Tag: death

Redemption

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…dedicated themselves to the benefit of the people’s lives. Ah, my poor
motherland…”
“Yes, I know. But we’d better go now.”
“Yes, let’s go. We might take the other road over the small
marsh, and hopefully we could come across some ducks, then we
could go by my father’s greenhouse and see what he has accomplished.
Sounds okay?”
“Yes, let’s get going then.”
They followed the road to the marsh. There were a few dark
clouds on the north horizon, clouds that lingered in the sky, indecisive
clouds, unsure of where they’d like to run; there was light wind
blowing from the north, and the weather could change very quickly.
A fierce storm could come from the north, which will drench everything
in a matter of minutes.
“We’d better be quick, Uncle. I don’t like the looks of those
clouds.”
“I don’t think this weather is going to change any time soon,
Son. Why are you so concerned?”
But his nephew repeated,
“We must be quick, my uncle. I don’t like these clouds.”
As they entered the olive grove, Hermes caught sight of a wild
dove at the top of a tree. He aimed and shot, quickly and with confidence:
he succeeded. He reloaded and ran to pick up the bird, which
was still fluttering its wings on the ground. The dog reached the bird
first. He approached the bird to pick it up with his mouth, but when
he came close to it, the bird fluttered and scared the dog away, barking
and wagging his tail.
Hermes bent down and reached for the fluttering bird; he could
see the huge pain in its eyes. Suddenly, the strange shudder overtook
his body again, like when he was aboard the ship. “What is it?” he
wondered, and suddenly, he didn’t feel like hunting anymore.
The wind started blowing stronger now, and Hermes convinced
Demetre that they should head to his father’s greenhouse.

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The Unquiet Land

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“And it will come to two sides,” Dr Starkey agreed. “As I was saying, Lloyd George’s Liberals will pass a Bill for the Protestant North and another for the Catholic South. He doesn’t have much choice now.”
“De Valera’s Sinn Fein party in Dublin won’t accept it,” Joe Carney asserted. “They won the last election by a large majority.”
“But maybe they’ll settle for half a loaf rather than no bread,” said Sweeney.
“Never,” cried Flynn Casey. He was a broad-shouldered, muscular young man, with a tousle of uncombed, curly, red hair, and the tanned face and hands of one who worked out of doors. “We want the whole loaf. We’ll fight to the death to preserve Irish unity. We’re not going to let the North fall into the hands of a weedy little bastard like Edward Carson.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Flynn Casey,” Jim Patterson challenged. He was a caustic young cynic who worked with his father as a barber in the village. Of medium height and build, with wispy, thinning dark hair, he was about the same age as Flynn Casey but as fanatically committed to Unionism as the other to Republicanism. “Edward Carson is no weedy little bastard. He’s a great leader. He has united everyone who’s opposed to Home Rule and Sinn Fein and he’s going to lead them to victory.”
“Victory over who?” Flynn Casey asked contemptuously.
“Victory over the Nationalists. Victory over all you romantic riders of the Celtic Twilight.”
“And victory over England?” Flynn glanced around to see how his parry had been appreciated. “For it seems to me,” he went on, observing that some of his audience was impressed, “that the great Sir Edward Carson is prepared to fight even the British for the worthless privilege of remaining British.”
“Should it come to civil disorder,” Dr Starkey began, “the British government will be powerless to cope with it. The officers in the British army have already made it clear that they would choose dismissal rather than obey an order to put down Protestant resistance in Ulster.”
“So we’ll win our fight for freedom from Irish Catholic domination by not having to fight it,” Jim Patterson said awkwardly. “England will back down. Dr Starkey is right. Separate treaties for the North and the South. England won’t throw us like scraps to the mangy dogs that slobber round the table legs of Dublin and Rome. We’re determined.”

