midnightmuse - I'll take all the "I love it" reviews you want to send me! I'm glad you liked Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah...
quick29, Glamis Castle Rose and of course Captain-Jacks-Bonnie-Lass - thank you, thank you, thank you!
Your reviews and kind words really make my day! It is so good to know that this is being appreciated.
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Additional casting:
Dan Collins………………………………… Cole Hauser (Pitch Black, the Cave) - this one came to me when I saw a preview for the Cave on tv - Hauser played a prick so very well in Pitch Black.
Rebecca Suarez.. . . . . . . . ...Lumi Cavazos (Like Water from Chocolate, Bless the Child)
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I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child
Slowly those feelings
Were clouded by what I know now
Where has my heart gone
An uneven trade for the real world
I want to go back to
Believing in everything and knowing nothing at all
I still remember the sun
Always warm on my back
Somehow it seems colder now
Where has my heart gone
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
I want to go back to
Believing in everything
Evanescence
Chapter Seven
Someone to Believe In
Gasping for breath – I wake from the cold clutches of a nightmare with my heart pounding in my ears. I swallow hard – every time I wake, I expect it to be with a pistol pressed up against my head. Every time that doesn't happen, I'm surprised.
At least this time I know why I can't see. I remember waking up a couple of times in a panic because I couldn't see – only to remember ten seconds later that it's because I'm blind.
But no, I remember that this time. I think I know where I am. My cheek rests against a down-stuffed pillow that smells vaguely ofangels– and I grasp the cool reassuring steel of the Beretta tucked under it. There's a noise at the door – my fingers clutch the gun just a little tighter until a familiar voice announces herself. An angel's voice. I'm still cold and shaky as I release the gun and sit up. "What time is it?" I ask – my voice is hoarse.
"Three," she crosses the distance between us and sits herself down next to me – she's wearing her bathrobe. I have to assume that means it's three a.m...
You know what it's like when you close your eyes and you think it's dark – only then some asshole comes along flips on a light and you can see it through your eyelids… Well, it's that light is that tells you you're awake. When you don't have that light everything changes.
I go to sleep in the dark. I wake up in the dark. And in between dark and more dark, nightmares haunt my mind…and sometimes I'm not real sure what's really real.
I try to get a better grip on myself as Beth's hands brush the hair away from my bandaged face – her touch is soft. Gentle. She murmurs words of comfort...and for half a frightened second, I wonder if this is a dream and I really am huddled against a wall in some small, damp cell somewhere... if Beth isn't just some pleasant fantasy I've concocted to get me through while I figure a way out – or until my jailors get bored and kill me… It certainly wouldn't be the first time I've found myself in a slimy little cell somewhere...in sixteen years with the CIA, I've been in my fair share of unpleasant places.
It's all part of the job, I always tell myself – and it's not like I don't get to repay the favour now and again. Balance. It's all about balance. Give and take. I just kinda prefer it when I'm on the giving end – what's that old saying, tis better to give than to receive. Amen, brother.
Usually a week's vacation and some good hard liquor are all it takes to drive away the nightmares when I find myself on the receiving end of someone else's generosity… a week in the sun and I'm back in the saddle again… But this time it's different. I feel like… like something inside may finally have broken… a shattered glass sits on the kitchen floor of my mind…
Strong arms fold themselves around me, like protective angel's wings; somehow, they penetrate the ice and fog – this has to be a dream. No one cares enough about me to hold me when I'm afraid in the dark… I've made my bed. This was my choice – I had another choice – but this is what I wanted. This life. This road. It was my choice…
"It was just a dream, Cowboy," her voice cuts through the darkness.
"Fucking nightmare," I mutter back at her. Real. She feels so real. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. This is the reality. I'm blind. But – I'm here. In this house. In this room. And for some reason there's an angel who gives a shit about my sorry ass.
She pulls me closer – why the fuck does she care enough to do this? To sit with me while I shake? Nothing is as it should be – nothing makes any sense any more.
This has to be part of the dream. It wouldn't be the first time I've thought I was here, but I wasn't – not really. I wake up from some self-created Hell – be it memory or something truly self-inflicted – and she comes in, just like this… she holds me – just like this. She tells me I'm safe – and I let my guard down. I let her in. And then there's breaking glass and bullets flying and suddenly she's dead, dripping hot, wet blood in my arms… of course I can't see it – but I hear her muffled, dying sobs… I hear her daughter scream in the next room… and I can't move…
I'm shaking again, desperately searching for any sign that this is anything other than waking reality... how can you search for something when you can't see anything...? Maybe I'll just wake up in some rubber room somewhere wearing a white huggy-jacket for people who need to learn to love themselves…
She's still holding me.
