nothing.
“Then in last night’s dream, we were in a stone courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. There was blood on the ground. There was the sound of guns being fired, and then I woke up.”
“Well, I don’t pretend to know what it means,” Margaret said slowly. “But there’s a fine museum down at Kilmainham Gaol. That’s where many of the political prisoners were kept during the Tan War and the Civil War. They might be able to tell you more about this Thomas Heaney, if he was IRA.”
Nora reread the inscription on the back of Thomas Heaney’s photo. Killed in action, 1923 . “Do you think he was killed at Kilmainham? Is that why I had that dream?”
“I’ve no way of knowing, do I? But it’s a possibility, I suppose. The Free State executed dozens of IRA Volunteers. O’course, the IRA killed their fair share of Irishmen, too.” She shook her head and glanced up at Jesus on the wall. “A dark, dark stain on our history, if you ask me. And it’s still going on in the six counties, so it is.”
“It seems pretty far-fetched that I would dream of someone who’s been dead for decades,” Nora said, changing the subject. “Maybe you’re right; maybe I saw this photo in Da’s things when I sold the house.” But would she have remembered his features so perfectly from a single glimpse at a photo? Something told her the explanation wasn’t anything so simple.
“Why don’t you go down to the jail and see if they’ll let you have a look at the records? You can find out if he was a prisoner there,” Margaret suggested.
“Maybe . . .” Nora considered this. “But the records might not even be there. You don’t happen to have a computer, do you?”
“Me?” Margaret laughed. “I’m too old for that.”
“Auntie Margaret, you’re not even sixty,” Nora said reprovingly. “But it doesn’t matter. I can go to the library later on.”
“This has gotten you quite tied up, hasn’t it?” Margaret’s eyebrows were knit together.
Nora blushed and got to her feet. “No . . . I’m just interested, that’s all. It feels strange to know so little about one’s own history. Maybe the dreams were just a sign that I should learn about this man. He could be related to us somehow.”
“And maybe they mean absolutely nothing at all,” her aunt countered. “Why would the Lord put such things into your head?” Nora had been wondering the same thing. Margaret patted her cheek. “I’ll say a prayer for you. But don’t let it upset you too much. You’ve had a lot to deal with lately; it’s no surprise your mind is spinning.”
“I won’t. I should get going, though. Thanks for the tea. And the scone was delicious.”
“Ach, not at all, dear. Come and visit anytime. How long are you on this break?”
“It’s supposed to be a couple of weeks. But I might go back early.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here; I hope you know that.”
“I do,” Nora said with a smile. She kissed her aunt’s cheek. “But I’m better off alone just now. I’ll let you know if I find anything more about this Thomas.”
“You do that.”
Nora walked a couple of blocks to the bus stop but then decided to keep walking the rest of the way to the city center. It was an unusually fine summer day—and such weather begged to be enjoyed, particularly in Ireland. Besides, she needed time to think. She kept pulling the picture out of her purse to look at it. She turned it over and over in her mind as she walked, replaying everything she could remember from the dreams, as well as what she knew about the Civil War.
An hour later, she found her way to the public library and logged on to a computer. Her search for “Thomas Heaney IRA” turned up nothing. She scrolled through pages of results, but nothing seemed to match the man and date from the photo. Perhaps her aunt was right, and she’d do best to visit the Kilmainham Gaol museum. She plucked a brochure for the museum out of a stand near the
“Then in last night’s dream, we were in a stone courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. There was blood on the ground. There was the sound of guns being fired, and then I woke up.”
“Well, I don’t pretend to know what it means,” Margaret said slowly. “But there’s a fine museum down at Kilmainham Gaol. That’s where many of the political prisoners were kept during the Tan War and the Civil War. They might be able to tell you more about this Thomas Heaney, if he was IRA.”
Nora reread the inscription on the back of Thomas Heaney’s photo. Killed in action, 1923 . “Do you think he was killed at Kilmainham? Is that why I had that dream?”
“I’ve no way of knowing, do I? But it’s a possibility, I suppose. The Free State executed dozens of IRA Volunteers. O’course, the IRA killed their fair share of Irishmen, too.” She shook her head and glanced up at Jesus on the wall. “A dark, dark stain on our history, if you ask me. And it’s still going on in the six counties, so it is.”
“It seems pretty far-fetched that I would dream of someone who’s been dead for decades,” Nora said, changing the subject. “Maybe you’re right; maybe I saw this photo in Da’s things when I sold the house.” But would she have remembered his features so perfectly from a single glimpse at a photo? Something told her the explanation wasn’t anything so simple.
“Why don’t you go down to the jail and see if they’ll let you have a look at the records? You can find out if he was a prisoner there,” Margaret suggested.
“Maybe . . .” Nora considered this. “But the records might not even be there. You don’t happen to have a computer, do you?”
“Me?” Margaret laughed. “I’m too old for that.”
“Auntie Margaret, you’re not even sixty,” Nora said reprovingly. “But it doesn’t matter. I can go to the library later on.”
“This has gotten you quite tied up, hasn’t it?” Margaret’s eyebrows were knit together.
Nora blushed and got to her feet. “No . . . I’m just interested, that’s all. It feels strange to know so little about one’s own history. Maybe the dreams were just a sign that I should learn about this man. He could be related to us somehow.”
“And maybe they mean absolutely nothing at all,” her aunt countered. “Why would the Lord put such things into your head?” Nora had been wondering the same thing. Margaret patted her cheek. “I’ll say a prayer for you. But don’t let it upset you too much. You’ve had a lot to deal with lately; it’s no surprise your mind is spinning.”
“I won’t. I should get going, though. Thanks for the tea. And the scone was delicious.”
“Ach, not at all, dear. Come and visit anytime. How long are you on this break?”
“It’s supposed to be a couple of weeks. But I might go back early.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here; I hope you know that.”
“I do,” Nora said with a smile. She kissed her aunt’s cheek. “But I’m better off alone just now. I’ll let you know if I find anything more about this Thomas.”
“You do that.”
Nora walked a couple of blocks to the bus stop but then decided to keep walking the rest of the way to the city center. It was an unusually fine summer day—and such weather begged to be enjoyed, particularly in Ireland. Besides, she needed time to think. She kept pulling the picture out of her purse to look at it. She turned it over and over in her mind as she walked, replaying everything she could remember from the dreams, as well as what she knew about the Civil War.
An hour later, she found her way to the public library and logged on to a computer. Her search for “Thomas Heaney IRA” turned up nothing. She scrolled through pages of results, but nothing seemed to match the man and date from the photo. Perhaps her aunt was right, and she’d do best to visit the Kilmainham Gaol museum. She plucked a brochure for the museum out of a stand near the
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