A Bard’s Beginning
The small boy was sitting on a rock beside the water staring at a piece of paper with the beginnings of a song written on it. His hand, which was holding a pen, hovered over the paper. A guitar was leaning against the rock. He was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t hear his older brother’s approaching footsteps. When he did, it was too late. He felt a hand push against his back, then he was falling into the water.
As he kicked his feet and flailed his arms, he could hear his brother on the bank laughing. After a minute, he made it back onto the grass and laid there gasping for breath. Then, he sat up and glared at his brother. "Edward, did ya have to do that?’
"Aye, I did, John Patrick. It is the only way to get your attention."
The younger boy looked around and saw his paper floating in the water. He tried to grab it, but it remained just out of his reach. He turned back around and saw the infuriating grin on his brother’s face. "I cannot believe you did that. Or rather, I can," he said with a glare.
"Get over it, little brother. It is just words on paper." Edward Dougherty continued to laugh at his little brother’s anger.
"I’m gonna tell Ma," he said as he started to run up to the house.
"You do that, mama’s boy," the older boy yelled after him. He picked up the guitar and walked up to the house. When he arrived there, his mother was waiting for him. The way she carried herself made her seem taller than she really was.
"Edward, why must ye bedevil your little brother like that?"
"It’s too much fun not to, Ma."
"Just leave him be."
"All right," he replied with some reluctance.
"Now go find your older brothers so we can eat dinner."
When the family had finished eating dinner, the man sitting at the head of the table looked up at the oldest of his four sons and said, "Christopher, I have need to go into Ardglass tomorrow. Would ye like to go with me?"
"Aye, Da, I would enjoy that."
Their mother turned to the youngest boy and asked, "Are you going to play for us tonight, John Patrick?"
His eyes widened when he remembered he had forgotten to grab his guitar before running up to the house. "I left . . ."
He was interrupted by Edward’s voice. "Your guitar is sitting by the door. I brought it up for ye."
The redheaded youngster tested the strings before beginning to play. Then, he started to sing:
At a cottage door one winters' night As the snow lay on the ground Stood a youthful Irish soldier boy To the mountains he was bound His mother stood beside him saying You'll win my boy don't fear With loving arms around his waist She tied his bandolier.
Good bye, God bless you mother dear I hope your heart won't pain But pray to God that you should see Your soldier boy again And when I'm out in the firing line It will be a source of joy For you to know that you're remembering still Your Irish Soldier boy
*******
The Dougherty family walked out of the church Sunday morning together with the rest of the congregation. When he stepped out into the sunlight, John Patrick saw Mary Bernadette Walsh standing with her parents. She flashed a smile in his direction, and he grinned back at her. "Da, I will return soon," he told his father without taking his eyes from the young girl.
Seeing the object of his son’s attention, he just smiled and nodded at his son. With each step closer to the girl, his heart beat faster. Just the sight of her caused his mouth to go dry and took the boastful words from his mouth. Instead he usually stammered through his sentences.
Her dark brown hair fell several inches below her shoulders, and her cat-like green eyes stood out from her light skin. Her entire face lit up when she smiled. She was slim, and her every movement was graceful.
"John Patrick, how are ye this mornin’?" She asked in her soft, sweet voice.
"I’m doing fine," he replied slowly, losing the words he was going to say once again. He wasn’t sure why this girl caused him to act this way.
He stood there, unsure of what to say next, until his brother, Daniel, strode over to them. "Come on, John. We are leaving."
With one last look at Mary, the young boy followed his brother back to where his family was waiting.
*******
As soon as they were dismissed, the boys in the small classroom stood up from their seats and walked to the door. John Patrick was the first one to step outside. He hated being in there all day instead of being outdoors playing his guitar. He looked around for his brothers, but didn’t see them. Every day they went home together. Sitting on the ground, he waited for them.
A moment later, one of the other boys kicked his foot as he walked by. "I apologize for that," the boy said, his voice filled with insincerity.
"No, you’re not. You saw me foot there. Ye didn’t even try to avoid it."
"Well, perhaps ye should be keepin’ your feet out of me way."
He jumped to his feet and swung a fist at the other boy who jumped out of the way of the punch. Then, he lunged at John Patrick, and they fell to the ground. The two boys wrestled for several minutes until he felt someone grab the back of his shirt and lift him to his feet. Turning around, he looked up and saw Christopher standing there. Daniel and Edward were standing behind him. At the sight of them, especially the hard look on their faces, the other boy ran in the other direction.
The four boys started home, and Edward told him, "Da’s gonna kill ya. Your clothes are muddy and torn. And he hates when ye get into fights."
"He doesn’t like it any better when you do."
"No, but he’s used to it with me."
The rest of the trip home was made in silence. When they arrived, Seamus Dougherty met them at the door. He could see the mud on his son’s clothes as they walked up to the house. "Get out of those shoes and clothes, and get to the bathroom and clean up. Then, you had better put clean ones on before your ma sees you."
"Yes, Da."
Once he was in the house, Seamus turned to his other sons. "What happened to him?"
