Tag: death

The Circle

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Rassan points as they pass an inspiring, colossal structure, “There is our new
parliament building; it’s only four years old.”
“It looks like quite a bit has been accomplished in the years I have been
away,” Talal comments.
“Yes, it has; the only place that still lags behind is the eastern part of the city.
That area will take the longest; that is where the poorest people live. It’s always
the same, Talal; they’re the ones who wait the longest. The rest of the city is not
too bad. One can say life is getting back to normal; after all, the war ended some
years ago.”
Emily listens, eager to hear as much about this fascinating place as she can.
They arrive at Ibrahim’s at 5:15 p.m. a servant opens the doors of the car after
Rassan drives through the big iron gates. They get out, and Talal signals to Emily
not to worry about her things, as the servants look after those. They enter the
foyer and Emily is left with her mouth half open at the size and grandeur of the
mansion.
Ibrahim with his wife Mara come to greet them.
“Welcome! Welcome to Baghdad,” Ibrahim says, after he kisses Emily’s
hand. “This is Mara, my wife. Mara, this is Emily Roberts from Los Angeles; her
daughter Jennifer is our son’s sweetheart.”
The two women hug and exchange pleasant words.
“Welcome to our humble home,” Mara says to Emily, who is in awe at the
magnificence surrounding her.
Ibrahim hugs Talal and they exchange kisses, as is customary.
“Welcome, my dear Talal; howwas your trip?How is my Hakim?”
“He’s fine, dear uncle. He sends you and Mara his greetings, hugs and lots of
kisses; he’s doing very well. He’s excited about the company he’s taking control
of.” Talal gives a brief summary.
Emily, who’s hearing for the first time about the control of Hakim’s company,
turns to Talal with questioning eyes; he signals her to let it be for now.
Mara wants to take them to their room to freshen up and rest for a while
before dinner; her servant has already taken their bags upstairs. Rassan says
goodbye for now and leaves. Talal stays with Ibrahim as he knows the old man
will want to ask more questions, things about Los Angeles and Hakim.
They go to the study and Talal relays the message from Bevan and all the
other news Hakim wants his uncle to hear. Talal asks, “How are you doing with
your health, my dear uncle?”
“I’m doing very well, my dear boy. The medication seems to work well, and I
haven’t sufferred from any adverse side-effects. Only time will tell how effective the
medication is. It’s in the hands of Allah; his wish will take care of me.”

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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the ship’s rail while Brother Berach bathed his fevered face. Hrafen climbed aboard
in a fury of curses. First, he picked up the bucket of water Berach had been using and
dumped the contents on the two monks. Then he grabbed the protesting Berach by
the back of his tunic, swung him around, and flung him against the rail. The old man
lay unmoving on the deck.
Brother Keallach had taken a few moments from the hot job of caulking to
come on deck to relieve himself over the side. On seeing what was happening between
Hrafen and the two elderly Brothers, he bounded to the prow to face the
bully. Though he shook with anger at such an unwarranted attack, he held himself
in check while the Norseman continued his tirade. When Hrafen bellowed that the
two old thralls must have been responsible for the ram’s escape in the first place,
Keallach, who had seen how the animal bolted the moment it was released from
its pen on board ship, could neither speak nor understand the Norse tongue. As it
was, the two men stood glaring at one another. The Norseman picked up the empty
bucket and flung it with all his might toward the open sea. Then he stomped off to
the far end of the knarr.
Finten, Rordan, Ailan and Lorcan came on deck, along with Atall their guard, to
see what was going on. But Kyrri was sufficiently deaf that he had not been disturbed
by the ruckus on deck. He just carried on caulking and did not come up until he
noticed his helpers were gone.
Father Finten knelt in a slowly forming puddle of blood to hold the old man, now
limp in his arms. Brother Berach’s neck hung at an odd angle, blood trickling from
his open mouth. Rordan and Ailan crossed themselves and dropped to their knees
in silent shock, tears streaming from their eyes. Keallach stood glaring at the bully,
holding his own anger.
Brother Lorcan did not kneel. He looked at Keallach, turned to follow his gaze toward
the killer and slowly, deliberately walked toward him. By the time they thought
to hold him back, it was too late. Hrafen picked him up with both hands around his
throat, shook him violently and heaved him over the side.

