Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Children of the Cromlech
    Children of the Cromlech
    Children of the Cromlech
    Ebook140 pages1 hour

    Children of the Cromlech

    By John O'Neill

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Three young Irish growing up in the unromantic Ireland of the 1930's... As children they meet around a secret Druid's stone for illegal smokes... They follow very different paths, but later their lives reconnect in surprising ways when the Stone is destroyed and the village is bitterly divided... At last, however, they all find their own hard-won enlightenments.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn O'Neill
    Release dateMay 6, 2012
    ISBN9781476382524
    Children of the Cromlech
    Author

    John O'Neill

    About the Author John O’Neill is a retired Naval Commander of the Royal Australian Navy who served most of his time as a Submarine Engineering Officer. Those years provided him with a range of experiences that were at times tense, but mostly of achievement. He served as the Submarine Staff Officer in London during the IRA terrorist days and the build of the remaining Oberon Class Submarines for Australia. Upon retiring from the Navy, he joined the Swedish Submarine builder Kockums to build the Collins Class Submarine in Adelaide South Australia. John holds a master’s degree in Business and Technology from the University of New South Wales. Seven Long Steps To Paradise is John’s third book, the first two being Kafira, and Two Crowns. John was awarded the Order of Australia Medal in 2009.

    Read more from John O'neill

    Related to Children of the Cromlech

    Related ebooks

    Cultural Heritage Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      By the RIVER’S EDGE

      Mar 22, 2023

      By the RIVER’S EDGE
      9 min read

    • Article

      Plot 4b

      Jun 27, 2018

      Plot 4b
      3 min read

    • Article

      Too BAD

      Aug 30, 2022

      Too BAD
      6 min read

    • Article

      Nugrybauti

      Apr 24, 2019

      Nugrybauti
      8 min read

    • Article

      The Way Things TURN OUT

      Jun 3, 2020

      The Way Things TURN OUT
      7 min read

    • Article

      Meet The Metal Meowlisha

      Feb 2, 2023

      Meet The Metal Meowlisha
      4 min read

    • Article

      The PROMISE

      Sep 8, 2021

      The PROMISE
      9 min read

    • Article

      All Of Us Here

      Jun 4, 2020

      All Of Us Here
      6 min read

    • Article

      AUNT MAUD’S SECRET Part 1

      Sep 1, 2021

      “WHAT! SERIOUSLY?” “Settle down, Martin,” said Ms. Phelps as she poured herself a second mug of coffee that morning. She sat down at the kitchen table, gently blowing on the steam. “Aunt Maud is so excited about her visit and really looking forward

      6 min read

    • Article

      Jørn ‘Necrobutcher’ Stubberud

      Sep 16, 2021

      ‘Necrobutcher’ Stubberud is an extreme metal lifer. Aside from a three-year period in the early 90s, the 53-year-old bassist has steered the Norwegian icons since founding the band in 1984. Today, he’s the band’s longest-serving member, weathering th

      5 min read

    • Article

      Lost and FOUND

      Oct 14, 2020

      Lost and FOUND
      6 min read

    • Article

      You Gotta Be Kitten Me!

      Feb 24, 2022

      You Gotta Be Kitten Me!
      2 min read

    • Article

      Monster

      Dec 1, 2022

      Monster
      7 min read

    • Article

      Yodel-ay-eee!

      Dec 28, 2022

      Yodel-ay-eee!
      6 min read

    • Article

      Fleet Street’s finest

      Oct 15, 2019

      Fleet Street’s finest
      6 min read

    • Article

      Beep Beep Yeah

      Feb 13, 2022

      Beep Beep Yeah
      6 min read

    • Article

      Marco

      Mar 1, 2022

      THE ALLEY STANK . Marco could feel the damp soaking into his tunic as he pressed his back against the wall, trying to seem like part of the shadows. He cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He knew if he stayed out after dark they might f

      6 min read

    • Article

      The Big Black Box

      Jan 31, 2023

      The Big Black Box
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Big Black Box

