O'Donnell's Boneyard
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A cold autumn sun, orange tinted, slipped toward its bed in the sea while dusk clung by its fingertips to the cliff tops of Northern Ireland. The lighthouse at the western end of Rathlin Island tested its beam against the fading day and the mournful calls of curlews rambled aimlessly down the wind. Thudding against the darkening sky, echoing and bouncing along the towering cliffs of black basalt with the energy of a late summer storm, thumped the irresistible beat of the bodhran. Maria Burke hurried to its rhythm, dodging little fingers of the sea that scurried onto the sandy path running along the base of the cliffs. The bodhran beat a wild rhythm that jigged across the foam-flecked sea: Thud-thud-da-da-thud- "If he’d do a little less thumping and a bit more work," Maria thought aloud, out of breath, "he wouldn’t be in constant trouble." Her long-legged, bare-foot strides carried her across rivulets and around smooth black rocks that humped out of the sand. Only when she saw him in the distance, sitting on a rocky ledge looking out to sea, did she slow her pace. He saw her coming and the best great faster – Thud-thud-da-da-thud- "There you are," he shouted, waving, never missing a beat, "and did anyone ever tell you that you look like Princess Diana, what with your blond hair streaming and your long legs--" "For the love of God, Kevin, stop beating that infernal drum for a sec--" "It’s not a drum; it’s a bodhran, and it helps me think and relax." "Well, it does nothing for my nerves." He tossed the doubled-headed beater high into the air and caught it with the grace of a majorette. "Okay. Would that be food you’ve tucked away in that wee basket?" "Aye, but you’re not getting a blessed bit till you tell me exactly what you’ve accomplished here, and when McKensie can expect a report." "McKensie who?" "Stop it, Kevin! This is serious." "All right. What’s in the basket?" "Shepherd’s pie, scones and tea." "Ah, good. I’ll get the stove for a warm-up." He went inside the cave entrance and returned with a small portable stove. Next he brought out two folding camp stools. Supper was soon warmed and served as they huddled around the stove while scores of gulls fluttered about their feet, squawking for a handout. "You’ve spoiled them," Maria said, "and they won’t give us a minute’s peace." "Aye, you’re right," sharing his meal with the raucous, quarreling birds. When the food was gone the gulls flew away and a dusky twilight settled over the water. The Rathlin Island light flicked its steady warning. "Is your report nearly finished, Kevin? McKensie is really angry. You asked him to cover your classes for a few days but you haven’t been back in weeks." Maria spoke softly, between sips of tea, looking at Kevin’s tousled dark hair and crinkly smiling face. "Where do you wash up here?" "In the ocean. And the report is finished except for a few details." He looked out to sea. "I just don’t know what to make of some of my data." "What’s to make? The National Trust is paying half your salary to classify bones, so classify and be done with it." A long silence. "It isn’t that easy. I think there’s something more important than classifying bones in that cave." He hesitated. "I don’t think I want to talk about it just yet." Maria arched her eyebrows, tilting her head in that shy manner. "What is it? The cave is a typical neolithic burial cairn. They’re all around us. You just happened to find one with bones." "I know." "Well?" "It’s not the cairn, it’s the skulls. Would you like to see?" "Not on your life. That place gives me the willies." "The willies? Now isn’t that an interesting scientific term for a psychologist to use?" "The willies, the creeps, the pip – have it any way you want. What shall I tell McKensie?" "Did he send you?" "Of course not, but he knew I was coming." "Tell him I’ll be back on Monday." "Thank God. Now what’s so important about those skulls?" "You’ll be one of the first to know," he said. "Know what?" "I’ll think about it." "Well, McKensie must have a report. The National Trust is on his back. What will you tell them?" "Oh, they can have their report. That’s no problem." "Then what is the problem, Kevin," – beginning to lose patience – "you speak in riddles sometimes and I can hardly understand you?"
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About the Author
Seamus Thompson was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and received his early education there. He received his B.A. from Wagner College (New York), his M.A. from Teachers College, Columbia University (New York), and his Ed.D. from the University of Florida. He taught in the Florida public school system and served on the faculties of the University of Florida (Gainesville), Indiana State University (Terre Haute), and retired from the University of South Alabama as Professor Emeritus. Upon retirement, he settled in New Port Richey, Florida. He continued to write both nonfiction and fiction until his death in 1997. He wrote three nonfiction books, Instructional Communication (Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1969), Beyond Words: Nonverbal Communication in the Classroom (Citation-Scholastic, 1973), and Practical Basic for Teachers (Charles E. Merrill, 1985). O’Donnell’s Boneyard, is one of several fiction books that were written and never published during his lifetime.