No problem hon, glad I could help. When I get some free time again, probably tomorrow I'll go through the rest.
Ta, CL.
This story deals with both racism and religious predjudice. All views expressed are solely that of the characters, not me, for I stand in every way against bigotry, and have no prefrences or biases for any of the religions mentioned, and I belong to none of them.
Pronunciation guide: Faolàn=Faylan, Tiarnan=Tee-arnan, Caoimhe=Keevy
Chapter One
Drogheda, Ireland. September 3, 1649
Cahira McCann woke with a start. There had been a swift knock upon the feeble door, causing her husband Faolàn to rise from beside her, his copper hair disheveled. His golden eyes opened warily, a confused look on his gaunt face. A visitor at this hour was unusual.
He muttered something incoherent, smiling at his infant son Tiarnan, still asleep in his mother’s arms, before stumbling sleepily to the door.
The tiny, single roomed house was gently illuminated by the early dawn. Minute streams of light passed through the holes in the walls of packed thatch and earth, gleaming pastel pink, like the gathering radiance above the hills.
“Please, come in, Father,” said Faolàn as he creaked open the door, sounding puzzled.
Father Blandon, Cahira’s trusted advisor, and the town's most trusted priest, sauntered wearily in, removing his woolen hood to reveal an exhausted expression upon his aged face. Cahira averted her eyes, a jolt of panic shaking her. This was definitely a very unusual guest.
“Very ill news, I’m afraid,” he informed regretfully, speaking very quickly. “I can’t stay long.”
“What ill news?” interjected Cahira, her soft voice unusually demanding. She walked abruptly to him with Tiarnan still in her arms, her round, cobalt eyes suddenly awake.
Father Blandon met her gaze, uttering frantically: “Cromwell is here! Early this morning a scout came to the church, to warn us--reporting he is now outside the city walls, on this side of the river—he waits for Aston’s surrender—he has brought thousands of followers—Ironsides! He has blockaded the city!”
“Please, sit down, Father,” implored Cahira, her hands now shaking terribly. She set Tiarnan on a red-dyed woolen blanket, while picking up another for Father Blandon to sit on, the home being devoid of furniture, due to destitution.
“I cannot stay,” he repeated unwaveringly, backing slightly away from the blanket. “I have come because I fear the time will be cut short for our next meeting at church. You must leave now. Have you chosen your path?”
“We intend to bring Tiarnan to a Protestant church. But if this is a blockade, how are we supposed to get out?” pressed Faolán, his eyes ablaze with foreboding.
“You must leave for Dublin—all the Catholics have been driven from that town,” declared Father Blandon sourly. “The Ironsides are blocking Drogheda city itself--the city within the walls; you live beyond the boundaries of the city walls. In fact, people of this countryside are selling food to the Ironsides-- ”
“What? No. No—that can’t be true. They wouldn’t betray our forces like that!” cried
Cahira wrathfully.
“I fear it is true. But in this case, it is to your advantage,” replied Father Blandon desolately. “You can slip out unnoticed. Find away around them--you must do this, I tell you now, it will be worse if you stay. I fear it is your son's last chance for freedom. Cahira, you must take the name of your parents, and all the money you have. I still advise you to keep yourselves anonymous, inside Dublin city, and the church. It is inside the once-Catholic churches the Protestants now worship. Take him to the closest one you can find, and I mean the closest. There may be one in the northern fringe of Dublin, if I remember correctly what I was told. I warn you, there isn’t a lot of time.”
“Have you no further advice?” whimpered Cahira, her head now reeling.
“I’m afraid not. And I fear this may be our last meeting,” replied Father Blandon somberly.
“I cannot stay to say good bye. It is too painful to dwell. All I can say is that I have prayed for you, my most pious children.”
“Thank you, Father,” wept Cahira.
“With all our hearts,” said Faolán, tears glimmering on his cheeks.
“Bless you, and your son. May the Lord be forever with you in your journeys,” said Father Blandon, before rushing out the door, hastily pulling his hood back over his head.
For a long while, Cahira stood staring after him, her hand clutching her heart and her mind clouded with uncertainty. Could this have possibly been their last meeting with the man who had done so much to save her son? She could think of nothing but the last time she had met with Father Blandon, in secrecy, less than a week before.
She remembered the rain pouring heavily against the vibrant glass windows of her Catholic church as she waited dolefully for Father Blandon. Her umber hair dripped onto the stone floor as she writhed her hands anxiously.
As the man who had been praying departed reverently, Father Blandon entered.
“Bless me, Father,” began Cahira as he approached, but her voice faltered. She turned nervously away from him.
“What is it, child?” asked Father Blandon concernedly, sitting next to her on the pew bench. Though he was characteristically attentive, his eyes were unusually distant as she turned to face him.
“I-I need your help,” she told him, vaguely comforted by his tone and the safety offered by her church. “I must get my son to safety—away from here. I-I don’t know where.”
“Why away from here?” asked Father Blandon incredulously. “The rest of the world is equal in hostility.”
“Father, we all stand within Cromwell’s grasp!” Cahira took a painful breath, restraining tears. “Folk say he’s in Dublin as we speak! I cannot surrender my son to the life that now awaits us. I don’t want to fail him--folk say the Ironsides are taking slaves—Tiarnan is too young to work, and I fear --” Cahira lost her composure at the thought of what devastation the Ironsides could reek if they reached her village, or her son—he was but four months old.
Father Blandon leaned back in the pew, his old knotted hands passing over his face in frustration. For a long while he sat in silence, furrowing his heavy brow in deep consideration.
Cahira shifted uncomfortably where she sat, waiting for a response.
“You have options,” his weary voice croaked reluctantly, as if afraid to divulge what the choices were. “Options that are—inopportunely limited—by costs.”
“That much we assumed,” assured Cahira. “We have saved as much as possible—lived on crumbs, really.”
“Right then,” he nodded, his voice still troubled. “The first, but mind you, least probable option is to leave Ireland entirely.”
Cahira winced.
“Leave for the Spanish Netherlands, where you will not be persecuted as a Catholic. But the journey, costs aside, is treacherous in itself; if hunger does not take you first, the Ironsides will.”
Disheartened, Cahira waited anxiously for the next alternative, eagerly hoping it would hold more promise.
“Your second option would be to send your son to live within a Protestant church--”
“That was our first thought,” confessed Cahira, peering at Father Blandon searchingly, hoping he would not now question her piety.
“If you were to send him to a Protestant church, it would likely require a donation on the church’s behalf. There, he will grow as a man of their beliefs—their God," he added bitterly. "He will be educated and safe. I do not blame you for wanting to send him there, alas, the only refuge in Ireland, it seems. But getting him there is the hard part. Upon delivering him, you must take a Protestant name—that of your parents, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” replied Cahira sensitively, wishing he had not mentioned her parents. Four years before, when she was sixteen, her parents left for the North, having decided to convert to Puritanism, and resenting Cahira for refusing to join them. Ever since, the feeling that she had somehow failed to be the ideal daughter had beleaguered her, believing she had unintentionally forced them away—that they did not need her, though she needed them.
"But what if we are found out? What are the chances of that?" inquired Cahira impatiently, pushing thoughts of her parents away.
" I would advise you—that if you were to leave your son—and the donation within the church without drawing attention to yourself, he would be protected. I mean, leave him anonymously within the care of the laity. Not even that church would dare harm a child. In fact, maybe that is the better way to plan--that way you have no risk of being caught—unless you intend to leave as well? Perchance, join your son?"
“Protestant or not, Faolán and I are still Irish, and our past will not be easily forgotten. Tiarnan is an infant—he cannot tell them from whence he truly came, or to which religion he was born, when we ourselves cannot hide it,” Cahira professed bitterly, twisting her skirt in her hands. She then bowed her head penitently; she had not meant to take that tone before
Father Blandon, let alone in her church.
“There is much to take into consideration,” Father Blandon acknowledged. “If you would come again next Friday, I will have time to council with those who may perhaps aid you in this. Be not ashamed of your tears—I too feel the weight of the times.”
Cahira blushed, feeling he had read her thoughts. She smiled as much as she could muster.
“I cannot thank you enough, Father.”
“Bless you."
Father Blandon's words echoed with Faolàn's as she was drawn back into the future.
Faolàn placed his malnourished hand lovingly on her shoulder, but when she looked at him, his bleak expression offered little solace, for it mirrored the way she felt.
No problem hon, glad I could help. When I get some free time again, probably tomorrow I'll go through the rest.
Ta, CL.
Thanks so much! This must have taken forever to revise. I'll be sure to go through my story and use the suggestions you gave. I really appreciate this--it helps so much!! Thanks!
Niamh,
I’m back! Here is the second part of Chapter One.
Yours, CL.
“We best gather our things,” affirmed Faolán glumly, rolling up the blankets from the floor. [hmm… if we are looking at the connotation of words, affirm is a positive word, glum is a negative word, I don’t they fit in conjecture here, I’d just leave off glumly.]
That process did not take long, for the McCann’s owned very little: a few pieces of clothing each, a few [I would delete: a few] meager cooking supplies, blankets, and luckily, oats enough for the journey. Although content with their standing, the McCann’s were of the lowest level of peasantry, Faolán being a mere farmer on a shared plot of land, owned by a wealthy and unjust landlord. [Yeoman farmers?] Every day became a further struggle as new laws were introduced, replacing the old Irish system of Brehon Law. The struggle was greatest [hmm, I don’t like the use of greatest, perhaps worse?] for Cahira, for under Brehon Law, women were extended their own rights, but under these new rules, she was restricted more so than the men.
