iovi statori: the
rachel
branwen
blog

Sunday, June 29, 2008

4. Katherine Ann Kiernan

Caitlin Kitty Kiernan was a local legend in Cahersiveen, Ireland.

When she was seven years old, she had run away from home, riding a horse over fifty miles to the town of Killorglen because her parents had tried to force her to eat cabbage. She hated cabbage. When she was fourteen, she recited an entire Canto of Dante's Inferno from her rooftop, shouting in poor ancient Italian to the fishermen and farmers of her town that had gathered, baffled, to watch the spectacle. When she was seventeen, she had organized, cast, and starred in a local production of The Tempest; when she was twenty, she could be often found in the town square, selling copies of her self-published book of grandiose romantic poetry.

She was beautiful, dramatic, and wild. To the people of her small town, she was something of a comet, and people were always asking "what that crazy Kiernan girl is up to these days." Every boy within ten years of her age was wildly and desperately in love with her and, before the age of twenty-two, she had already received no less than nine proposals of marriage. But, of course, she was going to move to London and take the world by storm; no small-town life for Caitlin Kitty Kiernan. And by the age of twenty-five, off she had gone.

Nobody had heard of her sister, Katherine Ann Kiernan.

Katherine was just a bit younger than her sister. "Kind of" pretty, "kind of" intelligent, but diminutive of stature and painfully shy, she often just blended right into the background. Frequently distracted by the shenanigans of her older sister, her parents all but forgot that they had another daughter. And, small town though it was, people only knew of Katherine as "Caitlin's sister" and she most frequently came up in the context of "Oh yes! I had forgotten that Caitlin had a sister! Is she still living in Cahersiveen?"

Katherine was a novelist, but was, in truth, a less than talented writer. The following excerpt was given to me to read:

“It was a blustery morning, a windy day. The air blew around in swirls. The wind played with curtains and the skirts of bustling women. A man’s trousers lifted up to reveal checked dress socks. This man, deep in thought, was on his way down to walk by the river. But it was a windy, blustery day, and he found himself distracted by the bits of paper blowing about in the windy wind.”

(I reckon that’s enough said about that).

She also worked at the local tailor’s shop where the owner frequently forgot her name. Even though she'd worked there for four years, and was the only employee.

The best part of her day was the afternoon when she would take her dog, Rhinoceros, for a walk, ending up at her friend Julia's house. Julia was in every respect, Katherine's very twin of disposition. It was only in looks that they differed: Katherine was just over five feet tall and frail, with pale orange hair and dark eyes; Julia was five foot nine, large and buxom of body with straw-yellow hair and washed out blue eyes.

Winston gave the following account of their affair:

“I met Katherine a few years ago. My Great Aunt lives inland of Cahersiveen and I was going to visit, so I landed there and decided that, because the weather was especially lovely, I should buy a bike to ride over to her town. I found one in Cahersiveen and set out along the way, but took a wrong turn and, while I was lost, got a flat tire. So there I was, walking my bike down a country lane when along comes Katherine and Rhinoceros. I stopped her to ask if she knew where we were and where I could find a replacement tire for my bike. We began walking towards the nearest village and got caught in a massive thunderstorm, so we turned around and went to her house. Then, she caught a terrible, terrible cold that lasted for a couple of weeks, so I stayed to take care of her. When she got better, it was late Spring, and we spent several more weeks together, mostly walking around the surrounding countryside. But then I remembered that I had to get to my grandmother’s house and, as I then knew my way around the country much better, I left.”

Now, when we were plotting out the ex-lovers to revisit, he thought it would be a good idea to start with Katherine, mild-mannered and shy as she was.

Her house is, as she is, small and inconspicuous. Sat on a shady country lane, it is covered in vines, has a brick chimney, and rose bushes in the front yard. Willoughby and I sat down on the grass by the mailbox on the edge of her property, and watched Winston approach the door with interest and smiles of encouragement.