The two older boys shrugged, and Christopher was about to make up something about how he had fallen and rolled down a hill when Edward spoke up. "He was in a fight with another lad at school."
Their father frowned for a moment, then turned and walked into the house. Christopher and Daniel glared at Edward, then followed their father inside. That night when John Patrick came to the table for dinner, he didn’t look at any of them as he carefully sat in his chair. The meal was eaten in silence, then the young boy was sent to his room. He was only to leave it for meals, school, and to do his chores. His guitar wasn’t able to be played for two weeks. For the young musician, this was the worst part of his punishment.
Three weeks later the same boy who had provoked the fight before tried to push him into another one. He started by taunting him, saying anything he could that would irritate him enough. John Patrick just shrugged off the comments though. Finally, he’d had enough. Turning to the boy, he said, "Bite your tongue. It’s waggin’ like a dog’s tail."
The boy turned red, but before he could say anything else, the teacher ordered them both to be silent. After that, he left John Patrick alone.
*******
"John Patrick, get out of that bed," his father demanded one morning. "We need to be getting to church."
"I’m not going," the young boy replied, pulling the blanket up farther over his head.
"And may I ask ye why not?" Seamus asked as he walked into his son’s room.
"That pompous, old . . ." He was interrupted by his father sharply clearing his throat. "Father Bradley said not to come back, so I’ll not be going back," he told his father with a stubborn note in his voice.
Seamus stared at the blanket-covered form of his son for a moment, then walked over to him and jerked off his cover. "Get out of that bed now."
"No, Da. I am not going." He paused for a second between each word to give them emphasis.
Seeing the stubborn set to his son’s jaw, he knew it was pointless to argue. With time, he would change his mind. At least, that was what his father hoped.
*******
Five years later, John Patrick still refused to return to church. His father had finally given up on trying to force him to go. The boy hadn’t told him everything that the priest had said, but he decided it must have been enough. He turned to his music whenever the haunted look came to his face.
The spring of that year, Christopher returned from four years away at school. Their mother, Molly, frowned with worry when she saw him ride up to the house on a motorcycle. He jumped off of it and walked to the door. Stepping through it, he looked around the room. His brothers were all sitting at the table. John Patrick was working on a song he was trying to write. Being extremely absorbed in it, he didn’t notice Christopher’s arrival until the older boy grabbed the pen out of his hand.
"What . . . ?" He started to exclaim before glancing up from the table. "Christopher!" He jumped up from his seat and wrapped his arms around his older brother.
John Patrick had grown taller than everyone else in the family except for Christopher who was still several inches taller. The two of them were still close, whereas the youngest boy had drifted apart from the other two boys.
"Hey, ciallan. What’s that you’re writing?" He took the paper from the table and started reading.
Ancient Love
The tale of their love
Has been told through the years.
She taught him to fight
And he took away her fears.
"Where did ye get this idea from?"
He shrugged. "I’m not sure. It just came to me. I wrote it without even thinking. Now I can’t think of anymore though."
"You know how he is, Chris," Daniel said. "Soul mates, destiny, true love, all that romantic stuff."
Ignoring his brother, the oldest boy looked at John Patrick and said, "It reminds me of something I read. ‘The Legend of Cathain’ it was called. I will find it if ye would like that."
"Aye, that I would. Thank ye, Christopher."
Through Dreams Revealed
A man and woman were fighting in a circle of trees. Only they weren’t actually battling. It felt more like practice or a training lesson. The fog seemed like it was floating up from the ground. Their swords met on each swing. The man held his own but it was the woman who was clearly in charge.
She had on a coat of chain mail over her bare skin. Her sword was almost an extension of her arm. Brown hair was only partially restrained, while the rest of it flowed free over her shoulders. He was wearing a long shirt belted at the waist. His red hair was slightly curly, but didn’t get in his face. Green eyes shone with excitement as her sword slid off of his.
He was skilled with the sword, but not as much as she was. Even for this, he soon grew overconfident. As he let down his guard, she knocked his sword away and placed the edge of hers against his neck.
John Patrick woke with a start. He was breathing heavily like he had just finished sparring with that strange woman. The dream had been so real, he could feel the cold steel against his neck when he woke. He shook off the remnants of the dream as he swung his feet to the floor. Only the memory of the woman remained with him.
"I must find out who she is," he muttered to himself. "I wonder if Christopher found that book yet."
Walking into the kitchen, he saw his brother sitting at the table. He looked up at him and smiled. "I found that book for ye," he said, nodding at a large, thick book sitting on the table in front of him. "It has been translated to English."
The younger boy opened it to a page near the middle. The pages were yellowed with age and worn around the edges, so he handled them carefully. He started to read it aloud, "The sea god’s daughter, Cathain, was stronger than any man in battle. Yet she lived alone in far Connemara and fought off all who dared approach." Turning the page, he continued to read. "At last, the crown prince, Conchobar, persuaded her to teach him in the ways of the sword and the bow. And nightly, he tutored her in the arts of love. When at last, he ascended the throne, Conchobar begged Cathain to lead his armies. And for love she agreed, vanquishing all and uniting one kingdom." He had become so engrossed in the story that he didn’t realize the rest of the family had gathered around the table. That is, until his mother placed a plate of food in front of him. He closed the book and pushed it to the middle of the table. Then, John Patrick picked up his fork and started eating.
