Short Story
CuChulainn
Irish Guy writing Irish People
CW: Death, Death of young people
This is some added backstory for the character of Mícheál Ó'Máille for the Dreams of Eden RP found here
====
The fire in the centre of the room was dimly lit, he’d need to throw some turf on that before too long, and before his sisters woke up. His parents weren’t in the tiny house, they must have left at sunrise and not woken their seven children. The morning sun glinted in the small, lonely window on the wall by the door. Ice frosted the paltry glass and the cold seeped through. Above, the harsh atlantic wind howled and swirled outside the thatched roof.
The tiny two room cottage stood a few miles from the coast. It wasn’t just the edge of Ireland, it was the edge of the world. The vast Atlantic stretched out and swallowed the horizon. And today it was angry.
Michael decided to go out now and get some of the turf for the fire. Wrapping up as tight as he could in the battered old wool jacket he ventured outside. The cold instantly stabbed at his face, the damp wind found its way through the clothes and permeated down to his very bones. His teeth chattered and his fingers turned blue. The peat turf shed was close by and he darted in to grab a few lumps. With a brief moment of hesitation he ventured back out and towards the house.
He could see down by the shore a few fishermen and their small currach boats who had tried to brave a morning catch but had been turned back by the angry protestations of the waves that battered the shore. The small white houses that dotted the landscape looked so insignificant against the backdrop of an angry grey sky.
FInally back inside the house he rubbed his hands together. The cottage was tiny, no place for nine people to live. The main room was where the fire and dining table were. Above, in the shoddy, mouldy rafters was a wooden platform where his parents had their bed. In a tiny room behind the fireplace their 7 children slept. The two boys slept in the rafters, and five girls slept on a thick bedding of hay close to the wall where the fire leaped and danced on the other side.
That was their lot in life. Nine people crammed into this destitute hovel. Barely a possession to their name, and barely a plot of land to feed themselves. Their diet was potatoes. Nothing else. There was no money for other food. And the land here was so poor, so desolate that not much else would grow.
He felt a guilt come upon him. Today he would leave them behind. Not to abandon them, but to find employment so he could send back money in a desperate hope to help them. But the guilt was that he knew who he was going to for employment. He would join the British Army, and serve the very institution that had forced them and all the others of this land into this abject poverty.
But what else was there? They would pay, and the money they would pay could help his family in ways that was unimaginable to them right now. Out here in the cold, unforgiving land of Connemara.
He hadn’t the heart to tell his sisters. Couldn’t face the pain when he told them he would be leaving them behind. Leaving them here in this place of poverty. He would travel the world, and they would be here, likely for the rest of their days. Toiling in the worst of weather, tending fields that barely gave enough food to support them. No way to live. They were nothing more than slaves to the land that fed them. Tiny plots, engineered by the British to keep them shackled to their huts and villages, destined only to pay meagre rents to a landlord who lived in a different country. “Bastards” he thought to himself. One day, he’d get revenge. He’d free his family from this prison. But today, he had to find the courage and join the people that were oppressing him.
====
Michael looked at the letter in his hand. He remembered that day so vividly in his mind. He remembered seeing the stark landscape, miles of fields separated by a criss crossing maze of knee high, stacked stone walls. The last day he would see his family for two years. That was now eight years ago, and he had seen them only twice more.
And now, they were dead. All of them. The letter from the local parish priest, the only one in the area who could write, had told him of the events. Unable to pay rent after the failure of the potato crop the landlord sent armed men to evict the family from the house. He didn’t know what happened to cause the deaths but somehow his father and two brothers were killed in the ensuing chaos. Murdered more like. And his poor, poor sisters were left with their mother, desperate to find food and shelter. But no relief came for them, only misery. All that was known was that all would be dead to starvation a week later.
There was no one left, he was alone in the world, thousands of miles away in a British army barracks in Nova Scotia. And he was apoplectic with a rage and fury that he had never felt before. He vowed he would get revenge on these bastards, he would kill every damn officer in the regiment if he had to. He would smile watching the blood drain from their faces as they grasped for air, pleading for their lives while his hands constricted, tighter, and tighter.
He would leave this cursed army and never look back.
Michael would never see Ireland again, never breathe the fresh Irish air. Never see the graves of his family. But he would have revenge.
