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My first memory is of running.

Whether you can qualify a three-year-old stumbling about at full speed as truly running, I do not care. I cannot care, for in that moment, according to my thirty-six-month old brain, I was running at full speed, sprinting from the bounds of the back porch and into the wilderness, chasing some kind of animal, probably a rabbit or baby deer, or a dragonfly, or some bird. I don’t fully remember which. I knew only that it was faster than I was in my onesie with shoes that made a terrible squeaking sound regardless of how lightly I treaded within them. Even then, I could escape out of nearly everything. Just not those blasted shoes… I suppose the way they were attached to what I was wearing was what hindered me the most. Clothes were hard enough to get squished into, let alone ooze out of, so I let it alone and just romped as usual. Except for this time, when I was three and hunting creatures that were much bigger than me, or about equal size. I heard someone familiar cry out the word they had offered me perpetually for the past couple of years.

“Lorcán!”they bellowed. My name. But at the moment it meant nothing, for I was chasing something and exploring the scratchy green spikes that came up from the ground and touched my elbows and chin, and passing through the tall brown pillars that held up the green part of the sky in spring and summer, the fire of the sun in autumn, and the empty blue in winter. I must have gotten distracted by the blue splotches between the light green sky, for I ran backwards into one of the pillars. Scared that I had shaken it, I held onto the carved indentions with a soft and miniscule hand, hoping that it wouldn’t fall and loose a piece of sky upon my house. Safety assured, or patience expended, I continued on my way, singing a song about how much I loved macaroni and cheese, wondering if there was an end to the world of big brown pillars.

I yelped; I’d found it. The end. My feet slipped with some of the loose dirt at the edge of the cliff that would have surely led me to my death had I not taken a hold of a stray and strong root. Again, my name was called; I screamed louder, allowing my fright of elevation galvanise an elevation in volume and pitch. I saw my sister lean over the edge, spotting me; Claire called for Mum, who came as quickly as lightning, standing beneath me with just the right timing, as my fingers had lost their strength, and I was falling. Time expanded as I fell through space; perhaps a vertical shift in perspective allows one glimpse a variant representation of time, for ‘tis a different aspect of space to consider. I was able to watch my sister’s face as I fell, watch the world darken about her head, her eyes devoid of emotion it seemed; there was no distress upon her face as gravity claimed me as its own. What sibling disallows themselves to reveal fret upon believing their family safe, despite the family thinking itself still endangered? Of course, in the moment I couldn’t really think that — I was too busy falling into nothingness, incapable of seeing what I plummeted towards, not knowing that my mother was beneath me, ready to catch me in her strong arms. Claire was without worry, which soothed me in the moment, but upon reflection I realise that I wish she had shown me any sign that she cared beyond curiosity towards whether I would bounce or not.

“Hush, now, little wolf, else your cries will call the moon,” Mum whispered as she pulled me to her bosom, that centre of warmth and safest welfare. “Your Mum’s got ye.” Her chin rests on my head as she bounces me up and down, shushing me with soothing tones and coos, restoring my sense of balance and harmony before placing me down for a nap. As with most naps, I remember the dream rather than the sleep. It was a replay of the day’s Event, of my falling from the edge of the world. In this dream, however, rather than into my mother’s arms, I fell through nothingness, emptiness, and into the skies, where I lay amongst the stars.

There can be found the name Shannon Maeve on the cover of three novels (though not a trilogy), a compendium of modern science fiction authors, and at least fifteen magazines. If you recognise her name, this is probably the reason. If you watch a certain documentary covering the science sphere of the world, and the sexism that hinders scientific progress, you may see a woman with pale skin and brown hair. She would have bright green eyes carrying a ferocity attained by many an Irish Catholic matriarch, eyes hidden behind a pair of thickly framed glasses. Shannon Maeve, an underpaid sci-fi author, single mother to two children, courses through my existence in the form of twenty-three chromosomes; I am the youngest of her two children. Claire Maeve, her eldest child, follows a different literary pursuit. Rather than write stories, she brings them to life.

Claire found acting to be her love when she turned nine and entered the school play. Within minutes of her performance during practice, the teacher chose Claire to play the lead, stating that the young Ms Maeve showed “so much promise that promoting should start now, rather than later.” Claire, with her dusty blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, could captivate the hearts of all she encountered, even without a smile. Her appearance was mesmerising; I would overhear in high school my peers smirking and pointing towards us as we entered or left the school together, saying, “He’s got such a hot sister!” If they knew the side of her I knew, the side I could deduce due to our close proximity for my entire life, they would know that inside she never found herself beautiful, nor creative, that all claims to her splendour were false. Yet, like the roles she earns but thinks she’s merely given, she plays along, never allowing them to think anyone else resides in those beautiful dusty blue discs haunting her eye sockets.

