Love is my Destiny

Paul Kelly

Description

This fantastic new eBook from well-known author Paul Kelly will make an excellent addition to any fiction-lover's digital shelf. Featuring strong characters and plots which draws you into Kelly's worlds, reviewers have been recommending his titles for years. This latest addition to his catalogue of successes is sure to be another winner.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 22 février 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781781660904
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

LOVE IS MY DESTINY

A FICTION TRAGEDY




By
Paul Kelly

Publisher Information

Love Is My Destiny
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Paul Kelly

The right of Paul Kelly to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.




Quote

“For love is without contradiction. The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river Flow upstream. The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green and the saffron amethyst is a folly ... and no greater love hath any man than that he lay down his life for his friend.
A priest is a man . . . and he can fall in love like any other man, It’s what he does about it that matters . . .
This is a story about the true vocation of the catholic priesthood with the vows that unite the priest to almighty god . . . With particular emphasis on his vow of celibacy . . . And purity of living for god and for God alone . . .




Foreword

Scotland, the Highlands, 1920

It was in the year 1920, in the Scottish Highland village of Bolarne, situated at the foot of Glen Maurkyre, near Shornagh, that Anna waited longingly for the birth of her child. It was early in the afternoon and the sun battled in her effort to shine through the dark and heavy clouds that cast a blanket shadow across the earth, deep into the meadows and scaling the heather-clan mountain region where occasionally her rays would shyly break through. The transformation of her golden touch sparked life into the deep purple and russet heather as it swayed in abandon amidst the thick, coarse highland gorse. This was the nature of the land that Anna loved.
The cottage was dark, apart from the faint light of a paraffin lamp in the far corner of the bedroom. Anna lay in her wooden bed, bathed in the perspiration of her toil; her silken fair hair, darkened and pressed close to her head from the sweat that gave her relief from her pain. Miguel, her husband, watched anxiously by her side, pressing his forehead into the palm of her clammy hand and the village nurse stood by.
“Push, Anna. Push hard lass. It won’t be long now.”
Anna obeyed eager to see the child that had been so long the object of her yearnings.
“Ah! I see the head.”
Nurse Ogilvy’s face lit up as she prepared to perform the delicate duties of her midwifery training.
“Wonderful, Anna ... Truly wonderful. Push lass push,” she urged and within a few painful seconds, a little boy was born.
Nurse Ogilvy took the child aside to wash him, having cut the umbilical cord with caring tender hands, releasing the little one to a world of his own, but her face was less that radiant as the moments passed, for the little boy, although well coloured and breathing, would not cry.
She slapped him gently in the hopes of a sad little echo of a whimper, but to no avail. She tried again, taking care not to forget her patient in her efforts, but with the same result.
“My God, the child is mute,” she whispered and Miguel stirred by Anna’s side.
“Nurse, nurse,” he cried, “come quickly please” and he stood aside in alarm as his wife convulsed into a second spasm of agony.
“What is it Anna? Where is the pain? Tell me?” nurse Ogilvy demanded, but Anna simply smiled through her torment and her eyes were ecstatic.
“Another ... there is another,” she gasped.
Nurse Ogilvy looked from her patient to the husband in confusion as Anna continued to writhe in pain whilst Miguel and the nurse looked on in amazement.
The little boy who had already been born was by now safely wrapped in a warm towel and tucked into his cot, but the little cherub lay still and in silence.
It was nearly an hour before Anna flexed her muscles and strained to bring her twin child into the world and after a last tremendous effort she lay back in triumphant exhaustion. It was at that very moment, a cry came from the nearby cot and Anna’s little one gave proof to the world that he did indeed have a voice.
The nurse took the baby boy from his cot and placed him in his mother’s arms “And the other child ... Please nurse, my other one, “Anna pleaded, as nurse Ogilvy stroked the patient’s damp forehead.
“Rest now, lass. It’s all over now, she said, but the patient continued to mutter, “But the other one, nurse please ... The other one,” she pleaded in distress as nurse Ogilvy sighed ...“Anna, there was only one child. There were never two,” the nurse replied and Anna’s eyes went wide as her lips started to quiver.
“But I ...”
Anna lay back exhausted and Miguel took the child from her arms as she fell into a deep sleep