We didn't see who opened the door, but Winston disappeared through it. Not more than one minute elapsed before the relative silence of Katherine's front yard was interrupted by loud, angry, yelling, the bang of pots hitting walls and the crash of pottery smashing. The front door swung open and Winston rushed out, wide-eyed and holding his head. A small figure came dashing out of the door behind him, spewing a tirade of curses in a rollicking Irish accent, launching a stapler, then a small lamp, then a knife after him.



He ran down the path, grabbed for my hand and pulled me away with him at a full run. Willoughby followed, laughing, behind us.

"So, how'd it go?" I asked, as we bounced along down the road. He looked at me, unamused.

After a quarter-mile, we slowed our pace to a walk and enjoyed the rest of the Irish countryside. The sun was high in the sky, the fields were green, and, in the distance, the ocean was eye-squintingly blue. When we got back to the ship, I looked at his battle wound. Katherine had left a goose-egg almost the size of herself on his forehead, by means of a toaster.

I held some ice to it for him. Apparently Katherine was a very small person with a very large temper. I suggested he maybe write her a letter

When his head and spirits were something recovered, we went on deck to make dinner, drink some wine and watch the stars come out. Ramone was playing his ukelele and Willoughby was plotting his next evil deed to play on Ramone.

next chapter

3. Herman

Now, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you that, in the course of the story, I fall overboard many times. It’s just my clumsy nature and whenever the weather gets a little stormy, whenever the water gets a little choppy--heck!--whenever I’m standing close to the railing period there’s a good chance I’m going over. Thank you, god, for my two left feet and the many adventures they have occasioned.

Anyway, this time was the most terrifying, because it was the first. The water was cold and dark and choppy and as I plunged into it, I was thinking “Great! Here I am, setting off on this great adventure and I didn’t even going to make it to our first port of call.”

Swoosh!

I was sucked into a cold, churning, blackness. Opening my eyes was useless; I couldn’t even tell if they were opened or closed, which was terribly alarming, nor could I tell which way was up or down. I was doomed.

Then, all of a sudden, my head was above water. Something had pulled me up by the hair and was holding me there, suspended, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I groped blindly around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone next to me, and my first thought was that Ramone had somehow hooked me from above. I reached up into my hair and felt the most alarming thing: a fat, rubbery, tenticle.

My eyes went wide with horror.

But then I thought that perhaps, if whatever animal owned the tenticle was going to eat me, it would’ve already smuggled me down to the ocean’s depths instead of preventing me from drowning.

An instant later, another rubbery arm had scooped me up like so much ice cream and lifted me out of the water. I was shivering convulsively. As my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I couldn’t see The Star Dust anywhere. But I did see two, giant, inquiring eyes set into a huge bulbous head right in front of me.

“Are you going to eat me?” I quaked. The bulbous head swung itself slowly side to side.

“Phew! I’m so glad.” Then I heard what sounded like a walkie-talkie.

Bzzcht... “Herman, now’s not a good time to play”...bzzcht... “It’s very windy and Lima Bean must be very cold after falling into the ocean” ....bzzcht.... “could you kindly bring her back to the ship?” Bzzcht.

It was Winston’s voice, but I didn’t understand where it was coming from. Herman blew air out from, well, wherever it is that giant squid blow out air, like a six year old being told that it is not the right time to tumble on the lawn, and started gliding through the swells.

The ship was somewhere behind me, because it still wasn’t anywhere in my line of vision and I didn’t see it until Herman had lifted me back over the railing and Winston received me into a big fluffy towel. Boy was I relieved to have some wood back under my bum! But it was still storming, and the boat was still tossing from side to side, so I leaned feebly against Winston and concentrated on not throwing up.

Herman did a few spins in the water, like a top, frollicked a little to and fro (have YOU ever seen a giant squid frollick?? It’s cuter than you’d think) and sidled back up to the side of the ship. Winston reached his long arm over the railing and scratched the top of Herman’s head.

“That was very good work, Herman, thank you for catching the lady.”

Winston took me downstairs and told me to take off my wet clothes. He gave me warm, dry sheets to wrap myself up in and tucked me into bed.

“I see that this trip is going to require a little taking care of you”

I grimaced, then indicated with my thumb and index finger ‘just a very, very little bit.’ He laughed.

“Perhaps you could have told me that there’s a friendly giant squid spotting your ship?” I managed.

