Praise for The Red Gate…
(Prequel to The Gatekeepers)
“The
Red Gate brings the story of a family to the reader in such a way
that they will feel as if they are actually in the surroundings being
described. From start to finish, it is emotionally charged, highly
detailed with descriptions so real it is amazing”.
Sierra Rose, Amazon Book Reviewer 2/2010
The Gatekeepers
By Richard Sutton
Smashwords Edition,
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re
reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased
for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase
your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Print Edition Available:
ISBN 1449924182 EAN-13: 9781449924188
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Acknowledgements:
I want to extend special thanks to my fellow writers who have contributed to the hard task of rewriting with compassion, good humor and insight. I have special thanks to extend first, to my wonderful wife, who puts up with all this and can edit, as well and to my friend, George Galanis who loaned me one of his many stories to take to County Mayo, for the O’Deirgs. Then to friends, M. Carter, G. Priester, N. Libman and J. Scheeser, for all their insight, helpful comments and encouragement along the way and authors Robert Davidson for his help in research and Wendy Bertsch for her editing expertise..
This book is dedicated to Brendan and Liam
The following is a work of fiction. Names and places are my creations and with the exception of historic figures and actual locales, bear no relation to real persons living or dead. Similarity is strictly coincidence.
Now, the O’Deirg’s story continues…
“The great danger against which mankind has evolved culture is that of abject loss, of being left alone in the dark.”
Anthropologist Geza Roheim
Chapter One
From her rocker, Claire O’Deirg sat watching her twins’ heads pop up and down from behind the row of flax. The bright flowers sprinkled color against the dull grays and duns of the fieldstone wall behind them while Sean and Meggie’s yellow hair reflected stray sunlight in dappled flashes through the stalks. The twins’ silly new game, a daily occurrence the past few days, consisted of each of them guessing in turn where the other was by pointing before they popped up through the stalks.
“There I am,” announced little Sean, pointing at his sister as she popped her head through. Their laughter rang over the wall and down the pasture below the house.
Claire turned back to the journal she was trying to study in the shade of their porch. It was the first time in weeks she’d had any time at all for herself. Meggie chattered away to her brother in her high pitched, bird-like voice and Sean giggled as he shouted out, “Meggie! I see me, too!” Claire smiled while she read and reminded herself to take a bit more time explaining to the twins which of them was ‘I’ and which was ‘you’. It seemed to work interchangeably in the toddlers’ language.
Their long, roofed porch had been Claire’s idea. “Outlandish,” Finn, her husband, had remarked at first. He said that no house on their farm had ever suffered such an extravagance. But despite his misgivings, it had turned out to be a good idea after all. From the shaded porch on their whitewashed house, perched high above the rugged Mayo coast, it afforded her a view of the lower pastures, where her men often worked all day, rain or shine. It also provided a long view of the road in directions, north and south. The small cost and minor effort was repaid many times over on the day Finn, only in passing mind you, mentioned he thought it looked just right after all.
Far down the grassy slope across the road, she could just make out a few white specks dotting the lower pasture near the edge of the sea cliffs. Finn and Paddy were somewhere down there tending the flock and undoubtedly enjoying this rare spell of sunshine. Beyond the sudden edge that formed the boundary of their farmland, the blue-green water of the Sound led out to the Aran Islands far beyond. Further still, an impossible journey away, lay America.
After a prolonged absence of visible movement below the porch garden, Claire called out to the twins, “Meggie and Sean! What are you two up to?”
Two heads suddenly appeared together, parting the flax stalks “Playin’ Mam, that’s what we up do.” They again disappeared quickly.
Reassured, Claire smiled to herself. She knew she might be overprotective but it came to her directly from her father, so it couldn’t be helped. John Sullivan always prided himself on his attention to detail—mounds and mounds of detail. His livelihood, operating the largest pub and only inn south in Ballyfiggin, suited him well. Claire had been thinking of him a lot lately. There had been dark news from Dublin recently and with her father’s Republican activities after his military service in South Africa it all left her wary. She knew she’d best keep her ears open in case he was tempted to start it all up once again.
The sun moved a little higher in the sky, so she scooted her chair closer to the porch edge to catch its noon warmth. She felt good. She and Finn had just celebrated a very special, private tenth anniversary. Not their wedding anniversary – that had been in February. This had quietly marked a different kind of change.
It had been ten years since Finn’s fall into the sinkhole in their lower pasture. The beginning of the adventure, when he’d found the bronze bead with its ancient stick-writing and all. It was the key to uncovering the ancient secrets about the family…far underground. Secrets upon secrets hidden for…she still didn’t truly know how long it had all been hidden away beneath countless generations of sheep. Who could expect to find a small, close family of shepherds hiding, in plain sight, the wisdom of the ancients? It still brought a smile to her lips.
Nevertheless, shepherds they were. Now, with summer waning, much lay ahead for them, even the small ones hiding in the flax. Soon, the last of their wool would go to market in Ballyfiggin.
Today, as she struggled to review her cramped notes in her journal, the main distraction was the fast approaching return of Finn’s sister’s family to the farm. They were coming home from Cork, for good. It would mean having her best friend Maeve, now Quinn, and her whole family just over the pasture path. Imagining how the farm would come to life once there were many children running about, also kept breaking her focus.
