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The sun crept up over the eastern horizon, basking the farm in its warming glow. The regular day to day operations had not begun, and would not begin for it was Sunday and it was a day that began not with labour but with prayer and mass. The farm boys and maids were putting on their best clothing (which often consisted of a pair of trousers and shirt that was not torn or soiled for the boys and similarly nice shirts and skirts for the girls), and preparing themselves to head into Cork for mass.

The farm sat on the outskirts of the village, and to arrive on time they had to depart with the rising of the sun. The farm was owned by a British aristocrat, of course the rich man who had the property rights had never set foot on the Irish country side and his farm was run by his oldest son, Peter Howell. Peter was a kind lad, he tried to run the farm in a fair way and offered the best wages in the immediate area. Those who worked on the farm were given residence (usually nothing more than a cot and a room to be shared with up to seven others), a meal in the morning and evening (which consisted of nothing more than a slice of bread, water and on special occasions a bit of meat and potatoes) and a wage paid at weeks end proportional to the amount of work one completed during the week.

Amidst the group of twenty or so people heading to mass that morning was a young lass dressed in a plain shirt and brown skirt that had a small tear along the bottom hem. Her eyes were a rich green and a small patch of freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. Her long red hair was tied with a white bow at the top of her head and swayed in the wind as she walked. She was fair skinned, and had a smile so bright the farm boys joked that it could illuminate the darkest of nights. Her hands we worn from working hard during the days and her nails were tinted black from charcoal - a hobby of hers. She clutched in her hands a paper wrapped package that contained a few of her latest drawings which she hoped to sell in the town market after mass.

Her name, Etain Kinsley, and she was born on the Howell farm seventeen years ago to Paddy and Blinne Kinsley. Her four brothers, all her elders, have gone on to join the military or have otherwise left the farm and her two sisters - one older and one a year younger - had been lucky enough to marry their way to Britain.

The group of church goers stepped into the village as the sun was half over the horizon, it's warm rays shinning down the walkways and warming their chilled faces. The dew on the grass was beginning to evaporate and they made their way to the temple where they would praise their Lord, Etain Kinsely amongst their ranks smiling brightly, as she always did.

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Despite living so near to St. Anthony's Catholic Church, it was mandatory for the entire McLeary family to be up when the first birds began their day's song, and when the flowers reached their petals towards the rising sun. Sunday was the day of the Lord, and the McLeary's were the children of the Lord. It was only suiting that they should awaken with the rest of the earth and arrive in God's house bright and early. So it was no surprise when Ronan's brother Patrick smacked him on the shoulder to awaken him from a dreamless sleep and told him to "Gerrup".

Being the youngest of three sons, Ronan was the rebel of the family. Although he attended Mass regularly, and his father had pounded The Holy Word and all of its teachings into his shaggy black head, somewhere in the caverns of his heart, he didn't fully believe in this faith. It wasn't that Catholicism had any blatant negative qualities, for he had been rather conditioned to see the Catholic religion as the only true path and all that was incorporated into it was right and just, but something made him stray from being the pious and perfect man that his elder brother Patrick was.

With a yawn, Ronan rubbed his sleepy dark blue eyes and prepared for the holiest day of the week. He scrubbed himself clean and donned a white button-up shirt; the only clean and intact one he had, and also put on a pair of brown breeches that reached to his knees. July was nearing the end of the few months of fair weather that Ireland received, but it was still warm enough out to wear lighter clothing, for which Ronan was thankful for. It was always the dreaded winter months that brought on floods from the River Lee and downpours of rain from the sky above.

With one final pat on the back from his 23-year-old brother, Ronan McLeary and his family left their feeble house for their second home: the church. Meave, Ronan's mother, insisted upon sitting in the very front pews of the church, so she could clearly hear and see her dear husband Patrick, and her eldest son of the same name, read The Scripture and perform the rituals that took place every Sunday. With a learned obedience, Ronan sat still, waiting for the Holy House of God to fill with practically the entire population of Cork.

__________________
I'm trying to land
this aeroplane of ours gracefully
but it seems
destined to crash
--Björk

It was Sunday, and the family who rose up to praise for the Lord dotted the streets with smiles on their faces. Their happy, carefree attitude was almost foolish to look at, but Lawrence Weis could not help but feel a sense of longing as the outsider of their circle. He gave the dark chestnut colt beside him a burdened smile and stroked its fine hair in assurance. “There, there, Baron,” he whispered quietly, “As I have you and you me. Let us meet our Lord.”