*******
A few weeks later, Daniel cleared his throat once they had finished eating. When he had everyone’s attention, he announced, "I have decided to go to Downpatrick to study for the priesthood."
"Are ye sure ye have to go away?" His father asked once he got over the initial surprise of the announcement.
"Aye, Da. I am sure that this is what I must do."
The old man nodded and said, "Then you have my approval."
*******
A month after Daniel left, the Dougherty family woke one morning to find that Edward was gone as well. There was no note saying where he was. Some clothes were missing and his shoes and jacket weren’t anywhere in the house. His bed was made and hadn’t been slept in the night before. The open window was letting in a cold morning breeze. The floor below the window was damp from the light rain that had been coming down all night.
Seamus contacted the garda station in Ardglass, and they arrived fifteen minutes later. After looking around, the officer in charge asked, "When did you see him last?"
"Last night before we went to bed," Seamus answered.
"Has he been acting strange lately?"
John Patrick snorted and asked, "Lately? He always..." but he stopped when his father looked sharply at him. His eyes went to the floor, and he shifted from one foot to the other. After a few minutes, he thought of something and started to speak up, but his mother stopped him.
"He is speaking with the officer. Don’t bother him now."
"But, Ma, it’s important."
"It can wait."
John Patrick’s lower lip moved out into a pout, and he turned back toward his room. When he heard the door close, the boy walked back out to the kitchen. His father looked up at him and said, "Your ma was saying you had something you wanted to tell me."
"Edward has been talking about joining the Irish Republican Army. Could that be where he’s gone?"
They all looked at him with expressions of shock. No one realized he had been aware of what was going on around him. He always seemed so preoccupied with his music. Once his father had recovered, he asked, "Why would he do something like that?" He didn’t want to admit that his son might be right.
"Da, ye know that he had been wanting to do something. This is the only way he sees."
Seamus hung his head and closed his eyes. When he looked up again, his eyes met those of his son’s. "You are right, I know. I just wish ye weren’t."
*******
"John Patrick, what are ye going to do?" Seamus asked his son one day when the young man was playing his guitar.
"What do ye mean, Da?"
"With your life. Ye cannot just stay here and play that guitar for the rest of your life."
"What else can I do? I’m not as smart as Christopher. I’m not dedicated to the Lord or a cause like Daniel and Edward. All I do is play and sing."
"Well, why don’t ye find someone who’ll pay ye to do just that."
John Patrick thought for a moment, then looked up at his father with eyes that seemed older than his eighteen years. "I’m a bard, Da. I tell stories with me songs. They would not understand that. They’d want me to sing nonsense to make them money."
"There has to be something."
"I do not know, Da."
His attention returned to his guitar. Seeing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this argument, Seamus left the room. After awhile, John Patrick put the instrument down on the floor and walked into his room. The book Christopher had found for him was sitting on his bed. With nothing else to do, he opened it and started reading.
"When the world turned her lover’s heart away, Cathain returned to Connemara. Then, dark rivals rose against the king. King Conchobar could not hope to keep the throne without Cathain’s skill in battle, so he sent a druid to summon her back. The druid first sacrificed an old woman to the goddess, but Cathain was unmoved. Next, the druid sacrificed Cathain’s own sister, the fair, vain Deirdre. And he slew her twice. Strangling her with a silken cord, then stabbing her with a dagger of stone. Still, Cathain would not return to fight." He turned the page and continued to read, enchanted by the story. "Then, the druid brought the fair Iona, pure and sweet. By the corlach’s hungry stone, the innocent was slain."
"So, they didn’t all live happily ever after, then."
John Patrick jumped at the sound of the hard, bitter voice behind him. He spun around, and his mouth fell open at the sight of his brother. Over the past two years, Edward’s light brown hair that he had always kept neat had become long and straggly. He had at least a month’s growth of beard on his chin as well.
"So, ye decided to return, did ye, Edward?"
The older brother shook his head. "Only for a short time. Then, I must be leaving."
The rest of the family crowded into his small room. They all hugged Edward, and his mother planted a kiss on his cheek. Then, they moved into the kitchen to eat dinner.
*******
The next morning, the Dougherty family drove into Downpatrick to visit Daniel. The six of them walked along the street as Edward told him about what he had been doing for the last two years, leaving out the things he didn’t want them to know. Just as he had finished recounting the tales, a tourist approached them. "Excuse me. Could I take your picture?" He asked. "I only have one more exposure on this roll of film and would like to use it up."
Seamus smiled obligingly at him. "Aye, I believe we could do that."
The four boys lined up in the back. Christopher stood on the right with John Patrick beside him. Next to him was Edward, and Daniel stood on the left. Seamus stood in front of Christopher and John Patrick, while their mother was before the other two. Daniel placed his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and Edward leaned toward his younger brother.
