NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Translations in small print.

Surely He will save you from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence.
--Psalms 91:3

-----

The fever had broken. Kechney O’Brannadllwygh had spent the night sponging his younger siblings to cool them off their high fever – and he was pleased that they were out of it. Last midnight had been the most harrowing – his younger sister Ceile had to strip with the intense heat, even though it was September evening; and Ceile’s twin brother Cein was delirious with fever. Kechney had to prevent himself from rousing their mother; she had been sleep deprived for almost a week now, taking care of the sick and following Doctor Hearne’s orders.

The sun was rising in the island of Saint Bryce, and Kechney closed the curtains to ward off the warm sunlight streaming into the room. He sniffed a bit, and then turned to Rhys, his youngest brother, who was starting to rouse. Kechney attended to Rhys. “Uisce,” the five-year-old boy muttered to his older brother. Kechney noted something was wrong with Rhys, but he couldn’t exactly tell what. He brushed off the idea and comforted himself with the thought that Doctor Hearne would be coming later.
(“Water.”)

As he straightened back up to get the water, he saw his father Chester standing on the doorway, leaning on the door frame. He looked worriedly at his children. Kechney knew he had to assure his father. “Ta fiabhre gacht,” he said softly as he paced towards his father. “Sead ceartádht.”
(“The fever is gone… they’ll be alright.”)

Chester laid a hand on Kechney’s shoulder. “Buío,” Chester said to his son. Fatherly love welled up inside him, and he did not resist the urge to hug his teenage son. “Me ó sástan gceartann tu ó seo.”
(“Thank you… I’m just glad you’re here.”)

“Í ceartácht, í ó cád a bráthair deanádh chaoiann.” Kechney said, breaking off the hug to get the water.
(“It’s alright, it’s what a brother would do anyway.”)

-----

Sunday is supposed to be the day of rest, but it seemed that God wasn’t letting Doctor Bannon Hearne have some. This Sunday he had eight house calls to make, which is a lot for a single day. As one of Saint Bryce’s two doctors, and the general practitioner, Dr. Bannon, as he was known in the island, was very much in demand. There is some sort of flu-like illness circulating around Saint Bryce right now. Even the sprightly genial sixty year old doctor cannot handle most of the house calls and consultations; his younger brother Braig, Saint Bryce’s other doctor and the surgeon, had to take up some of the cases.

From their experience, September to February is the flu season in Saint Bryce. There’s nothing wrong about the timing of the flu outbreak. The children are more susceptible to the flu, and consisted the majority of his cases. Nothing wrong about that too. Still, Dr. Bannon had that faint but palpable uneasy sense of dread about something he can’t exactly identify what. He shrugged it off and continued eating.

Dr. Bannon finished drinking his morning tea and left the table. Rebecca can take care of it. Usually they had the habit of eating breakfast together, but with his busy schedule, he had to wake up earlier than what he was accustomed to.

He walked to the refrigerator, one of the four refrigerators in the island. This one is used for storing medicine and supplies. He reminded himself to call his son, who is abroad, to send in additional stocks of medications – this year’s flu season may be more severe than usual.

He packed a few bottles of medicines into his medical bag and headed off to his first house call.

-----

Aine Tarpaigh was waiting at her doorstep in her family’s homestead in the eastern part of Saint Bryce. She ran down the pathway as she saw Doctor Bannon heading towards their gate. “Dochtúir Bannon!” the young mother said rather happily as she reached him. “Tu geadách dearchábh sioeofá!”
(“Doctor Bannon! You have to look at this!”)

Aine and Dr. Bannon hurriedly went inside the hastily-built house, where the woman showed him her sleeping children. “Sead dáfiabhreght antráthnónadhte,” she told him.
(“The fever went down last afternoon.”)

That was good, Dr. Bannon thought. Defervescence usually heralds the disappearance of the flu. Perhaps that’s why Aine was happy… and he should be, too. He ought to be done here with the Tarpaigh children.

Aine’s husband Duinn joined them. “Sead leigheasádht?” he asked. Dr. Bannon would like to give them an affirmative answer that yes, their children are fine now, but he felt he had to check the children up first. The young couple desperately needed reassurance. In the five days that Dr. Bannon was visiting the Tarpaigh household, he knew that the children getting sick was great strain on the part of Aine and Duinn. The Tarpaighs were very recent immigrants into Saint Bryce: arriving a week ago aboard the semiannual ship that reaches Saint Bryce, and claiming a homestead on a small plot in the largely untouched eastern part of the island. As such, they had nothing much. Duinn Tarpaigh built a temporary shack for his family, and was presently clearing some land on which to plant some crops to get his family through the incoming winter. Father Seán Pobhairne even lent them one of the parish’s goats for them to get milk. And Dr. Bannon wanted to provide his services for free, but Duinn had insisted that they would pay him as soon as they had the means to do so.
(“Will they be alright?”)

“Ea, súilárhan,” Dr. Bannon answered. He placed his bag at the bedside and gently removed the sheets covering Raith, the eldest of the Tarpaigh children. What Dr. Bannon saw shocked him.
(“Hopefully, yes.”)

Raith Tarpaigh had large bruises all over his body – the left thigh, the right arm, both shins, his chest, over the right eye. Dr. Bannon looked at the couple somewhat angrily, but managed to get the question through in a diplomatic tone. “Sibh gortaitáchta ta gasúr??”
(“Are you hurting the boy??”)

“Ná!” Duinn denied instantly. For Duinn, being accused of hurting his child was like a slap to his face.
(“No!”)
“Is di tu amwllách sie??” Dr. Bannon demanded, pointing at Raith’s huge bruises.
(“Then how are you going to explain these??”)
“Me níbheach!” Duinn answered emphatically. “Me níl gortaitádh riamhann mo páista! Ann tu cúisináchta sinn?”
(“I don’t know! I would never ever hurt my children! Why are you accusing us?”)

