Madden's Cry

Maeve was the middle of three girls, to the utter dismay of her father. She’d lost count of the times he cursed God for testing him with a house full of women. Maeve felt the sting of his words more deeply than her sisters. She’d not been blessed with a comely nature, or a figure to make a man’s blood race. Now that his beard was running with silver, her father's siring days were over and this only made his bitterness deepen.

Maeve had sturdy shoulders, and a manly height, she was as close to a son as her Father would ever get. The fact that she did everything she could to win his favour didn't seem to do her any favours. The more she tried, the more he scowled.

Rua – her Father, had been trying to wed off his brood of fillies, but with no dowry to speak of, it wasn't going well. Roisin, his youngest, was favoured by all the boys, and men, in the village for her beauty and boundless mirth. She would have already made a good match, if she hadn’t the devil living under her skirts. Lost in the tizzy of youth, her wanton reputation was whispered in drinking circles.

Aine - the eldest, had been matched to a greedy old man, who lusted after Rua’s land, not his daughters love. Her flesh, however, was a happy windfall. The match wasn’t made, yet, because Rua wouldn't part with what the man demanded. Aine secretly wished her Father would have a change of heart but she'd resigned herself to one day feeling ancient hands on her skin.

By now, the harvest was reaped and the wedding season was drawing to a close, but Maeve still hadn’t attracted a suitor. If nothing happened soon, she would end a spinster, and banished to the roadside.

The beginning of our story takes place on a typical autumn day. Ocean mist hung over the still warm soil and a bounty of mushrooms had appeared overnight. The afternoon was mild and sunny as Maeve climbed the hill, a foraging creel in the crook of her arm. In the distance, sea gulls glided on an ocean breeze above the twinkling blue water. Most chores were back breaking but gathering wild mushrooms was a welcome pleasure.

As she entered the woods, the canopy dimmed the light of the sun and the moss carpet under her calloused feet cushioned her steps. It was a gorgeous sensation. She looked around for signs of another, but she was alone. What harm if she stole a moment for herself? She put aside the wicker creel and lay herself down on the soft, living carpet. The light twinkled in her eyes, as the leaves danced, so she let them close. Maeve felt a wave of contentment wash over her, a feeling like she’d never experienced before. She wished she were as brazen as Roisin, if she were, she'd discarded her shift and let this feeling explore every inch of her. Imagine if she were seen? What would the Priest say?

Religion was a huge part of her life. The word of the Priest was nearly as powerful as the word of her Father. Not far from the village stood a mighty monastery. It had been founded by, Brendan the Navigator, when he passed this way on one of his many journeys. How the people had marvelled at his tales of God, and the power he held over all things on this earth. Brendan told them of the wonders of heaven, and the unending torture of hell. Despite his gigantic personality, he was still a man, and a hard working one at that. He had rolled up his sleeves and laid the foundations stones of the monastery with his own hands. As he worked, he educated the men toiling at his side, teaching them the ways of God. Before he moved on, he ordained many of them, commanding them to continue the teachings of, Jesus Christ, the Savour. That had been three hundred years ago and stories of Brendan were still told today.

Many men had come to these shores following the departure of, Brendan, but none more savage than the men from the north. The Vikings. Just the mention of their name was enough to make blood run cold. As Maeve lay in the cool of the glade, a warning bell began to sound in the village below. She sprang to her feet, grabbing her empty creel and raced out of the wood. The sparkling blue water was now being sliced open by a narrow wooden ship, driven forward by sail and oar. The Vikings were coming.

In terror, she let her creel drop and ran as fast as her legs would carry her toward home. The boat was still a way off shore when she burst through the door of her Father’s cottage. The fire was burning gaily in the hearth, with a millet broth bubbling above, but the house was empty. The stirring spoon lay in the middle of the earthen floor. She knew they had gone to the tower. 

To protect their treasures, the Priest, and his forbearers, had built a mighty structure, one hundred feet high, and impregnable. The only door was far above ground. All from the village would have gone there seeking shelter. Maeve turned on her heel, praying she wouldn't be caught.

She bounded over graves as she raced past older, slower, villagers. The door, high above her head, was still open, but the ladder had been drawn up. Others were already gathered around the base of the fortress, braying for salvation.

"Let down the ladder,” she cried, seeing her Father’s face at the door.

“It’s Maeve, send the ladder down,” she heard him say to those inside the tower. The Priest appeared beside him, his robe flapping in the wind as he peered down on the rabble. He was a man of God, there was no way he would abandon them, she thought. There were no words to describe the feeling in her heart when she saw the man’s eyes harden. The Priest pointed into the distance, and said.

“It is too late. Look – the Norse have landed.”

Maeve glanced over her shoulder to see men, wearing the skins of beasts, jumping from the ship. They were a distance away yet, there was time a plenty. She, all of them, could be saved.

“The ladder! Please, Father,” she cried. “Save me!" 

Rua hesitated, but the Priest placed a hand on his shoulder and he was drawn inside without protest. The solid thud of the door slamming into place was a sound she'd remember forever.

“Father!” she cried, and beat her fists against the cold limestone. She was still calling for him when she was knocked senseless by the butt of a war-axe.

***

When Maeve’s head cleared, her hands were bound and standing over her was a huge man, with a pelt of red hair sprouting from his chest. He wore no shoes and a simple loincloth covered his manhood. His hair was shorn far too short to be a Viking so she imagined he was one of their slaves, captured on a faraway land. She groaned and tried to reach the point where the blow had landed. The man shook his head, his eyes silently warning her against any movement. Slowly, she returned her hands to her lap, and prayed.

The sounds of fighting, and dying, echoed all around. The stench of burning straw filled the air and trussed bodies were carried up the hill by more slaves and dumped at the base of the tower. Eventually, from the smoke-covered village strode six men, shoulder to shoulder, like the invading hoard they were. Only six men, and a band of naked slaves, had done all this. Surely the men of the village could have fought them? She would have. Although there were only six, they looked wild, like spectres of death, with hair trailing below their shoulders. Their weapons clanked as they walked, leaving droplets of blood trailing in their wake. The scars of battle, both new and old, marked their shields, their armour, and their skin. The nearer they got, the more terrifying they looked.

