The Troubles (23 page)

CHAPTER 43: An te bhionn siulach, bionn scealach (He who travels has stories to tell)

     Alastar Taggart…Although it is mid-February, the air is mild as the Irish Sea’s North Channel’s currents are flowing clockwise on their conveyer belt, transferring warm water from the tropics to the north pole. The rapid evaporation is less temperamental with the land’s rich soil recovering from the recent par Nor’easter’s saturation of storms. There is a heavy compression of salt-crusted air, basking low in the hazy atmosphere, baking the earth with the scent of marine life into folds of timothy grass. Sodden bogs disgorge decomposing plant life as well as the remaining rainwater that the underground reservoirs and aquifers fail to absorb in allotted time. There are rivulets of streams crisscrossing the highlands, finding strength in gravity, snaking their paths into the city basin of Belfast, although most of the excess rainwater usually makes its way back to the ocean to repeat the cycle when the rivers are overwhelmed and the banks of the Lagan are combusting with a formidable girth.

       Basements and floor levels of conjoined redbrick duplexes have begun to rot and mold preemptively and because the city is in too much travail to respond to nature’s shrill precursor of its distress signals, there will be consequences for our apathy and procrastination. I am strolling by the duplicate dull facades with my mind anesthetized to any of the surroundings that implore forlorn depression upon their inhabitants. It is my honeymoon and my wife is raw with pregnancy, which has created an impenetrable fortress around her condition. I feel shut out, yet I have to remind myself, she is unaccustomed to marriage. She was an only child and most recently an orphan and there is an insular strength to her that must be derived from a primal will of a new mother’s survival. I had coyly attempted to remind her, I am here as her protector and our child’s and though she squeezed my hand reassuringly, she didn’t object in the slightest when Gerry Adams cryptically called and coldly without explanation, summoned me to Derry. Weeks earlier Kiera had cried and demanded my utmost attention, yet this morning, after we had made soothing familiar love, after having spent the night naked and entwined, she had simply smiled her pearly white iridescently framed pout and turned over in a lethargic repose while I pulled stiff jeans over exposed hip bones and left into the clouded dawn with the street shrouded in sleep and a foggy brume that bellowed with morning’s beckon.

CHAPTER 42: Bionn blas searabh at an fhirinne. (Truth has a bitter taste)

     Lanary Sloan…’’To see the world in a grain of sand, heaven in a wildflower. Hold infinity in the palm your hand and eternity in an hour.” William Blake fragments from Auguries of Innocence

     I hold them all in the palm of my hand and with just my will they will bring death to the apostolic Christians who are torching their very own brethren and scorching my land. If Kiera does not wish to partake in the contest in spite of her husband, perhaps she should find out who was responsible for her parent’s unnatural demise. I have grown fond of Alastar in the past few years, watching him transform from a curious pupil into a man of many convictions. Though, I shall not hesitate to remind the boy, if he does not do as Gerry commands, I shall promptly stress, that his inauguration was constructed of mass murder and the blood on his hands were his wife’s closest relations.

     Her bulge grows by the day and though they try to hide their trepidation with frivolity and vacuous laughter and games, I am annoyed and displeased by the apathy in them both now. I had seen such mischief and rebelliousness in their adolescent journey, as while I was reading notations, I was aware of their absorption in other matters.  This is why I had chosen Kiera, with her critical thinking and nuanced beliefs. Alastar had perhaps chosen me, the paternal role aligning the stars and although he has wavered in his steadfastness, where Kiera has flourished in hers, I was smitten when he bloodied his hands for the cause. It is not my cause, but his violence that was real and for this I know it can be replicated. It might have been a crucial mistake to have brought them together and now I know I must tear them apart. One would ask if that is my sin as I married them, but I would simply say a true Pagan does not sin.

CHAPTER 43: Is maith an bhean i ach nior bhain si a brogan di go foil. (She is a good wife, but she has not taken off her shoes yet)

     Kiera Flanagan-Taggart…Every time he leaves I do not know if he will return. I must treasure the moments well. How can I fight the instincts of flight if they have served me in the aftermath of my parent’s death? Although I did not walk through those flames, I have circumvented the heat with the delirium of a new love.

