Part I: The Flood of 1937
Part II: The Legend of Liam “Green” O’Leary
The little Eveready flashlight struggled to cut through the drizzly darkness. “Frank! Louis!” I cried. But the forest remained dreadfully silent between my calls.
“How in the hell did this happen?” Russ fumed. “I thought you were supposed to be keeping watch?”
“I was, Russell,” Maynard said, peering at the muddy trail in the lantern light. “When I woke Walsh up, he said he needed to hit the head before his shift. Maybe I heard some rustling here and there, but there’s rats in the still shack and everyone’s been tossing and turning all night. When I heard you call for Louis, that’s when I realized everyone was gone ‘cept you and Aurora.”
“Well how would they have gotten past you?”
“I don’t know! Unless there’s another way in or out of this cave…”
“If there is, I’ll bet Frank knows about it” I said. “He’s the biggest rat up here.”
“You’re sure ‘bout that, are you?” A voice growled from behind us. Frank Walsh limped up the trail, holding a bright electric lantern. “Y’all sure do like to talk about me when I’m not around.”
“Where in God’s name have you been?” Maynard demanded.
“Looking for your precious children,” Frank sneered, tossing a bag onto the floor of the cave. “I was on my way back to the cave when I heard you and Russell shouting. I figured if anyone was comin’ or goin’, they’d have taken the trail. Walked all the way down to the boat. It’s still there an’ so is everything we left behind.”
“Did you see any sign of them?” I pleaded.
“Not a damn thing. Though I think the person you should be askin’ is right over there.” Frank said, pointing the beam of the lantern at the young coastie.
“I’m sorry?” Maynard replied, shielding his eyes from the light.
“I’m sayin’, they should be askin’ you how ‘n hell did three kids and an old woman disappear with you sittin’ right in front of ‘em?”
“Through here!” Russ called from behind us. We all turned to see him shoving aside the pile of corn sacks and other junk. Underneath was a wooden hatch.
Frank stood stunned as we all ran over to the hidden door.
“Did you know about this?”
“I…well, no,” Frank stammered,” but I can’t say I’m surprised. Makes sense the bootleggers would have a hidin’ place for when the pro-hees came snoopin’.”
Russ opened the hatch. The hole beneath was large enough for a good-sized man to enter easily, and it smelled strongly of something sour. He carefully leaned into the hole, lowering the lantern as far as he could reach. “How far down does it go?” Maynard asked.
“Not too far. Ten feet, maybe? There’s a bunch of junk down there. But…it looks like it might go back further.”
Russ pulled himself back out of the hole, coughing from the dust. “We need to go down there. Why don’t Frank and I go, and Rory and Maynard can keep looking up here.”
“Shit, I ain’t going down there,” Frank protested.
“Why not? Are you scared? Afraid Green O’Leary’s down there?”
“Now you listen here, you little–”
“Enough,” Maynard said. “I agree, though, you two should be the ones to go down there.”
“Oh, so then you can be alone with your new sweetheart?”
“That’s not–she’s only fifteen, Frank. And it was Russell who suggested–”
Frank gritted his teeth. “And I’m not suggesting, I’m tellin’ you, son, that I ain’t goin’ down there.”
“And I sure as hell ain’t leavin’ you and Rory alone together. At least Maynard can see she’s just a child…”
“Hey!” I interjected.
“And you’re no man either, Rusty-boy,” snarled Frank.
“I’m man enough to do what I have to, to save my family,” Russ scoffed. “Besides, ain’t you s’posed to be some kind of hero?”
Frank whirled on my brother, his nose inches away. “I ain’t scared, kid. But I also ain’t stupid.” He yanked the kerosene lantern out of Russell’s hands and shoved his electric one into it. “Maynard, give Aurora your flashlight,” he continued. “If them two want to save their family, they’re gonna be the ones to do it. But if someone did take them, they didn’t get in this way. So we need to find the other entrance.”
The coastie opened his mouth to protest, but instead gave a curt “Yes, sir.” Frank grabbed his bag and walking stick and limped off into the night. Maynard cast a resigned glance over his shoulder as he shouldered his own bag and followed.
Russ and I, meanwhile, stood at the hole in the floor of the cave, peering down into the darkness.
“Why do you think he won’t go down there?” I asked Russ quietly.
Russ shrugged. “Maybe he knows somethin’ we don’t. I know he’s been up here before.”