Eventually they arrived at the base of the tower and rested their weapons on fur-covered shoulders. “Priest,” bellowed the biggest, “Look out your window and gaze upon my face.”

“I see you, heathen, it changes little,” came a voice she recognised from Sunday church.  

“Brave words, Priest, from high in your nest,” laughed the Viking Chief, “but what of your flock? Is the Sheppard not charged with seeing off the wolf?”

“Wolfes, yes. Wolfes are God’s creatures. All I can see is the spawn of Satan, slaves to the Dark Angel. You, and all you touch, are already damned beyond my saving.  I shall pray for their souls, and God's mercy.” Even now, the man couldn’t stop preaching.

“You should pray for my mercy, Priest, not that I’m blessed with much. I’ll give you one more chance to save these pesents. Throw down your gold and I’ll consider it payment for my compassion.”

“Gold...such I possess, is not mine to give. It belongs to the Lord.” Not a moment of consideration passed before the reply.

“Then, if I were you, I'd pray for them...and then yourself,” said the Chief, discarding his weapons. The six warriors trashed the captured villagers, man and woman, with fist and foot, until they were without wind. Then they rested in the evening sun, drinking plundered ale. Some villagers were already dead, most so badly injured that they barely moved. Maeve had taken her share of blows and lay dazed in the graveyard grass.

Once rested, the Chief again offered the chance to stop this needless suffering. "All we want is your gold, then we'll be gone. Save your people and rebuild your fortunes."

From above came no reply. Maeve prayed for mercy, but knew that beneath the cloak of righteousness, the priest's heart was filled with greed.

"As you wish," the savage said, spitting a mouthful of ale on the ground. He unsheathed his sword and walked among the captives. Her heart stopped when his hand fell upon her. He dragged her toward the tower by her hair. She screamed and kicked, but was sure her life was gone. She cried out when he rose the blade, but he didn't skewer her. Instead, the Viking hacked the hair from her head, leaving her as bald as the giant who’d been her guard. Once finished, he threw her aside, with blood running from a dozen cuts. He gave the same treatment to all the women. Maeve hoped they would be saved from is wicked hands, but sadly, her ordeal was not yet over.

The Viking Chief returned to her and dragged her to her knees. He slid his blade down the neck of her dress, splitting it from throat to hem. She tried to pull away but his grip was too strong. Like an animal, he tore at her until she was naked. The eyes of the village looked on and she was shamed. The warrior sheathed his sword, only to unsheathe a weapon he’d been born with. He mounted her roughly, slapping away her efforts to defend herself, and defiled her. Through it all, Maeve could see the face of her Father watching from above. He could have saved her, but he didn’t. This was as much his fault as the man grunting above her. She looked away, the only freedome she had left, and her eyes found the giant, red-chested, slave. Although he must have seen such things a thousand times, he seemed to hurt for her. Maeve didn’t know if such pity made her feel better, or worse. With every thrust, a little of her died, until there was nothing of her left. When the man climbed off, she just lay there, broken. Again, and again, the Norsemen fell upon her until their man-hoods were no longer up to the task.

Through all of this, no mercy came from above. At last, she and the other women were abandoned; slick with blood and sperm. The captured men now became targets for the invader’s fury. One teenage boy was pinned down. The Chief drew his war axe, holding it high over his head. He waited for a second; a woman cried out from deep within the tower, but no gold landed at his feet. The axe whistled through the air, cutting off a hand.

The Chief squeezed every scream he could from the boy, before letting his axe fly in mercy. Another man was dragged forward. They started again. Body parts were piled against the unyielding tower but no matter how many were executed, those outside remained exiled.

When it became clear that the Priest would never part with his treasure, the Vikings talked among themselves in their native tongue. A decision seemed to be made, and they turned their attention on the remaining captives. With quick and precise blows, heads fell from bodies. When Maeve’s turn came, and she was dragged to her knees. The Chief himself was going to do the deed. Her head lolled forward as he circled behind her. What he was doing was a mercy. There was nothing worth living for now. The blow was struck and all went black.

***

Her mind explored her numb body, it felt alien to her. Was this death? Why was it so dark? Strange noises came to her ears and it felt like she was moving. Every part of her hurt too much for this to be heaven, and not enough for hell. Her head throbbed, but at least it was still attached to her shoulders. When her senses cleared, she recognised water, rolling over and back across wooden planks. She knew she must be in a boat. She looked up and saw men straining at oars above her. With her returning senses, came the cold. She was still naked and the ocean wind was sucking the warmth from her body.

She tried to move her arms, but they were tied. The movement attracted the attention of the man, rowing above her. It was the giant slave she had seen during the attack. He gazed upon her as he continued to stroke. The timber groaned in his mighty hands as it forced the ship forward. He must have noticed her shivering because he dislodged a cowhide from the bench in front of him, and it fell across her. The skin sheltered her from the worst of the wind, as well as hiding her nakedness. Such little comfort was manna from heaven.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly. The giant slave nodded, but didn’t speak. The kindness, although it was tiny, was like a beacon in the dark.

“What’s your name,” she whispered. His face creased with worry, as he looked over his shoulder. Maeve could see he was afraid, afraid to incur the wrath of the Vikings.

At last he said, “Cian,” and she could tell he was from Ireland, but his accent wasn’t one she’d heard before. She smiled at him and pulled the hide over her. The soft rolling of the ship, and the gathering warmth in her bones eased her eyes closed.

The jolt of the ship grounding woke her. The pain returned the moment she moved. She drew the hide from over her head and looked around. The Vikings were spitting commands at the slaves, driving them overboard and into the water. They hauled the ship higher on the beach, until it rested above the pull of the waves. They unloaded provisions as the sky darkened. Maeve remained huddled in the scuppers, hoping to be forgotten.

It was dark when Cian appeared and lifted her into his arms. He kept the cow-hide over her as he carried her through the waves.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. He looked uncomfortable but said nothing. In truth, she knew where he was taking her and it filled her with dread. “Please, let me go. You could come with me,” she whispered to him but he shook his head.

“They would kill us.”

“They will kill us eventually,” she reasoned, and saw him stiffen. He was conflicted. With the water above his knees, he paused. She waited, hoping he would take her away from all this, but fear proved too strong an obstacle. On the beach, a fire burned, sending a stream of sparks into the sky. A whole pig was mounted on a spit, cooking over the flames. Above the high-water-mark stood a group of huts. Scattered around them were bodies, clearly the late owners.