The veiled anger within their conversation woke up Raith. He squinted a bit and mouthed something, but nothing came out. Aine knelt down at the bedside and held her son’s hand. “Cad tarlegh tuchte?” she asked her son, showing him his bruised wrist. “Más inísádh ta dochtúir ag a níl buailágh tu.”
(“What happened to you? Tell the doctor we never laid a hand on you.”)

The boy slowly turned his head towards Dr. Bannon. He looked at the doctor with his bloodshot eyes, imploring him to believe his parents. He tried to speak up again, but his efforts produced nothing but a soft gurgling sound. He momentarily appeared to choke, and then he coughed violently. Aine rubbed Raith’s back to soothe the heavy heaves grappling his body. Raith suddenly moved to his side, vomiting a mix of his dinner, sour acid, phlegm, and curdled blood at the doctor’s feet. When the boy finished and lay on his back again, a small stream of red ran from the corner of his left eye. Raith Tarpaigh was literally crying blood.

OOC: Sorry for the crappy unimaginative title, I was stumped. Char-RP, rather slow-moving (as I do not have much time in my hands right now). TG me if you want to join in so I can give you details. :fluffle:

A fast-paced parade of diseases ran through Dr. Bannon’s mind. Coughing can cause a spontaneous subconjunctival bleed; and there is also the entity called acute conjunctival hemorrhage. But certainly they would not produce a running stream of blood. Perhaps the bleeding from the eyes was related to the bruises. Thrombocytopenia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thrombocytopenia), perhaps? Or one of those various hemorrhagic fevers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemorrhagic_fever)? The scary hemolytic uremic syndrome (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemolytic_uremic_syndrome)-thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thrombotic_thrombocytopenic_purpura) spectrum of diseases? Meningococcemia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meningococcemia). Immune Thrombocytopenic purpura. The list went on and on.

While half of his mind was searching through the pile of diseases, he was trying to stop Raith Tarpaigh’s eye bleed. Fortunately, the boy was cooperative. Some gauze to absorb the blood and a slight pressure, the conjunctival bleeder stopped. Aine and Duinn’s anxieties, however, were more difficult to stop. “Cad tarlechta Raitháchte?” Aine asked nervously. “Mo mac ceartádht?”
(“What is happening to Raith? Will my son be alright?”)

Dr. Bannon did not answer her question. He was still reeling from the shock of seeing a spontaneous conjunctival bleed. Never before in his long career had he seen something like that. If this was related to thrombocytopenia, Raith Tarpaigh should be dead by now from a severe intracranial hemorrhage.

The doctor rummaged through his bag and got himself a syringe. “Me geadách fuil roinntan,” he told them. If this was something related to or can be found in the blood, such as his suspicion of thrombocytopenia, then Rebecca can look for it back home. His wife was the only medical technologist and public health officer in Saint Bryce, and she frequently assists him in doing laboratory work.
(“I need some blood.”)

Dr. Bannon searched for a vein in Raith’s unbruised arm. Finding the cubital vein, he swabbed the area with alcohol and then tincture of iodine, let it dry, and inserted the needle to draw blood into the syringe. Raith was a brave boy. He never cringed at the thought or at the sight of a needle drawing blood. After drawing 10cc of blood, Dr. Bannon transferred the blood into an empty citrated sealed tube. He took some cotton and placed it over the site, applying pressure to halt the bleeding. As he waited for an abnormally longer time for the wound to stop bleeding, he gazed towards Raith’s siblings. “Díonn sead?” He asked, holding Raith’s free hand and letting him hold the cotton ball.
(“How about them?”)

Aine, who was nearer to the next bed, took the sheets off her daughter. She was absolutely horrified. Moreen Tarpaigh was red all over. Almost every square inch of her skin was covered with bruises. Dr. Bannon immediately paced towards the girl. He noticed the two youngest Tarpaigh children on the next bed. They, too, were bruised all over.

Dr. Bannon’s brain went into overdrive, searching for answers. Purpura fulminans can be caused by sepsis. Or this could be the confluent ecchymoses of meningococcemia. Dr. Bannon attempted to rouse Moreen, but she won’t wake up. Armed with smelling salts, the doctor tried to wake her up with the noxious smell, but she won’t. Her breathing was irregular, and froth was starting to bubble out of her mouth. Dr. Bannon tried to count her pulse rate, but the radial pulse was barely palpable.

The doctor then frantically grabbed his bag, searching for his resuscitating equipment. By then, Aine and Duinn realized the gravity of the situation. “Dochtúir, cad tarlechta? Tu geadách cúnamh?”
(“Doctor, what’s happening? Do you need help?”)

“Guigách,” the Doctor said in a hurried voice.
(“Pray.”)

Moreen Tarpaigh started to bleed from her closed eyes, rivers of blood running down her cheeks. Her nose also started oozing thick blood, and froth trickled down from her mouth. Aine sobbed loudly at the sight of her child bleeding from every orifice; she would have gone wild if Duinn wasn’t holding her tight. “Mo páiste! Mo iníon!” She screamed like a banshee, and tears started to fill her eyes. “Mo páiste! Mo iníon!” Her blurred gaze fell on her younger children, who were now also bleeding from every orifice. “Mo páista!” Dr. Bannon heard her and looked at the other children. Raith was sitting in bed, looking sadly at his younger siblings and his wailing mother. The two youngest Tarpaigh children were bleeding to death, if not dead already.
(“My child! My daughter! My child! My daughter! My children!”)

Dr. Bannon reached out for the child lying next to Moreen’s bed and tried to feel for a pulse. Nothing. He placed his hand on the child’s slimy, blood-and-froth covered chest to feel for a heartbeat. Nothing. He wagged his head slightly. “Me borchta,” he muttered.
(“I’m sorry.”)

