Opinion is not worth a rush;
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
- William Butler Yeats
March 7, 1875
"We can't just keep on killing everyone." Her voice was flat, as if she was not totally convinced of her own words. "Even if we kill every Englishman in Ireland, they'll keep coming over the little seas to us."
Sean Doyle had been lying peacefully on his back, staring up at the light blue sky. The clouds were drifting high overhead slowly, off toward England, but when seen through his sole eye they seemed to be just within reach. The day was warm for March, and this hillside near Cork green and quiet. He rolled over on to his side, propped himself up on his elbow, and looked at Megan McKeena. Ten years in the wild had roughened her skin, but her hair was still midnight and her eyes the green of Ireland.
"What's that, lass? Who says we can't just kill them all?"
Megan was sitting on the grass in a plain white dress, looking toward the horizon. "If we're nothing but a pack of murderers and ambushers, the people won't follow us, Sean. I've been reading your friend Cohen's book, you know."
Doyle laughed. "Aye, but look where all the thinking and scribbling got him!"
She swung a fist lightly at him. "Shut up, Sean, and listen to me. We need a cause. Communism's no good for us; everyone's too Catholic for that. Even me. But our cause can't just be killing English."
Doyle sat up. He could hear in her tone that she was deep into this train of thought. "So what, then?"
She stood. "All along we've been saying is our cause is Ireland. But I know you well enough, Sean Doyle. Your cause is killing. We need men like you, but we also have to stand for something larger. We have to truly stand for an independent Ireland. Free of England, free of the landlords. Free of the need for men like you."
Doyle shook his head angrily. "Now look here, lass, I've built this army. I'm the leader here."
"Of course you are, Sean," she said, sitting down next to him. "But you can't rule Ireland. No one would have you. And you'd hate it. Have you thought of that? If we win? Do you really want to be sitting in a office all day signing papers you can barely read?"
I hate when she's right. Damn it all, she's too smart. "No, 'course not."
She beamed. Of course, he thought, a smile like that makes it worth while.
"We need a political leader, Sean. Someone who can talk to the masses, convince them that Ireland can be free. So that while we're killing the British, he's seducing the Irish." Her face fell slightly. "Eamon would have been perfect."
Not again. "Lass, he died when he was six months old. Don't make a hero out of him." As soon as the last words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. He saw her eyes starting to fill with tears, and he hugged her tight. "I loved the little lad too, Megan. But the winter was too much for him."
"I know, Sean, I know. He was too weak." She looked up at him. "But I still miss him."
Suddenly, there was high laughter and a small body leapt onto the two of them. "Mommy! Daddy!" All three fell to the grass in a heap.
Doyle laughed, long and hard, while Tara tried to squirm away. He began to tickle her under her chin, and she soon melted into a mass of giggling. He whispered under the clamor to Megan. "There'll be other children, Megan, boys and girls."
Megan smiled at the two of them through her tears. "I know, Sean. And they're why we need to save Eire."
Sean Doyle nodded as gravely as he could, given that he was still tickling their three year old daughter. "All right then, lass, we'll start looking for someone like Cohen."
Megan leaned over, kissed Doyle (narrowly avoiding the flailing limbs of her daughter), and then started to tickle him. Tara Doyle joined in quickly enough, and between the two of them they reduced Sean Doyle to helpless laughter.
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
- William Butler Yeats
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
- William Butler Yeats
March 7, 1875
"We can't just keep on killing everyone." Her voice was flat, as if she was not totally convinced of her own words. "Even if we kill every Englishman in Ireland, they'll keep coming over the little seas to us."
Sean Doyle had been lying peacefully on his back, staring up at the light blue sky. The clouds were drifting high overhead slowly, off toward England, but when seen through his sole eye they seemed to be just within reach. The day was warm for March, and this hillside near Cork green and quiet. He rolled over on to his side, propped himself up on his elbow, and looked at Megan McKeena. Ten years in the wild had roughened her skin, but her hair was still midnight and her eyes the green of Ireland.
"What's that, lass? Who says we can't just kill them all?"
Megan was sitting on the grass in a plain white dress, looking toward the horizon. "If we're nothing but a pack of murderers and ambushers, the people won't follow us, Sean. I've been reading your friend Cohen's book, you know."
Doyle laughed. "Aye, but look where all the thinking and scribbling got him!"
She swung a fist lightly at him. "Shut up, Sean, and listen to me. We need a cause. Communism's no good for us; everyone's too Catholic for that. Even me. But our cause can't just be killing English."
Doyle sat up. He could hear in her tone that she was deep into this train of thought. "So what, then?"
She stood. "All along we've been saying is our cause is Ireland. But I know you well enough, Sean Doyle. Your cause is killing. We need men like you, but we also have to stand for something larger. We have to truly stand for an independent Ireland. Free of England, free of the landlords. Free of the need for men like you."
Doyle shook his head angrily. "Now look here, lass, I've built this army. I'm the leader here."
"Of course you are, Sean," she said, sitting down next to him. "But you can't rule Ireland. No one would have you. And you'd hate it. Have you thought of that? If we win? Do you really want to be sitting in a office all day signing papers you can barely read?"
I hate when she's right. Damn it all, she's too smart. "No, 'course not."
She beamed. Of course, he thought, a smile like that makes it worth while.
"We need a political leader, Sean. Someone who can talk to the masses, convince them that Ireland can be free. So that while we're killing the British, he's seducing the Irish." Her face fell slightly. "Eamon would have been perfect."
Not again. "Lass, he died when he was six months old. Don't make a hero out of him." As soon as the last words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. He saw her eyes starting to fill with tears, and he hugged her tight. "I loved the little lad too, Megan. But the winter was too much for him."
"I know, Sean, I know. He was too weak." She looked up at him. "But I still miss him."
Suddenly, there was high laughter and a small body leapt onto the two of them. "Mommy! Daddy!" All three fell to the grass in a heap.
Doyle laughed, long and hard, while Tara tried to squirm away. He began to tickle her under her chin, and she soon melted into a mass of giggling. He whispered under the clamor to Megan. "There'll be other children, Megan, boys and girls."
Megan smiled at the two of them through her tears. "I know, Sean. And they're why we need to save Eire."
Sean Doyle nodded as gravely as he could, given that he was still tickling their three year old daughter. "All right then, lass, we'll start looking for someone like Cohen."
Megan leaned over, kissed Doyle (narrowly avoiding the flailing limbs of her daughter), and then started to tickle him. Tara Doyle joined in quickly enough, and between the two of them they reduced Sean Doyle to helpless laughter.
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
- William Butler Yeats