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The Unquiet Land

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and, unlike Padraig, who did his best with what physical strength he had, Michael was a farmer to his finger-tips: strong and tireless, with an instinctive knowledge of the land and its needs, bred into him through countless generations of farming ancestry. For these very different characteristics Caitlin loved them both.
Michael was late today and that was unlike him. He knew how much Caitlin hated unpunctuality and he never showed up late for anything without good cause. Something had delayed him. Caitlin stood up from the rock on which she had been sitting and started along the footpath to the harbour, hoping she would meet Michael on the way. A strong breeze from the sea flicked her 1ong, black hair and flappered her skirt like a flag on a pole as she strolled along the path. Tussocks of grass bent over in the breeze like peasants in potato fields. Seagulls sliced the wind with bladed wings. Shags skimmed over the waves, and gannets plunged for fish like suicides. The air smelt of sea-wrack and salty pools.
Then Caitlin thought she heard her name being called. She stopped and turned and saw Nora hurrying towards her. She waited till Nora arrived beside her, breathless and smiling, almost laughing.
“You seem to be in good form today, Nora,” Caitlin said.
Nora linked her arm through Caitlin’s, and they dandered on towards the harbour. “Oh Caitlin, Flynn’s back. He’s back for good. We’re not going to live in Dublin after all.”
“Well, no wonder you’re in good form,” Caitlin said. “I’m glad you’re not leaving. I’d have been lost without you.”
The girls sauntered along in silence, arm in arm, almost mirror images of each other, save that Caitlin wore an old blue cardigan and Nora a brown, woollen coat. An unbiased observer might have said that Nora was the prettier of the two. There was a hardness to the line of Caitlin’s mouth and a certain insensitivity in her eyes, both of which were absent from the gentler, softer features of her sister. Otherwise they bore the physical characteristics of twin girls. As they approached Purdy’s Point they stopped to watch the waves break on the black dike and the wrack-covered rocks. Nora kept her arm entwined in Caitlin’s but she said nothing.
“What’s on your mind, Nora?” Caitlin asked at last.
Nora hesitated, her eyes still fixed on the choppy sea. Then she turned to Caitlin and said, “I was wondering about you and Michael.”
“What about me and Michael?” Caitlin asked, though she knew well what was coming.

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Arrows

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When he had finished with my face, he gave me an appreciative
look and nodded his satisfaction. Then, he extended the gourd to me
and told me to do the same over the rest of my body. I was reluctant
at first, but after a spell he left, and I began to feel the itching ease.
Good enough for me, I thought, and proceeded to do as I was told.
I was squeezing the last of the sap and applying it to my groin
when Guacaipuro appeared, still wearing his perpetual scowl.
“Mareoka,” he said.
Apparently he was resuming our conversation. He extended his
hand, palm upward. I looked at it stupidly and then at his
countenance, failing to grasp his meaning.
“Mareoka,” he repeated. He thrust his hand toward me again. I
felt as though there was a tiny monk running amok inside my head,
looking in every corner for something related to this one magic word
that was the gateway to his witchcraft.
“Ah! Mareoka!” I slapped my forehead, as if I suddenly
understood.
For the first time, Guacaipuro smiled, as if he had finally won me
over. From the pocket of my habit I extracted my copy of the New
Testament that he had previously rejected by tossing it onto the
ground. I offered it to him again. “Mareoka,” I said, solemnly.
If I was agreeing that Mareoka was superior, it was only to allow
me the freedom to prove to him otherwise. I hoped God would
forgive me.
“Tamanoa,” I said, pointing to my friend.
Guacaipuro was more interested in the strangeness of the book. I
seized the opportunity to take advantage of my newfound
respectability by untying the ropes. Guacaipuro did not appear to
object. I moved slowly, deliberately, until Tamanoa was able to
stand beside me, free.
Guacaipuro shook his head, dissatisfied. He took the rope and
tied Tamanoa’s wrist to my wrist. This was his compromise
solution. I must not allow my servant to run away. As soon as I
gleaned his intent, I yanked hard on the rope, jerking Tamanoa
beside me.

