Blackthorns of the Forgotten

by Bree T. Donovan

  She felt the hot prick of indignation. Once again she had to take on the role of both parents because of Gillean’s dalliances. He left her to deal with the fallout of his leaving, offering the same, weak excuse that he would speak with his children, “when the time was right.” She was more than angry; she was simply finished with his selfishness and their life of lies.

  Adara could see the disappointment etched in her son’s once-bright face. Just as she had seen it so many years ago in her husband’s whenever his father, Milo, was mentioned. The roots which had been laid down for this family were rotted, spreading their disease throughout the whole familial system. It was time she saw to the much needed weeding.

  “You’ll call us though, like Da always does?” Arlen, a true teenage boy refused to cry, no matter how frightened he seemed at the prospect of his parents not being together.

  “Of course I will. Now, be a gentleman and escort your Aunt Mags to her car. She and Uncle Jos will be back tomorrow afternoon.” She kissed both his cheeks and lightly nudged him towards his waiting aunt.

  Arlen latched on to his aunt’s arm ready to walk her out.

  “Good night, Dara. See you tomorrow, dear.” Maggie blew a kiss. “I pray you find what you’re searching for.”

  Once in the hallway, Arlen called back to his mother. “Oh! And when ya see Sully, tell him I said hello. But don’t tell him I broke my promise!”

  ~~~

  Gillean tried in vain to get comfortable in the economy class accommodations of Air Lingus. He was lucky to get a seat so close to departure time. After hours of driving aimlessly around the rain slick streets of Dublin, a city that he often ventured to so he could feel its artistic pulse, he unexpectedly found himself pulling up outside of the airport.

  Throughout his drive he had wrestled with his conscience about going to Ciar. He must be firm with her about living on his own for the time being. He dreaded what was sure to be a heated argument on the topic.

  Ciar was the embodiment of a fiery disposition. At first he had found the experience invigorating. Making love with her, simply being in her presence, was intoxicating, like drinking a whole case of the strongest French wine and still being able to stand.

  The down side was when anger or discord charged her passion. The unpredictable, intense emotion that inspired her to create such spectacular art stemmed from the same manic fervor that colored everything she did. She was a force unto herself. The slightest pangs of doubt stirred within him. Gillean wasn’t sure he had the reserves for such a demanding woman.

  Adara and her ever-present support had been at his back for most of his life. But try as they might, they had failed to create a solid place for one another to flourish. Their lives were implanted into rocky ground. Each stone marked the resting place of a dead dream.

  Forcing himself as low as possible in the back-breaking seat, he was trying to avoid the curious glances from the few people still awake and suspecting a celebrity in their midst, but no one paid him any mind. The flight attendants were at the rear of the plane quietly chatting whilst they prepared the next series of refreshments.

  He felt old. It used to be when he boarded a commercial plane, every pretty young thing on the flight would be at his side, giggling and pleading for an autograph and anything else he’d like to share with them. And he had shared plenty in his day. Adara’s accusations echoed in his ears like a priest’s admonishments in a confessional.

  “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

  A voice crackled over the speaker system, intruding upon his uneasy meditation of things to come. “Please excuse the interruption ladies and gentlemen, this is yer captain, Timothy Sullivan here. Just wanted to give ya an updated weather report for our final destination…”

  Sullivan? Sullivan. The name resounded like a bell. Sully. Adara had been fixated on this person. He didn’t know anyone by that name. Did he?

  One of the attendants came to him as he squirmed in his seat. “Is everythin’ okay, sir?” She brushed his arm with her hand.

  “What?” Gillean’s exclamation caused the heads of some of his nearest neighbors to turn in his direction.

  “Do you need anythin’, sir? Ya seem uncomfortable.”

  “I think I’d like a Jameson, if you please.”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to get that for ya.”

  “Ah, wait!” he called after her.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your Captain Sullivan…Is he…does he live in Ireland?”