Her three children did the same. They were underfoot constantly if they were inside and a worry if they were outside. She had her chores and her garden and if that wasn’t enough to fill a day, she tried to keep up her ongoing translation project from the inscriptions in what she called The Great Hall, below.
It all competed for her time awake and asleep as well. If her inspiration came in dreams, Finn would hear her side of many conversations, all night long, in unrecognizable speech, ‘til the big rooster would wake them all just before the sun broke over the high ridge.
Today, the sun’s warmth began to make her drowsy, and she found it impossible to concentrate so she sat up and rose to her feet. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep with the twins free to roam all over the garden and down the lane.
Claire laid her journal down then stepped off the porch. She quietly crept near the row of flax, where two little pairs of blue eyes watched her approach. They dropped down, close to the ground to hide, hoping to surprise her when she wasn’t expecting them to pop up.
“Shhh!” Meghan whispered to her brother, “don’t make noise.”
Sean nodded, laying his finger over his mouth and crouched lower, behind a thick, brushy section of the flax row. Suddenly his mother bent over the row and scooped him up, holding him beneath his arms.
“Whoosh!” Claire cried out, “Out of the dirt and into the air” she raised him up high over her head as he wriggled and laughed.
His sister, not to be forgotten, called out, “Me too! Me too!”
Putting Sean down, Claire crossed over to where Meggie had been hiding. Wearing a carefully measured pout across her face, the little girl turned her back towards her mother’s approach, but spun around as her mother’s hands found her.
“Gotcha!” Claire shouted and raised Meggie, struggling in glee, up as high as she could.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested to the two as she set her daughter down. They nodded in unison and Sean asked excitedly, “Where can we go, what will we see?”
“We’ll all go see how your Da and brother are getting along down in the pasture—maybe we’ll even catch a sheep!”
She told them to wait while she got her satchel bag, inside. It held water and a small snack for later among a few other items and, returning to the porch, she took one of each of their hands and started down the lane.
Meghan began singing, “Awaaay…over the sea we go, Awaaay!” Sean joined in and soon the three were sending up the strains of a timeless old sailor’s song, as they danced down the lane, over the wall and down the pasture to meet their ‘men’.
Chapter Two
“Da?” called Paddy to his father, “Do ye want me to run down the big ram again?”
Finn glanced down across the pasture towards the cliff, where the thorn bushes marked its edge, high above the sea. Sure enough, the ram had wandered near the same low, boggy spot and was sure to get into trouble if someone didn’t intervene.
“Go ahead, son,” Finn shouted back.
Finn was glad that Paddy had such keen eyes for the flock. While Paddy dashed across the dwindling distance to his target, Finn’s heart filled with pride as his eyes followed the boy’s fleet course. Paddy’s abilities with the flock gave Finn the luxury to take time like this for himself and his thoughts. Finn wondered if he’d been as much help to his own father as Paddy was to him.
Finn sat upon a large stone near his small peat fire under a high rock outcropping. Acrid smoke drifted upwards along the face of the outcropping to the top, where the wind blew it off sideways. He’d been enjoying an afternoon tea break. It was almost in the exact spot where years before, he had been careless about where he sat and that sinkhole had almost swallowed him whole. It still made him shudder. He’d make sure there’d be no more O’Deirgs or their sheep lost in farm sinkholes or bogs, or anything else, for that matter.
Paddy’s call had startled him away from the memory. Each time he relaxed here beneath the rock outcropping, he fell into thoughts about his father. Finn still missed him, but he carried an image in his heart, of his father and mother together again in whatever paradise awaited them all. He’d often felt his father’s spirit nearby to guide him, when he lost his way.
After all the upheaval of the discoveries and the tax troubles that had followed, his family’s life had surely become more secure despite his abiding concerns about the outside world intruding into the quiet of their lives, or worse…discovering their hidden secrets.
Today he’d found anxiety lurking in the stillness. Not quite fear. News still managed to find their doorstep. News of battles and death while the Great War raged, then after the Armistice, local rumors of insurrections, assassinations and political intrigues found their ears. The recent news from Dublin had not been good. It worried him.
Mostly, the news came weeks later, as it had after Easter 1916, but sometimes, it came quickly. Finn relished his fresh memory of the grand day, some months back when Mallory, the Postman had dashed up on the porch to announce that the Treaty forming the Republic was finally signed with England. He had actually embraced the man.
Now that the Brits were almost gone, Finn felt that no matter how full of violence and upheaval the rest of the world may still be, Ireland might be finally able to make her own way. That eased his mind considerably and he looked forward to sitting with his father-in-law again at one of the inn’s many tables and discussing how the world outside was getting on.
Their regular, two-week market trip was coming up soon and he looked forward as much to the forty mile trip as to the business that lay at its end. He was also more than just a bit anxious for the arrival home of his sister and her husband, Paddy’s namesake, along with their children. The Quinn’s new home still awaited a few finishing touches and a coat of whitewash. He’d need to work that into the schedule around the sheep, somehow.