Between the two of them — Claire and our mother — I am most like Mum; I write. Perhaps Claire, sensing that I was more Mum’s son than she was Mum’s daughter — in her perception, at least — felt that I was some kind of usurper to Mum’s limited attention, that I caused nothing but trouble for the family. In a way, this was true; times were much tougher with two children than one. The fact that Father left us quickly after I was born — Mum tells me circumstances were leading to the Divorce before my conception, but some piece of both myself and Claire shall forever disagree on that front — did nothing but validate Claire’s cold fury towards my existence. Were I not around, Claire would still have Daddy and Mum. Daddy would not have become Father; Mum would not have to work so hard; there would be less time spent searching for the wandering son and more spent playing dress up or putting on plays that Mum wrote.

Without Lorcán, life was paradise. With Lorcán, it was challenging. The difference matched that of Adam and Eve’s lives after the Fall. I have come to understand my sister’s resentment of me. It hurts, but I understand it, and that makes it easier to bear.

I was five years old, I think, when I saw my father for the third time. It was Christmas, and Mum hadn’t told us that Asaph Barrow was to be coming over for the evening. For a while I believed that to be some kind of codename that had been created to mention Father without really mentioning him. It wasn’t until that night I understood that the title belonged to Asaph Barrow, the other set of my twenty-three chromosomes.

“Be nice to him, Claire,” said Mum to my sister as Claire prodded my back. I was lying on the ground, drawing pictures on the canvas paper I’d gotten from one of my aunts. Claire was in the picture, dancing on stage as the atmosphere turned to one of snow. She was centre stage, and the light was solely on her.

“I’m just massaging him,” replied Claire truthfully. It was soothing to me, having her fingers probe my back and neck as I drew. I knew that she was watching the television more than my coloured pencils, but that was okay with me. I couldn’t wait for her to critique it; her artistic critiques perpetually put me in stitches. By five I’d read the majority of both the dictionary and thesaurus that Mum kept on hand, so I could understand the vocabulary of nearly all I encountered. My sister knew that I was quite fond of puns and would make sure to use as many as possible during her critiquing routines.

“What’s that? An empty emerald? Sounds like a most hollow-een…”

“Ah, so that’s supposed to be purple? What a violet way to colour a dinosaur…”

“This really connects to me, unlike the dots on my skirt.”

Of course, these puns were abnormally terrible, but she was eight, and I was five, and our mastery of the English language was incomplete and our voice entirely too prevalent. Those years were the best, when we were both prepubescents, untainted by the deeper notions of growing up.

Claire remarked, “Mum, the doorbell.”

“On it, Claire, thanks.” A pattering of feet as Mum scuttled across the living room and towards the atrium.

“Who’d visit on Christmas?” I asked no one in particular, assuming Claire would answer it.

And she did: “I dunno. Probably some lost traveller or disguised goddess.”

“I hope ‘tis the Seelie Queen.”

“No, you don’t, Lorcán. She’d probably whisk you away and return you an old man.”

“I’m already an old man, remember?”

Claire’s lips ascended into a mighty grin. “That’s why I have to rub out your knots, eh?”

Claire hastened her fingers’ dance over my back and spread it to my stomach and armpits and neck, my ticklish spots. I rolled about, cackling madly until she abruptly ceased. Her dusty blue eyes seemed more clouded than usual. I, still smiling, craned my neck to view what she did. I couldn’t recognise the stranger upside-down, so I rolled over as Claire moved away, retreating to her spot beside the couch, almost hiding behind it. The man standing before us wore sienna corduroy pants and a brown leather jacket; a scarf of few shades of burnt orange and brown swirled about his neck and ran down over his left shoulder. Beneath his arms were a few packages wrapped in brown construction paper; he wore — involuntarily — melting snow in his raven-coloured hair.

“Erm… hullo, kids.”

“Claire, who is that?”

“That’s D— that’s our father.” My eyes widened; I turned to Claire to see if she was joking, and when the answer to that riddle was unsatisfactory I examined Mum’s face. Two truthful faces, one uncertain one who kept dodging my face with his eyes, as if he couldn’t stand to look at me.

“I’m Lorcán!” I exclaimed, extending a hand as I stood to meet him. As if I’d not met him.

“He knows, twit-face,” Claire snarled.

“Claire!” gasped Mum. “Apologise this instant!”

The exclaimed imperative was cut off and overruled by my response, “But I don’t remember him.”

“From what it seems, little brother, he doesn’t remember us much, either.”

