SELF PUBLISHED NOVEL "KEEPER OF THE FLAME"
In paperback and E Book
Available at Eason Ballina County Mayo Ireland, Castlebooks, Castlebar, County Mayo, Ireland
https://www.amazon.de/dp/B0CD12P8QP
The overarching theme of this novel is humanity’s relationship with the environment. A subject matter that is on everyone's mind, be it in the forefront or pushed away.
Beth’s grandmother called them The Intruders. A band of invaders who, for millennia, continue to destroy the environment. A staunch environmentalist, Tara has been missing since Beth was a child. Determined to find her, Beth travels from Ireland to the US where she resumes an ancestral tradition of communing with nature. Now she must confront her destiny.
PROLOGUE
Meeting Tara (16 Years Ago)
Before my grandmother came
to live with us, she had only been a woman in photos, a stranger who happened
to be my grandmother. I’d never spoken to her on the phone, or received a card
or presents. I only knew that she’d grown up in Germany, had my mam quite
young, and had moved to the west coast of Ireland when my mam was a toddler. My
mam called her Mutti, and I called her Omi.
Her name was Tara, a name
she said she gave herself as an acknowledgement of a new phase of life after
her arrival in Ireland. She wouldn’t tell me her birth name. She said it was a
name for a past stage and therefore irrelevant to the present.
However, she still had a
German accent and said mit instead of
with. I don’t know why she used this one word of German because her English was
otherwise flawless. Maybe, she was paying homage to her ancestors. Maybe, it
was simply her stubborn nature. She had a steadfastness and pride about her
that beguiled me. And for the short time I knew her, I came to adore her. Her
accent and bearing made her seem like some foreign noble. And her presence and attention made me feel special. Like
there was more to me than just being a weird kid. I felt like I had been
waiting for her the entire eight years of my life.
She told me that there were
things about my ancestors my mam didn’t want me to know and that my so-called
weirdness had to do with this. That I was just tuned to a higher frequency,
something other children couldn’t comprehend. Her words ignited my world yet I
sensed our time together was limited. Three months later she was gone again and
with her departure my parents’ dull account of family history regained its hold.
I’d always accepted my oddness
and its shadowing effect on my life as the way things were. Compared to other
kids my imagination was like some wild thing in need of taming. When I went to
get neighbourhood kids out to play sometimes their mothers didn’t invite me
in. It wasn’t verbalised, I just felt I
wasn’t meant to cross the threshold. Waiting on the step for my friend to
appear, I would drink in as much of the pristine interior as I could see from
the door. A portion of plush carpet, a fireplace, glasses in cabinets, family
photos lining the hallway. How I longed
to get through that doorway and experience that normality. Where was the dust
and other signs of life? It was all so orderly. My mam couldn’t perform this
miracle of immaculateness like their mothers could. The minute one of them stepped into my house,
the light from the windows seemed to ignite the dust and cobwebs. Papers,
books, dishes and bits, seemed to be strewn everywhere.
It’s not like my mam didn’t
strive to be like everyone else; she just couldn’t pull it off. Usually when she
spoke to people, I’d spot that look of bewilderment spreading across their
faces. I couldn’t stop it happening no matter how I tried to cut her off and derail
her train of thought. It was just something about our family.
Tara insisted that our otherness
was important, and related to a powerful, ancestral heritage. That my
pre-historic kin had lived in perfect connection with all living things, in a
world flourishing with untouched natural beauty: pristine mountains, forest and
ocean abundant with nourishment.
She said the rural area of
Ireland I lived in still had a helping of that raw, wild beauty my ancestors
had enjoyed. But like the entire planet it was under threat as humans continued
to assault the natural world, consequently ushering in their own demise. This
was because the old ways had been crushed by the intruders. That’s what she
called most people, the intruders.
Whenever she came with us
grocery shopping, she’d give sideways glances at laden trolleys and later in
the car ask me if I’d seen the junk the intruders bought. Or if I was watching
TV, she’d comment on the intruder brainwashing apparatus.
One time, Tara came with us
to the playground and minded me while my mam posted a letter. Spotting some
girls from school, I ran over to the slide calling to them. Turning, they
mumbled hello and then completely ignored me. Tears stinging my eyes, I walked
back to Tara and sat down next to her on the bench. Taking my hand, she held it
tightly.
“It’s not you who doesn’t fit in, it’s them. The intruders! They don’t
belong here,” she said.
A feeling of ownership
surged through me as if these clumsy children before me were intruders into my realm. I sat up straight, mimicking my
grandmother’s posture.
“Your mother should tell you
the truth,” she muttered.
