Below is the beginning of our story. It begins in Ireland with our main character Arlen O'Rielly.
Newtownbarry
June 18, 1831
A farmer and his wife followed the crowd as they ran towards their cattle. This livestock had been seized from those farmers who refused to pay their taxes, and were up for auction. These farmers were tired of English oppression. The overreach of a nation that had no business in Ireland. The angry crowd ran straight towards the Yeomanry standing guard. The militia raised their weapons, shuffling nervously. The order came. Shots rang out. Thud. The first man fell. Thud. The second. Thud. The third. The commanding officer was ignored as he called for a cease fire. The men fire shot after shot. Eighteen dead bodies lay in the dirt. The mob dispersed, the livestock stamped their hooves, terrified in the middle of the blood bath. The Yeomanry briskly fell back. A young boy pokes his head over the cart he was hiding behind. His light brown hair was a mess, and his face and tattered clothes were covered in dirt. He ran over to the fallen farmers, and threw himself on the ground at his Mother and Father’s side. The boy sobbed as he scanned the scene in disbelief. Others started coming back towards the scene and saw their loved ones collapsed in the blood-soaked dirt.
An old man saw the boy crying by his parents side. He walked up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name son?” the man asked.
“Arlen,” the boy said. “I’m Arlen O'Reilly.”
Rain poured down on the farmhouse. His Uncle had traveled to Newtownbarry to bring him back to Cove, where his Aunt and Uncle lived on a little farm with his cousin. He was a four year old on the other side of the country. He had never felt so lost, and he stepped into the house feeling lonely, looking around as if he were lost in the forest. He started walking into the middle of the room. His uncle yelled at him. Arlen turned around towards his uncle, unsure what was wrong. He saw the trail of muddy footprints on the floor. His uncle stepped forward into the room. A strong hand reached out and slapped the side of Arlen’s head, and he fell to the floor.
-
The Cove of Cork
1845
The sharp crack of a branch stopped Arlen in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, listening. From the edge of town, he could still hear the lively streets of Cove, with it’s jaunty music, men laughing as they shared stories at the taverns, and the parties being thrown by sailors at the harbor, excited to be on shore. The leaves had started to once again turn green, but the ocean breeze still held onto its harsh winter bite, and the familiar smell of burning wood filled the crisp spring air.
“Just keep walking,” he told himself. “They’re close.”
He continued into the woods, walking faster than before, away from the tall wooden buildings of Cove towards the small farm he was forced to call home.
Another crack from the woods stopped him cold. His head whipped around, and he could have sworn he saw a boy standing behind a tall oak tree. He blinked and the boy was gone. He turned back to the path. As he took a step forward, an excruciating blow to the back of his head took him to the ground. He lay sprawled out on the ground, spitting out dirt and wincing in pain. Laughter rang in Arlen’s ears. From where he once stood, a tall, plump lad was leering down at him, a cane in hand. It was his cousin, Thomas. He wore a dirty white shirt, brown vest, and pants that were too short for his legs.
Arlen moaned, struggling to stand up as his head pounded.
“Screw off, Thomas.”
“It’s all in good fun cousin!” Thomas said. “No need to be upset!”
Arlen stumbled to his feet and pulled back his hand to punch his cousin, but as he let it fly, someone grabbed his arms. He turned his head back to see two more boys. Arlen had wondered when they would show up. One of Thomas’ friends, a bigger man Arlen was all too familiar with, held his arms tightly as the second, scrawny one leaned himself up against a tree.
“Come on Fergus, not today,” Arlen groaned to the bigger man, “Can’t we just take the day off lads?”
“Lighten up cousin!” Thomas said. “We’re just swaggin’ ya.”
The smirk on Thomas’s face was the same, disgusting sneer that had haunted Arlen for years.
“You see,” he continued, “me and the boys are just here to give you your birthday present!”
The scrawny lad had left his post at the tree, and had begun walking towards the group. Arlen eyed him carefully. He didn’t want any more surprises.
“And what would that be Caolan?” Arlen said, as he glared back at him.
“You surely do not mean to tell me you have forgotten about your birthday flogging’ did ya?”
Arlen shuddered. He was exhausted from working all day, and hadn’t remembered it was his birthday until this moment. Tired as he was, he could never forget the beatings he received from his Uncle Byrne day after day. When Uncle Byrne became bedridden last month, Arlen thought that would be the end of the torture. He was left alone for a few days, until Thomas had picked up the slack. A day with Uncle Byrne would have been enough to break some people, but he had always made sure Arlen’s birthday was extra painful because he resented the idea of Arlen being happy. For six years, Arlen had dreaded his birthday, but he hoped with his uncle ill his nineteenth would be better..
“What’s so amusing you dirty whanker?” Thomas asked.
“You’ve watched your da beat me for years. You and your friends start fights with me every day. And you still hit like a little girl,” Arlen said.
Thomas’s scowl turned into a hateful death stare. Rarely did anyone dare to insult him, afraid of getting tortured by him and his friends.
Thomas tightened his grip on the cane. He whipped it back then slammed it into Arlen's left thigh, giving him a dead leg and causing him to fall down onto his hands and knees. The three attackers closed in on him. Arlen tried to stand up and fight, and managed to punch Caolan in the jaw before Fergus grabbed his arms again and slammed him on the ground.
He saw Thomas pull back a fist again. And Again. And again. And Again. Darkness started to overcome Arlen, and his eyes began drifting shut. Then there was nothing.
