The Light through the Sycamores

By Eoin Chambers

Fragment 1: It is my funeral today. This day has finally come, and I have been given a front row seat to the proceedings. After my night in hospital, there was no journey into the light, no ferryman, nor headless horseman or any other such fairy tales. Now, I just linger, anchored to this cursed village, by a deal I made with a devil, many years ago
My funeral is small, rightly so. Nobody will mourn my passing. I will become an afterthought in village lore, a footnote to a drunken story told at closing in Duggan’s pub. This does not sadden me. I had played a role in the village. This role assigned at birth, based on perceived social ranking, allotted by the collective consciousness of the villagers. Words such as “misfortunate”, “harmless”, or from the more generous among them “character”, have been used to describe me. I was happy to play their role, having no interest is showing them who I really was. Hearing of my dreams or aspirations would have jarred with the comfortable pigeonhole that they had slotted me into, many years ago. If I am being truthful, I died a long time ago, not physically you understand, but there are many ways of dying.

Fragment 2: As I waited for him to return, I felt an anticipatory warmth inside. No one had ever provoked a reaction like this within me. When I thought of him, I felt a smile that emanated from deep within and coursed through my body, before reaching its final resting point on my lips. This smile brought with it the promise of new possibilities. In the space of the two hours that I had been in this bar, my future had been altered dramatically. I had found myself reimagining a once certain future, to make room for this possibility that had suddenly presented itself to me. I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I was a swimmer caught in a rip, powerless to swim against it, being dragged out to sea. All I knew, that what was happening was significant. I was experiencing feelings of excitement tinged with danger and a gut instinct that told me that the narrative of my life was about to alter.
He returned carrying two pints, having changed out of his uniform into jeans and a blue sweater. Sitting opposite me, he was even more breath-taking than my earlier observations had revealed. He had brushed out the gel, that had been holding back his dark hair back, letting his fringe flop lazily across his forehead. I had to restrain myself from reaching across the table and tracing the path of a whisper of freckles across his cheek. But it was his eyes, two beacons of blue, dancing off me like moonlight off water that lured me in with every blink.

Fragment 3: All of a sudden, the growling stopped, the shutters ceasing banging leaving them hanging askew on their hinges. An eerie silence reigned over the church. The congregation’s prayers stutter to a stop, as they look around nervously, fearful at so to what this silence was a precursor to. The dark mass covers nearly half the church by now and pulses as if with a heartbeat, each pulse thickening the air with dark intent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eoin Chambers
• Release date: May 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005521257

Eoin Chambers

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy reading my novel. This novel started out as a short story but the characters spoke to me and weaved their own tale.

Book preview

Our story begins and ends in a village, somewhere in the West of Ireland. The name of this village is unimportant, it could be one of many that freckle this beautiful isle. Made up of just one street, containing a church, a school, a post office, two shops and of course the obligatory pubs; to the untrained eye this village boasts nothing to set it apart. Scratch gently, my friend, go behind those twitching curtains, for this is where our story lies.

The village is this quiet this evening, a buck cat lies in the middle of the road, licking himself lazily after an unexpected feed. The sound of somebody sweeping in the distance, punctures the peacefulness of the scene. Rounding the hill, at the top of the street is Tommy. There he goes again, heading off down the street walking like a man with a purpose, head down arse back. Talking urgently to himself, he twitches nervously, as he walks purposefully through the village. Tommy is affectionately known as a character in the village. One was never quite sure if this is a term of endearment or a cloaked insult. One thing for sure an encounter with Tommy was always guaranteed to leave an impression

