- Solidly convincing and wholly engrossing...
Treachery, murder, love, and ambition mark Snowdenâs page-turning latest, a tale of one manâs journey of revenge and redemption. When Rory OâFlynn unexpectedly inherited a ten-acres property in Ireland, he had no idea he was going to be instrumental in unearthing his ancestorsâ long-buried past. The book has it allâlove, lust, revenge, greed, ambition, the devastatingly painful tragedies, and heartening twists. The convincing portrayal of Jonathanâs rise to power captivates, and the fast-moving plot twists keep readers hooked right up until the satisfying finale. This is a genuine page-turnerâŚ
PBR Five Star Review
- Solidly convincing and wholly engrossing...
Treachery, murder, love, and ambition mark Snowdenâs page-turning latest, a tale of one manâs journey of revenge and redemption. When Rory OâFlynn unexpectedly inherited a ten-acres property in Ireland, he had no idea he was going to be instrumental in unearthing his ancestorsâ long-buried past. The book has it allâlove, lust, revenge, greed, ambition, the devastatingly painful tragedies, and heartening twists. The convincing portrayal of Jonathanâs rise to power captivates, and the fast-moving plot twists keep readers hooked right up until the satisfying finale. This is a genuine page-turnerâŚ
PBR Five Star Review
BALLYCLAVEN, IRELAND 2021
âBejesus,â Collin swore. âStay absolutely still!â
âWhatâs wrong?â
âDonât move a bloody muscle. It could be an unexploded bomb.â
âBomb? Did I hear you right?â I started to panic, then I relaxed
after hearing the deep peals of laughter coming from the tradesman.
âNo need to shite yerself, Mister OâFlynn,â the digger chuckled.
âIâm only fooling with you. Not too many of us local folks are building
and hiding bombs anymore. No need for explosives now the Troubles
are long past.â
âChrist, Collin, that warped Irish humor of yours could trigger a
bloody heart attack,â I growled. âFor a second, I thought I was a dead
man.â
âNot on my watch,â the wiry old workman chuckled. âBesides, Iâd
hate to see you killed off before my wages have been settled.â
âIf itâs not a bomb, then what the hell is it?â
âCanât say, sir,â the laborer shrugged. âAppears to be some kind
of an old metal box. But itâs not a danger. Judging from the green
tarnish, Iâd venture itâs made of copper. Been sitting underground a
very long time, no doubt.â
I peered into the deep hole that had been exposed in the stone
floor during our renovation. The mysterious, dirt-covered container
lying hidden in the shadows appeared to be quite large. I stared at
the box, feeling mystified and vaguely unsettled.
How much time had passed since some unknown person concealed
it beneath a stone in the pantry floor?
And an even more intriguing question, why was it there?
The worker, sensing my hesitation, asked, âWould you like me to
retrieve it for you, sir?â
âNo, I can manage it on my own,â I said to the grizzled workman.
âIâll let you get back to work. We need to be ready for the plumber
when he arrives.â
I could see Collin was reluctant to return to the kitchen renovations.
Curiosity about the box and its contents clearly evident on his
weathered face. I waited patiently, not speaking until he finally took
the hint to leave.
After Collin departed the room, I reached deep into the hole.
Although I knew it wasnât a bomb, the cold metal surface caused
my fingers to involuntarily recoil on contact. I brushed aside some
loose earth, then gently lifted the box from its sanctuary. Its considerable
weight assured me it probably wasnât empty. I felt a small
thrill from the realization that my hands were undoubtedly the
first to touch the container in many, possibly even hundreds, of
years.
I moved with my new discovery into the relative quiet of the small
room I used as a den/office. The den was one of the few spaces in
the old stone cottage not in a state of construction chaos. After unexpectedly
inheriting the ten-acre property from my uncle, Connor
OâFlynn, my wife Colleen and I had flown to Ireland from our home
in Vancouver to oversee the renovations.
On our arrival at the cottage, we were intrigued to see a weathered
sign over the door proclaiming the buildingâs name as âHortense
Cottage.â Despite questioning several of the locals, no one could tell
us the origin of the unusual name. One old fellow said the title went
back even beyond his fatherâs time.
We had planned to stay for the summer to oversee some badly
needed renovations before deciding whether to keep the quaint cottage
as a retreat or put it on the market. So far, the upgrades were
well over budget and far behind schedule.
After covering my desktop with newspaper to protect the surface,
I sat the copper container in place. Then I moved to the kitchen to
see if I could coax one last cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.
With the strong coffee dregs in hand, I returned to the den to tackle
the mystery of the box. The sound of a car arriving in the driveway
interrupted my search for a tool to pry the lid open.
I moved to the window to watch Colleen emerge from our rental
car. Her shapely legs arrived first, followed closely by the rest of one
beautiful woman. It was easy to see why I remained quite smitten
by my wife after twelve years of marriage. At thirty-four, three years
younger than me, Colleen still retained the trim figure of her youth.
Her dark hair, green eyes, and pale skin a legacy of some distant
Celtic ancestors.
My brideâs intriguing combination of wisdom, garnished with an
edgy touch of wildness, always kept me on my toes. And I never had
to worry about my back being covered when Colleen was around.
Her ferociously loyal nature fueled a guarantee her protection would
never falter.
I heard Colleenâs shopping bags drop in the entrance hall, then
the sound of her footsteps echoing off the stone floor as she made her
way to the den. She called out to me before reaching the entrance.
