Circles of Gold

by Philip J Bradbury

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  A Brother Arrives and Donal Departs

  Despite the strain of keeping Donal’s secret, his parents maintained the outward appearance of normality and kept their inner turmoil to themselves.

  It’s a strange irony that the less we talk about something, the bigger it gets.

  And so it was with Donal, a happy wee toddler. Beneath that happiness was a concern, as the flutter of an autumn leaf about to die, but never quite does. This gentle leaf would waft by his mind, touch it in the softest way and glide on to return the next hour, the next day or the next week. Sometimes, in the middle of play or some other activity he would stop and sense something ... an unease, a doubt, a gap in his happiness. While his face displayed an ever-present smile, that fluttering leaf of autumn threatened to bring in the chill of winter, but never quite did.

  Donal’s parents were afeared that another child of theirs would be cursed and so they strongly resisted their deepest desire – another wee child. However, as is the way of people to find love within and evil without, a child was conceived and was born two years after Donal was received as a gift from The Mother.

  Donal had so wanted to see his new friend arrive but he was kept from the house, at his father’s request, lest he contaminate the purity of the new babe within. When Donal did finally see his new brother, Ianto, he was overcome by the beauty and just wanted to hold him and stare at him. His father forbade that and Donal was kept across the room, puzzled, sad and yearning. He felt he saw a sadness on his mother’s face as his father pushed him back but she complied with her husband’s fears.

  Some time later, after his father had gone out to minister to the sick, his mother had beckoned him over. Confused and reluctant to disobey his father, he faltered.

  “Oh Donal, I’m so sorry,” said his mother, pleading. “I know ye so want to hold and love yer brother. Come here, me dear son.”

  Donal approached his mother and the wee bundle on her knee. He felt tears welling up and his mother grabbed him to her bosom and they cried quietly together, with Ianto sleeping between them.

  As he grew and as the silence around his specialness grew, so did the feeling that there was something wrong with him, that he wasn’t good enough. This bouncing toddler was unaware of it, of course, but the seeds of doubt and fear, sown at his birth, etched themselves ever-so-gently into his soul. These seeds were watered by the sideways looks of his parents, sometimes, especially of his father. They were fertilized by the furtive conversations of his parents when they thought he was out of earshot. And, more than ever, they were nurtured by the heavy silence, the secret-holding that surrounded him.

  No one had told Donal this but he just knew it ... or maybe he had just made it up. Or maybe he was wrong. However it came into his head, there it was, this constant thought that all of life should be equal, near enough. If you gave you got. If you were nice, people were nice back. If you helped someone, someone helped you back.

  That wasn’t why he gave, was nice and helped – he did that because it felt good and right – but it jarred in his thoughts when life didn’t show itself as equal. His sense of balance walked away at these times.

  He did think, many times, that this thought might be wrong. But, no matter how many times it was broken, violated, the thought stayed in his mind that this is the way life should be – balanced, equal and fair.

  It mystified Donal greatly that he would do things for his brother, because he loved and adored him, but his brother would do nothing for him. He reasoned that Ianto did not love and adore him and so he’d try harder, being the perfect brother, being the best friend. The harder he tried to win Ianto’s affections – the more he helped and encouraged – the more was demanded of him. It was like killing flies – every time he killed one, the whole family came to the funeral. Every time he did something for Ianto, many more things arrived for him to do.

  The demands did not just come from the wining maw of Ianto. His parents told him, constantly, that he was the older brother now and must look after his younger brother. It became a regular family chant and he knew he would hear it several times a day – Donal, pick up Ianto’s toys; Donal, clean Ianto’s face; Donal, take Ianto for a walk; Donal, it’s no time to be sitting; Donal, help get Ianto dressed; Donal, help with this here; Donal, help with that there; Donal, Donal, Donal …

  It all went against that big thought in his head, the thought of balance and equality, but it seemed he had no choice but disobey it and serve others. He did sometimes wonder, when he had a rare moment of peace to himself, who would help him if he was ever struggling with something.