He stops outside Duggan’s pub and stands staring across the street at Mrs. Reilly, whose face was flushed with the look of somebody who had misplaced something of great importance. Taking his glasses off, he wipes them on the tail of his soiled shirt, before putting them back on. Talking nervously to himself, seemingly reluctant to engage, he finally shouts, Are you alright Ma’am? You have the look of somebody that is missing something?, across the street at her, which only serves to add to her already flustered state. Tommy was known for his talent for pointing out the obvious. She stares back at him and roars back, Yerra Tommy don’t be annoying me, young Mattie, Frankie’s youngest, has done a runner on me and I’m missing my shows! I wouldn’t mind I don’t think the little fecker is even his!. Tommy digested this piece of information impatiently, and stood there with a look of deep contemplation, like somebody that was building up to say something. Mrs. Duggan glaring at him and finally tiring of his muteness, said, Are you going to help me find him or just stand there with your mouth open?. This shook Tommy from his reverie, who danced nervously on the spot where he stood, and stammered, No... No… I can’t. Have to go… must go. Going to be late. Can’t be late. Need to hurry. Was just going to ask… Can’t ask, might hear. Have to go. Mustn’t keep him waiting, he trailed off unable to find the words to continue. Mrs. Duggan looking at him, desperately trying to maintain her thinning veil of composure, said, Tommy will you spit it out in the name of God! Do you want something? I haven’t got all day to stand here looking at you.. Tommy rubbing his chin, attempted to find the words, for whatever it was he was looking to ask. She could see the toll that this was taking on him, and immediately felt sorry for the harshness of her words, just now. She was about to consider a more conciliatory tone but just like that he was gone, leaving her standing there, staring in his wake. Shaking her head sadly, she whispers, The poor misfortune, under her breath, before turning and roaring her grandsons name, startling the resting buck cat who scampers into a nearby hedge.

Tommy scurries on down the street, cursing himself quietly for losing so much time with Mrs. Duggan. He was annoyed at his missed opportunity, just now, to ask what he had come down here to ask. There was still the option of the funeral home, he could drop in and pay his respects to Gummy Lynch, and hopefully find out what he needed to know. At this rate, he thought, a shiver running down his spine, I will be late for him. Outside the funeral home a long line had formed which did nothing to lighten Tommy’s mood. Talking aloud to himself, he warned himself not to keep him waiting. The people in the queue to the front and back of him, stepped discreetly away from him, eyeing him with caution.

He stood in the queue, reminding himself to adjust his expression to match the sombre setting. Halfway up the queue he spotted Linus Faherty, who was as wide as he was tall, and had a voice that could be used to crack ice. Tommy liked Linus, but in his current anxious state was in no fit state for a conversation with him. He breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t being spotted, as God only knows what would come out of his mouth. Shifting his position, he conceals himself behind a woman directly in front of him, who thankfully was in a position to provide ample cover. Keeping his head down, he feigned an interest in a non-existent stain, on the well-worn sleeve, of his mismatched suit. All to no avail, he had been spotted. Linus roars his name down the line, causing everyone in the queue to turn around, to ascertain the object of this vocal assault. Tommy shifts nervously in the queue, feeling the eyes of the village upon him. How’ya Tommy, awful sad about poor auld Gummy, Linus boomed. Tommy giving a nervous nod, prayed that Linus would take the hint and reserve and further funereal observations. No such luck, Linus’s verbal assault continued, Great man did a lot for the village. Honest as the day is long. Tommy nodding bashfully, willed the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He felt himself melt under the glare of what felt like three hundred pair of eyes on him. Sensing that Linus was only warming up, and with no end in sight to the queue, Tommy knew he would have to remove himself from this situation and take his chances with the funeral mass tomorrow. He took to a fit of coughing, a performance any Abbey actor worth their salt would have been proud off. For added theatrics he decided to grab his chest and fumble at his stained tie. A woman’s panicked scream rang out, He’s having a heart attack!! Call an ambulance!!. Panic coursed through Tommy on hearing these words. Things were going horribly wrong. The panicked woman was on him in a flash, and before Tommy knew it, he was lying on the ground surrounded by five or six gawping do-gooders. The woman, his rotund ally from earlier, was leaning over him telling him the ambulance was on the way and not to worry he would be alright. I’m in trouble now, thought Tommy, and feebly whispered, I think I’m alright, something just went with me breath.. He attempts to get up on be on his way, but she was having none of it. Well, thought Tommy, knowing he had no choice but to play this one out, this cannot end well.