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The Unquiet Land

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“He’s given them up. He doesn’t like Dublin very much anymore. He wants to stay in the village and work in the quarry again. He says that’s the only life for him.”
“Oh Nora, that’s wonderful news.” Mother Ross was almost weeping. “I didn’t want you to go to Dublin. It’s so far away. I think that was worrying your father too. He was beginning to think you’d leave and he’d never see you or Dermot again.”
“He’s silly, Mammy.”
“He’s old, Nora. You said so yourself.”
The two fell silent, each distracted by separate thoughts of Finn MacLir.
Then Mother Ross sighed, sipped her tea, and stirred in another spoonful of sugar. “There’s shortbread in the biscuit tin by your elbow.”
“No thank you. The tea’s fine on its own.”
“Push the tin over here then,” Mother Ross said. “I’ll have some.”
Nora did as her stepmother requested. “I think you’re eating too much, Mammy.”
“Oh, don’t you start, Nora. I get enough of that from Dr Starkey.” Mother Ross took a bite from her wedge of shortbread, ate it with obvious relish and then said, “So Flynn’s decided to stay in the village. The big city’s not for him after all.”
“No. He keeps thinking he ought to be in Dublin. His Uncle Finnegan there is very fond of him. But every time he goes to Dublin he gets homesick for the mountains. He’s up at the quarry now to see about keeping his job there. He’s been in Dublin since the general election in December, over two months now. But they’ll take him back. He’s a good worker. He’s a Drumard stone-man, Mammy. He’ll always be a Drumard stone-man.”
Or stone dead. The thought rushed unbidden into Mother Ross’s head, but unlike the voluble palm reader her tongue refused to give it utterance. Nevertheless she felt impelled to say something, if only to warn Nora. Perhaps she should talk to her husband and remind him that his responsibilities to her and their son were greater than his commitment to Republican idealism.
“I’d be a lot happier,” she said, “if Flynn Casey wasn’t also Rebel Casey.” Mother Ross clasped her stepdaughter’s hand to emphasise the seriousness of her words. “Nora, I’m very fond of Flynn. I know that a lot of people don’t like him, and perhaps some of them have good cause not to. But, Nora, there’s a mood in the country. An ugly mood. If there’s going to be trouble, Flynn’s going to be mixed up in it, and I’m afraid for both of you. And for little Dermot.”

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In Turbulent Times

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‘With Liam Dooley?’ Joe’s face took on a puzzled look. ‘You could have had your pick of every young man from here to Kerry. Why Liam Dooley of all people?’
‘Oh Joe, don’t say it like that. It just happened. I don’t know how. Something I said. We were both upset. And then we were consoling each other.’
‘In bed?’
‘Please, Joe. Don’t make it sound worse than it is. God alone knows how much I have paid for that one sin. And I shall go on paying for it till the day I die. God is very severe on sinners sometimes, Joe. His punishment seems out of all proportion to the sin. But He has His reasons, they say. And for some reason He has been severe in his punishment of the Carrick family.’
‘But Nora, going to bed with a man doesn’t mean you have to marry him. Nor does it mean that the one you might eventually want to marry is going to hold it against you if he knew about it.’
‘What if I was pregnant?’ Nora asked. ‘What if I was carrying the first man’s child? Wouldn’t that make a difference? Wouldn’t the man I might eventually want to marry hold that against me?’
Joe looked away and said nothing. A harshness, a bitterness, in Nora’s voice was new and discomfiting. But the more he thought about it the more justified it was. Fate—or God—had treated Nora cruelly.
‘Can you be sure?’ Joe asked. ‘Can you be sure you’re going to have a baby?’
‘I’m not,’ Nora replied.
‘You’re not sure?’ Joe cried. ‘Then why did you …?’
‘Oh Joe, please!’ Nora shouted in exasperation. ‘I didn’t mean I’m not sure. I meant I’m not going to have a baby.’
‘Nora, I’m confused. I’m not thinking too clearly.’
‘After I slept with Liam I was a month overdue with my period.’ Nora gushed out the words. She was embarrassed. It had been easier to put this in a letter. These were matters a woman did not discuss with a man. But Joe had rights to a full explanation. She had to tell him everything, if only to make herself feel less miserable by justifying what she did. ‘That never happened before. I was always regular. I was frightened, Joe. I was sure I was pregnant.’
‘Did you talk to your mother about it?’
‘I couldn’t, Joe. I wanted to. I tried to. But I was so ashamed, so frightened of what she’d think of me. I couldn’t do it. I suppose I kept hoping …’