This is some added backstory for the character of Mícheál Ó'Máille for the Dreams of Eden RP found here
====
The fire in the centre of the room was dimly lit, he’d need to throw some turf on that before too long, and before his sisters woke up. His parents weren’t in the tiny house, they must have left at sunrise and not woken their seven children. The morning sun glinted in the small, lonely window on the wall by the door. Ice frosted the paltry glass and the cold seeped through. Above, the harsh atlantic wind howled and swirled outside the thatched roof.
The tiny two room cottage stood a few miles from the coast. It wasn’t just the edge of Ireland, it was the edge of the world. The vast Atlantic stretched out and swallowed the horizon. And today it was angry.
Michael decided to go out now and get some of the turf for the fire. Wrapping up as tight as he could in the battered old wool jacket he ventured outside. The cold instantly stabbed at his face, the damp wind found its way through the clothes and permeated down to his very bones. His teeth chattered and his fingers turned blue. The peat turf shed was close by and he darted in to grab a few lumps. With a brief moment of hesitation he ventured back out and towards the house.
He could see down by the shore a few fishermen and their small currach boats who had tried to brave a morning catch but had been turned back by the angry protestations of the waves that battered the shore. The small white houses that dotted the landscape looked so insignificant against the backdrop of an angry grey sky.
FInally back inside the house he rubbed his hands together. The cottage was tiny, no place for nine people to live. The main room was where the fire and dining table were. Above, in the shoddy, mouldy rafters was a wooden platform where his parents had their bed. In a tiny room behind the fireplace their 7 children slept. The two boys slept in the rafters, and five girls slept on a thick bedding of hay close to the wall where the fire leaped and danced on the other side.
That was their lot in life. Nine people crammed into this destitute hovel. Barely a possession to their name, and barely a plot of land to feed themselves. Their diet was potatoes. Nothing else. There was no money for other food. And the land here was so poor, so desolate that not much else would grow.
He felt a guilt come upon him. Today he would leave them behind. Not to abandon them, but to find employment so he could send back money in a desperate hope to help them. But the guilt was that he knew who he was going to for employment. He would join the British Army, and serve the very institution that had forced them and all the others of this land into this abject poverty.
But what else was there? They would pay, and the money they would pay could help his family in ways that was unimaginable to them right now. Out here in the cold, unforgiving land of Connemara.
He hadn’t the heart to tell his sisters. Couldn’t face the pain when he told them he would be leaving them behind. Leaving them here in this place of poverty. He would travel the world, and they would be here, likely for the rest of their days. Toiling in the worst of weather, tending fields that barely gave enough food to support them. No way to live. They were nothing more than slaves to the land that fed them. Tiny plots, engineered by the British to keep them shackled to their huts and villages, destined only to pay meagre rents to a landlord who lived in a different country. “Bastards” he thought to himself. One day, he’d get revenge. He’d free his family from this prison. But today, he had to find the courage and join the people that were oppressing him.
====
Michael looked at the letter in his hand. He remembered that day so vividly in his mind. He remembered seeing the stark landscape, miles of fields separated by a criss crossing maze of knee high, stacked stone walls. The last day he would see his family for two years. That was now eight years ago, and he had seen them only twice more.
And now, they were dead. All of them. The letter from the local parish priest, the only one in the area who could write, had told him of the events. Unable to pay rent after the failure of the potato crop the landlord sent armed men to evict the family from the house. He didn’t know what happened to cause the deaths but somehow his father and two brothers were killed in the ensuing chaos. Murdered more like. And his poor, poor sisters were left with their mother, desperate to find food and shelter. But no relief came for them, only misery. All that was known was that all would be dead to starvation a week later.
There was no one left, he was alone in the world, thousands of miles away in a British army barracks in Nova Scotia. And he was apoplectic with a rage and fury that he had never felt before. He vowed he would get revenge on these bastards, he would kill every damn officer in the regiment if he had to. He would smile watching the blood drain from their faces as they grasped for air, pleading for their lives while his hands constricted, tighter, and tighter.
He would leave this cursed army and never look back.
Michael would never see Ireland again, never breathe the fresh Irish air. Never see the graves of his family. But he would have revenge.
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