Tag: death

The Unquiet Land

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…she died of consumption, God rest her soul. Flynn was well up in his teens by then and already working in McGuigan’s quarry. But he grew up with a chip on his shoulder as big as a boulder and a fierce hatred of the English that he’s nurtured for years.”
“He needs to learn the lesson of forgiveness,” Padraig remarked.
“Forgiveness is a rare commodity in Ireland, Padraig,” Mother Ross said. “Irishmen never forgive and never forget. That’s their nature.” She paused, staring into the hearth. Then she asked, “What about Caitlin?”
“What about Caitlin?” Padraig repeated with more feeling than he meant to show.
Mother Ross looked suspiciously at Padraig, but gave him no inkling of the thoughts that rushed through her mind. “Is Caitlin ready to be married in church?”
“She is now, yes,” Padraig replied with a touch of petulance.
“Finn didn’t know, did he?”
Padraig walked across to the door and leaned against the wall beside it. His shoulder and his broken ribs were painful. “Oh Finn knew all right,” he said, but his face had an uncomfortable, guilty look.
Mother Ross made no comment. She felt that Padraig and Caitlin together had indecently betrayed the man who had been closest to both of them. And yet she could not see how anyone but Finn MacLir himself could live outside the Church. She was happy for Caitlin, but disappointed at the same time. “Then they won’t have to wait long before they can be married.”
“They have only to name the day.”
Neither Mother Ross nor Padraig spoke, and they were still silent when voices and footsteps were heard outside, and doors opened both in the front and the back of the house.
“I still think we should have buried his wine alongside of him,” someone said.
“Yes, think how happy he’d be if he woke up one night and found it there beside him.”
“He wouldn’t want to get out.”
“Not till the bottle was empty at any rate.”
“Bottle be damned; he drank it by the barrelful.”
“What an old sot he was.”
“Ay, but you don’t find his likes below every hedge.”
“I’ve heard many a woman between Iceland and the Isle of Wight say the same thing about him.”

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In Turbulent Times

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‘Susan, that’s unkind.’ Clifford considered Susan rather trying at times.
‘It’s also unkind of you two to get on to shop-talk when we’re out enjoying ourselves,’ Susan countered. ‘Ask her to join us. Let’s give her a good time.’
‘Maybe I will in a moment.’ Clifford took a thoughtful sip of his brandy.
‘I suppose Liam’s looking after the children,’ said Fiona.
‘Or Nora’s mother is,’ Clifford suggested.
‘You mean that pretty girl has children already?’ John could not conceal his surprise.
‘Two of them,’ Fiona answered. ‘A boy and a girl.’
‘She didn’t waste any time,’ Ian remarked.
‘They’re young, of course,’ said Fiona. ‘Four years and two and a half, I believe.’
‘Don’t look now, Ian Anderson,’ said John, ‘but Clifford has just gone to get you a woman: a dark beauty of black, remorseless tragedy.’
‘You’re drunk, John Simpson,’ Susan said. ‘How many sneakies did you have at the bar?’
‘Listen to her, Ian,’ John said. ‘Not a month married and she’s nagging the hell out of me already. Are you sure you really want a wife?’
‘Very sure,’ Ian replied firmly.
‘I don’t imagine that you would be nagging Julian, Catriona,’ John said, ‘when you are only a month into your marriage.’
‘I’d wait for two months,’ said Catriona. Like Ian’s, her voice too was richly seasoned with Fiona’s lost ‘oats and haggis.’
‘You’d better watch that one, Julian,’ John warned light-heartedly.
‘What Clifford didn’t tell you,’ Fiona began, leaning forward to speak in confidence, ‘is that he delivered that young lady—at her birth, I mean—when he was barely two months into his internship. It was a very difficult placenta previa delivery that required a C-section under the most primitive conditions. He almost lost the mother and the baby too.’
‘Good old Clifford,’ said John. ‘A born surgeon and one of the best we have in the country.’
‘But the sad result of Clifford’s first major surgery,’ Fiona said, ‘is that the mother was left unable to bear children. Clifford blames himself for that. Unfairly, I think. Given his age and inexperience at the time, he did well to save the lives of both the mother and her baby. But he rarely talks about it. He has received both high commendation and strong condemnation from the local doctors in the area.’

