Dawn of the Golden Promise (2 page)

37 Letters

38 Begin to Live

39 The Abomination of the City

40 An Encounter in the Park

41 The Surgeon and the
Seanchai

42 In the Garden

43 A Gathering at Bellevue

44 For the Helpless and the Hopeless

45 These Bright and Shining Gifts

46 Morgan's Star

Epilogue • One Faithful Harp

A Note from the Author

IRELAND

AMERICA

THE KAVANAGHS AND THE WHITTAKERS

THE BURKES AND THE FARMINGTONS

THE DALTONS

OTHERS

For no matter how many promises God has
made, they are “Yes” in Christ.

2 CORINTHIANS 1:20

P
ROLOGUE

This heritage to the race of kings,
Their children and their children's seed
Have wrought their prophecies in deed
Of terrible and splendid things.

JOSEPH PLUNKETT
(1887–1916)

Killala, County Mayo, Ireland
December 1818

T
he winter's day was cold and grim, damp from last night's rain. Owen Kavanagh stood silently at the graveside of his two brothers: Owen's twin, Brian, seventeen, and Baby Dominic, scarcely a year. Both had been victims of the raging typhus epidemic claiming countless numbers throughout all Ireland.

Their wee Dominic had been a surprise to them all, born late, the last of six children. Of the six, Owen was the only one left.

In the village these days, voices hushed at the mention of Peg Kavanagh and the six sons she had birthed, only to bury them all, except for Owen. The deadly typhus had claimed Peg's three sons by her first husband, as well as two sired by her second man, Dan Kavanagh.

It would be up to Owen now to keep the birthright for the family and guard the
Harp of Caomhanach
—the Kavanagh Harp—for future generations. By rights the harp had belonged to Owen's twin, Brian, the eldest by no more than a minute. But with Brian gone, the harp now passed to Owen.

He knew what was said about him in the village, Owen did. That he was as unlikely an heir to the ancient harp as could be found anywhere in the family tree. The villagers knew, as he did, that the Kavanagh harp would not sing again for who could say how long a time. For in truth, Owen Kavanagh took after his father, Dan, who had not a note of music within him, not a note. Indeed, neither of the two had been able to manage the traditional lament over the graveside this day. Instead, they had sent for Tom O'Malley from Kilcummin to come and play.

Owen had known since he was but a lad that he was not suited for graceful things like music and books and conversation. Like his da, he knew only the land, its strengths and its weaknesses, its defiance and its fickle ways. He was a long-legged, long-armed ploughboy who could figure simple sums and write the family names in the Holy Bible, and little more.

He was nothing like his twin, Brian, who had a voice that would charm the birds from the bushes and the bees from their hives. Brian, quick-witted and nimble-footed, who would dance at the crossing until daybreak, just as his uncle, Brian the Older, had been known to do before his hanging.

It would seem there had always been a branch of the bard and a branch of the farm boy in the Kavanagh tree, and there was no doubting which branch Owen had sprung from. But even though he could not pluck the strings and make the harp sing, he expected he was man enough to guard its legacy. And so he would.

One day, perhaps, he would have sons of his own, and when that time came, the eldest would inherit the ancient harp. Owen hoped he would have himself at least one boy from the same branch that had produced merry lads like his brother and his uncle. He thought it would be a fine thing indeed to have a son who could make the Kavanagh harp sing again in his own lifetime.

As he stood now between his parents, his father's hand upon his shoulder and Owen's arm about his mother to steady her in her grief, Owen shed his farewell tears for his two brothers. Even though it was another who strummed the harp and sang the lament which for generations had concluded the burial services of Kavanagh males, Owen reverently voiced each word in his heart:

“My harp will sing across the land,
across the past and years to be.
No loss or grief nor death itself
will still its faithful melody.”

Owen felt his mother's thin body threaten to slump, and he tightened his grasp to support her. At the same time, his father increased the pressure of his hand on Owen's shoulder as the last strains of the Kavanagh lament rose and drifted out, across the graveyard:

“To sing the presence of a God
who conquers even exile's pain—
Who heals the wandering pilgrim's wound
and leads him home in joy again.”

P
ART
O
NE

The promise is for you and your children
and for all who are far off…

ACTS 2:39