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                 Let Me Tell You a Story

If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!                                                                Return to Athenry
 Foreward

Most of you will have heard the song 'The Fields of Athenry'. I've often wondered as to what became of the  characters in the song. Nobody really knows. However, I would like to think that what you are about to read could have been the outcome of the hero's and villains. I'll let you be the judge of my fantasy.

Chapter 1 – A cruel Eviction   

A chill wind blew from across the bay. Mary pulled the threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders to protect the precious bundle she held close to her chest. She was not alone. On the grassy knoll that overlooked the bay, a small number of grieving wives and sweethearts had gathered in the hopes of one last sighting of companions, who for their ‘crimes’ had been sentenced to deportation to Botany Bay in Australia.
As the prison ship sailed slowly out of the bay, an anguished voice from the vessel called out in Gaelic, ‘Farewell my darling until we meet again. Now you must raise our child in dignity.’ Mary was sure it was her husband Michael who was calling to ease her pain at this sad time. It may well have been, although the same thought was also adding some comfort to the motley assembly who were gathered around her, many holding infants in their arms.
How had it come to this? It seemed like only yesterday that she, Michael and baby Rory had been so happy in the small but neat little cottage in the grounds of Michael’s employer, Charles Edward Trevelyan.
Although the 1840’s were hard times in Ireland, Michael considered himself fortunate to have paid work. He was employed as a farrier and blacksmith on the Trevelyan estate, where his main duties were looking after the many working and thoroughbred horses that were the pride and joy of his employer. Although his pay for working a 14-hour day was a mere pittance, the one saving grace was the tiny one-bedroomed cottage and a small plot of land that came with the job.
With a gathering tear in her eye, Mary recalled those memorable but fleeting moments, when after a hard day’s work, she and Michael would sit at the back step with Rory in his makeshift cradle, watching the setting sun and waving at the wee birds flying home to roost for the night. As the sun slowly set beyond the distant hills, Mary’s lilting voice could often be heard as she gently rocked the cradle and sang an old Gaelic lullaby to her dark-haired new born son. Yet sadly, such poignant recollections would never more be repeated. Michael was gone and so was the wee thatched cottage that had held such happy memories for the little family - So how had it come to this? Why had fate bestowed such a cruel blow on them……?

Michael was busy shoeing one of Trevelyan’s thoroughbred mares, when through the open smithy door, he caught sight of young Jacob Trevelyan dismounting from his horse, where he then began to thrash it cruelly with his whip. Michael observed this brutal treatment and was appalled at what he was witnessing. Whatever that horse had done it certainly didn’t deserve to be treated in such a pitiless manner. 
As the blows continued to rain down, the beaten animal reared up and kicked out at its uncaring assailant. Michael immediately dropped his hammer and rushed to prevent his master’s son from what could have been fatal blows from those flaying hooves from the crazed animal. He gripped the youth by the scruff of the neck, grabbed the bloodstained whip from his hand and pulled him unceremoniously out of harm’s way.
‘Get your grimy hands off me you stupid, ignorant man,’ was Michael’s verbal reward for his efforts to save the boy from the distraught stallion, still lashing out in all directions.
‘Now young Jacob, you should know better. What has that horse ever done to you that you should treat it so cruelly. I’ve a good mind to tell your father about your actions on this day,’
‘Tell me what?’ came the raised voice of Jacob’s father, who had been disturbed by the rude commotion coming from the smithy. Before Michael could reply to his master’s command, young Jacob blurted out,
‘Oh papa! You arrived just in time. I caught Michael whipping the poor horse and when I told him to stop, I swear he was about to whip me as well’.
‘The boy is a liar,’ cried Michael in his defence of Jacob’s damning outburst. ‘It was he who was doing the whipping until I pulled him aside.’
‘Are you calling my son a liar, you ignorant Irish peasant?’ Was Trevelyan’s response to his servant.
‘That I am sir, and a spoiled brat he is as well. He knows damn well what happened here. Ask him to speak the truth I beg you.’ Trevelyan paused at Michael’s words and looked meaningfully at his son.
‘Is this true Jacob? Was it you whipping the horse?’ Jacob’s next words heralded Michael’s cruel and unjust fate.
‘Tis not I holding the whip now, is it papa?’
Trevelyan’s rage was fearsome to behold. He ordered Michael to pick up his tools and get off his land for what he now believed to be the truth as spoken by his son. This was a harsh enough blow, but what happened next was cruel beyond understanding.
‘And be out of my cottage by sundown. You are no longer in my employ and therefore there is no right for you and your family to continue to live there.’
As Michael trudged wearily back to the little cottage to tell Mary the terrible news of their enforced eviction, he found that Trevelyan’s men were already there. Mary, with Rory in her arms, was sobbing loudly as the ruffians emptied the cottage of what few chattels they owned. Michael told her as best he could as how it had come to this as he loaded the little handcart with their meagre belongings.
‘Oh Michael, where are we to spend the night and where shall we live after today?’ she sobbed uncontrollably. Michael had no answer for his wife as they trudged wearily away from their erstwhile home. They had no real friends or relatives that could possibly offer them lodging and as the rain began to fall, they sought shelter under overhanging trees in one of the many fields around the little town of Athenry….
Many days were spent seeking food and lodging but to no avail. These were the ‘Hungry Times’ and most of the town’s residents were struggling to feed and clothe themselves. They had little sympathy with the young destitute family, many believing that they had brought this disaster on themselves due to the foolish actions of Michael, wicked gossip spread by Trevelyan’s cohorts.
They had little choice but to continue living in the shelter of the overhanging trees. Michael had done his best to make it a little more habitable by building a crude hut out of wood scraps and an old tarpaulin sheet. Their biggest problem now was getting food. With no income they had resorted to begging from the townsfolk, who were in many cases not much better off than them - and their rewards were sparse indeed.
Then came the time, when after another fruitless search for employment, Michael returned to their crude lodging to find Mary in tearful distress and Rory crying with hunger as there was nothing for them to eat. The anger boiling inside Michael stripped all vestiges of common sense from his brain, to be replaced by irrational thought and with one overriding mission now - to get food for his family – by any means possible.
The moon had vanished behind a bank of cloud as Michael swiftly and silently scaled the high wall around the Trevelyan estate. His objective, to raid the grain storage barn that he knew was always filled with wheat, corn and barley. He was determined that his wife and child would dine royally that night.

The next chapter will be pubished at our next update

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                      The Dying of the Light

Day 1   
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.

Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.

Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.

Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.

Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!

If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.