Tag: death

The Unquiet Land

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“Get out of my sight,” Finn yelled with more passion. “Get out of my sight till Caitlin comes back. And if she doesn’t come back, or if I find out that you’ve harmed her in any way, you’d better stay out of my sight. Otherwise I’ll kill you.”
Michael rose from the table without a word and left the house. He walked like one in a trance as far as the barn, then he leaned against the wall and wept. The tears brought some relief to his tortured mind, but as he climbed the rest of the way to the cottage his fear grew again like a nauseating vision of eternity. Remorse tightened its suffocating lock on his throat. He wished he could die.
Michael opened the door of the cottage and stepped inside. For a heart-lifting second of hope he expected Caitlin to be there, waiting for him by the fireside. But the cottage was empty and cold. In deep despair he was about to flee, about to rush down the hill again and give himself up to the law in Lisnaglass. But fear of the consequences stopped him. Anguished and frightened he lay on the straw-filled tick on his bed and suffered the cruel torture of the demons in his mind.
That which hurt most was Finn’s banishment. To be cast out by such a man was a more atrocious punishment than death. What a strange revenge of fate, Michael thought, remembering the bleak November day when he drove his own father to the railway station and told him not to return. He had used almost the same words as Finn had: “If you come back, I’ll kill you.” His father had not come back. He did not even look back as he walked away from the horse and trap on which his youngest son had driven him to the town. He carried only a canvas bag containing all that his profligate life had left to him. That canvas bag was the last tangible remains of his father that Michael ever saw, for it somehow caught on the door of the train as his father went aboard and fell on to the platform. The stationmaster picked it up and handed it into the compartment.
That memory had returned to Michael frequently during the past ten or eleven years. He often wondered where the bag was and whether his father still owned it. Strange to recall the bag more than the huge, round, florid-faced man who owned it. Stranger yet when the man was as memorable as Thomas Carrick: memorable for his flaming yellow hair and a face that glowed bright red as if burnt by the fiery aureole of his hair; memorable for the mountainous bulk of his body and for the inexhaustible energy with which he drove it to excesses of work, to excesses of drinking, to excesses of lust, to excesses of cruelty.

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Redemption

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He was in his room with his mind wandering to faraway lands
where he might have to go for a while. Yes, he had to accept the offer.
This position was going to be his post. Even if he had to go abroad, it
would be just for a while. He liked the idea of being around the young
people who could be moulded to his way of thinking. He could be a
craftsman who would take soil and plant it into a pot of his liking.
Yes, this was a position he had to accept.
“Everything will go the way it was supposed to go,” Hermes
told himself.
Cleaned and dressed, he went downstairs. His aunt was there.
“Ready to go, my boy?”
“Yes, dear Aunt. I shouldn’t be late.”
“You are right. Go then and try to learn everything, so you
know what you will get yourself into, conditions, demands, everything,
okay? Remember, nobody these days offers you something
without expecting something in return.”
“Yes, I know, I will find out the best I can. Don’t worry. I’ll tell
you all about it when I’m back.”
“Are you going to be late?”
“No, and I’m not going to Eleni’s after this, if that’s what you are
saying,” he answered and went to the door.
Half an hour later, he was at the doorstep of the dean’s house
and rang the bell.
The dean himself opened.
“Good evening, Dean.”
“Good evening, Hermes. Come in.”
He walked in and sat down in an armchair. The house was
rich, lordly, with thick carpets and furniture of a conservative style.
All kinds of paintings hung on the walls. Some of them were classic
styled and coloured pieces, although a couple of them looked
modern, especially one, an abstract painting, flooded by an overhead
light, looked very impressive as it caught Hermes’ glance, which
focused on it for a few extra seconds, not to be missed by the dean,
who smiled and, sitting across from Hermes, asked,