-
Arlen let out a groan as his cousin stepped on him to wake him up. His aunt and uncle laughed. He got up from where he slept on the floor, and put on his work clothes for the day. He watched as his cousin ran out the front door to go play with friends. Arlen headed out back to feed the animals. Today his uncle tasked him with clearing the rocks out of the newest field. IT would take him all day in the hot summer sun.
He walked out to the barn and grabbed a pitch fork to move hay. On his way to the sheep, he tripped on a wooden plank, falling to the ground. The pitch fork hit a bucket which made a loud clatter. Arlen’s uncle ran in, with a furious look on his face. He growled at Arlen to stand up and clean up his mess. Then his uncle grabbed his shirt collar and threw him against the barn wall. Arlen fell to the ground. His uncle took a set of reigns off the wall. Arlen winced as the reigns whipped him. Again. And again. And again.
-
When Arlen awoke, the sunlight shining through the trees had been replaced by moonlight. He stood up shakily, head throbbing, ribs sore, and blood had run down the side of his face. Slowly, he began to get his bearings back and wiped off the blood. He arched his back and stuck out his arms to stretch, and could feel every single bump and bruise left by his cousin. He could feel a large scrape on the left side of his head, the source of the blood. His arms were covered in bruises and more scrapes, and he could feel what must have been a couple good gashes on his back. After assessing the damage, he found his bag and began to walk the rest of the way to the farm. It wasn’t a terribly long walk. His ten minute walk to the house felt like an hour.
The O´Doherty family farm was not an extravagant sight. It was one of the few wooden farm houses left in the area. With a small stone chimney, and a quaint run down front porch, it held a modest look. For a long time now, the overreaching English had held the throat of Ireland in between their hands. Ireland had become a land of peasants, with English nobles in control. It was impossible for anyone like Arlen to move up the ladder.
For Arlen, the farm loomed in the dark like a prison, and he was a prisoner about to be swallowed up. All around the house, Arlen’s uncle had tilled fields for the start of planting season. Four furlongs behind the uninviting farmhouse, there was a large, weathered, wooden barn. The barn was home to cattle, sheep, and a pair of overweight pigs. Arlen loved the animals. They were more like family to him than his aunt, uncle and cousin ever had been. The barn was frequently his escape.
As Arlen approached the house, he saw that there was still a lit candle in the window. He figured his aunt wasn’t sleeping. She had barely slept since her husband fell ill. She spent most nights up til dawn with worry. Sometimes Arlen would go to say goodnight and find her asleep in her favorite chair by his uncles side. He decided to slip in quietly and go straight to the tiny storage space at the back of the house that his aunt and uncle called his room.
The door opened with a small eerie creak. Arlen carefully closed the door behind him and slipped off his shoes, carrying them to his closet so as to make as little noise on the wooden floorboards as possible. He fumbled around looking for a candle. He lit the candle and a faint flame grew, the light dancing around the dark room. All he could hear was the scampering of a couple field mice somewhere in the loft above. He slid his shoes off to the side, and laid down on his hay mattress. He winced in pain as he lay down. Arlen was especially exhausted this particular night from work. His job at the shipyard was physically demanding, and because he was the youngest one working there he was always made to jackass all the materials around. This ranged from wooden planks and posts to metal plates and supply barrels. That day was extra busy, because there were three ships heading to the United States, filled with Irish people off to find themselves better lives. Arlen had dreamed of running away to a new and unfamiliar place like that many times before, but he needed his Uncle’s farm to keep himself going until he could save up enough money to buy his own farmland and raise his own family. But that was all just one big uncertain dream.
Arlen reached around in the dark and managed to light his candle. The bright light darted around the room, illuminating his small selection of work clothes and a couple of wool blankets, and it caused a faint reflection in his only window on the back wall. Arlen stood up, with much effort, and stepped towards the window. When he got close, he could see the big barn looming past the flames reflection dancing on the window. From this angle, the fire appeared to be darting over the roof of the barn. Arlen had always been fascinated by fire, and had always thought of it as an omen. Since he had moved in with his Aunt and Uncle, Arlen had turned to Catholicism, and held onto any glimmer of hope he could. He decided to go out to the barn.
The back door to the house was not as creaky as the front, but Arlen was still careful as he slipped his shoes on and snuck out the door. He wandered towards the barn, gazing up at the stars like a young child gazed out at the ocean, his eyes full of wonder. He could see surprisingly well with the light of the full moon. It had gotten cooler since it had gotten dark, and Arlen shivered when a crisp breeze swept the farm. He could smell the freshly tilled dirt, and smiled in relief that he had not been forced to partake in that chore. He was sure that his Uncle would have him make up the work, but at least whatever the task was, it would be better than tilling.
He reached the barn and walked inside. All of the animals were asleep, except for one of the pigs, who met Arlen with a friendly grunt from his stall. The cattle let out their odd snores in their sleep, which Arlen always found amusing. He loved animals, and animals loved him. He had decided that when he finally bought a farm of his own, he would have even more animals. The barn often provided Arlen with an escape from the stresses of his life.
Arlen walked over to the pile of hay in the far corner of the barn. He had watched his uncle pull bottle after bottle from under the pile. This was Uncle Byrne’s secret stash. Arlen crouched down by the pile and pulled out a bottle of Irish Whiskey. He dusted it off, and admired his find in the moonlight seeping through the boards of the barn.
“He’s going to kill you.”
Arlen winced, and he remembered the light from the house that remained on so late. He snapped around to face the voice that was coming from the barn door. Thomas stood there in an old set of night clothes. He was snickering with glee. “Stealin’ whiskey! Oh lord,” said Thomas. “Ma and Da will throw you out on the street for sure. Oh just wait ‘til I tell. I better go wake them now.”