As soon as the camera flashed, the tourist thanked them then walked away. The six of them made their way back to Daniel’s place.
*******
John Patrick was sitting at the table on day when he heard a knock on the door. Standing up, he walked over and opened it. A young woman, probably no more than twenty-four years of age, was standing there. Her auburn hair hung more than halfway down her back. Jeni Leigh smiled at him. "Morning, John Patrick."
"Hello, Jeni. Which accent are ye goin’ to speak with today?" He asked her with a smile.
She laughed. "Nothing special today."
"Well, what are ye doin’ here?"
"Nothing special," was her answer again. "Just thought I’d come to see you."
"Well, come in then."
John Patrick hadn’t seen the small boy standing behind her until Jeni stepped through the door. His bright red hair stuck out in several places as if he had just gotten out of bed. Large, green eyes looked out from a pale, round face. His skinny arms seemed too long for his body.
"So you’re watching one of the wee brats again, huh?"
"Now come on, John Patrick. Willie’s not that bad. No worse than you were at that age, I’m sure."
"That’s not saying a whole lot, ye realize."
She chuckled at that. "You couldn’t have been that bad."
"Edward says I was a little demon," he told her with a wry smile that twisted his mouth.
"You and your brother didn’t get along well?"
"Ye say that as if we do now."
Jeni was about to ask him something else when she realized that her young charge was still standing outside the door. "Willie, you can come in here."
The boy walked through the door and started to wander around the house. While he did this, John Patrick and Jeni talked. A couple of minutes later they heard a crash that came from his room. He ran in there to see what had happened. Jeni was right behind him.
"I-I am sorry, sir," the boy stammered.
"What did you do, Willie Brennan?" Jeni asked in an accusing voice.
"I was j-just looking at the book, and it f-fell."
They looked at the floor and saw the large, heavy book laying open on the floor. John Patrick stepped forward, picked up the book, and placed it back on the table beside his bed.
"We should be going now," Jeni said. "His parents will be back soon."
He nodded his head and walked outside with them. They started down the road, and she turned to wave before continuing out of sight.
*******
"Christopher, could I ride with ye?" John Patrick asked as his older brother was getting on his motorcycle. "I need to see someone."
"Not this time. I will be gone for some time. Da can probably take ye though."
The younger man’s head dropped with disappointment. He always looked forward to taking a ride with his brother, no matter what the excuse he gave was. "I suppose it can wait then."
A feeling of dread settled on his shoulders as he watched his brother ride off down the road. Walking into the house, he closed the door behind him. He caught the sight of his guitar leaning against the wall out of the corner of his eye. Picking it up, he walked outside and sat on the doorstep. As he started to pick at the strings, a song he had written several months ago came back to him. He began to sing it as he found the notes on the instrument.
Where in the world have I been
I must have tripped on the way in.
Diving into the shallow end,
I must have gone and broke the skin.
Hold me close
And let me know
I’m not alone for once.
Hold me close
And tell me
That I never really was.
Why on the earth
Could I not see
The cloud a hangin’ over me.
But I did a dance to make it rain
And it just overflowed the drains.
Hold me close
And let me know
I’m not alone for once.
Hold me close
And tell me
That I never really was.
After awhile, he walked inside and placed his guitar against the wall beside his bedroom door. Then, he dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. He opened them again quite some time later when he heard the phone ring in the kitchen. He heard his father’s muffled voice, then a click as it was returned to the receiver.
John Patrick swung his feet to the floor and walked to his bedroom door. Seamus had his arms around his wife as tears left wet tracks down her cheeks. He took the few steps needed to get to the kitchen and asked, "What is wrong? Who was that?"
The old man looked at his son and replied, "It was the captain from the garda station in Ardglass."
The feeling of dread from earlier returned to the young man at that moment. "What has happened, Da?"
"Christopher was riding his motorcycle down the road, and a car hit him from the side, then drove away. They found him laying on the other side of the road."
John Patrick’s eyes went wide and round with fear for his brother. "Where is he? Is he all right?"
Seamus shook his head from side to side. "They say he probably died instantly."
"No," he said quietly. "Christopher’s not dead. I just saw him this morning."
"I’m sorry, son," he said as the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.
He backed into his room while shaking his head and muttered to himself, "He’s not dead. He’s not."
*******
The next day John Patrick was still in his room when the sun was high in the sky. His parents had gone into town to claim the body the night before and had stayed there overnight. He heard a light knock on the door, but didn’t even have the energy to go open it. A moment later he heard it open through his closed bedroom door.
He waited while the visitor walked through the kitchen, then slowly opened his door. "John Patrick?" A soft feminine voice questioned from the other side of the now open doorway.
"What?" He asked, not even forcing his eyes to open.
"I heard about Chris," Jeni told him. "I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry."
His eyes opened, and she could see his pain through them. Her gaze moved to the floor before she said, "You can talk to me anytime you want."
