Dragon Writing Prompts: "Don't let a single day ..."

Dragon Writing Prompts: "Don't let a single day ..."

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THE HARP, THE PEN, THE SWORD

OUTLINES FOR “THE HARP”, “THE PEN”,  “THE SWORD”

(THE MORAN FAMILY LEGACY)

PRE-OUTLINE NOTES:

Ø  I will write this outline with the assumption that it will be a trilogy because of the time factor and the construction of the story.  I also have three different protagonists who will each die at the end of their story.  The books will be titled—“THE HARP”, “THE PEN”, “THE SWORD”  (THE MORAN FAMILY LEGACY)

Ø  It is my plan to write as complete an outline as possible between now and 01 October 2013 when we leave for New Zealand.

Step 1) Take an hour and write a one-sentence summary of your novel. Something like this: "A rogue physicist travels back in time to kill the apostle Paul." (This is the summary for my first novel, Transgression.) The sentence will serve you forever as a ten-second selling tool. This is the big picture, the analog of that big starting triangle in the snowflake picture.

When you later write your book proposal, this sentence should appear very early in the proposal. It's the hook that will sell your book to your editor, to your committee, to the sales force, to bookstore owners, and ultimately to readers. So make the best one you can!

Some hints on what makes a good sentence:

• Shorter is better. Try for fewer than 15 words.
• No character names, please! Better to say "a handicapped trapeze artist" than "Jane Doe".
• Tie together the big picture and the personal picture. Which character has the most to lose in this story? Now tell me what he or she wants to win.
• Read the one-line blurbs on the New York Times Bestseller list to learn how to do this. Writing a one-sentence description is an art form.

·         WHAT ARE THESE BOOKS ABOUT?

                How two generations of one family deal with life in Ireland between 1885 and 1922.  

                THE HARP---A young woman wants only to live her Wedding Day dream in Galway, Ireland, in the late 19^th century. 

THE PEN---A middle class young man in Ireland has made only one mistake in his life—he married the girl he has loved since childhood.

                THE SWORD---A child conceived in an act of rape and raised in exile, goes home to become a great patriot.

THE HARP

Step 2) Take another hour and expand that sentence to a full paragraph describing the story setup, major disasters, and ending of the novel. This is the analog of the second stage of the snowflake. I like to structure a story as "three disasters plus an ending". Each of the disasters takes a quarter of the book to develop and the ending takes the final quarter. I don't know if this is the ideal structure, it's just my personal taste.

If you believe in the Three-Act structure, then the first disaster corresponds to the end of Act 1. The second disaster is the mid-point of Act 2. The third disaster is the end of Act 2, and forces Act 3 which wraps things up. It is OK to have the first disaster be caused by external circumstances, but I think that the second and third disasters should be caused by the protagonist's attempts to "fix things". Things just get worse and worse.

You can also use this paragraph in your proposal. Ideally, your paragraph will have about five sentences. One sentence to give me the backdrop and story setup. Then one sentence each for your three disasters. Then one more sentence to tell the ending. If this sounds suspiciously like back-cover copy, it's because . . . that's what it is and that's where it's going to appear someday.

1.       THE HARP—

It is 1885 in Galway, Ireland.  The Moran family makes its money from the shipping business Mick and his best friend Sean Healy own.  Mick has one child, a beautiful redheaded daughter who is about to be married to the son of his best friend and partner.  He is a widow, his wife died in childbirth 20 years ago but he still misses her and thinks about her daily.  He has never   married again or even looked for another wife.  Mick is gone a lot on his ships but he is never gone for more than a few months at a time.  While Mick is gone, Cathleen lives with Sean and his wife Maire.  They live just a few doors down on the same street.  Sean rarely goes to sea he runs to administrative end of Moran Fahey Shipping.    Sean and Maire have a son, Ruairi who is one year older than Cathleen is.

(ACT ONE)--The story opens with Cathleen and Ruairi getting married at the family parish church.  There is a “gate crasher” at the reception.  He is am English nobleman named Raleigh Wainright.  He has wandered into the wrong room accidentally because he has been drinking.  Before the reception is over, he makes a pass at the bride.  Wainright decides he wants Cathleen for himself.  He could not care less that she is happily married.  He quietly pursues Cathleen until it becomes harassment.  Finally, she tells Mick about Wainright and Mick pays him a visit.   Wainright becomes angry and silently vows to not only get Cathleen but to also ruin Mick’s business. 

(ACT TWO)---Wainright sets-up Ruairi by starting a riot and making it look like Ruairi is the instigator of the riot.  Ruairi is found guilty of starting a riot and murder of a police officer during the riot.  He is sentenced to life at Portland Prison in England.  