Thomas turned around to run to the house. Arlen stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. He couldn’t be thrown out like a street rat. He watched his dreams of owning his own farm shatter. No one would hire a street fat for a good job, he wouldn’t have the money. Then a fiery rage filled his chest. He would not be thrown out on the street like trash. Who was Thomas to think he was so much better than him?
Arlen darted forward, grabbing Thomas by the neck before he could get back out the door. Thomas struggled to turn around, as Arlen locked him in a choke hold with his right arm, holding his arm back with his left. Thomas grunted loudly, and flung himself backwards towards the far wall. Arlen let out a shout as his back slammed into the rough wood. Thomas tried to throw him down in his fit of shocked anger. Arlen managed to hold onto the choke-hold and Thomas went tumbling down like an injured cow. The two rolled around on the floor, shouting at each other while they wrestled. After a chaotic minute, Arlen pinned Thomas down. He put his knees on top of each of Thomas’ arms, and before his cousin could catch his breath to say something, he punched him. He punched him for the beatings he got daily. He punched him for the constant insults. He punched him for blaming everything that went wrong on him. He punched him for all the horrific insults directed towards his parents. Arlen released his rage. The built up resentment and anger towards his cousin and Uncle and piled too high. He threw punch after punch after punch.
Arlen stopped, and he gasped for breath. He looked at his knuckles. They were numb now, but he could see blood leaking out of both his hands. A pool of blood had formed on the floor, and Arlen realized that it wasn’t from him. He could no longer recognize his cousin’s face. It had begun to swell as blood gushed from his nose and scalp. Arlen fell back on the ground. He had beaten his cousin to death.
The farm animals had stirred when the boys began to fight, and had begun to make noise and bustle around their pens. Arlen shot up, stumbling around the barn in an attempt to calm them down.
He managed to get the cattle to lie down again, the pigs stopped squealing, and the sheep started to pick out their new sleeping spots. Arlen found his way back to the corner of the barn, where he had dropped the whiskey. He picked it up and ripped the top off. A wave of emotion hit Arlen. He was scared. He wasn’t scared of what would happen to him next, he wasn’t even thinking about it. He was scared because he felt as though what happened wasn’t wrong. It was as if justice had been served. After all, what would Thomas had done if he’d gotten the upper hand? Was it not self preservation? The bottom of Arlen’s bottle had a staring contest with the roof of the barn until Arlen began to drift into a deep sleep.
-
The noise of the cattle stomping their feet on their water troughs woke Arlen. The sheep had begun to baa. The pigs were squealing and grunting. No one had fed them this morning.
Arlen was sprawled out on the ground, head pounding. His squinted at the bright light shining through the open barn doors. He slowly stood up, and looked at the mess around him. A pool of dark crimson blood had gathered underneath Thomas’ head. His still body was in front of the door.
Arlen sprung off the floor and rushed over to his cousin. He put his hand down to Thomas’ neck, looking for a pulse. Nothing. Arlen pulled back his shaking hand. Both his hands were covered in blood. He had blisters, making him more conscious of his already aching hands. He looked down at himself and saw he had splatters of blood on his shirt. He stumbled to the trough of water next to the cattle stalls. He took off his shirt and plunged it into the cold water, desperate to get the blood out.
-
Thomas turned towards the door to get to his parents. Arlen saw the look of surprise on Thomas’ face as he grabbed him. Thomas was on the ground, as he struggled to defend himself. Blow after blow, Arlen’s fists slammed into his face. Blood. Dark, thick blood, pooled around his head.
Arlen Sat up in bed, panting. He had been tossing and turning all night, and finally must’ve fallen asleep, only to be greeted by the terrible images that would not stop flashing through his mind. He wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.
Arlen reached beneath his mattress, pulling out the bottle he had stored earlier. He drank until it was half empty. He stood up, not yet drunk, and stumbled around the room in the dark, bottle in hand. He had become hot, and as he fumbled with his shirt in an attempt to take it off, he fell. He hit the wall with a thud, and the bottle fell out of his hand. It shattered on the floor. Alcohol spread over the hard wooden floor, tracing every crack in the boards. Arlen struggled to stand up. He was so exhausted and still sore from the previous night. He finally managed to get a grip on his bedside table and pushed himself up. He fell onto his mattress.
Arlen closed his eyes, praying that he would fall asleep.
Arlen woke up to footsteps outside his door. Two sets of steps. He was suddenly wide awake. Arlen slid his hand down between his mattress and wall. His hands closed around the handle of the knife his father had once given him. Adrenaline filled his body. He listened carefully. The floorboards creaked as the footsteps grew closer. Arlen’s hand gripped the polished wooden handle of the knife. The room was silent except for his heart, which was beating out of his chest. The door handle began to turn. Arlen stared at the handle as it turned, as he adjusted his position to pretend he was asleep. The door slowly opened. The light of a candle illuminated the faces of Caolan and Fergus. Caolan was holding the candle and stepped into the room. Fergus followed, clutching a bottle in his hand.
Arlen sat up, gripping his knife, shaking with nervous tension.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
“You killed our friend. Now you’re going to pay for it lad.”
“That was an accident,” Arlen said. “We were fighting.”
“We’re not interested in taking anything,” said Fergus.