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In Turbulent Times

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‘This has been a splendid day.’ Clifford Hamilton pronounced each word separately, distinctly and with obvious satisfaction.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said John Simpson, a prematurely balding colleague of Clifford’s at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. He was an English-trained heart specialist who had come to Belfast from the Royal Army Medical Corps after the war.
‘I think we can all drink to that.’ Clifford’s wife Fiona displayed her prominent teeth. ‘And to your fiftieth birthday, darling. What a wonderful way to celebrate.’
A chorus of ‘Hear, hear’; ‘Happy five-o, Clifford’; ‘Great day altogether’ responded to Fiona’s remarks.
The five members of the jovial party had spent the day in Clifford’s new Bentley—a birthday present to himself—driving around the countryside of the Drumard hills and visiting places that Clifford had known as a boy. He had amused his passengers like an Irish jarvey with stories and histories and half-remembered ballads about drumlins and dolmens, outlaws and rebels, murders and massacres, big houses and castles, and their restless ghosts. The sun had shone all day from an unblemished sky; the road had shimmered in front of them; the sea glimmered and sparkled; and the mountains languished in a lavender haze, like a herd of huge animals sprawling in the sun at noon. The journey had ended at the Drumard Strand Hotel, a large red sandstone building on the green foreshore at Carraghlin, where Clifford and Fiona’s twenty-year-old son Julian and his girlfriend Catriona had joined them.
‘I admit it’s not my favourite bit of architecture,’ Clifford had said of the hotel. ‘But here we can dine in a manner befitting the mood of the day—splendidly. A grotty little cafe on the main street just wouldn’t have been right.’
‘And what can you tell us about this place, Clifford?’ asked John Simpson’s recently married wife, Susan, a short, slim, sharp-featured young woman from a wealthy, landowning politician’s family in Oxfordshire.

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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“They’re family. That’s different.” Ula stood up at the sound of footsteps and tumbling
pebbles just above their perch. It was Brother Ailan.
“You two are out early. Brother Rordan, Finten’s been looking for you. You
skipped morning prayer again.”
“Thanks Ailan. If I didn’t have you to look out for me, how would I possibly survive?
We’ll be there for breakfast.”
“You had better hurry then or Brother Keallach will eat your share. I’ll make sure
he leaves some for you, little sister.”
Ula smiled at the chubby monk. “Thanks Brother Ailan. We’re coming.” She offered
a hand to Rordan and pulled him to his feet.
Rordan and Ula allowed Brother Ailan to get well ahead of them before following
back to the Brothers’ lodge. For the first time in many weeks, the Native village
appeared to be deserted except for Finten, Ailan, Keallach, Bjorn, and Ari who stood
waiting at the lodge door until they saw Rordan and Ula arriving and Finten gave
the signal to enter. Once everyone was seated in the centre eating area, Ari produced
a steaming bowl of baked gull’s eggs and cod.
Father Finten intoned the grace.
Although Father Finten managed to rattle off the entire prayer, the first mouthfuls
were stopped short by shrieks and loud whoops coming from outside the Brothers’
lodge. Brother Keallach jumped up to look outside. “My God! We’re under attack.”
Bjorn grabbed a smouldering piece of wood from the breakfast cooking fire.
Keallach grabbed another and followed him through the door blanket with Ari, Ailan,
Rordan and Ula right behind. Finten didn’t follow but fell trembling to his knees,
seeking help from a Greater Power. No sooner were the six outside the lodge than each
was grabbed and clubbed over the head by warriors with partially shaved heads. Only
Father Finten remained behind, crying to God in whispered Latin,“Déus, salvam mé.”
Rordan came to with blood trickling down his face and into his open mouth.
Shards of pain stung his naked chest and privates. His hands were tied tightly behind
his back and he was standing, roped to a pole. He opened his eyes to a wild, painted
face before a blazing fire. The sky behind the face was filled with a million sparks.
Whoops and yelps of a hundred savage voices rent the air. Painted Face bobbed
up and down in front of him and banged a stick against a burning bough, sending
sparks to burn Rordan’s skin, shouting “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!”
Rordan gritted his teeth and shook his head to clear his thoughts amidst the
yowls. “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” The warrior applied the burning
bough to Rordan’s hair and, as he felt the searing on his scalp, Brother Rordan
cried out the same “Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!”
The warrior laughed and Rordan understood that he wanted him to sing. “Yi! Yi!
Yi! Yi! Yi!”
Again the flame singed Rordan’s scalp, and again he sang, more frantically than
before, Painted Face laughed and singed his scalp once more.
That song’s not helping. If I’m to die by fire, I will go out singing.
Rordan had one song he loved above all others. He raised his head, took a deep
breath and called out beyond the pain. “Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo,
et spes nostra, salve.”