Aine managed to free herself from Duinn’s grasp and threw herself onto her child’s makeshift bed, almost tripping in the process. “Artian, tu ó níl bháisa!” She then held his small shoulders and shook him like a rag doll. Her wails pierced the morning silence. “Fóirách an tu inísách ta dochtúir ag tu beogáchta!” Unsatisfied with Artian’s silence, she turned towards her youngest child, the toddler girl, and searched for signs of life. She placed her ear on the child’s chest, administered half-hearted chest compressions, and shook the girl. “Sibh ó níl bháisa! Fóirách! Fóirách…” She lay herself down on Artian’s bed and hugged her two dead children, slowly rocking their limp bodies like when she used to put them to sleep.
(“Artian, you are not dead! Wake up and tell the doctor that you are alive! You are not dead! Wake up! Wake up…”)

Duinn approached her and hugged her tight, gently trying to pry her off the dead bodies of their children. “Hush… Sead gachta, sead gachta…”
(“They’re gone, they’re gone…”)

Moreen Tarpaigh was also in her last moments. Choking unconsciously on froth and her own blood, she expired, not even able to take a decent last breath.

The Tramp Steamer Venture had seen better days. Much much better days. She was rusting from head to toe slowly being eaten by the saltwater, her engines a pair of old Whitney steam turbines clanked loudly as the drive shafts scraped and banged against their joints with the engines.

The owner was one of the last few truly and fully independent ship owners in the entire Greater Kingdom. Jonathan Timpson was something of a minor legend in the Greater Kingdom proper, a defiant last stand against the steady consortiumification of the Midlonian shipping fleet.

Even previously “independent” trawler and tramp steamer owners had grouped together into their little “contract clubs” to be able to cope against the massive fleet lines of the National Coal Consortium and the STAR fleet lines, not to mention the massive foreign haulers from the Freethinker Commonwealth.

But Timpson refused point blank to join in with any of these “groups“, it meant he was owned by someone, and it was something he didn’t like the idea of, he was his own man, and that went for his ship too, even if she was living on borrowed time and without enough money to fix her properly.

Her fragile state and nature meant that he tried to keep the runs and jobs simple. This near permanent contract to Saint Bryce, a little corner in the middle of nowhere kept him fed and clothed, and her engines fired, and that was enough for him.

Thankfully though he was saving up to help a little refurbishment here or there. The Venture was carrying the occasional tourist at an extortionate fee and today he had two from the Catholic Church of Midlonia on board, and they were also paying through the nose too, he could afford a coat of anti-rust paint for his tramp ship now thanks to this pair and the organization that backed them.

Timpson was a short, barrel chested man with dull black hair and piercing green eyes which were permanently staring at the sea. He wore a scraggly, unkempt beard and his ragged leather bomber jacket complemented by his fleece top and sailing flat cap.

“Excuse me, Captain Timpson?” a voice came to him, causing him to turn to the young man at the door of the bridge.

“Yes?”

“How long until we’re there sir?”

“Half hour.” Was the gruff reply, which sent the young man scurrying away. Timpson chuckled. A pair of young youths trying to be men by going and helping the near-bankrupt tiny island.

Shaking his neck out and rubbing the back of it with a well weathered hand, Timpson turned the ship gently to Port as he saw the small island on the horizon.

------------------
45 minutes later the Venture belched its way into the small port, which seemed little more than a concrete jetty it’s two tone whistle blaring sharply, alerting all in their presence on the sleepy island that the latest batch of supplies had arrived.

The medicines, cooking oil, some foodstuffs such as seasonings and such as well a few donated spare parts for the last functioning cars on the island were all aboard and were merely waiting to be unloaded by the dock workers. He sighed as he slammed a handle and with a hydraulic whine the rust chain and anchor slammed down the side of the ship and splashed into the water.

Religious students Jeremy Graham and Dara O’brien grabbed their duffel bags and sighed, both were “trendy” student types on the surface, wearing fairly loose shirts and jeans with slightly ruffled hair from the sea breeze. They got off of the ship first, walking down the gang plank onto the dockland, glancing around at what was effectively their new home for at least the next 12 months.

“Not much, is it?” Dara said followed by a loud exclamation of pain as Jeremy stamped on his foot, Dara was bald and slightly fat around the stomach but still held a youthful babyish face that was just beginning to turn mature.

Jeremy was a very tall man with curly hair and a jowly face that scanned the dockland with interest with his piercing blue eyes.

He head read a little bit about Saint Bryce from the Captain’s log book. Both were in their early 20’s and part of the Midlonian Catholic Church’s outreach program, sending students from their own religious schools off to countries to do some work.

The problem was Jeremy and Dara had caused some kerfuffle with one of their teachers, so had been sent to Saint Bryce as a form of punishment, so, perhaps not the best qualified, but maybe they would be melded to the situation.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man so to speak.

“Me grách ta Tiarne, cé éistágh mo glóreofá guír,
Cé chreidágh a cluas meofá ta ladhte me glaogágh.
Me dolágh ta sreangaír na bháis; ta bawra na Sheol glacáght me; me bheithágh céase án scath.
Is me glaogágh tAinm na ta Tiarne, “O Tiarne, coigiládh mo beog!”
Grástein ó ta Tiarne án breitheamhan; ea, ár Dio ó trócairean.
Ta Tiarne sábháil ta féalha; me ógh cúnamhónh, le Dio coigilágh me.
Tá mo anam saorácht bháisósh, mo súila deoirósh, mo gcosa tuislimósh.
Me siúládh ta Tiarnebhe ta talamhís na ta beogsa."
--Salma 116:1-9
I love the LORD, who listened to my voice in supplication,
Who turned an ear to me on the day I called.
I was caught by the cords of death; the snares of Sheol had seized me; I felt agony and dread.
Then I called on the name of the LORD, "O LORD, save my life!"
Gracious is the LORD and just; yes, our God is merciful.
The LORD protects the simple; I was helpless, but God saved me.
For my soul has been freed from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling.
I shall walk before the LORD in the land of the living.
--Psalms 116:1-9
The words of that Sunday Mass’ Responsorial Psalm were heard even up to Father Seán Pobhairne’s bedroom. The twenty-eight-year-old assistant parish priest of Saint Bryce was fully roused from his sleep as soon as he heard Father Peadar Corwyll read the Holy Gospel in his booming voice. Fr. Pobhairne squinted a bit from the bright sunlight streaming through his windows into the room. He sat up on his bed, staring blankly at the painting of Saint Bryce nailed on the wall, as Fr. Corwyll’s fiery homily seeped into his room.

