Free The Young Rebels by Morgan Llywelyn

Ardmháistir is angry about it.
    My father works in the department which has responsibility for things like suppressing newspapers, I’m ashamed to say.
    Sometimes I pretend I’m an orphan. I almost am. My only happy memories of home date from the time when Mam was still alive and well. Is it possible that our house was a cheerful place then? I like to think it was, but maybe my memory is playing tricks on me. Maybe it was just Mam who was cheerful, and myfather was always … No. I don’t want to think about that.
    The other boys have gone home for Christmas but I am still here. My father sends the money for my fees, but otherwise I am dumped like a dog dumped in the street. Since he’s so set against Irish nationalism I’m surprised he leaves me at St Enda’s. I suppose he’s never made any serious enquiries into the nature of this school. It’s enough for him that someone’s willing to take me off his hands.
    Meanwhile the Great War – that’s what they’re calling it now, since there has never been a conflict on this scale before – has bogged down in the trenches. The papers tell horror stories of mud and blood and ice all mixed together. Roger must be desperately worried about his brothers. I pray for them every day in chapel.
    A most strange thing has happened.
    On the Western Front the ordinary soldiers in the trenches declared a Christmas Truce of their own without permission from the generals. British and German soldiers met between the lines and exchanged jam and cigarettes. The generals are furious at their men for taking matters in their own hands.
    If no one was willing to fight there wouldn’t be any wars.
    But what can one do when one’s country is attacked?Or dominated by a foreign power?
    I’d like to ask the Ardmháistir but he’s out for the day, attending a meeting of the Irish Republican Brotherhood , another nationalist organisation to which he belongs. It’s a secret society. I would not know anything about the Brotherhood if I had not overheard a conversation between the Ardmháistir and Willie.
    I don’t earwig on purpose. I simply have a gift for being in the right place at the right time, and if interesting things are said within earshot, I can keep very still.
    The Ardmháistir has left Willie in charge today. ‘I’m relying on you to help me mind the place,’ Willie says to me.
    ‘I will of course!’ I can see myself marching bravely down to the front gates to stand on guard with my wooden rifle on my shoulder, like one of the policemen outside Dublin Castle.
    Willie Pearse is following in his father’s footsteps as a monumental sculptor. He has fitted out a studio here with his father’s old tools and equipment and has received several commissions. Since I’m the only student here now, he’s invited me to come along and have a look. It’s a great honour. Willie’s very modest about his work and shy about showing it to anyone.
    As I open the door to the studio I’m surprised to see other people already inside. Just then the stone dust inthe air makes me sneeze. When I open my eyes again, the figures I mistook for living people are statues. Two large figures in marble are destined for churches down the country. One is the Dead Christ, the other, the Immaculate Conception. Every detail conveys Willie’s reverence for his subject. There are a number of studies of children, too. Laughing boys and pretty girls and one tiny wee infant tenderly cradled in adult hands. All are so lifelike I expect to see them move.
    ‘Why, these are amazing, Willie!’
    He ducks his chin and looks embarrassed. ‘Not at all, not at all.’
    ‘But they are, they’re beautiful. I didn’t know you were so good.’ I immediately bite my tongue. That sounded insulting.
    Willie doesn’t take offence. ‘I learned the basics in my father’s studio, then studied at the Metropolitan School of Art in Dublin and in Paris as well, for a while,’ – his voice takes on a dreamy tone – ‘that