There was silence, save for the telly, upon which there were children singing a song appropriate for the day. Claire’s eyes were upon the screen, but I felt her attentions were towards the rest of us. Mum, I noted, was shocked to silence; her hand gripped her mouth too tightly for typical comfort, and her eyes were wide, examining those outside herself. My father had an odd smile upon his lips, as if he had expected this to happen and felt glad that it had, that the awkward silence that held the room was warranted. And I… well, I was looking for whom to lead me in appropriate response, for I did not know how to respond. My father knelt before me and ruffled my hair, still avoiding my eyes, looking at my nose or my chin or above me, but never really at me.

“Give this one to your sister, will you, Lorcán?” My name did not fit in his mouth; the accent was off. But he did not practice speaking Gaeilge as we did, nor Latin or Greek; one could tell by the way his mouth formed words that he was from Living Romantic Europe. They slid through his mouth either too-formed or improperly made; but this I would mull over later. Currently I nodded and thanked him for the presents before asking if I could open them yet. “It is Christmas, is it not? Open them, if you wish.” He stood back, aloof as always. I put Claire’s gifts beside her; she flinched a moment before returning her full non-attentions to the television. I sat down on the couch and tore open the first box dedicated to me. There was a card inside, resting under a thin, red ribbon that was tied about a rectangle. I opened the card and read it aloud:

“I’ve heard you’re a little wolf cub. Here’s the fur to fit. Signed, Dad”

“You didn’t really get this from a wolf cub, did you?” I asked with horror in my eyes.

My father shook his head, stating, “Goodness, no!” I realised then that he wasn’t all that great at reading the true emotions of children; I’d only been joking. A wolf cub would be near its mother, and its mother would have devoured my father, and I’d never have gotten the gift. I slid the ribbon from the crinkly paper and found a white costume inside.

“I hope it fits. It’s a wolf costume, with whiskers and gloves for paws and whatnot.”

I unfolded the costume and smiled wickedly, looking at Mum. “I guess you don’t need to make me a Samhain dress this year!”

Mum forced a laugh; no one had fully recovered yet from the warfare. I believed it my job to usher in a standing peace, so we could go back to a merry Christmas. There was another present, a bigger one this time. I asked for help unravelling the package and found another card, the same kind as the other one. My father had bought a pack of Christmas cards, probably, and they all had “Happiness” on the front cover, written in silver loops inside a sterling box on a cream background that covered the rest of the card. This one read:

“Knowledge isn’t the greatest treasure; Truth is. May all your truths fit inside, so they may be well-guarded forever.” I could sense the attempt for sentiment in that one, but it didn’t quite hit home until much later. Within the wrapping was a sea-blue box with silver outlining and locks. I opened it and found that even I could fit inside.

“Don’t get lost in there, little brother,” sighed Claire. I’d fallen asleep it seemed, with my costume on and the top of my treasure chest only slightly ajar.

“You can fit inside too, I think. Join me?”

“Hold on, Lorcán; let me find a torch.”

“Okay!” I said excitedly, rearranging myself so that she could fit in with me. Within a few moments, Claire was meshed with me, our legs overlapping and our faces on opposite sides of the box. The light was LED blue, which made the inside of the box appear as if we sat at the bottom of the ocean.

“Did he leave?”

“After nearly spilling egg nog on his pants, yeah,” Claire scoffed.

After a moment of contemplating whether I should, I asked, the question I’d had all night. “Why don’t you like him?”

Claire snorted. “He left us. Why would I like him?”

I thought it over a moment before replying, “Some of our friends leave us.”

“It… it’s not the same, Lorcán.” Silence. The light went out. Moments passed. The light flicked on, making Claire seem ominous. “I want raspberries.”

“Who doesn’t?” I smiled. We clambered out the box, first simultaneously, then logically and wandered down to the kitchen. We found Mum there, leaning on the countertop, hissing into the phone.

“—of the blue like that. I wonder if it traumatised them… No, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back and see them again so soon! Did you not hear the absolute displeasure in her voice? In whose? Your daughter’s voice! Who else’s?” Mum’s accent got thicker the more emotion that went into it; at that moment, it could have suffocated an elephant.

“Look, Asaph… I’m glad you came, okay? The presents were really sweet. I’m thankful that you pay child support, too, and more than you owe. I appreciate it, sincerely, alright? But you cannot — listen to me for once! — you cannot just buy your way back into their lives! You have to earn that pleasure. Bare creation is nothing without the labour of maintenance, and admittedly your nurturing has been utterly shoddy the past five years.”

A pause as he spoke. Mum nodded. “Yeah, alright then. Drive safely, Asaph, and merry bl— merry Christmas. Yeah.” The phone beeped, and Claire and I knew the conversation was over, that it was safe to slink in as if we hadn’t heard anything. Mum hung up the phone, refusing to face us; her knuckles were upon the countertop, her shoulders tensed. Claire approached from the left, I from the right; we both engaged Mum’s legs with our arms, forming a rubber band made of children’s limbs.

