Free Leon Uris by Redemption Page B

waned.
    “Master Harkin,” she said one evening late.
    “Larkin, ma’am, Conor Larkin.”
    “You always seem to be the last one to leave.”
    “I hope you don’t mind, ma’am. Mr. Lambe leaves me one of his horses to ride home.”
    “What is it that you find so awesome in this tangle of iron?”
    “It was the masterpiece of Jean Tijou, the greatest man who ever put a hammer on a hot piece of iron.”
    “You know about this screen? Its history?”
    “Aye. It’s legend. I mean, the legends are really old schanachie tales. Our schanachie, Daddo Friel, he’s near blind now…. Anyhow, he told me about this screen for hours on end.”
    “That’s fascinating. Care to share your secrets?”
    “Oh, you know how it is. Most schanachie stories are pretty wild…they shoot them past you like comets. Just old stories.”
    “I insist.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “I insist.”
    “Well, it might not be to your liking.”
    “I insist.”
    “It is an utter paradox,” Conor said, “how the most beautiful work of its kind could be used for the most cruel…”
    “Go on. I was born in Belfast. I do know my Irish history.”
    “During the insurrection of seventeen hundred and fifteen, a local rising, the earl at that time imprisoned three hundred and fifty women and children behind the screen as hostages. The rest is not too important.”
    “They died?”
    “Something like that. Probably a faerie’s tale.”
    “Yes,” she said rather harshly, “the schanachies can be frightful liars. Anyhow, Londonderry seems to be filled with tales I’ll need catching up on.”
    Conor’s cheeks turned crimson. Daddo Friel does not lie, he thought angrily! And it’s not Londonderry…it’s Derry .
    “Well, perhaps some day in the future, when you are older and have earned your ironmaster certification, you can work on a full restoration of the screen.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he replied without enthusiasm.
    “Anyhow, just make certain it doesn’t fall down on Lord Churchill’s head.”
    Oh, if it would only collapse and squish Randolph Churchill like an ugly bug, Conor thought.
    “You see,” she said backing off a bit, “Lord Churchill is very important….”
    “I know who he is. He’s no friend of Charles Stewart Parnell.”
    Conor and Lady Caroline had nothing to say to each other after that. However, once or twice a day, and sometimes even more often, there was a direct look from one to the other and sometimes it lasted for several seconds.
     
    Conor Larkin’s dearest friend, Seamus O’Neill, was born as an afterthought, the scrapings of the pot. With a family of more than enough O’Neill men to work their fields, young Seamus had a childhood of exceptional leisure. For an Irish mother, no greater pleasure in life could come than spoiling the youngest son. To his credit, Seamus did not spend his time creating mischief as hemight, but rather enriching his everlasting and deep and monumental friendship with Conor—who was also his hero, because Conor was destined to become a great republican fighter like all the Larkin men and particularly Conor’s grandfather Kilty, God rest his soul.
    When the new national school opened in Ballyutogue for the villages around, Seamus talked his parents into letting him enroll. Being one of three Catholics in a roomful of Protestants and being the runt of the litter had its disadvantages.
    Although the teacher, Mr. Andrew Ingram, was a Scottish Presbyterian, he was an enlightened man who would tolerate no bigotry within his eyesight. Mr. Ingram was fast to realize that Seamus was his best student and supplied the boy with books that would otherwise be inaccessible. Moreover, he tutored Seamus to fill the boy’s longing to become a writer.
    Seamus had protection outside the schoolyard if he could make it to Mr. Lambe’s forge close by. When chased, he would scurry to his eternal friend Conor for help.
    Finally, the boys made a pact. Seamus would teach Conor to read and write and