“Duiriamh éirich,” the commentator said abruptly as Fr. Corwyll finished his homily, jolting Fr. Pobhairne from his state of semiconsciousness. He put his slippers on and walked to his personal altar, where a crucifix, a picture of Mother Mary, and a statue of Saint Bryce were displayed. He lit up a candle on the altar knelt in front of the icons, and started his morning prayers.
("All rise.")

Midway through his meditation, the faint sound of a ship’s horn reverberated through much of the town of Saint Bryce. The ship Fr. Pobhairne had been waiting for had arrived. After finishing his prayers, he hurriedly dressed and headed for the docks.

-----

It was unusual for two ships to arrive in Saint Bryce within the span of one week. The tiny island gets visited by ships about twice a year. In fact, a ship arriving would receive so much fanfare that the island is in a festive mood and the arrivals are even welcomed by the island’s leaders.

This was not the case on that balmy September morning. With half of the island’s population listening to Fr. Corwyll, there was no crowd waiting for the ship’s arrival. The (un)holy hour of the ship’s arrival also meant that many of those who missed the morning Mass were still asleep. And nobody really expected the ship to come, save perhaps for those in the know, such as Father Pobhairne.

Fr. Pobhairne ran from the town square, where the church compound was, to the docks of Saint Bryce. There were only a few people there. Declan Craobhach, the patriarch of Saint Bryce’s fisherman clan, sat on a bench overlooking the sea. The old man and his family live on the seashore beside the docks, and he usually spends his time watching the waves crashing. Ríoghán Cinnsealach, the import-export merchant of Saint Bryce, was also there, waiting for the ship to come. His 1991-model car (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Audi_100_III_silver_vl.jpg), the most beautiful and sophisticated car in the island and the envy of Saint Bryce, was parked in front of the Craobhachs’ house.

The ship was already visible on the horizon when Father Pobhairne arrived at the docks. He paused to catch his breath and leaned against an aspen tree. Cinnsealach looked at the priest. Father Pobhairne was a big burly man, clean-shaven with short cropped red hair. Surely somebody like that panting meant he did something very strenuous. The merchant walked towards the priest, saying in Briccian, “You ran all the way from Mass to watch the ship arrive?”

Father Pobhairne straightened up and wiped sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his sweater. “Father Corwyll is celebrating the morning Mass. I’m scheduled for the afternoon,” he said, smiling. The priest still had some baby fat on his cheeks, whose presence becomes accentuated when he smiles. “I’d have to meet this ship.”

“You waiting for something?”
“Someone.”
“Oh,” Cinnsealach said excitedly. “Tourists? Immigrants?” Ríoghán Cinnsealach himself was an immigrant to Saint Bryce, arriving from Midlonia more than a decade ago. Despite Saint Bryce's seeming backwardness and relative poverty, Cinnsealach fell in love with the warm atmosphere, the quaint surroundings, the friendly people, and the sense of community, and also being away from the troubles in his homeland. He used his contacts to build up an import-export business. He introduced to Saint Bryce the modernities it could accept: a satellite phone and computer for the island government, some solar panels to power the appliances he brought to the island, and the few television sets. He was also instrumental for bringing in some donations from abroad. Today he was here because he had some stuff on board the ship.

“Students. They’ll be here for a year,” Fr. Pobhairne told him.

The ship was nearing the docks, and the two men recognized the ship. The good old reliable Venture. Four men also arrived by then, part-time dockworkers who are called on to load and unload ships docking in Saint Bryce. Cinnsealach pays them well to do this odd job, as most of the stuff in there was actually destined for him.

Father Pobhairne caught sight of a tall lanky blond-haired young man, topless and wearing only camouflage pants. Though he had a tough weathered look on his face, Fr. Pobhairne guessed that he was no more than eighteen years of age. Being the assistant parish priest, he knew everyone in the island, but he was someone new. Perhaps he was one of the immigrants who arrived last week. And he looked lonely, left out of his co-dockworkers’ conversation about the weather and this month’s potato crop.

Fr. Pobhairne approached the young man. “Good morning,” he began. “I’m Father Seán Pobhairne, the assistant parish priest,” he extended his hand for a shake. “You seem new here. What is your name?”

The young man looked at him blankly, as if oblivious that somebody tried to talk to him. After a few moments, he shook the hand and smiled weakly. “Claidh Bearle,” he said softly.

“You are new here?”
He nodded.
“Where were you from?”
Claidh paused for a long while. “Somewhere,” he said dismissively. Obviously the newcomer wasn’t open to sharing about himself.

Venture dropped the anchor, and Cinnsealach called his temporary dockworkers to work. Claidh left Father Pobhairne without a word.

-----

The first people off the docks were two seemingly out-of-place young men, looking around and carrying lots of stuff. Father Pobhairne spotted them. It must be them.

Father Pobhairne paced towards them. “Faílte tOileánóimid na Naomh Braig.” Father Pobhairne greeted them. “Welcome to Saint Bryce. I hope your trip had been fine. I am Father Seán Pobhairne, assistant parish priest of Saint Bryce. I presume you are the students sent here from Midlonia?”

OOC: Are they seminarians?

Ooc: yes, they’re from the Saint Christopher Seminary in the city of Ashby-De-La-Zouch, hence part of the outreach program, Patron saint of travel… make sense to me anyway, probably not strictly right, but hey! This is freeform RP.

