Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781925148206 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | IFWG Publishing International |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 260 |
| File size: | 375 KB |
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Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Ballina, Ireland 1980
The boy's heart expanded at the crackle of the needle settling into the grooves of vinyl. He lovingly took up his small fiddle. He'd taught himself how to play by listening to the music. His bow coaxed the sweet, clear notes from the tired strings of his secondhand instrument. He closed his eyes, lashes still damp with tears, and tucked his chin into his beloved companion. His bruised body swayed like the fragile branches of a young willow.
The voice on the record lifted the child's spirit with the gentlest of hands, and set him down amidst the waves of melody which they created together. Time and place held no meaning. They were one in heart, mind, and music.
The boy continued to play as the heavy steps of his father's steel-toed boots ascended the stairs with purpose. This time the boy would play until the song was finished. He would play until the end, and their music would be the last, beautiful sound he heard.
* * *
They gathered around the gravesite: a teacher, a priest, and three older women who lived up the street from the deceased — otherwise unrelated people connected only by death. Each mourner was happy for the rain. The cold, heavy drops meant they could hide underneath their umbrellas, no need to look one another in the eye. Only the dead child's schoolteacher had the courage to step forward, lay a yellow rose on the coffin, and turn to the huddled few.
"I know we all wish things could have been different. No child should ever lose his life, especially —" Her throat clutched as the absence of the boy's parents, or any sort of concerned family member, was as awful a site as the miniature casket. "Let this be a lesson for us." She stared at each of them, regardless of whether they looked back or not.
The priest placed his arm around the tearful woman. The two shared the same excruciating mixture of emotions: guilt, grief, bewilderment — and a numbing sense of the pathetic, human tragedy that now lay unseen and beyond help in a little wooden box.
"One of the children told me how much our lad enjoyed music. I was told this was his favorite musician."
The older man had buried quite a few children in his long, religious career, but most were victims of disease or accidents. He held his black umbrella over a tape player and pushed the on button with a shaky hand. The music of Gillean Faraday floated in the air, hung on every drop of rain, and clung to the fiddle which lay atop the child's resting-place. The voice sang of the wonders of the stars and ocean journeys.
But underneath the lyrical imagery, each person standing silently by would swear they heard only one relentless word.
"Why?"
CHAPTER 2
Tunnel of Light Ireland 1995
It had been a long day. The train's movement was as soothing as a mother's lullaby. Fatigue and sadness clouded Gillean's brown eyes. He hated the idea of leaving his family, but the music playing inside his head would not be silenced. He was finally free to compose songs for his own recently acquired record label after more than two decades of being a commodity for others. The constant demand for 'hit albums', from smug businessmen who appreciated artistic expression about as much as Gillean liked being cooped up in boardrooms, was gone. That particular, long standing discomfort had now been mercifully extracted like a throbbing tooth. Instead, an inner calling drew him back to the days of his musical roots as a soulful storyteller when music was about just that, and not the money to be gained by disinterested third parties. The fruition of this creative endeavor weighed heavily upon him for the past few months, but there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to accomplish all he wanted.
After completing a successful and exhausting world tour, he took great pleasure in idle days spent in his beautiful home nestled in a hamlet of Western Ireland. His four children offered endless, unconditional love which did much to nurture his fragile ego. Gillean never had a problem accepting love and adoration; it was as natural to him as songwriting — as breathing. Extending himself to others, baring all of himself, especially his fears and failings, was something akin to an unnatural act. The famed artist trusted only one man completely, Gillean Faraday.
Gillean made the difficult decision to leave the comforts of hearth and family to take an unaccompanied journey. Relations between him and his wife were at best strained for years, and no matter how much either one pretended that all was well, they continued to silently drift apart. Gillean believed the time in seclusion would provide himwith a clearness of vision.
The singer-songwriter didn't lack for material. He knew what he wanted to say. A hungry pack of emotions gnawed at him. He had simply closed the door on the unmanageable feelings. They were unwelcome guests. He was afraid of what embracing them might mean. Most of all, he was fearful that his message would fall upon deaf ears. His treasured fans were always supportive, but the media could be brutal in its criticism. He was beginning to feel like a rag doll pulled from all directions. Although his loyal listeners clamored for more, they differed on what it was they demanded from him — the man who each considered their own personal singer. Pressure was building in his core like the heat in a train's engine and the vapor that eventually has to be released; Gillean knew he must discharge the negative energy. He was deeply puzzled by how so many wanted so much from him all the time. He simply wanted to write and perform songs; not the burden of concern with whom, or how many people approved of his work.
He unknowingly spent an hour staring into the darkness as town after town sped by in a blur. The large window he was seated next to offered the perfect view of himself.