Far below, Paddy drew up close to the shaggy lead ram, as the stubborn animal wandered nearer the edge of the boggy ground. As he watched, Finn wondered, as he had since childhood, what was so exciting to sheep about boggy mud, sinkholes or steep precipices? They seemed to always be drawn to danger, or to getting stuck, one after the other. He chuckled suddenly with the thought, just like people! Finn walked over to the edge of the downhill slope in time to see Paddy victoriously wave off the ram and turn him back uphill with whistles and shouts. Their sheep dog, occupied at the other end of the pasture, was keeping two wayward ewes from stumbling through the bushes and into the sea. It responded quickly to Paddy’s whistles.
The black and white dog streaked across the pasture, ears flapping behind like small wings, to lend its help in getting the ram away from the bog. It was a dark blur of speed, running in to push the ram further uphill and away from danger. Paddy and the dog were good at their work and Finn smiled broadly, watching the carefully staged rescue. This would be the last year he would have to accompany his son and keep the flock whole. Next season, they’d split the flock up as his father had done with him, years before.
His thoughts turned to the next few weeks’ intense work. At least they wouldn’t have McCormick, the vet, coming up the lane almost daily. Lambing season each spring was always expensive and stressful—not just for the ewes. This time of year though, they had the wool to bring in and there was no job in all the jobs on the farm half as exhausting as that. While he was eagerly awaiting his sister’s return, he wondered how they’d fit it all in. Then there was…
Finn turned his eyes to the padlocked door of the small wooden shed next to him. It concealed the excavated gateway hidden in the outcropping. He found comfort in knowing that at least he and his own were not going to spend their strength on any pyre of vanity raging elsewhere or indeed, even in Dublin, if what he’d heard was true. Anger, disappointment, reprisal and loss.
He shook his head as his eyes followed the crevices back up to the top of the rock face behind him. Finn’s father’s oft-repeated advice came to mind: Live a simple life and stay out of the way of people in more of a hurry than yourself.
“Well at least I’ve tried,” Finn mused aloud.
He heard soft singing beginning to echo off the rocks, or was it the familiar rustle of ancient voices from beneath his feet? Claire’s unmistakable voice soon rose above the voices of the twins. They were coming to pay a visit. He heard his wife call, “Are there any shepherds about?”
He laughed and replied, “One up and one down! Paddy’s running down the lead ram, so we have the place to ourselves!”
The three vocalists rounded the edge of the outcropping and stepped out near the cart. A sturdy, grey donkey, grazing hobbled nearby, raised its fuzzy ears and approached slowly at the sound of their voices.
Sean announced, “We’re here!” in a big, important voice. He ran up to give his father a hug around the legs. Meggie followed, gathering her father’s legs and her brother in her own little arms.
“What a happy knot of children you have there, Mr. O’Deirg!” said Claire. The sunlight struck her eyes and they flashed blue-green as a halo of light, caught by her hair, framed her beaming face.
Finn tried to walk, but was so encumbered by tightly clinging small fry, he had to wait for his wife to cross over and greet him with a small kiss. “We thought we’d take a walk down to see how your day was ending and get a cart ride home!” He smiled and explained that it would only be a short wait until Paddy and the dog had brought the sheep up high enough to safely leave them for the coming evening. He reached around her waist and drew her in to him, the twins still hanging onto his knees. They stood together for a few moments, listening as the seabirds below began calling out the end of their own day.
The sweet smell of high tide came to them on the breeze, filling the air. A sudden shift of color, as the sun slid behind a small cloud, accompanied Paddy’s breathless and sweaty return. Paddy smiled broadly at his whole family gathered around watching the sun dip lower on its way into the sea for the night.
“They’re all up high and dry, Da!” He added, “I think they’ll be fine for the night.”
Finn had told his son often enough, that sheep cluster tightly at night and rarely wander after dark, but the 10 year old always took the gathering-up at the end of the day with great seriousness.
Finn asked Paddy to bring up the donkey from where it had wandered off. As he watched his son go, a broad, gold band of light flashed across the lower pasture. It faded quickly as the sun sank behind another cloud.
Together, they harnessed the donkey and hitched it to the cart’s harness poles as everything around them and the sea itself began to glow golden again in the late afternoon light. In a few minutes, to the tune of the old sailor’s song—a favorite among the long generations of O’Deirgs—the cart brought the whole family home from the pasture.
While Finn and Paddy took the donkey and cart to the barn, Claire gathered the twins. She saw her journal lying upon the porch floor where she had left it. The work could wait until after the children were fed and down for the night. But it was just two weeks more, she reminded herself, before their Cork family came home to stay. Her work would need to be put aside for a while.
Chapter Three
Later that evening, as Finn lit the bedroom lamps, Claire removed a folder holding yellowing papers from the bottom drawer in the chest nearest their bed. She kept these hidden under her heaviest sweaters, to protect them from the dangers of her children’s unchecked curiosity. Most evenings after their brood was safely tucked in for the night, Claire used the information in this heavy folder, along with her own journal notes and rubbings taken in the Red Chamber below the lower pasture. She was preparing a written translation of the inscriptions, for her children and grandchildren (when they arrived) to help them understand their forefathers’ legacy.
“How’s your book going?” she asked her husband, already settled into the corner chair. “Fine,” he replied, nose buried between the pages. As he turned the next one, he added, “Those Brit knights surely spoke strangely—it’s a miracle anyone had the patience to listen!” He was reading a new version of Thomas Malory’s ‘Le Mort D’Arthur’, borrowed from his father-in-law and his imagination was swimming with images of polished steel armor and huge black horses, swords and helmets. He turned back to a heroic battle unfolding in France, as Claire drew out a large folded page of onionskin paper.
