This is the first part of a story DrWho4U and I began to write months and months ago. After lost documents and general insanity (plus muses pulling us in different directions) it was abandoned. So I offer this part as a stand alone with hope that there will be more in the future from both of us...
For Radiant Mistress, because our conversation prompted this posting.
An Stoirm A Chur Díot
The future architect stared up at the massive block of building before him. Three floors of perfectly square brown stone made up the main portion of the castle. The example of pre-Palladian architecture dated back to the early 18th century, he told his taller companion, who gave a patient smile. Pointing out the curtain walls and two corner towers of the Roscrea Heritage, the aspiring builder impressed the other tourists with his zealous interest. Racing toward his teens, the lad was commended on his clear choice of vocation by the group surrounding them. His father remained quiet, determined not to divulge that this 'lifelong' architectural desire only surfaced a half hour ago. The child's ambitions tended to be sudden and abundant.
Inside the two-story, lattice-front Swiss Cottage, Jack Connor expounded on the significance of the wallpaper behind the thin guard rope. One of the earliest commercially produced Parisian wallpapers, he explained while quickly checking that the tour guide's back was turned. The visitors were heading to the spiral staircase, but Jack's eyes held fast to the lightly crackled wall. Despite his father's steady gaze on him, the boy reached out a hand to touch the flaking surface. Against the rules, the group had been informed before entering this room, which had previously served as a salon. But Stephen refused to admonish the child, who now announced his intention of becoming a historian as well.
Ormond Castle caught both father and son's attention. A singularly beautiful building, it was the only unfortified dwelling during the turbulent 1560's. So said the guidebook Jack had been hauling around since the trip began. Quoting whole sections while trying to walk on worn, uneven paths that promised a sprained ankle at some point, not that Stephen planned to stop him. Reveling in the military history of the area during the 1500's, Jack was as enraptured as if he was watching the World Series. Stephen had no interest in being the disciplinarian on this trip and therefore let the child lead him on through the grounds with recitations of local scuffles. This site had kindled a new interest in the military, so Jack added soldier to his growing list of careers, which still included a stint in Major League Baseball.
The impossibilities of such ambitions were never vocalized. Most were lucky to secure one dream job, but four was pushing the boundaries of reality. Sounded a lot like childhood, Stephen knew. A younger Stephen had also held lofty goals: an NFL career with space exploration during the off-season. His mother certainly never told him it couldn't happen. He could remember standing in a few of these very places with both parents and his sister, when everything in his universe was easy and dreams were as good as guarantees.
Shaking off the melancholy before Jack took notice, Stephen resumed his mostly involuntary habit of spot diagnosis. Rheumatoid arthritis, Multiple Sclerosis and lung cancer were the cursory analyses in the people sharing this bus with them. A few eyed the box he cradled on his lap. The size of a cigar box, the wooden top featured a Celtic cross inlay. The contents were far more precious. It was a main component of Stephen's choice of Ireland for a vacation destination.
Four days after arriving in the Golden Vale of Munster, two promises had been achieved. The first was this father-son bonding trip. Of course, he could have put them on a naked Siberian chain gang and Jack would have been happy. Skipping school was its own reward.
The second vow involved the empty box being flipped over and over in Stephen's hand. In a sun toasted field in the North Tipperary town of Nenagh, a last request was fulfilled with the release of a portion of ashes. Not wanting to be completely separated from her daughter's side, Stephen's mother had asked that a part of her cremated body be brought to her hometown. Watching the human dust linger on a warm breeze, Stephen felt the familiar pang of guilt surface. It had taken years to keep this promise, this final goodbye.
Jack's perpetual grin did not dissipate in light of the solemn occasion. Rather, he seemed entirely pleased by the good deed. He gave a wave when the last of his grandmother's ashes faded from view. Only when Stephen allowed this piece of regret to float off with her did his own smile appear. She'd have been pleased. Even with the storm clouds now gathering to threaten a brief soak.
The pair headed back to their Bed and Breakfast, a 350 year old farmhouse called Ballycormac House. They were selling Jack Russell puppies for 300 Euros and only the prospect of the plane ride back the states convinced Jack not to ask a second time. There were also horses on site and Jack had taken one out yesterday. The owner had told them of Coolmore Stud, the world's largest thoroughbred horse breeding operation and that became tomorrow's destination. Stephen anticipated a fifth addition to Jack's career plans would follow.
