The First Tangent

The sun beamed gently down on the waves lapping at the sea wall. This was not the same sun that looked down so sadly upon Belfast in the troubled times, this was the sun that danced merrily up and down over Carrickfergus some many years before. It was a gentle sun, a playful sun, much like the times and places it reigned over. Many years ago England didn't play nearly as heavy a part in the world around it. Back then Northern Ireland was just that, a free province of Irishmen. They had their differences with the Catholic Republic to the south, but each tended to their own fields, and peace was the predominant feeling.

Through the streets beneath this benevolent sun ran groups of children. Their joyful voices echoed off the walls, turning simple laughter into symphony. The bustling markets around them hawked fresh fish and all the latest trinkets to come in off the boats, or in on wagons from the surrounding County. The fishmonger's stand sent it's odor down the street, reminding all that this was a seaside town. The tourists wrinkled their noses, but to the children and old men this was the smell of home.

The fruit stand was a bustling place, always warding off groups of children who came to borrow a piece. Housewives in their best shopping clothes browsed through the beds of brightly colored morsels, trying to select the very best for their tables. A crew of masons came by moving to a new job, they stopped to fill a hod with shining oranges before moving on to the next site.

These were the simple times, the Secretary was far away in London, and the people were left to themselves, and doing quite well. No one saw the clouds on the horizon. Clouds there were, however, for the secretary had been replaced with a new man, and this new man had no intention of leaving people alone to rule themselves. People had to be governed, they had to be told what they could do, or else the entire fabric of society would tear apart.

In Carrickfergus there was no sign of the coming storm. The ancient gates and porticos bustled with activity and happiness. Out of this wonderful chaos a young boy of five sprinted towards the streets leading into the city. Lunch time was drawing near, and it was time for every child to be getting home lest mother be worried.

This one in particular had to hurry, for every morning he traveled down to the market to play with his friends, but because his family lived farther uptown he had farther to run when he forgot lunch time was drawing on, as he did every day. It was a mad dash at noon to be home before his mother found him to be absent, and put his lunch away, or gave it to one of his brothers.

It used to take him a full ten minutes to run from the wharf back to his house, but as the days wore on he learned the secret paths, as every boy will. With a cut down an alley and a quick scurry through a hole in a garden fence he could see the back of his house not far away. Three steps up the stones piled inside the fence on the other side and he leapt down into the back street that took him straight to his door.

The kitchen was quiet, four boys ranging in age from 7 to 14 sat around the table, calmly awaiting their midday meal. Into this tranquility stormed a whirl of arms and legs, still wiping the water from the washbasin outside from the attached eyes. This tumult spun to the end of the table and deposited itself in the form of a small boy with large gray eyes into the last chair.

With a slight smile the mother passed plates of sandwiches around the table. When she came to the end she sat down next to her youngest son, placed his lunch in front of him and asked, "Well, Michael, who were you today?"

The boys eyes widened, his breath drew in and he beamed, "I was Finn Mac, the giant of old." With the tap opened the stories poured out, describing the great battles fought all morning between the Irish hero and his loyal band against the marauding Vikings, English, Scots, monsters, demons and goblins. While she listened to the babbling stream of exuberance the mother could not help but feel some pity for the children unlucky enough to be elected to the marauding bands, for they never had a chance of winning. When the flow of words hesitated to take a breath she leaned over and kissed his forehead, "Don't forget, Michael, there are other men in this world than giants. Sometimes they are ordinary men that turn out to be the heroes."

The boy solemnly nodded his head, after all Mother knew a great deal, but obviously she had forgotten that great heroes were always giants.