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the
promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that
night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and
hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache
and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had
been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous.
His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably.
It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired
on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to
another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a
stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then
a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along
the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage
hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his
new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket
they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs.
Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the
group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate
the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player.
Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It
was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community
that had formerly sought his detention.
A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has
returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships.
I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he
has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite.
If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days.
He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey
standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing
what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.

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The Unquiet Land

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a while, but we don’t get along all that well. She’s a straitlaced Puritan like many here in the village. And I hate Belfast, don’t you? There’s a brother and his wife in Liverpool, but I’m never going to England. I have a good friend in Derry. You know her. Molly McEvoy. Her husband was killed last year. She has often said that she and I should live together.”
“Derry’s not much improvement on Belfast,” Finn pointed out.
“No,” said Mother Ross, “but it might have to do. I don’t have a great deal of choice.”
“Come home with me, Jinnie,” Finn said impulsively. “I need someone to look after the twins. They’re nearly six years old now, and Una Slattery’s finding them too much of a handful with four children of her own. Caitlin’s a self-willed little imp who needs some of the wildness spanked out of her. Hard to believe they’re sisters, let alone twins. My house is comfortable, and there’s plenty of room. Come on. I’ll take you up there right away. I’ve the pony and trap on the road beyond.”
That was twenty years ago—twenty-one come June—and Mother Ross had lived in Finn MacLir’s house ever since. Six months after moving in as the keeper of his house and the childminder of his two young daughters, six months of slander-scandaled tongue-wagging in the village of Corrymore, Mother Ross became the second wife of Finn MacLir. Arthur Hamilton, as justice of the peace, married them in the dining room of the large, stone house. A party began on that first Friday in December, 1898, that people still talked about two decades later. And the first Friday of every month since then, whenever he was home, Finn and his friends met to celebrate yet again the night he married the widow, Sinead O’Neill, otherwise known as Mother Ross. Though she was Mrs Finn MacLir by law, she was, and remained, Mother Ross by custom. Even Caitlin never stopped calling her by the only name she had ever known her by.
“My mother was Annie Hogan before she married Jimmy Ross,” Mother Ross once related to Caitlin. “She was the midwife here in Corrymore for many years. I was the youngest of her seven children and I used to help her at the birthing. I was with her that terrible night when you and Nora were born, Caitlin. When the arthritis crippled my mother’s fingers, I took her place. I never had any children of my own.” A sad, faraway look had come into her eyes. “I was pregnant when my husband was drowned at sea, and I lost the baby in a miscarriage. I survived on my own after Jimmy’s death using midwifery skills learned at my mother’s side. I not only took

over her job, I was given her name at the same time. Mother Ross. It has stuck to me ever since.”

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The Circle

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the idea of us going so we can check on how Ibrahim is doing. Hakim is afraid the
old man may get sick and not tell him until too late.”
Emily sits next to him and hugs him. She kisses his lips and feels all warmed up.
“For a while, I thought Hakim makes all your decisions for you. I had it
wrong; I’m sorry.”
He laughs, stretches his arms and hugs her; his hands caress her hot body.
He’s in a great mood.
“It’s exactly the opposite, my love. He’s the one who always asks for my
advice. Don’t forget Uncle Ibrahim relies on me to make sure Hakim is safe and
secure in whatever he does here.”
“You mean you keep an eye on him, like spying?”
“Not spying, sweetheart. I keep an eye on him to make sure he’s alright. There is
a difference between the two,” he answers, as his hand goes deep between her legs.
She turns her head and kisses him again while, at the same time, she makes
herself more available by opening her legs a bit; he takes the opportunity to slide
his fingers over her and feels her hair. She goes wild with his touch; her breathing
becomes faster.
“In other words, you play the role of guardian angel?”
“Yes, sweet Emily.”