He just nodded his head, then turned his back to her. Hearing her retreating footsteps, he realized he had released his hurt and anger on her and turned around again. "Jeni, wait," he said, stopping her.
"What is it?"
"I am sorry. It is just."
She interrupted him by saying, "Don’t worry. I understand that you’re hurt. You don’t have to explain yourself to me." She had made her way over to his bed and took his hands in hers. "I’m here if you want to talk."
A feeling whose origin he wasn’t sure of came upon him suddenly, causing him to pull her closer. Her hands moved around his head and through his hair. His connected behind her back, and he pulled her up against him. She lifted her head and kissed his lips. Then, her lips brushed across his warm skin. She could feel his body start to shake, but knew he wasn’t crying. He wouldn’t let anyone see him do that. Jeni wrapped her arms around him, holding and comforting him. A few minutes later he pulled away and smiled sadly at her. "I am sorry."
She stopped him. "Don’t apologize. You have no reason to."
Jeni gave him one final hug and a quick kiss before leaving.
*******
Everyone was gathered in the Dougherty’s house for Christopher’s wake. They had all offered their condolences and were now consuming the food and drink. After only an hour, John Patrick had drank four pints. Edward came over to him as he was about to get another and placed his hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, who promptly jerked it away. "Maybe ye should stop now, Johnny."
"Why?" He asked bitterly. "Just because ye took the pledge, does not mean I must as well."
Edward’s look of despair did nothing to change John Patrick’s mind. Another hour later, he had consumed more alcohol than at any other time in his life. He was leading the group in a song.
I wish I was in Carrick Fergus.
Only four nights in Ballygrand.
I would swim over the deepest ocean
The deepest ocean, to be by your side.
Well, I’m drunk today, and I’m seldom sober.
A handsome rover from town to town.
But I am sick now. My days are numbered.
So, come all ye young men and lay me down.
So, come all ye young men and lay me down.
He staggered out of the house and down to the water’s edge. Once there, he fell to his knees. Letting the sound of the water lapping against shore take him away from where he was, John Patrick felt his body relax. He soon fell asleep face down in the grass.
The sun was beginning to set when he finally woke. He pushed himself up and blinked several times. It took a few minutes before everything around him stopped spinning and settled into one image. Then, he slowly got to his feet and returned to the house, stumbling the whole way.
Plans Revised
"John Patrick, why don’t you come with me?" Jeni pleaded with him.
"I told ye. I do not want to leave. I will stay here and sing."
"But you could come to the states with me and sing there."
"Why leave me family to do what I’d be doin’ here?"
"You could find someone to pay you there."
"So I could sing nonsense for them. No. I tell stories, Jeni."
"You could still do that. You could find someplace that would pay you for gigs and let you sing what you want."
"Jeni, ye don’t understand. I can’t leave."
She sighed in frustration and turned to leave. "I’m leaving Wednesday," she called over her shoulder. "Stubborn man," she muttered to herself as she walked out of the door.
*******
One night a few weeks after Jeni had left, John Patrick was sitting at the table while his parents were watching television. They turned the volume up as a news report came on the channel. "This afternoon there was an attack by a group of IRA terrorists in the city of Belfast," the news announcer began. "Twenty car bombs were detonated in less than fifteen hours. Thirty-three people are now dead and more injured. This man, Edward Dougherty, is believed to be responsible for this act."
John Patrick’s head jerked up in time to see his brother’s picture flash across the screen. His parents were staring in shocked horror at the television. "That can’t be true," he mother said. "Edward wouldn’t do that."
Both Seamus and his son knew that what she sais wasn’t true, no matter how much they all wanted to believe it. They knew that he was perfectly capable of the act he was suspected of committing. The old man turned the television off before they could hear anymore. John Patrick turned back to what he was working on, but couldn’t keep his mind on it. After twenty minutes, he finally gave up on it for the moment and stood up to take a walk.
Stepping outside, he took a deep breath of the fresh air. Then, he started down toward the water. When he reached it, he walked along the shore until he came to where the ground rose high above the water. He sank onto the grass and stared out over the water. Remembering back to when they were younger, John Patrick realized Edward had always been headed down this path. He’d always been passionate about "his cause." "It must be his destiny," he said to himself.
He sat there contemplating things for awhile longer before heading back to the house. When he walked inside, Edward was sitting at the table. Seamus was standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. His wife’s eyes and face were red and puffy from crying. The younger man walked over to his brother and demanded, "Did ye do it?"
His mother tried to stop him. "John Patrick, can’t ye see he’s tired and hungry?"
Neither of her sons seemed to hear her. They were too busy having a private, silent battle. Finally the older one said, "It can’t be proven."
His younger brother wasn’t to be put off that easily. "Did ye do it?" He repeated his question.
Edward refused to even look at him, let alone answer the question. John Patrick stormed into his room and slammed the door. He noticed the latest letter from Jeni sitting on his bed. He picked it up and began to reread it.
Dear John Patrick,
I am glad to hear that you are doing fine. Everything is well here.