(ACT THREE)---Mick and Sean begin to make plans to break Ruairi out of prison and send him to the US.  Wainright really starts pushing Cathleen hard.  She resists him but he visits her on three separate occasions while Mick is out on a voyage and rapes her.  He convinces her that he can ruin her father’s business and he will if she tells anyone. 

Wrap-up---Mick and Sean leave to rescue Ruairi.  They get him out of the prison but there is a terrible storm and the ship is wrecked on the way back to Ireland.  Mick and Sean drown but Ruairi lives and is taken in by a family near Cork.  Wainright get particularly drunk one night and again rapes Cathleen.  This time she gets pregnant.  Wainright has been called back to England by his father.  Cathleen tells her daughter Bridget and Maire.  When Wainright returns he discovers that Cathleen is pregnant.  Maire walks into the house and he shoots her.  Bridget hears screaming and comes down stairs.  She kills Wainright with the fire poker.  Cathleen and Bridget get rid of body then call the police and tell them that Maire has been shot.  Cathleen goes into labor.  She has a baby boy.  Hours after the baby is born she begins to hemorrhage.  Briget goes to get the doctor.  While she is gone Ruairi comes home.  The doctor tells them there is nothing he can do and Cathleen dies.  Briget gets her fiancé and tells him what happened.  They decide to get married right after Maire’s funeral and to baptize the baby at the same time.  There is a ship leaving for America and they will be on it.  The priest falsifies the ages and dates on the marriage certificate.  The baptismal certificate says that the baby’s parents are Briget and Brendan.  They leave on the ship for America never to return to Ireland.  Ruairi is also with them.  End of this book.

THE HARP

Step 3) The above gives you a high-level view of your novel. Now you need something similar for the storylines of each of your characters. Characters are the most important part of any novel, and the time you invest in designing them up front will pay off ten-fold when you start writing. For each of your major characters, take an hour and write a one-page summary sheet that tells:

• The character's name
• A one-sentence summary of the character's storyline
• The character's motivation (what does he/she want abstractly?)
• The character's goal (what does he/she want concretely?)
• The character's conflict (what prevents him/her from reaching this goal?)
• The character's epiphany (what will he/she learn, how will he/she change?
• A one-paragraph summary of the character's storyline

An important point: You may find that you need to go back and revise your one-sentence summary and/or your one-paragraph summary. Go ahead! This is good--it means your characters are teaching you things about your story. It's always okay at any stage of the design process to go back and revise earlier stages. In fact, it's not just okay--it's inevitable. And it's good. Any revisions you make now are revisions you won't need to make later on to a clunky 400 page manuscript.

Another important point: It doesn't have to be perfect. The purpose of each step in the design process is to advance you to the next step. Keep your forward momentum! You can always come back later and fix it when you understand the story better. You will do this too, unless you're a lot smarter than I am.

THE HARP, THE PEN, AND THE SWORD (THE MORAN FAMILY LEGACY)

I am now diligently working on the outline for my book.  I found a new book about De Valera and it is fascinating.  It looks at him from a completely different point of view.  This author claims that De V was not a great Irish hero at all but a spy for England.  I know that sounds preposterous but he builds a pretty darn good case--I immediately bought the book and am now reading it.  I may use this as a back story for the book.  It would be very interesting to make Sean-Michael his personal aid.  I really like the outline form I am using, it is simpler than what I used the last time and I think it will give me the opportunity to be much more comprehensive and thorough.  I am also going to start posting my outline--such as it is, on this page.  The first thing is going to be the character births, deaths and marriages.  I intend to do a full family tree for both the Moran's and the Healy's.  Raliegh Wainwright is going to be the arch-villian (I hate him already!).

NAME	DATE OF BIRTH	DATE OF MARRIAGE	DATE OF DEATH	RELATIONSHIP
MICHAEL JAMES MORAN	JANUARY 04, 1833		March 1, 1902	FAMILY PATRIARCH
SEAN ROBERT HEALY	MAY  22,1834		March 1, 1902	FAMILY PATRIARCH
CATHLEEN HEALY (MORAN)	JULY 18, 1860	AUGUST 18, 1880	May 6, 1902	DAU-M. MORAN/WIFE-RUAIRI
RUAIRI MICHAEL HEALY	MARCH 15, 1859		June 28, 1914	SON --SEAN + MAIRE HEALY
MAIRE HEALY	JUNE  19,1836		May 6, 1902	WIFE--SEAN
BRIGET FAHEY (HEALY)	APRIL 6, 1883	May 8, 1902		DAU-CATHLEEN+RUAIRI
CIARIN HEALY	JULY 20, 1881		AUGUST 2?, 1922	SON--CATHLEEN+RUAIRI
RALIEGH WAINRIGHT	APRIL 1860		May 6, 1902	ENGLISH NOBLEMAN (BAD GUY)
BRANDON FAHEY	FEBRUARY 28, 1880			HUSBAND--BRIGET
SEAN-MICHAEL FAHEY	May 7, 1902			SECOND SON OF CATHLEEN
				RAISED-SON-BRANDON+ BRIGET

THE BANSHEE AND THE RAVEN

This story was written nearly 20 years ago--it is probably my all time favorite piece.