No glass breaks.
No bullets fly.
No blood.
Of course I haven't let her in.
That has to happen first. First I let her in and then she dies.
Right, fuckmook, I tell myself, acerbically. She doesn't want 'in' – she's just a nurse doing her job. Just doing her job. I'm nothing more than a patient – a fucked up patient…
"Come on," Beth is standing – pulling me up with her, "I have an idea."
I'm almost afraid to ask.
"You haven't had a bath in two days," she answers my unspoken question.
"Is that a proposition?" I manage to quip – my voice is still shaky though. Two days – it doesn't feel like it's been three days ... but my body is still pretty exhausted... I've been sleeping a lot... or maybe she's drugged me - Hell, I wouldn't blame her. The more time I spend sleeping, the less she has to deal with me...
Beth manages to pull me to my feet and walk me to the bathroom. I can make the trip without help – but I guess right now I'm so shaky I'm grateful for the guide. She sits me on the toilet and I hear water running…
Off the top of my head, I can think of about eight ways to kill a man in a bathtub…
"I'm going to take the bandages off and have a look-see,"she says in a gentle tone.
I just nod. She already knows what I look like – and I don't really expect Cicily to come barging into her mother's bathroom at three o'clock in the morning.
She did come in last night (night? Well, it was the last time I slept anyway) – but that was because I cried out in my sleep – sixteen years without a soul to care whether I live or die and suddenly I've got two angels looking out for me. I don't get it.
"Well, Doc?" I ask, when I feel the last of the bandages fall away. I hate this feeling. Exposure.
"Looking pretty good," Beth tells me. "The last of that infection seems to have cleared."
I feel her feather-touch on the edge of my eye sockets – I still don't know how she can do this without hurling.
"Pain?" she asks.
"Minimal," I tell her honestly. It's tender – but it's less tender than it has been.
"I think that tomorrow you can lose the bandages," she tells me. "Except maybe to sleep in."
I knew this was going to come sooner or later. No good doctor lets her patient lean on his crutch for any longer than is necessary... and I've become convinced that if nothing else, Beth is a very good doctor.
I become aware of her standing – turning – the water shuts off. Then I hear her clear her throat, "Are you going to wear your robe into the tub? I mean, not that it doesn't need a bath too – but even the laziest man I ever met didn't do his laundry while he was wearing it."
I almost feel like I'm blushing – except I don't blush. Ever. I stand and, fighting back a self-consciousness that I just don't understand, slip out of my bathrobe without giving utterance to any of the witty comments playing around in my head. Comments that are really designed to deflect attention from the way I feel.
Before the Day of the Dead, I considered myself a desirable man. I may not be a body builder, but I keep in shape – and it's how you use it that counts - and I have certainly never had any complaints in that area. But the face – I've had so many women fall for my face – my eyes… eyes they could get lost in, they'd say… with the glasses no one will ever know… no one but me...
Beth's arms are strong as she helps me into the tub. "Lean on me,"she instructs, as if realizing how hard I'm trying not to put my full weight on her.
She probably does realize it – I can't seem to put anything past this woman; I let her take a little bit more of my weight as I step into the tub… the water is …perfect. "I don't know how you do it," I tell her, easing myself down into the warmth. I am very sure she is smiling – probably some clever little pleased-with-herself grin. I don't care right now – the warmth of the water just feels too damned good on my sore hide. I lean back experimentally to discover – yes, one of those old fashioned steeping tubs with the sloped back. "I think I could sit in here forever," I murmur, leaning back just a little further. This is probably as close to Heaven as I am ever going to get.
Beth chuckles softly, "I told you a bath was just what you needed."
And I really don't know what I've done to deserve her…
"If you don't mind a little help – we can probably wash that hair of yours."
"You do realize just how hard it is for me to trust someone, right, Sugar Butt?" My tone is definitely pensive.
"I've got a pretty good idea," she says – I hear her kneel down next to the tub.
Fighting back the fear and paranoia that are just part of who I am, I scoot forward and with her strong hands to guide me, I lay my head partially into the warm water… I wonder if she even knows how easy it is to drowna man in this position...
Beth scoops water up to the very top of my forehead, being very careful of my …injury. Then she helps me sit up.