    I am randomly drifting through the cemetery my many neighbors have entered and remained years before their time.  I do not traverse the maze landscape to loiter and mourn by the subdued Flanagan headstones but carry over the jutted ridge to capture the view behind me. The dusk radiates passionately as the eclipsed sun ritually makes it entombment beyond the misshapen cityscape and the outline of the horizon glares as darkness swallows the waning light.

     There are bonfires lit on the back alleyways and dead end streets, which give the appearance of fireflies on a warm summer night, aglow and pulsating with strength. Although I avoid the gatherings as the drunkards and homeless use the garbage fueled fires for warmth and safety, there in the shadows, is the wretchedness this city has acquired like a sickness where men relieve themselves and women perform lewd tricks. There are as many fights among united religious ranks in the shroud of dark as there are in the daylight with their supposed enemies.

     Lanary Sloan called me early this morning and had cryptically requisitioned my attendance at the desecrated ruins of West Kirk Presbyterian Church for a meeting at 5 o’clock this evening. The tone is his voice had disjointed a primal wariness in my gut but since I had entrusted the man to marry me and as he has held my hand by my parent’s grave I conceded. Very likely, Lanary would like to pray with me at the very site of violence that murdered one hundred and fifty church members and maimed countless others, with among the dead, those being Maura and Piaras Flanagan. I discern with squinted eyes him walking toward me on the opposite side of the street with waning light illuminating his great height as the mirage splays before me like scene from a black and white mystery film. We placidly advance as though we are strangers passing in the night, neither one acknowledging the other yet simultaneously we arrive ostensibly choreographed on the sidewalk’s concrete face placed anterior to the fragmentized ruins of the former House of Worship. The reek of char still embalms the static atmosphere. The mayhem before me is of seared wood, shattered bricks, and darkened blood stains. The paint of blood covers everything in a Rorschach configuration allowing the viewer to distinguish the message displayed before them like a test subject. The direct messaging, so overwhelming, that bile seems to have permanently located itself in my larynx, signals its need for expulsion. I take in a deep breath of bitter air and assume my position next to Lanary.

     So then, Lanary, what is it ya’d like to have a chat fer?’’ I swallow my need to ask why he has brought me to this brutal battleground but gleaning that he is a proficient chess player, I will choose my words carefully.

     “Ta athas dioma orm in yer husband Alastar.’’ His words hit me with the sting of salt-ocean spray.’’

     “Why? What is it? What has he done to ya?’’ I rack my mind for what Alastar could have done to disappoint Lanary.

     “Where is yer man Mrs. Taggart?’’

     ‘’Ya know he’s in Derry.’’

   ‘’Who’s he meeting?’’

    The questioning confounds me but perhaps more alarming is that I should know. With a nervous stammer I respond,’’ I honestly haven’t the slightest.’’

      Lanary takes out a rolled cigarette and in the ice-cold wind attempts to light the end coal red, the silence drawing awkwardly between us. Finally, after a deep, long drag on the pungent poison, he asks me, “don’t ya think ya should know?’’

     ‘’Is that why ya are upset with him?’’

   ‘’Aye, no tis much worse a folly than a lie to his wife.’’

     My words rush out. “He has lied to me?’’

   ‘’Na not ‘bout Derry…’’

     ‘’Then what ‘bout?’’

    ‘’Tis much worse, Kiera, than I have liberty to say.”

     My heart is beating out of my chest as I pull my wool jacket over my milk laden bosom not from defense of the lashing cold wind but in an attempt to quiet the deafening beating within.

     “Walk with me child.’’ Lanary’s long arms reach for me like tentacles intimidating their prey and I step back quickly to avoid the grasp of his wielding length.

