Lily of the Springs

by Carole Bellacera

  As the marchers swept past the expressionless British soldiers dressed in battle fatigues and armed with Enfields, a new spirit of camaraderie seemed to pass through the crowd. Devin felt it. It was like an invisible current of electricity surging from one marcher to the next. Ob, how proud Da would be if he could see me now!

  But his father wouldn't be seeing any of this. He'd been lifted by the Brits five months ago and locked up in the H-Blocks, the jail for political prisoners.

  Along both sides of the road, Irish Catholics stood in the rain and cheered the crowd, some of them joining the march. Even priests and nuns were among the throng, many of them carrying banners like Devin's. A few faces along the roadside were im­placable, some apprehensive, but most were jubilant. In America, Martin Luther King, Jr., had gathered blacks and whites alike to march upon Washington. Now, the Irish Catholics were doing the same, marching to Deny to win freedom for the oppressed.

  Devin stood on tiptoe, searching the crowd for his brother, Glen, and his friend Pearse. His sign brushed a matronly woman's beehive.

  She glowered at him. "Watch where you be goin', laddie." She smelled of cheap perfume and sour body odor.

  "Sorry, mum. Excuse me, I must get through." He'd spied the black head of Glen up ahead. "Wait up, Glen!" Eagerly, he jostled his way through the crowd. His sixteen-year-old brother hadn't wanted him to tag along today, but Devin was determined to be a part of this historical march for freedom and justice. Stay home with his mum and sisters? No bloody way.

  "Glen!"

  At the sound of his name, the tall, slender teenager turned. A pained expression crossed his face when he saw Devin. "Jaysus, Devin. Now, didn't I tell you to stay home?"

  Next to him, Pearse laughed. "Since when does Devy listen to you?"

  Devin brushed past the last of the marchers to reach him. "Bugger you," he said, grinning up at him. "I came anyway."

  Glen's brown eyes glimmered with worry. "You hardheaded little imp. Can you never do as I tell you? There could be trouble here today."

  Devin shifted the heavy sign to his left hand and held it higher. "I have to do my part for Da. You know that. Sure, maybe this will make the Brits release him. And all the other prisoners as well."

  Pearse nudged Glen. "Ah, give the little squirt a break, Glennie. Sure, his heart's in the right place."

  Glen stared at his little brother for a moment, then his eyes softened. His hand fastened on the boy's arm. "All right. Stay with us, then. But don't be doin' anything foolish."

  Devin grinned. He knew Glen didn't really mind that he'd come. After all, it was for Da.

  Glen gave him a sidelong glance. "I thought by leaving you the guitar, it would keep you busy for a time."

  "It did. I made up a new song." Devin threw him a teasing grin. "It's about Rosalie." He waited for the blush to spread over his brother's cheeks, and when it did, he laughed. "Ah, she is a nice piece of crumpet, isn't she, now?"

  Pearse laughed, shooting a knowing look at Glen. "She is that!"

  Glen glared at Devin. "Make up all the songs you'd like about Rosalie O'Connor. It's nothing to me. Anyway, what made you leave my guitar and come join the march?"

  Just as Devin opened his mouth to answer, the peaceful Sun­day afternoon exploded in chaos. Gunfire. Devin spun in the di­rection it came from, his eyes searching for the source. But before he could see anything, Glen—or someone—shoved him hard in the middle of his back. He fell to the ground, his face and hands grinding into the pavement. Terrified screams erupted around him. Devin tried to move, but his brother held him se­curely to the ground. Glen's savage, suddenly adult voice growled into his ear: "Bloody hell! Keep your head down, Devin."

  Devin obeyed. Seconds later, he heard a dull thump and felt Glen flinch. A soft sigh whispered from his brother's lips, just inches from Devin's ear. Devin's bowels tightened as an ice-cold fear ate its way through his insides. He knew what this meant.

  "No!" With renewed strength, he struggled up. Glen's limp body rolled away. His lifeless eyes stared at Devin, still showing the surprise he must've felt as the bullet entered his head just above the right temple. For a moment, Devin felt weightless, as if his body hovered above the still form of his brother, watching with a detached sort of curiosity. Then reaction set in. It was as if a leaden pipe had plowed a hole through his stomach. He gasped for breath, reaching a shaking hand toward the ominous trickle of blood oozing from Glen's wound.