            The last echo of the banshee's wail faded as a raven took wing and flew across the face of the full moon.  An old woman's moon, the country folk called it.  They said the full moon was a wise, old woman, and God help the man who laughed at her, for she would curse the rest of his days with misery.  They said the next day the neighbors came to check on the old woman and she was not there.  They said nobody ever saw the old woman again.  For weeks a great raven, so black that it shone blue in the sunlight, sat on the lantern hook by the front door.  They said the old woman was a witch and when she died, she turned into that raven.  The old Irish folk tales still live and strange things happened on the Connemara.

                  Sure as I know my Christian name is Margaret Mary, between the howling’s of the wind off the ocean, on that cold clear March night, I heard the banshee wail for the first time.  Maam said I listened to too many stories and believed the silly old songs sung around the fire in the wintertime.  Nevertheless, I know what I heard.  I would've known even if no one told me.  It was a death wail.

            Everyone who knew the old woman either feared or cursed her.  Heathen was what they called her.  She didn't even have a Christian name.  Her name came from the old Celts and the fairy folk they said. 

Ytha is what she told me to call her that first day I saw her.  I was playing hide and seek with the old herding dog from down the lane.  I climbed the wee stonewall to see where the dog had gone.  When I looked up, there she was. 

            She wasn't near as tall as Maam, all bent over with a heavy black shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.  Her black skirt was ratted and ragged at the edges.  Her shoes were so old that they weren't even black anymore.  They were somewhere between gray and brown.  Her hair was gray and matted like it was rarely brushed.  But the thing I really noticed were her eyes.  I never saw eyes like that before.  They were a ghostly color of white-gray, like no color at all.  Maam said she was blind.  I've never been around nobody who was blind. 

            When I came over the wall, she just stood there, about three feet away from me.  Her face turned in my direction, but I knew she didn't see me.  Somehow, I knew right away she couldn't see.  Her nose twitched, almost as if rabbits do when they sense danger.  She was leaning on an old tree branch that was almost as twisted and bent as she was.  I froze when I saw her; she was about the most fearsome thing I had ever seen.  I just knew she was a fairy witch and now I was going to get a curse on my head.  Her voice sounded like a rusty hinge on the big, oak, front door.  "Who's there?  Speak up I say, who's there?"

            The dog barked.  I was so scared I fell off the wall and landed in a pile at her feet.  I picked myself up, fast as I could, and answered her in a squeaky little voice that didn't even sound like me.

            "'Tis I, Margaret Mary O'Halloran.  I live down the lane and I was just playing with the dog."

            The dog barked again as if confirming what I told the old woman.

            "Well, if you must be here, come in and help me make tea.  You can slice the brack for me."

            I just stood there staring at her.  Somehow, she knew that.

            "What you looking at child?" she asked in a voice that didn't seem quite so raspy now.

            "They all say you are a fairy witch.  Is that true?"

            She just snorted as she turned around and started feeling her way back to the cottage, "Believe everything you hear, do ya?  Don't be a fool.  Let's get out of this wind before it cuts ya to bits."

            The one room cottage wasn't near as big as my maam's kitchen and parlor.  Once whitewashed walls were now gray streaked from coal and peat that burned continuously in the little hearth at the far end.  A hand-made, rocking chair sat to one side of the hearth.  A little cot, covered with a dingy sheet and coarse wool blanket, hugged the wall.  Her clothes hung on a roughly carved peg, hammered into the wall above the bed.  At the other end of the room was a small sideboard, a table with a plain chair and a three-legged stool.  She shuffled around the room putting the teapot on the hook, in the hearth, and getting dishes and a loaf of brown raisin brack out of the sideboard. 

            She picked up a cracked and crazed teapot from the dry sink and threw in a handful of tea, from a tin box, which had a faded picture of biscuits on it.  "Don't just stand there staring," she said impatiently.  "Slice that brack and spread it with the butter in that tub."

            I couldn't get over the fact that although she was stone blind she knew my every move, even when I was just standing and staring.  The kettle over the fire began steaming and she took the edge of her skirt and fetched it off the hook.

