Caitrin Kelly

The Illumination of Hope

Grass swayed below the sky and beneath the shadow of a tree, I sat in silence, aware of my surroundings and yet, so deep in thought that one would consider me asleep. I gave in to the wind, allowing it to breeze past me and touch my hair, lifting it only slightly and then - letting go.

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I was rooted to the ground, my dress folded so I could feel the grass tickle the bare soles of my feet. Shifting, I laid back and gazed up at the sky; bright white slits peeking through a painting of twisted branches. Moss and lichen covered the rough bark like a blanket, hinting at times gone by. I sighed as far as my tight laced corset would let me and took solace in the fact I could even breathe such splendid country air. Nature called to me, just as I longed for it and in the thick smog of the city, I cried for breath more than I had ever cried before. In London, I was lost. I had no ground to hold, no grass to remind me of my own presence, nor dirt for me to become grounded in and that thought scared me most of all. If I was a bird, I had no wings, no promise of safety. I was clipped and caged in a world to which I didn’t belong. But here, here, I knew where I was meant to be.

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I shuddered through each breath, observing the rays of sunlight that filtered through the leaves, their spines illuminated so brilliantly. My hair touched the dirt and as I rolled my head to the side, ants and other insects, drawings of which I had only glimpsed in the dusty old tomes that belonged to my father, crawled around the mounds and roots, each on their own journey, searching for their own destination in the world, whether it was beneath the earth or above, in nests or in the sky. If they had wings, they used them.

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Inspiration seized me. I sat up and picked a book from the pile beside me, grabbed an ink pen and began drawing. My hand was so frantic that the ink blotted on the parchment but I continued. I was by no means an artist and the drawing was like a crude caricature if anything, but it captured the idea that I had in my mind perfectly. All that was needed was colour.

No, I thought, no, it needed life.

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I traced the lines as if each wing was real, as if I could feel its silky touch. I realised as I did so that I had never touched a butterfly's wings and oh how I longed to. The drawing was of a field, very much like this one, and from the swaying grass, which in my mind had turned golden from the sun like wheat on a summer’s day, was a flight of beautiful yellow butterflies. Each had their own path, their own journey, yet still they flew together and combined they were powerful. Their wings, I thought, if they wanted to, could lift a child into the sky.

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I let my eyes droop and when I did, I heard the laughter of that child so sharply. She was smiling, her rose-coloured cheeks rounded and her eyes creased with joy. My heart fluttered and for a second, I thought I was the one who had risen from the ground. But with reality, as I opened my eyes, came truth. I was a bird who had no wings and I could never fly, nor pursue whatever dreams I had, until I found wings to do so. But such was not a journey for the weary, not in a world that condemned dreams and stood on them as if bright visions in a woman’s mind, were nothing more than dirt.

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My hope turned to the dust that caked my father’s much-loved books, and I resigned, once again, to simply existing. Pursuit had brought me nothing but pain. Life, for me, was a distant dream and so with great reluctance I embraced my fate of silence and turned my back on any glimmer of hope, where disappointment hovered like a cloud of smoke; impossible not to breathe in. I left my field with a tear-stained face and hands that were empty. Later, I would scrub the dirt from them and forget the wild thoughts I once had. I almost turned back but stopped before I did, the scene of what I would see already imprinted on my mind; the books laid open, their pages dancing in the wind like the wings of a butterfly.

Lochaber No More

The ship swayed beneath my feet, ropes stretching and swinging against the wood panelling, accompanied by the urgent shouts of sailors preparing for a storm. The stench of seaweed hung heavy in the air. I moved to the edge, looking out over the water, flowing and swirling, unwilling to watch as the distant outline of my homeland grew ever fainter. A simple sombre speck in the distance. The clouds hung low and heavy, dark and sinister, the rolling emerald hills almost hidden by the shroud of mist and darkness.

Tears stung my eyes and my frozen ears ached from the cold, the wind whipping strands of hair against my reddened cheeks. My braid had come undone, a mirror to my own unravelling feelings and a pain had blossomed deep within my stomach, a sick sort of feeling. The feeling that I would never see my home again. The feeling of death. It was not as if I had a choice. Death awaited me if I stayed. My home, though fiercely loved, was forcefully taken. And now, a sea-faring vessel was taking me to another land. A land, they say, of opportunities, of freedom and hope. A place called America. But how...how could I live in another place? How could I leave my country behind?

My shoulders slumped and I choked back a sob. With pale shaking hands, I held onto the wooden railing. In that moment, I felt truly alone. One soul amongst a vast sea of emptiness. The call of home cried out to me, the tether of family stretching taut, my hope wearing thin. Hands gripped my shoulders gently.

"Don't worry lass. No matter how far ye go, Scotland will always be in your heart." I smiled grimly.

"Its no' the same though is it?"

"It never is." The man replied, a sadness behind his words. "But it will get better." We looked at the horizon, finding comfort in each other's silent presence. The shouts of sailors faded as I closed my eyes briefly, breathing deeply and trying desperately to remember this moment, to remember the smell, the sound, the feel. I opened my eyes. To remember Scotland, the distant emerald cliffs imprinted in my mind. The last time I would see them, except for in my dreams.

Curse of Hunger

My mind was awake. My body was not. Rest had been elusive to me since the day I buried my brother and closed the doors on his life forever. I hadn't a choice. I couldn't leave him there on the ground, his body rotting away like the cursed potatoes in the field. It wasn't too hard to be honest. He didn't look like the boy he used to. His hair had turned the colour of grave dirt, a mix of ash and death. His cheeks were hollow, the skin stretching tight against his small bones. His eyes were closed; he'd died in his sleep. I didn't know what I'd have done if they were open. Despite the steady decline of his health, his eyes had never lost their colour. A piercing blue, the blue of the ocean, the blue of freedom and of life. Not of death, not of this miserable existence. His eyes held hope when there was none.

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I stood up awkwardly, peeling off the thin damp covers of my bed. The wind howled against the old windows, a mirror to my anger. It raged beneath the surface of my skin, a silent anger, an anger of the soul. I had not cried when I buried my brother. I was not sad when the earth consumed his body. I was not afraid to face the world on my own, alone in the cottage that had once held my whole family. I was none of these.

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I was angry.

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The famine had taken everything from me. Beginning with our food and ending with my brother. My stomach was so empty now that I no longer knew the difference between hunger and starvation. It was both. I felt my body begin to wither away, like the flowers in the vase that had shattered the day we heard the news. The day my father had left to find work. The day he had never returned. Work took my father. Sickness stole my sister. Grief took my mother. Hunger murdered my brother. And I would not sleep, for fear that sleep would take me.

My mind was awake. I could stand if I tried. But I could not feel anything aside from the emptiness in my stomach and the anger in my soul.

The Soulbird

A bird of pure white flapped its formidable wings, soaring gently amongst the stars. The night sky was its home, and as it flew, weaving through the stars’ intricate patterns, reaching towards the beacon of light that was the effulgent moon, it knew that times were beginning to change. The Soulbird dived in glee, feeling hope begin to build with the rising wind as its plumage ruffled and its white feathers fluttered. And with a gentle twist, its wing met water. A still calm moonlit ocean, glowing bright with light so lambent it looked magical. But the Soulbird knew better than to think it merely looked magical. It was magical. As magical as the Soulbird itself. And so the bird of pure white glided joyously amongst the stars, with happiness in its eyes and hope in its heart.