Tag: love-story

Water in the Wilderness

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“I’m cold, and I’m hungry. I don’t want to go no more. Rachael, I can’t walk no more.” Pulling his hand from hers, he fell to the ground and sat in a shivering little heap, the toy truck clasped in both arms.
“Get up, Bobby, come on, we have to keep movin’.” She remembered the lunch bag that Ronnie had taken from her to carry. “We’ve got food; c’mon, get up and we’ll eat a sandwich while we’re walking.”
Ronald handed the bag over, and bent to lift the little boy to his feet. “Here, Bobby, I’ll carry you piggy-back. Get on my shoulders.”
With Bobby on his back, he set off again. Rachael clutched her doll under one arm as she opened the sack of food. She had started to pull the jam sandwiches out when she heard her cousin’s excited yell.
“We’re there, Rachael. See – there’s your neighbor’s house. And look, there’s your place just ahead.” He began to hurry, the weight of the child on his shoulders no hindrance to his renewed energy.
Rachael shoved the sandwich back into the bag, and ran to catch up to them. She strained her eyes in the murky light so that she could better see the house. And there it was – her home. She thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Exhilarated, she ran ahead towards the front door. But, as her feet left the sidewalk to turn onto the path, she realized something didn’t feel right. She looked down. Where once a weed covered path led to the house, a concrete walkway clear of snow made an easy approach to the porch – a porch no longer in a state of disrepair, but standing straight with a coat of bright yellow paint. The steps leading up to it were new, and were also made of concrete. Rachael came to a stop, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide and staring.
She became aware that Ronnie had come up beside her. “Wow,” he breathed, as he lowered Bobby to the ground.
The little boy stared at the house, then glanced around. “Where are we? Rachael, this ain’t our house.”
Rachael wavered between excitement and confusion as panic seized her. She turned to Ronald, a question in her eyes. His look did not reassure her.
“D’ya think maybe your dad has moved away from here?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

The Circle

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it’s best for their morale, for their belief in the rationality of what they do every
day, and for their steadfastness in moving ahead. He has been around these
people and this agency for a long time since leaving Baghdad, since the days he
thought he had a good future with the CIA. Time has passed along with his belief
in a good future. What went wrong? He has wondered many a time; Ibrahim is
right. Bevan knows deep in his heart that Ibrahim is right. The problem is what
the agency does and what his department does is often questionable. This has
troubled him for a while. He has a hard time understanding the reasoning
behind decisions taken that are based on a mounting fear in the psyche of the
American people. He has been abroad for many years in which he has come
across people of many different nationalities; Muslims and others and they are
seldom the way they have been portrayed by the administration and by the
Ameerican media at the best of times. Following the end of the term of the “war
president” the people elected a different party and the stand of the country
abroad softened a bit, but after a couple of terms they were back at the same old
doctrine of pre-emptive strikes whenever it felt right, and Bevan knows that’s
not the best approach. Sometimes it’s better to sit and talk to a person instead of
unleashing the power of the killing machine and later trying to find answers to
questions you never asked to begin with.
He knows something has to be done about all this. Yet there are times when
he doubts even himself, even the comments from Ibrahim, his good friend. Does
he doubt his friend? A number of times he has thought about that, as well. After a
while his mind gets stuck on the idea that something has to be done with this
department, something has to change; it cannot keep on going like this for ever,
it cannot keep on going on with the killings and the atrocities. Yes, he knows,
something has to change.
He has tried over the past five or six years to change the mentality of a
number of people whom he has talked to; but has found it difficult to convince
most of the people in higher positions that what they do and how they approach
things is wrong. Some seem to thrive on other peoples’ misery and cannot
suddenly change direction because Bevan Longhorn wants it. He knows the only
way something will ever change is when something dramatic happens. Bevan has
been thinking about that for quite a while.
Ibrahim is right; substantial change takes place only when dramatic events
precede, like the attack in New York in 2001. He takes a copy of the memo he has
issued to his personnel and puts it in his wallet. He closes the file and calls his
secretary to pick it up. Then he finishes eating his sandwich and asks Dorothy to
remove his cold coffee.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