Dialing the room phone for Jack, Stephen switched on the small television in hopes of catching a weather report. His son bounced on the mattress waiting for his mother to answer. They checked in once a day at her demand to assure her Stephen hadn't somehow misplaced their sole offspring. For several minutes mother and child chattered before Jack turned to his father, phone extended to him.
"Mom wants to talk to you about Katrina," the boy informed with a shrug, a bit disappointed he couldn't share more details of architectural and historical significance.
"Hey," Stephen greeted softly, praying no argument was forthcoming about some woman he knew nothing about.
……
The emotional state of Dr. Stephen Connor during the plane ride home was almost identical to his mindset on the trip out of the states. Worry. Only the content of his worry box, as Jack called it, was different. The skies heading toward Ireland had been filled with concern over his team, their cases and their reaction to the decision he was expected to make. The prospect of a future without the NIH left him at once hollow and equally relieved. Too many hours spent away from the boy at his right, hogging the view out of the plane's window. Conversely, too many people yet to save. It was a dilemma that this sabbatical was intended to solve. Such indecision proved why he should never be called upon to script his own destiny. Maybe if he'd had more time….
Apparently, the luck of the Irish was no more present in Ireland than in America. Because while he'd declared to Director Kate Ewing that under no circumstances would he return early, here he was. More than a week to go on his vacation and he was crossing the ocean toward home. Because of Katrina. Because of Natalie.
The hurricane that now bore the name Katrina, meaning 'pure & clear,' had been designated Tropical Depression twelve last he'd heard. But while he'd been enjoying sturdy castles, Hurricane Katrina and purely cleaned out even the sturdiest Louisiana structures. Every available doctor was needed for rescue and triage. But he'd been hesitant to bring this up with his son, who rather silently watched the Irish news channel's sporadic pictures of the devastation. Stephen knew what was on the boy's mind. His father would drag them home. Because strangers needed him. So Stephen had resolved to make no plans for the moment. Until he'd talked to his boss.
Kate had informed him that NIH had lost contact with Natalie and Frank the day before. They'd been in constant satellite phone communication, a measure to insure the health and safety of all NIH responders. But the calls had stopped without warning. No visual confirmation of trouble could be made, as no one could get close to the part of town in which the two had been working. And the pit of his stomach, that place where intuition resided, told him to get home. Now. But looking at Jack had pulled the reins on his frantic horses. The cavalry within him struggled to allow the boy control of the decision. He'd made a promise, after all.
Jack had glanced up from the new television pictures of flooding and mayhem, giving his father an expression as close to hero worship as Stephen had ever seen.
"You could help them, couldn't you, dad? I mean, you could fix a lot of stuff if you were there." There had been no malice, no disappointment. Nothing but a statement of belief. And thus, the decision was made.
"We'd have to go back." Stephen reminded him.
The quickly maturing boy leaned down to tie his shoes, as if prepared to leave in that instant. "They said it's bad in Mississippi too. That's where Aunt Stephanie lives, right?"
Lisa's sister had just purchased a quaint little house overlooking a private lake. Jack was supposed to visit there over the Christmas break. Picking up the phone again, Stephen had mentally slapping himself for forgetting the woman who'd been his champion throughout his marriage. Reaching Lisa, he'd asked if she'd heard from Stephanie. The lines were down now in several southern states, his ex explained in a voice coated with panicked nerves.
His next call had put them on this plane.
During the flight, Jack had time to work out all the logistical angles of the task that awaited his father. He'd have to pack a gun, of course, because people loot during floods. Then, he'd need to get a military chopper since this plane wouldn't land near New Orleans just for him. Although he should ask, Jack told him. And then Dr. Connor would simply burst into every hospital and cure everyone, everywhere of everything and be home in time for supper.
If only.
The shots on the news wouldn't do justice to the disaster, he knew from experience. And knowing that two of his team members were somewhere in the midst of the chaos made him itch to have a chat with the pilot about Jack's idea of individual landings.
Stephen Connor couldn't cure everyone, everywhere of everything. But he could damn well try.
Title: To weather the storm. All locations mentioned are real and genuine treasures of my Irish ancestors.