“I don’t know how to get to Dublin,” realized Cahira dejectedly, as she picked up from under her straw-pile bed her only possession of worth: a beautiful silver brooch, formed as a Celtic trinity knot, three points gracefully meeting in the center. Faolán owned its match. [Aww... how sweet]
His late grandfather, a blacksmith with an aptitude for making ornaments, had willed the brooches to him and Cahira, as a blessing for their wedding. Thinking lovingly and longingly of Faolàn’s grandfather, who had treated her as his own, Cahira pinned the brooch to the front of her long, beige dress.
“Barram’ll know. He’s been all over with his brother,” replied Faolán, collecting his bit of money and putting them into a coin purse, and pinning his own brooch carefully to his worn, [comma here] russet tunic, passing his hand over it, his eyes closed in memory. [Rushing action again - reword: …Faolán replied. Collecting his bit of money and putting them into a coin purse, he pinned his own brooch carefully to his worn, russet tunic; passing his palm over it, he closed his eyes in memory.]
He breathed in deeply, then saying [reword - He breathed in deeply, before saying]: “Anyway, I think I remember the path I took the last time.”
“We have to tell them anyway—I mean, I told Caoimhe that we were leaving. But I didn’t know it would be this soon,” said [I would find another word for ‘said’, perhaps expressed.] Cahira wistfully, worrying that she may never see Barram’s wife Caoimhe, or Barram himself again. Barram and Caoimhe were Faolán’s and Cahira’s [no need for Faolán and Cahira, so just were best friends and neighbors on the shared land] best friends and neighbors on the shared land; Barram’s brother was part of Sir Arthur Aston’s infantry, comprised of Royalists and Irish Confederates—those who stood against Cromwell.
When all their scanty belongings were gathered, Cahira decided they better wait until nightfall. [Reword - When all their belongings were gathered, Cahira decided it was better to wait for nightfall.]
"Don't you think we may have a better chance of not being seen? I want to get out of here without their filthy eyes on us."
"That’ll be hard, I think. Maybe the Ironsides will be sleeping as well. I dunno," mumbled Faolán doubtfully, putting his hands to his face as he sat. [Rushing again - …mumbled Faelan doubtfully. He sat putting his hands to his face as he did.] “I dunno where to start.” His hands moved to his eyes as he tried in vain to stop the tears brimming his eyes. “I just don’t know, Cahira.” [Would he cry though in front of her? And if he does that says a whole lot about his character and his relationship with Cahira.]
Cahira pulled Tiarnan onto her lap, and moved closer to Faolán, who kissed his son’s forehead as he took him into his own arms, and then gently kissed his wife’s cheek. [Again rushing, try to draw out your action. Cahira pulled Tiarnan on her lap and moved closer to Faolán, who kissed his son’s forehead As he took him into his own arms, and then gently kissed his wife’s cheek. Aww… how cute. Also you use kiss a lot here, try maybe using peck once.] Cahira looked away, afraid to glimpse the fleeting moments of wholeness. She felt without Tiarnan, there would be a gaping hole in her entirety, that which her son and husband had once mended. [A little syntax tweaking, She felt that without Tiarnan there would be a gaping hole in her entirety…] [Also the: that which her son and husband had once mended, is very, very confusing. Or at least the wording is. Is it supposed to be: one that her son and husband once mended? But that seems wrong too, because they have yet to be split apart. They are still one family.] But if she were to keep him, she would forever lament surrendering him to the life of torment she now faced as an Irishwoman. Chances were, at some time, she and Faolán would lose everything to the wrath of Cromwell—their home could be dispossessed, and the land sold to the Scottish Presbyterian settlers who had themselves been forced out of their homeland. [Recasting - settlers who had been forced out of their homeland.] Or she and Faolàn might become captives to the English subjugators who slithered around at night, ruthlessly tearing the Irish from their homes and shipping them to the West Indies to work ceaselessly in the bondage of slavery. Any end was a disparaging one.
The sun was now fully risen, daylight streaming garishly through the smoke release, illuminating the restricted shack. But the day passed swiftly, like water through the River Shannon, [add a word here - with] Cahira ticking off each second with [change with to in] fruitless mental preparation. It seemed insurmountable, what she was about to do, especially when she tenderly beheld her precious son, his eyes identical to her own, his face so like his father's. When he held her gaze and smiled, he appeared so wise behind his young eyes, as all children do. When he wrapped his dear, tiny hand around her finger, she melted into tears, knowing she would never again feel his adoring grip. Faolán was in much the same state, seemingly afraid to take his eyes from his son.
As the hours passed, Tiarnan seemed to perceive his parent’s grief, for he became unusually fussy, typically a sweet and placid child. [Recasting - grief; he became unusually fussy for a typically sweet and placid child.] Continually, Faolán would apologize to Tiarnan, telling him, more to reassure himself than his son, that bringing him to the Protestants was going to protect him, ensure him a secure life of freedom. Cahira knew that Faolàn’s weakness was doubt in himself; never knowing whether or not he was making the right decision, acting on impulse or reason. [Too much superfluous info, I’d get rid of the whole sentence.]
As the sun sunk beneath the hills, the burden of the impending journey began to weigh down on Cahira, making her realize it was time to gather up her courage. [Reword - Cahira. It was time for to gather up her courage.]
“We have to tell Caoimhe and Barram now, Faolàn,” she affirmed haplessly. [Again you have a positive and then negative words in conjecture. Anyways I don’t think you can affirm haplessly. In the dictionary it defines hapless as doomed, unlucky. Though I could see it working as unfortunate. But still affirmed - perhaps maintained, stated, declared.]
Faolán looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and somber, his enduring horrors visible in his gaze. [Cut off everything after somber, a bit melodramatic there.] “I-I reckon so,” he choked grudgingly. [Delete grudgingly - how does one choke grudgingly, as choke is an involuntary action, does he have superhuman powers or something?]
[Is there supposed to be a jump in time here?]
Leaving their baggage at the door, Faolàn held Tiarnan in his arms, taking Cahira’s hand before passing through the door to see Barram and Caoimhe for what might be the last time. [Again rushing - rework - They left their baggage at the door. Faolan held both Tiarnan and Cahira close as they passed through the door to see Barram and Caoimhe, for what was probably the last time.] An amethyst glow smoldered above the horizon, the rest of the sky fading into endless black, devoid of stars.
Knocking three times to a swift response, Barram cracked open the door suspiciously. [Confusing frag - who is doing the knocking? Wait didn‘t they already pass through the door in the previous paragraph? Er…]
“Oh, it’s just you,” he said jovially. The burly, red haired man widened the door, welcoming his friends. “Ye look mighty grim,” he said unsurely, clapping his large hand heartily on Faolàn’s shoulder. [You use said twice in a close vicinity, not the best diction. Perhaps just having - “Ye look mighty grim.” The burly, red haired man opened (or inched or pried open) the door, welcoming his friends. Also, note, unless Barram has supernatural powers widening the door is impossible.]
“Listen, we’re really sorry,” began Faolán, his voice cracking. [Just have - began Faolán.]
Caoimhe looked deeply [I am pretty sure you cannot look deeply at someone, so nix that.] at Cahira, her green gaze seeming to penetrate her soul. [Hmm… a little melodramatic here, rephrase.] “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly [just - she accused - works a helluva lot better], flames from the fire emitting an ethereal glow in her golden hair. [This flames from the fire bit = blearrg…; it‘s like you‘re trying to be poetic and it is coming off melodramatic.] “Cahira?” she pled, putting her hand on Cahira’s shoulder. [You don’t always have to put something after the intial dialogue explaining it. I would just say - “Cahira?” She put her hand on Cahira’s shoulder.]
“Yes,” admitted Cahira, her voice shaking. [This would be stronger if you just had - “Yes.”]
Caoimhe then embraced her, crying into her shoulder. [Recast - Caoimhe embraced her then.] “When?”
“Tonight,” replied Cahira miserably. [I think it would be more of a finality if it was just “Tonight.”]
“Tonight?” mumbled [Is mumble the right verb here?] Barram in distress, turning to Cahira. “Why tonight?” he asked, moving toward her. “It’s those blasted Ironsides, isn’t it?”
“Can you at least stay a bit?” Caoimhe beseeched desperately, her small frame shaking faintly as she pulled away from Cahira.
“That’s why we came,” divulged Cahira, placing her hand on Barram’s arm as she turned to him. “We didn’t know until today or I swear I would have told you sooner.” She turned back to Caoimhe. “Father Blandon came to us-”
“To your house?” interrupted Barram.
“Yes. To warn us that—that Cromwell had come,” finished Faolán, bowing his head.
“We’re sorry,” uttered Cahira, genuinely remorseful. “We hate to do this.”
“But you are coming back?” questioned Caoimhe at once.
“We mean to,” nodded Faolàn. “We’re to go to Dublin, on Father Blandon’s order. Barram, I know the time to ask isn’t fitting, but have you any directions? It’s been so long.”
“It is directly south of here, a hefty town, you can’t miss it if you stay toward the east as you go. Stay away from the shores! If you meet the port of Dublin, you’re in trouble. The slave ships leave from there, and it’s teeming with Ironsides. I could go with you-”
“No. It isn’t safe,” said Cahira firmly, a sudden rush of guilt flowing in her veins. “I can’t put you at risk as well.”