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Ari found a special friendship in Grey Wolf, once Grey Wolf learned from Ari that
he had been avenged for the loss of his ear. Grey Wolf and Leaping Water expected
their first child before the end of the next summer.
Throughout the winter, Rordan and Ula created a deep special connection with
Running Deer and the other camp children, teaching them simple songs in the Celtic
of his own childhood. They called Ula, Aira, meaning Of The Wind, because she
could run like the wind and beat almost anybody in a race. She was expert at throwing
a knife and could hit a target at twenty paces. Ula didn’t mind the new name
because both names sounded so similar and she loved the acknowledgment of her
prowess and strength. The Natives gave Brother Rordan the name Mountain Thrush
for his pleasing voice and happy laugh, though many of the elders referred to him as
Ominotago, Beautiful Voice. The children were also fascinated with his blonde hair,
almost the colour of the cotton traders brought from the Lands of Winter Sun.
For the first time in many years, Brother Rordan had found his niche as a singer
and teacher of song among the Natives. Finten regarded the transformation from
surly boy to happy Brother as a miracle and didn’t object that Rordan and Ula
seemed to spend all their time together. Perhaps this was God’s country after all. He
often thought that if singing were praying twice, the singing of the children would
surely bring conversions.
Music contains a power stronger than many medicines and Brother Rordan’s
chanting was healing Ula’s sadness but she still remained wary, especially toward
Father Finten and Bjorn, both so much older than she or the Brothers. It took a
period of fever, when Ula had to be nursed by Chochmingwu Corn Mother, Brown
Bear’s wife, for Rordan to reach a new closeness with Ula. It was then that he saw her
vulnerability, as she revealed her childhood suffering through fevered ravings and as
he witnessed her tears.
Since her daughter’s murder by Illska, Corn Mother had dedicated herself to healing
the village children and young people. It was a testament to her loving heart that
she nursed one of the white strangers. She also appreciated Rordan’s commitment to
the children and so she reached out to his constant companion.
Corn Mother’s herbs worked their magic. Ula began to speak to Rordan of her
past as she recovered from the fever that had racked her for two weeks, and as she
saw the relief and warmth in Rordan’s eyes.
“How did I come to be a slave? No, I wasn’t taken by Vikings. My parents weren’t
killed in an awful raid. I didn’t crawl out of the flames. My pigshit mother thought
I’d make a good nun and sold me to a convent. A good nun, ha! Could you see me
in a convent?
“My father? I had three fathers. All of them were my father. None of those assholes
was. I was traded to the convent for six chickens and a pig. A pig! My mother got the
better of the deal: She got the pig; they got me.
“I was there a whole bloody year. Thought they’d rescued me from a life of shame
following my mother’s trade. I was their prisoner, more like it. Stale straw and kitchen
slops and prayers, prayers, prayers, morning, noon and night. So I ran off dressed
as a boy. Then they were going to hang me up for a loaf of stale bloody bread. The
sheriff sold me to a Norseman instead.