The horse replied with a quiet neigh, and as they both rode to town, their presence was met with unwanted gaze. Whispered voices, here and there, disturbed his thoughts, and he held on to the bridle tight looking away from their eyes.

“Isn’t that the bastard son?” “Really, now.” “So that’s Catherine’s son, huh?” “Right it’s Catherine’s the one who got impregnated by that bastard.” “Oh don’t start talking about him. How I hate that man. Marching up to our land and taking what-not that doesn’t belong to him.” “Humph, he should go to hell. But what is his boy doing here?” “Probably showing off what he has that we have not. Look at the fancy suit he’s wearing. Those Brits they’re always out to get us.”

“They are not to be blamed,” he thought as he pulled his rein, held his breath, and swung over the broad back of his horse. “What they said is true. There is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with that.” And he strode over to the doors of the church, fist forming tight in his hands.

James rubbed his hands together against the cold morning air. Sitting behind his rough wooden stallfront he watched people walk briskly through the market square. They were headed for church, at St Anthony's. James averted his eyes, dodging the disapproving looks from passers-by. He should be going to church, it was sunday but... Well James had lost faith in all that sort of thing, though he would never admit it. Some days he would make a token show of his face at the chapel, leaving directly after communion, but today was not one of those days. Prostrating before men in white cassocks did not appeal to him this morning.

He reached under the storefront and stroked the pair of furry ears beneath. This was Delyn, perhaps his only friend. He looked down and a pair of brown adoring eyes looked back at him. He was a mutt and proud of it, James envied the way in which he enjoyed life, never worrying about where the next meal was coming from.

James grabbed one of his wares from the stall, a potato, still warm, stuffed with marinated spinach and boiled in spice infused broth. He split it in half with his hand, and tossed one to Delyn, settling back to munch in the other half, content to wait for church to finish, and a stream of hungry buyers to swarm the marketplace.

Perhaps today will be a good day.

Seanan had an unusual affinity for going to church. Contrary to the belief of many of the other worshipers and clergymen of St. Finbarre’s Cathedral of the Church of Ireland, it wasn’t out of piety. The grounds of the Cathedral were so peaceful, the atmosphere so focused, that Seanan always did what he thought of as his best writing there. Every Sunday after mass, he would leave the small cathedral building and sit on the grass somewhere outside–usually ignoring the morning dew that would soak his bottom and occasionally his shirt if he laid down.

Mass today still had yet to begin. Seanan was walking up the road to the stone building with his family. Seanan’s father, Kevin, was the only one to carry his own bible. He was also the only member of the family who bore any obvious resemblance to Seanan. They were both tall and heavy-framed with loose curls in their dark brown hair. They shared a strong, square jaw line, ice-blue eyes, and the calloused hands and relatively tanned skin of shipbuilders. The only feature Seanan shared with his mother was a softness to his eyes that had gotten him more than a few interested glances from women.

The sun had only just climbed above the horizon when the family of four arrived on the church grounds. Seanan looked around at the other families who were arriving and was reminded of how fortunate he was to be a part of a protestant church–they at least were given the option of taking measures to limit the number of children in the family. Seanan had always felt that it was trouble enough having one younger sister, let alone five plus six younger brothers like some of the families that still clung to the Roman church’s directives.

His own sister, Siofra*, was seventeen–three years younger than Seanan–and refused to court for marriage. It was a matter of significant contention within the family. Their parents were so hopelessly wrapped up in tradition, in spite of being protestant, that they were stark-raving mad that their own daughter would dare step outside of a woman’s role and not marry as soon as she was old enough to have children. At least it was Seanan’s opinion that their situation was “hopeless”. Personally, he didn’t care. And frankly, given the selection of men within their community, he couldn’t blame her. Like Seanan and his father, they were almost all shipbuilders–vulgar men who went to church only to go through the motions and spent all of their wages on beer, spirits, and prostitutes, with rare exception.

The whole issue did make for some interesting drama, however. Since he was ambivalent, Seanan was able to stand back and be an outside observer for most of it. He loved to watch how his parents would react to something Siofra said or did, see how every verbal battle would play out. After most of those fights, he would quickly retrieve his journal from his bedroom and record the whole ordeal in writing. Later, he would go back to that journal and select a particularly interesting event and rewrite it in a separate journal, using new names and adding in a few elements that made the drama even more powerful.

Indeed, that was his plan for the whole morning and what he could get of the afternoon. He carried both journals under his arm in the same manner with which his father carried the bible, which made the two look all the more like reflections when they stood near to each other. In a small pouch he held in his other hand was Seanan’s pen and a very tightly corked ink well. So long as no one demanded his time earlier in the day than he anticipated, he was set for hours.