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The Unquiet Land

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NINE
Finn MacLir lay in a plain wooden box in the dark, still winter of death. He wore his navy-blue fisherman’s jersey and trousers and his best black boots. Harry and Ted Robinson, the undertakers from Lisnaglass, had laid out the body and, with Michael’s help, had carried the heavy coffin down the stairs. It stood for three days on trestles in the sitting room where the sofas and chairs had been pushed aside to make room for it. Mother Ross and Finn’s twin daughters had held vigil over the corpse, with Finn’s closest friends in attendance. It was a quiet, solemn wake for one renowned—and excoriated—for his regular parties.
Now the coffin lay on two ropes beside the open grave where the two Robinsons and two of their assistants stood silently, heads bowed respectfully, hands clasped in front of them. Around the grave men stood in sombre suits and black ties, hats in their hands, their tanned faces clean and almost shining, like those of boys going to Sunday school. Some spoke to neighbours in hushed, reverent tones. A cool breeze blew in from the sea, shivering the short grass of the old graveyard behind the ruins of Killyshannagh church where sheep grazed unconcerned at a distance from the men assembled around the grave. A polished granite headstone bore the graved inscription, Roisin MacLir, neé Corrigan, 1858-1892. Finn’s name would be added later.
Dressed in a black suit with a knotted black tie, Clifford Hamilton stepped forward. “I have the duty and the honour of saying a few words about the man lying in death before us.” He glanced around at the faces of the forty or fifty men standing in front of him. He felt that the unfortunate Padraig, Finn’s adopted son, should have been here, making this farewell speech to his earthly father. Or Seamus Slattery or Ignatius Sweeney who had known Finn for so many years. Or the more experienced, respected Dr Starkey. “I say ‘honour’,” he continued reluctantly, “without hesitation or qualification. Because Finn MacLir was one of the greatest men it has been my honour to have known. He was a close friend of my father and my father’s family, but he was a friend of rich and poor. Whether a man was a lawyer, a banker, a farmer, or a fisherman made no difference to Finn.

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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“Here, we can hear God’s voice in the tree tops, in the rippling waters, in the cry
of the loon. Until you can lower yourself to our level and treat us as equals, there’ll
be very little dialogue.”
Father Finten fled to walk alone in the woods. Now Ailan came to find him there.
He had heard the conversation with Keallach and decided this was the best opportunity
to confirm what Keallach had already said about the relationship between priest
and Brothers.
“I have been wanting to talk to you, man to man, not as penitent to confessor,
for a very long time, ever since we first came to these shores. You are a hard man to
talk to. I do not want your judgments and I do not need your approval. I want your
trust and your love. You call me Brother but what does that really mean to you? Am
I like your own flesh and blood, or are you just being a distant father? Because you
are older than I, does not mean I should call you Father. Show me real love, and I’ll
gladly do so.”
Now Finten felt totally lost. He was unable to speak the thoughts that raced
through his mind. Ready to explode with grief and outrage, he turned and walked
quickly until he was deep in the forest. He needed time to think.
Finten did not return for the evening meal, not for prayers or bed, but stayed
away all night. Trusting that their priest would come back when he’d had time to
think these conversations over, the Brothers decided to overlook his absence. When
Finten did return to camp after three days, he did not say anything about what had
happened. The Brothers respected his silence, waiting to see if there’d be a difference
in their relationship with him, and life went on as before.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘So there you have it, Michael. A rather sad or maybe a tragic story. I’ve had lovers myself, but nothing serious. And I’ve always insisted on Durex. I was caught once before and I was determined not to get caught again. I thought I was safe with you. I wanted sex with a man without a condom for a change. You don’t mind me saying that, do you?’ She smiled. ‘You let me down, but I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault. I’m actually enjoying being pregnant again.’ She squeezed his hand and reclined again in the armchair.
‘You’ve had a baby then?’
‘When I was sixteen. Much too young to be a mother. So I gave it up for adoption.’
‘So no children with Robert.’
‘No, and none likely. The father of my first baby was an eighteen-year-old boy. He’s a fisherman in Lisnaglass now. Married and has four sons.’ Connie looked at Michael again. ‘Poor Michael. I think you would have liked to have had four sons yourself.’
‘I’d have been happy with one,’ Michael said, then paused in silent reflection of the fickle trickery of nature. He took his first drink, then, returning Connie’s look, he asked, ‘What will Robert say or do when he finds out you’re pregnant?’
‘Probably nothing. I am nothing to Robert now. The sad thing is that I love him. I truly love him.’ Her voice faltered, and she let her head fall back on the chair again, her eyes closed. ‘But I think it’s only a matter of time before there’s talk of divorce.’
‘Did Frank and Kathleen have any children?’
‘A son. Five years old now. Little Bobbie. Robert is very fond of him. Spoils him really.’
‘Will you tell Robert that I am the father of your baby?’ The question secretly thrilled Michael. He was going to be a father. He was not a sterile mule after all. He was a whole man. Able to father children. And Nora. The chances were that Nora really was his daughter. Not Padraig’s. Praise be to God, he thought. What a happy, happy day. He drank with a greater feeling of elation than he had ever experienced. He felt like getting drunk, but his glass was empty and he wasn’t bold enough to ask for a refill.
‘No, I won’t tell Robert that you are the father of my baby,’ Connie was saying. ‘No need to. He thinks you’re sterile, remember. There’s a man I see in Belfast. Robert will think the baby is his, and I won’t tell him otherwise. Least said, soonest mended, Michael. Don’t worry. He won’t be challenging…