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Arrows

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That was just like Infante, to find a way to turn the tables. So I was
being accused of insensitivity, failing to honour the memory of my
slain friend.
“Exactly what I was trying to do when you interrupted me,
Infante,” answered Losada.
“It is not the place of Friar Salvador to decide the security of this
city,” Infante said. “That is my job. I am sure, Friar, you would take
equal offence if I was to start leading us in prayer.”
There was a good deal of chortling at this remark. I was appalled
by Losada’s lack of control. What was going on? Why did Losada
accept such a tone from his subordinate?
“Friar Salvador, please tell us why are you so sure they are
seeking peace and not our demise?” Losada said.
“I told you. Their morale has been shattered. I can assure you they
are convinced they cannot win. They want to secure the survival of
their people. Some have opted for peace. Others are staying away.”
“Where? Away where?”
“I told you I didn’t come here to lead you to their villages. I
couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t know where they are.”
“But you know their language, I presume,” Infante intervened.
“I do.”
“I, in the captain’s boots,” Infante said, turning to the others,
“would interrogate the caciques with Friar Salvador’s aid to secure
the safety of the people in the city.”
A murmur of approval spread among the onlookers.
“I will do as I must, don Infante,” answered Losada, indicating
his leniency for insubordination still had its limits. I didn’t like
Infante’s obsequious tone or Losada’s conciliation to it. There was
something going on between the two.
“We are sure you will, don Diego,” Infante conceded. “Our lives
are in your hands.”
Infante bowed and the others followed. It was mockery rather
than respect. This bode ill.
I left Losada disappointed and afraid. Not one day among the
Spaniards, and already I smelled unshed blood.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘Oh I’m in for the long haul, Caitlin. I’ve signed up for twenty-five years. Army life suits me.’
‘You won’t go back to the fishing then?’
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘The Drumard Maid, your father’s old boat, the one my father bought, she has long since gone. Sold for scrap and probably did her bit for the war effort. No, I’m going to stay in the army.’ Then he turned to his companion. ‘Do you remember Gerard Sweeney, Caitlin? I know you do, Seamus.’
‘I don’t know if I would have recognised you, Gerard,’ Caitlin declared. ‘You’ve been in America a long time.’
‘Not too long,’ said Gerard. ‘Ten years. I was eighteen. Finbar got the farm, and I got sent out to the colonies.’
‘Better not let any Yank hear you say that,’ Seamus warned light-heartedly. ‘You wanted to go to America, if I remember rightly.’
‘Best decision I ever made, Seamus. I love it out there. Married a beautiful woman. I’ve a son aged six and a daughter aged four, a house, a car, a good job when I go back. I’m one lucky guy.’
‘Gerard likes that chick that Michael’s dancing with,’ Tom said. ‘He wants an introduction.’
‘You’re married, Gerard Sweeney,’ Caitlin scolded mockingly. ‘And so is she.’
‘And she’s here with her husband,’ Seamus added.
Tom slapped his friend on the back. ‘Too bad, Gerry, old sod. You’ll have to wait till you’re back in California.’
‘Lots of time, Tommy, my bold soldier laddie,’ Gerard said. ‘As Caitlin has pointed out, this party could go on all night, and what chick can resist a man in uniform?’
‘You’re a reprobate, Gerard Sweeney.’ Tom looked at Caitlin. ‘Don’t listen to him, Caitlin. He’s big-headed like most Yanks. They think they’re God’s gift to humanity.’ Tom paused to pull a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Well, we just came over to say hello. I’ll call up to the house, Caitlin, before I leave. Have a chat with you and Michael, if he ever let’s go of that girl. And I want to see Nora as well.’
‘She’ll be happy to see you, Tom. And bring Gerard with you.’
‘I don’t know if I should introduce Gerry to Nora. She’s much too pretty.’
‘She’s married too, Tom. Remember.’

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The Unquiet Land

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…was smashed on the back of a pew. As Liam approached, he saw Padraig’s body lying against the altar at the end of the chancel. With heart pounding from fear at the sight of the still body, Liam rushed to its side and knelt down.
“Oh my God. Oh no. Not Father Padraig.” Liam stretched his trembling hand towards the prostrate body, but drew back. The blood on the chancel floor below Padraig’s head frightened him, as did the cuts and swelling bruises on the side of his face. Liam knew that two fingers placed somewhere on the neck could feel if the pulse was beating but he didn’t know where exactly.
“Father Padraig,” he said, as if trying to rouse the priest from sleep. “Father Padraig.”
He looked around helplessly, wishing that someone with more experience than he had would enter the church. Then he looked again at the inert, bloodied body of the priest. Padraig wasn’t moving; he didn’t appear to be breathing.
“He’s dead. Oh my God, Father Padraig is dead.”
Liam rose and ran outside. “Home, boy,” he shouted to the dog as he bounded down the steps. Followed by his old dog, Liam ran all the way to the main street of Corrymore. At the head of the street, the first house on the left was the home of Dr Starkey. Not only would the doctor be able to confirm if Padraig was alive or dead, his house had a telephone by which he could summon the police from Lisnaglass. Frantically Liam pounded on the door until a dishevelled Dr Starkey, wearing a plaid dressing gown, opened it.
“Liam,” said the doctor in surprise. “What’s wrong? Is it your father?”
Ciaran Dooley was known to have a bad heart.
“No, it’s Father Padraig,” Liam replied. “I think he’s dead. I think he’s been murdered.”
“Murdered?” cried the doctor. “Father Padraig? No. It can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it may be so, Dr Starkey. Father Padraig is lying in a pool of blood in the church and he’s not breathing. The pulpit has been knocked over, and I don’t know what other vandalism might have been perpetrated. Can you telephone the RIC in Lisnaglass and then go and see to Father Padraig? If he’s alive he needs help urgently. But I fear he’s dead. Murdered in his own church.”
Liam recalled the glimpse he had caught of the figure fleeing from the church. Could it really have been Michael Carrick? Yes, he was sure in his own mind that it was. But why would Michael do such a terrible thing? Liam troubled himself with questions as he walked down the still-deserted street to his home. Was it because Padraig was preparing Caitlin for the…

