The Troubles (9 page)

     I drive in a lulled meditative state as densely lush, temperate rainforests rush past me at my consistent speed of seventy kilometers per hour. In my peripheral vision I scrutinize the landscape for the obscure grey aspen trees, a few holly trees dot the thicket but the yew trees dwarf most fauna. I try to identify the dissimilarities between the trees of the forest but that would take my unskilled eye much more than a moment’s passing so I relax regarding my scrutiny of the woodland. As the drive’s monotony begins to wear my headaches has made its way to behind my eye sockets and my vision is blurring. Easing my right foot from the gas brake with discretion on the grounds that a viciously nimble red fox or a shy, Irish hare dodge before the vehicle and freeze petrified would be disastrous, as I couldn’t bare the ruin of such creatures from my hand at the wheel.

     Lusty, guttural snores rise rhythmically from my passenger’s diaphragm from his sleep’s ease. I am content enough to be steering the ship tonight as October’s rainfall marks this evening as day one hundred and forty-nine of the Northern Channel’s wet precipitation. Raindrops have begun their volley, landing from the right of the poorly, maintained highway that runs from Newry to Dundalk and every other village in between our location and Dublin. I search for windshield wipers, grasping blindly into the poorly lit dashboard and with luck they squeak into life. I lose and gain visibility between robotic motions as the downpours deluge increases. I feel an urgency to continue steering the red clunker and to have no further procrastination obstruct my mission to Dublin and my subsequent introduction to Cathal Goulding.

     Throughout these succinct past few months, I have taken on the predilections of ancient tribal conquerors. Within my detailed abstraction of my religion I have found legends of warriors who are the protagonists of their tale, interpolated between human and divine orders. Christian monks have misrepresented characters of Celtic lore during the crusading Middle Ages as they jealously transformed former Gods into human beings. The true intention of their fantastical existence was that they portrayed in a simplistic manner, the dualism between the female deity of the land and the male tribal god. The Deities were equipped with every desire quality the common Celts themselves wanted.

     Therefore I have conditioned myself to imitate the aspects presented so profoundly on the worn pages I would read in dim candlelight alight with impression and devotion whilst Quinn would soundly snore but a few feet from my bedside. My ancestral Celts were intellectuals deeply versed in native practice, poets and even prophets, craftsmen and storytellers, healers of the sick and above all, indomitable warriors, defenders of the then, flourishing greenery of small isle. I had been somewhat baptized out of devoted respect into the Catholic Church when I was eighteen years old but as I grew more insular in my day to day life I had felt a certainty that the pagan path of belief was the road I would follow, taking the vow swearing by the gods by whom all my people swear to, ‘I break my oath, may the land open to swallow me, the sea rise to drown me, and the sky fall upon me.’ 

     The night I had been purified in explicit detail has etched itself into my mind from overpowering perfume of delicate pink cowslips, violet meadow thistles, from the wind ferrying with it the turbulence of the buff’s whose deep channels have been cut with time’s patient erosion. From the sounds of gurgling, pulsating, rushing currents of frothy whitewater, which were, unseen from my vantage point but heard all the same.  Myself, my soon to be dearly departed friend Reardon had been there, as well as Lochlann who would accompany me to the ends of the earth if I would have willed him too him too along with as our compass, Lanary, acting as the pied piper from the many lost hypnotized children of Belfast. We had surreptitiously made our way by vehicle to Meath County, which is located in the province of Leinster and is part of the Mid-East Region of the isle. The Hill of Tara was our archeological destination with its complex running between the villages Navan and Dunshaughlin. We had followed the River Boyne, which pours, into the Irish Sea to the summit of the hill, that contains numerous ancient monuments, and according to ancient lore was the seat of the High King of Ireland. We had eagerly climbed the protected north face on unkempt green grass slick from night’s dew. We paused for a moment at the Mound of the Hostages, the small Neolithic passage tomb constructed in 3,400 BC known as ‘Dumba na ngaill’. The tomb held little significance to my peers and me but as Lanary’s face gleamed in the dim moonlight I saw an auspicious quality to his reverence of the ancestors. The journey had continued perhaps choppily to the spectator’s view but as we climbed the summit of the Hill Of Tara anticipation pounded forcefully through every scaling step we took, surging into a one by one into a militant line as every man had speechlessly consumed the, exuberant, monumental conquest which would bind us for all time from this moment forward. 