âAny coffee left, Rory?â
âNope. Iâm drinking the last cup.â
âYou brute,â Colleen scolded as she sauntered into the den. She
stopped and pointed, âHey, whatâs that dirty lump sitting on your
desk?â
âTodayâs mystery,â I said. âAt first, I thought it might be an old
bomb leftover from the Irish Troubles, but Collin said no. We found
it hidden under the pantry floor. It appears to be an old copper box
of some type.â
âHow exciting! Is it locked? Did you try to open it?â
âNot yet,â I replied. âLook, the plumber is due any minute. Why
donât we wait and pry the thing open together at cocktail hour?â
âOkay, by me. Iâll put the groceries away. How about drinks at six
then dinner at seven?â
âSure,â I replied. âWhat gourmet delights are you cooking up?â
âIrish stew, of course.â
âChrist, you really have gone native.â
âWhen in RomeâŚâ
I laughed. âWeâre not in Rome; weâre in Ireland. If we were in
Rome, I could be having my favorite pasta dish, Frutti di Mare.â
âWell, youâre having Irish stew, boyo, so suck it up,â Colleen
paused. âCome to think of it, when was the last time you cooked dinner?
Câmon, letâs hear your lame excuses.â
I couldnât think of a good retort, which was just as well because
the plumberâs arrival saved me from having to admit I had missed my
past few turns at the stove. I turned and beat a hasty retreat back to
the renovations without answering Colleenâs loaded question.
Her triumphant laughter chased me down the hallway.
A MYSTERY AWAITS
âI wish to Hell Iâd never found the damn thing,â I grumbled.
âWhatâs wrong?â
âI canât get it open. Over the years, the seams have seized up,
tighter than a NunâsâŚâ
âRory!â
âSorry, hon. Iâm just frustrated. I can get the frigginâ lock off with
a hacksaw, but the lid is impossible.â
Colleen sighed. âLeave it for now and bring your wine to the table.
We can talk about it while we eat my famous Irish stew.â
Despite my hankering for seafood pasta, I had to admit the
slow-cooked stew was delicious. Colleen served it with thick slices
of crusty bread from a local bakery. I poured us a glass of wine and
listened to the rain beating down on the leaded glass of the dining
room windows.
âWhat do you think of our plan so far?â I asked.
âSo far, so good. I like it here.â
Colleen and I were fortunate with our jobs. Iâm a part-time writer
and full-time instructor at a local college in Vancouver. My wife owns
an art gallery on bustling Granville Island along with Karen Foley, a
junior partner. Karen liked to spend the winters in Mexico, giving my
wife clear sailing for the summer months.
With the freedom to travel, we decided to explore the idea of
spending summers in Ballyclaven. We figured Hortense Cottage
could provide a base for us to explore Europeâs hot spots when the
renovations were complete.
âIâm happy with the plan, too,â I said. âNow, letâs talk about the
box.â
...............
I'd better begin this review by stating what is good about this book. The writing is excellent. There are two first person voices that are clearly different from each other. The nineteenth century journals, unearthed by a 21st century man, capture the writing style of the period well. The early episodes related in the journal seem to mirror the suffering of the Irish people during the famine, the horrors of life in a workhouse, and in a 'coffin ship' carrying migrants from Ireland to North America.
Subsequent events are so far removed from anything like real life that it becomes impossible to suspend disbelief. As a reader I just went along for the ride. Because of the quality of the writing that was easy to do, and to enjoy, as the principal protagonist sought and got his revenge for the evil deeds of two vile villains.
Now my reservations. Both the present day story, and the narrative contained in the journals, are built on stereotypes and cliches throughout. In one way that is what makes it an easy and superficially enjoyable read. But, as someone who has researched the Irish Famine and written about it, I found it disappointing.
Instead of an account of the suffering endured by millions of Irish citizens and their experience as immigrants in the USA and Canada, we are presented with a fantasy so unbelievable that the casual reader will dismiss the early episodes of the journal as exaggerations. Whereas, if anything, the protagonist came off lightly by comparison with the majority of the population of the West of Ireland between 1845 and 1852. By acquiring a passage on an immigrant ship in 1846 he avoids the worst ravages of the famine which occurred in 1847 and '48. By being the sole survivor of a ship wreck he avoids the humiliation endured my most migrants upon arrival.
The paucity of research that went into this book is best illustrated by the song the protagonist hears being sung on the quayside as he leaves Galway on the boat: a song written in 1979!
And there is something else that I found positively upsetting. One of the villains sires a boy child which the protagonist recognises as evil merely from his appearance (we are given a brief description). This may be consistent with nineteenth century beliefs, but to a modern audience the idea that a propensity to rape and murder is genetically transmitted, or identifiable at birth purely on the basis of some visible 'defect', is outrageous. Any parent of a disabled child who reads this will be justifiably offended by the suggestion.
I cannot recommend this book to anyone with a genuine interest in the famine years in Ireland or the common experience of Irish men and women who made it to North America during that period. Read it as entertainment, as divorced from reality as "Roy of the Rovers" was from the world of 1950s professional football.
And I would urge anyone who is, or knows, a parent of a disabled child to avoid it completely.
Finally, whatever you do, do not confuse this travesty with the excellent novel of the same name by Rebecca Bryn.