“I have vague knowledge anyhow,” said Faolán, having once been there three years before.
“Then—you should take this,” said Caoimhe, offering a small bag of apples to Cahira.
“Barram nicked ‘em from the fields yesterday, so no one could sell them to the Ironsides. Nasty traitors, they are. You’ll need them on the way.” She bent to Tiarnan, in Faolàn’s arms. “Can I hold him a last time?”
“’Course ye can,” said Faolán understandingly, handing Tiarnan to her.
“I’ve always wanted a family,” mused Caoimhe mournfully, her sweet voice trembling. "It's not safe though, not now. It’s the curse Cromwell, I tell ye."
Barram stroked his wife’s hair, looking at her apologetically before moving across the room. He then opened a chest at the end of the house, pulling out a long box.
“Me brother gave me this,” he said to Faolán, carefully opening the box to reveal a musket.
“It’s a matchlock. When my brother was given a flintlock for Aston's army, he gave this to me, for protection. He wasn’t supposed to. A little piece of value to this house, I guess.”
Barram extended the musket to Faolàn. “You’ll need it more.”
“I don’t know how to use it--” admitted Faolàn, looking astounded, never having seen a musket.
“Here, I’ll teach you to use it,” said Barram. “First, I hope I remember properly—right, you move the striker like this,” he said, moving the cock of the gun half open. “Take this cartridge,” he continued, pulling showing Faolán a paper cartridge, “and open it with your teeth. The lower part has the powder,” he noted, showing Faolán the cartridge again, but not opening it, “drop the powder down the barrel, and shove the paper left over in as wadding. Then add the bullet,” he said, pointing to the upper part of the cartridge, and the remaining paper for wadding again, and compact it with the ramrod—it’s still in the case.
Now you can light the match—and don’t let it go out, or you can’t fire, rendering this useless, really. When cocked, the gun will push the match to the powder, which ignites to fire. Move the striker watch out--stay far from him if he has to fire, Cahira--it'll make a terrible jolt. I'm right hopeful you won't have to fire--takes years to load. Best to load it if you see someone questionable in the distance. Here, I'll talk you through it till you catch on."
As Barram taught Faolán, Caoimhe beckoned Cahira to sit.
“I can’t believe your actually going. I knew you would eventually. I didn’t know it would be today, or tomorrow or the next. It’s so hard to fathom,” she told Cahira, her pastel skin streaked with tears. She tilted her head to Tiarnan, “I’m going to miss ye, little wee’n. But you’ll be free, you’ll be alright.”
She turned to Cahira, her eyes staid:
“Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble, try and stay away from the Ironsides—I dunno if they’d follow you, would they?”
“Aye, I imagine taking the names of me parents’ll spare us from some hardship. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll actually be meeting with any Protestants,” replied Cahira.
“It’s getting dark,” recognized Caoimhe forlornly. “Ye sure you can’t stay one more night?”
“Wish we could. Wish we didn’t have to go at all. But Father Blandon told us to leave now, I imagine it’s best to do as he says,” answered Cahira sullenly. “You be safe yourself. We’ll be away from the Ironsides. You’re right near ‘em.”
Saying what might be last words, and exchanging last embraces, despondency rampant in departing tones, the McCann’s left their neighbor’s doorstep, the last friendly faces for a long time to come. As they moved out into the dark night, they took the first steps toward whatever nameless fate awaited them.
[My version of the above - Recasted, trimmed down and such -
“Can you at least stay a bit?” Caoimhe beseeched. Her small frame shook faintly as she pulled away from Cahira.
“That’s why we came,” divulged Cahira, “We didn’t know until today or I swear I would have told you sooner. Father Blandon came to us-”
“To your house?” interrupted Barram.
“Yes. To warn us that—that Cromwell had come.” Faolan bowed his head as he spoke.
“We’re sorry,” uttered Cahira, “We hate to do this.”
“But you are coming back?” Caoimhe voice was full of hope.
“We mean to,” nodded [verb confusion - spoke not nod] Faolàn. “We’re to go to Dublin on Father Blandon’s order. Barram, I know this isn’t the time to ask, but have you directions? It’s been so long.”
“Go directly south of here, fer it’s a hefty town, you can’t miss it if you stay toward the east as you go. Stay away from the shores. If you meet the port of Dublin, you’re in trouble. The slave ships leave from there, and it’s teeming with Ironsides. I could go with you-”
“No. It isn’t safe,” Cahira interjected, “I can’t put you at risk as well.”
“I have vague knowledge anyhow,” mentioned Faolán, having once been there three years before.
“Then—you should take this.‘ Caoimhe offered up a small bag of apples to Cahira.
“Barram nicked ‘em from the fields yesterday so no one could sell them to the Ironsides. Nasty traitors, they are. You’ll need them on the way.” She bent to Tiarnan in Faolàn’s arms. “Can I hold him a last time?”
“’Course ye can,” said Faolán handing Tiarnan to her.
“I’ve always wanted a family,” mused Caoimhe, her sweet voice trembling. "It's not safe though, not now. It’s the curse Cromwell, I tell ye."
Barram stroked his wife’s hair, before moving across the room. He then opened a chest at the end of the house, pulling out a long box.
“Me brother gave me this.” He carefully opened the box to reveal a musket. “It’s a matchlock. When my brother was given a flintlock for Aston's army, he gave this to me, for protection. He wasn’t supposed to. A little piece of value to this house, I guess.”
Barram extended the musket to Faolàn. “You’ll need it more.”
“I don’t know how to use it--” admitted Faolàn, looking astounded, never having seen a musket.
“Here. First, I hope I remember properly—right, you move the striker like this,” he announced, moving the cock of the gun half open. “Take this cartridge,” he continued, showing Faolán a paper cartridge, “and open it with your teeth. The lower part has the powder,” he noted, showing Faolán the cartridge again, but not opening it, “drop the powder down the barrel, and shove the paper left over in as wadding. Then add the bullet,” he said, pointing to the upper part of the cartridge, and the remaining paper for wadding again, “and compact it with the ramrod—it’s still in the case.
Now you can light the match—and don’t let it go out, or you can’t fire, rendering it useless, really. When cocked, the gun will push the match to the powder, which ignites to fire. Move the striker, watch out--stay far from him if he has to fire, Cahira--it'll make a terrible jolt. I'm right hopeful you won't have to fire--takes ye years to load. Best to load it if you see someone questionable in the distance. Here, I'll talk you through it till you catch on."
As Barram taught Faolán, Caoimhe beckoned Cahira to sit.
“I can’t believe your actually going. I knew you would eventually. I didn’t know it would be today, or tomorrow or the next. It’s so hard to fathom,” she told Cahira, her pale cheeks stained with tears. She tilted her head to Tiarnan, “I’m going to miss ye, little wee’n. But you’ll be free, you’ll be alright.”
She turned to Cahira, “Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble, try and stay away from the Ironsides—I dunno if they’d follow you, would they?”
“Aye, I imagine taking the names of me parents’ll spare us from some hardship. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll actually be meeting with any Protestants,” replied Cahira.
“It’s getting dark,” recognized Caoimhe forlornly. “Ye sure you can’t stay one more night?”
“Wish we could. Wish we didn’t have to go at all. But Father Blandon told us to leave now, I imagine it’s best to do as he says,” Cahira answered sullen. “You be safe yourself. We’ll be away from the Ironsides. You’re right near ‘em.”
They said their last words in despondent, departing tones and exchanged their last embraces, before the McCann’s left their neighbor’s door. As they moved out into the dark night, they took the first steps towards whatever nameless fate awaited them.]
1. You have some issues where you try to be poetic and just come off melodramatic.
2. You don’t have to have a description of what a person says after each piece of dialogue, sometimes its stronger if you don’t. Think of it as this - the less you say, the more it affects the reader.
3. You rush sometimes with your actions, and try to get too much into a sentence. This gets confusing for the reader. Slow down, good times ahead.
4. Try working on your syntax flow more, read out loud sentences for clarity.
5. Storytelling is very good. 
Till next time.
- CL.
Heyla Niamh,
I realized as I was going along, reading and criting your story that a. my handwriting illegible, and b. I did most things in short hand, thus it makes it very confusing for someone who isn’t intimately immersed in my brain. So, I’ve transferred everything to the computer. If you have any questions or thoughts or comments on anything please do shout out. So here goes the first part of my 1649 crit.
Yours, CL.
Chapter One
Drogheda, Ireland. September 3, 1649
Cahira McCann woke with a start. […woke with a start, is quite a clichéd beginning, try jazzing it up a little. Give the reader something sparkly, something to catch their attention more.] There had been a swift knock [swift knock, huh? Can knocks be swift? I can swiftly knock, but it sounds peculiarly weird in third person. Also there is tense shift between the first two sentences, woke and had been, perhaps A knock on the feeble door caused her husband...] upon the feeble door, causing her husband Faolàn to rise from beside her, his copper hair disheveled. His golden eyes opened [Is he just opening his eyes? Or are they already open? If they are already open, I would use something like narrowed instead.] warily, a confused look on his gaunt face. A visitor at this hour was unusual.
He muttered something incoherent, smiling at his infant son Tiarnan, still asleep in his mother’s arms, before stumbling sleepily [delete sleepily] to the door.
The tiny, single roomed [It should be room not roomed.] house was gently illuminated by the early dawn. Minute streams of light passed through the holes in the walls of packed thatch and earth, gleaming pastel pink, like the gathering radiance above the hills. [Beautiful prose. I love it. ]
“Please, come in, Father,” [Hmmm, this dialogue seems particularly broken, “Please, come in Father,” seems a more likely syntax.] said Faolàn as he creaked open the door, sounding puzzled.