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Redemption

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“I like the dean’s offer. I believe it will be quite a job, and I
should take this opportunity. Of course, there is the fact that I must
go abroad for a couple of years, but that is the way the cookie crumbles,
as the saying goes. I cannot avoid that: it is part of the Hermes
package. When I return, I will be hired, no questions asked. The dean
assured me of this. Of course, I need to talk to my parents, who I’m
sure won’t like the idea of two years in a foreign country. I’d like to
hear your opinion, though. From both of you. You two have been my
second parents for so long, and you understand this a bit more than
my father and my mother could understand.”
His aunt sat there, silently looking at him with great affection,
this child who made her feel so proud.
Demetre cleared his throat, “This is a very good offer, a position
which many others would love to have. It’s a lot better than being
hired as a clerk at some bank or a government position, although that
would perhaps be a steadier career. Still, this is better for you because
it will open quite a wide field of action for later. Of course, the disadvantage
is that you need to go away for a while. It is, after all, a serious
thing to go so far away and be a stranger among strangers, with no
friends, and all that. On the other hand, if that is what it takes, that
is what a man does.”
Hermes smiled at the last part of his uncle’s comment,
“Yes, there is always a way where there is a will. I believe in what
I can do, and I know deep inside that after the hardship, I’m going to
be where I like to be and among the people I like the most.”
“We know you well,” his uncle says, “and we know that we
cannot go against what you want to do. Besides, you are in many ways
exceptional, and you owe it to yourself to achieve great success.”
Demetre was right: he saw in this young man the soul of the
eagle who lived near the mountain peaks, unconquered by time.
He will remind him of this at every step of his way. Hermes realizes
clearly now it is his duty to try, and it is his duty not to fail, although
the word fail is one he never had in his vocabulary. He now knew
clearly that he owed this to his destiny, because it was no less than…

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In Turbulent Times

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‘Whatever. Who knows what’s true and what isn’t? But you know Flynn Casey. Always the rebel Republican. Loyal follower of James Connolly, his hero. His socialism got him involved with the IRA in strikes in Belfast in the Thirties. In fact he was shot in the leg during a march in the Lower Falls area that led to clashes with the police. Three years ago he was interned in Crumlin Road jail after that IRA campaign of protest against the arrival of the American forces.’
‘I remember that,’ said Seamus. ‘De Valera considered the arrival of the Americans an intrusion on Irish territory. And he was born in America himself. New York, if I remember rightly. And his father was Spanish. What a mad world we live in, Caitlin.’
‘Let’s hope the real madness is over now, Seamus.’
‘Amen to that. So what’s Flynn doing in Belfast? Apart from stirring up trouble.’
‘He’s managing a pub on the Falls Road, though he longs to be back in his Drumard hills. But he has Dermot in Belfast, and a grandson, if you can picture Flynn Casey as a grandfather.’
‘Happens to most of us,’ Slattery declared. ‘A grandson’ll keep him anchored in Belfast.’
‘Dermot married the youngest Sweeney girl, didn’t he?’ Michael said, without taking his eyes off the dancers.
‘And carried her off to the big city,’ Seamus replied. ‘They’re very happy there, so I’m told. Dermot has his own business as an electrician.’ Seamus paused momentarily. ‘Now there’s another good man gone. Ignatius Sweeney. Got out of bed one morning and dropped dead. And he hadn’t a grey hair in his head when he died. Still that short hair that stood straight up on his head. What your father described as the unravelled end of a rope. Good old Ignatius. I think he ate himself to death.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Seamus Slattery,’ Caitlin chided.
‘Oh you know I didn’t mean it. A poor joke, Caitlin, and I shouldn’t have said it. Though old Ignatius might have enjoyed it. Violet, of course, went to Belfast to live with Dermot and Maire after Ignatius died, but I hear her health is not too good.’
‘I don’t think she ever got over Ignatius’s death,’ Caitlin said. ‘It was so sudden and unexpected.’
‘And Joe Carney’s another one,’ Seamus continued in his vein of In Memoriam. ‘His heart let him down. And young Joe. Joe-Joe we used to call him. Remember?’ Seamus leaned forward. ‘Remember the day you pulled him out of the harbour, Michael?’