“Father.” Jeremy offered his hand and a smile, his hair bobbing slightly as he did so. “Lovely to meet you, I’m Jeremy Graham and this is Dara O’brien. Second year students from Saint Christopher‘s College. I have to say, this place seems so tranq-”

“Oi!” Timpson yelled from the top of the gangway, “Mr Smartarses! Don’t leave your bloody flight case rubbish cluttering up my bloody deck!” He promptly kicked the large heavy case down the gangplank which bounced twice on it’s way down, it’s wheels squeaking and rattling as it did so, catching several nails and taking a couple of chunks from the gangway before it bounced as it hit the dock and smacked into Dara, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Timpson then doffed his cap to the young priest. “Father.” he said simply before going back from the ship side to yell at one of the dockworkers instead. “Not that bloody thing! That’s mine….”

“Lovely fellow. Really.” Dara said as he picked himself up and opened the flight-case to check the contents. Inside was a small mini-fridge and some camcording equipment. “I hope you don’t mind at all, Dara O’brien by the way, that we have this camera with us to record the sights and stuff, it’s to, you know, prove we’ve been here and not snuck off to the luxurious Birchester Islands.” He grinned cheekily and chuckled before gritting his teeth as Jeremy stood on his foot again. “Aaaaaah!” He began in pain before he took a deep breathe of air. “Aaaaah, what a lovely morning, shall we go then?”

“Exactly how many people are on Saint Bryce anyway?” Jeremy asked as he checked his bag again and glanced to Dara with a ‘quiet you’ look. “To be honest we’re completely in the dark about it all, aside from some of the tales of how nice it is from Father, uhhh…” Jeremy scatched his chin for a moment in thought.

“Breckin.” Dara piped in as he lifted the flight case along with his own large duffel bag.

“That’s it, Father Breckin. Though he said it’d been a long time since he had been here, so he hadn’t a real clue as to what the place is like now.” Jeremy nodded.

Father Pobhairne gave them his trademark kind smile. “Nice to meet you two. Now – ” The priest looked somewhat shocked as the big case hit Dara. He did not notice Timson’s gesture.

“You just get used to him,” Father Pobhairne said to Dara as he tried to help him stand up. “He’s a regular visitor to Saint Bryce.” He looked at the stuff they bought from back home. “Oh no, you should’ve brought your own power plant too,” the priest told them. “We don’t have much electricity here… Saint Bryce is a small island with about 2,500 people. This is the only town, Saint Bryce. If you like, I can tour you around the island before the afternoon Mass. But first, let’s bring your stuff to where you’re staying.” He picked up one of their bags. “Follow me.”

-----

The morning mass had ended and a crowd of parishioners lingered in front of the church, spilling over to the adjacent village square. This was prime socialization time for the inhabitants of Saint Bryce, which was very important for maintaining the close-knit sense of community. Here, Briccians exchange gossip stories, farming tips, news tidbits, or invitations for lunch.

“Father Breckin, you said?” Fr. Pobhairne said as they neared the village square. “I don’t remember him actually,” he told Jeremy and Dara. “I might be too young to remember back then. When did he stay here?”

“Athair Seán!” A matronly woman spotted Fr. Pobhairne and walked towards them. “Tu mhaithách tarbh tá lón?” She looked past the priest and to Jeremy and Dara. “Cuarteoir?”

“Lenneoira.” Fr. Pobhairne replied. “Téigh Ceomhargyll, buailách Jeremy Graham án Dara O’Brien, lenneoira Midlonnér,” he introduced the visitors to her. “Jeremy, Dara, meet Mrs. Ceomhargyll.”

-----

Dr. Bannon watched silently as Duinn Tarpaigh wrapped his dead children in a white cloth. Duinn was having difficulty covering up the sorry look on his dead children; he had to constantly wipe tears off his eyes and control himself from sobbing. He gave Moreen one last kiss on the forehead before he covered her face.

Aine Tarpaigh, meanwhile, sat on one corner of the room, forlorn, staring mindlessly, covered in dark blood. Duinn managed to separate her from her dead children, but it was only now that she stopped screaming like a mad woman. Her cries were now tearless sobs wracking her body, and her screams were now frenzied whispers escaping from her lips.

Raith Tarpaigh sat sadly on the bed. Apart from seeing his siblings die in front of him, he was also afraid it might happen to him. He laid a bruised hand on Dr. Bannon’s arm and looked at him. “Me bháisádh amhail sead fost?”

Dr. Bannon turned to the boy. He held nothing that can reassure the boy. He had the flu, he had the bruises, he bled… he will die the ugly death, just like his brother and sisters. “Me níl ceádh í tarleádh tuchte.” The question remaining was when will Raith’s time run out. Dr. Bannon wanted to save the boy, he wasn’t sure how. Saint Bryce has a small, outdated, and relatively unused hospital. Perhaps he could continue treating Raith there. However, Dr. Bannon was slightly anxious of sending Raith to town. Half of his differential diagnoses were infectious diagnoses, and he can’t risk exposing the town to a contagion. For now, the only thing he is almost sure of was the children died of severe internal hemorrhage and shock. Poisoning was possible also, with the froth and the suddenness of the event… and Raith’s vomiting. It was possible; there are poisonous plants in Saint Bryce that can be mistaken for food. He wanted to ask Aine about what she fed her children, but with her looking like that, he won’t be able to extract any information from her right now. Also, he didn’t want to drive her into thinking she killed her children, however inadvertently.

But Dr. Bannon decided to err on the side of caution. When Duinn asked him whether they can get a priest from town for a simple funeral in the cemetery, Dr. Bannon explained to him what he thought. With the cause of death unknown, and the real possibility of it being infectious, they cannot hold a typical funeral. They had to bury the three children as soon as possible. Duinn agreed, but insisted that his children be given a Christian burial.

Dr. Bannon said he will fetch Fr. Corwyll or Fr. Pobhairne to come to the Tarpaigh house later today. Dr. Bannon promised he will be back, and left hurriedly, anxious whether the Tarpaighs would still be alive when he came back.

“It’s battery powered, should be fine.” Dara said with a nod as he dragged the big box behind him, Father Pobhairne kindly picking up his duffel bag instead. “Well, as long as we can get another battery in six months or so.”