As soon as my mam returned,
I asked her straight out if it were true.
“How ridiculous,” she said,
bringing me away to the ice cream van. Waiting in the queue, I watched my
grandmother sitting on the bench, grim-faced watching the children play.
From then on, my parents began
to control how long I was alone with my grandmother and no matter how I
approached it, my mam refused to engage in a discussion about these mysterious
ancestors and terrible intruders. Often when she was evading my questions, Tara
would walk into the room and stand watching us, clicking her tongue, and
shaking her head. Invariably, my mother sent me out to play, but I would lift
my eyes above the window ledge and watch their agitated gestures. Soon, I
became aware of allusions to my grandmother’s state of mental health and my
parents tried to stop me being alone with her altogether.
And so, these ancestral
stories were only passed on to me in low tones after my parents had put me to
bed. Tara’s bedtime-tales were a thick blanket of conspiracy tucking me in, a
current of mystery sending sparks into a mundane world. I knew we were speaking
of the forbidden and I cherished our collusion.
Each night after my mam said
goodnight, Tara would slip into my room. When we heard muffled conversation
behind the living room door, she began to tell me the story, but she never got
far. The door to the living room would creak and the patting of my mam’s
slippers would reach my half open bedroom door.
“Mutti, are you in
there?”
Tara would sit silently as
my breathing roared in my ears. Then my mother would come up behind her and
suggest she let me sleep. It was said as a suggestion, but we all knew she
planned to wait until my grandmother left my room.
One night my parents had
visitors late into the evening and this distraction gave my grandmother more
time.
“Once there was a girl,” she
said, sitting down on my bed, “and like all the children who were turning
thirteen that year, she was excited about the coming of the vernal equinox and–”
My question interrupted her,
“The verno what?”
“The vernal equinox. This
was the day they celebrated the reawakening. It’s the midpoint to the summer
solstice, which is the longest day of the year.”
“What’s a reawakening?”
“It is a celebration and
ritual, a coming of age, like a bar mitzvah, a bit like what your friends do,
like a communion”
“And why was it called
that?”
“Because, the parents wanted
to remind their children to stay awake as they physically matured and their
minds narrowed down. It was a set of skills imparted to children so they
wouldn’t forget.”
“Forget what?” I asked.
“Forget to listen to their
inner voice for one thing.”
“I’m a child and I don’t
hear anything inside.”
She leaned forward, her face
stern. “Oh, but you do. It just doesn’t speak as you and I do now, but it
speaks. And in those days, it spoke very clearly. Even today many people hear
it, they just don’t always listen.”
“Oh! OK, go on,” I said, curiosity outweighing
my perplexity.
“Thirteen children were
draped in blue and gold, the colour of the goddess.”
“Who’s the Goddess?” I
asked.
“The energies of life in
harmony.” she said.
“Why blue and gold?”
“They are the colours of heaven and earth.” Tara raised one hand upwards then laid the other on the ground. “Or here.” She swirled her hand around my darkened bedroom. “And here.” Then placed it over my heart. “What you can see and what you can only feel.”
“Oh, and then what?” My mind
was crammed with questions, but I was aware that we didn’t have a lot of time.
“In blue and gold, the
children were first led to the forest and left with the trees. This stage was
called look, listen and learn. The children walked amongst the trees until a
tree called to them.”
“Called to them?”
“Yes. In those days, trees
were listened to. When they had found their tree, the child sat before it and
asked the tree any questions he or she might have and then they listened.
Sometimes they listened with their minds and sometimes with their eyes.”
“With their eyes?”
“Yes, like a silent movie.
They would see things in the bark as it melted and morphed into images.”
My head was reeling with
thrilling images of bark becoming moving pictures.
“Are trees wise?” I asked.
“Yes, they are very wise,”
answered my grandmother. “And they told the children many important things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m sure they were
told to pass on the information and rituals to their own children.”
“Like school?”
“Yes, but not exactly like
the school you go to. Now, after the children had completed this stage, and
sometimes this took hours, the next step was Remembering Unity with the
Elements. If the children lived near a lake, they were taken there. If they
lived by the ocean, that is where they went. These children lived on the coast
and everyone took turns burying each other in the sand. Some children closed
their eyes, immersing their minds into the cool heaviness of the ancient,
ground rock. Then pushing off the sand, they ran into the waves with the others
who had already dunked deeply under the water. These were called Earth
Children.”
“Earth children,” I repeated
whispering.
“Yes, and some children
stayed under the water longer than others, drawn to the liquid silence. These
were water children. Eventually, all the children emerged and made their way to
a glade in the forest. A mighty fire blazed and they circled the fire, drying
off, and then began to dance and sing. Some children sang louder and danced
harder than others.”