"I'm afraid all I have for shampoo is pretty girly," she tells me, by way of apology.
"Beggars can't be choosers," is my only reply – the mighty Sheldon Sands is about to smell like vanilla and flowers…she chuckles softly.
Beth massages my scalp while washing my hair – it is the most marvelous feeling… I quite seriously think the last person to wash my hair was my mother – and I was all of four or five at the time. It definitely didn't feel like this… I feel as if I'm starting to relax… really relax… until I think about breaking glass and flying bullets…
"Shhh," she says gently, "You really are safe here, Cowboy."
As much as I'd like to believe her, I know that there is no such thing as safe… not for men like me… it's not just the cartel or whomever else might want to kill me at this very instant – it's just who I am. I say nothing and thankfully she doesn't press the issue.
Beth helps me rinse my hair - and then I feel her fingers linger over several old scars on my back. She was probably so busy every other time she had me with my shirt off that she didn't really notice. But she doesn't ask. She just – damn, she has good hands. I feel some of the knots coming out of places I'd forgotten weren't supposed to have knots. Only I know what's going to happen if I let my guard down…
Her soft voice breaks my thoughts, "You wanna talk about it?"
About what – about the scars? The nightmares? I just shake my head. "I've got it from here, Darlin'," I tell her gently, easing back against the tub so she has no choice but to stop what she's doing… even though it felt fucking amazing. "Unless of course you'd like to join me," I manage a lascivious grin.
"Not tonight, Cowboy," she tells me. "I'll be in the bedroom – and if you don't call me to help you out of the tub – you will regret it."
"Promises, promises," I tease her – I listen carefully to her retreat. "You're getting soft," I tell myself. Soft isn't something I've ever been – isn't something I'll ever be. Isn't something anyone in my line of work can ever be… I wasn't even soft where Ajedrez was concerned – just sloppy. Stupid. Fucking stupid. "Everyone will betray you, given sufficient time and motive," I remind myself – but I can't make myself believe my angel would hurt me… yes she would. She's only human. And humans suck. I learned that a long, long, long time ago.
"I have a what?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing from the other end of the phone. The phone for Christ's sake! What kind of woman tells a man something like this over the phone?
"I said, you have a daughter," Holly's voice remained calm. As if she wasn't telling me anything more extraordinary than – I don't know, she'd cut her hair or something.
Her tone as much as the news itself infuriated me. "We broke up four fucking years ago!" More like you walked out on me four fucking years ago…
"Her name is Emma – Emiline Marie."
"How – French."
"Oh, Christ, Shelly. I just thought you might like to know what the end result of that summer was."
"It's been four fucking years!"
"Maybe this was a mistake –"
"What do you need?"
"What?"
"I said, what do you need?" I repeated, as my rational brain began kicking in. A woman doesn't just drop a bombshell like this unless she's found her back up against the wall… I lit up a cigarette.
"I don't need anything – I just – I thought you might want – to know."
"Then why wait four years to tell me about it?"
"I – I don't know. The way we left things – when I found out I was pregnant – I didn't want to bother you."
"You mean you didn't want to take the chance I might get all warm and fuzzy and insist on being a part of your lives."
"I never worried about you being warm and fuzzy." Her tone was ice.
I took a long drag of my smoke. "Where are you?"
"New York."
"Fine – we'll have lunch tomorrow and sort this out."
"I can't meet you tomorrow – I have appointments all day –"
"I am the father of your fucking child. Cancel your appointments. I'll call you when I get into the city and tell you when and where to meet me." I slammed down the receiver before she could say another word.
Yeah – people suck.
I knew Holly was pissed at me about the way we left things – her asking me not to go – me telling her not to make me choose – her giving me an ultimatum, her or the CIA. I tried to be reasonable with her – it wasn't like in the movies – I wasn't going to be a spy… ok, so I was lying my ass off, but she didn't know it. Hell, even I didn't know exactly what I was getting into.
But Christ, four years? Four fucking years to get around to telling me I'm a fucking father I wasn't that impossible to reach. Betrayed. Betrayed by the only woman I honestly believed I'd ever loved… and for what? She didn't gain anything by keeping her little secret… unless the only thing she wanted was to hurt me – to get back at me for not giving into her ultimatum. Or not giving into it the way she wanted me to...