***

Anna and her husband walked the five miles that it took to reach the Church of Our Lady of Grace, to have the infant baptized two weeks after the birth.
Miguel was elated, but Anna walked with a troubled heart. The joy of her soul was now incarnate in her arms in the form of a humble male child, but her peace was not without disturbance.
“What have ye decided tae call the wee bairn?” the old priest asked, smiling a welcome to the new member of his flock. Miguel looked at Anna and smiled shyly as his wife debated with the name. “Fernando, Miguel, Alphonso Zambrano,” she replied and the priest looked across the top of his spectacles..
“Och, to be sure, ye have enough names there for two wee laddies, let alone one,” he commented affectionately as Anna glanced at the crucifix above the high altar and her eyes were gentle with a renewed peace to her state.
“Yes Father ... enough for two,” she whispered, “enough for two . .”
The little boy cried lustily when the baptismal unction touched his fair brow. It was the cry that would produce the finest voice in the whole of the glen ... and even farther, for he was born to sing as naturally and as beautifully as he grew into manhood, in wisdom and in love.

‘LOVE IS MY DESTINY’ is not particularly a love story, but it is a story of a particular love. If you have never loved ... never REALLY loved ... then you will be wasting your time in reading this narration. For love knows no bounds, no borders, no restrictions in logic, no religion, no colour and no class.
The river of love flows where it will ... That is nature ... That is DESTINY.

Love


Love is truth, love is kind …love is patient; patient of criticism, but defiant of human intolerance.
Love is accepting and forgiving. Love is pure.
Love is the snow-white dove as she pierces the clouds, To rest on the blanch-tipped, heather-clad mountains, The dove that descends to earth, to glide with grace, In the wind that bends the yellow corn.
Love is without contradiction, The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river flow upstream, The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green, And the saffron amethyst is a folly.
Love is swift and straight, as the shaft from the arrow, LOVE IS TRUTH.
When man is visited by the white dove, no explanation is necessary, But to him, whom she visits not, no explanation will suffice.



Chapter One

Seventeen Years Later

THE WIND BLEW low and strong over the earth and the dark purple clouds scurried across the reddening sky like tattered dusters, ignoring the muted protests of the thick Highland gorse and the heavy coarse grass, as it spread its venom, to press the land into subjection. The sound of the wind, so familiar in the Highlands of Scotland was today somewhat foreboding. The wind was afraid.
Fern stood silently in the room where his mother lay. He wanted to cry, but although overwhelmed with grief, there were no tears. The bridge of his nose ached, and his head was heavy; as if someone had punched him hard between the eyes as he gazed through a mist again at the coffin.
Her face was gentle and serene and she was at rest at last, but his mind was fertile with questions ... questions without answers …
“Are you still at school?” A voice from nearby could be heard and as Fern turned around slowly, the priest had put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.
“School … school? Yes, I am still at school,” he replied and the priest could find no more to say, as he gently squeezed the boy’s arm.
“I’ll be around if you need me. Take care,” he said and left the room. Fern remained by the coffin for what seemed to be hours until the undertaker replaced the lid and a dimension of light in his young life went out. He left the room; his mind in confusion.

***

So strange, it seemed that the hills should look the same; that the sun should shine as brightly and that the wind should continue to whistle through the trees. The birds chirped merrily in the hedgerow and in the distance, he could hear the roar of the waterfall. Nothing had changed. Nothing would admit to his mother being with him no more as Fern sighed longingly and walked on with heavy tread. He trudged through the meadow and up into the hills, onwards to the forest where the huge trees darkened the earth with cooling dampness and the sun fought to penetrate in spangled spasms, until after some time, he approached the