She held it up to the light; pleased that it still bore the faint impressions of the shape of the runic letters she had rubbed into it with a stick of charcoal. A small notebook—exactly like the ones she had so hated in school—lay open on the small table near her and she began to concentrate on her stack of research, scribbling in the notebook at regular intervals.
The carved inscriptions in the stone halls beneath their lower pastures covered many walls. Claire had undertaken copying or making rubbings of all she could reach, with Finn helping when they ran above her reach. In this way, she had completely finished copying the Red Chamber, which was the name she gave the entryway into the great, dark hall with its huge stone columns and towering statue.
Working in her spare time, Claire had managed to grasp the interconnection of the languages in the long dead Professor’s folder that had been miraculously left on their porch after the discovery. She found they also connected with the much older language on the walls. Over time, due to her innate curiosity, she discovered a natural talent for language she had not known before. It was a complex process that often involved her very active dream life.
Over a period of four years, she had translated most of the entry chamber’s inscriptions into English. Now, she wanted to translate them into proper Connacht Irish and this was her task this evening. Someday, she swore, her children would learn the secrets in their own tongue.
Finn rustled in his seat and closed the book on the table beside him. He rose and crossed over to the chair where his wife was squinting hard at a corner of a large onionskin—surely verifying something she had written earlier—and bent down to kiss her upon her head. She glanced up, smiling and apologized for having been so pre-occupied.
Finn understood how important to their family this work of Claire’s would be some day and he never begrudged her the time, but he did get a little lonely when she was off on a journey in her mind—which had happened fairly frequently when they were first married.
In the beginning, her sleep was restless and he frequently heard her mutter entire sentences in a tongue he could not recognize. Sometimes, he’d be startled by finding her sitting, staring out as if into a deep well, but when he called her name, she would not hear. Even touching her arm or taking her hand would not rouse her from these ‘spells’.
She never seemed to suffer in any way from these occasions and over their years together, these had lessened; so that now he would reassure himself that she was still ‘in the room’ by kissing her on the head as she worked. If she looked up, she was present; otherwise, he left her to her task, knowing she would return in her own time.
For Claire, it was as if she were a blank slate, as the lessons of the Red Chamber were inscribed in her mind, one by one. She would awake from these lapses, refreshed and bright.
Finn told her that he was going to turn in and she raised her face to kiss him. “Good night, husband” she replied, yawning. “I’ll be in bed shortly—the sunshine today really made me sleepy.”
Claire started scribbling again and Finn fell asleep as soon as he drew up the covers. She worked on, for another hour, until the lamp sputtered. By this time, she was ready for sleep. The evening’s work, she realized with satisfaction, had gone well and she was close to the halfway mark.
The entry inscriptions, she discovered, were mostly a history of those who had built the Great Hall and the Red Gate. She held her growing excitement in check, knowing that she would have to complete each stage of her work in the proper order before tackling the discoveries that lay archived, deeper underground. She believed that beneath the feet of the statue they had taken to calling the ‘Teacher’ lay all the knowledge of those that had gone before them. The statue loomed in the darkness, presiding silently over the Great Red Hall. Guarding thousands of years of knowledge. She undressed quickly, then blew out the now smoking lamp and climbed beneath the covers; snuggling up to her husband’s sleeping body. As she fell asleep, the voice of the ‘Teacher’ spoke in her mind, stirring the images of the past race and their folly and suggesting deeper lessons that she was only now beginning to understand.
And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,
With a name and a trade and a flag of her own,
And an army to fight for the people and throne.
But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears
She surrenders the guns of her brave Volunteers!
From the Ballad ‘Dungannon 1782’, traditional
Chapter Four
Claire’s worries for her father’s safety, temporarily dissolved as she slept; the moon rose through the tops of the clouds and set its silver light running along the tops of the stone walls of the O’Deirg farmlands. The owl in the barn hooted softly and peaceful sleep enfolded each O’Deirg
The moonlight raced out along the narrow road, the puddles and ruts still holding water, all the way back to Ballyfiggin. More than forty miles away, in its narrow streets, windows still glowed as golden light splashed out upon the cobblestones.
Only the sound of one lonely horse and rider making their way home late was to be heard. It echoed off the walls and met the ears of John Sullivan as he hurried along an alleyway. John moved very quietly. Quickly too, for a portly fellow who’d seen sixty five. He was well practiced in stealthy travel, especially by night. He still felt a little guilty for having fibbed to his wife about having to visit his butcher again. At least part of it was true—he was seeing the butcher, but not about inn business.
He found the small door easily and, turning the knob, entered into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the glow, through an open doorway, of the dimly lit room beyond and heard the hushed voices of several men in discussion.
Before entering the room, he called out quietly, “Sullivan.” All sound from inside the room ceased immediately, then he heard his butcher, Eamon, call out “You’re late agin! Hurry in!” He strode into the light and into the company of a group of serious looking fellows, a few younger, but mostly his age or thereabouts.
The group numbered twelve. Around the walls were heavy oak barrels filled with brine and curing hams. A few hams were hanging from ceiling hooks at the back of the storeroom. Two or three fellows lounged atop these barrels for a better view of the table in the center of the room. It was the fourth meeting of the newly formed North Galway Volunteers Operations Committee.