Father Blandon, Cahira’s trusted advisor, and the town's most trusted priest [There is more than one priest? Big town?], sauntered [sauntered implies swagger, is Father Blandon swaggering?] wearily in, removing his woolen hood to reveal an exhausted expression upon his aged face. Cahira averted her eyes, a jolt of panic shaking her. This was definitely a very unusual guest.
“Very ill news, I’m afraid,” he informed regretfully, speaking very quickly. [Too much information - either say he informed quickly, or he informed. So, he informed, “I can‘t…] “I can’t stay long.”
“What ill news?” interjected Cahira, her soft voice unusually demanding. She walked abruptly to him with Tiarnan still in her arms, her round, cobalt eyes suddenly awake. [Cahira or Tiarnan’s eyes?]
Father Blandon met her gaze, uttering frantically: “Cromwell is here! Early this morning a scout came to the church, to warn us--reporting he is now outside the city walls, on this side of the river—he waits for Aston’s surrender—he has brought thousands of followers—Ironsides! He has blockaded the city!” [Reword - Early this morning a scout came to the church to warn us. Cromwell is now outside the city walls, he waits for Aston’s surrender. They had blockaded the city with thousands of Ironsides!”]
“Please, [no need for comma] sit down, Father,” implored Cahira, her hands now shaking terribly. She set Tiarnan on a red-dyed woolen blanket, while picking up [she is setting down Tiarnan and picking up something at the same time?] another for Father Blandon to sit on, the home being devoid of furniture, due to destitution. [Too much information, delete due to destitution, that is implied by the lack of furniture.]
“I cannot stay,” he repeated unwaveringly [delete unwaveringly, superfluous], backing slightly away from the blanket. “I have come because I fear the time will be cut short for our next meeting at church. You must leave now. Have you chosen your path?”
“We intend to bring Tiarnan to a Protestant church. [I still find this strange because are not they Catholics? The whole rift between the religions. It seems a bit unlikely for good Catholics to give their son up to a Protestant Church, even more their priest is advocating that…] But if this is a blockade, how are we supposed to get out?” pressed Faolán, his eyes ablaze with foreboding. [ablaze with foreboding? Huhzits, what its? Exactly what is ablaze with foreboding? I’d nix that and just put pressed Faolán.]
“You must leave for Dublin—all the Catholics have been driven from that town,” declared Father Blandon sourly. [I would switch the words around - Father Blandon declared sourly.] “The Ironsides are blocking Drogheda city itself--the city within the walls; you live beyond the boundaries of the city walls. In fact, people of this countryside are selling food to the Ironsides-- ”
“What? No. No—that can’t be true. They wouldn’t betray our forces like that!” cried Cahira wrathfully. [Reword - “What? No. No-that can’t be true. They wouldn’t--” cried Cahira.]
“I fear it is true. But in this case, it is to your advantage,” replied Father Blandon desolately. “You can slip out unnoticed. Find away around them--you must do this, I tell you now, it will be worse if you stay. I fear it is your son's last chance for freedom. Cahira, you must take the name of your parents, and all the money you have. I still advise you to keep yourselves anonymous, inside Dublin city, and the church. It is inside the once-Catholic churches the Protestants now worship. Take him to the closest one you can find, and I mean the closest. There may be one in the northern fringe of Dublin, if I remember correctly what I was told. I warn you, there isn’t a lot of time.” [Major detail dumping, definitely reword this. Don’t say so much, leave some mystery in the dialogue.]
“Have you no further advice?” whimpered Cahira, her head now reeling. [Reword - Cahira whimpered, her head reeling.]
“I’m afraid not. And I fear this may [may seems wrong here, perhaps will] be our last meeting,” replied Father Blandon somberly.
“I cannot stay to say good bye. It is too painful to dwell. All I can say is that I have prayed for you, my most pious children.”
[The above two paragraphs were both Father Blandon correct? Well, then they should be enjambed. Also this Father Blandon dialogue makes him seem overly dramatic. I would cut down the wording.]
“Thank you, Father,” wept Cahira. [Wept? Erm, isn’t she talking?]
“With all our hearts,” said Faolán, tears glimmering on his cheeks. [said implies that someone says something, that there is no degree of emotion in their voice, but Faolán has tears on his cheeks, I’d find another word for said to go more with his emotions.]
“Bless you, and your son. May the Lord be forever with you in your journeys,” said Father Blandon, before rushing out the door, hastily pulling his hood back over his head. [You are rushing too much here, try and drag these actions out.]
For a long while, Cahira stood staring after him, [another clichéd phrase.] her hand clutching her heart and her mind clouded with uncertainty. Could this have possibly been their last meeting with the man who had done so much to save her son? She could think of nothing but the last time she had met with Father Blandon, in secrecy, less than a week before.
She remembered the rain pouring heavily against the vibrant glass windows of her Catholic church as she waited dolefully [? Can you wait dolefully? I suppose you can, but it sounds, seems weird. I think it is the fact that the dolefully is in conjecture with the waiting and not that Cahira was doleful, which seems more likely.] for Father Blandon. Her umber hair dripped [hair drips, that’s new. 
] onto the stone floor as she writhed her hands anxiously. [the writhing of the hand implies anxiousness, so anxiously is superfluous.]
As the man who had been praying departed reverently, Father Blandon entered.
“Bless me, Father,” began Cahira [Switch - Cahira began…] as he approached, but her voice faltered. She turned nervously away from him. [I would have this more fluid - but her voice faltered, and she twisted nervously from him.]
“What is it, child?” asked Father Blandon concernedly, sitting next to her on the pew bench. [Reword - Father Blandon sat next to her on the pew bench, and although he was characteristically attentive, his eyes were unusually distant.] Though he was characteristically attentive, his eyes were unusually distant as she turned to face him.
“I-I need your help,” she told him, vaguely comforted by his tone and the safety offered by her church. “I must get my son to safety—away from here. I-I don’t know where.”
“Why away from here?” asked Father Blandon incredulously. [Reword - asked Father Blandon incredulous…] “The rest of the world is equal in hostility.”
“Father, we all stand within Cromwell’s grasp!” Cahira took a painful breath, restraining tears. “Folk say he’s in Dublin as we speak! I cannot surrender my son to the life that now awaits us. I don’t want to fail him--folk say the Ironsides are taking slaves—Tiarnan is too young to work [Wait, isn‘t Tiarnan an infant, why would she be worried about him working?] , and I fear --” Cahira lost her composure at the thought of what devastation the Ironsides could reek if they reached her village, or her son—he was but four months old.
Father Blandon leaned back in the pew, his old knotted hands passing over his face in frustration. For a long while he sat in silence, furrowing his heavy brow in deep consideration.
Cahira shifted uncomfortably where she sat [where she sat, delete, superfluous], waiting for a response.
“You have options,” his weary voice croaked reluctantly [too much info, delete reluctantly], as if afraid to divulge what the choices were. “Options that are—inopportunely limited—by costs.”
“That much we assumed,” assured Cahira. “We have saved as much as possible—lived on crumbs, really.”
“Right then,” he nodded, his voice still troubled [his voice still troubled, delete]. “The first, but mind you, least probable option is to leave Ireland entirely.”
Cahira winced.
“Leave for the Spanish Netherlands [fragment - You could leave for…], where you will not be persecuted as a Catholic. But the journey, costs aside, is treacherous in itself; if hunger does not take you first, the Ironsides will.”
Disheartened, Cahira waited anxiously for the next alternative, eagerly hoping it would hold more promise.
“Your second option would be to send your son to live within a Protestant church--”
“That was our first thought,” confessed Cahira, peering at Father Blandon searchingly, hoping he would not now question her piety.
“If you were to send him to a Protestant church, it would likely require a donation on the church’s behalf. There, he will grow as a man of their beliefs—their God," he added bitterly. "He will be educated and safe. I do not blame you for wanting to send him there, alas, the only refuge in Ireland, it seems. But getting him there is the hard part. Upon delivering him, you must take a Protestant name—that of your parents, perhaps?” [Again, it seems weird that a Catholic priest would advocate this, not improbable, just weird…]
“Perhaps,” replied Cahira sensitively, wishing he had not mentioned her parents. [I would just leave it at: replied Cahira sensitively…]
Four years before, when she was sixteen, her parents left for the North, having decided to convert to Puritanism, and resenting Cahira for refusing to join them. Ever since, the feeling that she had somehow failed to be the ideal daughter had beleaguered her, believing she had unintentionally forced them away—that they did not need her, though she needed them. [Info dump, I would withhold some of this information, drag it out sparingly about her estrangement with the parents, make it more suspenseful.]
"But what if we are found out? What are the chances of that?" inquired Cahira impatiently, pushing thoughts of her parents away. [I would delete everything after the dialogue.]
" I would advise you—that if you were to leave your son—and the donation within the church without drawing attention to yourself, he would be protected. I mean, leave him anonymously within the care of the laity. Not even that church would dare harm a child. In fact, maybe that is the better way to plan--that way you have no risk of being caught—unless you intend to leave as well? Perchance, join your son?"
“Protestant or not, Faolán and I are still Irish, and our past will not be easily forgotten. Tiarnan is an infant—he cannot tell them from whence he truly came, or to which religion he was born, when we ourselves cannot hide it,” Cahira professed bitterly, twisting her skirt in her hands. She then bowed her head penitently; she had not meant to take that tone before Father Blandon, let alone in her church. [delete everything after tone.]
