The Third Chapter

Seven men walked swiftly through the streets of Belfast. They were led by a young man who appeared to have engaged a wild lion in single combat. Through the streaks of blood and darkening bruises a pair of glowing green eyes stared at the buildings lining the street. These eyes were the most singular feature in a face that commanded attention, none of the features themselves were overpowering, each strong enough to hold its own, but not to take over. The crooked, one-sided grin gave a gentle touch to the face, while the fire behind those eyes belied the smile and left no mistake that this young man had a purpose. Below the face lay two broad muscular shoulders, rounded with heavy power. These shoulders had proved themselves capable of driving a fist into a man hard enough to break bone. The arms they supported were deceptively powerful, the hands broken from the recent fight and scarred from many before that. He was not a tall individual, he stood no more than five feet nine inches in sock feet, but he was clearly the type that was used to leading men in a fight.

Behind him walked the six best fighters from the evening's encounter at Finneran's. These men were also inspecting the buildings as they walked, yet they did it from curiousity, wondering what it was their leader was searching for. Their walking had taken them from the high streets near the pub, down into the slums, where the Black and Tans seldom traveled unless backed up by official police.

The buildings had faded from the quaint brick facade into a series of squat tenements, encased in concrete. Boarded windows had replaced geraniums, and street lamps were no longer friendly fireflies, casting their light on the buildings and lovers walking on the sidewalk. The magic of the shop window Ireland had disappeared, replaced by the harsh reality of Ireland under English rule.

At last the young man leading them turned into a courtyard on the left side of the street. Quickly through the door and up the steps to the second floor where he stopped at a door without a name on it. He pulled something from his pocket, the object was unidentifiable, but it was most certainly not a key. Five seconds later the door before him opened easily under his hand.

The seven slipped quickly inside where the young man pulled a string. The interior of the room was illuminated by a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the corner stood an old television supported on an orange crate. Couches and chairs in expected condition were scattered about the room with packing crates for end tables.

One of the younger followers dropped onto a couch and broke the silence, "I believe that you owe us an explanation."

The young man stood in the center of the room and motioned to the seats surrounding him. As the five left standing arranged themselves around the room he began to explain, "You have all been brought here because you will play an important role in the events of the near future. Tonight marked the beginning of what I believe will be a great period of turmoil and change in this country. I believe this because I have come here to effect this change. Many of you have already formed your own opinions of my identity and my origins. Anything I can say at this point will either be ignored, or discredited, therefore I shall refrain from a long winded story. Let it suffice to say that there is a group of people, both here in North Ireland and elsewhere, that would like to see an end to the English rule here. After many years of planning and studying they decided that this was the time to move forward. I am one of their agents, sent to fight for the freedom of Ireland."

Michael Dunhill raised an eyebrow, "So you have been sent here by a secret group of freedom fighters? And instead of bringing compatriots with you, instead you choose the first six people you meet during a drunken brawl. This hardly seems like a well laid out plan."

The green eyes softened for a second, "To you, Michael, this may seem like a random collection of men. However I feel that it is fate that brought this unique group together. While you may not realize it yet, each one of you has a specific purpose in this movement, else you would not have been chosen."

"For example," again the thumb went in the mouth, "Mr. Collins there."

A slender, but wiry, man with thinning hair and glasses widened his eyes, "Yes?"

The green eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge, "You, Mr. Collins are a photographer for a magazine."

The man with glasses gasped, "Why, yes! Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

The young man in the center of the room laughed, "You are because you must be. You must be because we need someone of your talents. Therefore you are, because we need you to be. This is the way of it. We were all chosen by fate, not because of anything we have done, but because of what we are going to do."

Right now there are reports being filed, and a squad has been sent to the pub to search for us. They will not find us, and that will make them nervous. Those two black and tans we left in the street will have woken up, and they will tell the searchers that there is are twenty devils about. Later tonight after the initial search has been abandoned, tensions will run high within the enforcers and the police. This is when we will make our first move."