            The smell of tea and peat filled the room as she sat in her rocking chair; she munched on the brack and took great slurps of the strong, black tea.  A shaft of sunlight streaked across the room from one of the two windows.  I watched hen feathers zigzag down from the roosting basket hanging in the rafters as I chewed the dry brack.  Maam would have thrown it out to the pigs rather than giving it to us.  Even the raisins were tough and hard.  The tea tasted strong and bitter and I wished I had some milk in it.  I was too scared to ask the old woman for milk, or sugar either, and she didn't offer.  Maybe she was too poor to have any, I thought.

            It seemed she had forgotten I was even there as she stared into the fire with those horrible unseeing eyes.  I wished I could leave, but I didn't know how to do it and be polite.  Suddenly she coughed; it was a great, loud, wet noise.  She brushed long twisted strands of hair away from her face and turned to me.  "Be a love and pour me some more tea, child.  These old bones pain me terribly every time I stand."

            I jumped up and my foot caught the edge of the chair and tipped it over. 

            "You sure are a clumsy child.  Just like a calf who aren’t used to being in a stall.  See if you can pour that tea without breaking the pot."  She grumbled at me but I could see just a hint of a smile around the edges of her mouth.

            "Yes, maam," I said, being very careful as I poured the tea.  Her hand brushed against mine as she took the cup back.  It felt cold and rough.  I reached into the old wooden box by the chair to get a turf for the fire, but the box was empty.

            "Would you like me to bring in some turves for you?  The box is empty and the coal bucket is almost empty."

            Yellow, broken teeth showed through the smile that was higher on one side of her face.  "Bless you child, I would like that.  It is so cold, the wind makes even this ugly old face hurt."

            It took several trips, but I filled the box with turves.  By the time the coal bucket was full, the sun was already sinking back into the gray choppy waters of the Atlantic.  The stone fences in the field between the cottage and the bay cast black shadows that crisscrossed like giant tic-tac-toe games.

            "I guess I best get headed for home before my Maam starts worrying about me.  Thanks for the tea and brack,” I said with my best Sunday manners.  She didn't hear me though.  Her head drooped between her hunched shoulders and the rhythmic sound of her weasy breath told me she was asleep.  I banked the fire and quietly closed the door on my way out.

            The next day was Sunday.  After Mass we all piled into Da's little car and went to Gran's for dinner.  It was dark when we came home.  Da had to drive by the old thatch to get to our place and I saw fire light dimly shining from the window.  When I said my prayers that night I silently asked God to take care of the old lady, even if she was a witch.  I was sure that God must love witches as much as he loves good Catholic girls.

            Monday after school I ran all the way home, changed out of my uniform before Maam told me too, and fed the chickens. 

            "Maam, I did my chores.  Can I go play now?"  I yelled through the open door. 

            "Margaret Mary, what has gotten into you today?  Are you sure, you're done?  It usually takes twice this long to do your chores."

            "I'm all done Maam.  Can I go play now?"  I said impatiently, wanting to be off across the rocky field.

            "All right, but be home before dusk.  There is a storm brewing and I don't want you out in it.  And don't forget your cap and scarf."

            "Yes, Maam."

            I could see smoke curling out of the chimney when I climbed over the stonewall.  I stepped over a skinny, orange tomcat and knocked on the door.

            The old woman opened the door with one hand and grabbed her shawl around her with the other.  "Who is it?" she crackled, "and what do you want?"

            I wondered what had possessed me to want to see her, "'Tis Margaret Mary.  I come to see how you are."

            ""Tis more likely you come to eat the rest of my brack!" she said.  "Come in if you must, but I've already had my tea and the cat ate the last crumbs of brack.  It was stale anyway."

            She shuffled over to her chair and fell into it with a grunt. 

            "Throw a handful of coal on the fire and pull up that stool.  No sense in being cold when I pay that outrageous price for coal."

            She just sat in her chair and rocked for the longest time, her face turned to the hearth to get every bit of warmth the coal would give. 

            "So why did you come?  Children are usually afraid of me and stay away.  I think you are too, but you came anyway.  Why? What do you want of me?"

            "I don't know," I said, afraid to lie.  I knew if I lied, she would know.  Maam always did.  I swallowed hard and went on, "I don't believe you are a mean, old witch.  I came to see how you are and to talk to you, I guess."

            "I'm a blind old woman, the cold makes my bones hurt and the smoke from the coal makes it hard to breath.  I feel terrible and I am miserable!  Even the cat would rather be outside than sit in my lap these days.  So if that is all you wanted to know maybe you should just go home."  Her shaking hands rearranged her shawl.  A grimace crossed her face as if even this small motion caused her pain.