"Too bad things aren’t fine now," he growled.
I still wish you’d change your mind and come here. But I know you’ll do what you must. To let you know, I am now living in South Dakota.
He dropped the paper on the floor, knowing the rest by heart. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed a suitcase out of his closet and started throwing clothes into it, then he grabbed his guitar and what money he had. When he had finished that, he walked back into the kitchen, placing his suitcase and guitar on the floor by the door.
"Where are ye going?" His mother asked with concern.
"Away from all this," was all he would say.
"Where will ye go?" His father asked.
"To America," he replied, finally making the decision.
Edward looked up from the table and there was a sneer on his face. "So, you’re gonna run away to America? Think you’ll leave it all behind. Ye can’t run far enough."
John Patrick clenched his jaw, then, remembering the Gaelic he had learned, said, "Is fear rith maith na drochsheasamh." A good run is better than a bad stand. He turned to his parents and said, "Slan agat. Fad saol agat."
He picked up his suitcase and guitar. Then, without even a glance back, he walked away.
*******
The first hint of morning was beginning to appear over the horizon when John Patrick finally reached the airport. He had slept uncomfortably beside the road for a few hours, but this had not been enough to keep him wide awake and alert. He stumbled into the terminal and up to the desk where the clerk looked at him suspiciously.
"I need a ticket for New York," he said after glancing at the sign listing departures.
"Are ye drunk, sir?" She asked, noticing his bloodshot eyes and the slight slur of his words.
He shook his head, but his exhaustion caused this movement to give the effect of a spinning room. Reaching out a hand, he grabbed the edge of the counter to gain some balance. His feet were sore and tired, and his head was throbbing with pain from weariness. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. Sliding it across the counter, he said, "I’ve walked here from Ardglass and am dead tired. Could I please just be havin’ the ticket."
She counted the money, then handed the ticket over to him, still not trusting him because of the way he looked. He made his way over to a bench, slumped down onto it against the wall, closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep. The next thing he knew, he was being awakened by the announcement, "The flight for New York will be departing within the hour. All passengers please make your way to gate C."
He stood up slowly and made his way to the designated gate. On the plane, he found a window seat and sat down in it. Minutes later a young man sat beside him. Trying to start a conversation, he asked with a distinctly American accent, "Who are you?"
"Just a ramblin’ Irishman." As the words escaped from his mouth, the lyrics to an old song came back to him. He whispered them to himself as they crossed his mind. "I am a ramblin’ Irishman. In Ulster I was born...But to be poor I could not endure, like others of my station. To America, we sailed our way and left this Irish nation."
The American just stared at him for a second, then turned his attention elsewhere. John Patrick closed his eyes and slept until the plane landed on the other side of the ocean.
*******
John Patrick sat at the table in the small restaurant counting out the small amount of money he had left. "Twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty. Only fifty dollars. Cain’t last long with this." He had traded in his native currency for American dollars. Now, he needed to find a way to get his hands on more.
After ordering and eating a small meal, he left and wandered the streets. He had only walked a few blocks when he spotted a bar. He considered walking on past it for a moment, then changed his mind and strode inside. Walking up to the bar, he motioned to the bartender.
"What’ll you have?" The other man asked when he reached him.
"A pint if ye please."
The bartender just stared at him for a second, then asked, "How long have you been here, son?"
"I just arrived a couple of days ago."
"Well, there’s a pub down the street that sells what you want. Maybe you should go there."
"Thank ye," he said nodding his head at him.
John Patrick walked down the street until he came to a pub that he was pretty sure was the one the bartender had been talking about. He once again asked for a pint upon reaching the long, wooden bar, and there was instantly a tall glass of dark brown liquid placed in front of him. He nodded his thanks, then took a sip of his drink.
When he had finished, he stood up to leave. On his way to the door, a drunk staggered across his path and nearly fell into him.
"Excuse me," he said, wanting to leave even though he was in no hurry to get anywhere. He didn’t have anywhere to go.
The man leered up at him through glazed eyes. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol as he said, "What’re ya doin’ ‘ere, mick?" His words were slurred together and barely coherent. "We don’t need yer kind ‘ere."
"And what kind would that be, sir?" He asked, saying the last word with a sharp bite of sarcasm.
"Ya mus’ either be a drunk or a terroris’, Paddy," the drunk informed him.
Like ye have much room to be talkin’, he thought to himself, but just said, "I am neither." My brother is the terrorist. "Now, if ye will please get out of me way."
The drunk put his finger against John Patrick’s chest and poked him.
"I was leavin’. If ye are in me way, I cain’t do that."
"You can get out of my way," he sneered.
Just then a younger man stormed over to them. He was an exact copy of the older man and was only slightly less drunk than his father. He had the same belligerent sneer on his face though. "What do you want?" He asked.
"Just to be leavin’," was his reply.
"Then why don’t you do that, instead of harassing my dad."
John Patrick’s temper was beginning to rise at the attitude of these two men. "He’s the one harassin’ me. Your da started this. Maybe ye should be talkin’ to him about leavin’ me be."
