Excerpt from my novel FATE

                                                         

                                                            The Lure of the Unknown

       Hypnotic in his feelings, Emmet knew he was getting tired of life ... sometimes tired of being scared. He tussled with himself, a whirlwind of emotions demanding their say, replaying conversations and cherished moments in his mind, angry at the unfairness of it all. Still, when needed, he found solace in believing that his parent's spirits would always be part of him. The faces of those he had known flickered in and out of focus. He recalled the times of doubt, the many times he felt so alone. Whether bright or dark, each memory formed an integral aspect of his consciousness, a complex imprint that defined his identity when recalling the euphoria that once raced through him. The deep sense of isolation wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, squeezing his thoughts and feelings with a force that felt both crushing and unavoidable. Every second spent alone stretched on forever as the silence grew louder, echoing his own insecurities and fears. This all‑consuming loneliness gnawed at his spirit, leaving him lost and adrift.
       Emmet Meagher sat on the waterfront, the wind tugging at his coat and the sea thrashing against the pier. Thoughts of his dead son, Marcus, a boy stolen too soon by the cruel hand of fate, pressed against him like cold, relentless waves. And yet his mind wandered backward, to a time when that boy had not yet been born, to the months when Fiadh carried life within her, round and full, a promise shimmering beneath her skin ... when love was not a word but a heartfelt truth. Memory and anticipation meshed together, twisting through his chest, a force echoing what had first drawn him to Fiadh years before. This interplay of nostalgia and expectation reminded him of the depth of his feelings for her and ignited a fierce desire to reconnect, to bridge the gap that Death had opened.
       He thought of the violent ways life had carved its path through his family, of the deaths of his parents on the same day. And he thought of the boy who was coming, moving inside Fiadh as if already aware of the world that would greet him. The juxtaposition gnawed at him, grief for a life lost, hope for a life just beginning. His thoughts turned to God, to the paradox of divine love that promised forgiveness yet allowed suffering to prevail. How could a God who claimed to create man in His likeness stand by while such heartache was handed down? And yet here he was, caught in the 50/50 dilemma, half surrendered to the inevitability of death, half clinging to fragile threads of life, hope ... and Fiadh.                                                                          
       She drifted through The One‑Legged Whaler each day like a ghost, haunted by the same memories that tormented her husband, who now faced his loneliness even in her company. Emmet often sat on the waterfront, staring toward the place where his mother had been blown off the pier, memories of that day stabbing him like a hot iron. Thinking on the violent deaths of his loved ones, he found himself rejecting the very notion of a God who created man in His likeness. A deep sense of betrayal festered within him. If God had created man in His image and subjected him to suffering for his humanness, aware of humanity’s destructive nature, then God Himself must accept responsibility for the chaos allowed. A violent God, a violent man.
       Caught between certainty and uncertainty, Emmet felt the weight of the 50/50 option pressing down to let life take its course, or take matters into his own hands through his so‑called free will. His mind raced, questioning the divine paradox. A God of love who demanded acknowledgment of sin yet allowed grief and cruelty to flourish unchecked. The death of his son, Marcus, tore away any neat moral order, leaving him tangled in doubt and sorrow, the why me gnawing at him.
       Each day, he wrestled with the idea of divine blackmail, conditional love disguised as mercy, holding the human soul hostage. But what of the soul? Could true freedom lie in accepting human imperfection, in seeking forgiveness of God, of others, of oneself, without condition? Emmet Meagher was a hurt man. He remembered his mother, Cara, speaking of a God of mercy and love, a God to revere and fear, depicted in the mosaics of Revanna where she grew up, in awe of artists who had seen God well enough to place Him and His saints upon church walls. The Prodigal Son and forgiveness had echoed through his childhood, instilling hope even when life stripped hope away. Now those stories loomed less spiritual, more painfully human, a cry into a void that sent back no answer.
       He considered surrendering to death by his own free will, seeking escape from relentless mental and physical anguish, a burden compounded by the pressure to prove himself daily to Fiadh, to be the man she married. A man, he told himself, should remain stoic, conceal vulnerability, and endure without judgment. The memory of his father, Marcus ‘Rebel’ Meagher, rose like a tide, their spirits entwined with wind and salt ... now he was a man's man. Hands that had steered him through early whaling days, lessons of resilience and honor, of navigating sea and temperaments alike. Emmet could almost feel his father’s presence on the pier, alongside his son Marcus, Happy‑Boy, as the men of The One‑Legged Whaler called him. His father’s words lingered like driftwood given to the currents... 
 ''Remember, boy… good and wickedness are twin‑born and never seen apart. Hatred is nothing but a self‑punishment that will pull you down. Move around the 50/50 choice and survive in this hard, cruel world of our own making. Those are lessons learned the hard way on the bolt. Think of Alexander Pearce ... he chose the 50/50 on the bolt and paid for it with his life.''
       Fiadh no longer wanted to hear Emmet’s playful mating ‘wolf cries’, those sounds of affection that once bridged their hearts before young Marcus was taken by the Holy Relic. Now her own cries for help filled the silence, distance, and unspoken grief widening daily, turning husband and wife against each other in blame. Emmet punished himself with relentless what‑ifs, possibilities swirling like storm clouds. Black days drove him toward the 50/50 option when he could not reach Fiadh. White days offered a brief reprieve, moments when he felt his parents and son beside him on the waterfront. Their memories comforted and deepened his loneliness at once, a paradox that left him haunted and consoled.
       The faces of those he had known flickered when the sleek greyhound appeared and stood watching him ... just watching. He realized then that a greyhound is a runner by nature. So was he. So was his father.