“There is much to take into consideration,” Father Blandon acknowledged. “If you would come again next Friday, I will have time to council with those who may perhaps aid you in this. Be not ashamed of your tears—I too feel the weight of the times.”
Cahira blushed, feeling he had read her thoughts. She smiled as much as she could muster.
“I cannot thank you enough, Father.”
“Bless you."
Father Blandon's words echoed with Faolàn's as she was drawn back into the future.
Faolàn placed his malnourished hand lovingly on her shoulder, but when she looked at him, his bleak expression offered little solace, for it mirrored the way she felt.
1. You picked a part of history that is not overly used, and that’s very cool.
2. I still find it hard to believe that they would give their child to Protestants considering the stigma, the hatred, and such. Also from what you have explained of Cahira she is a devout catholic, even estrangement from her Puritan covert parents, and that says something.
3. What ever happened to the name Sadhbh?
4. I love those few lyrical descriptions of things you had.
5. Wonderful place to drop your writer, right in the middle of conflict.
Hope this helps, hon. Till next time. CL.
Hiya... tomorrow I should have the full crit for you, should the opertune word.
I'll touch on the detail dumping while I'm here - You explain so much right off the bat that it takes away some of the suspense of the story. Suspense helps keep the pages turning.
Chapter Four
Drogheda, Ireland. September 9th, 1649
When dawn broke on the fourth day, Cahira could see St. Mary’s steeple in the distance, a great symbol of hope, for it meant that they were home.
What Cahira wanted now was to be back in the safety of her humble shack; to forget the scrapes of the road, devoting all thought to her son's memory, and all her time to healing, if that were possible.
“Should we just finish today then?” asked Faolàn, his voice somber, yet a spark of optimism in his eye.
“Aye. I want nothing more,” Cahira responded resignedly, her hand in Faolàn’s.
Sooner than they had anticipated, Cahira and Faolàn were walking the countryside of Drogheda. Out of sight to Cahira and Faolàn, the Ironsides were still positioned as before, eleven siege guns and twelve field pieces near Millmount. All was strangely silent as dusk approached.
Before entering their home, Faolàn stopped by Barram's and Caoimhe's home to return the musket, but no one answered the door. Faolàn pushed the door open suspiciously. There was no one was inside, and all belongings were taken.
"Where could they have gone?" muttered Cahira, crestfallen. Their disappearance did not seem forced, and yet it was strange for them to have left without ever previously mentioning plans to do so. Faolàn merely shook his head, placing his warm hand on Cahira's back as she walked back out the door toward her house.
As they entered their home, it seemed even more desolate than before. There were no usual embers glowing in the fire pit in the middle of the dirt floor. Everything was still packed up. There was no food left; everything was empty as their souls.
Although there was a red glow on the horizon, the sky was covered in grey clouds, threatening at any time to rain. That is why Cahira first believed she had heard a tremendous clap of thunder, louder and more terrible than anything she had ever dreamed. She was wrong. Quickly looking upward through the door, she saw St. Mary’s steeple crumbling in the distance. Making the Sign of the Cross, she looked frantically at Faolàn.
“Where do we go?” she whispered, tightly gripping his arm.
Faolàn bit his lip, desperately trying to decide. “I think they’ll search the houses! They’ll be looking for hidden soldiers--I've heard of that happening—it’s not safe! We’ll have to go for a church! Maybe they will spare us there!”
“What church? All are within the city walls! We’re not concealing a soldier—I think we should stay here,” retorted Cahira. “I think it is safest.”
“I pray so,” mumbled Faolàn, looking skyward as he set his baggage down.
There was another earsplitting blast, accompanied by obstreperous crashes of stone falling, shattering stained glass and anything beneath it.
Faolàn looked quickly through the door. “They’ve taken the tower off the western corner!” He slammed the door right before another vociferous explosion, uttering breathlessly: “I think they’re trying to breach the walls.”
Cahira closed her eyes, unable to respond. Too much had happened. Her son was gone. Her best friends were gone. Now her city was being destroyed. Faolàn beckoned her to sit down against the wall with him.
"I don't know what to do but wait it out," he said, his jaw trembling.
For a long while, the two were silent, with the distant roars of the Ironsides in the background. But after a few hours, the noise subsided. Night had fallen, a starless night, for the smoke shrouded the sky.
“What’s going on?” asked Faolàn, standing to peer out the door. “They can’t have stopped this soon.”
Cahira merely looked shook her head, momentarily mute. Faolàn came back to site beside her, staring off into space, absorbed into the calamity of the times.
“I suppose we’re lucky,” Cahira finally said dryly, making Faolàn turn to her at the sound of her voice.
“What?" questioned Faolàn incredulously. "How are we lucky?”
“This has proven we did the right thing,” she continued, her voice raspy with exhaustion. “We’ve taken Tiarnan from harm’s way.”
Faolàn smiled melancholically. “And we ourselves have walked straight into it.”
Cahira rested her head on Faolàn’s shoulder. “What do you think they’ll do if they raid our village? What if today is our last day together?”
“Don’t talk like that,” replied Faolàn gently, kissing Cahira’s forehead. “If it is, I don’t want to know it.” He then took her in his arms, rocking her gently, humming softly Tiarnan’s song. The smoke in the air dulled even the fire in the middle of the room, and Cahira’s and Faolàn’s minds were numbed by the misfortune, the sadness of the day, the horrors of reality, rendering them in an inebriated-like state of arrant melancholy.
The night passed in silence, but the day would not follow suit.
Cromwell’s cannons shook the morning. He was trying to find a proper place that would breach the walls enough for man and horse to fit. In this he succeeded, and by midday, Drogheda city was swarming with Ironsides. St. Mary’s church could offer no refuge, for it was crumbled, and now the Confederate soldiers fled into the surrounding areas, followed distantly by Ironsides.
Cahira woke to Faolàn’s frightened call.
“Wake up! We have to leave now! The Ironsides are coming—following fleeing soldiers!”
She stood as Faolàn strapped on his musket, making the Sign of the Cross. He then took Cahira’s hand and ran out the door, not bothering to close it behind him.
“Where do we go?” breathed Cahira frenetically, gasping for breath as they ran.
“I dunno—we just have to get out! ” responded Faolàn, looking back at her remorsefully. "I’m sorry!"
Distantly, they heard a yell from within a band of soldiers: “We’re ordered to Millmount! Surely that’s not correct?”
“It is,” gasped another, running faster.
Cahira looked at Millmount in the distance, turning from it.
“We have to go back home, Faolàn! We have no reason to hide!” Cahira yelled. “GO! Now! The Ironsides--” she gasped. They were literally blowing the Confederates and Royalists to pieces atop Millmount. Everywhere she looked, her people were falling, bloody and battered, to the ground. “GO!” she demanded, horrified tears wetting her cheeks as she pulled Faolàn behind her.
Luckily the battle atop Millmount was keeping the Ironsides at bay.
As they reached their tiny house, Faolàn doubled over as he tried to catch his breath, looking up to Cahira as she opened the door.
“We can’t do anything for now,” she breathed, sliding down the wall in lethargy, running that fast having taken any strength she had to begin with. “Just sit with me.”
She dug her head into Faolàn’s chest, unable to abstain from weeping.
“Did you see what happened at Millmount?” she gasped, the grisly memory haunting her. “The Ironsides shot our people like they were game. The blood—that could have been us—I pray it won’t yet be.”
As they sat within the temporary safety of their home, Drogheda city was torn apart by the wrath of Cromwell. Cromwell’s orders were to kill all in arms in the city, orders Faolàn did not know, unwittingly grateful to still have Barram’s musket. But those in arms were not the least of Cromwell’s demands, for he had also ordered the murder of all priests, friars, and nuns, for in his eyes, they were heathen sinners. None were safe. The last major fortification to be taken was St. Peter’s Church, where 100 had hidden themselves within the wooden steeple, and many more in the stonewalls below. Three rounds of powder demolished the steeple, and those inside the lower half murdered as they were forced out, hoping for quarter. After the papists had been cleared from it, the church itself was plundered. Cromwell was now almost finished, save for the remaining pockets of resistance within the remaining towers. There he kept them until hunger drove them down, and every one of the commanders was knocked on the head, and every tenth soldier executed. A much darker fate awaited those who survived; a fate that would, by unlucky chance, entangle the McCann’s.
In the final night of the siege, the sound of riled voices reverberated through the farmhouses.
Before Cahira had fully awoken, the door was kicked open and an armed Ironside barged through, meeting an equally armed Faolàn.
"Drop your arms," commanded the Ironside, his accent strange and frightening to Cahira's ears. Another Ironside reached his side, yelling, "Your arms!" as he pointed his musket at Cahira, who had risen to stand beside Faolàn.
Faolàn immediately lowered his musket, and the second Ironside followed suit, holding his hand out for Faolàn's musket. Faolàn handed it over, and the Ironside stepped back, commanding, "Now both step forward." With a rope, he tied Faolàn and Cahira hands and ankles together, neither daring to resist. In the distance, a gunshot rang out. "They found him," sneered the first Ironside.
"Our orders were to kill all in arms," said the first man, pulling forcefully at Faolàn's arms as he moved out the door. "However, we've offered you lucky Irish bastard some quarter. You both will be taken to Barbados with the remaining soldiers."