The two boys took a step towards Arlen. He held the knife out in front of him, not wanting to use it, but more than willing. Fergus chuckled. He wound his arm up and heaved the bottle at Arlen. It whipped by Arlen’s head, and shattered right behind him on the wall. Its contents went everywhere, and a piece of glass pierced right below his ear. He let out a yell, and tried to wipe the cut clean, but the liquid from the bottle dripped down his head, and his cut began to sting.
“Is that ale ya tool?” said Arlen, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell.
“Whoops!” said Fergus. “I slipped!”
Arlen glared at the two. Caolan looked evil as he smirked in the candle light.
“See ya around ya scut,” Caolan said.
“What are you do-”
Arlen stopped mid sentence. Caolan tossed the candle at Arlen’s feet. Time seemed to slow. Arlen saw the two lads turn to leave. The light from the flying candle flickered, sending demonic shadows dancing across the walls. The floor glistened in the light, covered with the alcohol Arlen spilled earlier that night, as well as the contents of Fergus’ bottle. Arlen dove towards the door as the candle hit the floor where he had stood and a ball of flames shot up. His knife clattered onto the floor. The door slammed right in front of him, the other two had closed him in. He banged on the door, yelling to let him out. He tried opening it again and again but a shelf had been moved to block his exit. Arlen yelled in frustration, and whipped his head around, not knowing what to do. The fire had quickly caught onto his bed, with its hay mattress, and dark smoke drifted up from the flames. His little room had turned into a prison of smoke. Arlen frantically whipped his head around the room. The fire had taken hold of his entire bed, and the only way out of the room was the window behind the flames. Orange and yellow tendrils of flame licked the glass. Arlen ness beginning to feel the heat. His face was almost too hot to bear, and he was nearly choking on the smoke. Arlen panicked. It was as if someone corned a wild dog. He slipped on his boots. He picked up his knife from the floor, and an extra shirt he had lying on the floor. He quickly took the knife and cut the shirt in half. The cloth ripped smoothly. Arlen tucked the knife in his waistband, and he wrapped each half of the shirt around his left hand then his right. He stepped back against the door, looking at the window. He could barely see anything now, he just saw the gleam of the window behind the fire. He took a deep breath. With as much power as he could manage, Arlen took three steps and dove towards the window, hands first over the flames. The glass shattered.
He tumbled to the ground on the other side. He looked up, groggy, and saw his pant leg on fire. He slammed it against the ground til it went out. Adrenaline pumped through his body. His heartbeat deafened him. As he looked around he could hear nothing but his blood pumping. Time was slow. Then he saw a group of people coming through the woods. He recognized most of the people from town and nearby farms coming to see what the fire was. Then he saw them. Caolon and Fergus were standing with the group of people. They were pointing at Arlen, and he could hear muffled yelling. He couldn’t make out any words, but he felt as though they were pointing blame on Arlen. Were they telling people about Thomas too? A group of angry looking men started towards Arlen. He looked behind him, no one was on that side of the farm. The men were getting closer. Arlen turned and ran towards the treeline. Behind him, a couple voices yelled out for him to stop, but he didn’t look back. He had to get away. Arlen knew that if he let them catch up to him, he’d be blamed for the fire, and once they found Thomas’ body he would be killed. His heart pounded out of his chest, and he quickly approached the trees. He looked back, and saw the group of people running after him. He stumbled the rest of the way and leaned up against a tree. He looked at the farm one more time. Half of the house was on fire. Thick, black smoke was rising into the sky, like a dark monster looking over the whole farm. He looked at the barn. It was only a matter of time before they found the body, soon everyone would know. For the first time Arlen processed that this was the last time he would ever see this farm. He could never return now. The people chasing him were starting to gain on him, so he kept going through the trees.
Arlen’s feet pounded the ground as he bolted through the forest. He was heading towards town, unsure where else to go. Time seemed to speed up, as he weaved through tree after tree, flying through the forest. He reached the town in almost no time.
The parties had died down, and other than the noise coming from the pubs and the night workers, the town was asleep. Arlen slowed down and slunck through the streets. He made his way to a familiar area, down to the harbor near his work. He saw the ships docked in the port, the fishing boats lined the docks. The water was as clear as glass. Behind the harbour, the sun was just starting to peak out over the horizon, tinting the sky a light orange.
Arlen was staring out at the skyline when he heard yelling coming from the outskirts of town. The men had reached town, and they were still looking for him. Arlen looked around. All the buildings would be locked this time of day. He couldn’t hide on a fishing boat because the fishermen would be here any minute and find him. Instead, he ran towards the nearest ship.
It was a large cargo ship, with three tall masts pointed up at the sky. The ship had arrived a couple days ago, and Arlen had never before seen such a large ship. He quickly jogged up to the gangplank, and hustled up it. The was no one on the deck of the ship. The entire crew must have passed out at their parties the night before. Arlen hurried over to the stern of the ship. He crouched down and looked over the side of the ship. A group of men had reached the harbor. They were shouting to each other and looking all around. Arlen ducked into the first hatch he could find. He climbed down a ladder and found himself in a giant cargo hold. Arlen walked through the maze of crates towards the bow. He got to the very front, and wiggled behind a crate. He collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He leaned his head against the side of the ship. Sweat dripped down his dirt-covered face, and he closed his eyes to get a moment of rest.
-
The slamming of a crate took Arlen out of his deep sleep. He sat up. Men's laughter came from the stern of the ship. Arlen sat back. Trying to figure out what that other noise he heard was. He could hear people walking around on the deck above him, but there was another rushing sound. He realized that the ship was in the ocean. They were sailing off somewhere. Arlen heard the waves hitting the side as the ship cut through the water.