“Do you think it’s a trap?”
“Hard to say. I reckon we’ll know soon enough.” Russ said, gathering up a length of rope from a nearby crate. “How well can you climb a rope?”
“Well enough I ‘spose.”
Russ tied the rope to the corner of the still shack and tossed the rest down the hole. I heard a soft thud as it hit the bottom. “I’ll shimmy down first and make sure it’s safe.”
“And what if it isn’t?”
Russ shed his coat and dug deep into his haversack. He pulled out a ball of socks, which he unraveled to reveal a small pistol.
“Where did you get that?” I hissed.
“Uncle Henry’s. He gave it to me not long ago.”
I wondered if it was true that he was “given” the little revolver, but I decided not to press the issue. Russ tucked the gun into his belt, to which he also clipped the electric lantern. He gave the rope a couple of sharp tugs, then slowly lowered himself into the hole. It didn’t take long to hear his feet scrapping the rocks at the bottom.
“What do you see?”
“A bunch of trash. Crates, bags, broken jars. But…yeah, there’s another passageway. It’s alright, come on down.”
It was in times like these that I wished I weren’t a girl, because shimmying down a rope in a dress is no easy feat. At four feet off the ground, I elected to let go and hope for the best.
Thankfully, I landed true, though Russ had to stop me from going tail-over-tea-kettle on the uneven ground and empty burlap sacks. I brushed something gritty and sparkling off my hands.
“What is this? Looks kinda like salt.”
Russ rubbed some between his fingers, then touched some to his tongue. “You’re right,” he spat.
“Are you sure?”
“I think I know what salt tastes like, Aurora.”
The pungent vinegar odor that we’d caught whiffs of earlier in the cave was much stronger here, reminding me of the old pickle barrel at Martin’s. We crouched to inspect the low crack that split the earth ahead of us. Several dozen yards ahead, an unknown light source emitted a soft orange glow.
Russ had no issue crawling on the coarse stone in his dungarees. As for me, by the time we reached the far side, the knees of my stockings were long gone. The glow resolved into a flickering light emitting from a second entrance above us.
Russ tentatively peered into the opening above us. “Not as high as the other way in,” he whispered. “I think I can pull myself up, if…”
“If what?” I replied.
“Well…do you think you’re strong enough to give me a boost?”
“I think I can manage,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
I locked my hands and hoisted Russ upward as he leapt for purchase. It took a few tries, but he eventually scrabbled up and over the lip of the hole. I waited for him to turn and reach for me. And waited.
“Russell…”
Finally, his face appeared above mine. “Sorry,” he said, extending his hand.
Instead of a natural cavern, this new space was obviously man-made. The room was circular with walls of rough-cut stone blocks. There were two arched entrances on opposite sides, each with a lit lantern providing some light. A third opening breached the center of the low domed ceiling.
Russ shined his light up at the shaft above us. “Looks almost like we’re in a well.”
“Some well,” I said.
“Do you think…” He paused.
“Think what?”
“That this is the well that Frank was talking about? In the story?”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I mean…look around us, Rory.”
What I saw were stacks of bottles, sacks of sugar and salt, crates marked with what I thought might be military designations. Then I saw the mildewed canvas bags piled near the left entrance.
“My God, Russ…is that…is that gold?”
My brother lit the bags with his lantern, picking up one of the many yellow coins. “Pretty sure,” he replied, giving a low whistle.
“It belongs to Mr. Toad.”
We whirled around in unison. From behind a nearby stack of crates emerged a young girl. She was filthy, tear tracks cutting through the dust on her cheeks. Despite her appearance, I’d have known her even if she’d been dyed blue and covered in feathers.
“June! Oh my God, Junebug…how did you end up down here?” I scooped her up into a crushing hug, then let go immediately, checking her over for injuries.
“I…I don’t rightly know.” She said, wringing her hands. “I think…I think I was left in here by accident. I woke up in that sack–” She pointed to a discarded burlap bag on the floor–”and then I…I hid.”
“I’m just glad you’re alright.” I stared deep into her tired brown eyes. “You said the gold belongs to ‘Mr. Toad.’ Do you mean the man we saw on the roof back in town?”
She nodded hesitantly.
“Have…have you seen him before?”
June looked at the ground, rocking on the balls of her feet the way she did when she got a scolding from Momma.