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Fears and Frustrations


Brother Keallach was a good listener when Rordan needed to vent his frustration
and Rordan definitely needed to talk now.
“I just cannot understand why Father Finten has such a distrust of my interest in
medicine. Well, perhaps I do know why. Father Gofraidh was the same.
“I travelled for two years with a physician before coming to the monastery. In
my travels, I met many good doctors who had studied with the Moors. But because
those healers were not Christian, their works were forbidden. ‘What is not of God is
of the devil,’ Father Gofraidh preached to his novices.”
Rordan whipped at branches as the Brothers walked. “The Moors have a wonderful
knowledge of medicine and mathematics and astronomy. But do not tell this to
the Church Fathers. Only by chance was I able to learn the little I know about herbal
medicines from an ancient Italian monk who had learned his craft from a healing
woman in Italy. The healing woman was later condemned as a witch and put to
death. Can you believe that? Put to death for helping people. Corn Mother knows
more about herbs and medicines than anyone I have ever met in all my travels. And
Finten does not want me to associate with her.”
Rordan grew more agitated as he walked faster until Brother Keallach had to stop
to catch his breath. Rordan stopped and turned to face his companion but continued
speaking even as Keallach held his chest and breathed like a bellows.
“Because of this mistrust, the knowledge we have is hidden away and forbidden.
Did you know, Brother, the Church in Éirinn has more learning locked up in monasteries
than anywhere else in Christendom yet illness is still regarded as being caused
by sin? Even babies are only allowed healing by prayer. I believe in prayer, but this is
cruelty. It’s ridiculous; bloody ridiculous.”
Rordan picked up a small rock and threw it forcefully into a high arc. Then he
continued striding.
“An infected throat or a bad cough has to be treated with blessed candles and
prayers to Saint Blaise. Saint Roch is invoked to cure the plague. Saint Nicaise does a
poor job of protecting against smallpox, and kings are called upon to cure skin diseases
with the Royal Touch, so commoners are seldom healed of shingles or leprosy.”
Rordan stopped and sat on an ancient tree limb. His companion, thankful for the
pause, plopped down beside him.
“Despite all the knowledge available in our monasteries, monks are still forbidden
to perform any kind of surgery. Cutting into the ‘temple of the Holy Spirit’ is a sin of
murder. In the words of the late Father Gofraidh, ‘Surgery of any kind imperils the
souls of both surgeon and patient.’ So barbers and charlatans cut people open for
profit because real physicians are forbidden by Church hierarchy.”
Rordan put his hands on his head, exhausted from his outburst.