The paramedics gently stretchered Tommy onto the ambulance. The panicked woman insisted on accompanying them to the hospital. She held Tommy’s hand, and every now and then wiped a stray tear from her eyes. She stared at him with an intensity that unnerved Tommy. All the while, Tommy, fought against the panic that was welling inside. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but he knew he was dangerously close to being late for him. This could only mean trouble.

Two hours later, Tommy’s is ensconced in the coronary care unit of the local hospital, hooked up to a cardiac monitor, being spoon-fed porridge by his very own Florence Nightingale, who had insisted on staying by his side this whole time. He smiles to himself when he looks at her, having forgotten that kindness still lives in this world. A sound in the distance draws his attention. His eyes were move to the circular pane of glass on the door into the unit. There he sees a face, with two black lifeless eyes, staring directly at him. The stare lingers for just a few seconds and then is gone. A single bead of cold sweat runs down Tommy’s spine. Gasping for breath, he struggles to say something, knocking the porridge from the woman’s hand in the process. She strains to hear what he is trying to say. The alarms from his cardiac monitor pierce the calm of the coronary care unit. The nurses are on him in an instant. Tommy continues to gasp for breath, clawing at his chest, all the while attempting to mutter something. Then, as quickly as it had begun, his struggle ends, and he collapses back down onto the bed. The nurse leans over him, and grabbing her, he whispers two words into her ear, The Boss. A calm settle’s over the unit, broken only by the sound of Tommy’s cardiac monitor flat lining.

Chapter 2

Life in the village started slowly the next morning, the distant lowing of cows waiting to be milked, heralding the arrival of a new day. The fog creeping over the distant meadows is on borrowed time, skulking in the shadow of a morning sun, hellbent on halting its progress. Mary Faherty opens the door to the post office, always priding herself on being the first to open. She tuts her disapproval, on observing that Murphy’s convenience store remains unopened. No way to run a business, she thought to herself, congratulating herself once again on her entrepreneurial prowess. Tottering inside, she puts on the kettle to make herself a quick cuppa, before the day’s business starts in earnest. The kettle was had no sooner on, when Carmel Maguire burst in the door, looking flushed and dramatic. Mary’s interest was piqued, Good Morning Carmel, how are you today?, she ventures, knowing that this was all it would take, to entice Carmel to share whatever bit of news was responsible for her visible distress. Oh Mary, she gushes, I’ve had an awful night of it. I’m only back from the hospital, the poor auld soul is gone and they haven’t a clue what happened. They thought it was wind, sur, I was certain twas the porridge, but they told me I was being simple! The guards are involved now, and me only trying to do me bit, and been made feel like a criminal She burst into tears, sobbing loudly in the middle of the post office. Mary, mortified at this public display of emotion. What kind of message would it send, were people to see Carmel Maguire, crying like an orphaned foal at the counter. Walking around the counter, gripping Carmel firmly on the shoulder she says, Calm down, Carmel. Tell me from the beginning what happened, I can’t make head nor tail of what you are trying to say to me.. Mary becoming irritated by Carmel’s lack of interest in reining her wayward emotions, was resisting the urge to shake some sense into her. However, sensing there is a story to be unearthed here, and no better woman to do it; she whispers sweetly, I’ve the kettle on, we will have a nice cuppa and you can start from the beginning. Linus can cover the counter and we will go in the back, where we will not be disturbed. Pull yourself together now, I’ve yet to come across something that couldn’t be sorted over a cup of tea. Carmel smiles gratefully at Mary, who goes to the door and screeches at Linus to come out and cover the counter.

Linus, arrives in looking like a puppy who has been kicked, takes up his post behind the counter. Mary giving him a withering look, ushers Carmel into the kitchen of the living quarters to the back of the post office.