“Junebug..it’s ok to tell me everything.”
“Y–yes,” June finally whimpered. “At Uncle Henry’s. A–a few days ago.”
I feel a hard knot form in my gut. “Is he the one that took Louis and Douggie?”
She hesitated, then nodded again.
The knot rose higher. Russ, standing behind June, nodded and mouthed O’Leary.
I gave him a skeptical look but continued on. “June…can you tell us where we should go from here? Which way did they take them?”
For a third time she nodded, pointing to the left passage.
“I’ll go,” said Russ, striding towards the tunnel. “You stay here with her. It’s not safe.”
“Neither is facing whoever’s down there alone. There might be more than one person.”
“And if so, what are you going to do?”
I reached into my boot and pulled out a large knife that my daddy had given me after the incident before Christmas.
“I can gut a pig, skin a buck. Can’t be that different, right?”
Russ boggled. “Oh. I ‘spose you’re right.”
I turned back to June. “Listen, Junie, and listen good. I need you to hide just like you been doin, you hear? If we don’t come back, you run out the other way, fast as you can.”
June just stared at me. I worried that she might be in shock.
“Do you hear me, June?”
She nodded once again.
“Good. Go on, now.”
I rejoined Russ at the passage entrance as June climbed back behind the piles of treasure. Russ clicked the lantern off, and we eased our way silently through the near darkness. There was a faint light growing stronger, flickering from around a bend in the tunnel ahead. The air was thick with fumes, acrid and metallic. Peeking around the corner revealed a small oil lamp, burning low on an overturned pail just outside of an ancient wooden door. It was cracked slightly, and I could hear noises and shuffling on the other side.
Russ crept up to the door, peeking through the gap. A few moments later, he stumbled backwards, face twisted into a look of abject terror.
“Russ! What is it?” I rasped, rushing forward. I feared that he would cry out and reveal our presence, being in such a state. I pushed him aside and pressed my own face to the crack in the door.
On the other side was a large room made of the same crude sandstone block. I couldn’t see to my right, but the flickering light and sound of boiling water suggested a fireplace. In the center of the room was a circular stone well, next to which stood a table holding several large crocks, each covered with a flat stone.
However, it was what was on the left side of the room that caused me to question my sanity. On a heavy wooden table, wet with blood and bile was a carcass not of an animal, but of a person, reduced to not much more than bones and unidentifiable viscera.
In front of that unholy scene was something that was not a man. It was clad only in tattered overalls, showing pebbled skin nearly the same color and texture as the room in which it stood. It stood on bowed legs with long, splayed toes, hunched over the body before it like a butcher making his choice cuts. On the floor nearby were piles of dirty clothes and many large, metal buckets full of scrap meat and bones. From the closest pail jutted the crown of an elderly woman’s head, curly gray hair matted with red.
A shadow crossed in front of the door, and I nearly lost my balance. The second creature was similar to the first, except skinnier and lighter in color. It picked up the bucket of what remained of Ms. Griffith, gibbering something unintelligible to its cohort. Then it turned towards me.
It might have walked upright like a human, but the face was that of a familiar creature far removed from that of a man. Two huge, amber eyes protruded above its flat, warty head and gaping mouth. Its fleshy throat expanded and contracted as it breathed through tiny nostrils.
I covered my mouth to stifle my screams. My God. June was right.
Meanwhile, the “toad-man” dumped the contents of the pail into the stone well, then ambled out of sight. I returned to watching the first toad-man, the butcher, scoop scraps of meat into a pan which it, too, carried to the center of the room. But instead of the well, it lifted a stone from one of the crocks and tipped the red flesh inside. The second creature reappeared with a steaming kettle of some cloudy liquid and added it to the meat. The acrid smell of hot brine hit my nostrils like a sucker punch. It was only then that I noticed the rows and rows of jars on shelves, lining the entire wall at the far side of the room. Each jar was full. Various bits of meat and entrails. Fingers. Tongues. Eyes.
They were pickling people.
The butcher toad returned to collect the clothing from the floor. A small shoe fell from the pile. It was a shoe I immediately recognized. I backed away from the door, tears pouring down my face as my mind and body attempted to retreat from the horror of it all.
“No…no no no…oh God, please, no, hot him, not him…”
“Rory?” Russ asked pleadingly.