The Unquiet Land

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“In one way they were right,” Michael interrupted.
“Yes, that’s true enough,” Caitlin agreed. “The doctor tried to tell the people it was epilepsy, but they said that epilepsy was just a doctor’s big word for seizure by the Devil. Then a fishing boat went down in a storm with the loss of all hands. The people in the fishing village blamed Padraig. They dragged him from the doctor’s house, but on the way to the harbour, where they might have drowned him, he suffered another seizure. He was writhing on the ground and foaming at the mouth when my father rescued him. The doctor agreed with my father that the best thing for his own safety was to let Padraig go.”
“What a terrible life that poor man has had,” Michael observed.
“Only the first dozen years,” Caitlin said. “He was twelve when he came here.”
“So he lived with the doctor and his wife for three years?”
“About that, yes. But he was mostly confined to their house. Children stoned him one day when he went outside.”
“Imagine being stuck in a house for three years.”
“It was a lot better than the house he came from. The doctor continued his education.”
“Padraig’s education?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘continued’ it?”
“His mother, the school-teacher, educated him herself as best she could under the circumstances in her brother’s house. She did a good job of it too. Padraig is a clever man. A very quick learner.”
“You should know, shouldn’t you?” Michael said. “You spent a lot of time over his books too, as I’ve heard.”
“I learned as much from Padraig as he did from me,” Caitlin said modestly, but honestly. “Old Shaughnessy, the schoolmaster, didn’t know what to make of Padraig. I did. I taught him what I could. Except for theology.”
“Theology?” This was a new word for Michael.
“The study of religion.”
“I see.”
“Padraig was quite well versed in that. The doctor or his wife must have known a lot about it. Padraig actually taught himself, Michael, in between the odd jobs he did for my father. He did well enough to get to university. After that there was no stopping him.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Savages and Beasts

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on to Father Jerome and having a smirk on her face she left.
Mary, who couldn’t stay longer either since her working hours
had started, gave Anton another deep kiss and left; but just before
she walked out of his door she turned and whispered to him, I
love you which made Anton’s day.
During the breakfast the children ate without any incident
and soon after Anton having shared his coffee with Mary,
left to go and check on Dylan. Anton by nature and internally
always recognized and related to the misery of the world in such
a strange way that he believed it was inescapable, therefore something
one has to survive by standing up to it and fighting and that
way he felt he could discover where his sense of justice was laid.
This was his feeling this morning driving to the hospital and a
stressful sensation overconsumed his mind. Truly, this was his
feeling when he arrived at the hospital and went to Dylan’s room,
though he didn’t find him there. The nurse supervising that section
informed him that most unfortunately Mr. Kelly had passed.
“When? What happened?” Anton questioned.
“The doctor will see you soon,” the nurse replied.
Soon, the doctor who was looking after Dylan appeared
and took Anton on the side. An aneurism, he said, an aortic aneurism,
something building inside Mr. Kelly for some time caused
a sudden rupture of his aorta. Cigarettes contributed to it, so did
unhealthy food habits and unhealthy lifestyle, the doctor opined.
They did all they could. He bled profusely, nothing could be
done; he bled to death in just five minutes.
Anton was stunned. He couldn’t utter a word. Didn’t know
what he could say. What one says in such situations? He left the
hospital. He drove to the Residential School not even paying attention
to anything as if dazed, absorbed in his thoughts. He walked
to Dylan’s room, his room now, and sat behind the small desk.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

Jazz with Ella

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Elizabeth and the other a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep. The two laughing women that accompanied Slava looked on with interest.
“Let me give you something in return.” A dignified Slava reciprocated with two artistically decorated stamps from his album, which he had brought along for this purpose. Lona, who was seated at the next table, apparently took her cue from Jennifer because she also rummaged in her purse for a gift, pulled out an American nickel, and began explaining the significance of the buffalo to a group of enraptured young men.
By the time the party broke up, some two hours later, the students and visitors had warmed to each other. Jennifer had learned something about their lives: their brothers and sisters, their schools, their music and their anxiety that they would somehow discredit themselves in front of their superiors on the day’s visit—this last concern added in a whisper. She glanced around. But their commissar was still engrossed in conversation with Chopyk and both Ivan Nikolaevich and Natasha had disappeared—presumably leaving the group in good hands. What a relief, Jennifer thought. Finally, Nadezdha brayed her goodbyes to Chopyk, while Lona exchanged addresses with at least four of the panting youths.
Just before he left the dining room, Slava turned to Jennifer. “Stay with us, Zhennifer, please. You can have a good life here. Stay with us.” She was stunned by the request and could only smile and shake her head. Good god, were any of the others asked to stay?
As she walked the trio down to the wharf and waved them goodbye, she did not notice that Paul had also walked his new friend, Vera, to the bus and was now standing behind a copse of rowan trees on the footpath. And if she had not been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she would have overheard Vera explain to Nadezhda that she would not take the bus back with the others, but instead walk to her father’s farm, only one kilometre down the road.
“On your way, then, Vera Fyodorovna,” the political commissar called out to her. “Get there before dark.”
“See you later, Nadezhda Ivanova,” she called out happily as she ran toward the rowan trees.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