“’hoy, lovelies,” Mum chuckled, patting out backs lovingly. “You guys ready for some raspberries and bedtime snuggles?”

“Yes, please,” we said simultaneously. Mum picked the pair of us up and kissed both our foreheads before setting us down on the island in the centre of the kitchen, placing bowls in our hands and tossing raspberries at us until we’d caught all the ones we sought for the evening. Any that we didn’t catch went into her bowl; Claire and I must have had some unspoken agreement, for the amount that Mum consumed that evening was much more than usual. We all lay upon the unfolded futon that — when compressed — doubled as our couch. The lights were dimmed, and, until we all fell asleep, we watched Christmas films.

My last memory of that night is Mum’s face. Her eyes were upon the screen, but from the exhaustion emanating from the way her jaw was set, that she wasn’t smiling but grimacing, I realised that night that the people we love can cause us the greatest agonies, and the deepest woes. I nestled closer to her, so that my head lay between Claire’s arm and Mum’s heart. Mum started a moment before raising a finger to my face and stroking the spot above my eyebrow and down to the tip of my nose, a form of maternal expertise turned to Reiki. With her fingers gracing my face, I fell asleep.

Before he was my father, Asaph Barrow was a physics professor at a university you probably have heard of many times, whether in a scientific journal or on the news for some big grant awarded a student for configuring some great thing science really needed to move forward. Of course, it was somewhat a mystery as to whence Asaph Barrow came into the university’s eye. He was born in a tent somewhere in Europe (more east than west) to parents who were, by the opinions of most at the time, illegitimate in nature. That is, Asaph was Romani.

His mother crafted concoctions that healed gout and cirrhosis of the liver whilst his father trained horses for the circuses and races. There was no real shortage of money, but it appeared as such were one to venture into the Barrow home. It smelled of flowers and fertiliser, which wasn’t as pleasant a combination as one would hope. The fact that the two parents had beget four wild children did nothing to affect the appearance of the home; it was dishevelled because, for the Barrows, that was organised. Except for one, the fifth child, Asaph. Asaph had always required order in his life, and it showed in the sections of the home that were his. If the bed was made a bit neater than the rest, it was probably Asaph’s. If the pencils were placed in a specific circle according to height, it was probably Asaph’s pencil jar. If the tie was tied precisely, the sleeves rolled up exactly one-fourth their full length, and the hair parted at an exemplary forty-six-degree angle, it was probably Asaph.

It was this nature, where things were to be a particular fashion or not at all, that got Asaph positioned as his family’s budget manager, alongside his mother. They spent lots of time together, she and her second-born son, calculating and storing and withdrawing and organising; it seemed that it was they who were meant for it. Asaph’s father personally did not mind that his third eldest son enjoyed spending so much time organising things, nor did he personally mind that Asaph would shut down completely in public if something did not suit his perspective on the order of things. It was the jibes that others threw at both his son and self — at his family — that he minded. These prods did not cease after a few weeks (ignorable) nor a few months (tolerable); they never stopped. The unceasing nature of these digs is what made Asaph’s father — with his glowing eyes coloured like the space between an oncoming storm and the open sea, that dark roiling blue splashed with grey that only true sailors know to fear, and the Barrow family — tell Asaph to either relax his compulsions or depart from the Barrow household. Either option seemed possible in the Barrow pater’s eyes; only one was allowed for Asaph. And so, with his parents’ blessings and the well-wishing of his siblings, Asaph left his family home, departing for Spain, where a few cousins of his lived. These cousins were the ones responsible for engaging Asaph in matters of physics, which led him to embrace fully the love of order wrought from chaos using the means of science.

I graduated from middle school when I was thirteen, a full year earlier than most. Throughout my entire middle school experience, I had undergone a solidification of my identity. I was without a proper set of parents, according to the traditionalist values of most of my peers and teachers, which made me a maverick. Most of my teachers believed that I wasn’t very bright, that I didn’t know the answers to the questions presented me during class. The problem was not that I spoke too much, they would say, but that I spoke too little. “He doesn’t engage with others during any point in the day,” they would say, “and if he does it is too terse.”

“Have you tried speaking with him?” asked my mother during the conference. I sat outside the principal’s office, Claire beside me texting with friends as she was prone to do these days. Gone were the times where it was Claire and Lorcán. Now it was Claire, older sister of the other Maeve child, and Lorcán, the other, strange Maeve child. Claire chuckled as her phone vibrated; she looked towards me, as if deciding whether I was worthy of sharing her laughter with.