“D-Douggie…I..I think…those things, they…”
My brother’s face went from concern, to horror, then finally to rage as the realization hit him. Before I could protest, he was wrenching open the door so hard I thought it would come off of his hinges. Bellowing like an angry bull, he charged the toad-man closest to him, firing three shots directly into its hideous face.
The reports echoed deafeningly in the confined space. They were immediately followed by a horrible, croaking shriek, then much clattering and shouting. I pulled myself through the door into the abhorrent room.
The cellar was in chaos. One of the creatures lay spasming on the floor, dark blood spurting from its ruptured eye. Its shrill cries of agony were joined by the angry hissing of the butcher toad. On the other side of the table of crocks was Russ. He brandished a boning knife in one hand, his other dangling at his side, sleeve soaked in red.
“Come on!” he grimaced. “Come and take me like you took my brother, you ugly bastard!” I saw his gaze flick to mine, then back to the creature’s. Then he turned and fled, bounding up a staircase behind the fireplace I hadn’t seen. The toad-man screeched and leapt across the room, clearing the well and center table with ease. In a few more bounds, it had disappeared up the stairs after Russ. I made to follow but tripped, rolling into a pile of sacks against the wall.
One of the sacks was full. And it groaned.
Ignoring the pain in my knees and wrist, I drew open the sack, then furiously ripped it away from its contents. Louis lay before me, alive but unconscious. I shook him several times, but he remained still. Hooking my arms under his and gritting my teeth, I began dragging him as fast as I could from the cellar, his heels dragging as I backed out of the door.
We had just cleared the threshold when I backed into something. Or someone. I stumbled backwards and strong arms caught under mine. For a fleeting moment, I knew that Maynard had found us at long last, and that he had rescued Russell and June and we were going to escape this hell of a place once and for all.
The face I saw when I looked up, however, wasn’t Maynard’s, or Russ’, or even one of the toad-men.
“Woah, there, sweetheart,” Frank Walsh cried as he raised me up from the floor. “What’s going on in there? Is that Louis?”
At that moment I let go, the terror and grief that filled me flowing out like the mighty Ohio. “Oh God, Frank, it’s so awful, all of it.” I sobbed, heaving myself against his chest. He wrapped me in his arms, and I didn’t resist. He was the closest thing I had to safety, and I clung to him like driftwood in a storm. “Louis, he’s…he’s alive, but…Douggie…and Russ…I don’t know where…”
“Oh Miss Carmichael,” Frank whispered, pulling back to hold my chin in his hands. My hot tears ran down onto his dirty fingers. “Don’t you worry none. I’m gonna take care of this.” He put his palm on my cheek, and tilted my head up so that I was gazing into his pale blue eyes. Perhaps there was a time, long before a hard life and bad decisions had done their damage, that Mr. Walsh might have been nearly as handsome as Maynard. He smiled warmly, and without thinking, I smiled back. Then he shoved my head as hard as he could into the sandstone wall.
White hot stars burst into a gray fog of agony as I dropped to my knees. His boot connected with my ribs, forcing the air from my lungs as I rolled across the rocky floor.
“You know somethin’ I ain’t never told no body?” His voice sounded hollow and distant, like we were underwater. “I never meant to save those men. Hell, I was just tryin’ to find a way out, an’ they got lucky enough to find me. Me, well…I always get lucky.”
I tried to focus on him, but everything was blurry. My head throbbed and my ribs burned. “I did my part…acted the hero, faked a broken boat, got y’all up here to the ol’ Driscoll place. After that, I’d let my boys take over and collect my reward.”
I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down with his foot. “Then everything went to shit. We lost the witch in the landslide, damn near lost your sister. At least I had one less coastie breathin’ down my neck. Maynard might look the part but he ain’t no problem any more. Like I said, lucky,” he chuckled, rolling me onto my side.
“The ol’ hag wasn’t ever gonna be an issue. Neither was your smart-mouthed older brother.” Rough twine was wrapped around my wrists. He jerked the knot so tight I thought I’d lose my hands. “I put a lil’ something’ in the soda pop for the kids– they were out cold when I left, heh. Made y’all think I was still on your side, made you think I was drunk. It takes more than a lil’ flask o’ shine to light me up.”