He put his hand on his temple, trying to think. He was a stowaway on a ship who’s destination was unknown.
June 18, 1831
A farmer and his wife followed the crowd as they ran towards their cattle. This livestock had been seized from those farmers who refused to pay their taxes, and were up for auction. These farmers were tired of English oppression. The overreach of a nation that had no business in Ireland. The angry crowd ran straight towards the Yeomanry standing guard. The militia raised their weapons, shuffling nervously. The order came. Shots rang out. Thud. The first man fell. Thud. The second. Thud. The third. The commanding officer was ignored as he called for a cease fire. The men fire shot after shot. Eighteen dead bodies lay in the dirt. The mob dispersed, the livestock stamped their hooves, terrified in the middle of the blood bath. The Yeomanry briskly fell back. A young boy pokes his head over the cart he was hiding behind. His light brown hair was a mess, and his face and tattered clothes were covered in dirt. He ran over to the fallen farmers, and threw himself on the ground at his Mother and Father’s side. The boy sobbed as he scanned the scene in disbelief. Others started coming back towards the scene and saw their loved ones collapsed in the blood-soaked dirt.
An old man saw the boy crying by his parents side. He walked up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name son?” the man asked.
“Arlen,” the boy said. “I’m Arlen O'Reilly.”
Rain poured down on the farmhouse. His Uncle had traveled to Newtownbarry to bring him back to Cove, where his Aunt and Uncle lived on a little farm with his cousin. He was a four year old on the other side of the country. He had never felt so lost, and he stepped into the house feeling lonely, looking around as if he were lost in the forest. He started walking into the middle of the room. His uncle yelled at him. Arlen turned around towards his uncle, unsure what was wrong. He saw the trail of muddy footprints on the floor. His uncle stepped forward into the room. A strong hand reached out and slapped the side of Arlen’s head, and he fell to the floor.
-
The Cove of Cork
1845
The sharp crack of a branch stopped Arlen in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, listening. From the edge of town, he could still hear the lively streets of Cove, with it’s jaunty music, men laughing as they shared stories at the taverns, and the parties being thrown by sailors at the harbor, excited to be on shore. The leaves had started to once again turn green, but the ocean breeze still held onto its harsh winter bite, and the familiar smell of burning wood filled the crisp spring air.
“Just keep walking,” he told himself. “They’re close.”
He continued into the woods, walking faster than before, away from the tall wooden buildings of Cove towards the small farm he was forced to call home.
Another crack from the woods stopped him cold. His head whipped around, and he could have sworn he saw a boy standing behind a tall oak tree. He blinked and the boy was gone. He turned back to the path. As he took a step forward, an excruciating blow to the back of his head took him to the ground. He lay sprawled out on the ground, spitting out dirt and wincing in pain. Laughter rang in Arlen’s ears. From where he once stood, a tall, plump lad was leering down at him, a cane in hand. It was his cousin, Thomas. He wore a dirty white shirt, brown vest, and pants that were too short for his legs.
Arlen moaned, struggling to stand up as his head pounded.
“Screw off, Thomas.”
“It’s all in good fun cousin!” Thomas said. “No need to be upset!”
Arlen stumbled to his feet and pulled back his hand to punch his cousin, but as he let it fly, someone grabbed his arms. He turned his head back to see two more boys. Arlen had wondered when they would show up. One of Thomas’ friends, a bigger man Arlen was all too familiar with, held his arms tightly as the second, scrawny one leaned himself up against a tree.
“Come on Fergus, not today,” Arlen groaned to the bigger man, “Can’t we just take the day off lads?”
“Lighten up cousin!” Thomas said. “We’re just swaggin’ ya.”
The smirk on Thomas’s face was the same, disgusting sneer that had haunted Arlen for years.
“You see,” he continued, “me and the boys are just here to give you your birthday present!”
The scrawny lad had left his post at the tree, and had begun walking towards the group. Arlen eyed him carefully. He didn’t want any more surprises.
“And what would that be Caolan?” Arlen said, as he glared back at him.
“You surely do not mean to tell me you have forgotten about your birthday flogging’ did ya?”
Arlen shuddered. He was exhausted from working all day, and hadn’t remembered it was his birthday until this moment. Tired as he was, he could never forget the beatings he received from his Uncle Byrne day after day. When Uncle Byrne became bedridden last month, Arlen thought that would be the end of the torture. He was left alone for a few days, until Thomas had picked up the slack. A day with Uncle Byrne would have been enough to break some people, but he had always made sure Arlen’s birthday was extra painful because he resented the idea of Arlen being happy. For six years, Arlen had dreaded his birthday, but he hoped with his uncle ill his nineteenth would be better..
“What’s so amusing you dirty whanker?” Thomas asked.
“You’ve watched your da beat me for years. You and your friends start fights with me every day. And you still hit like a little girl,” Arlen said.
Thomas’s scowl turned into a hateful death stare. Rarely did anyone dare to insult him, afraid of getting tortured by him and his friends.
Thomas tightened his grip on the cane. He whipped it back then slammed it into Arlen's left thigh, giving him a dead leg and causing him to fall down onto his hands and knees. The three attackers closed in on him. Arlen tried to stand up and fight, and managed to punch Caolan in the jaw before Fergus grabbed his arms again and slammed him on the ground.
He saw Thomas pull back a fist again. And Again. And again. And Again. Darkness started to overcome Arlen, and his eyes began drifting shut. Then there was nothing.