“You know he never actually said when he did stay here, just… that he had.” Jeremy scratched his head a little as they walked into the town proper. “It’s about what he said though, very quiet and tranquil.”

When they were introduced, Jeremy bowed slightly, as did Dara when he put down the heavy case. “Lovely to meet you Mrs Ceohm-hark-grill.” Jeremy said as he mashed the pronunciation completely, something he seemed a little embarrassed about.

“Cad é mar atá tú inniu, Mrs Ceomhargyll? My apologies, but my Gaelic is terrible.” Dara said with a slight bow and a smile.

Róisín Ceomhargyll looked at the pair blankly, not understanding a word they said. She turned to Fr. Pobhairne. “Cad sead ráght?”

“Sead rágh í ó deasan buailábh tu,” the priest answered, and then turned to Jeremy and Dara. “Almost everybody doesn’t understand English here,” Fr. Pobhairne told them. “And our Gaelic is far far different from yours. We call it Briccian. Frankly, Dara, I do not understand your Gaelic too.”

“Iontasin!” Mrs. Ceomhargyll remarked. “Me leomhách sead tarbh tá lón fost?”
“Me iarrádh,” Fr. Pobhairne said to Mrs. Ceomhargyll. “Jeremy, Dara, Mrs. Ceomhargyll is inviting you for lunch. Do you like come?”

OOC: Sorry if I forgot to tell you, Briccian is kind of a horribly mutated Irish. Many of its words are derived from Irish, but the syntax and grammar are different. Just ask me if you need translation. Also, if you are wondering, I have absolutely zero capability of speaking, writing, or understanding Irish… or Welsh, for that matter.

ooc: I suspected as much, neither can I aside from a mashed up choice phrase like "how are you today?" I'm also Protestant than Catholic and slightly lost in the nuances at times, but I have a Catholic Mother and Uncles as well as several other friends who are Catholics I can defer to...

"Ah, must be a different dialect or something then. Ah well." Dara shrugged. "Well, err, seems like a very nice thing for her to offer right out of the blue like that, I think we should, you know, get to our quarters, drop our stuff and freshen up a bit first."

"We'd love to, thank you Mrs Ceohm-hark-grill for the kind offer." Jeremy said with a smile and a nod as he shifted his bag. "But I agree with Dara, we should really freshen up a little. It's been a long, damp journey." he chuckled slightly. "Where exactly are we staying, Father?"

"Now I see why Breckin sent us here, we can't talk to anybody properly." Dara muttered before his foot was stood on again, this time though by the flightcase, not Jeremy. It seemed somebody upstairs wanted him to enjoy the time spent there or else.

"Well." Jeremy said half turning to Dara. "If we get really desperate we can always try that silly old guidebook's advice."

"Oh, the old Greater Empire of Midlonia, guide to foreign lands book?" Dara said with a laugh. "Oh man, how did they ever think that'd work..."

"Basically it was a book printed during the height of the Midlonian Empire. Basically it summed up that if you spoke Midlonian, a form of English, clearly and loudly in a staccato voice." he mimiced it. "The. Foreigner. Will. Understand." He shook his head. "Absolutely daft, we read about it in high school before joining the seminary as part of the history lessons. Very silly."

“I’ll tell Mrs. Ceomhargyll,” Fr. Pobhairne said, “and if you do have guidebooks, feel free to use them. But I don’t know whether it would help you or not.”

The priest turned to Mrs. Ceomhargyll. “Sead grádh nascábh sibh tá lón,” he said, lifting Dara’s duffel bag. “Sead beirádhta gceartann siad crocha bheírwllamhóimid.”
“Cinnte, groimhách, groimhách!” Mrs. Ceomhargyll said. “Éis, me cócaráiládhta foínn ta bia. Ta lón ó nóinádhte… feicádh sibh níos!” The woman then waved them goodbye.

“Lunch at twelve,” Fr. Pobhairne told the pair. “You have ample time to prepare.”

-----

Little did the parishioners knew, somebody was watching them. Nobody seemed to notice the teenager wearing a black hoodie and torn pants caked in mud, sitting on one of the benches in the farthest corner of the churchyard. He scrutinized each and every one with his piercing blue eyes. That matronly woman… she gave him some sort of a condescending look as she accidentally gazed in his direction earlier. She tried to make him feel that he was the scum of the earth, but failed miserably. He already felt like the scum of the earth anyway.

That woman was talking to three men. If he can remember it correctly, one of them was the priest. But the other two… looked odd. Unlike most of the Briccians with their olden clothes, they sported modern outfits like what he used to see back from where he came from. It would probably be a nice to try to befriend them… but most likely they can’t be friends anyway. Who would interact with a lowlife like him? Especially when they seemed to be friends of the priest and that woman.

He shifted his gaze away from them and caught sight of a teenage girl, standing near the church door, looking thoughtfully at him. For a moment their eyes caught each other; but she broke off the connection as she began to blush. She was very pretty in her dress… and again he didn’t feel like he could be friends with prim-and-proper girl like her.

He hung his head down, looking on the ground, as he waited for the churchyard to empty…

“Excellent!” Jeremy said clapping his hands and bowing slightly to Mrs Ceomhargyll.

“Right, that just leaves… well, a tour of the island, finding out wherever we’re staying and then preparing for lunch then.” Dara said with a smile as he glanced over at the boy in the churchyard. He gave him a cheery wave before the lad cast his eyes back down. “It’s like we’re stuck on Craggy Island.” muttered Dara to Jeremy, who promptly stood on his foot again.

“So, Father, where precisely are we staying? You still haven’t told us.” Jeremy said as he shook out his shoulders slightly and straightened his T-shirt.

"You'll be staying with us," Fr. Pobhairne said, "Follow me."

Father Pobhairne led Jeremy and Dara along a footpath through the garden on the east side of the church. Through the doors on the east side, they could still see some churchgoers lingering inside the church, some kneeling and praying for extraneous blessings, the others preferring to chat inside the house of God.