“Jesus, Lorcán, stop looking so pitiful all the time. No wonder you don’t have friends,” she hissed.

I wanted to tell her that I didn’t have friends because I wanted actual friendship rather than the façade of such, that Violet was my friend, but there was no need to validate such a claim with an argument.

“Seriously, little brother,” a term which no longer held endearment, “you need to lighten up! Fuck… I’m so bored…”

Claire was a sophomore in high school at the time, well-adjusted to swearing and drama. If my deductions about the conversations between she and Mum were correct, Claire’s virginity was lost the previous summer, or prepared to be tossed away like the posters of quotes from her favourite books and films that once covered the walls in her room. Those posters sat (unbeknownst to her) in the bottom of my closet, underneath the floorboards, ready to be displayed once again were Claire ever ready to reassume the role of the Claire I loved most. Her accent had become progressively more American over the years, unlike mine and Mum’s, as if her intonations suited her lifestyle. Such is the life of an actor I suppose; the role consumes.

The principal projected his voice, and so I could easily hear his complaints. “From what I’ve heard, Ms Maeve, it is more than difficult to speak with him. His aggression—"

Mum, taken aback by the diction of the principal, exclaimed, “Aggression?! Has he been cruel towards his teachers or fellow students? Are there incidence reports?”

“No, ma’am, but—"

Her patience tested greatly, Mum cut in, “No ‘buts’ about it, Mr Carson! Words have very specific meanings, and if you haven’t the notion of what they are, you shouldn’t use them.” There was naught but silence as Mum’s point sank into Mr Carson’s core and rattled it ferociously.

An hour passed, and we sat at a table, the seven of us. My language arts, maths, social studies, and science teachers, Mum, Mr Carson, and myself, gathered around. I sat at one end, Mr Carson at the other; on the left were Mrs Driver of language arts, Mrs Cooper of social studies, and Mr Park of science. From the principal to myself, on the right, sat Mr Schneider of maths and my mother. Claire had been allowed leave; she was going to party at her friend Elyssa’s house.

“I have called you all here to discuss the terms of Lorcán Maeve’s enrolment here, specifically regarding the trouble you have each mentioned in reports the four of you have submitted to both your respective vice principals and myself. Ms Maeve seems determined to have it noted that Lorcán is not a problem child, but a child with a few problems — that is, he should be considered as not a special needs child, but, if anything, gifted, but that it should be considered his personal problems, as if he were a... a special needs child. Did I state that correctly, Ms Maeve?” Mr Carson pointedly looked towards my mother, whose glowering stare could tear off the heads of everyone in the room, save me, for I was not the target of her fury.

“Well enough, Mr Carson, yes.”

Ignoring the jab implied by Mum’s tone, the principal continued. “Good. Then we may begin. First, I would have each teacher explain what they mean by the difficult nature of the young Lorcán, beginning with Mrs Driver, if you will, Sally.”

Sally Driver had the unfortunate habit of referring to everyone as if they were no older than six years old. As such, her voice was high in pitch, her head constantly bobbing up and down — much like a clucking hen. She was forever moving strands of hair from her lips and eyes, which I found to be a cosmic signal to stop looking and speaking at people and participate in the world with them.

“I have had Lorcán in my class only two semesters, sure, but from my observations he is a withdrawn boy with… troublesome ideals. He— “

“What ideals are so troublesome, Mrs Driver?” asked Mum.

“If you’ll let me finish, I shall gladly answer all your questions. Thank you.”

Before Sally Driver could open her hair-ridden mouth again, Mum’s fingers drummed a rapid fire of beats on the table  and snapped, “What ideals of my son are so troublesome, Mrs Driver? And define the term for me, if you will? It is so terribly general.”

Mrs Driver’s eyes widened as she realised that she wasn’t working with a scared parent who was flashing back to their school days and thus remembered the ferocious tempers of teachers and principals from their day, but with a woman of independent thought and mind who knew her own powers as a parent.

“He seems to hold the mistaken belief that all things are related in some way or another, that things cannot be held independently. I’m sure you see the flaw in his logic, that were all things interconnected as he claims in many of his essays—"

With a slight grin, Mum interjected, “Essays on which you always give such high marks, yes, you mean?”

As if she hadn’t heard my mother speak, Mrs Driver continued, “—someone as trivial as, say, Huckleberry Finn, could influence the way the welfare system is run in America today.”

Mum suppressed a snicker before asking, “You said Huckleberry Finn was ‘trivial,’ Mrs Driver. Are you referring to the character there lies a great debate over today, to the character who has his own separate novel?”