-
Arlen let out a groan as his cousin stepped on him to wake him up. His aunt and uncle laughed. He got up from where he slept on the floor, and put on his work clothes for the day. He watched as his cousin ran out the front door to go play with friends. Arlen headed out back to feed the animals. Today his uncle tasked him with clearing the rocks out of the newest field. IT would take him all day in the hot summer sun.
He walked out to the barn and grabbed a pitch fork to move hay. On his way to the sheep, he tripped on a wooden plank, falling to the ground. The pitch fork hit a bucket which made a loud clatter. Arlen’s uncle ran in, with a furious look on his face. He growled at Arlen to stand up and clean up his mess. Then his uncle grabbed his shirt collar and threw him against the barn wall. Arlen fell to the ground. His uncle took a set of reigns off the wall. Arlen winced as the reigns whipped him. Again. And again. And again.
-
When Arlen awoke, the sunlight shining through the trees had been replaced by moonlight. He stood up shakily, head throbbing, ribs sore, and blood had run down the side of his face. Slowly, he began to get his bearings back and wiped off the blood. He arched his back and stuck out his arms to stretch, and could feel every single bump and bruise left by his cousin. He could feel a large scrape on the left side of his head, the source of the blood. His arms were covered in bruises and more scrapes, and he could feel what must have been a couple good gashes on his back. After assessing the damage, he found his bag and began to walk the rest of the way to the farm. It wasn’t a terribly long walk. His ten minute walk to the house felt like an hour.
The O´Doherty family farm was not an extravagant sight. It was one of the few wooden farm houses left in the area. With a small stone chimney, and a quaint run down front porch, it held a modest look. For a long time now, the overreaching English had held the throat of Ireland in between their hands. Ireland had become a land of peasants, with English nobles in control. It was impossible for anyone like Arlen to move up the ladder.
For Arlen, the farm loomed in the dark like a prison, and he was a prisoner about to be swallowed up. All around the house, Arlen’s uncle had tilled fields for the start of planting season. Four furlongs behind the uninviting farmhouse, there was a large, weathered, wooden barn. The barn was home to cattle, sheep, and a pair of overweight pigs. Arlen loved the animals. They were more like family to him than his aunt, uncle and cousin ever had been. The barn was frequently his escape.
As Arlen approached the house, he saw that there was still a lit candle in the window. He figured his aunt wasn’t sleeping. She had barely slept since her husband fell ill. She spent most nights up til dawn with worry. Sometimes Arlen would go to say goodnight and find her asleep in her favorite chair by his uncles side. He decided to slip in quietly and go straight to the tiny storage space at the back of the house that his aunt and uncle called his room.
The door opened with a small eerie creak. Arlen carefully closed the door behind him and slipped off his shoes, carrying them to his closet so as to make as little noise on the wooden floorboards as possible. He fumbled around looking for a candle. He lit the candle and a faint flame grew, the light dancing around the dark room. All he could hear was the scampering of a couple field mice somewhere in the loft above. He slid his shoes off to the side, and laid down on his hay mattress. He winced in pain as he lay down. Arlen was especially exhausted this particular night from work. His job at the shipyard was physically demanding, and because he was the youngest one working there he was always made to jackass all the materials around. This ranged from wooden planks and posts to metal plates and supply barrels. That day was extra busy, because there were three ships heading to the United States, filled with Irish people off to find themselves better lives. Arlen had dreamed of running away to a new and unfamiliar place like that many times before, but he needed his Uncle’s farm to keep himself going until he could save up enough money to buy his own farmland and raise his own family. But that was all just one big uncertain dream.
Arlen reached around in the dark and managed to light his candle. The bright light darted around the room, illuminating his small selection of work clothes and a couple of wool blankets, and it caused a faint reflection in his only window on the back wall. Arlen stood up, with much effort, and stepped towards the window. When he got close, he could see the big barn looming past the flames reflection dancing on the window. From this angle, the fire appeared to be darting over the roof of the barn. Arlen had always been fascinated by fire, and had always thought of it as an omen. Since he had moved in with his Aunt and Uncle, Arlen had turned to Catholicism, and held onto any glimmer of hope he could. He decided to go out to the barn.
The back door to the house was not as creaky as the front, but Arlen was still careful as he slipped his shoes on and snuck out the door. He wandered towards the barn, gazing up at the stars like a young child gazed out at the ocean, his eyes full of wonder. He could see surprisingly well with the light of the full moon. It had gotten cooler since it had gotten dark, and Arlen shivered when a crisp breeze swept the farm. He could smell the freshly tilled dirt, and smiled in relief that he had not been forced to partake in that chore. He was sure that his Uncle would have him make up the work, but at least whatever the task was, it would be better than tilling.
He reached the barn and walked inside. All of the animals were asleep, except for one of the pigs, who met Arlen with a friendly grunt from his stall. The cattle let out their odd snores in their sleep, which Arlen always found amusing. He loved animals, and animals loved him. He had decided that when he finally bought a farm of his own, he would have even more animals. The barn often provided Arlen with an escape from the stresses of his life.
Arlen walked over to the pile of hay in the far corner of the barn. He had watched his uncle pull bottle after bottle from under the pile. This was Uncle Byrne’s secret stash. Arlen crouched down by the pile and pulled out a bottle of Irish Whiskey. He dusted it off, and admired his find in the moonlight seeping through the boards of the barn.
“He’s going to kill you.”
Arlen winced, and he remembered the light from the house that remained on so late. He snapped around to face the voice that was coming from the barn door. Thomas stood there in an old set of night clothes. He was snickering with glee. “Stealin’ whiskey! Oh lord,” said Thomas. “Ma and Da will throw you out on the street for sure. Oh just wait ‘til I tell. I better go wake them now.”