We had lunch. We sorted out the details. No, I wasn't going to have anything to do with my kid – boy did Holly look relieved when I told her that. But I did want updates. I wanted yearly photos and copies of report cards. I wanted to know what Emma was doing – and I sure as Hell expected to be told if there was ever a problem. Holly gave me a look – but after realizing it was a losing argument, she acquiesced. We both knew what a dick I could be – just because I had no desire to be a Daddy didn't mean that I wouldn't take this fight to court if she didn't give in to my – in my opinion quite reasonable – terms. I mean – four fucking years it took her to get around to letting me know I've got a kid and now she's gonna quibble about sending me a God damned photo once in a while? Christ.
That's when I got the P.O. box in Santa Fe. Under an alias. I set up an account with an associate of mine who handles discrete finances – he didn't have to know what it was really for. Every few months, depending on how fucked up my world happens to be, I send him a check. He deposits it. When Emma turns eighteen, she gets a big fat college fund.
Four fucking years…
Can't trust strangers. Can't trust friends. Can't trust anyone. Only yourself… that's the real reason this whole thing went to shit on me. I trusted the Company's background check on Ajedrez. I trusted Collins to send in back up. I trusted El to do his part… fuck me. But good.
I pull myself a little further into the water, trying to let it's warmth work some of the tension out of my body… I really do feel like shit. It's more than just the nightmares, it's the not knowing what's going to happen next.
I fully expect the president's people to come looking for me… after all, I was aware of an assassination attempt and I failed to report it to the proper authorities – in fact, put the right spin on the story and I'm as guilty as Barillo.
I start going through the list of people I think I might be able to trust – Dan Collins is my immediate Company "supervisor" – and the bastard who hung up on me just before that fateful lunch date with Ajedrez. I know he fucking screwed me over – I just don't know why. Rebecca Suarez – his immediate supervisor – has had it in for me since I put a couple of kinks into an op she was running in Bogotá… Suarez and I sort of had different agendas – it's not my fault I'm better than she is. "So that effectively kills the chain of command," I muse aloud. Because there is the very real possibility that she's behind Collins' actions. Or lack thereof.
I could, in theory, call the main office. I requested a new line – a new phone – someone was supposed to meet me at the Flying Cow and I never showed. So theoretically I might actually have something that vaguely resembles back up wondering where the Hell I am and what went wrong… problem with that scenario – problem? Try problems. As in lots of them.
One – Suarez is surly aware ofmy request for a new line.
Two – Collins most definitely is. Hell, he could have been asked to handle the new line.
Three – I know just how popular I really am back home. There is a reason I'm living in this Hell hole, kiddies. They didn't send me here to work on my tan – they sent me here because I have pissed off just about everyone there is to piss off, short of the President of the United States himself… or at least, I don't think I've pissed him off. You never know. I know I wasn't number one on his old man's list… but that's another story.
Four – let's not forget the fact that everything went to Hell in a hand basket on me down here.
And Five – I was kind of hotdogging most of it anyway. That shouldn't surprise you. It shouldn't surprise Collins or anyone else, either, but for some reason they continue to be shocked by my antics. Antics. That's their word. But it's starting to grow on me. (Collins knew most of my plan... there were a few tiny little things I left out - not the least of which were the details involving me and a girl and twenty million pesos...hmph - I wonder who ultimately made off with that.)
Oh, I did get the general order to do something about Barillo – he was getting too powerful, too popular – he was upsetting the natural order of things – upsetting the balance. And there are any number of guys back home who wanted to see the president brought down some time in the reasonably near future as well (believe it or not, he really is just too good of a man for some people's liking) … but I think they had a quiet accident in mind.
Sometimes I wonder if the people who hand me assignments like this have ever even looked at my file. I'm a cowboy, a hotdog… Christ. Christ on a crutch – I do like that one – and for a couple of seconds I feel the smile flickering on my lips when I think about the lady I stole that from...
Then – I begin cycling through the very short list of people I think I either a) might be able to trust not to have screwed me over already – b) who owe me big, or – c) on whom I have enough dirt to assure a certain amount of requisite loyalty… the problem there is that I have to get to my collection of 'insurance policies' – I'm certainly not dumb enough to keep them in Mexico…
"Sands?"
I stir – the water around me is tepid, "I'm ok, Sugar Butt," I answer – the door is muffling her voice – so I know she hasn't come barging in at least. I hear the door open and move my head in that direction, "I must've dozed off."
"Apparently – you look like a prune."
That remark makes me smile – I don't even know why. I guess, maybe, that for just a few seconds, I can pretend that I can't see because I've got my eyes are closed. I can pretend that what I'm feeling is a familiar comfort – just a man and a woman going about a daily routine – sixteen years seem to melt away… for just a few seconds. "Would you do me a favour?"
