said and deliberately misunderstood it. “Look, you can read every book an’ text on Irish history that was and ever will be written an’ still not get the slightest feeling for it. There are five things ye need to know before you approach Irish history with any real depth of understanding.” He held up four charcoal dusted fingers and one chalk-laden thumb. “First of all ye need to remember that ye are dealing with people, living, breathing, sleeping, eating, laughing, weeping human beings,” he took a breath and attempted to unfurl his tongue, which in any seizure of emotion, his neighborhood and its linguistics took firm hold of. “In Irish history an’ I suppose in any land’s history ye cannot discount the human beings that bled an’ died on the stage of time. Second, an inability to see that the present is merely our past repeatin’ itself with many of the same results an’ as few solutions. Third, that hatred, while a great motivator, tends to get in the way of any genuine progress an’ fourth, an’ this one is perhaps the truest of the lot, we are prepared to take defeat after defeat but we will never accept losing on a permanent basis. We don’t understand the concept. Lastly,” he looked out over the class meeting every eye in turn, “ye need to understand that we are our own greatest enemies, that the Irish have killed the Irish and trodden on their fellow man, have incited hatred merely to maintain a sense of superiority over their neighbor. To the British we are one problem, an’ likely an insignificant one at that, to us they are THE problem an’ in that perception alone lies the reason we cannot bring an end to hundreds of years of rage an’ bloodshed.”
His Muse, green eyes clear and undiluted with admiration, began to clap and was soon followed by the rest of the class. Pat, face red, dark curls slipping out of their bondage acknowledged their tribute with a curt nod.
“You make an impressive orator, Mr. Riordan,” the professor said dryly, “I’m certain your Fenian ancestors would be proud. Now class, if I might beg a moment of your attention, tonight you will be assigned to read pages 300-450 in your text.” There was an assortment of groans and the sound of books sliding into bags amid the general shuffle and babble of a dismissed class. Pat, gathering up his own things realized, to his infinite horror, that his drawings were no longer in the clutch of books and paper. He looked under his chair and on the floor surrounding it, feeling increasingly desperate as several square feet of ground did not yield up the nude studies.
“Looking for this?” asked a lilting voice.
Pat, thinking that his own personal circle in life seemed to be, at present, hell, looked slowly up and met the amused countenance of his muse. She handed him his drawings and he reluctantly took them.
“You’ve a strong, bold hand,” she said, “for drawing that is,” she added as Pat, feeling like he was on fire, turned a beetroot red.
“Aye, well, thank you,” he muttered, wishing she would go away and leave him to drown in mortification alone.
“You’ve a talent there,” she said sincerely.
“Ah, it’s only a bit of a hobby.”
“Have you ever seen Michelangelo’s sketches?” she asked.
Pat shook his head.
“Well I have and these remind me of them, same raw, unleashed talent. Though,” her eyes had a wicked twinkle to them, “it seems you may have a greater love of the female form than did Michelangelo. Oh, by the way,” she leaned close enough that he could smell her scent, vanilla and strawberries, “I’ve got a birthmark on my left hip, I thought you might want to add it in for authenticity.” With that final thought, she left him standing openmouthed, books and drawing instruments puddling around his feet.
“Mr. Riordan you’ll be tardy for your next class,” said the professor in his best uptight teacher voice. “Thinking up more revolutionary
His Muse, green eyes clear and undiluted with admiration, began to clap and was soon followed by the rest of the class. Pat, face red, dark curls slipping out of their bondage acknowledged their tribute with a curt nod.
“You make an impressive orator, Mr. Riordan,” the professor said dryly, “I’m certain your Fenian ancestors would be proud. Now class, if I might beg a moment of your attention, tonight you will be assigned to read pages 300-450 in your text.” There was an assortment of groans and the sound of books sliding into bags amid the general shuffle and babble of a dismissed class. Pat, gathering up his own things realized, to his infinite horror, that his drawings were no longer in the clutch of books and paper. He looked under his chair and on the floor surrounding it, feeling increasingly desperate as several square feet of ground did not yield up the nude studies.
“Looking for this?” asked a lilting voice.
Pat, thinking that his own personal circle in life seemed to be, at present, hell, looked slowly up and met the amused countenance of his muse. She handed him his drawings and he reluctantly took them.
“You’ve a strong, bold hand,” she said, “for drawing that is,” she added as Pat, feeling like he was on fire, turned a beetroot red.
“Aye, well, thank you,” he muttered, wishing she would go away and leave him to drown in mortification alone.
“You’ve a talent there,” she said sincerely.
“Ah, it’s only a bit of a hobby.”
“Have you ever seen Michelangelo’s sketches?” she asked.
Pat shook his head.
“Well I have and these remind me of them, same raw, unleashed talent. Though,” her eyes had a wicked twinkle to them, “it seems you may have a greater love of the female form than did Michelangelo. Oh, by the way,” she leaned close enough that he could smell her scent, vanilla and strawberries, “I’ve got a birthmark on my left hip, I thought you might want to add it in for authenticity.” With that final thought, she left him standing openmouthed, books and drawing instruments puddling around his feet.
“Mr. Riordan you’ll be tardy for your next class,” said the professor in his best uptight teacher voice. “Thinking up more revolutionary
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