I forced my eyes to open a little. Frank stood above me, leering at me predatorily. He crouched so that his face was level with mine. “They’s lookin’ for children, and pretty young women. All the gold in that room back there’s just a nice lil’ bonus. But they said I could keep you,” he added, grabbing my face and yanking it roughly towards his own. “I think that’s a mighty sweet deal, don’t you, darlin’?” He pressed his mouth to mine, my scream of revulsion muffled by his lips. He pulled back, then slapped me hard across the cheek. I saw stars again. “Looks like we need to work on your manners, Ms. Carmichael. But we got plenty of time for that later. Right now, you just sit tight while I take care of this mess.”
No sooner had he stepped towards the ancient door at the end of the tunnel, it slowly creaked open. Into the dancing glow of the oil lamp emerged the silhouette of the man in the dirty long coat. He stood unmoving, facing Frank and I.
“Who the fuck are you?” Frank demanded.
The strange man drew back his hood and began to unwind his scarf, revealing scaly skin colored a dark mottled green. His mouth stretched freakishly across a wide head that sat directly on his shoulders. Wisps of greenish hair framed his face like a beard of corn silk. Removing the goggles, he blinked at Frank with bulbous, glassy eyes like a fish.
Frank gaped at the monstrosity of a man in front of him for a moment, then reached for the pistol in his belt.
Before he had time to aim, the thing June had called Mr. Toad snapped open its gaping maw. A long tongue cleared the 15-foot distance between them, ripping away the gun and a long strip of Frank’s flesh in a flash of pink and a spray of blood.
The wretched excuse for a hero howled in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching his mangled hand. The creature spat the revolver off to one side, then toddled bow-legged over to where Frank starred up from the floor. With the kick of a draft mule, Mr. Toad’s powerful leg and boot struck him full in the chest, sending him flying backwards. There was the thwack of flesh and bone meeting stone, and Frank slumped to the ground, leaving a streak of crimson on the wall behind him.
Then Mr. Toad’s bulging eyes met mine. His rubbery lips curled back to reveal rows of tiny sharp teeth as he advanced towards me. I tried to scramble backwards, to bend my leg enough to reach the knife in my boot. The creature chittered excitedly, anticipating the coming kill.
“Please, no…” I begged, fresh tears dripping onto the dusty floor as its mouth opened wide.
CRACK! A gunshot reverberated down the tunnel, and I was sprayed with a dark red mist that erupted from the creature’s shoulder. Two more cracks followed, one missing, one striking its arm. It shrieked and whirled around to face the new threat.
Louis stood there, shakily holding Frank’s revolver. He squeezed the trigger again. Another bullet grazed Mr. Toad’s face, whose wicked tongue narrowly missed my brother’s head.
Seeing my only chance, I sawed at the rope with the knife I’d managed to finally slide out of my boot. Thankfully, my daddy had shown me how to keep it nice and sharp, and it cut through the thin cord easily. I heaved myself from the floor and, with a primal cry, I launched myself at the monster. With both hands gripping the handle of the knife, I drove it down onto the creature’s head with every ounce of strength I had left. The hide and bone were tough, but my will and momentum were enough to push the blade deep into its skull.
We both collapsed to the floor, the toad-man gurgling then silent. I rolled over its corpse and lay next to it, all of my energy spent.
“What the hell…?”
I raised my head feebly. Standing in the door of the cellar was Russell. His shirt was spattered with blood and something black and viscous, and his sleeve had been torn off to wrap around his injured arm.
He and Louis hooked their arms under mine and pulled me up. “Come on, we have to go,” Russ said.
As I rose unsteadily to my feet, I caught sight of black smoke wafting out of the door from the pickling room. My brothers and I shuffled hurriedly down the dim tunnel towards the well room.
“Is there a fire?” Louis groaned as he pushed me forward.
“There’s a lot of shit down here that can burn, and burn fast,” Russ said, “So let’s get a move-on.”
June was already waiting in the well room. The four of us entered the second passageway, having to feel our way along the walls until a dull light became visible ahead. We emerged through a half-open doorway and into the purple glow of dawn.
Maynard was just outside, propped against a boulder. His bleeding head was wrapped in a strip of undershirt. I rushed ahead, dropping my knees and throwing my arms around him.
“Careful,” he smiled, wincing.
“Are you alright?” I unwound my arms from him and gingerly lifted the makeshift bandage from his matted, blood-and-dirt-caked hair.