The cathedral was nearly full by the time the Devine family arrived. Only a few pews in the back on the far right side were still open. In spite of how packed the church was, there was barely a sound made. The grand majority of worshipers already there were on bent knees in front of their seats, praying. Seanan’s mother, Ciara**, followed suit as soon as they’d claimed the open end of a pew. Seanan simply sat down and drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently. Mass was the only thing still standing between him and his writing, and he was anxious to get to it.

Ironically, Seanan did pray for a brief moment: he prayed for mass to pass quickly.


*((Pronounced "Shee-fra"))
**((Pronounced like "Kiera", like the actress))

__________________
きみはとても煩わしですね~^_^。

Preferred styles: TKD, KP, ARNIS, BJJ, KM, KFM, pSD

Etain walked into the church, which was already about half-filled. Her companion group always liked to sit near the back, though the were good god-fearing men, they liked to make the best of their only day off and so wished for a quick exit once the mass had ended. Etain, however, felt especially different today. For some reason she felt that sitting in the back row with the others was good and all, but she felt like showing the Almighty one that she wasn't just a free loader hoping for some good-will or acts of God, but that she truly did believe and so she weaved her way up the aisle towards the front pew.

The first few rows were packed nearly to capacity except for a seat or two here or there between family groups. Most of the front row was filled with those related to the clergy and those of affluent status, of course she was neither but she had her hopes up anyway. In the very first pew sat a family whom she recognized as those belonging to the Priest. Seated at the edge of the group was the most gorgeous man she had laid eyes on - she blushed upon seeing him, and immediately her thoughts of sitting front row diminished. She was a peasant girl of poor parents, nearly too old to marry and worn down from farm work.

She edged her way back towards the end pews only to find they had already been filled, and she was forced to take a seat along side an unkempt ship builder. He smelled of sweat and ale, and for the duration of mass her only thoughts were on leaving and touring the marketplace to look at all of the lovely things she couldn't afford - and if she was lucky she could sell a sketch or two for a pound and maybe get herself a treat. She prayed as such, and felt a small pang of guilt inside for being so selfish.

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Ronan enjoyed watching the townspeople fill up the vacant pews; it was always interesting to see how people looked and acted. He wasn't sure why, but he always found that simply observing someone and noting their actions and movements could tell a lot about a person. It was one of his favorite little mind games that he played with himself when he was bored. It might have been childish of him, but it kept him occupied during those boring moments in life, especially the long hours spent in church going over the same hymns and the same rituals. He happened to look over to his right when a girl wearing a simple brown skirt with a white ribbon tied in her long red hair sat down next to him. He didn't even notice the tear in her skirt, or her dirty nails due to her long hours spent drawing charcoal portraits. No, he didn't pay attention to that. What drew him in was her eyes. They were of the most clairvoyant green, as crisp as the fresh fields of Ireland themselves. But before he could offer up a warm smile to her, she had stood up and made her way back to the far pews of the church. With a frown of dismay, he turned forwards again, wondering if he had scared her off somehow.

Sure, usually the families that were deemed more pious or that had hereditary connections to the clergy sat in the first few rows, but it wasn't mandatory that the poor sat in the back or anything. The Irish weren't like those strange Puritans who granted church membership only to the elect members of their societies. In St. Anthony's there was free seating. So it made Ronan curious to figure out why that gorgeous girl had got up and left. His thoughts about that lovely girl were so entrancing him that his mother had to nudge him to get up and receive communion when the time came. Although he usually fell into a mental doze during these long sermons, sometimes hours long, for some reason he felt more guilty than usual for not paying attention to the service today. He just couldn't stop thinking about that girl, and didn't the seventh commandment tell him to not think impure thoughts, especially during the day of our Lord? One thing was for sure: Ronan had to find her. He hadn't recognized her, but this was a large cathedral and he was sure she must usually sit near the back. Those people usually left quickly so he never really got a chance to mingle with them. But something told him that this girl was worth searching for.

After perhaps an hour and a half of Ronan's father, the priest, reading scripture and lecturing the congregation on the importance of honesty and confessing one's sins on a weekly, if not daily basis, the ceremony was coming to a close and the doors to the church were pushed open. The warm July sunlight shone through the grand doors, illuminating the church in a yellow glow.

"Mother, I think I'll be going into the marketplace today. I'll be home later tonight." He kissed his poor mother on the cheek and followed the murmuring mass of townspeople out into the summery air. Pushing through a few tightly knit groups of people who were animatedly socializing in the street, Ronan began searching for the girl that had sat with him for but a few seconds during mass.