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The Circle

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The vegetable garden is a large area at the back; located on the north side of
the property and sheltered by a fence to the north. Their house faces east so that
the garden is on the western part, with the western and southern sun hitting it
almost all day. On one side, William has a small area covered with plastic and
Evelyn tells Bevan that’s where they plant the tomatoes and eggplant which like
the heat and not rain.
“We get a lot of rain here, as you know, and tomatoes don’t do well in rain, so
he covers them every year. Everything else we plant is exposed to the weather.”
“What do you usually plant, Evelyn?”
“We grow everything, you name it; we grow potatoes, celery, leeks, beets,
Swiss chard, garlic, onions, greens for the salad, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers,
spinach, beans of three different kinds—oh, Bevan , everything is grown here,
believe me,” she says, quite proudly.
“In other words, you literally live off the land.”
“Yes, and you’ll see all that when you come this way next year.”
Bevan smiles, and it’s his turn to clear his throat. Evelyn looks at him and smiles.
“You’re not planning to come our way when you retire, are you, Bevan?”
“Well, to be honest, Evelyn, I haven’t given it any thought as yet; I have a few
things to do before I retire.”
“What do you still have to do, my brother? Isn’t it enough that you have given
this service of yours your whole life? Aren’t the tragedies that have taken place all
over the world in the last thirty years enough? However, I don’t want to go there
again and upset you; after all, you’re an admiral. Your job is to serve the armed
forces of this land.”
But Bevan doesn’t get upset with Evelyn. He has made peace with that side of
himself, and his sister doesn’t get him upset anymore. As a matter of fact, he’s at
such peace with himself lately that he feels just great, even when she talks harshly
about the army.
“Are you at peace with yourself, Bevan?”
He takes a deep breath and looks at the garden with all the vegetables they
grow. He sees his sister being so relaxed and in a state of complete satisfaction
with herself. He knows he’s in that same state also, but it’s very hard to explain
why. He knows why and that is good enough for the time being. When they read
in the papers later on what has transpired, they’ll understand. She’ll understand
why he’s at peace with himself at this time in his life.
“I am quite happy to see that you and William are in good health and in good
spirits, as always. I’ll make a point of coming back here again some time and then
perhaps we’ll talk about being at peace and all. Right now, I’m very happy to see
you are well, my dearest sister.”

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Redemption

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Everybody in the coffee shop gathered around him, even the
mayor. Demetre kicked his nephew’s foot to quieten him. He knew
that some people do not like to hear about change, especially in the
current political situation, where even the slightest change can trigger
a nationwide negative reaction from the politicians. However,
young Hermes didn’t want to lower the tone of his voice now that he
had their attention, because he wanted to teach these people some
ideas which might inspire them to fight against the system.
“Hey, Yanni, your father was looking for you,” someone yelled
from the open door, interrupting the whole conversation.
“Foti, get us another round of brandies,” Gerry yelled at the
proprietor, who nodded his head.
Hermes continued to explain to them that they could find
a good lawyer, who would write the rules of the co-op, elect a governing
body, and do whatever was necessary to start looking after
themselves and not just rely on the existing system to help them.
He referred to many examples from ancient days to today, trying to
connect them to their original roots. They listened. Some villagers
raised their eyebrows, others nodded their agreement, and others
simply carried on with their entertainment without paying attention
to the fired-up young Hermes.
The villager sitting next to Hermes was still not convinced:
“You think that an association like that is going to do a better job for
us?”
“Yes, definitely. Listen to this: when I go to Athens, I’ll find you
a good lawyer, then I’ll make sure before I go away, he gets in touch
with you guys, and you take it from there.”
Demetre gave him the signal to stop, as he was worried about
what the mayor was thinking about all this and what notes he
reserved in his mind as to who this information could be useful.
Hermes didn’t listen to his uncle and continued to tell the villagers
how to form the co-op and what their rights were. “But what you are
telling us to do, Hermes, is nothing more than a communist idea,
isn’t it?” the mayor butted in.