Tuesday morning as Peter Bradshaw gets to the office and notices hardly any of
the other staff are in. He turns the coffeemaker on in the lunchroom and as he
waits for the coffee to brew, he hears another person come in. He sees Lorne
walking to his office. A couple of minutes later, Lorne comes into the lunchroom,
looking for fresh coffee.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Good morning, Lorne.”
“How is it going? I saw you guys yesterday coming back from lunch; do you
go for lunch together often?”
“We go sometimes.”
“Anything I should know, Peter? Something I should be concerned about?”
he asks.
Peter understands that Lorne has his suspicions, but he certainly wouldn’t
know what happened yesterday.
“Nothing to be concerned with Lorne; we talked about everyday things,
nothing important.”
“Okay, then,” says Lorne, and then he adds, “If something I should be
concerned with comes up, will you tell me, Peter?”

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Eagle Talon and his son, Honiahaka Little Wolf, emerged from the forest with a
magnificent buck slung from a sapling pole between them. The two men paused to
rest and massage their aching shoulders. Below them stretched the mighty water,
birthplace of the sun and home to the great creatures who blew fountains into the
air. It was also home to the friendly man savers.
As Eagle Talon looked far out to sea, he remembered how his youngest son, Kosumi,
was washed out of his canoe by a savage wave. He thought he’d lost his son to
the sea, but two man-size sea creatures, those who blew fountains of water into the
air, came to Kosumi and swam him safely to shore.
From that day forward, the Nation declared these man-savers Friends of the First
Light People. Never again did they hunt them for food. Since that time, the sea mammals
leapt from the water to greet the young men whenever they sailed out to spear
the white fish or to dive for the clawed sea-cleaners.
Eagle Talon whispered his thanks once more for his son’s life. Then he whispered
his thanks to all the creatures of the sea that fed his family and his people.
Little Wolf saw it first and crawled on all fours to the edge of the embankment for
a better look and beckoned his father to join him. On the beach below was a great
canoe, big as a longhouse. Strange, white-skinned men with hairy faces shouted at
one another and banged at boards of split pine, inside. Outside, men were painting
the frightful beast whose head was a double serpent totem of scarlet, blue and green.
Eagle Talon and his son watched in awe. They must return quickly to the village.
Surely the sachem, White Eagle, would have an answer to the appearance of such
strange visitors.
Since Eagle Talon and his tribe greatly respected White Eagle as a wise elder, a
confederation of villages elected him sachem. He governed the people of his district,
upheld the law, allocated farmland according to the size of each family, collected
tribute, provided for widows and orphans, and taught all boys up to the age of sixteen
the arts of manhood. He also acted as arbitrator, whenever war threatened.
White Eagle sat erect. His grey hair flowed unadorned in long shiny strands to
his lower back. He wore a beaded doeskin jacket, pants and moccasins. The sachem
raised his hand to call for calm and addressed the gathering of braves.
“My brothers. These strangers have surely come in peace. Let us welcome them
with gifts of food, as is our custom. We will honour them with song and dance at our
Lodge Fire and celebrate Broken Wing’s success in the hunt. If they allow us, we will
help them repair their strange craft that they may soon be on their way.”
The gathered braves turned to one another in discussion. Then they voted by a
show of hands to follow the sachem’s advice.
White Eagle continued. “I will approach the strangers at their camp. Broken
Wing, Crow Foot and Eagle Talon will bring sweet corn, the gift of the gods, and
fresh salmon. I go to prepare my face and body with red earth as a sign we are men
of the earth.”
Freki, ever on the lookout, was the first to see the four Natives approach the fire.
They wore only tan breechcloths. Three of the Natives wore crow and turkey feathers
in long braids. They had their heads shaved except for a long strip of stubble…

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