     The ritual we had partaken in had been originally forged from the Celtic Reconstructionist’s, the historically based and culturally specific strict path that had hunted to reinstate, the monolithic religion that had bleed through the land into Ireland’s complex and complicated 1970’s. Through the impotence of my friends and my intoxication with the druidic creed of immortality, to believe henceforth, that our souls would be immortal and immune to the trappings of Christian law suited me just fine, as my adolescent narcissism and young male ego had finally ripened to full potential. 

     I had thought to myself that evening that St. Patrick would be turning over in his earthly tomb, as I would be reversing his conversion process from Christian into a long gone Celtic druid. When the missionary Patrick had arrived in Ireland in 5th century A.D he had recognized that the sophisticated druidic religion that already existed throughout the land would easily mutate into Christianity. The lengthy methodical conversion process was perhaps the only non-violent method in most of Christianity’s attempts and was achieved as such by allowing much of the local traditions to be absorbed in the newly stated church practices. I had been regaled throughout much of my youth of the infamous monastery in the quaint community of Armagh, which is thought to have been founded by St. Patrick and at the time was the source of literacy and in turn power to Ireland. As Christianity spread it gave the gift of literacy to the isle. Lamentably calamities forged from climate disasters were soon to pass and the black plague was unfortunately blamed on pagan worship after the passing of St. Patrick and therefore the relationship between the two religions began to struggle from the obvious ideological differences without their peaceful mediator. The dominance, which the Christians maintained of the local inhabitants, was directly correlated from the Church being the primary source of education and successively wealth.

     I had been shaking with anticipation by the time I embarked upon the long established phase of offering which stood as the second element in the structured scheme a crucial part to our four elements meditation. My short lifespan had stood electric and still from the impasse to this introductory commencement.  We had mutely, in coal black vacuums of pitch shadows, in a appearances rehearsing a play of satire, pulled out our individual candles, incense and canteens of water, as Lanary had set down his rucksack and hypnotically devoid of expression we had assembled all four gathered earth elements in the proper order for the ritual to commence. Again we aligned our preprogrammed bodies in an expertly linear formation as Reardon had grasped my hand squeezing it with such anticipation and courage, I had felt a telepathic surge build between us. How we found the east in darkness and with no compass to guide us remains elusive to me to this day? Circling the direction of the sunrise then to the west we had sat on fresh cold ground, the mystical wave of the hill’s own esoteric power coursing from the base of our spinal cords, sending swells of lush sensations over the exposed napes of our necks. The meditation had begun with a deafening silence. How long I had quietly contemplated the loss of relevance hovered above me as the prayer of beginnings enclosed around the circle of my friends with growing murmurings strange sounding though profound simultaneously. “May there be peace in the East’’

     Turning to the south I had mimicked Lanary’s warped shadow, as I had previously watched him perform this rite multiple times. “May there be peace in the South.” The tribe rotated to the west with the agility of a flock of sheep, “May there be peace in the West.” Drawing to a close in our four pointed journey the lads and I, all with clasped palms, chimed in a respectful chorus, “may there be peace in the North.’’ I took my place in the center intent on visualizing peace but haranguing shards of boorish anger, fear, and insecurity tried desperately to displace my intentions of a peaceful transformation. I was stronger now and competent enough to reassemble the brewing storm into a calm sea and I managed to authentically declare, “May there be peace in this circle and throughout the whole earth.”

CHAPTER 14: Cha sgeul-ruin e’s fios aig truir air (It’s no secret if three know it)

     Kiera Flanagan… “So, I shall call ya Quinn then? Does this smart?’’ The twisted, discolored blue and black joint of this young man’s ankle is resting in my lap as my freezing hands cup the housing, bulging sock gently. I am losing the imperative mobility in my fingers quickly as frostbite from this night’s biting wind is taking my exposed flesh to task, but my perseverance is keen to protect and shield the lad’s eye’s from his own disfigurement.