His compatriots greeted him with grunts, a few smiles and nods of the head. Everyone in the small storeroom was known throughout the community at large and of course, to each other. Many had campaigned together both at home and abroad on past occasions and the relaxed sense of purpose of brothers in arms filled the room. Two were smoking from their pipes, so a curtain of smoke hung over the large central work table where a detailed map had been spread, its corners weighted with bottles and stones.
Eamon O’Flaherty was gesturing towards the nearest corner of the map and John moved close to see the detail, putting on his spectacles. Eamon nudged him, frowning, and said “I’ll bring you up to speed when we’re finished here. Hold your questions for now.”
John nodded and blushed a little in latecomer’s embarrassment. Eamon continued “...so you can see that the constabulary arsenal storeroom remains unguarded for the twenty minutes or so between post changes after they take their meals. We have no other choice. The few that remain on alert don’t pose a significant threat. Besides, we have two inside.”
The conspirators nodded warily and looked back to Eamon, who continued for over twenty minutes, laying out the specifics of the approach and the cover, the positions for laying down a cross fire if needed and the relay method for retrieving the arms the second squad planned to take during the fighting. Eamon repeated the plan for retreat and dispersal and then asked if any had further questions or arguments.
William Mallory’s hand shot up and Eamon nodded. Mallory had a question regarding the side arms worn by the regular army officers and whether their holsters were worn in their mess hall, or whether they would have to retrieve their weapons at the first sign of trouble.
Eamon replied discussing the most recent intelligence gathered from their inside men, who, he assured the room, “...have amazing memory for detail.” Mallory nodded gravely, satisfied that their risk was brought to its lowest possible level.
The butcher then nudged a nearby tall barrel—used for corning beef with rock salt. Climbing up on a stool, he stuck his knife into the lid and lifted it out. He reached into the barrel as the men watched and withdrew a heavy, cloth wrapped object he handed to Mallory, who laid it down upon the table.
Carefully unrolling the oiled cloth, Mallory revealed a greased bolt action, late vintage military rifle with its bayonet attached. It carried a short magazine, which Mallory explained held 7 rounds plus the one in the chamber.
O’Flaherty climbed down off the stool and gesturing to the barrel, he added, “There’s eight more of those waiting in there! Mallory has over two hundred rounds hidden in cartridge cases with extra clip magazines. We’re ready and armed,” then looking at John, said “...along with the various side arms among the group.”
Several of the others nodded. He bade Mallory roll up the rifle and lift it up, stowing it in the salting barrel. He then tamped the lid shut over it with his heavy fist.
Eamon then repeated the call for questions, nudging John again, who kept silent, then asked for a show of hands opposing the operation. No one dissented. He set the time and meeting places and pulled a small wooden crate from beneath the table. In it were 12 neatly folded black hoods with large cut out eyeholes. They were passed out—each man took his slowly, as if they weighed a great deal. They did. This represented the first universally approved militia action for this small gathering.
They were fathers, sons, shopkeepers, farmers, tradesmen, all. All proud, respected members of their community. None had entered into this hard business lightly. All had much to lose, but all felt Ireland—the Republic—had too much to gain. Eamon declared the meeting adjourned, then asked Mallory to lead them in a prayer for their safety and the safety of their new struggling nation.
The postman, surprisingly eloquently, folded his hands and asked God’s benediction on their fight, His protection on their families, His blessing of peace on their hearts. He asked for God’s strength in the coming fight and for His justice to have its day. All said Amen with strong clear voices.
One by one, over the specified intervals, the room emptied. Ballyfiggin’s streets, now deserted, would absorb the small irregular pattern of night foot traffic without notice. John waited behind, motioning the next in line to leave.
When all had left, Eamon took a moment with him. “I know your heart is sore over this plan, John Sullivan, but you’ve sworn us your faith and as we’ve all agreed, it will go forward as planned.”
John nodded, adding “But you also know me as a man of my word, Eamon. You’ve seen me under fire—I’m no quitter.”
Eamon agreed, but added, “These times test us all. None of us are looking to lose our lives here, but without our active help, true Irish hearts will be stilled and our national dream may yet again fail.” He reassured his old comrade, “Besides, no one will know any of us and the entire sequence will take all of ten minute’s time. With any luck and our inside help, not a single shot will be fired, not a single blow will be felt—or dealt.”
He clapped John on the back and warmly shook his hand saying, “We’ll confuse and befuddle the lot and if everything moves smoothly, no one will get hurt.” He pointed to the six drums of crank case oil that he had been saving, lined up in the shadows at the end of the room. “The fire’ll burn smoky—too thick to see through and it’ll take everything they can do to get it put out. Our boyos in the back’ll lighten their arsenal and we’ll steal away long before anyone reckons the true nature of our visit! Don’t worry yourself so—God Almighty sure is smiling on us all!” O’Flaherty crossed himself as did John.
John made a good attempt at smiling fearlessly, but he’d seen enough of the best plans turn to dust in the effort and he took his leave out the butcher’s back door, setting his cap firmly on his head so it would be harder to recognize him in the dark. He hurried through the streets thinking about the next Friday night and thinking about Kate and how he’d answer her questions should she wonder why the butcher needed to be paid in the dark.