“I was getting around to it,” he said, sitting down, “but I had no idea you were so clumsy.”

“Oh yes, I’m very clumsy.”

“Well, good thing he’s there, then. He’s very friendly; wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s an excellent spotter because when we’re in warmer waters, we dive off the ship in all different directions and he darts around and gathers us up as fast as he can. It’s his favorite game.”

“I see” I said, yawning. That was a pretty mighty, if brief, exertion I had just made.

“There all kinds of interesting characters in these oceans,” Winston went on softly, “I’ll tell you all about them tomorrow."

There was a moment or two of silence, then he stood up, abruptly. He bade me goodnight, and, as my eyes gave in to the weight of my eyelids, I saw him bound back up the stairs.

next chapter

Saturday, June 21, 2008

2. The Star Dust

The Star Dust, Winston’s ship, had seen better days, and those days were probably two-hundred years ago. All of it's various ropes were yellowed, it's anchor woven with thick moss, and it's four white sails frayed. Even so it was an elegant, if small, vessel; for all of its wear, its rich wood surfaces were slick and glittery in the sunlight and it had a buxom, well-carved mermaid on the prow.

Below deck was a small, sparsely decorated living space that consisted of a bedroom, with an attached kitchen, bathroom, and dining area. Winston brought my things down--a bag of personal affects and a couple boxes of books--and helped me arrange them amongst his own.

“Erm, Winston...?”

“There’s only one bed. I’ve already thought of it. Don’t worry, I will sleep on deck with Ramone and Goblin. I often do anyway.”

He didn’t seem terribly put out, but it didn’t seem right that I had invited myself along on his adventure AND I was stealing his bed.

“No, I couldn’t let you. I’ll sleep on deck.”

He laughed heartily. I mean, he doubled over with laughter. Then, he patted me on the back appreciatively, and went up the little stairs that led outside.

His “crew” consisted of a chimpanzee named Ramone and a three-legged squirrel named Goblin. They pushed The Star Dust away from the riverbank where it had passed the last week or so and the five of us--Willoughby came along, of course--headed for the open ocean.



Now, many of the following adventures will involve run-ins with Winston’s ex lovers. This may or not strike you as an interesting topic to explore, but let me assure you: it’s fascinating. The sheer number of girls that Winston had been involved with at any given port almost matched the number of indigenous plant species--and the girls were about as varied in both aesthetics and personality. And his stated intention for this voyage was to make amends with as many as them as he could. I thought it a noble idea, and also, more importantly, likely to produce an exceptionally high rate of excitement and adventure. Can you imagine a more dangerous mission than intentionally throwing yourself in the way of hundreds of resentful women? Okay, so maybe I’m exagerrating the numbers slightly. But just slightly.

We made a plan, as though we were staging a complicated bank heist, ranking our stops in consideration of how many women, and the varying degrees of their expected initial violence and then laid it out on a giant map across the dining room table with pins and thread. There was Alexandra in Western Morocco, Karina in Columbia; there was Cherie in France and Anya in Belgium, there was Em in Malaysia, Kat in Australia and Dessie on Tasmania.

But in Nova Scotia was the girl that would cause us the most problems, a girl named Simone with a vicious temper and such a propensity for cutting insults that even now, thousands of miles and several years away, the mere mention of her name was enough to cast Winston into a despondent, even fearful, silence. They had been lovers briefly, but things ended poorly and he had ended up leaving behind his Parrot, a loving and intelligent African Grey named Rinaldo, a fact by which he constantly felt pained.

We put her at the end of the list. We were still far from the coast of Nova Scotia, in time not miles. Our first stop would be in Ireland, and we were crossing the wide, cold, Atlantic.

Ramone was a remarkably able First Mate, and he had a quite a sense of humor to boot: Willoughby had a bed set up on the deck where he could lay in the sun and feel the fresh sea wind on his muzzle. As soon as Willoughby would get comfortable and start snoozing, Ramone would steer the ship ever so slightly North, or ever so slightly South, so as to shift a shadow back on top of Willoughby. Willoughby, roused from his nap by the chill, would get up, and pull his bed back into the sun, only to fall asleep again, and again wake up in the shadow. It took him at least two hours to realize that Ramone was playing this prank on him. He revenged himself by shaving Ramone’s eyebrows off while he was sleeping. The rivalry only escalated from there, and every day they would each turn up with some new outrageous scheme afoot, or the evidence of some outrageous scheme on their person. Goblin remained conscientiously uninvolved in the feud.