"I don't know – is it something I'm likely to want to do?" I can hear the smile in her voice.
A part of me really wishes I could actually see it... "Probably not – hand me my razor and shaving cream – it's in the bag there, on the sink," I direct her. I can't tell you how damned good it felt to brush my teeth… I didn't even mind her going through my suitcase to find my toiletries.
"You sure you're ready for that?" She asks – her tone isn't at all condescending or patronizing.
"Gotta figure it out sooner or later – besides, if I slice open an artery, I've got my favourite nurse right here."
I hear her laugh – a moment later, I feel her hand on my shoulder – when I raise my hand, she presses the razor into it. She puts the travel sized can of shaving cream into the other hand and stands back… "Ye of little faith," I tease her.
I am very sure she is laughing at me, even if she's making the effort not to do it too loudly…
"Question for you," I say, after managing to find my face with the foamy shaving jell, "What colour is your bathrobe?"
"What?" her tone clearly indicates that she thinks it's a silly question – especially as I'm preparing to put a very sharp razor to my face.
"What colour is your robe?" I repeat – and make the first try… since I don't hear her gasp, I figure I'm at least not spurting blood all over her bathroom tile.
"Pink – why?"
"I knew it," I smile – not really something I should be doing while shaving… I feel the razor knick into my skin.
"You ok?"
"I'll live. What about your night gown?"
"Black. Why?"
"Interesting," is all I say – I wouldn't have guessed that… white maybe. Cream. Light blue. But not black… I try to picture it in my head... all I can really see is a box of 'Good-n-Plenty' candies... blegh.
After I'm satisfied that my face is clean shaven once more, I hand the razor back tomy favourite nurse and dutifully wait until she's put it back away before trying to stand. I'm feeling much better than when I went into the tub.
"Reach up – one o'clock – towel rack," she tells me after we've gotten me intoa standing position.
I follow her instructions and immediately come into contact with a towel – it's big and fluffy and smells – much like the rest of her house. Warm. "Mind if I ask you a real question?" I say as I'm toweling off.
"You can ask anything," I hear the smile in her voice.
My chuckle is soft – but it's there. "You said you left this Neal guy three years ago – but Hermano said you've only lived here a year. What'd you do in between?"
"I'll make you a deal – I answer you if you answer me something."
"Not sure I can go making a deal like that, Darlin'."
"For all that I'm sure it's worth – you have my word that I won't ask anything that I think is some kind of international secret."
I consider – I suppose I could always refuse to answer – or just lie. "You've got a deal."
I can almost hear her smile – and I suddenly wonder what she wants to know… but she answers first, "There are places in the world – in the States – where a person can still vanish. People who use cash for almost everything – and I'm not talking radical conspiracy nuts," she adds. "Just people who live a simpler life."
"I have a hard time picturing you hiding out with the Amish, Sugar Butt."
Her hoot of laugher is quite unexpected, "Oh – dearest – I'm sorry," she says as she attempts to regain herself. "No – no I most certainly did no go and live amongst the Faithful of that Fold. Although I do wonder what they'd've done with someone like me – no, I'm a musician. Or at least I like to fancy that I am."
"You're very good," I tell her still trying to figure out what exactly about that statement was so funny…
"Oh good, I'm glad someone still thinks so. No, no Amish – just me and three other women on the road playing folk music. Here," she takes the towel from my hand and surprises me by handing me a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. "I figured you might want something clean – although I have to admit – your – um – fashion sense – is a little scary."
I just chuckle – the truth is that nothing in my suitcase is an accident. From the ugly purple T-shirt brazenly identifying me as a CIA agent (purchased in a shop that sells novelty shirts) to the tacky tourist T-shirts – everything is calculated to disarm the people around me - or put it in their faces that I refuse to play by the rules.A few of the T-shirts I've bought, I simply own becuase I'm a rude prick and I think the world should know it. "What'd you bring me?" I ask her.
"'I'm with Stupid' looked a little grungy, so I settled on 'The Man / The Legend,'" Beth tells me.
I laugh – it's as much to mask my surprise as anything else – that's two for two that she's surprised me tonight. The T-shirt in question has a pair of arrows, 'The Man' – pointing up – 'The Legend' points the same place 'I'm with Stupid' points. I somehow would have expected her to find it entirely offensive. "You're too kind," I take the shirt from her hands.