He turned his key in the back loading dock door, but hesitated before entering. He turned away from the door and looked out over the courtyard and the barn. One of the grooms was still awake—a soft light was spilling out from between the barn’s big front doors. He thought again about having taken this course of action. His campaigning days had been behind him and only months before, the road to Dublin had been cleared of ‘obstacles’—paid for many times over in the blood of Ireland’s best—when this distasteful conflict had broken out.
He still couldn’t express his grief at the loss of the opportunity to establish the Republic, but now Irish blood was on Irish hands. It was their curse, repeated down through all the ages of their long struggle. Ireland sacrificed her best and bravest on the altar of enmity and pride. Her true enemies he’d spent his whole life fighting, but now, as close as they had come, the prize slipped away again and again. His eyes began to redden and the tears of frustration welled. Wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, he said to himself: This will never do—what will Kate think? What indeed?
Kate must have been asleep—he hoped she was well, as she usually waited up for him if he had to run an errand after dark. The office was quiet. She had left the one small desk lamp burning and he took a moment to sit at his desk and look again over the day’s receipts. His mind raced over and over the details of the planned action and he finally closed the ledger book in frustration—unable to concentrate.
The sound of the wind increasing whined in the chimneys and he felt a draft. He rose and walked to the fireplace where he closed the damper, then looking back over his shoulder, reached again, up into the flue, withdrawing a wooden box bound in brass straps. It bore two handles on the ends and an escutcheoned keyhole.
He sat it on his desk and reaching into a vest pocket, retrieved a small key, opening the box. Carefully wrapped in oiled wool cloth, he withdrew one of two percussion cap revolvers. Although these were now almost antiques, he considered that they remained lethal nonetheless, in the right hands. He rolled the cylinder and sighted down the empty chambers—clean and oiled shining steel greeted his inspection and satisfied, he wrapped it up and stowed in into the box again.
He suddenly heard the creak of a stair above his head and quickly put the box beneath the desk knee well. Light steps sounded again and in a moment, his wife in her dressing gown, carrying a candle sconce entered the office. She smiled weakly and asked, “is everything fine with the butcher?”
He nodded and put down the ledger book he had been holding. “The day was pretty thin” he remarked. She replied, “The big wedding group comes in tomorrow—that should get us caught up.” She began to leave, then looked back over her shoulder, tossing her red braided hair to one side, she added, “...and you’ll get yourself to bed, soon, won’t you?”
He smiled at her and, standing, said, “I’ll get us both to bed,” as he blew out the lamp.
Chapter Five
Dawn broke slowly, in a grey haze over Cork. Beyond, to the East, it began showing a pink flare as the sun fought to gain control of the sky. But the cloud cover lay heavy upon the city, mixing with the smokestacks’ dingy breath. Mist curled up off the surface of the river and spread over the low-lying parts of the city.
Maeve and Pat Quinn were rudely roused by the morning sound of the ice-monger plying his trade in the street outside their bedroom window. Maeve turned over and tried to bury her face in her pillow—only a week, she reminded herself, before their return home, for good.
She raised her head and looked at her sleepy husband as he pulled himself up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. This was his home; after all, he was born and raised here. There had been many happy years and a few that were full of challenge for his family, but Pat always found a way to rise above the troubles whatever they might be.
Maeve smiled and said, “Good morning to you,” as her now stirring husband winked back the sleep.
“Is it morning? I thought it was a dream I was having.”
Maeve rose and dressed, throwing her nightshirt at the inert, slumped form of her husband. “Go ahead, shove off! The day’s waiting for you!”
He turned and smiled from beneath the crown of rumpled nightshirt, which had settled nicely about his ears. “Well, aren’t you full of spit this morning—how about some breakfast?”
She gave him a frown and left to wake the children and get the kettle boiling. Pat slowly rolled out of bed and headed for the washstand near the window. He splashed the now cool water on his face. The bracing splash woke him fully as he washed his face and hands, drying them on the linen towel hanging on the rail. Parting the curtains, he could see the ice monger just pulling his cart away down the street with a couple of dogs following him, dodging the splashes and puddles he left in his wake. Full morning light was still a half hour away, but Pat dressed for a home workday instead of the office.
They had a lot of packing to accomplish today and he knew Maeve would not tolerate any slacking off. He smiled as he heard the sound of the kitchen stove door closing. He left the bedroom for the warmth of the kitchen, where three small faces beamed up from their long pine table. In various stages of wakefulness, he kissed each one on the head as he passed and gave a sharp tap on the head to his oldest son who had fallen asleep at the table, head in his folded arms.
“Today is still a school day for all of you—time to sleep is over,” he remarked, as he took his seat at the head of the table.
“Da?” asked Claire, their older daughter, “Summer’s almost gone. If we’re going to move away, why do we still have to go to this school?”
He laughed and patted her head, saying, “Claire, you are a true Corker! You know that to get by in this world, you must learn how to read and how to think—neither of which you’ll accomplish entirely on your own, despite your best intentions.” She looked at her feet.
“But I appreciate that you gave it a good try, anyway!”
She smirked, then, face reddening, she buried her head in both hands. Her brothers and sisters began laughing and then still drowsy Brendan admitted “We were all wondering the same, Da—we drew straws and Claire got the shortest one!”
Pat looked at Maeve, who had turned away from the stove for this exchange and smiled back “What a den of conspirators we have raised here!”