Before she could understand what was taking place, Cahira and Faolàn were taken out, where they and thirty other soldiers, now prisoners of war, were shackled together, foot and hand, and force-marched toward the south, treading somberly away from the ruined city of Drogheda. All seemed silent as Cahira passed through what was once her home, now reminiscent of a lost spirit, the smoke rising above the ruins.
Several paces into the journey, an Englishman, who looked of no extraodinary rank, and his followers turned up as the city disappeared into the night.
“Penley Radford," an Ironside acknowledged. He'll be leading the way to the Port, I presume."
“Right you are, Rudyard,” replied the leader. “We’ll take them from here. Your orders are to return to camp.”
Penley surveyed the prisoners, stopping promptly at Cahira. He grabbed her chin, a foul grin on his face. “A whore as well? How intriguing. Didn’t hear that in the commands.” He tore his hand away forcefully, making Cahira flinch. Faolàn shifted angrily where he stood, his jaw tightly clenched. “We’re taking you to the Port of Dublin."
"How long is the march?" asked the Ironside called Rudyard.
"I approximate five days."
Cahira noticed the men behind Penley Radford each bore a musket. She closed her eyes, dreading what would happen to the man who dared speak out.
Until nightfall they walked, and chained together they were forced to sleep. The first night passed in near silence, the words of the Ironside still fresh in every mind. But Cahira did not sleep that night, nor did Faolàn, who shifted uncomfortably beside her, whispering apologies. Cahira's mind was racing with what could possibly happen next. She wondered where they were being taken, if it were possible that the stories of the West Indies were indeed true, and if she herself had fallen prisoner to a life of slavery. She then feared that these days would be her last with Faolàn. She did not know if they would be parted when they reached the shores, or the ship, or the West Indies—she knew nothing of the ways of slave trade, and had before not bothered to learn more. The night was uncommonly cold, and smelled caustically of smoke.
At sun-up the next morning, all were forced up, without a meal to sustain their empty stomachs, and marched against the dawn.
The day progressed, and one of the Irish soldiers finally turned back to Cahira.
“What are you doing among us?” he whispered urgently, looking around to make sure the Ironsides did not hear.
“It was a mistake,” answered Cahira, grimacing.
“You weren't meant to be here. One of our men--one of us, escaped into your village. It's him they were looking for. Why did they take you?"
"It was my fault," said Faolàn guiltily. "I didn't know the orders. I was armed."
"They’re taking us to Barbados. That’s the new order. I heard them talking. Thought you should know,” replied the soldier, frowning contritely.
Thanks for taking time to crit this in the first place. It's very helpful.
I understand about detail dumping. What do you think I could do to improve that? It's hard to know whether I'm telling too much or not enough. I think the easiest part of this story is reporting the historical events, but when it comes to the actual storytelling, I can be a bit off.
On Sadhbh- In Ireland, things were quite a bit more relaxed for women because of the Brehon Laws (extending full rights to women) which existed in some part until the Penal Laws were finalized in 1691. But I think I should probably explain why she is so laid back and outspoken. Thanks for pointing that out.
Cromwell's whereabouts? I'm so glad you mentioned that, because I get going so fast that I just assume everyone would know about his doings, so I'll have to reconsider how Father Blandon would know in the first place. Thanks.
Anyway, I'll go revise the story with your suggestions in mind. Thanks a lot--you're a lot of help, and I look forward to your full critique. BTW, it's cool to know another Irish history fan.
So okay, shoot me, I forgot to bring my crit for this again. But I wanted to touch on a few things first.
1. Detail dumping: You have a tendency to detail dump, specially in the first chapter, and due to that it seems as if you are explaining things too fast.
2. I am having trouble seeing Sadhbh as a seventeenth century woman, I think it's the fact that she speaks so freely and is so forward about things. Maybe this is just an issue with me. But it seems that for the time period, she is very radical, and so willing to give her son to the Prostestants. It doesn't sit right.
3. Never fear, I enjoyed reading this, muchly! 
I am very interesting in History, especially Irish History, so yeah. This is like a goldmine. You have a really great start.
4. There seemed at times a flatness to it, like the story needed some depth, needed to be rounded off. Keep more things from the reader.
5. Question: how would they know so much about Cromwell's whereabouts?
Full crit coming later.
Hugs, CL
Chapter Three
This could definitely use some work.
Chapter 3
This could definitely use some work, namely in the dialogue.
The first light on the fourth day revealed what Cahira both dreaded and desired: the steeple of a once-Catholic church, now, in Cahira’s eyes, marred by Protestant occupation.
The time had come to let Tiarnan go, but neither Cahira nor Faolán were prepared, though they had tried. Upon beholding the steeple, Cahira swore in her heart that one day, Irish
freedom would come, with a chance for all broken by the determination of Cromwell allowed a turn to stomp upon his grave.
“It seems a little early to be reaching Dublin. Took a few more days the last time I was there, if I recall,” stated Faolàn warily, his eyes hollow and despondent as his voice.
“Father Blandon said to be as hasty as possible,” responded Cahira frankly, though it aggrieved her to do so. “I guess we are obligated to try and finish today.”
“I can’t do this, not today,” Faolàn admitted, taking in a deep breath, setting his musket and baggage on the ground, before himself falling too. “All this time I have wondered if we are doing the right thing, but how can I justify letting my son go? My parents did it to me, and for a long while I felt they were wrong to do so! But then how can I defend leaving him with us, like bait for the Ironsides?! I don’t know, Cahira—I wish someone could tell me.” Faolàn took Cahira’s hand, his own trembling as he whispered, “Do you remember when I first came to Drogheda? I thought I would never again have someone to trust. I resented my parents for so long. Well, what if Tiarnan grows up knowing what we did but not understanding why? This is not for finances—the reason my parents sent me to live with grandparents. This is to save him! But what if he doesn’t know? What if he resents us too?”
“I dunno either, Faolàn,” Cahira muttered as she moved to the ground. “I wish to God I could tell ye. I can’t. Should we rest then, for a bit? I don’t think the rest of the day with
him is going to hurt anything,” suggested Cahira, feeling utterly defeated.
Faolàn gave a slight appreciative smile, grasping Cahira’s hand more firmly.
Carefully, he sat his son on his lap, looking adoringly into the child’s eyes, blue as the shimmering Irish loughs*, just like Cahira’s. Tears fell from his own as he took the child’s fine hair soothingly in his fingers, a golden-ginger lock, indistinguishable to his own.
Tiarnan’s tiny hand grasped his father’s finger, smiling softly as he pulled the loving hand away from his head.
Cahira fondly observed each moment. More beautiful than the splendorous Emerald hills of her country was her family, all together, the three of them. Three: a number forever sacred to the Irish. Before Christianity brought the Holy Trinity, the Celts worshipped the hallowed number, their ceremonies revolving around it, and for good reason, Cahira believed. Three belonged together, not torn apart, unremittingly displaced by the avarice of tyranny.
For a long while, she just watched her husband and son, rapt by the fleeting grace she was granted. After a while, Faolàn laid down sleepily, Tiarnan slowly falling asleep on his father’s chest. Cahira snuggled close to them, her tears wetting the cool ground. Try as she might not to sleep, afraid to lose any precious time, it inadvertently took her as well, the McCann’s a trinity for the last time.
When she woke, Faolàn had prepared a meal, Tiarnan now sleeping in her own arms. She kissed the infant’s head as she sat up, the woolen blanket Faolàn had placed over her slipping to her waist.
Night was fast approaching, and within its duration, the three reached the church, Cahira vainly hoping it was still Catholic, which would permit her more time with her son.
The middle of the night was best, Faolàn and Cahira decided, to leave their son secretly, any inhabitants of the church likely asleep.
They left their belongings behind, hidden within the trees in which they had sheltered.
Sadhbh and Finnian O’Laoire were the names Cahira and Faolàn took—Cahira’s Protestant parent’s names, just in case they did encounter anyone of the church.
“Bless me,” mumbled Cahira reverently, kneeling before the church in silent prayer. Faolàn followed suit, both reluctant to reach the great double doors, mysterious in the blackness of the night.
Once inside, it seemed they were in their own church, few differences having yet been made. Perhaps, Cahira thought indignantly, it was due to the fact that Protestants had not long ago seized this church, not yet having the chance to properly befoul it, though their mere presence was sufficient.
Luckily, it was desolate, at least to their obsevation, not even a single candle lit. What they did not notice was the man presently asleep in the last pew bench of the back row. The moon shone through the stained glass, marking an appropriate spot before the altar to leave Tiarnan. Faolàn laid down a folded blanket while Cahira bundled Tiarnan tightly in another. As was nightly ritual, Cahira set him down to sleep, humming scarcely above a whisper the song Faolàn had composed for him.
Cahira slipped the envelope full of money inside Tiarnan’s blanket, and kissed him, uttering despairingly: “God knows I love you, my son. And I have prayed, for you, for your safety. I love you, Tiarnan, forever, despite anything you may learn. I will always love you.” She clenched her teeth, trying in vain not to cry, so as not to upset her son in their final minutes.
She said a quick prayer on his behalf, and made the sign of the Cross before taking the Trinity brooch and pinning her son’s blankets. Finally, she breathed, her eyes fixated on his: “Live with that promise.”
Faolàn whispered inaudibly into his son’s ear as Cahira walked gravely to the double doors, completely numb. She watched Faolàn pray over Tiarnan, making the Sign of the Cross and he embraced his son for the final time.