“We read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Ms Maeve. Not those of Huckleberry Finn.” Mum looked towards me, clearly the only one who understood her plight until she looked in the eyes of the other five. Mrs Cooper seemed as confused as we did to see Mrs Driver sitting smug as a bandit.

“This is America, Lorcán; you need to know that Communism doesn’t actually work. You’re almost old enough to understand that, right?” asked Mrs Driver. She earnestly awaited a response from me, but, as usual, received none. A minute passed before Mrs Driver surrendered, sitting back in her seat and glancing at her phone. “Excuse me; I have another meeting to attend.”

The principal said gleefully, perhaps mournfully in the way that one bids farewell to someone able to escape a predicament commonly shared, “See you, Sally. Thanks for your insight on the matter!”

“Anytime, Jeff!” she said cheerily before departing from the room.

“He has no grip on subjectivism,” explained my science teacher, “and he thinks that we should go against principles and stop teaching the American system. He continuously translates things to metric that should stay in the American system.”

“He plays with numbers in a way that I do not teach. How can I measure his growth if he refuses to show it to me?” complained Mr Schneider. “He undermines me during class by correcting things better left alone.”

“He tells me you reward children for noticing the mistakes you leave intentionally,” replied my mother in her coolest tone.

“The number of things he claims are mistakes is absurd!” sniffed Mr Schneider.

So are the number of mistakes you make, obviously, I heard implied by Mum’s deep breath. Last to speak was my teacher of social studies, Mrs Cooper.

“I’m worried about Lorcán on the front that he may feel the urge to suppress his talents, more than anything else, due to the environment he is forced to endure. He is a truly intelligent young man, with eyes that appear to see farther than his years. He speaks of things in his assignments that some of my peers in the sociology realm haven’t even considered factors in their work. He — I’m uncertain of your awareness on the subject, Ms Maeve — turned down a junior internship to work with me over the summer. I don’t offer that to just anyone, and I’m a bit saddened by his refusal.”

Mum turned to me, a faint smile on her face. “You turned down an internship, kiddo?”

I shrugged and said quietly, “I don’t want to go into sociology, Mum. Besides, I don’t want too much noise in my head before transitioning to high school.” There was an unspoken but understood, I want to spend more time with you and Claire, still.

Mum had, a mere year beforehand, barely made it through a battle with uterine cancer. We knew this, unlike the principal and teachers of the school attended. Mum had lived in a hospital belonging to a member of the family who owed the Maeve family their lives, with my uncle, Thomas, as her personal nurse. All the while I’d spent most of my time under the care of Violet Roarke, our closest neighbour. She’d been orphaned early on in her life, when she was but eight years old, the very year I was born. Claire had gone to live with her friends down the road, leaving Violet and me in the Maeve Manor.

Mrs Cooper said, with great sincerity and hope, “It stands for as long as you’ll consider it, Lorcán. If you ever change your mind, please allow me to know. But those are my concerns regarding Lorcán, that he won’t be challenged enough and thus learn to resent school. I know first-hand how dreadful that can be.”

Mr Carson didn’t seem to agree at all with what Mrs Cooper had professed, but he thanked her for her input regardless. The conference ended pretty abruptly afterwards, and Mum and I went home to eat supper and watch a film. Whatever happened during that conference, I think, got me put into all the college level courses offered for freshmen at high school the following academic year.

Shannon Maeve came from a family half enmeshed in Druidism, half entangled in Catholicism. Her mother was of the latter category, a fierce woman with blond hair and eyes so blue they may have been pieces of sky. She wore black, grey, or green during the week, and either blue or white on the weekends, and always a dress. Her mother’s absolute reign over the house was unquestioned, save in matters of wealth — here referring to the wealth of information and love rather than finances. In that regard, her father — deeply bound to the “Old Ways,” as he called them — was king. He was a writer himself, writing articles for the kids to read in the local newspaper when he wasn’t working on the Novel. This Novel was not merely a book to Idris Maeve, nor to his children; “When I finish this book, methinks I’ll be finished, too” he would say, and a chill would descend upon the house. Alice Maeve — formerly Alice Nolan — would shoo away the idea and demand that such a claim never be made again, but there was always some kind of dissonance in her voice as she proclaimed such an order, as if even she had accepted this. The Novel was Idris Maeve’s magnus corpus, the work that would consume him entirely were it not for his dependents, his children and wife. It was odd, that the Maeve family should never have fallen into complete poverty. They remained on some twilight of poverty, able to feel its restraints but never fully experience it. Money or food or clothes always came from somewhere, whether it be from family or neighbours or the church they attended every Sunday for the nine o’clock mass. They always had just enough; never more, never less. Shannon was the last to leave the household, though she was by no means the last one born. She took after her father in allowing time and the world flow as it would with her, as if she was but a lily pad upon the water of life. She made high marks in school — the highest in her grade for the last three years of her obligatory instruction; she had plenty of job offers. But she wanted to be happy, much like she felt her father was, concerned with his art — their art, for she, too, was a writer.

