Pain Eased
In every hospital in which I have ever worked, there have been stories
of ghosts that ring patient buzzers or those who make mischief for the nurses.
I can't say with any degree of certainty that these stories are anything more
than urban myth, designed to scare student nurses into quivering wrecks. I do
however, recall an event that was neither myth, nor imagined...
It was 1978. I was in my third year of nursing training. The night shift,
as always, was gloomy and foggy in the frigid Glen Innes, winter. Frost clung
to the glass of the windows, making the patterns of frozen lace tendrils. After
taking handover from the evening shift, I picked up a metal file and walked
down the hallway. The ankle high corridor lights illuminated the length of the
ward. After looking in on my patients to make sure everyone was settled for the
night, I came to a stop and stood in the doorway of my last patient. The small
bedside lamp on the wooden locker next to the bed, cast a soft yellow light
that flickered across the ceiling. The only noise was that of a hapless moth,
drawn to the glow from the bulb. Its wings batted against the shade. As I
opened the metal file, I leaned down towards the light. The records confirmed
she was just forty years of age. I could not help but stare— she looked
seventy. The ravages of pain had tracked deep lines into her face, as had the
cancer that had insidiously destroyed her body.
She lay unconscious, her Cheyne Stokes breathing, uneven and rasping. I
brushed her hair then smeared cream on her lips, trying, but failing, to
improve her comfort. The rattle of impending death, continued in a chilling
staccato. The sound seemed to vibrate through my bones and teeth.
At a little after two in the morning, I approached her room. My feet
stopped suddenly, when from the doorway, I saw a beautiful young woman hovering
above the end of the bed. Her long blonde hair was piled up on top of her head.
The sweetheart neck line of her gown was modest, although the sleeves were set
back to reveal her décolletage the edge of her shoulder. The hem line of her
old fashioned crinoline dress hung down like gossamer vapours. I became aware
of how very cold the room was, as I watched in fascination, as my breaths fogged
in front of me. She looked to me then smiled, hesitating for several seconds. We
just stared at each other. I felt as if I were a statue when she nodded then
turned her head and floated across the room and through the glass of a closed
window.
I walked into the room. My patient was dead. She was also so very
beautiful. The lines of agony were gone, replaced by the pallor and peace of
death. The death angel had come to collect her and take her and she was ready
to leave. Blessed be.
~ ~ ~
From the immortal kingdom of the Samurai, Imperial Leader Yokami Sukani
and his eternal wife Tomoe Gazen, yearned for the child they knew they
would never create. Her Katana keened bereft, for the next Daughter of
the Sword. Bishamon, the God of War and his blade, wreak havoc in his
endless pursuit of pain and suffering.
The Sword of War must disappear, forever.
The Scottish Highlands, 14th April, 1746. The battle of Culloden Moor—is just forty eight hours away. Epona, goddess of horses, dogs, healing springs and crops prayed with the old mothers for the come of the girl child prophesized to be born with the Sight for the magnificent Friesian horses.
The Samurai's Katana recognises Marie MacDonald.
A bargain struck.
In modern Australia, the awaited one, Connor MacDonald is birthed. In the far distant sky, a low grumbling sound thrummed across the horizon, as the blood of the ancient Scottish Horsemen stirred and woke from their three-century slumber. The girl child of their blood, in her first cry, Summonsed them, awakened them, and they smiled.
Brutality found her. Her cries Awakened the ancient Samurai. Those who spill the holy blood of the Samurai, will feel the bite of the Katana. Clan justice befalls those who would harm a Scot's kin.
Bishamon, mad with rage, hunts for his blade.
Will he regain his instrument of destruction?
Born of the blood of the ancient Scots. Named daughter by the immortal Samurai. Doubly blessed or doubly cursed, will Bishamon make Connor MacDonald his instrument of revenge against Yokami Sukani?
The Sword of War must disappear, forever.
The Scottish Highlands, 14th April, 1746. The battle of Culloden Moor—is just forty eight hours away. Epona, goddess of horses, dogs, healing springs and crops prayed with the old mothers for the come of the girl child prophesized to be born with the Sight for the magnificent Friesian horses.
The Samurai's Katana recognises Marie MacDonald.
A bargain struck.
In modern Australia, the awaited one, Connor MacDonald is birthed. In the far distant sky, a low grumbling sound thrummed across the horizon, as the blood of the ancient Scottish Horsemen stirred and woke from their three-century slumber. The girl child of their blood, in her first cry, Summonsed them, awakened them, and they smiled.
Brutality found her. Her cries Awakened the ancient Samurai. Those who spill the holy blood of the Samurai, will feel the bite of the Katana. Clan justice befalls those who would harm a Scot's kin.
Bishamon, mad with rage, hunts for his blade.
Will he regain his instrument of destruction?
Born of the blood of the ancient Scots. Named daughter by the immortal Samurai. Doubly blessed or doubly cursed, will Bishamon make Connor MacDonald his instrument of revenge against Yokami Sukani?
Available from Amazon and Grimoire Books
Kathrinne Leannan: I
smell rain before clouds gather across the sky. I feel the dawn before the sun
paints my world the colours of the earth. It is the flit of gossamer wings
above my head as I walk through the garden that warms my soul and makes me glad
that faeries exist. The universe is my mistress and my strength. Things that
growl in the shadows or snap at my ankles in the night are my dark friends—the
source of my creativity. I, am Kathrine Leannan
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