“I could be better, but I’ll live.” Maynard groaned as Russ and Louis lifted him to his feet.
“We have to get away from this entrance. Now!” Russ urged.
Smoke began to curl out of the doorway behind us. We stumbled down the hillside in the near-dark, Maynard’s old Boy Scout flashlight guiding our way.
Something boomed like cannon fire behind us. The ground shook, and a second, more powerful explosion followed. Smoke and flame billowed up from the hilltop above like a volcano. We paused our retreat to view the spectacle, our stunned faces lit by the blaze.
“My God…” said Maynard.
“Good riddance,” muttered Russ.
* * *
What happened next is a bit of a blur. I know it sounds cliche, but I had been through so much in those 24 hours–not the least of which was severe head trauma–that you must excuse me for ‘spacing out’ as the kids say these days.
We were rescued by a Coast Guard ship that came to investigate the blaze, and taken to the field hospital near Lafayette. Maynard and I had both suffered concussions, his rather serious. Russell had a large gash on his arm that required many stitches, as did Louis’ head from the landslide. June had some mild frostbite on her hands and feet. All of us were covered in bumps and scrapes, and I had at least one cracked rib. Thank the Lord for morphine.
On the second day, some official-looking men questioned all of us individually. Of course we didn’t tell them the full story. Who would have believed us? It was rather simple to place all of the blame onto Frank and the men who’d apparently planned to either kidnap or kill us. As expected, June’s mention of a “Mr. Toad” was easily played off as a scared child’s imagination running wild.
After our interrogation, our parents were finally allowed to see us. We cried together over our losses, of our home and our poor sweet Douggie. The next day, I was cleared to be released, but I stayed a few more days as the others mended.
Maynard, who’s first name I finally discovered was George, came to visit before we left the field hospital. We thanked him for his part in our rescue, though he lamented that he’d spent much of our ordeal unconscious. He had not seen the toad-men for himself, and he was mostly incredulous of my account. In a way, it ended whatever feelings I may have had for the handsome coastie. To have something so profoundly strange and horrifying happen to you…anyone who casts doubt on the experience, no matter how close they might be, will forever be separated from you.
In the years since the night of January 24, 1937, I still have many more questions than answers. The only concrete piece of information I have was that the long-abandoned Driscoll House, and its cellar and tunnels, were once used to harbor escaped slaves. These were later repurposed by pirates, rumrunners, and for a different kind of human trafficking.
As for who–yes, who–those creatures were and where they came from, well, perhaps there was some truth in the tales told around the fire that night. A colleague of mine pointed out that the name of the legendary Irishman sounds suspiciously like l’homme grenouille, French for “frog-man”. It’s not hard to imagine that some early fur traders brought back tales of giant toad-like creatures lurking in the Ohio Valley, and with folklore often being a game of cultural “Telephone”, some details were changed. And, well, maybe there really was a group of thieves who made a deal with something they didn’t understand and paid dearly for it. Given the rumors of “frog-men” recently sighted along the Little Miami River near Cincinnati, maybe they also weren’t the only ones to do so.
And far be it from me to tell this tale and not give a heartfelt thanks to my two brothers, who were the true heroes of our predicament. Though they would insist that I was as much a hero in their eyes, I know that without them I would not be here today. I’m still amazed at how Russell used the toad-men’s food preservation methods against them, combining bags of sugar and saltpeter to make a crude gunpowder. He and Louis took their skills and bravery with them to that dreadful war, where I was told they served valiantly. But tales of honor and two Bronze Stars are little consultation when received on two folded flags.
There have been many floods on the Ohio River in the last 35 years. In that time, June tells me that she hasn’t heard nary a rumor of anything like what we experienced. Though I do specifically mean our own experiences; strange accounts flow out of that valley like a flood–pun intended. The river carries something more than water, a power whose roots flow out from the antediluvian hills and hollows. My sister sent me a photograph of her daughter and classmates posing for their annual school pictures. She thinks there’s something oddly familiar about the young teacher, Miss Marie Sullivan, with her piercing gray eyes and raven hair. That photo is on the desk next to me as I write this, and I can almost hear a soft voice speaking the old Irish blessing, Ar scáth a cheile a mhaireann na daoine–“In the shadow of each other, people survive.”
Aurora Jean Starcher, May 1972
Part I: The Flood of 1937
Part II: The Legend of Liam “Green” O’Leary