In Turbulent Times

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But those same powers—satanic or divine, according to opinions prevailing from time immemorial—held her in their grip and demanded annual or even more frequent submission ever since. Her epileptic seizures were a constantly gnawing concern to Liam while Nora was his pupil and a cause of fright, excitement and storytelling among the other children in the school. Dr Alexander had declared that the fits were simply the result of some slight brain damage that Nora had suffered when she was born and that they were nothing to be alarmed about. More malicious tongues blamed the incompetence of the still unqualified medical student, Clifford Hamilton, who had been called against his will to perform a placenta previa delivery by Caesarean section on a wild, wet winter night when no other doctor was available. Local people said that he should never have been summoned that night to take control of such a difficult delivery. Dr Alexander, the current Corrymore doctor, admitted the possibility that someone more experienced than Clifford Hamilton might have handled the birth with greater proficiency but he added that the delivery was a difficult one in any case, and no one could guarantee that a more experienced doctor would in fact have done any better. To this day Dr Alexander commended Clifford for what he did under such testing circumstances. ‘If there is any brain damage,’ Dr Alexander often said, ‘it is obviously very slight and will not do the child any harm. You can see she is a budding genius already.’
҂
Nora bore her handicap with a fortitude unexpected in a girl so young, so insecure, so vulnerable, and for this Liam admired her. He took it upon himself to give this quick, intelligent girl, stumbling even at the start of her journey into womanhood, more than ordinary care. He could not resist the mute appeal for sympathy, for help, for encouragement that precocious pride had silenced in the darkness of her eyes. He could not resist the serious determination of the unformed scholar to escape from that strangely disturbed and disturbing mentality. He could see instinctively the intelligence that hid within that young but tortured mind as the sculptor saw the future form within the blank whiteness of his ivory or his marble. Patiently Liam worked upon it, chiselling away slowly and watching the chips of ignorance and childish superstition fall away upon the schoolroom floor.
All of Liam’s pupils were output shaped from blocks of stone or clods of clay or challenging curves of ivory. Passionately devoted to his art, Liam was happiest in the theatre of his creations.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Arrows

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A numbing chill crept up my legs. Something warm wet my
backside. It must have been the pain that made me lose
consciousness, because afterwards it became apparent the arrow
had not gone deep. It had been stopped by the bone inmyshoulder.
The last thing I remembered was seeing Apacuana running
towards me.

“Apacuana! Apacuana!”
It had to be a dream. A strange girl’s voice startled me back into
consciousness. I was lying on the ground. I kept still with my eyes
closed, drifting back into sleep, when I heard Apacuana’s voice
much closer to me, answering back. Merciful heaven! What was going
on? A sharp pain shot from my neck to my shoulder, reminding me
that I had nearly been killed by stampeding horses and an arrow. I
turned my head gingerly. My head slid over the polished surface of
the big leaves upon which I lay—plantain leaves. I unglued my
eyelids and looked around me. What was this place? A cave?
The dirt floor was damp and cool, the air musty with a slight
pungency. I glanced in the direction of two young women who were
talking fast. I could see their figures silhouetted against the bright light
of the entrance. I gathered that the other girl was urging Apacuana to
go with her. The word Baruta came through several times, always
accompanied by a certain apprehension in their manner.
Apacuana was holding a small gourd, which she handed to the
girl while signalling in my direction. The other girl glanced at me
apprehensively, but her eyes sparkled when she discovered I was
awake. Apacuana left the cave, crawling through the opening. The
other girl, whose voice I had heard first, came towards me, gourd in
hand. She knelt beside me and stirred the gourd’s contents, her
young breasts pointing downward as though weighted by the many
loops of the seed necklace she wore.

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

Jazz with Ella

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bristles of his moustache into neat, serried rows. Once, when he had been due for a Russian department evaluation involving an interview with Chairman Hoefert, he had arrived early at his department head’s office. The door was open and there was no one about so he had wedged himself into a seat in the crowded study, his legs straddling boxes of books and papers, to await Hoefert’s return. A file lay open on the desk and without too much twisting of his neck he could see that it was his own confidential personnel file. Leaning out from the chair at an acute angle, he could even read the text upside down and he quickly did so without any attack of conscience. The chairman had written a number of congratulatory things, Chopyk was gratified to see. He could read that he was a stellar professor, thorough and devoted to his publishing schedule. True. It was a bit lacklustre on the subject of his teaching abilities, but certainly adequate. But there, at the bottom of the report, was what Chopyk considered to be a damning bit of character assassination. Neatly penned in the director’s handwriting were the words: “Chopyk’s flaw is vanity.” The subsequent interview was more tense than usual.
Ever since that day Chopyk had pondered this revelation, especially when he glanced at his trim appearance in a mirror. Later, he realized that Hoefert was not talking about superficial vanity, though he was deemed a snappy dresser; instead, Hoefert had locked onto a deeper quality: Chopyk’s self-absorption. He took magnificent pleasure in his successes, however small. He took a positive delight in outsmarting Professor Hoefert, preferably in front of colleagues at the Learned Societies conference. But it was only friendly rivalry, Chopyk told himself. Where was the harm? It was the word “flaw” that niggled. He didn’t like to admit to flaws; didn’t think he had any. But there were moments—like today with Lona Rabinovitch—that he would consider his vanity to be a genuine weakness. She was playing him, flattering him—no doubt about it. And he had fallen for it.
She had come up to him in the dining room after lunch, when the others had drifted away, to ask his clarification on a small question of verb tense. Somehow, within minutes, she had managed to turn the conversation to their departure from the Soviet Union, and she complained that she was running out of room in her luggage. Before he knew it he had gallantly agreed to pack some of her “valuable gifts and souvenirs” in his own luggage. She was quite appealing, gazing up at him softly with those large green eyes—he couldn’t refuse. She was hypnotic. Dammit.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