            I didn't move, mainly because of fear, I guess, but something inside me said, she's just a sad old woman.  My heart reached out to her.  Her next words scared me and I jumped.

            "Don't feel sorry for me, you foolish girl!  If you really do care, fill that turf box, so that I don't have to."  Her voice softened just a little.

            I filled the box and checked the coal bucket, and then I sat back down on the three-legged stool, and tucked my feet under it.  Resting my chin on my upturned hands, I stared into the fire.

            "Fires have great magic, you know," said the old woman.  This time it did not scare me that she could read my thoughts.

            "When I could see, that was one of the things I loved most to watch.  I still love to watch the flames, but now I have to look with my heart."

            I could see the reflection of the flames on her face and I understood what she was saying. 

            I stared into the flame.  "What is so magical about a fire?"  I asked, not really believing her, but hoping that she was right.

            "No magic is going to work unless you first believe in it," said Ytha, "The first rule of magic is: magic is only as powerful as you believe it is.  But then you are a good Catholic girl so you don't believe anything I say anyway."

            I didn't know what to say so I changed the subject, "Have you always lived here?"

            "No, not always," she said.  Her hands relaxed in her lap and the tension left her face.  "I once lived in town.  That was back in the days when they believed I was useful.  Back before I got old and the children called me a witch.  People respected me then. I was the town midwife." 

            Her voice had that far away sound that all grown-ups get when they talk about the old days.  As she stared unseeing into the flames, her voice lowered almost to a whisper.  I scooted my stool closer to hear the old woman's tale.

* * * *

            Back then, I birthed most of the babies here about.  I had a little carriage and a sturdy gray pony and I even went out into the wilds of the Connemara.  Once I was called to birth a baby not too far from here.  I had been to that house three times before but still there had never been a bairn in the crib by the fire.  Always, the babies died in a few hours after birthin'.  The young couple seemed so loving and kind.  I wondered what they did to displease the gods so. 

            I wanted to cry when that bairn came out.  That child too had the curse upon it.  The mother knew as soon as she held her.  She was so tiny and fragile.  Her lips were the blue of a baby bewitched with the chill of the soul.  It broke my heart to see the tears run down the mother's face and she begged me to do something for the child.

            That evening when I was sitting by my fire, I heard a wee voice singing.  Right out of the flames, stepped a fairy.  He wasn't much taller than that stool you're sitting on.  He was dressed in a fine brown suit with a belt of gold holding the jacket closed.  A matching cock hat tipped to one side over his ear and he had bright gold buckles on his shoes.  He just stood on the hearth just looking at me for the longest time.  When he spoke, he said he knew about the baby I birthed that day.  He said he could cure that wee baby.  Now I know that a fairy never does nothing without getting payment for it. 

            "What is your price, sir?”  I asked.

            "I ask only the usual payment," he replied, with a self-satisfied smirk.  "I must have the bairn to raise as my own.  You will tell the parents that the child is dead."

            I told him no.  I told him how the parents already lost three babes and I feared that the young mother's heart could not bear the loss of another.  The fairy just looked at me and kept smiling, "Would you be willing to pay the ransom for the child?"

            "Ask what you will and I will consider it.”  I say. 

            The fairy tapped his foot and scratched his head for a minute then he says, "I will give you the child's life if you will give me your eye-sight."

            Now that shocked me so much I didn't know what to say.  "You have one day to think about it," he said.  "I will be back tomorrow night for your answer."  With that, he jumped into the air and disappeared.

            The next day I visited the mother and child.  The child was worse.  She quaked as if her very soul was frozen, and her breath came in little gasps.  She would not nurse and she was even too weak to cry.  Her mother held her in one arm and counted the beads of a rosary with the other.  I knew her prayers would not work.

            That night I told the fairy that I would accept his offer.  "You would do that for someone who isn't even kin?" he asked in amazement.  "Why?"

            "Because I know the heart-break of never having a child," I told him.

            "Yes, so do I," he said.  "All the women in my clan are barren.  There have been no babies for many years.  That is why I wanted this one.   It is fairy law that I give you a chance to bargain.  I will accept your eyesight as ransom for the child.  You will not go blind until one year from this day.  On that night I will visit you and take your sight."  Then he disappeared.

            The child, of course, lived and grew to be a healthy and beautiful girl.  Her parents worshipped her and she was the joy of their life.

            A few months later, I moved into this cottage.  The fairy returned as he promised, but before he took my sight, he told me that his clan had been so impressed with my love that they had offered to help me by teaching me the herb craft and helping me begin my garden.  That garden served me well for many years.  They must've put an enchantment on it, because the plants grew and bloomed all year round.  Even at Christmas, I could pick fresh dill, rosemary, thyme, and mint.  Folks thought I grew my plants inside, but I never did.   