Brendan stared at the floor. Pat stood, marched over to the other side of the table and gave his son a bear hug, telling him “I’m proud of how you all stick up for each other—I love you all very, very much,” as he tousled his dark hair.
Maeve crossed the kitchen to put a big smacking kiss on her older son’s head, which brought an immediate cry of complaint and a furious wiping.
Breakfast passed quickly. The oatmeal was only a little lumpy and today, Maeve had put a handful of juicy raisins in it as a special treat. A slice of thick toast with some raspberry jam completed their meal.
Little Brigid was the last to finish and as the toddler climbed down Maeve called out “Scoot, you! Away to the sink—I want your hands and teeth clean!” Soon, the older children had been sorted out the door and down to the school in a tight little knot. They remained engaged in small intrigues and laughter the whole way.
Maeve and Pat looked after them from the front door stoop and when their brood turned the corner at the end of the street, they returned to the packing they had begun just a few days earlier. Pat had secured a number of sturdy shipping crates from one of his new clients—a produce grocer—and once they were cleaned and washed, were ready to fill with their household possessions for the long trip to the farm. To their farm too, after all.
Pat looked around his parlor—filled now with stacked crates and the walls bare of their usually crowded pictures and family portraits. He glanced out the front window, curtains now parted to admit whatever weak morning light would enter, and thought funny, I won’t miss old Cork one bit. He smiled to himself and, watching his wife begin to pack her china dishes, he was reminded of his own mother and his mostly happy childhood in the streets of the crowded city.
Because his father never, ever backed down from any challenge—no matter how difficult (or even impossible, he reminded himself) his family had always had plenty. No one in his family ever had a single night hungry and since there were many brothers and sisters, no one had ever been lonely. Pat knew that with hardship all around him, he was very lucky to have had such a miraculous upbringing.
He took after his father in one way, especially. He never took anything for granted. Pat saw life as a giant puzzle into which you were set on your own, to find your happiness in any way you could. It made for a pragmatic, tenacious approach to any adversity. He knew that finding Maeve at school had been the luckiest stroke of all. He rarely gave a conscious thought to it, but together, the husband and wife became a formidable force.
Their affectionate, easy-going manner had been an infectious magnet for friends. They had many. Many were very close and had already begun missing them even before their departure. Each family had been extended a formal welcome to their new home, but he knew that the often difficult travel would make visits infrequent at best. He wrapped two sheets of newsprint around a small framed mirror and put it carefully into the open carton as he thought of his partners. He wondered how they would fare without his contribution to their law practice.
The three of them served as clerks to the local magistrate court while completing their education. Through the long years of the abuses of the immense mountains of work as well as the abuses of attaining their licenses to practice, they had become close friends. Since all three had come from very different backgrounds, they each brought a clearly different perspective to their work. As three individuals, they were competent, but when they put their heads together, they became unusually perceptive and able to craft solutions which might escape the attention of the typical barrister.
One of them had been born in Britain—London with its international business and fast-paced life. The other man, though brilliant, had been born very poor, in Limerick. He’d fought his entire life for each scrap. The decision to open a law practice together, had been a natural outgrowth of the inequities they observed each day in their work and later would discuss over lunch. In this way, through discussion and consensus, all the problems of modern society and the new government were methodically solved, on a daily basis.
Of course, the world outside the courts was a bit more complicated. Pat thought of their early successes and failures and of the hard months when no new business had come their way, but after a few key victories, word began to circulate and their client lists swelled.
The past year had been particularly good, from a business perspective, but the new success left Pat feeling that something was lacking. He had finally confronted his partners with his feelings and his decision to leave the practice and practice small town law in Ballyfiggin, Co. Galway, somewhat near Maeve’s family’s farm in Mayo.
They were initially speechless and he could tell that they were also personally hurt by his decision. But, they gradually accepted it and had already begun to interview new attorneys to handle his caseload. Pat had promised to complete every case scheduled for the docket before leaving, but it had taken a full year to accomplish the task.
He was now free—free to worry and fret over new clients’ problems—but he loved the countryside and the village of Ballyfiggin now seemed like home to him. On Saturday, after sending off the first load of furnishings, he and his family would turn the keys over to their landlord and embark on their new lives.
Pat had not forgotten the strange discoveries beneath the O’Deirg land and wondered privately, how many of his larger family decisions, since that day, were directed by unseen influences? So many things had changed in their lives since then and much of the change seemed to revolve around the lower O’Deirg pasture.
Pat glanced over at Maeve and noted the changes he had seen in her manner—especially her sleep. In the intervening years, she’d been able to find restful sleep again, but for the first few years after her father’s death, she tossed and muttered all night long—often rising to spend time sitting at the window, or in the kitchen where he would find her exhausted. She learned to find time to nap during the day to make up for all the lost sleep and gradually she seemed to be less troubled by all her disturbing dreams.
They had discussed them in detail from the very beginning. He remembered being surprised that her memory of her dreams had suddenly become so vivid. Before, she had rarely remembered any dreams at all, but during the past two years, she would go on at great length about the details that came to her in her nightly adventures. And adventures they were!
Her nightly travels took her all over the world it seemed, to far off and familiar places alike. She would often experience disturbing events she could only watch, helplessly, as they evolved, often harming innocent people she was powerless to protect or support. She often awoke with tears running down her cheeks.