“I bet these were the fire
children.” I sat up. “Am I right, Omi?”
She smiled, “Yes you are,
and one boy ran towards the fire and ran up some logs and jumped over the
flames as if he could fly.”
My eyes widened. “Air
child?”
“Correct! And the children
roared and clapped. Then a very, unique girl ran forwards and somersaulted
through the hot, wobbly air landing safely on the other side.”
“Who was she?”
“The girl from the beginning of my story. She was a child of all the elements. There were only a few children like this, and she would learn the art of harnessing healing energy by drawing it in and releasing it through her hands. This girl” —and my grandmother took my hands— “is related to you from long, long ago. Her name was Teklavina.”
I began to feel a pressure in my palms. “I like that name,” I said.
“It means keeper of the
flame. Teklavina was exceptionally intuitive and empathic.”
“Ohh, what does all that mean?
“It means she felt things
and knew things.”
I must have looked confused,
because she laughed.
“She let feeling tell her
what was right and she was sensitive to people’s emotions. She pressed a finger
against my chest. “As are you.”
I wanted my grandmother to
elaborate more on this, but I wanted to hear more of the story before we ran
out of time. I squeezed her hand. “And then what happened?”
Abruptly, voices were clear
outside my bedroom window followed by the sound of a car engine firing up and
tires crunching on gravel.
The living room door opened
and we heard my mam approaching. The light in the hallway came on and she
walked quietly into my room. Shutting my eyes, I could feel the mattress shift
as my grandmother stood up from my bed.
“I knew you would be in
here,” said my mam, with a sharp whisper.
“But of course,” answered my
grandmother. “She has so much to learn.”
“Why can’t you leave well
enough alone?” she hissed. “Do you plan to change the world with your stories?
Reclaim your so-called heritage?”
My mother’s anger had
momentarily freed up her usual reticence on this subject and I was eager to
hear every scrap of information she accidentally revealed. My heart pounded as I feigned sleeplike
breathing which seemed to me to be unashamedly fake sounding.
“Although things are getting
quite desperate,” answered my grandmother, “Changing the world is not my
destiny. Instilling lessons that have purpose and inspire, that’s my goal. So,
despite you making it very difficult for me to use firm strokes, I am chipping away at the
wall of lies, so your daughter can carry on with the revolution.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The
words erupted thick with irritation and I knew my mam was rolling her eyes and
shaking her head. “You’re a middle-aged woman still going on like this.”
“You know, grandmothers were
once revered,” said
Tara with that regal tone she had. “And old people were the mighty elders,
highly respected for their wisdom and sought after for counsel. Not the
pathetic elderly stuffed away in some asylum and ignored as they are today. You
might, at least, try to live right yourself and pass that on to your daughter.”
I heard my mother sigh.” I
just want her to have friends and be happy.”
“No one can make you happy,”
stated my grandmother, and added, “It’s up to each of us to know our worth.”
“Listen,” snapped my mother.
“There’s something you wouldn’t understand, OK, it’s called getting on with
people. Yeah, ever heard of that? I myself find it very difficult and I blame
that on the way you treated everyone around us and kept us isolated. All that nonsense you spouted.” Loudly, my mam sighed again. “You know that’s why I didn’t see you for years. Now you’re here and
doing the same thing again after all we’ve done to make her normal.”
“Normal! How most people live in this world is crazy, but if that’s
defined as normal, I am all for having an abnormal granddaughter.”
“Beth has friends, Mutti,
and you won’t ruin that like you did for me.”
“You mean you want to make
her one of them,” Tara snapped.
“My God, we’ve brought her
up in the countryside with no religion. You think that, at least, would get you
to back off.”
“IT IS NOT ENOUGH.”
“Quiet, you will wake her.”
I knew my mam was glaring at
her like she always did when my grandmother annoyed her. Pretending to surface,
I rolled to my side, yawned, then resumed my forced deep, sleep sound.
The shock of my
grandmother’s raised voice in the middle of a whispered discussion must have
knocked my mother’s shutdown mode back into position.
“There is a limit to how far
I will let you take this with her,” said my mam. “I’ve no interest in discussing
it any further.” And I pictured my mam standing with her arms folded, not
budging until my grandmother left.
After a while, I felt a hand
touch my forehead, then a soft kiss. It was my mam. I almost opened my eyes and
asked her why. Why did we live like this pretending we were like the others?
What happened to us? What went wrong? I came very close, but instead my eyes
stayed shut and I kept breathing steadily as she left my room. I fell asleep
with all my unanswered questions and a memory of the Keeper of the Flame.
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