       And there was Fiadh ... the first love of his life, his once‑steady female energy, the part of himself he could not expose. He felt the electric thrill of first touches, the softness of her voice, the warmth of her skin, the entwining of fingers known only in bed. The excitement of young manhood, intoxicating and bewildering, the bittersweet purity of first love caught in a whirlwind of feelings that can shape understanding of relationships and self-identity ... was like a step into manhood for Emmet.
       Fiadh’s anxiety surged when she accompanied Emmet to the waterfront to board The Lilly White for a three‑month hunt for the sperm whale. As Emmet walked slowly, stretching his time with Fiadh, the pallid sun tried to hold back rain forming on the horizon. Two‑year‑old Mark tugged at his hand, eyes bright with curiosity, oblivious to his mother’s unease. Towering masts, bobbing ships, port smells, the cries of gulls competing with men’s voices drifting across the water. Emmet smiled, pride swelling as he approached the whaleboat that would ferry him to the schooner, showing off his pregnant Fiadh. The Irish‑green stripe on The Lilly White’s hull gleamed after its fresh coat of paint ... a statement of Irishness and sacrifice. Fiadh’s hand slipped into his, grounding him, reminding him how proud she was to be his wife.
       On their last night before Emmet's departure, they lay awake in the quiet intimacy of their bedroom. Emmet felt Fiadh’s breath against his neck, the swell of her pregnant belly ... a life made from love ... and the gentle kick of the unborn Marcus, a pulse of reassurance. The candle flickered low as the weight of separation pressed down. Fiadh traced the lines of Emmet’s face, memorizing him...
 ''Promise me you will stay safe ... promise me?''
Emmet did not answer. He could not promise. She knew that.
       He lifted Mark onto his shoulders for a better view of the ships, twirling him in delight, while Fiadh placed a hand on her womb, the kicks more persistent that day. Emmet gazed at The Lilly White, heart swelling, and said with a small, steady smile...
 ''Look, Fiadh … is she not beautiful, the second woman in my life that will keep me safe in her busum?''
       The schooner bobbed gently in the bay, men with calloused hands greeting him with respect … a ritual of acknowledgment that also echoed his father’s time out of respect for the Meagher name. The sun dipped low, casting an orange hue across the horizon, but Fiadh knew the sun would rise again, even on bittersweet days like this one. He could see The Lilly White bobbing gently in the water, her crew already assembled on board. Some of the Irish crew members wore a small token of their Irish heritage, a shamrock home-made pin or a knitted green scarf by a loved one, solidifying their bond to their Irish roots and an island in the North Atlantic Ocean. 
       With The Lilly White's hull freshly painted with that well-known distinctive strip of Irish green color painted along her side that his father, Marcus 'Rebel' Meagher had applied when he became skipper in making the statement as to who he was and in remembrance of his brother, the fifteen-year-old boy who died on Waterford pier, trampled to death while trying to stop a British gun carriage from entering Waterford City. This 'Irish Green' was more than just a paint job. It was a bold declaration of his heritage and freedom, a defiance to everything British. It was a tribute to his struggles on the bolt from Van Diemen's Land and to his fellow Irishmen who had fought for freedom and justice.       
       Even in grief, even in the depths of his despair, Emmet recalled the tenderness of love. That sleek greyhound now lay down quietly, its once-proud stance replaced by a serene stillness. This moment struck Emmet as a powerful symbol, a sign that the greyhound was choosing to remain by his side, even in its stillness. Fiadh, and two-year-old Mark at her side, pulling on her hand, the unborn Marcus shifting restlessly in her womb, she was apprehensive. Emmet could see her anxiety, feel it as it mingled with his own. Yet there was the warmth of connection, fleeting yet unyielding, a tether holding him to life despite the darkness. At that moment, he remembered the thrill of their first love, the electricity of Fiadh’s hand in his, the soft cadence of her voice, the intoxicating awareness of their shared passion ... he will bring it to sea with him. But he also saw her on the pier that day, standing proud, anxious, loving ... he will bring that too. He looked at Fiadh, and he whispered ... not to her, but to the air, to the unseen forces of fate and God alike ...  '
 ''Stay safe, all of you. Stay safe. I will be coming home.''   
Fiadh stood there on the waterfront, watching Emmet and his first mate row out to The Lilly White, the small boat cutting through the shimmering surface of the water. The splash of the oars of the two men echoed in her ears. The sun hung low now in the sky, casting a last orange hue across the horizon. That heavy sadness filled her heart, mingled with a sense of self-denial about the possibility that each hunt that Emmet undertook might be his final one. The unpredictable oceans he would cross with their turbulent storms and merciless waves, as the wind started to whip up, as Emmet had predicted, as a man who knew about these things, to move on the tide.        
       Yet, the comforting lie Fiadh told herself … that Emmet was invincible … offered solace and that God Himself would protect him and bring him home regardless of what Emmet would say. Young Marcus stirred within, a reminder of the life continuing even as the uncertainties of the sea awaited him ... and a carved whalebone.          
       And Emmet, gazing at the horizon now felt the 50/50 choice pressing gently … inevitably … against his mind and soul. Life or death. Action or surrender. Hope or despair. And through it all, the heartbeat of his family, the pulse of the sea, and the lingering echoes of his parents from that place unknown kept him tethered to the fragile thread of existence. 
       That greyhound lay down his head. Its sleek, muscular body relaxed as it settled into a comfortable position. The dog's expressive eyes, often filled with a keen intelligence, now closed softly, signaling a moment of tranquility. Young Marcus gave Fiadh a gentle nudge from her womb, also feeling her nervousness, and Mark, who was lost in the new awareness of separation from a father, started to whimper. 
 ''Conclusions often occur when we tire of thinking.''
Is what Emmet said to himself when he started to make his way back to The One-Legged Whaler.

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