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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 2 – The trial and sentence   

The lock on the barn door proved no obstacle to Michael’s trusty hammer. Two mighty blows shattered the lock and seconds later Michael was inside the grain store. The barn was full to overflowing with sacks of oats, barley and corn. Michael shook his head in dismay. Many of the townsfolk were on the brink of starvation and yet here was grain enough to feed an army. But Trevelyan, an English peer, had other plans for his harvest. Michael picked up a sack of corn on which was attached a shipping label – It was destined to be dispatched to Bristol, as were most of the other sacks stacked in the barn.
Michael’s fury knew no bounds at the injustice and greed of his former master. He was not an educated man but had sense enough to release that men such as Trevelyan cried no tears for those who could not pay for his rich harvest, when there were those across the water who could pay handsomely. Angry as he was, he was quick to reason that this was not his fight. He was here to ensure that his wife and child would wake with full bellies in the morn.
He shouldered the bulging sack of corn and quickly ran from the barn with his booty. It was a pity that he had not picked up his hammer. It now lay on the barn floor for all to see….
Michael, Mary and Rory dined royally that evening. Maybe it was only corn mash but to them it had all the hallmarks of ambrosia – and they slept well – that is until their makeshift shelter fell about them with the addition of wild savage cries from angry men.
‘Get thee up Michael Cleary, ye brazen thief ye,’ was the command. ‘You’ve got a date with the Constabulary so ye have.’ Michael quickly came to his senses, realizing that these were Trevelyan’s thugs, who somehow had discovered that he was responsible for the break in and theft of the corn from the grain store. They were not men of peace and Michael realized that the situation could turn violent. He reached for his hammer to defend himself and his family and realized with horror that it was not in its usual place. It dawned on him that he had carelessly left it in the barn as he fled with the corn.
‘Looking for this you thieving spalpeen,’ laughed the leading thug as he held up the carelessly discarded hammer.
‘Tis not mine,’ Michael pleaded. ‘There are hundreds of hammers like that one,’ he added beseechingly.
‘Aye, that’s as maybe, but not with the initials MC carved into the handle.’ It was at that point that Michael realized that the game was up and he would now have to suffer the consequences of his foolish but desperate actions…
Michael was led to the local courthouse in chains from the town jail, where he had been confined for the past month and ushered into the dock. It was ironic that he looked so healthy as, unlike most of the townsfolk, he had been reasonably well fed in his prison while awaiting trial.
The little courthouse was packed with mainly the curious townspeople, although there was more than a few of Trevelyan’s henchmen occupying many of the front benches. Michael’s crime of stealing the corn was read out. When asked to plead he had no other option but to admit to the offence.
‘Before I pass sentence on you,’ said the stern-faced judge. ‘Have you anything to say in mitigation of your foolish actions?’ Michael told of the harsh conditions that he and his young family had been forced to live in, and that obtaining food had been nigh on impossible, leaving him no other choice, despite the possible consequences, of taking the foolish action that he did. There were sympathetic sighs from many in attendance that the judge could not help but hear.
‘I’m inclined to show mercy on this wretched man, who believed that, despite the knowledge of realizing that he was doing wrong, the feeding of his wife and child became uppermost in his mind and all reason deserted him.’
‘That’s as maybe your honour,’ came a voice from the assembly. It was Charles Trevelyan himself. ‘The lout showed no mercy when in my employ, he almost whipped my horse to death for no good reason apart from his own wicked nature.
The judge was visibly shaken by this outburst and it was obvious from his demeanour that coming from a peer of the realm, he could not ignore its significance. With his anger plain to see, he turned to Michael.
‘You are indeed a wicked and conniving scoundrel Michael Cleary, who almost fooled this court with your show of insincere piety. For your wicked transgressions, I now sentence you to seven years servitude in Her Majesty’s penal colony in Botany Bay in the country of Australia. And if you ever return to these shores, then I hope and pray that it will be as a transformed and better man – Take him down...’
They were but 2 days out to sea when a great calamity occurred. A vital metal part of the steering mechanism failed and there was no replacement. The ship was now at the mercy of strong winds and a stormy sea whilst sailing across the Bay of Biscay. The crew did all in their power to repair the broken part but to no avail. There was a very real threat that being unable to steer the ship, it would founder on rocks that were close by with the obvious consequences. In desperation the captain assembled the prisoners and explained the problem they were facing. He then asked if there was anyone among them who had worked with metal? At first there was silence as many were of the opinion that volunteering for anything was not always a good idea. That is until the captain added that unless we fix the steering mechanism, there is a good chance that we will be driven onto the rocks and probably all drown in these raging waters.
There was a murmuring among the prisoners and Michael, realizing that most of the prisoners could not even swim, reluctantly raised his hand.
‘I worked as a blacksmith for many years sir and may be able to assist,’ he informed the relieved captain.
‘Come then and I’ll show you the problem,’ the captain replied.
Michael shook his head ruefully as he examined the broken part.
‘There’s no way that this can be repaired sir,’ Michael explained. ‘However, I was allowed to bring my tools and may just be able to make you a part that will do the job,’ he added.
‘How in God’s name can you possibly do that?’ replied the captain. ‘We have no metal on board for you to manage that.’
‘You have shackles for the unruly prisoners, have you not?’
‘That we have,’ the captain confirmed. ‘Made from the finest wrought iron, to hold the most violent of men, but certainly not to help steer a ship,’ the captain jeered. ‘Nor have we a forge to allow you to work the shackle into the shape you require.’
‘You have a galley with a fire I presume?’ inquired Michael. The captain nodded in agreement. ‘And a pair of bellows with which I can raise the heat of the fire?’ Again, the captain nodded. ‘Well, what are we waiting for. Let’s make the part.’
It was barely 3 hours later that the crude replacement part was fitted and appeared to be working fine. The captain was a very relieved man and promised to reward Michael for his work.
‘Tis naught but a temporary repair,’ Michael informed the captain. ‘But should allow you to reach the nearest port, where a more reliable part can be fitted and allow us to continue our merry journey to Botany Bay,’ Michael added, with more than a hint of irony in his voice.
The captain was as good as his word. Michael was allowed to move freely about the ship and slept each night on a straw stuffed mattress. Not much of a reward you may think, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than his fellow prisoners who were forced to spend the rest of the long journey locked away in iron cages.

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.