For the next few hours the young man laid out the plan for those in the room. With a piece of charcoal a rough map of the city was drawn on the bare floor. Directions were given for movement and timing. Questions were asked and answers given, the men who began that first session were skeptical, yet as the time wore on they were soon on the edge of their seats, eyes glowing in the low light.

It became apparent soon enough that Michael Dunhill was the second in command of the small troop. The older man's gray eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been kindled for many years. His hands worked slowly around in his lap as his eyes darted back and forth over the map. The hair on top of his head was not white, instead it was the color of old iron. His face had been whipped by the harbor winds for many years, and the sting of the salt showed in the leather that had replaced the boyish face of years gone by. The wrinkles on his face were not made by smiling, in fact the one time he did smile all evening the lines bent like the grain of a board suddenly straightened after years of lying warped. His nose lay across his face like the path of a man who has forgotten something on the way home. One cauliflowered left ear gave away the years in the boxing ring. As if to enforce the point the thick neck that supported this visage ran away quickly down the sloped shoulders to arms that showed many years of hard labor. This was the current appearance of Michael Dunhill, many years out of Carrickfergus, and many thoughts away from that sunny harbor town.

Once the plan had been thoroughly laid out and all questions answered, it was decided to retire for an hours rest before the nights adventure began. While the other six lay down upon mats or couches the young man with green eyes went to the washroom and began to carefully wipe away the blood that caked his face and neck. Michael followed him as far as the door, "When it comes time to wake you, lad, by what name shall we call you?"

As the red water ran through his fingers the young one glanced in the mirror at Michael. "You can call me what you've been calling me in your head the whole time. Call me Finn."

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.

Chapter the second

It was a quiet throng that watched as the young man rose. He wiped the blood from his mouth, ignoring the flow from the side of his head down his face and neck. The English crew had since fled the scene, hoping to avoid the fate of the black and tans. An older man in the crowd muttered, "You oughtn't to have done that. They'll be on us for sure."

The crowd murmured assent, it wasn't a pleasant thing to be on the wrong side of the black and tans. Their wrath was well know in this part of Belfast. The young man spat out blood and a piece of a tooth, "Do you not see it? We have them."

He was answered with silence, no one saw how they had the advantage over anyone. It had been far too long that the people here were driven into the ground under English boots. The province of Northern Ireland was only free in name, in all ways that mattered it was a protectorate of the Crown, with a governor appointed by the House of Lords. The plight of the Irish people here was a dire one indeed, they were the lowest class of citizens. They couldn't vote, demonstrate or bear arms. All that people in Belfast did from the day they were born was live so as to be invisible to the police and the state. When men felt brave they gathered around fireplaces in dark houses to tell the stories of old, of times when giants roamed the earth and kept Ireland free and safe. This was the reason there was no answer, every soul present felt what he meant, but none dared to consciously acknowledge it.

The young man spat again, "We have finally got the bastards right where we want them! Can't you see how this all plays out?" Again there was silence.

"Dammit all, am I the only one present who can look ahead and see what's about to happen? There is instability in the government, pressure is being applied from outside to force them to treat us better, and we have proven tonight that we have the ability to stand up for ourselves."

The young man's voice rose with passion and his brogue rolled off of his tongue into the darkest twilight of the streets. He spoke of the ancient ones, the warriors that had owned this land. He repeated over and over that this was the time for action. The crowd was beginning to grow visibly supportive when the same old man who had condemned him earlier asked, "What's your name, lad?"

The young man looked at him, "Don't you know me?"

The old man responded, "I don't know you. Where are you from?"

With a smile the young man stated, "If you knew me, you would know from whence I come," the young man popped a thumb in his mouth, then continued, "Michael Dunhill from Carrickfergus."

The old man raised an eyebrow, "That's a good parlor trick."

The young man placed his thumb in his mouth again, then went down the front row of the crowd, calling each by name and birthplace. County Down, County Antrim, County Armagh and County Londonderry. With each name he reeled off another man in the line began to nod his head. With each name the thumb went back in his mouth, only to be removed again for recitation of the next.

