
“From around here, Uncle,” Hermes answered, imitating the
old man’s accent. It was customary to address an older man as “Uncle”
when one didn’t know his name. Whenever coming to the island,
Hermes liked to talk with an accent close to the locals to conform to
their ways as much as possible.
His coffee was brewed, and he took a slow sip to check it out.
The old man observed his ritual manner, satisfied.
“Could I ask you something, Uncle?” Hermes felt the need to
kill the silence between them.
“Sure. What is it, my son?”
“The island, why is it called Crete?”
The old man raised his eyebrows. Not many people asked this
kind of question.
“We call it Crete because it means wines and meats.”
Hermes was surprised. He never knew. Did this mean that this
island used to be fertile and fruitful, and the people never had to
worry about their food?
The old man turned and asked him.
“What do you do in Athens, my son?”
“I attend the university, Uncle. I am graduating this year.”
“Oh, you are a sand pebble then.”

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Arrows

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Guacaipuro surveyed the damage.
“Your god,” he panted, “is evil.”
Then he seemed to see something in the shadows of the bushes
illuminated by the firelight, and all distress lifted from his
countenance. He reached out, but life left him at that moment. He
collapsed onto Urquía, his face buried in her bosom. I gawked at
them. He had trusted me with her life, and there she was, dead. And
he saw her die.
I was on my feet. Where had all the air gone? I gasped, trying to
suck it in, and stumbled away. My knees buckled, and I held myself
by the middle. A shout emerged from the centre of my soul, a long
throat-shredding, “No!”
She hadn’t converted either.
The Spaniards stepped back. I would have liked to see them try
and touch his body, chop off his head and take it as a trophy.
Something stopped them. Horror, I guess. As they fled uphill,
leaving only desolation behind, I felt Benjamin’s big hand on my
shoulder.
“Coming?”
I shot him a loathing look; pain choked me, tears stung my eyes,
my head throbbed. I saw in the fleeting expression that crossed his
face that that was the last thing he expected from me. He strode
away, looking back over his big, swaying shoulders a couple of
times. It was not his fault, of course, but at that moment he became
the Spaniards, a group I did not want to belong to any longer. My
reaction was unjust, and I knew it, but couldn’t bring myself to be
like Jesus.
Had I ever?
The next hours were filled with the numbness of incredulity. I just
sat there until the hut was nothing more than a glowing mass of
smouldering thatch. Desolation after the storm. Not a breath of hope
in the air. Nothing but pain and sorrow. Fragments of the person I…

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

The Unquiet Land

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…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…

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Savages and Beasts

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Despite all the atrocities the Indian children have experienced
the system couldn’t change them, couldn’t mould them to
their ways. Why these kids can’t become like the proselytizing
Anglos? What keeps them and sustains them and they remain
Indians? How these savages know how to maintain their beliefs
and way of life despite the efforts of the occupiers and proselytizing
church fathers? The only answer lies in the natural abilities of
these savages to never compromise their beliefs and rights which
is the only way they can maintain their sense of goal and purpose
in life. And so they take the hits and strikes and punishments
while they maintain their composure and their rigidity knowing
well in their hearts that what goes around comes around. Truly
this has kept them alive and strong and optimistic that one day
things might turn to their favor.
Suddenly a thought came to Anton, an epiphany one could
say: he could go and take up studies as his father would like him
to do. Yes that could be his future, a higher diploma and a new
career. A university in the East would serve well in that respect
and Mary could feel good to go with him. Yes, a new beginning.
He couldn’t wait until he asked Mary what her feelings would be
for something like that.
❧
Marcus and Lucas got very angry upon learning about last night’s
incident and the light punishment Mr. Wilson received from
Father Jerome. George was very angry too, so was Anton, but
both Anton and George knew the law had to be abided and vigilante
solutions weren’t the best under the circumstances. So they
only hoped that the RCMP would charge the teacher and the
case would end up in a court of law where he would be sentenced
properly. However these explanations weren’t at all satisfactory
to the two Indian youths who would like to see the guilty man…

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