Inside one hut, the six warriors sat around a fire, drinking. Their voices soared in song, wild with blood lust and victory. Cian ducked through the low doorway, with Maeve in his arms. The Chief stood, and wobbled toward them. He flung the skin aside, revelling her bruised and naked body. A chorus of rowdy cheers erupted from the gathered men. With a powerful sweep of his arm, the Chief knocked Maeve to the ground. Cian, hesitated.

“Get out…you great ox,” the drunken Chief snarled and drew his sword. The giant slave backed out, his eyes apologising to Maeve as he went. The Chief slammed the door of the hut closed and a fresh nightmare began. The savages fell on her while the Chief drank and yelled encouragement. What she endured is beyond description. They only left her to eat, and drink even more. In the end, the Chief threw the other five out into the night, he wanted her for himself. The night seemed to go on forever. 

When she woke, the barbarian was snoring heavily on skins laid before the fire. One of her eyes wouldn’t open, and two of her teeth were missing. She battled through the pain and turned her head slowly. The man’s great gut rose and fell in drunken slumber. He was naked now, his armour discarded in the heat of his debauchery. It lay just out of her reach. His blood encrusted sword was still attached to the belt. Moving as silently as she could, she rose to her feet. She drew the blade a fraction at a time until the tip escaped the leather scabbard. The hilt was stick with blood but it cried out for more.

With cat like steps, she positioned herself over the Chief and let all her weight fall on the weapon, driving it home. The beast’s eyes shot open; air grunted out of him, but he spoke not a word. He began to trash and she did her best to hold him still. Face to face, she watched as the life left his body, and she smiled.   

She listened, but there was no sound of alarm from outside. The others mustn’t have heard. Her first instinct was to run for home but something stayed her feet. Home was where she’d been disgraced, where she’d been thrown to these animals. Home was a word that meant nothing anymore. She grasped sword and worked it until it came free.

As stealthy as she could, she left the hut. On the beach, embers still glowed where the fire pit lay. She could see bodies gathered around it, soaking the last of its heat. Picking out her red giant was easy; Cian’s body dwarfed the others. As she passed one of the other huts, she heard a symphony of grunts and wheezes coming from within. She peeked around the door and saw the five Vikings, laid low by far too much grog. This was her chance, her only chance.

She padded silently along the beach; the crash of the waves masked her movements. She placed a gentle finger against Cian’s lips and his eyes sprang open. She rested her lips to his ear and whispered an impossible dream. If he refused, all was lost, but he didn’t. He nodded his understanding and set about waking the others.

She was the first to enter the hut, still as naked as the day she was born. Cian, and the rest, were right behind her. The battle was as quick as it was brutal. The slaves repaid every cruelty they endured, tenfold, but the Vikings didn’t go without a fight. When it was over, three of the slaves were dead, six survived. The victory had been so swift, and unexpected, none knew how to react, except Maeve. She simply walked into the night, blood dripping from her skin and her sword. 

The slaves spent the rest of the night feasting. Food is worth more than gold to a starving man. As dawn returned, so did Maeve. Her appearance stunned them all into silence. She wore a man’s shirt and pants, rolled up at the cuff's. Over this, she'd strapped a leather breastplate and a fur cloak. In this garb, she looked more man than woman. The sword hung from her belt, but what shocked them most was what hung from her hand. The decapitated head of the Viking Chief. None knew what to say. She stopped before them and spoke.

“You’re free men now. You can do as you wish.” 

“And what of their gold?” asked Cian, standing toward the front of the group with his arms folded over his hirsute chest.

“We divide it equally, every man a share,” she said, and the way she said it left little doubt that she was taking no other answer.

“Will you be going back to your village?” he asked.

She looked to the ocean, not wanting him to see he'd fathomed the question she could not yet answer. “Nothing good waits for me there.”

“Then, what will you do?”

“I was thinking of traveling,” she said, nodding at the boat. “If those creatures could do it, I’m sure I could," she said. But she knew such a life was dangerous. You either become fodder for pirates, or become a pirate yourself. Both invited death, but Maeve wasn't convinced life was worth all that much. Not after this. 

“You'd need a crew,” he said flatly. Pointing out a simple truth. Alone, she was going nowhere. She didn’t know what to say so she continued gazing to the horizon, the Viking Chief’s head dripping blood into the ocean waves swirling around her toes. Cian gathered the blanket he'd been sleeping on, then without comment, climbed aboard the boat and stowed it. One by one, the others did the same. They were throwing their lot in with her.

“Are you sure?” she asked, as the last man had his belongings in the boat.

“You fight like one of them…perhaps you can sail like them too,” said the cheeky whelp, jumping off the ship and into the water. "Let’s see what the demons left behind," he said, marching for the hut containing the dead Vikings. When they pushed the boat off the beach, only the stiffing bodies of the fallen remained behind. 

***

They rowed and sailed along the coast for a brace of days. The whole time, Maeve glowered at the ocean and thought. Inside, she wasn’t herself any more. They had broken her. Now she was a killer, like them, but felt no remorse. If she felt anything, it was rage and a lust for revenge. She'd seen Cian giving her compassionate looks, but he had the good sense to stray no further than that. As dusk fell on the second day, she called the crew to her.

“When they attacked my village, they failed to get the Priest’s gold. I think we can do better,” she said, sending a murmur of interest around the men. What she was suggesting was villainy, but that they had become accustomed to. 

“That tower is unbreachable. There is no way of getting in there,” said one of the slaves, resting his hands across his oar while he listened.

“I agree, if we try taking it the way they did, but I have a plan.” A guffaw of dismissal came from one but Cian grabbed him by the throat, and in doing so, grabbed the attention of all.

“Hear her out,” he said, and glared at the others. Maeve understood their hesitation. The jubilance of freedom probably influenced their decision to join her adventure, but they had since had two cold days at sea. She was still a woman, and if she was to lead them, she had to prove herself. They bent an ear her way and she laid out her plan.

“It just might work,” said one when she finished.

Then Cian acted. He shot to his feet and roared, "What are you waiting for? Get us turned about!” The crew set to the task with vigour. By morning, the wind was at their back and she was sailing for home.