Night crept stealthily across the sky like a highwayman. All he could see when looking out the window was his own face — so much older than he recalled — staring back accusations. He slowly dragged a hand across his cheek, shaking his head at the drained man regarding him. The pronounced lines around his eyes and mouth were like the markings of an intricate roadmap on his sallow skin, reminders of the countless miles of travel, nameless faces in crowds, the pain of the early tests of endurance, and defeat. Where had all the time gone, he considered. Where had Gillean Faraday gone?
One illustrious lover had taken to calling him his "selkie". That was back in the days when Gillean embodied the volatile mixture of the wild spirit of youth, and the quintessential brooding of the great artists of Eire. His body was the instrument through which he explored all possibilities of passion. He wanted his music to reflect his experiences and to speak to the experiences of others. His art was meant to elicit the feeling of kinship. Men and woman could feel someone understood. This desire to connect in every way with his fellow humans allowed him quite an array of lovers. Some of whom were not the kind to take home to Sunday dinner as it were. But they all held something in common. They all exacted a fee from Gillean for their services; some more costly than others. Regardless of the outcomes of these opulent relationships, each was a part of Gillean and his music.
His long chestnut hair and dark, repining eyes complemented his unpredictable moods, which vacillated between outrageous daring and bouts of self-doubt and depression.
Some evenings after a set in a small local venue, he would be soaring to the heavens, his heat and fire like that of a Roman candle.
Drinks all around for the next bard of Ireland!
The following week he would be sitting alone in a pub, digging through the pockets of his worn, corduroy trousers for the two quid needed to buy himself a couple of pints, hoping they would quell the hunger in his empty belly. Relishing the easy, liquid comfort, the stinging words from his mother invaded his moments of peace. She informed her son that his little dalliance with music was all well and fine while he was at university, but now that he had completed his studies it was time he set about finding a real, stable place of employ.
He sat on that bar stool praying for a sign. When the bartender, noticing Gillean's guitar, offered him a free meal along with a few pounds to play a set. Gillean took this as reinforcement from the heavens not to pack it in and go home. He was meant for a different kind of life. He believed he would one day look back on these lean times and smile, proud that he hadn't given up on himself and his dreams.
Now that day was here. His graying head rested involuntarily against the cold glass. His leaden eyes closed without his consent. The fleeting question, "was it worth all the sacrifice," played over and over in his head to the monotonous clacking of the train's wheels. Words came to him shrouded in the gauzy veil of sleep. Hear with the heart, and there it will start.
"Excuse me, lad. I think this is me seat."
Gillean sluggishly turned to the sound of a mysteriously, familiar voice. Beholding the man standing next to the empty seat adjoining his, Gillean was both surprised and frightened.
"Sully?" He rubbed his disbelieving eyes.
"What? This can't be! Gillean?" The man looked down at his ticket as if it would confirm his presence.
"What are you doing here?" Gillean was waking up with a sudden burst of adrenaline.
"What am I doin' here? What are you doin' here?" Sully raised his head to the non-visible entity he addressed.
"What's he doin' here? Not again with the singer!"
"So nice to see you too!" Gillean reached out to place Sully's well-worn satchel into the overhead compartment. "And what the hell kind of luggage would a ... creature ... like you have?" he asked, making room for Sully to sit. Gillean knew better than to believe there was any chance of escape. Besides, he wanted some answers from the enigmatic man.
"Don't go askin' me about my baggage when obviously ya have plenty of yer own." The feisty man plopped himself down with a great sigh.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
This odd stranger first appeared while Gillean was out walking through the misty woods one lonely afternoon. He presumed one of his mates, or manager, must have been playing a joke on him. But he quickly came to the realization that Sully was not of this world. The riotous being had descended from a Blackthorn tree (also known to the Irish as 'The Wishing thorn') with all the grace of a drunken leprechaun, knocking Gillean to the frozen earth.
"Sorry 'bout that, lad!"
The intruder attempted to brush dirt from Gillean's black leather jacket as both men struggled to their feet. Gillean was not a tall man. He stood only five feet, seven inches. His visitor was the exact same height.
Gillean's impulse had been one of flight until he was firmly on his feet and staring at a man who could have passed for his twin, save for the brilliant green and the apparent twenty year age gap between them. Same dark, shoulder length hair as the twenty-something Gillean had sported; same cheeky expression.
"Who ... are ... you?" Gillean stammered. He quelled the great desire to reach out and place his hand on the man's face, like a mirror from Gillean's past.
The mischievous, child-like man smiled. "Ah now, perhaps ya should be askin' me what I am."
"Fine, then. What are you?"
"'Tis not the time for ya to know."