      ’’Fine but just tell me what it is ya think me husband has done?’’    Lanary’s face has assumed a lack of expression throughout our exchange and only now does a flicker of hesitation pass from his ice blue eyes to his chapped mouth.  As quickly as I recognize the familiar response of quiet internalization does it slide exquisitely away and replaced is a steely regard, clenched beneath his full beard.    “I’ll do just that. What I’ve to show ya, will be all ya need.’’

     Furloughed before me lays the dissembled jigsaw puzzle of the ancient church with the somber, ashen-stone foundation still in place. This is the final remains city workers lazily have left, as every other day there is an explosion of debris, to put back in some semblance of order. I shadow Lanary’s cat like movements through the ruins gingerly, sidestepping large iron nails and splintered, charred wood. We make our way to the furthest reach of the crumpled structure when his advancement pauses. In my earnestness, I face, square against the center of his back. “Shite! Will ya excuse me!’’ Wordlessly he turns around, his face unreadable in the obscurity of light as the streetlights are just out of reach.

    ’’I had me a wife and a child once.’’’ He declares wistfully his words, not meant for me, as the wind takes them.

     I tremble from the crisp cold of the night with my impatience wearing thin. But Lanary demands propriety so I politely query, “ya told me there was not a women in yer life, Lanary, for the women of Ireland were too devoted to the church.” Taking his steel black boot he kicks the chafed embers that have coated the freshly formed gallery.

     “T’was ages ago Kiera, before the war.  She was me childhood neighbor…didn’t give the sham a second look, but overnight she became a feek woman and I was smitten.” The sorrow and wistfulness of the words sting through the evenings gloom and I cannot help but feel empathy for my elder as he regales me with his hushed yarn.

     “Lanary, what happened to her?’’

     “I’ve told ya. Me da sent me off to fight for the damned Crown but what I didn’t know was that me young bride was with child.”  Instinctively I clutch my expanding waistline with fear. 

     “When I came home, expecting to be with my beloved family, they were both dead. Me young bride I had barely known, died in childbirth. Alas, I know ya are with child, Kiera.”

    “What? Did Alastar tell ya?”

     “Nay, me dear. I’ve been watching ya for awhile.” This statement makes my already cold skin get goose bumps in alarm.  “Do ya know where yer Ma and Da were sittin’ at the service?”

     The last memory of sitting with my mother near the back of the church after our house had been brutally affronted with kerosene licked flames floods into my mind like a tidal wave with its force. “Lanary, I haven’t had the wherewithal to bring myself to that day.”

     “Perhaps they were lucky enough to be close to the shockwave, which would have compressed their bodies rapidly. Their organs and veins would have exploded, potentially the eyes too, but…” he discloses languidly, the words rolling off his tongue and his brogue musically caresses them. “If that didn’t get ‘em, the heat of the air would have seared their airways and cooked ‘em from the inside. They might have run, Kiera, and even if they had made it a distance this church would have been turned into deadly shrapnel. The splinters of flying wood like arrows, the screws and nails like heavy artillery bullets would have torn their bodies to shreds.”

     “Stop! Will ya please have a heart and stop!  For what reason are ya sayin’ this but fer yer own pleasure?” In a low monotone octave barely audible as the wind changed its direction, his descriptive, remaining words are mercifully lost. 

     “It was yer husband who planted and detonated the bomb that did all of those unimaginable acts of violence Kiera. It was your unborn child’s own father, Alastar Taggart.”

CHAPTER 44: Na nocht D’fhiacla go bhfeadfair an greim do bhreith. (Do not chew your teeth until you can bite)

     Alastar Taggart…”That is mighty foolish Gerry.” I gnash my molars into the soft flesh of my mouth in an attempt to hold my tongue. Sitting before me is Gerry Adams and two mercenary-like IRA soldiers in arms and the plan laid before me, in such a manner that Gerry seems bored in the routine of the pitch.  “The boy is but fourteen years old,” I listen to myself saying.  Metallic tasting blood touches the rearmost caverns of my mouth as I have bitten down hard; my blood feels hot and angry.

     “Aye, but wasn’t Quinn fifteen years old?”