"And don't you forget it, Mister. Ok, my turn to ask someting," she adds.
I nod and begin rake my fingers through my hair, trying to get out the worst of the knots – only to find Beth handing me a brush.
"This is much more effective," she tells me, as if it was something I couldn't figure out on my own…
"And your question is?" I ask, feigning exasperation.
"Cicily told me you said you had a daughter. Do you?"
"Having that hard of a time picturing someone putting up with my shit for long enough to procreate?" I have to struggle to keep the edge out of my voice. I don't want her to know she's hit a sore spot.
"Not really."
Three for three – Christ. "Yes. I have a daughter. She's about fourteen - fifteen, maybe." I don't honestly know whenEmma's birthday is. "I've never met her," I add, in the attempt to stifle further inquiry. My own sister doesn't know I've spawned forth a child. Of course I instantly regret the tone I just took – not because I wish not to offend – but because it was probably a dead give away… soft and sloppy…
Beth says nothing, which tells me she realizes. Fucking great...
We walk together back to the bedroom – she's not really leading me this time, just walking next to me – I count the steps and don't fall. "You know – someone is going to come looking for you sooner or later," she says in a soft voice, as I'm putting myself back into bed.
I tense up… but no, I'm pretty sure she's just making the observation. "I'll – be out of your hair – tomorrow?" Surly someone as gracious as my angel won't chuck me out in the middle of the night, even if I am an ass… but of course, Sheldon, you know that people suck. Why would you expect any less? I ask myself.
Beth sits down on the bed next to me, "That's not what I'm saying, Cowboy. You're welcome to stay here as long as you want – as long as you need," her tone is really hard to figure out. She sounds almost – sad… regret? Regret over what… selling me out?
I just shake my head, and try not to think about the possibility. "No – you're right – someone is bound to come looking sooner or later. And with my luck, it'll probably be sooner. But – I really do appreciate – everything."
I feel her hand on my leg – her touch is light – but – there's something reassuring about it. "Someday, you are going to trust me, Sheldon Sands," she says - and everything about her tone tells me she believes what she's saying – her belief makes me want to believe…
Christ, I'm an idiot. "I don't even trust myself most days," I quip back with a smile.
"Come on – you should try to get some sleep – you want me to sit with you a while?"
I open my mouth to tell her that I'm a big boy – but the strangest thing comes out instead: "Yeah – if – you don't mind."
"Although I imagine yours have got to be a million times worse, Cowboy, you're not the only person around here who has bad dreams."
And then – four for four – she shocks the shit out of me by curling up next to me… I remember her doing that while I was delirious – but now I'm cognizant – and I sleep with a loaded pistol under my pillow… and this little woman who by her own admission is still a little jumpy around men is lying next to me with her head on my shoulder. "You really should be more careful, Sugar Butt, a man could get the wrong idea," I tell her softly. No, I don't actually think anything of it – I know better, I know what I look like – but just because I can control my mind doesn't mean I can control my body, which is having a definite reaction to the close proximity of a member of the fairer sex – although I try to tell myself that this is what got me into trouble in the first place…
Without a word, Beth props herself up on elbow. She's still dangerously close – I feel her fingers running through my damphair… I'm not sure what I'm expecting…but the sound of her voice is certainly as pleasant as anything else…
Cá fhad é ó
Cá fhad é ó
Siúil tríd na stoirmeacha.
Dul tríd na stoirmeacha.
Cá fhad é ó
an tús don stoirm.
Cá fhad é ó
an tús go deireadh.
Tóg do chroí.
Siúil tríd na stoirmeacha.
Tóg do chroísa.
Dul tríd na stoirmeacha.
Turas mór.
Tor tríd na stoirmeacha.
Turas fada.
Amharc tríd na stoirmeacha.
"What was that?" I ask quietly when she finishes. I recognize the language, although my own knowledge of it is limited to a few colourful phrases.
" 'How far is it from, how far is it from; walking through the storms. Going through the storms. How far is it from the beginning to the storm. How far is it from the start to the end. Lift your heart. Walking through the storms. Lift your heart! Going through the storms. Great journey. Heavy through the storms. Long journey. Look through the storm,.' " she translates, speaking rather than singing the words – although it's no less lyrical spoken than sung.
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The song Beth sings is Storms of Africa by Enya (lyrics in Irish Gaelic) – translation into English found at http / www . pathname . com / enya ... as my own knowledge of the language is limited a couple of colourphrases...