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This short short is inspired by one of the originating myths of Northern Irish culture, the boat race and the red hand. My grandmother came from Belfast, as did most of the rest of my family at some point in the last hundred and fifty years, so I find the history of the place fascinating.

But retelling a Northern Irish myth has a bit more baggage than many European cultural tales. My goal was to retell it in a form that feels less distant than a standard "myth", and to put the reader right in the moment. And to do so without straying into political territory. There is no reference to right or left hand, for instance, as one or the other indicates a different "side" in the modern Irish conflict. There is no use of the color orange. Even so, I may have inadvertently stepped on a cultural toe, and that is always the risk when writing of Ulster.

The tale of the Red Hand and the various uses of the Red Hand symbol are sometimes associated with Unionists, but the tale long predates the modern Troubles. In fact, some Irish Catholic societies use the symbol too, though some also complain the Unionists have taken it over for themselves. It is in fact one of the few universal Northern Irish symbols. In addition, this story has competition from biblical myths and tales of giants as the origin of the Red Hand, depending on the source.

Enjoy this brief story about the founding moment of Ulster (cross posted at Red Room.) I find it works well when read loudly to a crowd with a pint of beer.

The Red Hand

One captain, the dark-haired captain with blue eyes, wants to win this race more than the other. The prize is this low, treeless land before them, dominion over it, the right to populate it with their children and grandchildren and to leave their mark upon it forever. Their boats will anchor here. Their men will hunt the giant elk. They will build castles and hold feasts and found clans and defend their claims with daggers and swords.

The boats are close together, so close their wakes intermingle and the oarsman can shout to each other across a narrow strip of water. The prows of the boats are almost even. On the shore, the elders who will judge the contest stand waiting, and the stakes are high for them, too. The winner will be their Chief and he will rule them all.

The dark-haired captain sees his oarsmen begin to fade. He sees the prow of his boat fall behind. His future life as a powerful man wavers as the other captain's boat pulls ahead and the carved yellow serpent which marks its prow reaches its ribbon tongue toward the shore. The dark-haired captain grips the rail of the boat and watches the land rush toward him, and he watches the other boat creep ahead, and with the soft summer wind in his face he makes his choice. He will win.

He removes his sword from its sheath. The scalloped blade catches the shifting sunlight. He kneels and braces his arm against the deck of the boat and raises the sword. Behind him, his young son stands by, watching his father, the future chief. The dark-haired captain, the future chief, the father of this boy lowers the sword with such force as to sever his own hand from its wrist, and the bloody hand falls to the deck, palm up, fingers open. The boy shudders. The father, the captain, the future chief, turns the stump of his arm into his stomach and holds it there to slow the bleeding. He uses his good hand to pick up the severed flesh, which is now red with blood, a bloody hand, a red hand. He rises to his feet and holds the red hand high in the air, and then he reaches back, and just as the boat reaches the sandy beach - just as the other captain begins to climb down from his own boat to reach the sand - the dark-haired captain, the father, the chief throws the red hand to the sand below and claims his chiefdom.

The five elders stare at the bloodied hand in shock, and look up to see the dark-haired captain raise his arm, blood trailing down his cloak, and they know that he is the new chief. This land is his. This land is real. The son watches his father, his chief, in awe. This is the first day of history in this place.

A new feature here at Northern word is "My Life: Fabuloused" in which Susan takes treasured childhood memories and destroys them by making shit up. Because why should James Frey have all the fun.

This is a short fictional piece I wrote earlier this year. It's intent is to capture a sense of the place in which it is set, Coyote Hills Regional Park in Fremont, CA. It's a bit raw, but I'm thinking of taking this into something larger. Photos follow.

    The Babies

    They were born under bald, green hills on the edge of the Bay, under steep red paths to the treeless hilltops, aside flat brown geometries of salt ponds, in distant view of the low arch of a homely bridge.  They stuck close to their mothers in the steady summer wind.  The first few days, in the crook between two hills, the jostling of the herd and the sounds of the other goats surrounded the babies and filled their long ears with comfort, so they could sleep snug under the stars.
    At first the black dogs frightened them and they shook like stringy little leaves.  But the wolves stayed, and after a time the babies understood, the wolves would just orbit the herd, and not penetrate it. 
    The man in the red and green bandana stepped out of his white teardrop trailer and drank a cup of coffee.  He watched the herd, counted the babies, watched the dogs circle around.   Before the sun rose over the hills the wind was light, and the little ones stepped out beyond the protection of the herd. A red and white baby, four tiny white legs, enormous eyes, stumbled this way and that onto the dirt road behind the trailer and stopped in the middle to look east. There was another green hill, two or three wind-shaped trees, and a glittering lagoon framed in living cattails.  The baby's eyes followed the cattails in the morning breeze. 
    The man set his coffee cup inside the teardrop trailer and picked up his aluminum shepherd's hook.  He walked across the grass to the road, where he stood beside the baby, watching the cattails. A mile on the other side of the lagoons he could see square laboratories and warehouses, and a few miles beyond those, Mission Peak, spring green until the rains stop.  The baby, too short to see anything but the cattails and the tips of the mountains, turned and galloped back to her mother. 
    Bushes rustled just down the road.  The man raised his hook above his head, shook it, and shouted in the language of a man who lives alone.  The bushes stilled for several minutes.  He watched the bushes as the black dogs watched the goats.  Finally, a sleek blond cougar crawled away to the farther hills while the babies huddled in the fold of the herd.