Thomas turned around to run to the house. Arlen stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. He couldn’t be thrown out like a street rat. He watched his dreams of owning his own farm shatter. No one would hire a street fat for a good job, he wouldn’t have the money. Then a fiery rage filled his chest. He would not be thrown out on the street like trash. Who was Thomas to think he was so much better than him?
Arlen darted forward, grabbing Thomas by the neck before he could get back out the door. Thomas struggled to turn around, as Arlen locked him in a choke hold with his right arm, holding his arm back with his left. Thomas grunted loudly, and flung himself backwards towards the far wall. Arlen let out a shout as his back slammed into the rough wood. Thomas tried to throw him down in his fit of shocked anger. Arlen managed to hold onto the choke-hold and Thomas went tumbling down like an injured cow. The two rolled around on the floor, shouting at each other while they wrestled. After a chaotic minute, Arlen pinned Thomas down. He put his knees on top of each of Thomas’ arms, and before his cousin could catch his breath to say something, he punched him. He punched him for the beatings he got daily. He punched him for the constant insults. He punched him for blaming everything that went wrong on him. He punched him for all the horrific insults directed towards his parents. Arlen released his rage. The built up resentment and anger towards his cousin and Uncle and piled too high. He threw punch after punch after punch.
Arlen stopped, and he gasped for breath. He looked at his knuckles. They were numb now, but he could see blood leaking out of both his hands. A pool of blood had formed on the floor, and Arlen realized that it wasn’t from him. He could no longer recognize his cousin’s face. It had begun to swell as blood gushed from his nose and scalp. Arlen fell back on the ground. He had beaten his cousin to death.
The farm animals had stirred when the boys began to fight, and had begun to make noise and bustle around their pens. Arlen shot up, stumbling around the barn in an attempt to calm them down.
He managed to get the cattle to lie down again, the pigs stopped squealing, and the sheep started to pick out their new sleeping spots. Arlen found his way back to the corner of the barn, where he had dropped the whiskey. He picked it up and ripped the top off. A wave of emotion hit Arlen. He was scared. He wasn’t scared of what would happen to him next, he wasn’t even thinking about it. He was scared because he felt as though what happened wasn’t wrong. It was as if justice had been served. After all, what would Thomas had done if he’d gotten the upper hand? Was it not self preservation? The bottom of Arlen’s bottle had a staring contest with the roof of the barn until Arlen began to drift into a deep sleep.
-
The noise of the cattle stomping their feet on their water troughs woke Arlen. The sheep had begun to baa. The pigs were squealing and grunting. No one had fed them this morning.
Arlen was sprawled out on the ground, head pounding. His squinted at the bright light shining through the open barn doors. He slowly stood up, and looked at the mess around him. A pool of dark crimson blood had gathered underneath Thomas’ head. His still body was in front of the door.
Arlen sprung off the floor and rushed over to his cousin. He put his hand down to Thomas’ neck, looking for a pulse. Nothing. Arlen pulled back his shaking hand. Both his hands were covered in blood. He had blisters, making him more conscious of his already aching hands. He looked down at himself and saw he had splatters of blood on his shirt. He stumbled to the trough of water next to the cattle stalls. He took off his shirt and plunged it into the cold water, desperate to get the blood out.
-
Thomas turned towards the door to get to his parents. Arlen saw the look of surprise on Thomas’ face as he grabbed him. Thomas was on the ground, as he struggled to defend himself. Blow after blow, Arlen’s fists slammed into his face. Blood. Dark, thick blood, pooled around his head.
Arlen Sat up in bed, panting. He had been tossing and turning all night, and finally must’ve fallen asleep, only to be greeted by the terrible images that would not stop flashing through his mind. He wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.
Arlen reached beneath his mattress, pulling out the bottle he had stored earlier. He drank until it was half empty. He stood up, not yet drunk, and stumbled around the room in the dark, bottle in hand. He had become hot, and as he fumbled with his shirt in an attempt to take it off, he fell. He hit the wall with a thud, and the bottle fell out of his hand. It shattered on the floor. Alcohol spread over the hard wooden floor, tracing every crack in the boards. Arlen struggled to stand up. He was so exhausted and still sore from the previous night. He finally managed to get a grip on his bedside table and pushed himself up. He fell onto his mattress.
Arlen closed his eyes, praying that he would fall asleep.
Arlen woke up to footsteps outside his door. Two sets of steps. He was suddenly wide awake. Arlen slid his hand down between his mattress and wall. His hands closed around the handle of the knife his father had once given him. Adrenaline filled his body. He listened carefully. The floorboards creaked as the footsteps grew closer. Arlen’s hand gripped the polished wooden handle of the knife. The room was silent except for his heart, which was beating out of his chest. The door handle began to turn. Arlen stared at the handle as it turned, as he adjusted his position to pretend he was asleep. The door slowly opened. The light of a candle illuminated the faces of Caolan and Fergus. Caolan was holding the candle and stepped into the room. Fergus followed, clutching a bottle in his hand.
Arlen sat up, gripping his knife, shaking with nervous tension.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
“You killed our friend. Now you’re going to pay for it lad.”
“That was an accident,” Arlen said. “We were fighting.”
“We’re not interested in taking anything,” said Fergus.
The two boys took a step towards Arlen. He held the knife out in front of him, not wanting to use it, but more than willing. Fergus chuckled. He wound his arm up and heaved the bottle at Arlen. It whipped by Arlen’s head, and shattered right behind him on the wall. Its contents went everywhere, and a piece of glass pierced right below his ear. He let out a yell, and tried to wipe the cut clean, but the liquid from the bottle dripped down his head, and his cut began to sting.