Ronan's mother of course had wanted him to settle down and marry some nice girl with a good dowry, but Ronan hadn't even thought twice about that. He had been too busy finishing up his last few months as an apprentice so he could take over Mr. Malloy's shop and work full time. He was already working on a lavish wardrobe for an aristocratic English family up on the hill, and he had been so infatuated with his job that he had taken no notice of the opposite sex. But this girl, something drew him to this girl, and he was ever determined to find her. He stood in the middle of the dispersing cluster of people, turning every so often, trying to find that white ribbon that dazzled brightly against the girl's long red hair.

__________________
I'm trying to land
this aeroplane of ours gracefully
but it seems
destined to crash
--Björk

Simple yet beautiful was the words he could describe for the room he'd just entered. The waft of its sweet, sweet candles and its deep, richness of the mahogany's were so unfamiliar to him—so new to him—that he could not help to smile and savor its essence. He knew it was his mother’s home, her favorite place in all the world, and he needed not to recall the memory of hers to know this place was the one.

Lawrence bowed his head in respect of the Lord and took his seat halfway in between. The soft light that peeked over the high windows diffused a gentle warmth on his golden hair, and as the choir rose and he stood and clasped his fingers to the morning hymn, he could hear the quiet echoes of the footfall as the procession moved in between the voices of the masses. "Too beautiful." He smiled, and though they had none of the grandiose that belonged to London's, it was enough to make his heart moved.

Every song, every lyric, he knew them by heart as they came flooding back to him with the warmth of the fireplace, the soft linen of his mother's dress, and the way she cradled him, back and forth, serenading the hymns like lullabies. It felt as if he was living in a dream, and every so often he had to awaken himself to realize this was not a dream.

All came too short, however, when the mass ended, and Lawrence glanced to the altar with gray eyes. He clenched his fist in disappointment, gave a civil bow to the Lord, and dismissed himself to the left where he mistook an opening as an exit. The smaller room he had barged into was dark for his eyes to see, and he was almost too quick to leave if it weren't for the silhouette of an old upright piano standing beneath the grim light of a candle. Lawrence walked slowly toward it as if in trance. He had not seen or touched a piano three days since his arrival to Cork, and his fingers were itching to touch its key. With shaky hand, he plunged into the first chord—heavy, monotonous—vibrating energy to his ears. The other hand followed suit, cascading down the ivory board as a rivulet of water before there was a pause and a creak that made his head turned.

"Who’s there?"

His throat croaked; his eyes searched in the darkness. But there was no one to be seen, and he stood silent in the room before he asked for forgiveness and strode out the door.

After coming out of the dark room, Lawrence could not help but squint his eyes as they got adjusted to the summer sun outside. He gave a soft chuckle when he found his horse missing from its post, as it often does, and decided to search for it later when it was about time for Baron (the horse) to eat. There were great festivities he noted to where the shops were, and though he was not too incline to participate, it was the only way he knew to go to his manor.

He was at the moment diverting his attention to a shop he found uncommonly tantalizing when he felt a sudden bump to his chest that knocked him back by a foot.

"Pardon me," he said while trying to catch whoever was possibly bumping into him, "I guess we have the same interest; that is, in food." He laughed trying to make light of the situation, though he could only imagine his London friends, having the same situation as him, would be disgruntling with a face of disgust.

Amazingly, mass did seem to end rather quickly–almost abruptly, even. Seanan went through the motions, and it was done. The service had actually been done for several minutes before Seanan even realized he was a free man for the rest of the morning. When it did occur to him, a big smile split his face and suddenly he couldn’t exit the building fast enough. He couldn’t help but reflect on how wonderful it was that his prayer had actually been answered. It even made him feel a little bad about only going through the motions that day... But oh well, he thought.

“Seanan!” Damn. Seanan had made it all the way to the door when his mother’s voice stopped him cold. Taking a deep breath, he turned around and answered, “What?”

“I just remembered,” his mother said, “I was supposed to pick up a new pot from Moreen yesterday to replace the one your father broke.” Seanan laughed a little at mention of that little event. The pot, a small one that Ciara used to make small batches of soup with, was fresh off the stove and very hot. Kevin, Seanan’s father, had taken the pot to wash it out after he poured all the contents into a bowl. The water that he used was quite cold, so the metal had fractured. The sudden noise had startled Kevin so bad that he dropped the pot and started screaming, in Ciara’s own words, “like a little girl frightened by a toad sittin’ on her face upon wakin’ up.”

Everyone was (jokingly) forbidden from talking about it in public.