When he had finished he turned back to the old man and asked, "Have you seen enough? Or ought I to do the next row as well?"

The old man nodded, "That'll do, it's plain that your thumb does a lot of telling. But your tongue hasn't told us your name yet."

Another voice in the crowd piped up, "Isn't it plain? Only one man ever could know that much just by sucking his thumb. He's the great Finn McCuil!"

Instead of a cheer, a silence dropped on the crowd. All eyes were focused on the young man in front of them. Old Michael Dunhill's voice quivered as he asked, "How old are you, lad."

The young man smiled, "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Surely this must be he, who else could fight like him, he's not tall enough, he fights well enough, he sounds like he's older than he looks, the thumb, the thumb, the thumb. What other hero in history has had such a definitive trait?

"We have to go," the young man said, "They'll be back on us soon enough, we need to find a place to lay quiet for a time. Then we'll come back out and teach them who's island they're on."

A cheer rose up from the crowd. How could they not? The legendary hero had returned to free them from the English. It was all the young man could do to calm them. He selected from their midst six men, all of whom had fought fiercely inside the pub. And so they went, the fate of a nation resting on the shoulders of seven men.

The first chapter

The evening shadows drew themselves about Finneran's Pub as a mantle drawn across a face, changing the familiar to the darkness of doubt. The buildings on this street were old, lacking in elegance what they made up for in mystery. These were the famous Old Streets of Belfast, the cobblestones had seen the passing of centuries, the brick walls whispered the secrets of generations and even the streetlamps glowed with their guarded knowledge of plot, purpose and espionage that pervaded this area.

Finneran's itself was a quiet building, standing back a pace from the sidewalk left it cowering in an alley all its own. As the old wood door was pushed open, leaving flakes of blue paint on the hand of the entrant, it revealed a scene of tempo driven madness. The calls for beer and whiskey echoed and re-echoed across the small room, filled beyond capacity by the most singular collection of patrons that the pub had seen in ages.

At first glance it was a swarm of Irishmen descended upon the small tavern for the purpose of celebrating the New Year, yet when one looked closer at the waitresses burdens the variety of the company stood out plainly. The pints slid down the bar to the old men who passed every evening with each other in this place, with no one left to turn to other than comrades in cups and tales of days gone by. Ales were borne across the doorway to the collection of English here for the New Years day match. Whiskey by the bottle flowed to the middle of the room and the waiting glasses of the younger Irishmen who loudly toasted the New Year, and less loudly the future of Erin's Isle, and muttered a curse at their English Governor. The collection of students across the back of the room was identified by bottles of Vodka for the Russians, Wine for the French, Schnapps, Grappa and Gin.

The friendly feeling in the room was weighted with tension as the time drained away, and the discrepancies between the English and Irish grew greater. The mutterings gained in volume, and became less veiled in meaning. Taunts began to fly back and forth between the crowds, with the travelers in the back of the room sitting quietly, hoping not to be noticed. The television showed a view of downtown London, where the crowds had gathered to count out the old year. The sight of a Union Jack flying in the square inspired one of the more passionate young Britons, who leapt to his feet and began singing 'God Save the Queen' at the top of his lungs. All of his comrades held their glasses aloft and chanted with him. When they had finished their final notes there was a thick silence in the room. Dozens of Irish eyes were locked on them, a quiet fire fanned by the passion of hate grew quickly until the blazing green could no longer be faced.

An old man at the end of the bar pushed off of his barstool and stood there teetering on the brink of balance. First quietly, in an unsteady voice, began the song. The old man looked firmly at the English as he began to swell with fervor, belting out the 'Rocky Road to Dublin'. A glass crashed against the bar near him, but he did not even pause for thought. Shouts rose from the front of the pub, and still the old man sang on. With a strangled cry the young one who began singing for the English sprang over a chair and backhanded the old man across the mouth, "You dogs'll have to learn that your howling is not wanted!"