Spirits broken beyond repair, giving in to despair, the McCann’s walked emptily away from the church, weeping as they tread. Consolation now seemed less attainable than the accomplishing what they had set out for; their trinity was broken. Having nothing to describe or soothe the endless grief, not a word was spoken that night, not out of hostility but misery, complete as the centuries past. Tears enough to drown the world, it seemed, were shed, and as the light came Cahira and Faolàn sat among the silence of the trees, unable to begin the journey home. After all, would their journey even take them home? Cahira asked herself resentfully. Home was a place of solace, and none would be offered without the return of her son, forever beyond her reach. She felt as if she had left herself behind, naught but a soulless body reigning in her place, walking without a purpose, without a sure destination. Her heart seared, burning like the fires of Hell, something she would come to feel many times, in different ways, throughout her lifetime.
These feelings only increased as the passage home began. Cahira had never seen Faolàn in this state before; he cooked, but did not eat, lied down, but did not sleep. His reactions exacted her own, and though she wished she had something to comfort him, she did not.
There was nothing to be said for it; if life could go on, it would never be the same—forever glaringly devoid of a fragment of wholeness.
One morning, as Faolàn laid a blanket over her, Cahira sat up and beckoned him near her.
“When my parents left,” she began tearfully, taking his hands, “I felt so betrayed, but more at fault than anything. I wanted so badly to be loved again—or needed. But you were still beside me. And now, I have lost my son, someone who finally needed me, and yet, here you still are. I’m saying this because—I just want to know that you’ll be there to help me get through this.”
“I will forever be,” he responded, smiling through his tears. “I need you, Cahira. I knew that since the day I came to Drogheda. But three years ago, when my grandfather died, and my grandmother took me to here Dublin, to leave his treasured Rosary in his hometown, I feared that when I came back, I would have nothing—but there you were. I think we did the right thing for Tiarnan. And I’m the one who doubts myself—but I really believe it this time.”
I don't see why there's a lack of critiques, this is a great story so far.
Anyhoo, Chapter 2...
It was good. The whole time. A few words such as envisioned and ephermal serenity stuck out though.
Keep it up,
MH
I have this printed for a proper crit, I just keep forgetting it at my house so I can scan it in.
Thanks, MH. Yeah, I recieved those comments. I've been hesitant to post more for lack of comments, but here is chapter 2 (I have half of this story written already, I'm just slow in posting.)
Chapter Two
Each step in the darkness sounded to Cahira like glass shattering beneath their feet, though in truth it was the mere rustling of dried moss. The wind hummed like English war songs,
every diminutive noise making her jump, envisioning the eyes of the Ironsides shining every bush. They were near enough, she knew. Luckily, none had stirred.
Despairingly, the McCann’s marched against the moon, Cahira not daring hum the song that Faolàn had composed on the tin whistle for Tiarnan. It had become nightly ritual to do so. Despite that, Tiarnan slept in Cahira’s arms, ignoring each bump in the ground she stumbled over, her own fatigue growing as she tread, but her will withstanding all.
She had decided it best not to stop until dawn, finding secluded places to sleep through the days. How long it would take, she didn’t know, conceivably several days, knowing
Cromwell had been in Dublin not long before his inauspicious landing in Drogheda. But he had also possessed better direction, she thought, cursing him heartily under her breath.
Cahira turned back to see they had already gone farther than she anticipated; she could no longer see St. Mary’s steeple, standing so lofty and proud on the river's edge. Far to the left was Millmount Fort, a place that had always seemed to Cahira to be crawling with ancient secrets, having been there for several hundred years.
The night was growing short. A watery blue glow was ascending above the horizon, casting a surreal reflection against trees, their shadows casting eerie shadows on the ground they tread. The air was getting warmer, and smelled of pleasantly rain.
“We shall have to shelter ourselves in the trees,” acknowledged Cahira, her first words since setting out.
“Oh, right,” said Faolán, his voice dreary and sorrowful.
As the world was elucidated, Cahira studied the extent of the trees. It was a small quarry, but it would have to suffice—she knew she must stop; she was becoming increasingly somnolent as she tread on, struggling to keep her eyes open. She had not eaten for hours. She could see Faolán dragging the weight of the musket, his legs becoming heavier with each step. As the reached the trees he dropped down exhaustedly, leaning his back on a tree and closing his eyes.
Cahira sat next to him, placing Tiarnan on his lap as she took his baggage and set it aside. “How much further?” she asked, knowing Faolán didn’t know the answer.
“I wish I remembered,” said he, putting his arm around her and resting his head on hers.
“Are ye hungry?”
“Not just yet,” Cahira lied, wanting Faolán to rest.
“You’re alright?” asked Faolán, opening his eyes to look at her.
“’Course I am,” said Cahira earnestly, snuggling closer against Faolán and closing her eyes.
“Sorry, love,” mumbled Faolán, standing up. He untied a piece of baggage and pulled out two woolen blankets, wrapping Tiarnan in one and giving another to Cahira.
Lying close together amongst the trees, the McCann’s slept until Tiarnan woke in midday, dark clouds now covering the vast skies above them, making the quarry in which they slept very dark.
Sitting up to feed Tiarnan, Cahira watched Faolán waking slowly as she adjusted herself against a tree.
“You know I’ve never set a fire outside,” he said almost excitedly, a hint of his buoyant spirit once again in his voice. “It’s lovely just to be away, isn’t it? Feeling free for the first time in a while.”
Cahira smiled, her frail hand on Tiarnan’s back. It was lovely to be away from home, and even lovelier to see her husband’s wit back. Her village had been bound in trepidation ever since Cromwell’s arrival in Dublin, inhibiting even Faolàn’s jovial disposition. But on their way to Dublin, Cahira felt secure, judging Cromwell had no reason to return yet. She pushed thoughts of what he was actually doing in her town right then to the back of her mind; today was beautiful, she didn’t want to ruin the ephemeral serenity.
Having brought firewood from home, Faolán lit a match to the little pile he had gathered next to him. A tiny flame budded diffidently.
It didn’t take long for the rain to start, and as was usual for Ireland, it poured, saturating Cahira’s hair and clothing. Faolán covered the firewood with the blankets, hoping to keep at least some of it dry, sitting on top of it for the effort.
He looked up to the treetops, a smirk on his slightly freckled, undernourished face. The rain tickled Tiarnan's face, making him smile and kick his legs spiritedly. He had never stayed out in the rain before.
“He loves it,” Cahira acknowledged tenderly, lifting her son above her head and bringing him back down, pressing round his face to her lips.
“Let me see him,” said Faolán blissfully, his vivacious nature emerging from his tides of recent doubt. He was never cruel or uncouth, never indifferent, but as gentle and kind as they come. But ever since the decision to let Tiarnan go, he had been unusually cheerless, forgetting jigs he used to spin just to see Tiarnan's grin, or songs he used to play on his tin whistle to cheer Cahira, whose sweet voice set him free. He embodied the Irish spirit, clever and resilient, and enduringly warm. Picking up Tiarnan, he once again resumed his usual jig, deftly hopping here and there, bouncing his young son gently. This was freedom, Cahira resolved, being able to dance freely in the rain, dances of the Irish and not the Sassenach, being able to say what your heart willed against Cromwell, or not saying anything at all.
After a time, the rain subsided, and Cahira’s stomach was now rumbling in hunger. Faolán started a new fire, humming Irish songs as he waited for the flames to heat.
The oats smelled harmoniously with the tranquil scent of rain. Cahira hummed with Faolàn now, leaning her head back on the trees and bouncing Tiarnan on her knee. She could live this way indefinitely, she thought, not having to obey the landlord’s strict laws, nor mind the amassing English terror. Here she was, away from all but those she loved, allowed to be one with her country—this is what Ireland truly meant.
But not all days of the journey passed this way; by the third day, lethargy was increasing as the journey progressed, Cahira and Faolán becoming weaker in body and mind. Tiarnan seemed again perceptive to the gathering gloom, and growing with his parent’s grief was his restlessness, not sleeping when the daylight came, refusing to nurse.
I read that...
I've actually read both of these installments. So I'm just wondering where it was that I commented.
Hmm. Maybe it was at TSR or that PM. You did get those comments though right?
Anyways, it's still great. I say more. I'm interested where your going with this, the story of Tiarnan or the whole family?
Keep on keepin on.
-MH
“We best gather our things,” affirmed Faolán glumly, rolling up the blankets from the floor.
That process did not take long, for the McCann’s owned very little: a few pieces of clothing each, a few meager cooking supplies, blankets, and luckily, oats enough for the journey. Although content with their standing, the McCann’s were of the lowest level of peasantry, Faolán being a mere farmer on a shared plot of land, owned by a wealthy and unjust landlord. Every day became a further struggle as new laws were introduced, replacing the old Irish system of Brehon Law. The struggle was greatest for Cahira, for under Brehon Law, women were extended their own rights, but under these new rules, she was restricted more so than the men.
“I don’t know how to get to Dublin,” realized Cahira dejectedly, as she picked up from
under her straw-pile bed her only possession of worth: a beautiful silver brooch, formed as a Celtic trinity knot, three points gracefully meeting in the center. Faolán owned its match.
His late grandfather, a blacksmith with an aptitude for making ornaments, had willed the brooches to him and Cahira, as a blessing for their wedding. Thinking lovingly and longingly of Faolàn’s grandfather, who had treated her as his own, Cahira pinned the brooch to the front of her long, beige dress.