They went to the rectory building, a three-floor house separated from the church proper but connected to it via a short covered walkway. The rectory, like the church, and most of downtown Saint Bryce, were built in Georgian style (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgian_architecture) with red brick. “This will be your home for the next, what… twelve months?” Fr. Pobhairne said as he opened the door. “Come in, and I’ll show you the place.”

They went in the house. The first floor was the receiving room and the living room. The rectory, surprisingly, had modern amenities: there was a 21-inch colored television set on one corner of the room. Adjacent to it was a radio, with the capabilities of playing and recording on cassette tapes.

A corridor led to the kitchen, where the inviting aroma of breakfast wafted in and where somebody can catch a glimpse of a refrigerator. A wooden staircase to their left led to the second floor.

“Maidin maithan, Seán!” A nun greeted, walking towards them from the kitchen. “Sead ta lennoira Midlonnér?”

“Ea,” Fr. Pobhairne replied, “Sead níl labhairách Braigín.”
“Oh,” the nun muttered, and then introduced herself. “I am Sister Máire, or Sister Mary. I know how to speak English. If you like, I can teach you Briccian.”
“Also, she is the governess of this house,” Fr. Pobhairne added. “She will order you to scrub the floors.”
Sister Mary chuckled. The nun was a fiftyish woman with a big frame, and a comforting cheeky smile. “Of course, Seán, it’s part of the household chores!” She said, half-joking. “You know I can’t do scrubbing because of my bad back!” She turned to the pair. “Well, may I ask about you nice lads? Please don’t hesitate to introduce yourself, and tell me about your country.”

The Saint Bryce Hospital is an unimposing whitewashed thatched-roof cottage in the outskirts of Saint Bryce. Located along the little-used dirt road leading to the Saint Bryce waterworks in the interior of the island, the Hospital is directly across the street from the similar-looking Hearne house, where the doctors of Saint Bryce live. It was convenient for them, because during emergency cases brought to the hospital, the people will just knock on their door.

But usually, somebody is there manning the post. That morning, it was Fionn Hearne, the adopted son of Braig Hearne. He woke up early that Sunday morning, roused by his uncle Bannon’s activity downstairs, and decided to hang out in the hospital. After all, there was nobody in there. Saint Bryce’s hospital was rarely used now, except for surgeries being performed by his father. The Hearne doctors are making house calls instead.

Fionn sat on the front desk and raised his legs on the table. He snatched a copy of one of his father’s medical journals on the table and started reading it. He wanted to become a doctor too, just like his father and his uncle, and his cousins. His father said he had saved enough money to send him abroad for studies next year… he can’t wait to join his cousins abroad!

Fionn was thoroughly grateful to his foster father. Braig Hearne loved Fionn as if he was his child; and Fionn loved Braig back as if he was his real father. Fionn gets angry whenever somebody would insult his father: it was his father who was barren and unable to have a child, and there are more than a few people who tried to make fun of his father. Those people would usually be met by Fionn’s fist on their faces. That’s how everyone learned not to make fun of Braig Hearne when Fionn is around.

Why his father was unable to have children, Fionn didn’t know. Even as to how Braig was able to adopt Fionn was still a murky mystery to him. Braig Hearne arrived in Saint Bryce almost two decades ago, shortly after finishing his studies as a surgeon. He, along with a few other refugees, was escaping the wars that broke out in their homeland. Braig Hearne chose to go to Saint Bryce upon invitation of his older brother Bannon, who had already relocated a few years back. From then on, the story had become murky. His foster mother, Moinnine, once said that Braig attended Fionn’s mother on her deathbed and that she entrusted her son to him. When or how or why Fionn’s mother died, Moinnine was also unsure.

Fionn was startled by the sound of the window being hit repeatedly. He looked towards the window and saw his uncle knocking on the glass. Fionn was puzzled. Why would Uncle Bannon knock on the window when there is the door?

Doctor Bannon gestured for Fionn to go out. Fionn complied and tried to find his uncle. He found the window where his uncle was knocking. “Cad?”

“Don’t go near me!” Dr. Bannon warned him in Briccian. Fionn wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. “Get me the soap and disinfecting solution. Turn on the autoclave.”
“What is happening?” Fionn started walking towards his uncle in order to help him carry his stuff.
“Don’t. Dare. Take. Another. Step. Forward! I’ll explain everything later. Now just go do what I say.”
“Okay, fine,” Fionn said, starting to go back inside the house.
“Also, turn on the incinerator!”

“We’ll happily lend a hand wherever we can Sister Mary. I’m Jeremy Graham and this is Dara O’brien.” He motioned to the short, sweating and muttering man as he attempted to haul the flight case in through the door.

“We’re from the Seminary of Saint Christopher in Ashby-de-la-Zouch in Midlonia. Doing our second year which involves travel to places such as Saint Bryce for study and seeing how spiritual nuances and attitudes are different.”

“If at all.” Dara added as he finally put the case down. “Blimey that’s heavier than it looks, even with the wheels.”

“That’s great!” Sister Mary remarked. “I’m sure you’ll learn much and enjoy it here.” The clatter of silverware can be heard from the kitchen and the adjacent dining room. “By the way, Father Corwyll is having his breakfast in the kitchen. Do you want to join them?”

Before the newcomers could even talk, Father Pobhairne answered. “We’ll have our breakfast later.” Father Pobhairne is not ready to introduce Jeremy and Dara to Father Corwyll yet. Or rather, Jeremy and Dara is not ready to meet Father Corwyll yet. Meeting the parish priest of Saint Bryce requires some sort of orientation and preparation. “I have to show them their room, and leave their things there first.”