Pat tried to soothe her sadness and fear, but in the beginning only holding her and smoothing her hair seemed to help. Not that all of her dreams were bad ones—sometimes, she would awake with a tale of good fortune coming to some deserving small family or village in some strange location, or someone being healed of their afflictions. These dreams were entertaining and enjoyable and were often retold to all the children over breakfast.
Another, strange, but seemingly harmless dream that recurred on a regular basis was one where Maeve saw her father seated in a grand hall, surrounded by a heroic company of good cheer, singing old songs in unison—sometimes in tongues she could not understand. These dreams seemed to actually strengthen her. She would carry a light step through the day following one of these and if any of the songs were recognizable, or well-known old traditional tunes, she and Pat would quietly sing them together, sitting up in their bed.
At these times, the bond between them became so strong that he could scarcely feel where he left off and she began. Although it was a bit strange to hear the two of them singing quietly in the dark in the middle of the night, over time, it became a regular, if slightly odd occurrence. Pat eventually decided that if any of the children were awakened by the singing, they should be invited to join in. So as the dreams of song became more frequent and the dreams of sadness and evil times became less frequent, it would not be unusual to find a clump of children and parents wrapped up in bedclothes, singing together long after dark in the Quinn household.
The friends who knew of these occurrences—mostly from the children’s stories—thought it unusual, but marveled at the love and affection in the Quinn family, so a few of them began to gather their children in the evenings, to sing together. Of course, none of them would have told any of their friends, even the Quinns, of their nocturnal musical pastime, but Maeve’s dreams, it seemed, had slowly begun to affect families all over Cork.
Over the past three years, or so, the bad dreams had almost ceased completely and the dreams of songs in the high hall had become more frequent—almost every night—and Maeve usually fell asleep right after the last song was sung.
Pat put the last paper-wrapped picture into its crate and closed the lid over it. He lifted the end of the crate and balancing it against his knee, wrapped several lengths of twine about it to hold it secure. He lowered it to the bare floor with a thump.
Maeve looked up from her china and asked, “You’ve been a quiet one this morning. Share your thoughts?”
He replied, “Oh, nothing really, I’ve been thinking about the trip to our new home and the new business I’ll be courting in Ballyfiggin and of course, about your dreams.”
She got up and stood behind her husband, laying her hands on his shoulders. “You didn’t know you had married a loon, did you?”
“Of course, I did! How about you?” said Pat, with a laugh.
She replied, “It’s been a strange journey since the day my Da died, hasn’t it? I never thought it would become so difficult for you and the children.”
Pat took her right hand and said, “It was nothing but a lark—we’ve no complaints; besides, think of all the really old songs we know by heart now!”
*****
Saturday morning, some days later, after slowly walking through the empty house to make sure nothing was left behind, Maeve and Pat stood holding each other as they said a final goodbye in their hearts, to Cork.
They carried a few last items out the door and Pat packed them carefully in the back of their motorcar. Maeve suddenly noticed their broom sticking out from between two small boxes. With a startled look, she grabbed it and pulled it free.
“What? Do you want to bring our new home bad luck?”
Pat stood mutely while she quickly returned the old broom to its place by the back door inside their now old home.
She wiped the remaining dust off her hands as she climbed into the front passenger door and with the brooding bunch of children in the back seat, Pat cranked over the motor. He climbed into the driver’s seat and with a roar and backfire leaving soot all over the spot where the motorcar had stood, they pulled away from their old life.
Ballyfiggin lay a long day’s drive to the North and West and while the children remained impassive or slept, Pat and Maeve were looking expectantly around each corner as if what lay beyond was completely new.
“Cheer up,” she called to the children, “When you get to your new school, you’ll be the strange, new ones! What fun you’ll have confusing your new country schoolmates!”
Usually quiet Liam perked up and smiled as he mentally devised new strategies to bedevil his new pals.
His sister, Claire, asked, “How far will it be, Da?” The answer didn’t sit too well with her, so she turned her eyes back towards the floor, while Brigid squirmed between her and the door.
“Do the children really speak funny in the country?” asked Brendan. Maeve replied, “Do I speak strangely? You know you’ll be attending the same school I attended when I was a girl.”
This seemed funny to Claire who began to giggle. Soon, the whole passenger section of the motorcar were taking turns mimicking their best ideas of coarse, country speech and laughing at the results.
Brendan, holding ‘court’ now, grinned and then pronounced to his siblings, affecting a strained Dublin accent, “We’re all going to be proper culchies, now!” He brought peals of laughter from all of the back seat and from his parents, as well. The sound of their mirth was easily heard over the rumbling of the engine by all those they passed on their way along the high road out of Cork.
Chapter Six
John Sullivan squinted down the rain damp street. Its cobbles glinted in the late afternoon light, reflecting the cursed rain that had slowed business traffic all morning. Kate would have some clever comment, he was sure of it! They had not seen much traffic pass, to be truthful, since the regional conferences to elect representatives, now almost a year past.
The season for new weddings was fast approaching though and John had gone out front for a breath of air, almost as if expecting to see them all coming down the street. He knew of at least four families who had youngsters planning nuptials in the coming month and hoped that at least one of them would be dropping in to begin making plans, but no advance word had been forthcoming.