  She looked confused for a moment and then nodded, the smile returning to her red lips. “Oh yes, ya don’t have to worry. Captain Sullivan has been flying planes for almost forty years now.”

  “Forty years? How old is he?” Gillean was wishing for the Jameson so much that his hands were beginning to shake.

  “I don’t think anyone has ever asked such a question! But for sure the Captain wouldn’t mind me tellin’ ya. He’s sixty, and won’t admit to bein’ a day over.”

  Gillean sat back in his seat, mildly relieved. It was unlikely a sixty-year old pilot was the object of Adara’s fancy. He was quite certain he had never been friendly with, much less good mates with one. He was beginning to feel as if he was being chased by a ghost, someone he could neither see, hear, nor possess any recollection of. Yet this Sully person was there; Gillean could feel him. Or maybe it was just the great need of the whiskey he was feeling at that moment.

  At any rate, the moments were sure to be anything but quiet when he arrived at Ciar’s.

  “Would you please bring me another?” Gillean asked, after swiftly knocking back the stewardess’ first offering.

  “Yes, sir.” She rolled her eyes as she walked back to the mini-bar. “Poor sod is losing his mind,” she commented to her co-workers.

  The Song of Silence

  Nearly a month had passed, with Charlie and Sully falling into a routine of sorts. Charlie would leave to gather and deliver work orders in the morning, while Sully took to looking over Charlie’s woeful bookkeeping.

  Having not yet regained much use of his hands, upon which he now wore a pair of gloves over light bandages, Sully stumbled on a way to help Charlie one morning when he happened to glance at the almost incomprehensible cash book. Sitting down to look over the figures, Sully discovered a facility with numbers. He could easily compute sums and differences all without the use of pen and paper. Both men were amazed when Sully showed his host what he had done that first morning.

  Finding himself barely able to hold a pencil, Sully painstakingly reworked all of Charlie’s accounts. Sully was happy for the opportunity to be useful, and was even a bit excited at the prospect at being able to save Charlie quite a tidy sum.

  But during the late afternoons and evenings, Sully was at his most vulnerable. He demonstrated an inexplicable fear of leaving the cottage, even for a walk through the abundant woods surrounding the property. Charlie suggested this on numerous occasions.

  Sully would get as far as the doorstep, at which point he would tremble, close the door and retreat to bed.

  He enjoyed reading, and Charlie accommodated this passion by bringing him all sorts of books from the modest library in town.

  Sometimes in the evening, when he was feeling up to it, Sully would sit in the rocker by the fire and regale Charlie with tales from Thomas Moore, G.B. Shaw and Bram Stoker. Sully possessed the magic of bringing a story to life by the animated cadence of his voice. Charlie would close his eyes, able to picture the events Sully was recounting in full vividness.

  Charlie did not press for the full story of what had happened to his guest. In fact, he still knew nothing about what caused the terrible burns, or the identity of the human Sully relinquished his powers for. Charlie didn’t even know how the exchange had come about.

  For the first time in over a hundred years, Charlie questioned his superiors out of frustration and apprehension for the despondent lad. The seasoned angel was told to be patient and things would unfold in due time. In spite
of all the time he had served, Charlie was only now learning something which never occurred to him before: that every being is limited in what he can and cannot do for another, and that each is entirely responsible for the choices he makes, both good and bad. Charlie begrudgingly trusted in his orders.

  One morning while out on his usual work run, he happened upon, or rather was given a huge piece of the puzzle that was Sully. And like most well-intentioned beings, Charlie did not bother to question the source of his information. He was so relieved to believe he was finally on the right track. Charlie had no idea of the speed or strength of the train he was jumping aboard.

  A placid looking woman, tall and appealing in a curious way, sat in front of a weathered kiosk. She was modestly dressed in a denim skirt resting just above her bare feet, and a frayed, long-sleeved blouse. Clutching a dirty shawl around her thin shoulders, she called out in a hopeful voice to all who might buy her used goods.