Maeve offered to take turn at the oars, but the men wouldn’t have it. She insisted on playing her part, so she manned the rudder. As the cheeky boy on the beach predicted, she had a knack for reading the wind, and the swell. She kept the vessel surging ahead allowing the men a rest from rowing. The other task that occupied her time was a macabre one. Maeve carefully peeled the skin from the Viking Chief's skull, keeping it as intact as she could. Then she cured the inside with salt from their provisions. When Cian eventually asked the meaning of it, she didn’t reply. 

On the third day of sailing, she began to recognise the land, She ordered the sails reefed, then they rowed into a sheltered inlet. Maeve alone got off the ship; her weapons hanging from her belt, a Viking helmet on her head, and armour on her body. She cut an intimidating figure. The light was leaving the sky, but that wouldn't slow her. She knew this place like the back of her hand. Before going, she addressed the crew one last time. 

“Beyond that headland is a village, my village, and the gold the Vikings couldn’t get. When the moon is directly above the mast, make sail for the beach. Success will be ours.” The men nodded, and Maeve slipped into the dark.

At the appointed hour, they set sail, and rounded the headland. The ship was only a dozen strokes of their oars from shore when the alarm bell rang. Villagers came pouring from their huts, the last attack still fresh in their mind. As a herd, they rushed toward the monastery, and the tower. The crew didn’t even have to raise a blade in defence as they walked through the village. When they reached the graveyard, a mob of terrified people cried for help at the base of the tower, but the ladder had been already drawn. The door, high on the side, stood open.

As agreed, Cian and the crew paused on the edge of the clearing. They saw a burning torch appear in the door. It lit up the face of the Priest. The villagers believed they were saved, and rejoiced. In the dim light, they couldn’t see the man’s hands were tied behind his back, or the noose around his neck. Maeve urged him forward with the tip of her sword. When the mob saw her, they shrieked. She made a frightful figure, dressed in warriors’ clothes, and wearing a Viking Chief’s face as a mask.  

The crowd at the base of the tower fell quiet. Maeve’s voice carried to them, easily. “This man of God picked money, over mercy! He chose greed, over kindness! He chose himself, over you! He thinks he has the right to judge, but only God can judge.”

The crowd looked on in awe as the demon shoved the Priest into the night sky. The rope zipped after his falling body, snapping taunt five feet from the ground. They screamed as he danced the gallows jig.

“Prepare to be judged, Priest,” the figure in the tower roared and the crowd scattered in all directions. Sensing victory, Cian and his band advanced, war-axes drawn.

“Let them go,” cried Maeve, but rose her sword to single out one man. “Except him.” 

The howling man was dragged through the village by a red giant and a demon. The rest of their band were struggling under the weight of holy treasure.

“Bring him in here,” she said, and Cian dragged the man into the blacksmiths hut. The coals still glowed and the smoke added to their otherworldly appearance.

“What do you want of me,” he cried. “I have no money, no gold. Have mercy, please!”

“Hello Father,” said Maeve, taking off the Chief’s skin. Her face was smeared red and what hair remained on her head, stood in wild spikes.

“I thought you were dead,” he cried, reaching for her.

“I am dead, Father. Dead to you. You could have saved me,” she said, and found it hard to believe her words came out sounding so...calm. She looked at this pathetic figure and wondered why she had cowered to his word for so long. 

“It was the priest, not me, child,” he whinged, looking for sympathy.

“You should have remembered I was your child then.” Maeve said coldly and turned to the fire. She drew glowing iron from the coals. The giant wrapped his huge arms around the old man, and locked them tight.

“No! I’m your Father!” he cried, half pleading, half berating.

“You watched them rape me, Father. You watched and did nothing. A father’s eyes should never see such things,” she spat at him, driving the bar into his eyeball. It sizzled and popped, like an egg touching a hot pan. Without hesitation she repeated the act. The stench was like the fragrance of hell.

***

As the boat pulled away from the beach, Maeve knew she would never see this place again. Her family were gone, and replaced by a pirate gang. She gazed on the dwindling village, lit by the flames leaping from the roof of the forge, and felt massive hands rest gently on her shoulder. Her revenge had been realised, but it had taken a toll. A sob reached her lips and he took her in his arms. He held her gently, shielding her from the world, giving his madden a safe place to cry.

Blog Hopping

Hello everyone. The wonderful Teagan Kearney has invited me to take part in a blog hop. Don't go racing off for your gym gear just yet, it's not as energetic as it first sounds. This wonderful idea allows us to share bloggers we enjoy reading. As part of it I have to answer a few questions but I will try and keep that bit short.

To begin with, I would like to thank the lady who was so kind as to include me in her nominations
Teagean Kearney. - http://writingmynovelnoworkingtitleyet.blogspot.com

Teagan is a writer of mainstream fiction but her blog is a constant source of helpful advice and tips for aspiring authors. I have always found Teagan to be wonderful at interacting with bloggers and writers she encounters on her journey through G+. Her posts are crafted to perfection and an inspiration to read

The Famous Four

Before I share the four bloggers I am tagging in this Blog Hop, I want to cheat a little bit. I want to name check a few people that could, and should, be included here if only I were allowed.

Mr A Long - the undisputed master of verse. He would have been first on my list except for the fact he has already been tagged by someone else. Mr Glendon Perkins who has some of the best storytelling on the web if you ask me but has taken a step away from his blog to concentrate on more intensive projects.

Other people that are so worth checking out are Jess Bell, Ben Roach, Francine Hirst, M.Macca, Amy Glamos, Doug Phillips, Tammy Knott and Peter Noah Thomas (Only the tip of a huge iceberg of wonderful people I have come across on G+ in the last eight months) I would have loved to tag you all.

Drum Roll Please.....

Mr M.A Barr 

http://mabarrjournal.blogspot.com

It has always amazed me how he can get so much happening into just a hundred words. His post swing from humour to horror but always ring completely true. Everytime I open one of his posts I closed it richer than I began.

Ms Karie Thoma

http://fictionalcatterflymusings.blogspot.com

Karie from near New York, USA, was one of the very first people to welcome me to G+ and interact with me on my blog. Along with AJ and Glendon, Karie did more to encourage me to keep blogging than anyone else. I have read with interest as Karie experimented with different styles, moving from writing about her childhood, through fiction and recently onto some fantastic poems. Not all of her work goes on her blog, she is kind enough to share some directly onto G+ but to me that is the same thing.