      Jan 31, 2023

      The Big Black Box
      3 min read

    • Article

      Trent Dalton On Heroes And Hope

      Sep 13, 2020

      THE HEROES NEVER changed form. Always flesh and blood; arms and legs and beating hearts as wide as this country. It was the villains who kept morphing on me. I once thought the bad guys all dressed like Darth Vader. Then I learned that the villains i

      8 min read

    • Article

      In The Spotlight: Your Writing Unreliable Narrator

      Jan 4, 2024

      We weren’t a bit surprised that we had our smallest postbag yet for the call for submissions on the theme of Unreliable Narrator, inspired by the brilliant article by Taboo co-creator Chips Hardy in the December issue. It’s a challenging theme – it’s

      5 min read

    • Article

      Magic martin

      Oct 6, 2022

      Magic martin
      4 min read

    • Article

      Magic martin

      Oct 6, 2022

      Magic martin
      4 min read

    • Article

      Knocking Up A Fence

      Feb 16, 2022

      Knocking Up A Fence
      3 min read

    • Article

      MY DINNER with JUPITER

      Aug 29, 2023

      MY DINNER with JUPITER
      7 min read

    • Article

      The perfect HUSBAND

      Mar 1, 2022

      The perfect HUSBAND
      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Children of the Cromlech

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Children of the Cromlech - John O'Neill

      Derrynavrone, 1936

      1.1

      Life is full of surprises, thought Jamesy Rooney, in his befuddled state as the noose into which he had stepped in his own front yard jerked tight around his ankles and threw him to the ground. Surprise turned to cold-sober terror as he was flipped on his face and his hands trussed behind his back. It was close to midnight and there was little light other than the oil lamp which he had left burning in the kitchen window when he went out to the pub. He inherited the habit from his mother, God rest her when she used to send him out reluctantly to the dances but, now as then, it was little use. He could make nothing of the three attackers but they were more nimble and quick than he had been for years.

      ‘What.. what’s this?’ he croaked. ‘Who are ye? What do you want?’

      There was no answer as they opened his coat and waistcoat and pulled them down over his hobbled arms.

      ‘Is it money ye want? Sure I never keep a penny in the house and you’re welcome to whatever is left in me pocket.’

      The only response was the tearing of his shirt as it too was removed and he was turned roughly on his face on the gravel yard. Bess, the sheepdog, he noticed, sat close by and looked interested.

      Then came a burning pain across his back and another and a flurry of blows. ‘Good God,’ he thought, ‘They’re flogging me,’ and then he screamed but there was none to hear him but the attackers and the bitch. Even in his pain he could not help thinking she was enjoying the reversal of roles. The torture went on until his upper body was red and raw, front and back. He was moaning now, sobbing and pleading to the horribly silent trio.

      They stopped at last, moved away and after a few words, two left through the farm gate. The leader came back and stood over him. Jamesy was lying on his back now and, even in his pain, the bleating stopped when he saw the mysterious stranger take a knife from his pocket and open the gleaming blade. Leaning over Jamesy, he moved the knife toward his trembling belly and held it in plain sight for a moment, then quickly slipped the blade under Jamesy’s leather belt and sliced it open in one movement. Jamesy was silent now, paralysed with the nightmare of an approaching horror. He screamed again as the blade sliced down the front of his trousers, baring his shrunken genitals to the cruel world.

      At last, his tormentor spoke. Bending down close to Jamesy’s face he growled as if searching for his voice.

      ‘Jamesy,’ he said quietly, ‘You won’t forget me, will you? I’m Martin Finlay, son of Willie Finlay, and you know us well. You won’t let on a word of what happened here tonight because you know it’s your poor useless balls I’ll have if there’s a next time. And you won’t let on because of what the whole parish, the priests and the guards will find out about you if there is anything to investigate. Do you hear me, Jamesy?’

      ‘Not a word, not a word. Just let me go now. That’s all I want,’ he blubbered.