            For a number of years I would load up my buggy every Saturday, hitch up the pony, go into the town market, and sell my wares.  I always carried my medicine box and put it under the counter of my booth.  It contained the special herbs and potions the wee folk taught me to make for ailing children.  I gave mothers with babes a lot of croup tea in those days.

            Then one Saturday, in the spring, I was coming home and I heard some young boys yelling and calling me names.  They threw stones at me and the pony.  The pony panicked and ran into a ditch.  It broke its leg and the cart turned over on me.  Your own Da found me and brought me home.  I was hurt bad, and what with the arthritis I never got out again.  How was I to go out?  My pony had was shot and the carriage was in bits.

            For these past few years, the wee folk are the only ones who cared or visited me.  Even the tinkers stay away from my door.  That is 'til you and that infernal dog decided to climb my fence.

            The old woman sighed deeply, wrapped her knurled fingers around the arms of her chair, and forced herself to her feet.  "It must be getting on toward dark now.  You better get home before your Maam starts worrying about you." she said, bending to put more coal on the little fire grate.        "Tomorrow I'm making fresh brack, so I suppose you'll want to come and get your share."

            "Thank you, Maam.  I'll come if I can."  I wrapped my scarf around my neck and pulled the wool cap down over my ears.  I could hear the wind whistling threw the little stonewall across the field, even before I opened the door.

            The next day Maam had company for tea and she hardly even noticed when I asked to go outside.  She only repeated her instruction that I wear my cap and scarf.

            I could smell the fresh baked brack as I knocked on the old woman's door.  She opened the door with a big grin on her haggard old face.  "Ah, sure as flowers bloom in the spring, I knew you couldn't resist the smell of sweet bread cooking.  Come in, come in, child." 

            That afternoon, as we sipped tea and ate the bread she told me more stories about how she had delivered most of the babies in County Galway. 

            My Da is from a family of ten children.  Old Ytha had brought most of them into the world.  She told me people paid her with jars of jam and pots of thick, brown stew.  I loved to sit by the fire and listen to her stories, but she always seemed to know when it was nigh on to sunset and she would chase me out the door just before the first stars appeared.

            For the rest of that winter I went down too old Ytha's cottage every chance I got.  One afternoon, a week after Patty's Day, I climbed over the wall and didn't see any smoke coming from her chimney.  I thought that was strange because it was still cold enough for me to wear my heavy jacket outside.  I knocked on her door and heard no answer.  I got scared that something had happened to the old woman.  I ran all the way back to my maam's kitchen.

            "Maam, you have to help me," I said between gasps for air.  "The old woman down the way, Ytha, she won't answer her door, and there is no smoke coming out of her chimney.  Maam, she must be sick or hurt!  We have to go find out." 

            "Calm down, child.  When your Da comes home, I'll have him go check on her.  Now hang your coat on the peg and set the table for me."  She calmly went about fixing dinner without another word about the matter.  I knew not to argue with her.  Da always says, Maam is the stubbornest woman he ever knew. 

            Soon as Da's car pulled up in the driveway I shot out the front door to tell him. 

            "Well, now what is all this fuss?" he asked, holding out his arms to catch me and give me a hug.

            "Da, I think old Ytha is sick or hurt.  She won't answer her door and there is no smoke from her chimney.  Maam says you would go down and see.  Can I come with you Da?  She is my friend."

            "Now, now" he said, opening the front door and motioning for me to go in first.  "Let me kiss your Maam before I have her mad at me.  I'll go down and check on Ytha, but I think you should stay here and help your maam get dinner ready."

            It seemed as if Da was gone a very long time and when he came through the back door, his face was real serious, like when his sister got hurt in a motor accident.  He didn't say anything to either Maam or me.  He just walked over to the phone and dialed a number.

            "Dr. O’Flaherty, this is Ullick O'Halloran, out at Boley Beg.  Could you come out and look at Ytha--the old woman who lives down the lane from me.  She appears to be pretty ill."

            A little while later, the doctor's black Rover pulled through our gate and parked behind Da's car.

            "You stay here, Margaret Mary, give the doctor a chance to examine the old woman."  I watched the light from their torches bob up and down as they crossed the field with its ghostly great rocks and shadowy fences.  I crossed myself and silently begged God to make Ytha better.