"You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout," the older man sneered at him.
"Aye, I do," he said as he started to push his way past the two men.
"Where do ya think you’re goin’?" The belligerent young man demanded of him.
"Home," he said, which made him laugh inwardly. Home was an abandoned building that only kept him out of the rain. At night, he laid shivering on the cold floor until sleep overcame him. There was no light except what came through the dirty and broken windows. Home wasn’t exactly the word for it.
"Not until we settle this."
"There is nothin’ to settle."
As he started forward again, the young man threw a punch at his jaw. It connected solidly, but only stunned him, not knocking him down. He lunged forward and grabbed the man’s arms, trying to restrain him. His attacker kicked his leg and managed to draw away as John Patrick was recovering from the blow. Then, the Irishman moved in and jabbed to his mouth with one fist while the other connected with the man’s stomach. The drunken man grunted in pain, and his father came up behind John Patrick, breaking a bottle over his head.
He fell to his knees, stunned for a second, then shook his head and managed to get his feet under him again. He turned to the father, and his look sent the old drunk staggering backward. Then, he turned around and backed his aggressor against the bar where he hit him once in the nose, then once more in the stomach. He held him there until the bouncer came over. Once he had thrown the two men out of the bar, he returned to where John Patrick was standing, holding a hand to the back of his head.
"Saw how you handled those men. Not too bad. You looking for a job?"
"No," he said, then after a moment, changed his mind. "Actually I am. But I was plannin’ on getting one singing."
"You’re a singer?"
"Aye. Usually just what I write."
"I do believe the boss is looking for an act to play here. I’ll tell him about you and see what he says."
"Thank ye, sir."
As he was turning away, the man’s voice came from behind him. "Do you have a place to stay?"
He turned around again and was about to say yes, then stopped and shook his head. "No. I’ve been stayin’ in an abandoned building. I have no job and no money." This last was said in a matter-of-fact tone, not as a way to get pity.
"If you’ll wait ‘til I’m done here, I’ll take you to my place, and you can stay there until you get on your feet."
He thought about the offer for a moment, and nodded his head. "Thanks."
"It’s not a problem."
John Patrick walked to the bar and bought a drink while he waited for his new friend to get off from work. After two more drinks, he had forgotten about the throbbing pain in his shin and at the back of his head. He didn’t even notice that blood was slowly sliding down and parting his hair in the back. Once he had downed a few more, he saw his friend motion to him. Jumping off of the stool, he nearly fell flat on his face. He swayed on his feet, but managed to walk to the door without falling.
His new friend, Patrick Bentley, helped him out to his car, then he drove to his apartment. When he got him upstairs, he saw the dried trail of blood that had made it’s way down the back on John Patrick’s skull. "And I thought you were just drunk," he said with a chuckle as the other man staggered into a chair.
He washed the blood from the back of his friend’s head, then placed a bandage over the cut. "You can sleep on the couch," he told him. "I’ll be right in there." He pointed to a doorway on the right side of the room.
He laid on the couch, closed his eyes, and fell into a restless sleep. When he woke up the next day, Patrick was pulling the shades over the window. He slowly sat up and blinked a few times until began to become aware of his surroundings. As he started to stand, it felt as if someone was using his head as a spinning top. He put it in his hands and waited for everything to be still again.
He was still standing there when Patrick walked over to him with a cup of coffee in his hands. "Here, drink this," he said, holding it out to him. "It might help you feel a bit better."
He took it as his mouth opened to say something. It was so dry, however, that his "thanks" only came out as a croak. His head felt like it was about to burst open at any moment. The coffee felt soothing as it slid down his parched throat.
His friend was saying something to him, but the pounding in his ears was drowning out the sound of the words. "John?"
He slowly shook his head to clear it, then looked at his friend with a question in his eyes.
"I was saying that I have to work tonight. We can go get your things from that building before that though. Then, you can come with me, and I’ll introduce you to my boss."
He just nodded his head and said, "Thank ye. I am grateful for all ye’ve done."
He shook his head. "Don’t even think about it. I’m glad to be able to help you."
*******
That night John Patrick walked into the pub behind Patrick. They made their way to the door of a back room where the American knocked. A deep voice gave him permission to enter. When they walked into the room, John Patrick saw a tall man sitting behind a very well-organized desk. He smiled when he saw his employee. "What is it, Patrick? And who is your friend there?"
"This is John Patrick Dougherty. He’s a singer, so I thought he might be the solution to your problem."
His boss nodded before turning his attention from his employee. "You’re a singer?"
"Aye, sir."
"What do you sing?"
"Mostly what I write."
The other man nodded, then said, "I see you have your guitar with you. Would you mind playing for me, so I can know what you sound like?"
"Not at all," he replied as he opened his case and took the guitar from it. He plucked at the strings, then started to sing.
How can I give a testimony of my life
When I’m still trying to hold my head up high.
I’m trying so hard to hold my head up high.
But every time I turn around
I feel as though I’ve let ya down
Always something else
Every time I turn around
Feel as though I’ve let ya down
But I can’t outrun myself.