An hour later, Mary walks a visibly calmer Carmel out to her car. Mary had grilled her on every detail of what had occurred at the hospital, and Carmel was more than happy to offload the night’s drama. Straight home now Carmel, and into bed, said Mary, and don’t forget what I said to you about telling anybody about this. Sur, they would think that you had lost the run of yourself. If you need to talk about it again, you know where I am.. Carmel looking at her gratefully, eyes beginning to well up with tears again, said Thank you so much Mary, I don’t know how I would have got through the morning without you.. Mary sensing the threat of another deluge of tears, slams the driver’s door shut, and taps the roof of the car, indicating to Carmel that they were done here. Mary watches her drive off, then turning walks slowly back into the post office.

What was wrong with her?, booms Linus from behind the counter. This woke Mary from her reverie, dragging her back into the present. Erra, she says mildly irritated, she was talking about her man and her disappointed in how things have turned out. Their once golden future has descended into a succession of let-downs and underachievement’s. Linus, looking at her with a puzzled expression asks, Is Carmel Maguire not a spinster?. Mary, not missing a beat, looks him square in the eyes and says, Jaysus, good man Linus, you’re right, she is. It must have been me that was telling her.. And with that she went into the kitchen, slamming the door to the post office behind her.

Mary goes to the phone and picks up the receiver, whilst staring distractedly at a bluebottle buzzing back at forth on the window, anxiously looking for a way out. Clearing her throat, she whispers urgently into the receiver, I need to see you. It’s important. She claims to have seen you. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, she picks up her copy of Woman’s Way and slams the bluebottle against the windowpane. A smudge of blood is left on the glass as the bluebottle falls lifelessly to the windowsill. Outside, the rain has begun to fall, Mary stares for a moment at the blood on the rain spattered window. Walked out to the post office, she relieves the long-suffering Linus from his post.

Chapter 3

It is my funeral today. This day has finally come, and I have been given a front row seat to the proceedings. After my night in hospital, there was no journey into the light, no ferryman, nor headless horseman or any other such fairy tales. Now, I just linger, anchored to this cursed village, by a deal I made with a devil, many years ago

My funeral is small, rightly so. Nobody will mourn my passing. I will become an afterthought in village lore, a footnote to a drunken story told at closing in Duggan’s pub. This does not sadden me. I had played a role in the village. This role assigned at birth, based on perceived social ranking, allotted by the collective consciousness of the villagers. Words such as misfortunate, harmless, or from the more generous among them character, have been used to describe me. I was happy to play their role, having no interest is showing them who I really was. Hearing of my dreams or aspirations would have jarred with the comfortable pigeonhole that they had slotted me into, many years ago. If I am being truthful, I died a long time ago, not physically you understand, but there are many ways of dying.

I was born and bred in this village. My parents, God love them, tried their best but should never have brought a child into the world. My father worked odd jobs with the intention of making ends meet. Those ends rarely met, as more often than not, his weekly wage ended up splattering the wall at the side of Duggan’s pub. My mother, spent her days in prayer, for my soul, my father’s soul, the neighbour’s soul… any soul that she felt warranted her intentions on any particular day. Her days were spent looking for ways to serve her god without ever having to leave the house. When she ran out of prayers, she cleaned, like a woman possessed. If cleanliness was next to godliness, then my mother was sitting on God’s knees.

It was always a mystery to me how my parents ended up marrying, for I do not know if there ever were two more mis-matched souls. They skirted around the house avoiding each other. My father left early for work every morning, returning home sometime after closing time that night. They never argued; to argue you needed to talk, you needed to care. Instead, they just avoided each

other. Two people, trapped in a hell of their own making.

By tragedy of birth, I was an unwilling participant in all of this. My parents, barely aware of my existence, always made sure I had enough; just enough, nothing more nothing less.

As soon as I possibly could I escaped this emotionally spartan existence, hightailing it out of there to try my fortunes in London. I took a job as a labourer on a building site. During this time, the biggest revelation to me was that I had no prescribed role