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The Unquiet Land

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“It’s like I told the police, Ignatius,” Liam replied. “It was early morning. And I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I did see someone running from the church, but he was disappearing over the ridge in the direction of Lisnaglass.”
“Just one man?” Sweeney asked.
“I saw only one,” Liam told him.
“Lisnaglass is full of Unionist louts,” someone observed. “So you didn’t see who it was?”
“No, I didn’t.” Liam was almost certain that the culprit he had seen running from the church was Michael Carrick, but he saw no reason why Michael, of all people, would have given Father Padraig so severe a beating and carried out such vandalism in the church. By the time the police interviewed him he had convinced himself that he had been mistaken. He had also decided that even if it had been Michael, he could not have informed against him. Michael Carrick, everyone knew, was going to marry Caitlin MacLir, and Liam could do nothing that would destroy the happiness of a woman he hopelessly fawned on, like a devoted pup.
“You weren’t at the burying, Padraig,” Sweeney remarked.
“No, in all conscience I felt that I was unable to be there, Ignatius,” Padraig replied. “The burying, as you called it, was not a Christian one. And the graveyard at Killyshannagh is no longer consecrated ground. As a priest I felt that I could not honestly take part. However much I loved Finn MacLir. It was not the way I wanted to see him go.” A feeling of having been cheated by God Himself strengthened insuppressibly in Padraig’s breast. “But it was Finn’s own wish.”
Padraig’s words were like rocks tied to his ankles that sunk the priest in Sweeney’s estimation.
You could have put on a suit, Sweeney thought, forgot you were a priest for a few hours, and come to the funeral of the man who rescued you, raised you, paid for your education. You’re a sanctimonious hypocrite, Father Padraig. You deserved that hiding. I’d love to give you one myself. Sweeney walked away, disappointed and disgusted.
The general conversation in the MacLir house splintered, as those present addressed their neighbours rather than the group at large. Jim Patterson, finding himself with no one to talk to, caught the eye of Clifford Hamilton in the far corner of the dining room. Clifford, in a tailored black suit and white shirt, was leaning against the wall between the window and the bookcase. Jim Patterson crossed the crowded room and joined him. “How are you, Clifford?”
“Can’t complain, Jim. How’s yourself?”

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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The brothers replied: “Ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” To God, Who
giveth joy to my youth.
Brown Bear strolled alone to the bluff overlooking the bay. High above green
waters and the multicoloured maples and birch on the far islands, he saw the first
arrowheads of honking geese. Three generations of large white birds announced the
coming snow and stirred the arrowhead of pain in Brown Bear’s heart. “My little
Namid, do you fly with Grandmother Snow Goose to the land of warm breezes? Or
does your spirit dance among your sister stars? My beautiful daughter, your father’s
heart still boils with anger for those who took you from your home and snatched
away your mother’s joy. It’s time, I know, my little Star Dancer, to take your bundle
to the resting place of our ancestors. But we cannot take you there until your brother,
Running Deer, and I make peace in our hearts, or else our anger will be carried with
your bones. We will not be long, my little one. Fly safely on. We will not be long.”
Though Brown Bear, Corn Mother and Running Deer had supported one another
as a bereaved family, Brown Bear needed to renew his own energy and that of
his family, within a village healing circle. As Sachem, White Eagle would organize a
cleansing sweat lodge, erected new for the occasion. The sweat lodge would be built
close to the stream, dammed to create a cooling pool. This work and the organizing
of a healing feast would be done by the women of the tribe.
All those who wished to join the circle knew they must make their intentions
known to White Eagle well ahead of time and prepare for the ceremony with fasting
and sitting apart in the forest. Brown Bear invited his friend White Bear, and
Running Deer invited Mountain Thrush. Kiche, Sky Spirit, also was invited out of
respect for his position among the newcomers. But Father Finten declined the invitation
when he learned to his horror the ceremony would take place in pagan nudity.
He forbade Brother Rordan to attend, but Mountain Thrush chose not to obey his
priest’s command.
Although she never attended the prayers of her companion Brothers, Ula felt
drawn to the Native spirituality and asked if she could be included. She wanted to
be closer to Corn Mother who had been so good to her when she was ill. Ula asked
White Eagle’s permission to be part of the healing circle.
Bjorn and Rordan knew that they represented the evil men who had brought pain
to Brown Bear and his family and to Grey Wolf for the loss of his ear and the pride
of his first kill. Now they’d listen and share with respect and truth and love, and help
in the healing of their new brothers and sisters.
In the days leading up to the healing circle, Bjorn, Rordan and Ula spent full days
sitting beneath single trees in the forest until they each came to know the individual
characteristics of their tree and how it was different from every other one in the
forest. The day before the circle, White Bear, Mountain Thrush, and Una, were honoured
with an invitation to the sweat lodge.
Drums announced the sweat lodge healing ceremony. The circular lodge, big
enough for thirty or more people, was built low into the ground with a framework
of twelve sturdy saplings and covered with woven reed mats and fallen leaves. The
tiny door, also covered with a mat, faced east, the source of life, power and wisdom.