About two or three days off of the coast of Ireland, we hit a storm. It wasn’t a tremendous or terribly blustery storm, but it was windy enough to take up the sails and the swells of the sea became quite large. It was just when the last vestiges of daylight were slipping around to the other side of the planet, and I was clumsily trying to help Ramone tie up one of the sails. There was one piece of rope that I had accidentally let go and it was flailing behind the ship, in the wind; two more seconds and it was going to fly away entirely. Ramone was yelling something to me, but there was so much wind in my ear that I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I reached out six inches farther than I should have, and as I felt the weight of my body transferring to the outside of the railing, felt myself tumbling towards the frozen water below, I finally put it together in my head:

“Don’t worry about that rope; we have another!”

next chapter

1. We Were Pirates

In the end, there were other women. There were tight fists, bar fights, and lies. There were sunk ships, and fat lips. There were indiscretions, insults and a complete loss of dignity. But once, we were happy. Once, we sailed the high seas, we laughed and loved, and took up each other’s arms. Once, we set foot on all nine continents, made babies and concocted schemes.

Once, we were pirates.


**************


It all began in the dawning Spring of a couple years past. I had taken to studying in a under-frequented corner of a park near my apartment. Usually, I could sneak to this park-corner from my apartment, spend the day absorbed in the scholarly works of whatever hermit had caught my interest, and sneak back again without running into another person of any sort. I had become so good at inconspicuity, I began to wonder whether or not other people could even actually see me at all (one of the benchmarks of true hermit-hood is that most regular people actually can’t see you. Except for under very certain circumstances, when the light is just so, and they are abstractly thinking just so, and their eyes focus just so. Otherwise, you could be right under their nose and they wouldn’t even realize! It’s quite a funny thing to observe, but the chances of ever making such an observation are few, given hermits’ distaste for peopled environments). At any rate, I got very used to going unnoticed.

On this particular afternoon, I was reading Astro-Physics & the Mating Habits of Noctural Marine Mammals and Mermen by Camilla Buttersworth and Moby Dick (I hope I don’t have to remind you that Herman Melville wrote Moby Dick), when I noticed a guy swagger over to a nearby tree and fall asleep. Now, as you may have intuited by my description of him--“a guy”--I didn’t take much notice and, after an hour or two, forgot that he was there at all. Several hours later, while ruminating on a particularly delightful passage of Moby Dick, my eyes came to rest on this figure. To my great surprise, I realized that, not only had he awoken, but he was staring at me. I started, fidgeted with the book resting in my lap, and stared intently at the pages so as not to provoke further interest from him. But I had become acutely aware of him and, after some minutes, grudgingly looked past the corner of my book to see whether or not he had turned his attention elsewhere. To my horror, not only was he still looking at me, but he had turned onto his belly and, resting his face in his hands, was persistently--obnoxiously!--staring at me. Greatly discomfitted, I turned my back to him, and weakly whistled to Willoughby.

Willoughby, who is my favorite companion, and also a dog, had expected to be at the park for at least another few hours. He was rolling around some distance away in a patch of newly sprouted clovers. He didn’t immediately hear me whistle, but when he did, he looked plaintive and uninterested. “Going now” he looked at me? “But this is graaaaand!” Since you can’t publicly speak to animals, outside of North Carolina, I gave him my best alarmed and “we have to go now!” look. But it was too late. He had no sooner began a slow saunter towards me, than I heard the crunch of leaves and determined footfall at my back.

“Hi” said a voice behind me. I jumped around to face it. And I must have looked pretty scared, because he--the guy who had been napping under the tree, the guy who had persistantly stared at me, and now was intent upon speaking to me--started laughing, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. Here,” he said, backing up, “I’ll stand a little further away.”