            They didn't come back until after I took my bath and put on my fuzzy, flannel nightdress.  Maam said I could sit in the parlor and wait for Da and Dr. O’Flaherty.  When Da came, back Maam met him at the door and I could hear them talking low, in the entry.  Like they didn't want me to hear what they were saying.  Da came into the parlor, sat down beside me, and put his arm around me, “Margaret Mary, Ytha is very, very sick.  The doctor says she may not live much longer."

            I felt the tears burn in my eyes and roll down my cheeks.  "Oh Da!" was all I could say.  He hugged me while I cried for the strange old woman.  After a few minutes, he wiped my tears with his handkerchief and told me that I could go see her after school the next day.

            I ran all the way home from school and Maam met me at the door.  She already had her coat on and she held a soup pot wrapped in a towel.  "I'm taking this soup down to Ytha.  Please get the loaf of bread from the kitchen counter."

            She looked so pale lying on her cot.  More like a shadow than the feisty old lady who somehow knew what I was doing whenever I was in her cottage.  I sat on the edge of her bed, my fingers playing with the hem of her blanket.

            "Quit fidgeting child," said the old woman, in a weak voice that didn't even try to sound mean.  "And stop those tears.  Death ain't nothing to cry about, it's as natural as birthin'.  People are always happy when there is a birthin', I don't know why they cry at death.  Death is better than life for me now.  I have lived a long life and now I will soon be under the hill with the fairies.  Be happy for me child.  I will once again see the moon and dance by the bonfire."

            I sniffled and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.  "But I won't see you anymore and I will miss you terribly."

            Her shriveled hand reached from under the covers and found mine.  She squeezed it and her voice lowered to a soft murmur.  I bent down to hear her, "When you see the raven, smile, for 'tis an enchantment by the wee folk, and know that it is a friend."

            Maam shooed me out of the cottage.  She said Ytha needed her peace.  Before I left, I bent down and kissed the old woman's cheek, knowing I would never see her again. 

            Later that evening when Maam put our dinner on the table, I saw a tear run down her cheek.  "Maam, why are you crying?”  I asked.

            She turned away and stood at the sink looking out toward the old woman's cottage.  "Ytha was a midwife.  My maam always swore, if it had not been for Ytha I would have died.  The old folks say that I was born with the chill of the soul.  I couldn't breathe or keep my body warm.  My Maam lost three children before I was born and another one after me.  Everyone swore that it was old Ytha and her potions that kept me alive."

            During the middle of that night, I woke to the sound of the banshee's wail.  I sat straight up in my bed and wrapped my blanket around my arms.  The full moon shone threw my window.  As I sat there, thinking about Ytha, I saw the raven fly across the moon.  I smiled, crossed myself, and thanked my God for Ytha.  Then I snuggled down in my comforter and went back to sleep.

THE END

THE GIFT

Today I realized that I have the “Gift” I have been seeking all my life.  Since I was a child, I have had a dream to become a published and self-supporting writer.  I also believe that becoming a writer is one of the reasons I came into this life.  I have something I must say and there are people I must say it to that I will never personally know or meet.  The only way I can do that is to write and  publish my work. 

I believe in reincarnation for some very practical reasons.  I believe we all come into this life on Earth to learn lessons we chose and to educate our immortal spirits.  I believe, when we die there is something we take with us.  That something is the lessons we have learned and the wisdom we have accumulated during that life.  I believe we have loving relationships we carry from one life to another.  There is a person in my life today that I am sure I have known and love in numerous life times before. 

 About twenty years ago, I found out that I am in a life cycle of the number nine.  This means I am here to finish projects and lesson started in other lifetimes.  My major overall goal in this lifetime is to clean my house and get ready to move.  An interesting metaphor considering that most of this life is about travel and moving. 

The past twenty years have been a very active time in this life.  In July, it will be twenty years since Don died.  I think his death was probably one of two or three major mile markers in my life.  My life changed in a few short months.  The way I live, loved and even looked at the world would forever be different.  Suddenly, I had a beautiful gift of freedom and everything I needed to use it. This gift did not come without a very high price though; today I still pay the cost of my choices.

 The first thing I did was to buy plane tickets to Ireland.  It would be an accurate assessment to say the last twenty years of my life have been a great adventure.  Most people only dream of doing what I have done.  I lived in foreign countries twice and am now making plans to do it a third time.  Each foreign adventure has given me a great gift.  Two years in Ireland gave me my roots and spiritual growth I stand on today.  Two years in England gave my present husband and the opportunity to grow and love in a way I did not know existed. 

Raymond and I met because he was writing his first book and he needed some help.  For twenty months we became friends, inspired and encouraged each other to develop their writing skills.  In the ten years of our marriage, that has become one of the foundation blocks of our relationship.  I realize today that I am a very lucky and blessed person to have a partner who shares my greatest life passion.  We encourage each other equally and push each other to achieve our greatest goal of becoming published writers. 