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The Circle

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He laughs and turns to look the other way. They are walking to her car, the
same old Chevy Impala; it must be at least twenty years old by now. He
remembers her having that car for a long time.
“You still drive this Impala? I’m amazed it’s still running; and, yes, to come
back to the subject of retirement, I’m thinking of retiring next year. And yes, I
can see myself without the service.”
“What are you going to do? Most people, after so many years with an
organization, go downhill as soon as they retire, because they don’t know what to
do with themselves. What are you going to do, Bevan?”
“I haven’t thought about that yet, Evelyn. Perhaps I’ll come this way and
retire with you in your hermitage and be as isolated as you for the rest of my life.”
He makes fun of her.
She starts the car and drives out of the parking lot; it’s a busy evening as most
people have finished their work week and are headed home for the weekend.
“You would be welcome to come and stay with us for as long as you like; but I
know you, you like to be with lots of people. You could never live isolated in a
hermitage, as you call it.”
He turns to her.
“Sometimes, one can feel isolated even among people, my dear Evelyn,
particularly in the midst of lots of people, trust me.”
Evelyn doesn’t respond as she concentrates on driving the busy streets of San
Francisco. It takes forty minutes to get to her house, and they find William half
asleep in his chair, watching TV.
Evelyn shouts at him, “William, for God’s sake, you’re asleep, at six in the
evening.”
William gets up and shakes Bevan’s hand.
“Hello, Bevan, what brings you this way?”
“Hello, William.”

Talal and Hakim take the bags and go inside. The house smells stuffy from being
closed up for so many days. The flowers in the pots are dry and Emily takes the
watering can to freshen them up as she talks to Jennifer about her trip. It is, of
course, hard for anyone to understand by just listening.
“You’d have to go there to understand what it’s like, sweetheart; it’s difficult
to grasp the way they live, which is so different from the way we do things here.
Life goes on for them as it does for us. They’re people with dreams and…

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In Turbulent Times

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Caitlin was clutching at straws and she knew it. In her heart of hearts she knew that ten-weeks-old Rowan Hanlon had been left to their care. This conclusion was reinforced within a couple of hours when Michael returned from his walk to the telephone kiosk.
‘The Hanlons’ telephone has been disconnected,’ he announced. ‘It seems that they’ve gone.’
‘And left us with their baby,’ Caitlin added. ‘What are we going to do, Michael?’
‘What can we do? We either adopt and keep him, or put him up for someone else to adopt.’ Michael was feeling nervous and guilty. ‘We always wanted a boy. Maybe we should keep him.’
Caitlin looked at the sleeping baby, and her heart warmed to him in a way it never did to her daughter Nora. ‘I’m fifty-four, Michael. Do I want to start rearing a baby again at my age?’
‘I don’t know, Caitlin. That’s for you to decide.’
A week later Michael came in from the fields for his dinner. The baby was asleep in a large basket in front of the kitchen range, and Caitlin sat in the armchair beside it. Michael crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked. ‘A letter?’
‘This came this morning. It’s addressed to you.’ Caitlin opened all the post that came to the house, no matter to which one of them it was addressed. ‘The envelope is postmarked Baile Átha Cliath, and my first thought was that Flynn Casey had gone back to Dublin. But it’s not a letter; it’s Rowan’s birth certificate.’
‘From Robert and Connie.’
‘But there’s no letter. Just the birth certificate.’ Caitlin looked up at Michael who was standing before her. ‘Michael, you are named as this baby’s father. Look.’ She handed the certificate to her husband. ‘At first I thought, No this can’t be true. Then I remembered that week last May when Connie stayed at the cottage on her own. You were having sex with her then, weren’t you?’
Michael shuffled uneasily, staring at his own name as the father of Rowan Michael.
‘May to February is nine months, Michael.’ Caitlin’s voice was calm and controlled. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
Michael at last looked at Caitlin. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly sorry. But ….’
‘But you just couldn’t resist her. Isn’t that it? You just couldn’t resist her.’

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