The young man turned and started to walk away. He took a few steps then swung round to the baffled Gillean once again. "Would ya be havin' any chocolate with ya?"
Still in shock, Gillean thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, mumbling, "Let's see, chocolate, chocolate." His fingers retrieved several pieces of foil-wrapped candy. His admirers were forever presenting him with such trinkets of affection.
"Here." He shoved his open hand toward the stranger.
"Belgian. How classy." The little man happily accepted the offering.
"Who sent you here?" Gillean protested. "What's this all about? Whatever it is, I don't find it entertaining." He zipped up his jacket against the renegade wind blowing in from the east.
"I don't see what the big deal is about yerself either. All those people falling ore ya just cause ya can sing a little ditty"
The man gave Gillean the once over with his powerful eyes, all the while licking chocolate from his lips. Gillean thought him reminiscent of his own petulant son.
"Bloody hell! Your not ..." Gillean could not give voice to the unthinkable possibility.
"Not?" Gillean's visitor repeated with total innocence.
"Do you mean to claim a relation to me?" Gillean would have made the sign of the cross had he been any kind of believer.
The man's unrestrained laughter could have woken the dead. "Listen to ya now. Such ignorance." He paused a few moments to collect himself. "I'll tell ya this one thing. I am not a part of you in the way ya think."
"Mind telling me exactly what you mean?" Gillean couldn't help being beguiled by the peculiar youth. In his eyes burned the reflection of ancient fires.
"'Tis not time yet."
"Not Time?" Gillean now a bit snappish himself.
"I'm here, so it must be approaching." The green-eyed man handed back the crushed colorful candy wrappers. "You'll have to keep yer eyes open and wait." He drifted away from Gillean as if the wind were moving him along like a fallen leaf from the great wishing tree. "All in good time, Gillean."
"Just a moment. Where are you going?" Gillean called. The vaporous air enfolded the man. He was disappearing as swiftly as he had arrived "What is your name?" Gillean yelled in desperation.
"Sully," a disembodied voice called back.
"Sully?"
Gillean quickly processed his memory banks. No match found. "Sully." The echo of a lone fiddle riding on the wind kept Gillean planted neath the tree, enchanted for the rest of the afternoon.
One month had passed since the dream-like encounter. Gillean's conscious mind could not let the memory go. The best he could surmise was, apparently, Sully was meant to be some sort of guide — but for what? And why did Sully look so much like a young Gillean? His entire body quivered whenever he ventured to consider what or who Sully was. Creating magical and ethereal characters for his songs was one thing. Irish folk-singers had done so for centuries. It was their legacy. Confronting a being seemingly from the hallways of his imagination was too much to be believed.
A few stiff drinks of Jameson and the confirmation from his family and friends that they were not having a go at Gillean had done little to dispel Sully back into the parallel universe he came from. After the first encounter in the woods, Gillean reckoned he would write a song about the bizarre occurrence, hoping to be done with it. But, the situation proved none too simple. Sully was not so easily rid of. Gillean caught bits and pieces of the unknowable man, but like grabbing at frayed fabric, he was left with just shreds of evidence of their encounters. And always, the sublime notes of a fiddle whirled around him like the wind. Gillean had an idea this train ride would be life changing. His brief reverie ended and the reality of the moment re-asserted itself.
He shuddered as Sully fired back, "Looks like we're both goin' to find out why I got stuck with ya."
"Who? Stuck with me? You ... I ... ARGH!" Gillean exclaimed in total exasperation.
Sully began to laugh — his wide grin like the Cheshire cat's.
"Sod you, Sully. I came here for some peace." Gillean grunted, turned his back to the man, and twisted his body into a fetal position.
"Look here." Sully smacked his companion on the rump with a considerable wallop.
"Ouch!"
"We are clearly in this together, so there's no need to get in a snit. Come on, let's have a song, shall we?" Sully winked at the weary Gillean.
"A song? No. I'm exhausted. I'm going to sleep. I pray you will do the same."
"You? Pray?" Sully feigned disbelief. "Fine. Suit yerself."
"I will, thank you."
With that Sully burst forth — full throttle, "Oh my old man's a dustman, he wears a dustman's hat!"
"Oh, Sully, please. Shut it."
"Come on then, come on." Sully shoved his elbow into the protesting man's side.
"Ouch!"
"Sing!"
Gillean sighed with disgust. "Okay, okay, ya damned imp. He wears cor blimy trousers and he lives in a Council flat!" he offered with high theatrics.
"Now that's got it!" Sully exclaimed with delight.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Blackthorns of the Forgotten"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Bree T. Donovan.
Excerpted by permission of IFWG Publishing International.
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