“And you’re going to be in town all afternoon while you talk up a gale with her, are you?” Seanan replied, hoping to close the conversation quickly so he could go and write.

“Oh, of course not,” Ciara answered with mock seriousness. “You’re gonna go get it for me!”

Seanan suddenly felt very cold.

“I’m going to take care of Edne all day–you know, the older woman who always insists you look like her grandson?” Seanan shuddered. He was not fond of that hag.

He quickly rebuked himself for having such mean thoughts. “Why can’t you send Siofra to do it?”

“Because she’s already left; you’re father’s looking for her to make sure she isn’t gettin’ into trouble.”

Seanan sighed, defeated. “Fine, I’ll get your stupid pot,” he groaned.

“The Fourth, Seanan,” Ciara admonished her son, referring to the fourth commndement, “Honour thy father and mother.” Seanan rolled his eyes and crossed himself for Ciara’s benefit.

Moreen was a family friend whose husband was a blacksmith. He made many of the tools and other metal supplies that the shipbuilders used for their work, and on the side made other things that everyday people could use, pots being one of them. Their home was just outside of the marketplace, the forge nearer to the shipyard, and finally their shop was in the market place, almost smack in the center.

It was to their shop that Seanan went, first. Moreen or her husband would typically be there shortly after mass for a few hours every Sunday.

Already the market was filling up. Catholics and Protestants alike were finished with their morning services, and now they all co-mingled together in the same place. Seanan wove his way through the still-thickening crowd as carefully as he could manage and still maintain his patience. Having been delayed from his writing, he was anxious to complete his errand, thus his patience was limited.

One person who was bent over a vegetable stand took a step back suddenly. Seanan had to do a quick side-step and a half spin to avoid knocking the smallish woman over. When he faced the front again, there was another person right in front of him. Close as he was to this man, even planting his feet firmly was not enough to prevent a collision. Seanan bumped into the man rather hard and dropped his two journals. One of them landed open and pages down on the ground, the other bounced on its corner and came to rest right at the edge of some woman’s skirts.

Seanan let slip a curse before he remembered himself. The man he’d bumped into looked rather well off, dressed in a suit as he was. Damn again!

“Pardon me,” the man said, his hands coming up to brace Seanan against falling over. That small courtesy was overlooked, though–Seanan felt that he was well on his feet without help, and quite frankly was far more interested in retrieving his journals from the ground before they got trampled.

“Pardon me,” Seanan replied cursorily as he bent to retrieve his books.

“I guess we have the same interest,” the man said. Seanan looked up at him, a little surprised. Was this man also a writer? His rising hopes died when the man added, “that is, in food.”

With a sigh, Seanan snatched up his first journal. One of the pages had creased, and he was less than happy about that. The other journal still lie almost halfway under the one woman’s skirts. Seanan swallowed hard and reached for it. He was horrified that there might be a misunderstanding... Praises be to God, the woman took a step forward. Seanan eagerly grabbed the book and stood.

“Actually,” Seanan answered the stranger, “my interest is the blacksmith’s shop a little up the way, there.” He was about to hurry off, but felt it would be impolite to just walk away like that. “If food strikes your fancy, though, around the corner that way and up the street a bit is a pub. Their food is pricey for shipbuilders like me, so most of us vulgar lads stay out of there.”

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きみはとても煩わしですね~^_^。

Preferred styles: TKD, KP, ARNIS, BJJ, KM, KFM, pSD

A young man happily meandered through the market, a battered fiddle by his side. It was his most prized possession, in fact, his only possession apart from the clothes on his own back. It had a variety of strings, some he'd made from various materials, some he'd bought, after a fair bit of haggling, and some he'd found. The wood was lovingly caressed with a smooth shine, out of a polish of his own devising.

The man himself seemed no more than a boy; a scruffy lad of eighteen with brown hair that flew wildly around his face and a stubbled chin. His eyes were the deepest pools of blue, gazing at the world with a cheerful nonchalance, and he would have been, perhaps, extremely handsome, if he had the money and the motive to tidy himself. Nevertheless, he found himself eyeing up the pretty lasses of Cork as he walked.

Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for; a quiet sanctuary in the hustle of the marketplace; he laid down a tattered hat and brought his fiddle to his chin. He began to play, slowly at first, but quickening as he continued, stamping his feet in time to the music, happy melodies told tales of courage, romamce and adventure. People who walked by reluctantly dropped coins in his cap, his playing irresistable, their consciences irritable.

"God bless you," he said, smiling. Not a beggar, he told himself, an opportunist. Finn O'Connor, wandering musician.
Not a beggar···