“Is that ale ya tool?” said Arlen, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell.
“Whoops!” said Fergus. “I slipped!”
Arlen glared at the two. Caolan looked evil as he smirked in the candle light.
“See ya around ya scut,” Caolan said.
“What are you do-”
Arlen stopped mid sentence. Caolan tossed the candle at Arlen’s feet. Time seemed to slow. Arlen saw the two lads turn to leave. The light from the flying candle flickered, sending demonic shadows dancing across the walls. The floor glistened in the light, covered with the alcohol Arlen spilled earlier that night, as well as the contents of Fergus’ bottle. Arlen dove towards the door as the candle hit the floor where he had stood and a ball of flames shot up. His knife clattered onto the floor. The door slammed right in front of him, the other two had closed him in. He banged on the door, yelling to let him out. He tried opening it again and again but a shelf had been moved to block his exit. Arlen yelled in frustration, and whipped his head around, not knowing what to do. The fire had quickly caught onto his bed, with its hay mattress, and dark smoke drifted up from the flames. His little room had turned into a prison of smoke. Arlen frantically whipped his head around the room. The fire had taken hold of his entire bed, and the only way out of the room was the window behind the flames. Orange and yellow tendrils of flame licked the glass. Arlen ness beginning to feel the heat. His face was almost too hot to bear, and he was nearly choking on the smoke. Arlen panicked. It was as if someone corned a wild dog. He slipped on his boots. He picked up his knife from the floor, and an extra shirt he had lying on the floor. He quickly took the knife and cut the shirt in half. The cloth ripped smoothly. Arlen tucked the knife in his waistband, and he wrapped each half of the shirt around his left hand then his right. He stepped back against the door, looking at the window. He could barely see anything now, he just saw the gleam of the window behind the fire. He took a deep breath. With as much power as he could manage, Arlen took three steps and dove towards the window, hands first over the flames. The glass shattered.
He tumbled to the ground on the other side. He looked up, groggy, and saw his pant leg on fire. He slammed it against the ground til it went out. Adrenaline pumped through his body. His heartbeat deafened him. As he looked around he could hear nothing but his blood pumping. Time was slow. Then he saw a group of people coming through the woods. He recognized most of the people from town and nearby farms coming to see what the fire was. Then he saw them. Caolon and Fergus were standing with the group of people. They were pointing at Arlen, and he could hear muffled yelling. He couldn’t make out any words, but he felt as though they were pointing blame on Arlen. Were they telling people about Thomas too? A group of angry looking men started towards Arlen. He looked behind him, no one was on that side of the farm. The men were getting closer. Arlen turned and ran towards the treeline. Behind him, a couple voices yelled out for him to stop, but he didn’t look back. He had to get away. Arlen knew that if he let them catch up to him, he’d be blamed for the fire, and once they found Thomas’ body he would be killed. His heart pounded out of his chest, and he quickly approached the trees. He looked back, and saw the group of people running after him. He stumbled the rest of the way and leaned up against a tree. He looked at the farm one more time. Half of the house was on fire. Thick, black smoke was rising into the sky, like a dark monster looking over the whole farm. He looked at the barn. It was only a matter of time before they found the body, soon everyone would know. For the first time Arlen processed that this was the last time he would ever see this farm. He could never return now. The people chasing him were starting to gain on him, so he kept going through the trees.
Arlen’s feet pounded the ground as he bolted through the forest. He was heading towards town, unsure where else to go. Time seemed to speed up, as he weaved through tree after tree, flying through the forest. He reached the town in almost no time.
The parties had died down, and other than the noise coming from the pubs and the night workers, the town was asleep. Arlen slowed down and slunck through the streets. He made his way to a familiar area, down to the harbor near his work. He saw the ships docked in the port, the fishing boats lined the docks. The water was as clear as glass. Behind the harbour, the sun was just starting to peak out over the horizon, tinting the sky a light orange.
Arlen was staring out at the skyline when he heard yelling coming from the outskirts of town. The men had reached town, and they were still looking for him. Arlen looked around. All the buildings would be locked this time of day. He couldn’t hide on a fishing boat because the fishermen would be here any minute and find him. Instead, he ran towards the nearest ship.
It was a large cargo ship, with three tall masts pointed up at the sky. The ship had arrived a couple days ago, and Arlen had never before seen such a large ship. He quickly jogged up to the gangplank, and hustled up it. The was no one on the deck of the ship. The entire crew must have passed out at their parties the night before. Arlen hurried over to the stern of the ship. He crouched down and looked over the side of the ship. A group of men had reached the harbor. They were shouting to each other and looking all around. Arlen ducked into the first hatch he could find. He climbed down a ladder and found himself in a giant cargo hold. Arlen walked through the maze of crates towards the bow. He got to the very front, and wiggled behind a crate. He collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He leaned his head against the side of the ship. Sweat dripped down his dirt-covered face, and he closed his eyes to get a moment of rest.
-
The slamming of a crate took Arlen out of his deep sleep. He sat up. Men's laughter came from the stern of the ship. Arlen sat back. Trying to figure out what that other noise he heard was. He could hear people walking around on the deck above him, but there was another rushing sound. He realized that the ship was in the ocean. They were sailing off somewhere. Arlen heard the waves hitting the side as the ship cut through the water.
He put his hand on his temple, trying to think. He was a stowaway on a ship who’s destination was unknown.