  Sorry for her situation, Charlie felt he should at the very least strike up a friendly conversation with the young woman.

  “Business good for ya today, lass?”

  She smiled at him. He noted that she had the darkest eyes he had ever seen, almost black. If it weren’t for her innocent demeanor, the shade and frigid expression of her eyes would have set his teeth on edge.

  “Could be better to be sure,” she answered.

  Charlie placed his toolbox on the ground and moved in closer to get a look at her wares. Various trinkets, rings and other costume jewelry were displayed on a satin cloth.

  “Perhaps I may have somethin’ ya might be interested in?” She touched Charlie’s arm in an intimate gesture.

  Something didn’t feel quite right about this woman, but Charlie chided himself for being too judgmental. She was sweet enough. He supposed he was sensing the difficult life this traveler was forced to live. He resigned himself to help her with a small purchase. That would take care of the queer feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Well now, I do have a friend stayin’ on who is laid up. Maybe ya have somethin’ to help him pass the time and cheer him?”

  “Oh, I bet I do.” She squeezed his arm. “What sort of things does he like?”

  “Can’t say as I know all his interests. But he’s young, like you. And he likes to read.”

  “Oh, my.” She cast her eyes downward. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any books at the moment.” She looked truly dismayed. “But wait! Ya say yer friend is laid up is it now?” She brightened again.

  “Yes, he was injured pretty badly.”

  “That is a pity.” It seemed as if she was trying to conceal a grin. “I think I have the perfect thing for him.” She bent down and ran her fingers through a crate once used to hold fruit. It was now filled with old record albums. “Yes, here it is.” She pulled one from the collection and handed it to Charlie. “Many thoughtful, young men are drawn to this particular artist’s music. It’s most imaginative. So if yer friend likes to read, than I promise ya, he will love the songs on this record. The singer lives right here in Ireland too.”

  Charlie turned the record over in his hands. He was amazed that it was in mint condition.

  “Looks like it’s never been out of the jacket,” he observed.

  “Yes, I got it from someone who knows the musician quite well. I’ve been saving it for just the right customer. Now I know that has to be you.” Her peculiar eyes held his.

  Charlie tried to quell the persistent feeling of caution.

  He read the title out loud, not recognizing the name. “Messages From Orion…”

  There was no other writing on the outer jacket. Judging from the intriguing artwork on the front of the album—that of a tiny musical score resting underneath a starry sky—Charlie thought maybe this would spark Sully’s interest. It held the potential to spark his curiosity.

  “Alright. Yer a good businesswoman to be sure. Ya sold me! How much for the record?” He reached into his pocket.

  “Oh, just enough to buy me a cuppa coffee and a sandwich if ya please. I won’t be stayin’ round here, but I would like to get a bite before I go.” The look of innocence returned to her face.

  “Ah now. What kind of a deal is that?” Charlie protested. “Here, ya take this and make sure ya have a hearty meal and somethin’ to spare.” He handed her twenty Euros.

  She blushed. “That’s terribly kind of ya, sir. Thank ya. And I hope yer friend recovers. Sure he has a lot waitin’ for him once he’s up and about.”

  “Hum?”

  Charlie continued to look over the record, trying to convince himself it would lift Sully’s spirits.

  “I said I’m sure yer friend has a lot to look forward to once he is well.” She pocketed the money and pushed the crate with the other albums back under the cart.

  “Well, how does the saying go? One day at a time. I think that is the best medicine for him right now, one day at a time.” Charlie began to back away from the woman and the uncomfortable feelings she stirred with her shadowy stare.

  “Yes of course,” she demurred. “He surely has the time. See to it he gives a listen to the music. I’m certain it will do him a world of good.”

  Walking home Charlie studied the record intently, his thoughts on Sully and how he could get him to finally open up.

  “Perhaps a note from Orion will be just the thing to help ya, Sully.”

  He placed the album underneath one arm and hastened his pace.