  "Glennie. Jaysus, Glen." Devin crouched on his knees, his hands touching Glen's face, brushing his black hair away from his forehead. His skin was still warm. He was still alive, wasn't he? Nothing could happen that fast, could it? "Blessed Mary, Mother of God . . ." Devin's voice broke. He couldn't go on. He bit his trembling bottom lip and leaned in to his brother. "I’ll get help for ya. Just hang on, Glen. Ya got to."

  Devin scrambled to his feet, eyes darting frantically. "Help me, Pearse! Glen's been hit!"

  His voice was lost in a swirling vortex of activity. Desperately, he peered around. Where was Pearse? Wasn't there someone who could help him?

  All around him, the marchers huddled on the ground, cower­ing from bullets still whizzing through the air. He didn't see Pearse anywhere. Had he been hit, too? Amid hysterical screams, Devin heard someone murmuring the Lord's Prayer.

  A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. "Help me ..."

  Startled, Devin looked down. It was the woman he'd bumped against only minutes before, her beehive was now matted with blood. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood. Even the air was rank with it.

  "Devin! Get down!"

  Blankly, he turned to look in the direction of the panicked voice. Pearse was stumbling toward him, motioning frantically, but Devin could only stare at him in numbed confusion. Blood covered the older boy's jeans and black shirt in paint-like splotches.

  Suddenly, a hot white fire speared Devin's upper left arm. In slow motion, he could feel himself falling. He could not protect himself from the impact with the concrete; it scraped his cheek, imbedding bits of dirt and gravel under his skin. Another searing pain shot through his nose, driving needlepoints into his skull. But it was nothing compared to the agony in his arm. Groaning, he lifted his head and saw blood from his smashed nose dripping onto the street. He sat up, shaking his head groggily. Almost im­mediately, everything dimmed; he slumped to the ground. His hand moved to the painful left arm and came back covered with blood. In amazement, he gazed at the crimson liquid. So much blood. Funny, Glen hadn't bled like this. There had been only that one little round hole.

  Devin's head swam. In the distance, he heard the singsong whine of a siren growing closer. The rain fell harder now, its cool wetness a balm against his flushed face. His mind drifted as he stared up into the scudding gray clouds. The dull throb in his arm faded.

  Suddenly, Pearse appeared above him, peering down anx­iously. Then he began to pull on his body, dragging him away. It hurt. Oh, Lord Jesus, it hurt. Finally, mercifully, Pearse stopped tugging on him and knelt down at his side. He ripped at his shirt and quickly tied a strip of cloth around Devin's bleeding wound. A black armband. Did Pearse know about Glen, then?

  Tears welled in his eyes. "They killed him, Pearse. They killed Glen," he whispered. "Why are they shooting at us, Pearse?"

  "Hush, now. Save your strength. You're still losing blood."

  It was true. His vision blurred, and Pearse's voice faded in and out. Devin bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He couldn't pass out now. He had to make his brother's friend understand.

  "Pearse, please, I..." He grasped the older boy's hand, hot tears spilling down his face.

  "What is it, Dev?" Pearse cradled him, bewildered tears in his blue eyes. His image wavered, growing close and then fading away.

  Devin felt the curtain of darkness around him. No. He wouldn't give in. Not until he had the chance to make Pearse un­derstand. Despite the pain that sliced through to his very finger­tips, he struggled up onto his elbow so his weakened voice
could be heard. "Pearse, I don't care if I burn in hell," he whispered. "I'm going to make those bastards pay for what they did to Glen!"

  Available in print in May 2012

  Now Available at Amazon Kindle

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all who helped bring LILY OF THE SPRINGS to life.

  Janice Robertson

  Carlus Foley

  Wilmoth Polston

  Barbara Marshall

  Christi Marshall

  John Smallshaw

  Tresa Underwood

  Doris Lindblad

  Helen Frenke & husband

  Wes Spicher, Clear Channel Texarkana

  Dave Weiss, DDS

  Jim Ganley

  Doug Wilson

  Elvin Tiller

  Jim Miller for the artwork on page 68