Ten black robed nuns with empty eye sockets, dark hoods concealing emaciated faces, laughed hysterically as they danced in a circle around the raging bonfire. Their gangly fingers pointed at Murphy as he screamed for mercy. The more frantically he begged, the angrier they became. “What are ye crying for, ye blabbering boy?” hissed the nuns as flames licked his feet. “This’ll only last a short time, a bitin of pain, but yel have all eternity te burn in hell’s everlastin fires!” More wood was thrown onto the mighty blaze that burned deeply into every bone in his body. His terrified screams could be heard in the next parish. Fighting against the ropes he was saved by waking.
He was five. Next morning would be his first day at school….with those scary nuns! Murphy was terrified at the thought of that first day away from his mother, and stories of the nun’s barbarity haunted him. He’d been told them by his sister Grainne, always eager to discuss every lurid detail. One story she gleefully recalled was about two children, interestingly both boys, who had disappeared one night after being taken away for acts of subordination, whatever that meant. The nuns beat the children mercilessly; cut them into little pieces then sent the parts to the Pope in Rome. And in a few short hours Murphy would be at their mercy! Crawling deeper under his blankets he cringed with fear about the awaiting horrors.
Darkness would soon come. Scores of birds had already returned to the sanctuary of densely leaved trees. The horn from the factory confirmed the end of the afternoon shift. Soon the sounds would reach him of workers panting and cursing as they cycled up the hill. Murphy looked out his bedroom window at the giant poplar trees that stood proudly along both sides of the avenue. They reminded him of old sailing ships with full sails swaying in the mounting evening breeze. Below that was the Dock Road. The factory his father ran stretched down to the towering Ranks flour mills. Because his father was so tall, the workers called him the Longfellah. Murphy was known as the Longfellah’s son. Smoke from the factory chimneys rose, unobstructed, into the sky dark, cold and forbidding. Further over was the dock for ships and the mighty Shannon river that widened sharply near Foynes before eventually emptying itself into the Atlantic Ocean.
A fat moon sat above his house throwing blinding light at him. Resigned to his fate, he lay waiting for the earth to turn so morning would inevitably come. Birds in the trees had fallen asleep. Even the dogs were silent. Downstairs the grandfather clock chimed ten. He vaguely heard the workers moving up the hill.
Murphy thought back with sadness to the good old days when life had been simple. He prayed, “Lord Jesus Christ, save me from the nuns-and please don’t have mother fall out of her bed again tonight.”