  Charlie entered the cottage quietly, wanting to take Sully by surprise with his gift. Instead, Charlie was the one taken aback when he found Sully’s head resting on the ledgers. He was sitting at the table, shoulders hunched and sleeping as peacefully as a house cat. Only his damaged hands gave the impression that he was anything but tranquil. Seeing Sully asleep in such an awkward position, Charlie’s heart felt something he could only imagine was close to paternal for the young man.

  Sully was a being easily read. His moods were conveyed by his eyes—smooth and clear as a pond at dusk, with the waning sun casting shade upon complicated shade of green onto the water. Sully might claim that he didn’t wish to discuss the awful thing that had happened to him, or the woman he was so obviously missing, but his eyes said something else entirely. They entreated Charlie to come closer and look deep into their cloudless center.

  Charlie hugged the record close, requesting a blessing, then went about making some tea. Sully opened his eyes at the sound of running water and the clanging of cups. He stared at Charlie, his eyes asking questions.

  “’Tis only yer mate, Charlie, muckin’ about like an elephant on ice skates!” He placed the kettle on the hob. “I didn’t mean to frighten’ ya, I’m sorry.”

  “No need for apology. When I was last conscious, this was still yer home, and I yer grateful guest.” Sully rubbed at his eyes.

  Like a child unable to contain himself on Christmas morning, Charlie wanted to share his purchase with Sully immediately. “I brought ya back somethin’ from town!” He went searching about for his old turntable.

  “Ya didn’t have to do that, Charlie.”

  Sully watched as the excited man shoved tables and benches aside. Even the cantankerous, old tabby cat jumped from his perch on one of the dilapidated chairs. The meowing cat was clearly put out that Charlie had disturbed his rest.

  “Now where in the hell…” Charlie continued to root around helter-skelter, almost knocking a standing lamp to the floor.

  “Would ya like some assistance?” Sully offered, amused by the man’s enthusiasm.

  “No! Blast! Ah! Hold on! Here’s the old bugger!” Charlie dragged out a dusty record player which looked to be thirty years old if a day.

  “What would ya be needin’ that sorry lookin’ antique for? Don’t tell me yer gonna try and sell it! As yer financial advisor, I advise ya would be run out of town on a rail for such—”

  “Pipe down now, lad!” Charlie’s nerves were on edge. He greatly wanted to cheer Sully and establish a connection with h
im. “Just have a listen to this. The lovely lass who sold it to me said ya were sure to appreciate the vision in the music.”

  He slid the record from its jacket, brushing his flannel shirtsleeve over the turntable causing a substantial dust cloud. He placed the record down while flicking a switch.

  “Music?” Sully stifled a cough.

  “Yes, music. Which means ya shut up and listen, okay?” Charlie’s callused hand rested the needle on the shiny vinyl disc.

  The room was as quiet as a school house on Sunday morning until slowly and softly the sound of a distant guitar filled the tiny cottage. Sully’s limbs twitched. He shifted in his chair looking to bolt like a frightened animal.

  The singer entered the room with his words. “There’s something out there in the night sky, ageless and endless like the passage of time…”

  Sully began to shake, holding his hands to his chest. “Where did ya get this?” he demanded.

  Charlie stood next to the player, not sure what to make of the reaction. “I bought it in town today. I just thought ya might like—”

  Sully was on his feet yelling. “Who gave it to you?”

  Charlie thought back to the woman who had aroused bad feelings in him. “What does it matter where I got it? Why won’t ya at least give the music a chance?”

  “Shut if off!”

  “Why?”

  Sully crossed the room, teetering a bit but making it to the record player in seconds. “Shut this rubbish off!” He raised his left leg and kicked hard at the turntable. Charlie shuddered at the display of raw, human emotion as Sully kicked again. The needle continued to drag across the recording, making a morose scratching sound.

  “Black heart!” Sully shouted.

  “What’s the matter, Sully?” Charlie tried to restrain his overexcited charge, mindful that undue force might hurt him further.

  With one final blow to the player, Sully flung himself towards the door as if he were a cadged bird. Ignoring the obvious pain it would inflict to use his hands to escape, he grabbed for the knob. He meant to leave what was once his sanctuary. The voice on the record drove him onward, past the threshold and further out into the woods. He said nothing as he made his way, weaving unsteadily like a drunkard.