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them. He just couldn t bring himself to be among people quite
yet. His self-inflicted punishment wasn t over. As long as his body
hurt physically, it masked the emotional pain, keeping him from
feeling the raw ache in his heart. So on he went until the road
and forest around him darkened, the rain stopped and his legs
screamed for relief. Stopping, he sat down on the side of the
road, cross-legged, and waited for the next offer.
After a few minutes, the squeaky wheels of an old, horse-
drawn cart rang in his ears as it pulled up and stopped beside
him. He looked up. His heart jumped. Was it Ciaran? No, there
were two of them. He didn t recognize them in his current state
and the darkness. He could only guess at who they were and he
was too heartbroken to care.
Shannon Sullivan? Is that you? The voice mocked him.
He remained silent, staring off into darkness.
A brown-haired young man in a white shirt climbed off the
cart and stepped toward him. He bent over, getting a closer view.
All alone, aye? And all bloody wet, for Christ sakes. He waved at
the other young man still in the cart. Hey, come here and look
at this. He bent over him again. Looks like a cat got your
tongue, aye, teacher s pet?
He winced at the old, familiar nickname. A host of old
memories flooded his mind of sneers and cruel teasing. Of things
children did to each other only when they thought no one could
see, when they thought they couldn t be caught.
The other young man got off the cart and walked over to him.
This young man also had brown hair, but his shirt was dark. It
was the only distinguishing feature he had to tell them apart.
Yep, it s teacher s pet, all right.
The young man in the white shirt kicked at him, hitting his
thigh.
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Christie Gordon
Pain ran up his leg. He flinched, but remained still and quiet.
What s the matter with you then? You don t have that bloody
knife on you tonight, do you? the young man in the white shirt
asked.
He thought back. He hadn t carried his hunting knife for at
least a year. He scared enough bullies off he didn t think he
needed it anymore. No matter, whatever they did to him now, he
didn t really care. If they killed him at least he d be spared the
agony of living without his Ciaran. It d be a blessing, really.
The young men circled him like flying vultures preparing to
land on carrion. What shall we do with him? the young man in
the dark shirt asked.
Let s have a go at him.
Yeah, okay. He must be bloody pissed anyway.
The young man with the white shirt punched him in the
cheek, knocking him sideways onto the road.
The other young man kicked at his limp body over and over,
grunting each time. His friend joined him, pummeling him with
malice and evil snickers.
Sharp pains pierced his back, his sides, his buttocks. Coiling
up, he groaned and gasped in pain as they assaulted him,
covering his face as best he could with his forearms. A blinding
light flashed behind his eyes and darkness enveloped him. The
pain was gone.
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A Summer Without Rain
Chapter 18
Ciaran
iaran sat in a chair he d dragged from the kitchen table
over to the window so he d be ready when either his father
C
or Father Brennan pulled up to his house. Only the glow
from an oil lamp on the table lit the room. The occasional tear
still meandered down his wet cheeks. He couldn t make himself
stop crying. Oh God, Shannon is gone. It didn t seem real, didn t
seem possible. Shannon was always there. Anxiety and pain tore
his heart in two while he waited for the inevitable.
But he had to stay, had to make sure his father didn t give in
to his drinking. Shannon said he understood, but I don t think he
really did. Why else would he tell him to find someone else? Like
it was an option? He shook his head, eyes welling up with fresh
tears. It hurt so badly to hear him say those things, to hear him
give up on them like he had. Why couldn t he be happy with visits
and letters? He seemed so strange before he left, like his spirit
just drained away.
He looked outside. At least the rain stopped. Shannon,
wherever he was, should be inside someplace warm and dry by
now. Maybe he made it back to their inn?
As the night droned on, he grew drowsy, barely able to keep
his eyes open. With his head dropping forward, he dozed off.
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Christie Gordon
The whinny of a horse cut through the silence, making him
bolt up in his seat. He rubbed his eyes and peered quickly out
into the darkness to see his family s horse and cart, his father
climbing down from the seat. He jumped up from his chair and
dashed outside. Da, he called out, running.
Sighing, Mr. O Kelly frowned at his son. He went through the
motions of unfastening the horse from the cart and guided it into
the barn.
He stopped next to his father and fell into step beside him.
His father gave him a stern glance, the one he d use when he
was about to be punished. In a low and firm voice, he said,
Ciaran, wait in the house for me.
B-but
Do it.
Hanging his head, He strode back into the house. Once
inside, he repositioned his chair by the window back at the table
and took a seat.
Mr. O Kelly stomped through the door, glanced at his son and
slammed the door shut.
He started with the sudden bang. His father was never angry
enough to do something like that.
With eyes burning in fury, Mr. O Kelly came to the table and
took a seat across from his son. Bloody hell, Ciaran, what have
you done? Mr. O Kelly shouted.
He opened his mouth to speak.
I don t want to hear it. Father Brennan told me enough.
Have you no idea how bloody awful it is to& I can t even say it.
It s bloody disgusting. To think a son of mine could, could, with
his best friend? Why would you do that? You re not queer, are
you? His fist pounded on the table, making it shake.
Fear and shame pounded in his chest. He never thought
about how his relations with Shannon would affect his father. He
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A Summer Without Rain
struggled to find the words to explain himself. He looked back
up at his father.
Tears brimmed Mr. O Kelly s eyes.
His breath hitched. He was to blame for his father s sorrow
now. He was a disappointment. Hearing those words come out of
his father s mouth ripped him apart. He hung his head and let
the tears fall, dripping down into his lap.
I m sorry, son. Mr. O Kelly got up and took a seat next to
his son. Reaching his arm around him, he drew him in close.
He buried his face in his father s shoulder. He didn t
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