Ms Grace Jolliffe

http://www.practicalcreativewriting.com

http://www.ballyyahoo.com

Grace is a lady which seems to have boundless energy. She is not only a published author but she shares kids stories about a fictional Irish village called Ballyyhoo as well as fantastic photos of the west coast of Ireland. You could find Grace blogging about nearly anything, from writing to reed weaving. She is truly a woman of many talents.

Mrs Jo Robinson

http://africolonialstories.wordpress.com

Jo is all the way from the beautiful South Africa, or just round the corner in Google Terms. Jo is a writer of Sci-fi/ fantasy as well as Mainstream literature.  I first came across Jo on the community Readers Meet Authors and Bloggers. of which Jo is the owner. Unlike many communities Jo actively engauges with people who are members, giving advice and help to those of us just getting started. Since that first meeting Jo has been a constant joy to read, bringing the heat of the African nation into my life on a regular basis.

A Bit About Me.

As part of the blog hop there are four questions to be answered about my writing, here we go.

What are you working on?

The main challenge I have set myself at the moment is a longer story. I wanted to see how long I can keep a good plot going. I know most of these are stuffed away in hard drives but being a bit foolish I decided to do my first attempt in public and in real time writing. It is called Honeysuckle Lane and I have up to chapter 15 on the blog to date. Other than that - a pirate story for Lucie and the gang is coming along.

How does your work differ from others in the Genre?
I am not sure I have a genre. I don't think of myself as a writer or an author. I hope I am a story teller. People tell them to me, I tell them to you, sometimes I make them up. If you get a fraction of the enjoyment from reading them as I get from writing them I will die a happy man.

Why do you write what you write?
Since I was a kid I loved stories and making up stories. I was about eight, I wrote a story for my English homework about a spy, stuck on a mountain, in a snow storm. I though it was great. I remember how upset I was with the teacher when all she wanted to talk about was the spelling mistakes. "But did you read the story?" I kept asking her. I still write for the very same reason, I love it.

How does your writing process work?
It might be a photo, a word, a casual remark or something I see. A tiny speck that seems to get sucked into my brain for some unknown reason. Once there I run it round and round, twisting and turning it until I can see the start middle and end of the story in big blocks.

After that I just sit at the keyboard and lit it fly. I don't worry about structure, spelling or anything. Then I leave it sit. When I have forgotten what I wanted to write I go back and read it. Mostly I change nearly everything. I might do this a few times. The last time I change the font the size and background, then read it again. This time I will notice more things that need changing. The last time I read it out loud like I am on stage. I will find more that need changing. At some point you have to press the print button. Hope to God and let it fly.



So, there you have it. I want thank everyone that has ever read one of my stories. Hug's to all that have taken the time to leave a plus, letting me know you have been for a visit. My eternal gratitude is laid before the special people who have taken the time to type a few kind words in reply. 

Yours sincerely

Squid McFinnigan 

Mike's Bloody Cast

Mike’s Bloody Cast

Uncle Mike spend nearly six months twirling in that bed. He was so sea sick when they took him off it, he would have rivalled any sailor in a wobbly walking contest. If he could walk at all that was. All the doctors were amazed at Mike's recovery, it was nearly supernatural.

"Thank God that's over, Doc," said Mike, as the orderlies were undoing the straps that had kept him in place, for nearly half a year.

"You've done great Mike, but you still have a way to go. We're putting you in a cast. You'll have to take it easy for a good while yet. Your bones have knitted, but they’re still very weak."

"Slap her on Doc, and let’s get this show on the road. Rita is driving up in the van to get me."

The doctor started laughing, "You're going nowhere in a van, or a car for that matter."

"How the hell am I getting back to Killblaney? I don't think you'll land a chopper in me yard."

"Were sending you home by ambulance."

"Ah that's daft Doc, there is nothing wrong with me. It's just a cast. I was going to have a go at driving home myself, I can feel my feet just fine."

"Now that is daft, Mike. You can’t walk, there is no way you can drive."

"I wouldn't be walking, Doc I’d be sitting. Once I get old Betsy into fourth gear, all I need do is guide her home. After all, it's downhill from Dublin to there."

The consultant started laughing again, "Don't count on sitting much either."

"What do you mean by that?" Mike called, after the consultant as he walked toward the door.

"You'll see," said the doctor, over his shoulder and left the ward.

When Mike was wheeled from the plaster room, he knew exactly why the doctor was laughing. From his neck to his waist, he was completely encased in a rock hard tube of plaster. His hands were jutting out of his body at a thirty degree angles, and braced with timber struts. The nurse that had applied the cast had been so quick, Uncle Mike told her if she ever got sick of the job, she could always come plastering for him.

Uncle Mike was laid out in the ambulance, like a pole-axed scarecrow. Rita tried to keep up in the overheating van, as they journeyed south. He was uncomfortable, but Mike felt great to be headed home after so long, discomfort was a small price to pay. When Mike got home, they had a bed ready for him in the sitting room, there was no way he was going to manage the stairs. Uncle Mike didn't think it was too bad actually, close to the fridge and the TV, what else could a man want. Over the next few days, he found a few other things that would fill his dreams.

 The first of these is to be able to go to the bathroom by himself. It was embarrassing. But the real bane of his life was growing by the day, it was quite literally, an itch he couldn't scratch.

"Rita!" he called, from the sitting room. "Rita, bring a clothes hanger."

 She left the spuds she was pealing and went into the sitting room. There was Mike wiggling around as much as he could. His face scrunched up in annoyance.

"What do you want a clothes hanger for?" she asked.

"I have a flipping itch, it's driving me crazy." Rita threw her eyes to heaven, but went to rummage in her wardrobe. It just so happened, shortly after that, Father Tom decided to call. The priest knocked on the door but got no answer. He could hear the sound of the TV coming from the sitting room, as well as voices. Father Tom tried the door and found it open. Back in those days, it wasn’t unusual to find a door locked. Friends and neighbours often wandered in for a chat. Father Tom stepped into the hall. From the semi opened sitting room door came the sound of voices

"Oh God - yes, Rita. That's lovely pet, a bit harder," Mike said. Father Tom's hand hovered over the handle.