Now we are making plans to embark on the next great adventure.  We will be moving to New Zealand for a two-year trip in October of 2013.  When I met Raymond, I was making plans to go to New Zealand for two years.  I just was detoured for a few years.  It seems now that not all the pieces were in place yet for that to happen.  Now it appears that the stars are coming into alignment and that is on our horizon.   

This past year has been very difficult for me and now I think I understand why.  Earlier this year I was nearly lured away from my dream by an allusion of power and money.  I almost walked back into a profession that I left nearly fifteen years ago.  Had I done that, would have paid a huge price for what I thought I wanted.  The allure was hypnotic and I became almost obsessed in my desire to have this job.  Thankfully, my fates again stepped in and prevented me from getting this job.  Finding out I would not get the job was a hugged ego blow to me and it took three months for me to realize that this was not a personal failure in my life—it was spiritual guidance and a realignment of my true-life direction. 

I now know my fate, what I really wanted all along, is right in front of me.  All the pieces are falling into place right now to set me on the path to write professionally.  I will begin writing new outlines and plots for, THE HARP, THE PEN AND THE SWORD, in January.  This must be finished and complete before we leave for New Zealand because I will write the book(s) while we are there.  

THE OLD WOMAN

The old women sat in a big, blue overstuffed recliner with thread bare arms.  A soft white shawl draped her shoulders.  It was hard to tell where her hair stopped and the shawl began.  The shawl was one of the few things she ever knitted and kept for herself.  She was grateful for the warmth.  She was certain Christmas  got colder every year.   So many, many Christmases she had seen.  Her gifts were all the precious memories.

A small child who believed in the magic of Santa, wished for the beautiful doll in the Sears catalog.  Santa never brought that doll because it was just too expensive when you have four little girls to buy dolls for.   The doll he did bring had a faded red paint mark on its back and a crossed eye because it had been knocked loose by one of the numerous children who had loved her and fought over her before she was relegated to the charity box.  The child didn’t care, she wrapped her baby in a worn and faded receiving blanket just the way she saw Mommy do to her new baby sister.

                When she was ten, Mom bought red and green rickrack from Woolworths and trimmed the white dress passed down from her rich cousins.  She felt so proud and happy to have something special for the assembly at school.  Her smile was pure Christmas spirit, no one seemed to notice the un-brushed tangle of curls or the big red wrinkled bow, her contribution to her ensemble.

                Many years there were special gifts at Christmas.  A red faced, plump baby presented himself on Christmas Eve.  Six years later, she gave her husband a gift of a velvet box with a pair of pink headed diaper pins resting on a handwritten card announcing the due date of their daughter.  She named her Angelina because this baby was her special Christmas angel.  Even the first grandchild had a tie to Christmas when her son announced the impending birth at Christmas dinner.    

                One holiday the middle age couple spent the day looking at the snow bent branches of Douglas fir waving in the wind through clouds of steam from the hot tub.  It seemed there was no one else in the world but them.  Her tears blended with the water of the hot tub and he held her until she crying stopped.   Many years of love shared was the gift they gave each other.  They both knew it would be his last Christmas.

                As one Christmas was a farewell another, a few years later, was a new beginning.  They sat in a tiny bed set in London reading love poetry and exchanging shinning wedding rings in a secret ceremony only they witnessed.  The strings of red and green lights glowed on the tiny tree as they celebrated their commitment to a new life together. 

                Many holidays were special for her memories of friends and family who attended her annual Christmas Eve open house and toasted with spiced wine and cups of eggnog after a sumptuous buffet dinner.  She spent days baking all her favorite goodies gathered from a lifetime of collecting recipes from countries she visited.   She always gave a small homemade gift to everyone.

                The kerosene heater glowed red across the room.  The dining room table held a plate filled with homemade cookies and candy.  Beside the plate was a big mug of steamy cocoa with a fat marshmallow.    A tree beside the empty fireplace glowed with red lights reflecting on gold glass balls hanging between ornaments made by children’s loving hands.  One even had a chocolate smudged thumb print on the back.  These were her most precious positions.   

 All was ready for this year’s special guest.  She was nearly deaf  but she had no difficulty hearing the beautiful music that began softly then filled the room with its joyful energy.  Golden light illuminated the beautiful angel standing in front of her as she sat in her recliner chair.  The angel beckoned to her. 

Later Santa came down the chimney.  The room was empty now and the only thing out of place was the white shawl lying on the floor in front of the chair.  He carried no sack of gifts into this house.  The gifts were already here and always had been.  He warmed himself by the heater as he ate the cookies and drank the cocoa.