He Rode Tall

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…couldn’t even see where they had got through the fence. It must
have taken some interesting gymnastics for these four-legged wonders
to maneuver through a three-wire fence without ripping it
down, but, sure enough, here they were. Joel even found himself
wondering if they could have jumped the fence. He had seen the
deer do it. But as Joel compared the anatomy of a cow to that of a
deer, he chuckled at himself in a way that made his horse wonder
what was happening. To the horse, this expression of human
emotion was something new about Joel.
The sorrel gelding waited to see what the rider who sat on him
would decide to do.
Sizing up the situation, Joel realized that if he didn’t get these
three heifers back to where they belong, some of their friends
would want to join them for the party. And judging from how
lean the pickings were on the other side of the fence and the look
of the visiting heifers, Joel didn’t think it would be long before
they would devour the grass in his pasture, which is supposed to
feed his horses. And if the advance party of three were joined by
their friends, it wouldn’t take long before Joel had a serious problem—
two- or three-hundred head of cattle would make mincemeat
out of this pasture.
After contemplating the possibilities, Joel decided that his best
bet would be to open the gate that was about 300 yards down the
fence line and try to push the three heifers back to their own pasture.
He was hoping that the gate was far enough from the herd
so that the herd wouldn’t all rush through the opening into his
pasture. This was going to be very tricky.
Slowly, he moved the sorrel gelding down the fence line to the
gate. The gelding was carefully watching the cows and they certainly
weren’t spooking him. Reaching the gate, Joel undid the
rope, and stepping back, he set the fence wire and poles down to
the side. Sliding back into the saddle, Joel pointed the gelding
back to the three heifers that were grazing, unconcerned with the
approaching rider and horse, or anticipating their eviction.
Gently, cautiously, and slowly, Joel and the sorrel gelding pushed
https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

The Unquiet Land

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“But aren’t you trying to change souls with your sermons? Aren’t you trying to make them more acceptable to your God?” Finn leaned forward on the table, his massive hands cupped around his glass of wine. “The soul cannot be so untouchable.”
“With the word of God one can indeed reach into the soul,” Padraig consented. “But no instrument devised by man has the same power.”
“Ah, we have a conflict here,” said Finn. “Sweeney, fill up my glass and top up your own. Any of you others care to join us, help yourselves to whatever you want. That stage is getting set again. See why I prefer to act than to watch?”
“You don’t act, Finn,” Sweeney observed; “you direct.”
He poured the wine for Finn. The last drops from the decanter he shook into his own glass. His sunset face was blazing crimson, with purple only in the shadows. He replaced the empty decanter in the centre of the table and turned up the wick of the low-burning lamp. Shadows flickered on the walls, on the dark sideboard and the cabinets, on the tall clock and the pale porcelain of the Victory.
“So, Padraig,” Finn went on, “you think the word is mightier than the surgeon’s knife.”
“The Word that was in the beginning, yes; the Word of God that was made flesh as Jesus Christ.”
“What do you say to that, young Clifford?” Finn asked. “Does the Word of God tell us more of man and nature, life and death, than your brain and blade will ever reveal?”
“You’re confusing two separate realms, Finn,” Clifford argued in a precise, dry voice. “The brain is a material thing. We probe into it, repair it, understand it, with the aid of material instruments. The soul is immaterial. We change it, if we change it at all, with immaterial instruments: with words, thoughts, ideas, emotions, that reach it through the mind.”
“Body and mind; matter and spirit; material, immaterial.” Finn repeated the words reflectively. “That sounds reasonable enough. Conflict resolved.” He sipped some wine, then looked at Clifford. “You say that the soul is reached through the mind. So you separate mind and soul?”
Clifford looked around the table self-consciously. Michael was asleep with his head fallen forward on his chest. Seamus and Sweeney stared at their wine and looked as though they wished they too were asleep. Only Padraig, facing Finn across the length of the dish-and-bottle-laden table, stayed alert, leaning back in his chair with his left hand dangling and his right hand holding a half-emptied glass of wine.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203