Though I was alarmed, this struck me as comical. He was going to endeavor to talk to me from a distance of four or five feet away, as though we were speaking across an imaginary precipice.

“Do you have a cigarette, by chance?” he asked.

“No, no I don’t”

“Do you know where I might get something to eat around here?”

“No” I lied, “I, uh, don’t eat. Often. Out, I mean”. I’m not usually this conversationally awkward, but, as I said, it had been a long time since I had talked to anyone, let alone unexpectedly, let alone to a boy.

“I’m Winston” He leaned out across the invisible precipice to shake my hand.

“Lima. Lima Bean. I’m sorry for, umm, seeming so alarmed. I was just so absorbed in my book...”

“Lima Bean!” he cut me off, “The Lima Bean?? I’m a terrific fan of your work!”

I looked at him, dumbfounded.

“Err, I’m sorry, you must have me confused with some other Lima Bean”

“Not at all, not at all! I’ve read your reports from the Hermits’ Convention, all of them! Then, I did some investigating, asked some friends, and got ahold of some of your poetry as well. It’s really very good! I might go so far as to say you’re a genius. I’ve wanted to meet you!”

Willoughby trotted up and sniffed the stranger with interest, who immediately leaned down and began scratching him behind the ears as though they had always been friends. And, from the grin on Willoughby’s face, you really would’ve thought that they had. I was, at the least, curious about this fellow; Willoughby was already in love. There’s nothing like a good ear-scratching to sway Willoughby into very deep love.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“Winston. Winston D. B. Oliver Zwinton”

It is hard to recapture the innocence and strangeness of a first meeting with a person you have later known intimately, but I will, at any rate, do my best. He was tall and extraordinarily handsome: well-proportioned, with a mess of black hair, Atlantic-blue eyes, a rosy complexion, deep dimples and strong, well-formed hands. He wore heavy rings in both of his ears, a bandana around his neck, and almost every part of his body that was visible, was tattooed in thick black strips. He was handsome in a rugged, weathered way. Handsome as a bird of prey might be, or a very large coyote. Or, say, a pirate.

“I think I’ve heard of you, too, actually. The terror of the Seven Seas.”

“Ah, my reputation precedes me” he said knowingly, almost bashfully.

I had, at a Hermits’ Convention, heard talk of him. A hermetically-affiliated Don Juan of sorts, who was notorious, not for romancing women, but for breaking their hearts. He would love them, sort of, and sail off abruptly, leaving behind a intercontinental rash of scorned women and fatherless birds.

The hermits’ interest in him was manifold. The child of rather hard circumstances, he had grown up wild, but searingly intelligent. And while they weren’t sure what would become of him, his vagabond ways and emphatic resistence to everything ordinary made him natural kin to the hermits,who looked on, often bemusedly, often alarmedly, as he bumped through his complicated and rocky life.

To be perfectly honest, I had developed a lurid curiosity about him at the Convention and was pleased that he had run himself into me at the park. As I understood it, he was a man of incorrigibly bad behavior, adventures, misadventures and excitement; he was a real life pirate! But, as any stealth journalist, I curbed my enthusiasm.

“How long will you be in town?” I asked

“A few days, I think”

“Would you like to have dinner with Willoughby and me?” I offered. Willoughby looked smilingly up, wagging. Winston nodded.

We cooked and laughed, and slowly warmed. We drank wine and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes on the fire escape. I showed Winston some of my recent writings, and got a few fantastic stories out of him. Like the time he had to scale an impossible cliff, beat a Spanish fencing genius in a duel, wrestle a giant, outwit a Sicilian, and trek through an unsurvivable swamp in order to save a princess.

Just kidding: that’s obviously the Princess Bride. But his stories were--and I make this statement carefully--as good. We fell asleep mid-conversation, side by side, as innocently as children, and when we woke up in the morning, my mind was made up: I begged him to take me with him on his next sailing adventure. As I had recorded the Hermits’ Convention, I wanted to record the Adventures of Winston D.B. Oliver Zwinton. I was bored with being a hermit. I wanted to be a hermit-slash-pirate.


next chapter

Thursday, June 19, 2008