How can I give a testimony of my time
When it’s so hard to pen a simple valentine
It weighs a little heavy on my mind.
But every time I turn around
I feel as though I’ve let ya down.
Always something else.
Every time I turn around
Fell as though I’ve let ya down.
But I can’t outrun myself.
Oh, you know...
If I told ya once I told ya loads before
I couldn’t love ya more.
When he was finished, John Patrick looked up at the man behind the desk. There was a thoughtful statement on his face as he kept the musician waiting. Finally, he nodded his head and said, "I believe I have found what I’m looking for."
A wide smile broke across John Patrick’s face as he held out his hand to him. "Thank ye, sir. I am grateful."
"No, I am the one who is grateful. You can start Friday night."
They left the office and Patrick congratulated him. "I have to work. You can either stay here or walk home." He had a feeling he knew what his friend would choose and smiled to himself as John Patrick headed to the bar.
A half hour later, he walked over to Patrick and told him, "I’ll be headin’ home now."
"All right, John. My cousin is coming from out west. Don’t be surprised if she’s there or shows up sometime tonight."
When John Patrick arrived home, he opened the door and was shocked at who he saw sitting on the couch. After a moment, he closed his mouth which had fallen open and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he took another step forward and said in a hushed voice, "Jeni."
Her head whipped around and it took her a moment to realize who he was. When she finally did, she jumped up from where she was sitting and asked in a startled voice, "John Patrick, what are you doing here?"
"I live here now. I’m guessin’ ye are Patrick’s cousin."
"Yeah. He said he had a friend staying with him, but not who it was."
They came together, wrapping their arms around each other. When they pulled away, John Patrick smiled at her. "I have missed you."
They sat on the couch and talked until the early hours of the morning. The two of them were surprised when they heard the door open, not realizing so much time had passed. Patrick saw his cousin, and a smile broke across his face.
"I wish you would’ve told me your friend was someone I knew. I wouldn’t have been so surprised when I saw him again."
"You know John? How?"
"We met a few years ago when I was in Ireland."
"That’s right. I forgot you’d been over there. After a moment, he said, "I’m gonna crash now. See you two in the morning. Glad you were able to come, Jeni."
They waited until he had left the room, then continued their conversation. John Patrick finally went to bed when the sun decided to make its appearance over the horizon.
*******
When John Patrick arrived at the pub Friday night, his new boss was waiting for him. "You ready?"
"Always have been," he replied with a confident smile.
"You still want to use that name, Conchobar."
He just nodded his head, cringing inwardly at the mispronunciation of the name, but not wanting to correct him.
"All right. You’ll go on in about fifteen minutes."
When he was finished that night, his boss payed him, and he headed to the bar for a drink. Jeni was waiting for him when he got home. "So, how’d your first night go?" She asked him.
"Not too bad," he replied, showing her the money he had made.
They sat on the couch, each with a drink in hand. After awhile, Jeni cleared her throat and said, "I’m leaving in a few days."
"Already? You’ve only been here for a couple of days." He knew she wouldn’t be staying for a long time, but was hoping it would be longer than this.
"I know, but I have to get back home."
"I understand."
*******
After nearly a year, John Patrick had made enough money to get his own apartment. Another three years later he had gained quite a bit of popularity. His shows sold out on word of mouth alone, and there was usually standing room only. He had been offered record contracts, but always turned them down. That wasn’t what he wanted. All he wanted to do was sing his songs, and he was doing that.
One night he was leaving his apartment for work when his phone rang. Picking it up, he answered, "Hello."
"John Patrick."
"Daniel! How have ye been?"
"Fine. Ma’s been wonderin’ about ye."
"I’m doing fine. Tell her that for me. Tell her not to worry."
"I will, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do."
John Patrick laughed at the truth of that statement. They talked for a few more minutes, then he left for work.
That night there was a full room once again. As he made his way to the microphone, the crowd started yelling and cheering. Some even raised their glasses and bottles to him. He grinned at them and asked, "How about a new song then?"
This just made them scream even louder. The grin stayed on his face as he began to sing.
I’m in tight
With a demon called deception.
It’s all right
He’s a treating me quite well.
I’m in tight
With a demon called deception.
He’s right beside me when I fail.
To whisper words
Like Brother, nothing here is any good
Ya see the birds, they’re a dropping like a star of wormwood
And all I wanted was just a little patch of green.
We were peasants
And the cotton was our king.
In the fields
I will sing a prisoner’s song
While deception whistles right along
Right along.
Charlie sang for a pocker full of pills
Where deception was a clickin his high heels
We’re in tight
Playing seven one-night stands
And deception made me as I am.
As I am, As I am, As I am, As I am.
Truth is
I’m in tight
I barely saw the light
Just a it clicked in
Something saved my skin.
Something saved my skin.
Finishing the song, his eyes met those of the woman who had just walked in with her young friend. She was the one he had dreamed of years before. He hardly noticed the crowd’s applause as he made his way toward her.
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