"How does that feel?" a woman's voice.

"Fecken haven , shove it in a bit further will you."

"Is that enough?"

"That's it. That's IT! Harder, Whooho , Faster."

Father Tom's hand fell away from the handle. He backed out of the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. Father Tom hurried away, red faced. If he had only opened the door he would have seen Rita, itching Uncle Mikes back under the cast using an unravelled clothes hanger.

Over the following weeks, Uncle Mike was visited daily by a physiotherapist. He felt the exercises she had him doing, were far too easy. Mike was an all or nothing kind of guy, he was the kind of man that would use a cannon to swat a fly. One day, after the Physio had left, Mike decided to take things into his own hands. He sent one of the kids get his brother PJ.  Rita arrived back home to find PJ, and the kids, hoisting Uncle Mike out of the bed.

"What the hell is going on." she asked.

"I'm getting out of this bed. Are you going to stand there shouting at us, or give us a hand?"

With Rita and PJ pulling, the three kids pushing from the back, Mike was levered to his feet. His knees wobbled under the unaccustomed strain. Rita and PJ had to take most of his weight. With all his might, Uncle Mike forced his legs to take the strain. Little by little, they let Mike stand alone, shakily, but standing. With rivers of sweat running down his face, Mike forced a smile, "See. Easy."

After that, Mike was helped up on his feet again and again. His legs taking the weight better each time. The next time the Physio visited, Mike called for Rita to help him up. When the Physio saw what they were going to do, she went pale.

"Hang on, you can’t do that," she said to Rita.

"Tell him not me," said Rita, helping Mike swing himself out of the bed. With just a little pull he was on his feet.

"What do you think of that," said Mike, beaming from ear to ear.

The Physio looked on, slack jawed. "There is no way you should be standing Mike. It's not possible." Once she had the chance to get over her shock, she advised Mike that he should not push things to quickly, or he might end up undoing all the good he had done. She had no idea who she was dealing with. Uncle Mike had decided he had enough of laying around, and once my Uncle Mike got something into his head, nothing was going to stand in his way.

Soon, Mike was able to get up by himself, and began taking his first shuffling steps. The sound of crashing ornaments became common place, as he stumbled around the house, with stiff arms and stiffer legs. One afternoon, Rita arrived home to find Mike flat on his back in the middle of the kitchen.

"Holy God, Mike, are you ok? What happened?"

"I went left, but my legs went right, I'm grand girl."

"Did you hurt yourself? Should I call Dr Carey?"

"I didn't feel a thing. This cast is like an all over crash helmet. Just give the lads a call to lift me up."

With PJ on the way over to give a hand, Mike had no choice but to stay where he was until he got there. Rita got on with putting away the shopping. They chatted away as if it was the most normal thing in the world, Rita having to walk around Mike as she went about her chores. When PJ arrived he found Rita sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, Mike lying on the floor with his mug sitting beside his head, sipping the milky tea through a straw, chatting away about Granny Begley's missing chickens.

"Hey - about time You-sir, get me up for feck sake." Mike called, when PJ walked into the kitchen.

"Don't I get a cup of tea first? It's not like you’re going anywhere."

"Stop you messing and get me up."

"Come on Rita, Coronation Street is starting on the telly, Leave that grumpy old bollocks where he is," said PJ, taking Mikes cup of tea and heading for the sitting room with a smiling Rita following on behind.

"Lads, Hey. Don't leave me here Ah come-on!" called Mike. Inside the sitting room PJ and Rita stifled laughter. It was not often, you got one over on Uncle Mike, so they were going to enjoy it.

As months passed, Mike made extraordinary leaps forward. He was able to get up by himself and walk around the house. You have to understand that Mike was in constant discomfort, but battled through willing himself to get back on his feet. The more mobile he got, the itchier the cast became. About once an hour, you were guaranteed to hear, "This bloody cast," as Mike struggled to reach itchy areas, with a succession of kitchen implements. His reinforced upper arms were making a difficult job, impossible.

One afternoon Rita walked in on Mike getting one of the kids to saw through the timber struts with a hand saw. Once his hands had been freed from the plaster prison the true destruction began. As the days rolled by more holes appeared in his cast. It wasn't long before Mike settled himself into the driver seat of the Digger and powered it up. The shuddering and shaking had the most unusual effect on Uncle Mike. It eased the pain in his back and actually rattled the itch away. From that day on when Mike was awake, you would find him rumbling around in his digger, even when there was no work to be done.

Rita and Mike called round to Granny Begley's for a visit shortly before he was due to get the cast off. In the back yard, PJ had a rust riddled Ford Escort up on blocks, trying to fit it with a new exhaust pipe. Mike was wearing a shirt over his cast, which was a shadow of its former self. Firstly it was never going to be white again. Engine oil and gear grease had permanently blackened the cast. Holes had appeared here and there in the body but the neck and base of the cast looked like giant rats had been nibbling on it. Uncle Mike couldn’t resist the lure of a car on blocks, and soon found himself in the back yard. Rita and Granny Begley watched from the kitchen window as he wiggled his cast clad body under the jacked up front of the car. PJ was feeding the new exhaust pipe along the clamps from the back.

Now, the brothers loved each other but like most brothers, they also drove each other a little crazy at times. It was not long before the voices in the back yard began to raise in volume and tone.

"What the feck are you doing back there," came from the car near Mike’s legs.

"Shut up and just get the pipe screwed on," called PJ from the boot end of the car where his legs were kicking like a dying fish.

"Shove it closer," called Mike.

"I'm pushing it," called PJ back.

"Push it harder!" yelled Mike.

"I'm pushing the fucking thing, it’s stuck!"

"Hang on, Hang on, I see the problem. It’s caught in a hole in my bloody cast." 

I don't think the two sweating men found it funny but everyone in the kitchen thought it was hilarious.

The End.

The greats of Irish Rock



 

The Legends of Rock

Phil Lynott

 

 

I must admit to being a huge fan of rock music, more specifically Irish Rock. Two men dominated my early musical life, Garry Moore and Phil Lynott.  This was later reinforced by meeting and coming friendly with Brush Shiels. Brush is an amazing man, one of the true individuals still existing in an industry bending all to conform to a stereotype. I have seen Brush perform live on many occasions. No matter what crowd he is faced with, from bikers to blue rinse old biddies, he always gets the crowd going. The sad thing is that I never got the chance to see his great friends play with him. Although I feel I have touched greatness through his stories.