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The Unquiet Land

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Caitlin lifted her hand and stroked the back of Michael’s head. “Please don’t cry, my love,” she said. “Please don’t cry.”
Michael raised his head. “I’m sorry, Caitlin. I’m truly, deeply sorry.”
Caitlin smiled. “You big baby. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
She kissed his cheek and snuggled into his arms.
Michael kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheek. Then he tenderly kissed her swollen mouth. “Are you cold?” he asked. He saw the long rip in the front of her dress and felt guilty.
“Yes,” Caitlin replied. “I’m so cold my blood has frozen.”
Michel gallantly took off his woollen jersey and gave it to Caitlin. “Pull that on,” he said.
She did. “Oh, that feels so much better. Thank you, Michael. Here, let me drape this shawl over your shoulders. It’ll help keep you warm. Or a bit warmer.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Run away up here.”
“I don’t know. It seemed appropriate. I needed to think.”
“Did you see him?”
Caitlin looked at Michael with a puzzled expression. “Did I see who?”
“Jesus. On the cross. Out there over the sea.”
Caitlin lowered her head again and pressed herself more tightly against Michael’s body. She paused thoughtfully. Her face was perturbed. “No,” she said at last. “Not Jesus on the cross.”
“Did you see anything?”
Caitlin’s fingers twisted Michael’s woollen jersey. “Oh Michael. I fell asleep for a while. I was exhausted. I had the most awful dream.”
Michael held her with both arms. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know if I could describe it as it was.”
Caitlin was quiet a while. Then in an agitated voice she said, “I saw the sea, Michael: a stormy sea, with big waves breaking and the spray flying, the way I love to watch it in its winter rage. And then it was calm, as calm as a mill-pond, and dark, almost black, and thick like tar, as it is in that picture in the church. And the sky was dark. And everything, everywhere, was as still as midnight. It’s the way the world will look when it’s ended and we’ve all gone.
“Then I saw something on the water, floating towards me, even though there was no movement of waves, no wind to drive it.

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Redemption

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…when he took it in as though he were touching the Bible. The mayor
examined it with great curiosity while fellow villagers looked over
his shoulder to get a good look at this piece of paper, too.
“So, this is a diploma,” said the envious mayor when he handed
it back to Hermes.
“Yes, this is the diploma and here is my award.” Hermes showed
him another piece of paper with golden letters and official stamps
honouring him for his excellent standing in the class.
“You also received an award, Hermes?” The mayor’s eyes widened,
“Bravo! My congratulations once again!”
He looked at the paper more closely and asked.
“So, what are you going to do now, young Dragakis? Become an
economist? What does an economist do?”
Hermes gave them a brief explanation of what an economist
was and how he had a scholarship to study abroad for two years and
then would be teaching at the university. The mayor and the others
had a hard time understanding what all these meant.
“Scholarship to go to another country and study,” the mayor
said as if talking to himself. “Which country are you heading for?”
“Canada.”
The crowd turned to look at one another, with awe written upon
their faces. They felt quite proud of the son of George Dragakis; not
many young men from the area got the chance to go to the city and
study, never mind accomplishing what Hermes had, this far, this fast.
Demetre’s cheeks blushed thinking of this young man who had
brought their family and ancestors this honour of achievement.
Smiling, Demetre took Hermes away from the crowds.
“Time for us to go to my brother’s place.”
So, they said their goodbyes and started their walk to the house
at the other end of the village. They followed a narrow pathway and,
in a few minutes, arrived at the house. As they approached his father’s
dog, the hound started to bark. The uncle and his nephew were not
even inside the fence when his mother, as though by instinct, came
out of the house and saw them.