In the silence that followed the group from the front stood and gathered around their mate. Up until this point their numbers had gone unnoticed, as had the relatively large size of most of them. With them all standing there in a group, however, it became quite apparent just how many and how large they were. The silence continued, as no solitary soul was willing to venture against so many strong men. The passionate one wiped his mouth with the same hand that had laid the old man low, he grinned evilly and muttered, "That's how you deal with dogs."

Even as he turned a voice raised itself and lilted across the tension to all ears, "Hunt the hare and turn him down the road and all the way to Dublin."

The young one whirled around to face the brave voice. It was an American. The American rose from his table and threaded his way towards the throng of angry Englishmen, all the while whistling and chuckling about a street fight in Edinburgh.

The Tommy cracked his neck and knuckles. Another grin passed across his face as he thought about how his fist would feel passing through this one's jaw. The American was right in front of him. There was an explosion from the Tommy's shoulder, and the American spun and fell onto a waiting table. With a laugh he raised a chair and brought it down across the American boy's back.

The American pushed himself to his feet and faced his attacker. The young one chuckled to him, "You should have stayed down." With a jerk he grabbed the American's lapels and drove his forehead towards his face. It never made it there. It was painfully slowly that he realized the American's hands had come up and pushed his own hands away. It was even more slowly that he saw the hands clench and sweep towards his face. This eternity occupied the half second it took the American to turn the situation and send the young Englander flying backwards into his comrades arms.

There was no hesitation on anyone's part. The American dove forward and buried another fist into the left eye of his foe. With a cry the Belfast boys finally moved and struck straight and true into the crowd of English. In less time than it takes to tell the English had been driven through the doors and windows of the pub.

Out in the street the fight continued to rage with the Tommys getting the worst of it. This attracted the attention of a pair of para-military enforcers down the block. They came swiftly running and began to lay about with their night sticks, driving the fighters apart. The trial was conducted on the spot, and there was never a chance for the defenders of Erin's honor. With a unanimous finger point the Englih identified the American who started the whole thing

The enforcers pulled him from the ranks of the irish, and with one blow from a club dropped him to his knees. The blows continued to rain down until the American fell prostrate on the cobblestones, blood flowing freely from several cuts. The enforcers ordered everyone back inside the pub, saying that they would take care of the offending individual. No mention was made of retribution for the Tommy who started the whole thing.

A stirring on the pavement behind them caused both enforcers to turn. The American had raised himself up to his knees again. With a grin that showed little but blood he began, "Come out you black and tans, come out and fight me like a man." The nearest enforcer stepped back and put all of his effort into swinging his club and the American's head. Before it could make contact though it was halted by the hand of the intended victim. The American twisted round and smiled into the enforcer's face, "Tell your wife how you won medals down in Flanders."

The second enforcer savagely cut at the head, but the head was no longer there. The American lunged forward into the knees of the first enforcer, a tearing pop echoed through the street at both knees gave way under the attack. The follow up too was ineffective as the American kicked like a mule, connecting solidly with one foot to create the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. A whirl and strike later the second enforcer crumpled to the pavement with a broken jaw.

The American, for so he was, though none yet knew it, turned to the crowd of dumbfounded Englishmen, "Tell your mothers, 'The Wild Geese have returned.'"

Tonight

The generations we know
love to put on a show
Cause the feelings we feel
Tell us everything's real
And the passion and anger
That fill up our minds
Convince us that nowhere
is a land of the kind

Hate is a thing that can take your life
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight
When you finally fall, to tired to fight
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight

So we pull back from extremes
And we live in the norm
But the truth is out there
Hidden in unfamiliar forms
From hostile takedowns to rational breakdowns
We've dissected the lies that we used to ignore
With jade for our hearts and a cynical mind
We're too apathetic to even follow the blind

Walk away from the stress and all the strife
But nobody's growing old tonight
When you're all alone and you missed your life
You'll see nobody's growing old tonight