 Brush Shiels

Phil joined Brush in founding a band called Skid Row. At this stage Phil sang lead but did not play any instruments. It was not long before Phil was having trouble with maintaining key and pitch, it was down to his tonsils.  Phil had to take a break from the band.

 

Garry Moore was born in Belfast and joined Skid Row replacing a member that went to work full time in the Guinness brewery. When Phil recovered, his spot in the band had been taken. Brush felt bad and offered to teach him to play the guitar. Thinking the base would be easier he sold Phil a Fender base for £36 Irish pounds and the rest is history.

 

Garry Moore

Phil would later go on to front one of the greatest rock bands ever to come out of Ireland, Thin Lizzy. Garry Moore and Phil Lynott continued to work together for many years and would later collaborate on an album called Out in the Fields resulting in the amazing piece of music I want to share with you tonight. The great tragedy of this story is that Phil Lynott passed away on the 4th Jan 1986 and Garry Moore was taken from this world in Christmas 2012. Two legends in the truest sense. I will always regret not seeing them live. It is all the more remarkable to remember that they were producing music of this vibrancy as far back as the late 1960's. It seems just as fresh to my ears today. I hope you take a little over six minutes to enjoy this video, you wont be sorry.

Parisienne Walkways - Garry Moore / Phil Lynott (Live)

Swings & Roundabouts for Mike

Swings and Roundabouts for Mike

Uncle Mike’s first night in hospital felt like a giant game of pass the parcel. He was shipped from emergency room, to X-ray, to intensive care, and back to X-ray again. Even though the doctors were all being very nice, Mike could feel the nervousness in the air. Mike was strapped to his bed by so many restraining straps, he felt like Gulliver, in the land of Lilliput. Mike’s eyelids had just closed for a few moments, when the breakfast trolley woke him up, again. No wonder there was so many sick people in hospital, thought Mike, no one could get a wink of sleep.

"Hey, nurse. Any chance of a cup of tea?"

"Sorry Mike, we can’t give you anything, until the surgeon has been to see you," she said, giving breakfast to the guy in the next bed. The smell was torture, he was starving, but he was always starving.

"Go on. A sneaky cup of tea, no one will know," Mike said, winking, and wiggling his fingers at her.

"Would you stop it," she said, slapping his fingers, but giving him a little smile. He still didn't get any tea. A little after ten, a tall doctor in his fifties arrived, with a load of younger doctors trailing behind him. He looked like a mammy duck leading her ducklings to water. Mike could see him outside the ward speaking to his group. After a few minutes, the tall doctor came in alone, leaving all his little ducklings clustered around the door.

"Good morning, Mr Beagly. I'm Kenny O'Regan, your consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon."

"That's mighty, Doc, I didn't even know I had an orthopaedic. Did I break it?"

The surgeon laughed, "Actually you did, Mr Beagly."

"Call me Mike, Doc," he said. "I would shake hands, but I am a bit tied up."

"It's great to keep a sense of humour, Mike, but this situation is very serious. By some miracle you have avoided any major damage to internal organs, but your spine has been fractured along your fifth thoracic vertebrae. You have been very lucky, actually. It’s a compression fracture which has not dislocated, but still might. The long and short of it is this, one jolt or movement in the wrong direction, and you may never walk again."

"So, you’re telling me, I'll be fine."

"I didn’t say that, Mike, but it could be a hell of a lot worse. You’re not out of the woods, yet. We need to move you to a special unit in Dublin."

"No way, Doc, why can’t you look after me here? Dublin is too far from Rita and the kids."

"Your treatment is too complex, Mike."

"I really don't want to go, Doctor, and anyway, going all that way in an ambulance will kill me. I think I would be better off, staying where I am."

"You're going nowhere by ambulance, Mike. We'll be sending you by helicopter."

Only for the fact he was tied to the bed, Mike would have shot straight out of it. "A chopper, are you serious?"

Doctor O'Regan laughed, "Of course I am, Mike."

A frown creased Mike's forehead, "Do I have to pay for it?"

"No Mike, it’s on the house. Are you up for a trip, so?"

"Count me in, Doc, are we going now?"

"Not just yet, Mike. Do you mind if my students come and review the details of your case? We don't often get cases like yours, plenty of broken bones, but you're a little special."

"No problem, Doc. I am well used to teaching youngsters a thing or two." Dr O'Regan beckoned to the group, and they filed into the room, surrounding the bed.

Uncle Mike took them all in, giving them a huge grin. "Jesus, lads, would you crack a smile," he said to the group, "or I’ll think ‘tis a wake you've come for." Uncle Mike pointed a finger in the direction of a tall ginger-haired intern. "Hey, freckles, are you one of the Cunninghams?" The young doctor blushed, as the rest of the group laughed at him.

"No, Mr Begley, My name is Sweeney."

"There is a breed of a Cunningham in you. You’re the spitting head of them."

"I assure you, I am all Sweeney," said the mortified young man, his face as red as his hair.

"Fair enough," said Mike, turning his attention to the group in general. "What do you lot want to know, first?"

The trainee doctors again gave a little sniggered, again, Doctor O'Regan turned to Mike, "Why don't I get them started?"

"Fair enough Doc, give me a shout if you get stuck on anything." More laughter flowed from the gathered students.

It was later that afternoon when they came to get Mike ready for his trip to Dublin. Once again strapped to a backboard, he was wheeled out to the car park, when the helicopter was due to arrive. Rita was there, to see him off. Two orderlies and a nurse were also alongside, to help with the loading.

"Do you think they will fly over the house, Rita?"

"Why don't you ask them?"

"I’d love to have a go at flying one.  Hey - I think I can hear it coming. Can you see it, Rita?"

"It's off over there," Rita said, pointing behind Mike’s head.

"Hey, hey, hey, lads, will you twist me around, so I can have a look at it?"

The orderlies pushed Mike’s bed in a circle, making the nurse that was holding his drip go with them. The problem was, while Mike was making a circle, the helicopter was circling, as well.