“Barram’ll know. He’s been all over with his brother,” replied Faolán, collecting his bit of money and putting them into a coin purse, and pinning his own brooch carefully to his worn russet tunic, passing his hand over it, his eyes closed in memory. He breathed in deeply, then saying: “Anyway, I think I remember the path I took the last time.”
“We have to tell them anyway—I mean, I told Caoimhe that we were leaving. But I didn’t know it would be this soon,” said Cahira wistfully, worrying that she may never see Barram’s wife Caoimhe, or Barram himself again. Barram and Caoimhe were Faolán’s and Cahira’s best friends and neighbors on the shared land; Barram’s brother was part of Sir Arthur Aston’s infantry, comprised of Royalists and Irish Confederates—those who stood against Cromwell.
When all their scanty belongings were gathered, Cahira decided they better wait until nightfall.
"Don't you think we may have a better chance of not being seen? I want to get out of here without their filthy eyes on us."
"That’ll be hard, I think. Maybe the Ironsides will be sleeping as well. I dunno," mumbled Faolán doubtfully, putting his hands to his face as he sat. “I dunno where to start.” His hands moved to his eyes as he tried in vain to stop the tears brimming his eyes. “I just don’t know, Cahira.”
Cahira pulled Tiarnan onto her lap, and moved closer to Faolán, who kissed his son’s forehead as he took him into his own arms, and then gently kissed his wife’s cheek. Cahira looked away, afraid to glimpse the fleeting moments of wholeness. She felt without Tiarnan, there would be a gaping hole in her entirety, that which her son and husband had once mended. But if she were to keep him, she would forever lament surrendering him to the life of torment she now faced as an Irishwoman. Chances were, at some time, she and Faolán would lose everything to the wrath of Cromwell—their home could be dispossessed, and the land sold to the Scottish Presbyterian settlers who had themselves been forced out of their homeland. Or she and Faolàn might become captives to the English subjugators who slithered around at night, ruthlessly tearing the Irish from their homes and shipping them to the West Indies to work ceaselessly in the bondage of slavery. Any end was a disparaging one.
The sun was now fully risen, daylight streaming garishly through the smoke release, illuminating the restricted shack. But the day passed swiftly, like water through the River Shannon, Cahira ticking off each second with fruitless mental preparation. It seemed insurmountable, what she was about to do, especially when she tenderly beheld her precious son, his eyes identical to her own, his face so like his father's. When he held her gaze and smiled, he appeared so wise behind his young eyes, as all children do. When he wrapped his dear, tiny hand around her finger, she melted into tears, knowing she would never again feel his adoring grip. Faolán was in much the same state, seemingly afraid to take his eyes from his son.
As the hours passed, Tiarnan seemed to perceive his parent’s grief, for he became unusually fussy, typically a sweet and placid child. Continually, Faolán would apologize to Tiarnan, telling him, more to reassure himself than his son, that bringing him to the Protestants was going to protect him, ensure him a secure life of freedom. Cahira knew that Faolàn’s weakness was doubt in himself; never knowing whether or not he was making the right decision, acting on impulse or reason.
As the sun sunk beneath the hills, the burden of the impending journey began to weigh down on Cahira, making her realize it was time to gather up her courage.
“We have to tell Caoimhe and Barram now, Faolàn,” she affirmed haplessly.
Faolán looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and somber, his enduring horrors visible in his gaze. “I-I reckon so,” he choked grudgingly.
Leaving their baggage at the door, Faolàn held Tiarnan in his arms, taking Cahira’s hand before passing through the door to see Barram and Caoimhe for what might be the last time. An amethyst glow smoldered above the horizon, the rest of the sky fading into endless black, devoid of stars.
Knocking three times to a swift response, Barram cracked open the door suspiciously.
“Oh, it’s just you,” he said jovially. The burly, red haired man widened the door, welcoming his friends.
“Ye look mighty grim,” he said unsurely, clapping his large hand heartily on Faolàn’s shoulder.
“Listen, we’re really sorry,” began Faolán, his voice cracking.
Caoimhe looked deeply at Cahira, her green gaze seeming to penetrate her soul. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly, flames from the fire emitting an ethereal glow in her golden hair. “Cahira?” she pled, putting her hand on Cahira’s shoulder.
“Yes,” admitted Cahira, her voice shaking.
Caoimhe then embraced her, crying into her shoulder.
“When?”
“Tonight,” replied Cahira miserably.
“Tonight?” mumbled Barram in distress, turning to Cahira. “Why tonight?” he asked, moving toward her. “It’s those blasted Ironsides, isn’t it?”
“Can you at least stay a bit?” Caoimhe beseeched desperately, her small frame shaking faintly as she pulled away from Cahira.
“That’s why we came,” divulged Cahira, placing her hand on Barram’s arm as she turned to him. “We didn’t know until today or I swear I would have told you sooner.” She turned back to Caoimhe. “Father Blandon came to us-”
“To your house?” interrupted Barram.
“Yes. To warn us that—that Cromwell had come,” finished Faolán, bowing his head.
“We’re sorry,” uttered Cahira, genuinely remorseful. “We hate to do this.”
“But you are coming back?” questioned Caoimhe at once.
“We mean to,” nodded Faolàn. “We’re to go to Dublin, on Father Blandon’s order. Barram, I know the time to ask isn’t fitting, but have you any directions? It’s been so long.”
“It is directly south of here, a hefty town, you can’t miss it if you stay toward the east as you go. Stay away from the shores! If you meet the port of Dublin, you’re in trouble. The slave ships leave from there, and it’s teeming with Ironsides. I could go with you-”
“No. It isn’t safe,” said Cahira firmly, a sudden rush of guilt flowing in her veins. “I can’t put you at risk as well.”
“I have vague knowledge anyhow,” said Faolán, having once been there three years before.
“Then—you should take this,” said Caoimhe, offering a small bag of apples to Cahira.
“Barram nicked ‘em from the fields yesterday, so no one could sell them to the Ironsides. Nasty traitors, they are. You’ll need them on the way.” She bent to Tiarnan, in Faolàn’s arms. “Can I hold him a last time?”
“’Course ye can,” said Faolán understandingly, handing Tiarnan to her.
“I’ve always wanted a family,” mused Caoimhe mournfully, her sweet voice trembling. "It's not safe though, not now. It’s the curse Cromwell, I tell ye."
Barram stroked his wife’s hair, looking at her apologetically before moving across the room. He then opened a chest at the end of the house, pulling out a long box.
“Me brother gave me this,” he said to Faolán, carefully opening the box to reveal a musket.
“It’s a matchlock. When my brother was given a flintlock for Aston's army, he gave this to me, for protection. He wasn’t supposed to. A little piece of value to this house, I guess.”
Barram extended the musket to Faolàn. “You’ll need it more.”
“I don’t know how to use it--” admitted Faolàn, looking astounded, never having seen a musket.
“Here, I’ll teach you to use it,” said Barram. “First, I hope I remember properly—right, you move the striker like this,” he said, moving the cock of the gun half open. “Take this cartridge,” he continued, pulling showing Faolán a paper cartridge, “and open it with your teeth. The lower part has the powder,” he noted, showing Faolán the cartridge again, but not opening it, “drop the powder down the barrel, and shove the paper left over in as wadding. Then add the bullet,” he said, pointing to the upper part of the cartridge, and the remaining paper for wadding again, and compact it with the ramrod—it’s still in the case.
Now you can light the match—and don’t let it go out, or you can’t fire, rendering this useless, really. When cocked, the gun will push the match to the powder, which ignites to fire. Move the striker watch out--stay far from him if he has to fire, Cahira--it'll make a terrible jolt. I'm right hopeful you won't have to fire--takes years to load. Best to load it if you see someone questionable in the distance. Here, I'll talk you through it till you catch on."
As Barram taught Faolán, Caoimhe beckoned Cahira to sit.
“I can’t believe your actually going. I knew you would eventually. I didn’t know it would be today, or tomorrow or the next. It’s so hard to fathom,” she told Cahira, her pastel skin streaked with tears. She tilted her head to Tiarnan, “I’m going to miss ye, little wee’n. But you’ll be free, you’ll be alright.”
She turned to Cahira, her eyes staid:
“Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble, try and stay away from the Ironsides—I dunno if they’d follow you, would they?”
“Aye, I imagine taking the names of me parents’ll spare us from some hardship. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll actually be meeting with any Protestants,” replied Cahira.
“It’s getting dark,” recognized Caoimhe forlornly. “Ye sure you can’t stay one more night?”
“Wish we could. Wish we didn’t have to go at all. But Father Blandon told us to leave now, I imagine it’s best to do as he says,” answered Cahira sullenly. “You be safe yourself. We’ll be away from the Ironsides. You’re right near ‘em.”
Saying what might be last words, and exchanging last embraces, despondency rampant in departing tones, the McCann’s left their neighbor’s doorstep, the last friendly faces for a long time to come. As they moved out into the dark night, they took the first steps toward whatever nameless fate awaited them.
Thanks for reading again. Yes, I revised it. That is a good idea for the flashback, unfortunately I have tried it, and it still sounds very out of place. This is something I've really been struggling with. Thanks for the suggestion though. Any other suggestions are welcome.
I read this at TSR and critiqued it there but I think you've revised it since then sooooo here ya go
He moaned incoherently
That was a little odd...also, the transition from past to present is still kinda foggy. Maybe you could make the flashback a prologue?
Anyways, did you add a little bit to this? Cus it seemed better...
Once again, nice story Niamh.
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