      Martin stood and with measured force kicked Jamesy three times in the balls.

      ‘Leave,’ he said. ‘Boys,’ he said. ‘Alone,’ he said and bending down close to Jamesy’s ear, he added, ‘Especially young Joe Minogue.’

      Martin deftly cut the cord around Jamesy’s wrists, patted the dog on the head and disappeared into the darkness.

      1.2 The Stone

      Two boys ran through the village, passing the church and pub, up the mountain road and turned into the ‘Quarry Field.’ Looking quickly about them, they plunged into an overgrown copse of gorse, briar, and shrub oak that strangely survived in one corner. They crouched low, twisted and turned along a path designed by and for small animals to a tiny clearing containing one great rounded stone.

      Martin, the older, reached in underneath, retrieved a tin container, took out one of two cigarettes, plain Woodbines, and a box of matches. He lit the cigarette, inhaled and held it deep, and handed the cigarette to Joe who drew it down in daring emulation, then exploded in a fit of coughing.

      ‘Hush, will ye,’ Martin whispered. ‘There’s something out there.’

      Joe smothered his cough and they listened for a time.

      ‘Probably a fox,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I saw something red.’

      Martin took back his cigarette and they sat quietly.

      This was now a schoolboy routine of theirs but soon to be ended. Living on the same road, they often walked homeward from the village together. An unlikely pair but good friends, Martin was big for his years and older, on the point of leaving school and already working for the farmers round about when he could find a job. Joe was younger by two years and small. He couldn’t wait for the growth that those who knew the family promised would come on him.

      They sat companionably upon The Stone, the silence of the small world about them broken only by occasional, discrete and familiar sounds: voices from the village and the thump-ding-ding of the blacksmith’s hammer on the soft-iron horseshoe and the ringing anvil.

      Joe idly traced the shape of the shallow basin in the top surface of The Stone and one of the channels radiating out and down to the nearly vertical edges.

      ‘Old Mrs Nolan told me this was a Druid’s Stone, an old altar thing. The teacher in school told us that it’s a cromlech. They used to sacrifice animals on it, lambs and chickens… even children, she said. Do you believe that, Martin?’

      ‘Ah, no. Sure they’re only pishrogues the old ones have to keep us out of here.’

      ‘And why would they want to keep us out? What harm are we doing?’ asked Joe.

      ‘I don’t know – yet,’ said Martin, ‘but we’ll find out, won’t we, when we’re older – like everything else.’

      ‘So what is it then?’ Joe persevered.

      Martin tired of this conversation. He leaped on The Stone, undid his buttons and pissed a stream into the basin that flowed down the several channels to the ground.

      ‘There now,’ he said. ‘Maybe ‘twas a Druids’ pisser.’

      As Martin buttoned up, Joe said, for the sake of something to say, ‘Remember I was telling you about old Jamesy Rooney acting funny, always feeling my muscles and opening my shirt?’

      Martin didn’t look up. He hesitated, then asked casually.

      ‘Yeh, I remember. Is he still...funny, then?’

      ‘Funnier than ever,’ said Joe. ‘He doesn’t even look at me any more and not a word out of him. He even crosses to the other side of the road if I meet him. Now, that’s strange, isn’t it Martin?’

      ‘People do strange things. If that’s the way he wants it, Joe, just leave him to it. You don’t want anything to do with him anyway. So everything is fine, eh? Come on now, I’ve got to check my snares. Fourpence each, the rabbits these days and plenty for the taking.’

      The boys went back the way they came, parting company in the patter evolved at school following the lessons on the Spanish and Abyssinian wars now in the news.

      ‘See you tomorrow, Martin,’ says Joe.

      ‘Abyssinia,’ is the clever response.

      ‘Haile Selassie’ says Joe and as he headed for home, ravenous for his dinner, he thought how lucky he was to have Martin for a friend and his favourite dinner of potatoes roasted in the ashes with lashings of butter and salt ready and waiting.

      * * * * * *

      Later in the

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1