"Keep going, you nearly had him," encouraged Mike, as the whole team danced a merry circle in the middle of the car park. Eventually both the massive Sea King Helicopter, and Mike’s trolley, came to a rest.

"Sweet baby Jesus, look at the size of the thing," Mike gasped. "How the feck can it stay up in the air?"

"You're not getting nervous, Mike?" asked one of the orderlies.

"Not on your nelly, lads, get me hooked up and let’s get going."

The nurse smiled at Rita, as Mike was being strapped into the back of the helicopter. "It's a blessing, if you ask me," she said, rather cryptically.

"What is?" asked Rita.

"Being a little innocent," she said, nodding towards Mike, wiggling his fingers and smiling wildly "There he is, perhaps never to walk again, and all he can think about, is taking a ride in a helicopter."

Rita smiled, and said, "You could be right," wondering to herself whether the pot was calling the kettle black.

The orderlies and the chopper crew settled Mike in, while Rita and the nurse watched on from a safe distance. After a few minutes, Mike’s voice rose above the high pitched whine of the aircraft engine. "Rita!" Not many voices could be heard above the whirring Rolls Royce Engine, but Mike managed.

"What is it, Mike?"

"The driver fella said he will swing by the house, on the way to Dublin. Will you ring the kids and tell them to be looking out for us?"

"Okay, Mike," said Rita.

"Tell them to take a photo for the album."

"I will, Mike. I’ll see you on the weekend," said Rita, leaning in to give him a kiss. She couldn’t help but feel a little queasy, at the thought of him being up in the air in this thing. It was insane, but the nurse might be right. There he was, broken back, good chance of being crippled for life, small chance of dying in a huge ball of flames, and Mike was the happiest she could ever remember seeing him.

"Don't worry girl, I will be right as rain in a few days," Mike said, as they closed the sliding doors, and the engine began to build in pitch. Rita and the hospital crew retreated, as the blades of the helicopter began to whir through the air. Before the wheels left the ground, the noise was deafening. The huge machine inched into the sky, twisting away into the evening sunset.

***

True to his word, the captain of the coastguard helicopter diverted over Killblany, but the picture was never captured. Back in those days, it took longer for Rita to reach a phone, than it took the helicopter to reach Killblany. The kids actually did hear it, and even saw the huge red and white aircraft hovering over the house, before peeling off to the north east. If only they knew their father was in it, waving his fingers at them. The flight from Cork to Dublin only lasted about forty minutes, but it was a highlight of Uncle Mike’s life. In direct comparison, the next three months were some of the hardest days he ever faced.

When Mike arrived at the Rehabilitation Centre, he was prodded and poked for hours. Eventually he was strapped into a huge circler bed. It rotated constantly. For the first few days, Mike couldn't sleep, between the pain and the constant movement, it was agony. On the third day, exhaustion took over, and Mike passed out. Round and round and round Mike went, never stopping, except for more poking and prodding.

A sour faced old matron ruled the ward with an iron fist. Mike called her, “Sister Tank”, as he could feel her coming, long before he saw her. Back in those days, patients were allowed to smoke on the wards. Mike was very fond of his fags, as was the guy in the bed to his left. His skinny neighbour was a spotty-faced joy rider. Mike was glad this little runt was more or less, confined to his wheelchair. Otherwise, nothing would have been safe from his sticky fingers. The joy rider had crashed a car into a street lamp, while being chased by seven squad cars. He was on his way home from a night of ram raiding, when he bumped into a copper’s roadblock. He was very proud of the fact it took seven squads to corner him, and told Mike on several occasions, that if he had not swerved to avoid that dog, it would have taken another ten. The wreck left him paralysed from the chest down, and shaky from the chest up.  The man in the bed to Mike's right was even worse, six hours a day he had to inhale pure oxygen, or he would just pass out. During these times, no one on the ward was allowed smoke.

A few weeks in, it all got too much for the joy rider, he drove at the man in the right hand bed with a flaming lighter in his shaking hand, and cursing with the lack of nicotine.

"Hey, you maniac, you'll blow the whole fecking place up," Mike said, but the joy rider advanced on the oxygen tent like some demented, shuddering, suicide bomber.

"Sister, sister, SISTER!" yelled Mike.

Nurse tank managed to turn off the manic joy rider’s chair, just on the point of mass destruction. She lashed the Dublin byo, with the sharpest edge of her tongue.

"Smoking is doing none of you any good, and is a filthy habit," was her parting shot.

Later that day, Uncle Mike was having a particularly uncomfortable time, he was given extra pain medication which helped him sleep. Mike came round in the early hours of the morning. Anyone that has ever smoked will understand that one of the first things that crosses a smokers mind when they wake up, is having a smoke. Uncle Mike was no different. As unhappy circumstances would have it Mike’s bed was rotating away from his bedside locker, when he woke. Mike waited and waited until the bed came around and lined up with his locker again. Mike groped in the drawer, but his fingers couldn’t find the cigarettes. He searched with blind fingers but before he could find the cigarette box, his fingers were dragged away by the rotating bed.

Mike had to wait an agonising hour before the bed again reached the bedside table. This time Mike wasn’t going to be outdone. He stretched as far as he could and delved his hand into the drawer’s depths. He just could not find his fags. As the bed began to rotate away Mikes sleeve got caught on drawer knob. Mike pulled, but this only got him more entangled. Mike felt the drag across the chest increase, as the weight of the bedside locker dragged on his pyjamas. In a sicking moment, the locker left the ground bringing with it the bedside light, water jug and bottles of Lucozade left by visiting relatives. The crashing of glass bottles brought sister Tank running down the corridor.

"Mr Beagley, what is going on here?" cried sister tank, from the door.

Uncle Mike twirled through the air entwined with the bedside locker. What could he say to explain what had happened besides the truth. "Just looking for my fag's sister."

It took a good twenty minutes to get the room back to normal. After the near firebombing and attempted destruction of a ward, it came as no surprise when Sister Tank confiscated all cigarettes, issuing them to the patents one at a time after meals. Only my Uncle Mike could cause so much trouble, while completely strapped to a bed.

You can get all of Uncle Mike's story in one place, along with the combined tales of Father Tom. Hope you enjoy them.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Misadventures-Father-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2