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The Unquiet Land

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…his eyes bulged with anger, and his lips curled back like a snarling dog’s. His right hand swung from his side and slapped Padraig so hard across the face it seemed to smash every bone. Then back the big hand swung. The knuckles smacked Padraig across the cheek and nose. The nose spurted blood. Padraig felt the hot stream on his lip and chin.
“You sneaking, cowardly lecherer!” Michael roared. “You guttersnipe priest! You bastard son of Satan! I’ll kill you.”
He burled his fist and crashed it down on Padraig’s face and head and shoulders. Then he pushed the priest away from him with a snarl. Padraig stumbled backwards and fell against the chancel steps. Michael rushed forward, roaring like a bull. With both hands he picked up the priest’s limp body and hurled it the full length of the chancel. Like an empty sack Padraig hit the floor and slid forward. His back struck an upright of the altar-rail, and his body swung round and stopped with a crack of his head against the altar.
Michael’s chest was heaving up and down, pumping his anger. He threw himself against the pulpit; it keeled over and crashed like a felled tree. In a frenzy he could no longer control he turned and ran to the opposite wall, tore down the picture of Christ walking on the water and smashed it against the front pew. Then he raced out of the church.
Michael knew that Caitlin had taken the shore path homewards. He had seen her wend her way through the graveyard and head westwards along the cliff-top. She had pulled her shawl tight around her against the coldness of the bright, clear dawn. He followed her, walking quickly, almost running. He reached the end of the line of low cliffs. The path slithered down a steep hill to meet the shore. Pausing on the lip of the hill, he saw Caitlin ahead of him, hurrying homewards like a cat. He left the path and ran straight down the grass-covered hillside. A few sheep bolted in front of him, then swung away to one side or the other. A couple of gulls rose from a rock in the grass, wheeled in a wide arc through the air and settled again. Michael was blind to them. He saw only the lonely figure in the white shawl to which he was drawing closer. He rejoined the path near a patch of brambles. Caitlin was barely a hundred yards away. Michael chased after her. The chumpf of breaking waves and the roll-rock chinner of the backwash sounded in his pounding ears. Then Caitlin’s head jerked round. She stopped and turned to face him. Fear and guilt froze in her eyes.
“Michael,” she cried, but more in a plea than a greeting.

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Redemption

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“Would you like to have a drink?”
“Thank you, Dean, a coffee would be great.”
The dean’s wife walked in, greeted Hermes politely, asked what
he would like in his coffee, and discreetly left them alone.
“Well, Hermes, I would like to get directly to the point, so let
me start by asking how you like this offer from the school. It is a great
position for a young man, don’t you think?”
“Once again, Dean, I would like to thank you. Yes, indeed, it is an
excellent position, and I am quite inclined to say yes to you, although I
still need to know a few more details before I make my decision.”
He was quite clear in his words, and the dean appreciated it.
“I see with pleasure that you like to walk on steady ground,
Hermes. I couldn’t expect anything less than that; it is a bold move
nonetheless,” the dean said as his wife came in with the coffee.
“I hope it is to your liking,” the wife said after serving Hermes.
“I’m sure it is, Madam. Thank you.”
She walked out, and the dean carried on with their conversation,
which all women usually did in this country and in others
around the globe; however, Hermes noticed certain disguised hurt,
some concealed disturbance that had occurred, perhaps lately, and
which was evident in the mannerisms of the lady. Surely it wasn’t his
issue, and he let it be at that as the Dean started,
“Things will unfold like this. You need to go abroad and specialize
in a subject of your choice for two years. The assistant of the
previous professor currently occupies the chair of economics, and
we look forward to having a new professor there.”
“You have talked to the Minister of Education, Dean?”
“Of course, and I’ve mentioned to him that I consider you the
best for this position right now.”
“Thank you so much, Dean. You mentioned last time that you
have also taken care of my expenses for two years of studies abroad.
Could you elaborate a little?”
“Don’t worry about the financial part of this, Hermes. I have
investigated every detail. The scholarship funds will be enough…

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