  He did, sometimes, imagine that his mother looked at him sadly – even helplessly – as he rushed from one duty to another.

  At times he would ask, with feelings of guilt and trepidation, why Ianto could not clean the dishes or sweep the floor or feed the chickens and, each time, he would be told that Ianto was too small at the moment and that he would do those things when he was bigger. Years later, when Ianto was bigger, he would ask if it was Ianto’s turn to do things and he would be told that as he was so good at them now, he may as well carry on doing them. Donal could never find an answer to such illogical statements and so he would bow his head, carry on with his work and creep back into his beautifully free world of imagination. In this wondrous world he would be unbothered by people and he and his Imaginary Friend would create magical experiences and places with the waggle of a finger. There would be no cleaning or sweeping or feeding or chopping or mending or errands. A finger waggle would have his world perfect, as he wanted it, never dirty or falling into disrepair in the way that silly other world did.

  The best thing about this imaginary world was that he was not involved, not commanded. There were nice people around but they did not bother him, did not demand of him, did not berate him. He could listen to their problems but he didn’t have to do anything about them. They felt better by being listened to and he made them feel better quite effortlessly. In fact, in this magical world of his imagination, with his Imaginary Friend, it seemed like the less he did, the happier people were … quite the opposite of the other demanding one.

  Little did Donal know that by imagining this effortless and beautiful world, with such love and passion, he was starting to create the reality of it.

  He soon discovered within himself a story; a story that told him that his parents weren’t quite on his side. As their whispered conversations – obviously about him – increased, so did the story that talked to him. His parents were nice. They were friendly. They were fun, sometimes. They got him lots of things. But they whispered about him and kept their secrets. As they hid a little of themselves from him, so did he hide a little of himself from them. He learned, from his story, how to keep his real self protected, hidden. Whether he was happy or sad, lonely or peaceful, his parents saw a happy little man.

  The trust that may have been there at his birth slowly dissolved and he began to feel alone in the world. He retreated into his story, his only real friend. As the whisperings and late-night arguments about him grew, so did his story. Behind the story, he realised, was an angel telling it and that angel became his friend.

  Then, the inevitable happened. His parents were very careful to keep his tummy covered at all times and to keep him as inactive as possible – no climbing trees, no running fast, no little-boy stuff. But we all know about little boys and their stuff, don’t we? They are built with tough springs and other machinery that has them leaping about, exploring their world, challenging their world, challenging themselves. They love doing all that with other little boys. No matter how much cosseting the parents indulge in, a little boy’s machinery has a monster magnet in its centre and it attracts other little boys who like doing little boy things. Yes, his internal little-boy machinery inevitably drew in two other little boys, walking along his lane and, whoosh!, they were in his yard, chatting with him, playing with him. Soon enough they were having a climbing competition to get to the
top of the stone wall around his house. Yes, well, boys are meant to fall from things (like stone walls) and to bounce. Mothers don’t understand this as they are girls and girls don’t bounce, they hurt. Mothers don’t understand that boys bounce but they do. When it was his turn to accidentally fall (every boy must have a turn at accidentally falling), as his two friends had, he bounced on the grass and lay there laughing. He hadn’t thrown his body about before and he felt a great surge of freedom. He loved it.

  His mother chanced to see him fall and her instinct was to rush out and pick him up. However, when the universe is determined that something will happen, it has its way. His mother faltered, waited, forced herself to breathe and prayed he would be alright. In that faltering instant, his shirt came out of his breeches (as the universe decreed) and his two friends saw something they hadn’t seen before – a wondrous sight!

  “Ooo, what’s that? It be shiny” said Marcus.

  “That yers? It be odd,” said Sean.

  “This mine. What’s yers?” asked Donal.

  The two boys stood where they were, on top of the wall, lifted their shirts up and showed him their fleshy belly buttons.

  As is the way with all little boys with golden belly buttons (who