Holy Tornado

To see the soul of your comrade listen carefully to his music.

Friday, March 17, 2006


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Terrified the Irish raiders would spot him, the youth hid at wood's edge as he watched eager flames consume his family's house. Suddenly powerful hands jerked his arms behind him. Coarse ropes burned his wrists. He and dozens of others were herded to boats grounded in the cove. He was now a slave.
The sixteen-year-old watched his whole way of life slip away as the rhythmic oarbeats pushed the boats steadily west. A British nobleman's son, he'd had it easy enough. He hadn't cared much for school, preferring to go off with his friends. Christianity didn't mean much to him either. His father was a deacon in the village church, but Pat knew he held that office more for tax advantage than out of love for God.
The sound of pebbles crunching beneath the hull signaled their arrival. Yanked from the boat, he was thrust into a guarded pen to await sale.

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