     “Fuck, aye. That bloody hurts!” The boy who has identified himself as Quinn Taggart curses violently and in such agony, I immediately forgive his crass words as empathy flows warmly from every pore in my body melting my icy heart. Soothingly, I address him by his name in an effort to ease him.

     “Quinn, I must wrap your ankle with a cloth now.’’  Ena has taken off her indispensable topcoat and with some strenuous effort and without formidable tools, is able to tear off a piece of the tough knitted, cotton fabric from the right arm of the jacket with a bite of her teeth. She hands the fabric to Quinn in a consolatory fashion as he lies immobile in a heap on the ground, both from his excruciatingly painful, broken foot and from the obvious abandonment that has left him vulnerable and reliant on the empathy of the two strange girls in front of him. “I’m going to take yer shoe and sock off all right? Buck it’ll be savage!’’ I have instinctively decided that by guiding him through detail by finite detail of my care that I will elicit a trusting patient to caregiver bond and in turn Ena and I will be able to get out of the blustering wind that has begun howling menacingly along the vacant paved street.

“Aye. Do what ya will. I can’t even move let alone put me weight on it.’’

     Working as stealthily as my numb and tired fingers can I peel back the soiled stained cotton sock, the fibers straining profusely from the abnormal swelling of flesh beneath. The ankle is shocking in an incurved 90-degree angle and had I not had wickedly strong adrenaline coursing through my veins, I would have recoiled from the sight and the touch of the butchered skin. Where soft skin and ligaments were meant to cloak the joint of the ankle it had punctured, visible, was a fissure of bleeding tissue with fragments of bones jutting out in the appropriate anatomical location. Swift courage guided me as the boy’s strikingly pained eyes welled in agony. He was a proud one and his embarrassment before the three of us was as clear as the injury was severe and handicapping.

     “There Quinn, we’ve got yer foot at least stable. Do ya think if meself and Ena were to each grab yer arms, would ya be able to stand on that left foot of yers?’’ I can tell Quinn is still in the midst of processing the pain that I had produced by my somewhat aggressive inexperienced manhandling of his injury. If he was in some way, too distressed by what was to come, all our efforts and coaxing would be in vain. Tonight would brutally be his last and regardless, for the sake of self-preservation, we would have to seek shelter and Ena and I would have to make the choice for him to come with us regardless of his pain.

     ’’Aye. I can do it,” he replies. I hug him tight squeezing, as relief floods through me like ripples of water overflowing their container.

     “Good lad.’’ I release my withheld breath as Ena and I exchange worried glances. We are just two girls with myself slightly smaller than my friend but that isn’t saying much for the equation of strength.

     “Let’s get cracking then.’’ Ena’s voice breaks as she grabs his limp left arm and as I am still embracing the boy, we pull, with great effort, him to his able leg. Our ragtag trio moves slowly and every few feet either Ena or I pauses to release the throbbing agony that has insidiously seeped through our exhausted muscles, pressing on we still continue our forward momentum.

     “Me cos is bloody tired,” he complains, his voice bantam and quiet.

     ‘’Is all right Quinn. We’re all ragged, but safe passage is not too far away now.’’ Ena and I had, without too much hesitance, decided to bring the boy to McGurk’s Pub, as it well known to be Catholic owned, and we are close enough to North Queen’s Street. Yet upon arrival, the dark street barrels before us menacingly in the gloom of eve, though in the familiarity of every stone and brick that paved the way it beckons. The homes and businesses that shelter here are to the unknowing eye, no different than any others in this Shankill Suburb. We live parallel lives of distrust, revenge and misplaced Christian animosity. 

     The buildings we pass as we slowly walk appear tired and worn to their bones, symbolic of their journey and there is little disparity between them and our appearance. In our sight peace lines are forged tall and foreboding, cutting indiscriminate bitter scars through a tragic cityscape.