It was known that she would sometimes take over for her father’s story in the newspaper. Usually when something complex was explained through science rather than magick, or a scientific version of magick, it was Shannon’s writing. The newspaper gave her a stipend for such works — typically at the behest of Idris more than his daughter — and when Idris’ story ran its course and finally ended, Shannon decided to take one of the characters she’d introduced to the tale and run off in their wake. So, the tales of Hannigan Ozora Jones commenced, the tales of a space pirate descendant of Davy Jones who travelled to faraway lands and spread Amity (a chemical that turned all hatred into an urge to explore Truth) wherever she went. Hannigan was a favourite amongst the local people, and her stories were sought by publishers outside the line of children’s columns. Soon a book was published composed of both the original stories crafted by Idris Maeve and those of Shannon’s. Her name, however was not on the cover, and neither was Idris’; the given author of The Travels of Bugsy Davis // The Hannigan Ozora Jones Journals was the Children of Margaret’s Hill. Because of this, all children who lived in Margaret’s Hill were given a stipend of the earnings from each bought copy of the book. Though she would never explicitly state it, Alice Maeve was very proud to know the true authors would never receive a penny from the book, for they had effectively donated the earnings of ten thousand copies of a fiction novel to twenty-seven families, a donation much in the Christian spirit. So, whilst Harris, Thomas, Sylvia, and Emily Maeve were either fighting in wars or a practising nurse or managing bands or teaching primary school children down the road, Shannon lived at home, writing the days away.

“Idris Maeve, storyteller adored by Margaret’s Hill, deceased,” would read the obituary on August twelfth, three years after The Travels of Bugsy Davis //The Hannigan Ozora Jones Journals was rereleased with the entirety of the Hannigan Ozora Jones Journals included, and fan-made illustrations. The sole copy of Idris Maeve’s Novel resides upon Shannon’s bookshelf; it was bequeathed to her and her children, and their children for the next five generations. Only Shannon Maeve had read it, and according to entries in her journals, it was “one of the most beautiful and bittersweet creations ever conceived, a sibling to me in its own right.” With Idris’ death came an understanding of how the family had been able to survive from so little and never seem to run out of money. His funeral was paid for by a gang that had moved to America at the behest of Idris’ father. Because of this move, the gang had all found decent, high wage careers. Out of respect for Idris’ family, they supplied him with a constant stream of money, five thousand dollars every year from three of the former gang leaders. One of them walked up to Shannon afterwards, tears in his eyes.

“Do you know that your father sent us clippings of all the things that you two wrote together when you were younger? He was such a good man… a shame he died.”

“He said that he would, upon finishing the Novel,” Shannon said wistfully. “He never lied.”

“Aye. Good men like your father are harder to find these days. Listen, Shannon… I know it’s a bit soon after the funeral and all that, but there are some things Idris made me promise to provide for you after he was gone. He told me that your ma’s not all that great for you to live alone with, and so… well, here.” He handed her an envelope, a thick one, sealed and addressed solely to her. “Inside you’ll find a set of keys, a ticket, an address, and a telephone number. Whenever you’re ready, call the number and tell them your name. They’ll tell you what to do from there. Understand? Your father urged me do this, and it wouldn’t be right at all to disregard his wishes. Not when he’s gone.”

“I understand,” Shannon said. The next day she opened the envelope, called the person, and within the month she was standing in an empty version of what would become Maeve Manor, with a car to her name and thousands of dollars in both her savings and checking accounts. From this generous gift, she could start publishing some of her other stories, beginning at first in journals and local newspapers, then expanding to her own books. Unlike her father, she couldn’t put all her ideas in one Novel; instead, she published one, The Expanded Tales of Iris Lockley, the protagonist of which created a Utopian society that crashed at her hands after realising that perfection causes the blandness of life which Iris Lockley couldn’t stand for; another, Magicide, which details the battle between science and magick and what happens when one’s perception of the universe becomes too rigid; the most recent, The Novel, which chronicles the tale of an author whose novel is so powerful that it actually consumes all those who read it. The last was very stressful for Mum to write, I recall, for it involved so many characters and concepts, and it reminded her heavily of the grandfather I never met. The Novel was heralded by her more positive critics as a grand undertaking, something that took the entire genre of science fiction and gave it a powerful shove into a fantastic direction. To this day it is still one of my favourite books.