Fr. Pobhairne led the two up the staircase leading to the second floor. He noticed Dara’s heavy case. “You’ll be bringing that mini-refrigerator up to your room?” He paused. “I’m not sure if we still have the electricity for it. If you like, you can put your stuff in the fridge downstairs… so you don’t have to bring the fridge up…”

They reached the mini-lobby of the second floor, where an altar was located and a few seats. “The nuns live here,” Fr. Pobhairne said, gesturing to the corridor leading to the left. “Our rooms are here,” he said, walking to the corridor to the right. “This is Fr. Corwyll’s room,” he pointed to the first door they passed by. They passed by another door almost opposite that of Fr. Corwyll's. “That’s my room… you can knock if you need help.” They reached the end of the corridor, where there was a window opening to the street, facing Cinnsealach’s general merchandise store, and with a flowerbox full of colorful flowers. The last door led into a room beside that of Fr. Corwyll’s. “And this is your room,” Fr. Pobhairne said, opening the door. “Make yourselves at home.”

The room was a clean, smallish room, containing a wooden double-deck bed, a closet, two chairs and two tables. The room was amply illuminated that morning, with the window facing east, also towards the general merchandise store. There was a small altar on one corner of the room, with a crucifix, a statue of Mother Mary, and a reproduction of a painting of Saint Bryce.

"Excellent." Jeremy said looking into the room.

"Better than the doms at home." Dara said as he wheeled the flight case into the corner and set his case down next to it. "Reckon we should unpack now or later?"

"Uhm, depends on what the Father has in store for us now." Jeremy said looking to him expectantly.

“Yes, that can wait,” Father Pobhairne said. “We have to meet Father Corwyll first, and then attend our lunch appointment, and while we’re at it, tour the town.” He toned down his voice to almost a whisper. “I have to warn you about Father Corwyll. He is the parish priest of Saint Bryce. He can be a bit… er, terrifying at times. He has a dry sense of humor, and is very assertive. Just so you know. Newcomers sometimes think he’s an unpleasant person, but actually he’s very nice. You might need to get used to him.”

Heavy footsteps were heard from the outside. “That’s him,” Fr. Pobhairne said. “You know it’s him when you hear it.” True enough, somebody appeared at the door. “Good morning, boys,” he greeted them in his raspy booming voice. “Sister Mary told me our visitors had come.” He looked at Jeremy and Dara. “By the way, I’m Father Peadar Corwyll. I’m the boss here and I will be your master.”

Father Corwyll was a big bald heavyset man with a rather sour face and a thick moustache. He looked more like an angry professional wrestler than a Catholic priest... at least he seemed ready to kick the demons out of his parishioners and chase the evil out of Saint Bryce.

“Seán, ann tu níl iníságht ag sinnse cuarteoira sroicháght?”
“Me cinnágh ag a dtiágh ár stuifa onúan.”

“Oh,” Fr. Corwyll muttered, looking at the Midlonians, “since I see you’re done with that, why don’t you join me for breakfast downstairs? I would like to know more about my new minions.”
Fr. Pobhairne chuckled. “Actually, I’d take them a tour around town. Mrs. Ceomhargyll had invited us for lunch. I intended for us to eat there…” His gaze shifted towards the two. “Unless they want to eat breakfast this late…”

“Yessssss masterrrrrrrrrrrr.” Dara said with a large grin as he hissed his words in a mocking, eygor style voice as he bowed. “We bring offering for sacrificceeeeeeeeee.”

He then opened the flight case and brought out a pair of wine bottles, one white and one red. “Ta daa.” He said returning to his normal voice. “I put these in as a sort of ‘thank you for putting us up for six months’ present. One red, one white depending on your tastes. Assuming you partake in the odd drop of course.”

“Failing that the red would make an excellent communal wine.” Jeremy added in with a slight smile as he stood up straight and put his hands in his pockets. “Aside from that, I could do with a spot of tea and breakfast I believe.” He glanced at Dara. “How about you?”

“Oh definitely. Be nice to have something other than the gruel and engine oil that the captain made us eat. I found newspaper bits in mine.” Dara said as he brought a small box out. “Oh, another thing actually.” he said shaking the box. “Some proper Midlonian Tea also. Spot of Jasmine or something in it I believe.” he said as he looked into the box and sniffed. “Oh, ginger… Hmm, well, anyway. Got a kettle?”

“I do not like that tone of your voice, young man,” Father Corwyll snarled at Dara. Father Pobhairne would not know whether his superior had been kidding or not. Fr. Pobhairne crossed his fingers, hoping that Dara would take it as a joke. “But what I do like, are these,” Fr. Corwyll continued, snatching the wine bottles from Dara’s hands. “Thank you, I will be tolerating your insolence if you continue giving these… perhaps this would befit our dinner later.”

Father Corwyll also took the box and read the label. “Ginger tea? Thanks, but I hate Midlonian tea,” he remarked. “Perhaps Sister Mary drinks this awful-tasting stuff. Or perhaps her dog. Right. Sister Mary’s dog is fond of tea.”

Fr. Pobhairne frowned at Fr. Corwyll’s remarks. “But, Fr. Corwyll, that is ginger tea!”
“Oh yes, right, sorry Seán, I forgot you like ginger tea and all things ginger… including Ginger,” Fr. Corwyll chuckled and gave Fr. Pobhairne a slight nudge. Ginger was the nickname of the girl that the young Seán Pobhairne had a crush on many years ago. Of course, Ginger had a husband now… and Fr. Pobhairne hoped that Jeremy and Dara did not get the jab.

“Let’s go downstairs.”

-----

The breakfast that morning was potato pancake, meat pudding, soda bread, and a choice of hot chocolate or hot coffee. Fr. Corwyll reclaimed his seat at the head of the table, restarting on his half-eaten plate of food. Fr. Pobhairne took the seat next to Sister Mary, leaving two seats opposite them for the visitors.

They started to eat, with Sister Mary leaving the table to fix herself a cup of the Midlonian ginger tea.
“You should eat very well, or Sister Mary will be disappointed,” Fr. Pobhairne told them. “She cooks real well.”

Fr. Corwyll paused from eating. Pointing his fork with a slice of meat pudding speared on it, he asked Jeremy and Dara, “So tell me, why did you want to go to our little island? What do you think you will do here?”