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In Turbulent Times

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‘The Twelfth’ means one thing to the Protestants of Northern Ireland: the annual Protestant celebration on the twelfth of July. This is the Orangemen’s Day, the day on which they turn out in their thousands to commemorate the 1690 Battle of the Boyne, in which the Protestant King William III defeated the forces of the deposed Catholic King James and thereby ensured that the British monarchy would be forever Protestant. The commemoration takes the form of parades throughout Northern Ireland, the largest being in the city of Belfast which takes on a festive atmosphere, at least in the Unionist areas. At the start of July, some of these Unionist areas will proudly fly Union flags, Ulster flags, sometimes even the flag of Scotland, from lamp posts and houses, and stretch lines of red, white and blue bunting over the streets. In especially Loyalist areas householders decorate their homes with defiant displays of bunting and flags, touch up murals depicting historic Protestant themes, attach small banners to lamp posts, and erect arches across residential streets or even main roads, the arches ranging from elaborate wooden, trellised constructions to a couple of ropes hung with the ubiquitous flags and bunting.
Orangemen on parade typically wear a dark suit, an Orange sash, white gloves and a bowler hat. They march in orderly rows behind flute, brass, silver or pipe bands, each lodge bearing aloft its large, elaborate banner. Orange banners are a significant part of the culture of Northern Ireland, particularly for the Protestant community, and one of the most prominent genres of folk art in the province. They depict in luxuriant detail heroes of the Orange Institution or historic or biblical scenes, or Unionist symbols, the most popular subject being King William on his white horse, purportedly crossing the River Boyne. An Orange parade is a noisy, boisterous, colourful demonstration of Protestant supremacy, with its hundreds of bands and banners and sashes, its jubilant throngs of spectators lining the route of the march or supporters walking alongside their favourite band or lodge, singing provocative Orange songs at the top of their voices. The Belfast-born poet, Louis MacNeice, wrote about ‘the voodoo of the Orange bands / Drawing an iron net through darkest Ulster…’
While The Twelfth is a Protestant celebration, not all Protestants celebrate it, whether for personal political or cultural reasons or from bored indifference. One such was Robert Hanlon, a Protestant married to a non-practising Catholic. He always left his native city on The Twelfth, happy to flee to the peace of the countryside. On the weekend before the big day …

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The Circle

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“We’ll be here. You know William, he doesn’t like to go out very much.
You’re welcome to come and stay with us; what time are you getting into San
Francisco? We’ll come and pick you up, or I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, Evelyn. I’ll be just fine getting a cab.”
“Nonsense! What time is your flight, Bevan?” Her voice is firm.
“I’ll be in around five or just a bit past five. Flight 673.”
“Well now, you just stay and wait for me, even if I’m late. I’ll come pick you
up okay?”
“Okay, Evelyn,” Bevan puts the phone down.
He starts packing his bag, which he does so professionally after all the years of
repetitive action. He’s very happy that he talked to her and whistles a tune as he
puts his things together.

Hakim is back from his walk in Memorial Park and takes a quick shower. He
didn’t feel like going to the office this morning, and after calling Peter, decided it
wasn’t necessary for him to be there. He’s anxious to see Talal later in the afternoon.
He has promised to pick them up from the airport. He wants to hear all
about the trip and what Talal has to say about his uncle. There’re so many things
he needs to talk to Ibrahim about and it’s impossible to talk directly to the old
man these days, as he knows certain things cannot be discussed over the phone
or by computer. He might take a quick trip to Iraq soon, after he moves to the
new place. First he wants to know what news Talal has for him.
When he is done with his shower, he calls Jennifer to ask what time she’ll be
getting home.
“Hi there, baby. How’s your schedule later on?”
“I’ll be leaving a bit early, honey; shall be there in an hour. What time is the
flight coming in?”
“About five; we should leave no later than four.”
“Okay then, I’ll be home long before that; see you, love you.” She sounds
excited, as she’s also anxious to see her mother and hear all about her trip.
Hakim logs on to the computer and tries to get in touch with his uncle. He
sees, to his surprise, that Mara answers his message.
“Hello, my dear Hakim, how are you?”
“I’m okay, Mara. Where is Ibrahim?”
“He is in bed, sweetheart. He wasn’t feeling well today; he’s been in pain since
this morning, even before Talal and Emily left. Have they arrived yet?”

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