Then comes my parents’ coalescence. There was a convention for scientists and science fiction writers, a conference dedicated to making the current fiction a reality in the future. Mum was on one of the panels as a writer; my father was on the same panel, as one of the authoritative scientists. It was his stance that captured my mother’s heart, she told me.

“It was strange, his entire argument. Asaph’s stance was that the entirety of physics’ future rested upon what we could not do with physics, that to push the bounds we currently faced we had to strive to make all that was ethically correct in fiction valid. He even pointed to my novels — at the time I’d only published the two, obviously, Iris’ tale and Magicide — as paradigms for that which we should seek to formulate. He claimed it our responsibility as people with knowledge to provide for the world not only that same knowledge, but better knowledge, better versions of the truth. I wish they’d chosen me before he’d spoken so that I would actually have better things to say than go into more depth with his argument, but such are the way things go, aye?”

The way her eyes nearly sparkled when she told me this, as if there was some great thing keeping her restrained from being entirely happy with the connection that sparked with talk about how to create Utopia without it falling. Conversation turned to constant communication turned to coalition turned to consummation turned to Claire, and down the road, Lorcán. They lived together for a decade and a half, filing for divorce shortly after I was born. I’m told by Claire that the look of leaving was first given after Asaph held me. Mum tells me it was a week afterwards. I’m indifferent to the matter; he hasn’t been there for me my whole life, save in small ways. Occasional Christmases, birthday presents mailed to us, et cetera. He was there for my high school graduation. Otherwise, Asaph Barrow is to me estranged.

I graduated from high school at age seventeen; I would have graduated earlier had I not decided to use my unnecessary senior year to take all the classes I’d missed but thought interesting during my three years prior. After the graduation, I’d been asked by my class president to join them on a romp about the town that evening, but I declined, preferring to spend my time with my mother and friends. Mum was formulating a surprise at home, so she sent Violet and Slade to entertain me away from the Manor. Violet Roarke, as I mentioned previously, was my sitter awhile when Mum had cancer both in my early teenage years and recently, up to a few months before I graduated. Violet is eight years my senior, and she was orphaned after her brother’s death. Her father killed himself by drowning in a river, and her mother would carve out her own intestines but a few months afterwards. Her father was from Germany, an interesting man with a stern adoration of all things yellow. Her mother was from whom Violet gets her looks. Her temperament is from her father, my mother informed me once.

“That’s why she can be so rough sometimes,” Mum had said. “She cares so deeply. Almost too much so.” Violet, despite the tough exterior, was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever encountered, and she is fiercely loyal and honourable.

Slade is to most an enigma; I like to believe that I comprehend him. He comes from a divorced family of a stern father, two older brothers, a hardworking mother, and an artistic younger sister. To the Hollowhaven community, the Irigis family — the three who moved here, at least; Slade and the latter two mentioned — is a group of newcomers whose time remaining on the island completely depends upon how nicely we treat them. Thus, the Irigis family is invited to every junction possible; all the holiday parties and birthday celebrations and general gatherings of reverie. It’s funny to me, to consider that after six years of living on the island, we still consider the Irigis family “new.” We met in middle school, Slade and I; he wore his uniform that day, despite the lack of need. We only wore uniforms when travelling to another island in the Silver Crescent archipelago, or on a general field trip. Either he hadn’t known or didn’t care; either way, the uniform fit on him in a way that denoted royalty had entered the room. He walked entirely erect, as if he knew his place in the world was his, not something that could be taken from him; his head held high, he scanned the room for an empty seat. The teacher asked him to introduce himself.

Curtly, Slade replied, “I am Slade Irigis.” Then he sat beside me, despite the fact there were seven other empty seats from which to choose. I’ve asked him a few times why he chose that seat, and each time he responds, “I’m glad I did. Aren’t you?” I believe that such a response encapsulates Slade entirely, that he sees the pith of the matter and uses solely it, the core, the heart of a thing. Aside of my mother and Violet, Slade is one of the most absolute people I know.

Perhaps the concept of an absolute person isn’t well known to some; I should explain. An absolute person knows themselves entirely, and lives as that person perpetually, rarely wavering in their defining characteristics, refusing to hide from others their true selves. These people are independent by nature; they perceive the world in their way and only their way, refusing to compromise themselves.

Slade graduated a year before I did; during the year of our academic separation, he explored the surrounding islands. He told me that he was trying to find bits of himself that he’d left about the place, but upon his journey’s end and my graduation, he informed me that he’d not found them.

“I’m going to my father’s residence,” he told me later that night, after the small gathering. “I haven’t a clue as to when I shall return. But I will miss our conversations, Lorcán, most severely.” We embraced before he walked towards him home, stepping in that kingly fashion, absolute in his existence. That, thus far, has been the last I’ve seen of him.