Song of the Silent Harp Read Free

go. And not as a silent harp, but as a voice. A voice for our people. The Harp of Caomhanach will be our emblem of freedom, an unchanging reminder of God’s presence with us and His promise for us: a promise that one day we will be truly free. A free Ireland, Grandfather.”
    Silence hung between them. When Conal finally spoke, his voice trembled as violently as his hands, causing Eoin’s heart to wrench at the pain he knew he had inflicted. Gone was the challenge in the old man’s eyes;instead, there was only sorrow.
    â€œDo what you must do, then, Eoin. I will only caution you this one last time, for soon I will no longer be with you to dampen that fiery spirit you possess.”
    Eoin stared at him. “What do you mean, Grandfather? Of course, you will be with me.”
    Conal shook his head. “No, lad. I’m old, and I’m ill, and I’ll lay my head down for the last time on my own sod. As Drogheda has been my home, so will it be my tomb.”
    Stunned, Eoin moved toward him, but Conal stopped him with an upraised hand. “I do not fear those stone-faced zealots, lad. With what can they threaten me? Death?” He made a small sound of laughter. “They cannot threaten a sick old man with heaven, now can they?
    No,” he said, again shaking his head slowly, “I do not fear death, so long as I can die in Drogheda.”
    When Eoin opened his mouth to protest, Conal ignored him. “But as for you, if indeed God has spoken to you, then of course you must obey.”
    Tears scalded Eoin’s eyes, and he quickly lowered his head to hide them.
    â€œCome here, lad,” Conal beckoned him kindly. “Come here to me now.”
    Eoin went to him. Standing with one hand behind his back, the other steadying the harp on his shoulder, he suddenly felt very much the child Conal had accused him of being.
    â€œIf indeed you are leaving, Eoin, you must leave now. Go by the river. Use the opening in the cellar, behind the stone. Go up the river, not down, where the ships are. Swim until you find a boat. Go tonight,” he said, his voice urgent, “before the moon rises.”
    â€œBut I can’t—”
    â€œYou must!” The old man clutched at Eoin’s arm. “There’s a sack of coins beneath the cellar floor—take it with you. Hide it somehow; you may need the gold later, to buy your safety.”
    Conal paused, then tugged at Eoin’s arm to draw him still closer. “If you believe with all your heart the words you have spoken to me, Eoin, that the harp is free to sing, then let it sing for me this one last time. Sing a lament for Conal Caomhanach, whose spirit has already departed the land and waits for his flesh to follow.”
    Eoin stared at his grandfather for a moment. At last he eased away from Conal and turned, knowing the old man would not wish to see the tears that now spilled from his eyes. Steadying the harp, which some long-dead ancestor had hollowed from a single block of willow, he slowly began to pluck the strings.
    He sang in a voice still boyishly high. He sang for his grandfather, and he sang for himself.
    â€œMy harp will sing across the land across the past and years to be.…”
    Eoin’s voice caught, and he had to stop and swallow hard before going on.
    â€œNo loss or grief nor death itself
    will still its faithful melody…
    To sing the presence of a God
    who conquers even exile’s pain—
    Who heals the wandering pilgrim’s wound
    and leads him home, in joy again…”

 
    P ART O NE
SONG OF SORROW

The Hunger
    Â 
    They who are slain with the sword are more fortunate
than they who are the victims of hunger.
    L AMENTATIONS 4:9 ( AMP )

1
Daniel
    Write his merits on your mind;
Morals pure and manners kind;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.
    W ILLIAM D RENNAN (1754-1820)
    Killala, County Mayo (Western Ireland)
January, 1847
    E llie Kavanagh died at the