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

Tonight is interesting. It's been so long since I've written that I feel I should have some deep insightful opinions to share with you, but I don't. I have many deep-running emotions, but none of them lend readily to words. The Postal Service says it well, "I seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex". While I am not in any apartments, the sentiment holds true. I have a vision in my head, it is of me, my future, my destiny. However, to share it with anyone is madness, because none would understand. I am a paradox. I do not state this ironically in some emo self fulfilling dream of meaning that devolves into a love poem to the psyche. This sentence only makes sense if one has read the typical drivel of self-analyzing and situation-deploring that so often springs unwanted from tongues with no taste to fall unheard onto the concrete sidewalks where it fuels the fires of yet another narcissistic, indulgent 'artist' who cries against the 'machines cold heart'. There are some people out there who have true talent, these people are few and far between, and instead of loudly proclaiming their own ability they instead continue to write and sing and publish because it is what they love to do, not because it draws attention to them. If you're reading this you know who you are, tell Pandora I said hi (you're the latter, not the former).
My, I apparently did have opinions worth standing up on my soapbox of self-apparent superiority to express. I have some coherency beginning to form regarding emotions and other such things, however, I do not feel worthy of expressing them tonight. With that, I leave, feeling fulfilled that i have written, yet I did not make a point, nor did I convey emotion. Therefore i have failed both to express argument, or to create art. This is the fundamental difference between justifying one's existence, and living a meaningful life.


And now I have made a point.......thus, the paradox begins. /0

Pro Spem scribo, propter Spem pugno, cum Spem ibo

The frightened trapeze swinger

For starters, there is little better than standing around a camp fire, smoking hookah, and singing ska as loud as possible with a good group of friends.
I always wondered what drew the line between belief and knowledge. Tonight I've realized that there isn't one. Knowledge is belief. It must be, we don't notice it, but it is a conscious or unconscious decision to trust the inputs we receive as truth. We must choose at some level to decide what we will perceive as reality. I know that when a hand encounters a table saw a finger comes off, but I also know that when my grandfather used to 'pull his finger off' he was playing a trick. What is the difference? I used to believe he actually could pull a finger off, I knew it, but as I grew older my perception changed, and I believed in a different reality. With the saw, my perception hasn't changed, and I believe in that reality. Some people say that knowledge is based on facts, whereas belief is based on faith in unknowns. Well what are facts? Facts are things that we believe to be true so strongly that we don't question them. Things like, the earth is round, space is big, gravity pulls us down, these are facts. Then again these also used to be facts: the earth is flat, the sky is a roof on the earth, country music is good. What changed? Our perception? Our 'knowledge'? Our willingness to believe the things we experience.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not making the logical fallacy of saying that belief is knowledge. A=B, B~=A. Belief is having faith in what is truth without proof. God could come down and sign his name on your car, but if you choose not to believe in God, there is no knowledge of Him.

Really, that was just a rant of something I realized, not the actual point of the post, but it does sort of tie in nicely without being directly related. What point has to arrive before you realize that the gut feeling you have is not just a feeling, but a belief, and then a knowledge? Do you have to be shown proof? Or do you simply have to choose to believe strongly enough? I believe in something. Many do not approve, more don't understand, but that is their perception of reality. I'm not trying to disprove absolute objective truth, but who defines it? I agree it must exist, but right and wrong are a belief system. I believe in mine strongly enough that I feel (know) it is the right one, but that is my opinion. My opinion holds no weight in the jungles of Cameroon. The question is, once you identify a truth, once you realize a problem, can you really not acknowledge it? The question is not whether we should or should not act. The question is, can we rightfully justify inaction? I don't believe so. I do not relish the thought of people judging me harshly, being disappointed in me, or disapproving my actions, but in truth, the only real judge of my actions is not mortal. I must judge myself as I believe He would, in hopes that when the time comes for me to be judged in the only court that matters, I will be able to stand and say, "I did my best. It was not good enough, I fall on your mercy, but I did do my best. Forgive me, and accept what little enough I can offer." I'm not perfect, I'm not close, but I'm trying.


Pro Spem pugno

Kira