If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Song for Salamander

by Miriam Gallagher

238 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1677; ISBN 1-4120-1299-6; US$22.00, C$25.00, EUR18.00, £13.00

When Salamander Quinn decides to liberate all the lost souls at St. Job's Infirmary, he embarks on a Kafkaesque journey. Powerful forces determine his ultimate destiny.

Read more!

about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book When Salamander Quinn decides to liberate all the lost souls at St. Job's Infirmary, he embarks on a Kafkaesque journey. Just before Christmas, his plans are further complicated by the arrival of a mystery woman, who sets in motion a chain of startling events. Faced with mounting odds, as his past comes back to haunt him, he struggles to prevail. As Easter approaches, plans are afoot to move everyone at St. Job's to the new Anna Livia hospital, the brainchild of the Minister for health. At St. Job's plans to implement a new technique for memory loss are postponed. At Whitsun the new Anna Livia hospital is opened. Chaos reigns. To the amazement of the Hospital Fathers, there is talk of a nurses' strike. With the Health Service in crisis and Dublin in the grip of global warming, Salamander risks all to attain his goal. As Michaelmas draws near, he is inspired by former heroes like Scipio Africanus, for whom surprise was the greatest form of attack. Amidst mounting pressure, Salamander presses onwards, planning to celebrate Halloween with his own brand of fireworks. Powerful forces determine his ultimate destiny as he makes his final journey.

---

About the Author Miriam Gallagher's work has been staged and screened in Ireland, Europe, USA & Canada. Her short stories are published in anthologies of Irish writing & arts journals. Author of Fancy Footwork (Selected Plays) and Let's Help Our Children Talk (non fiction), she has been a guest lecturer at Irish, European, American & South African universities, and has received several awards. Comments on her work 'She shows vivid imagination and is something of a surrealist' Irish Times 'Vigorous and lively work' New York Daily News 'Displays inventiveness and style' Sunday Tribune 'Combines the real with the surreal' Evening Herald 'Impressive' Books Ireland

---

Sample Excerpts

From Christmas

Ever since finding out about Dr. Porterre's new technique I tried to display an outstanding memory. My zeal often caused misunderstandings, which I bore manfully, determined to avoid the knife at all costs. I decided to conceal my discovery from the other patients. The news would frighten the highly strung and sink the rest. People needed regular routine with the benefit of occasional advice.

From Easter

Suddenly I was tired of being quizzed by Dr. Porterre. Put under the microscope. Answering his questions was a game of risk where the Great Man set the rules. It was always his call. Now I decided the time had come to change places. I would become the doctor and he would be my patient. If I was feeling magnanimous we could take turns. It would be unwise to show my hand. Moreover, our little game of bouleversement, where we swapped places, might never cause a metanoia or change of heart, become a 'Road to Damascus' thing. And God knows I have had my share of those! No, this represented more of a mind shift. A mental thing.

In the boardroom your eyes light up. I hear you exclaim. Hah! Now he is getting to the nub of it. But, kind doctors, that is your job, not mine.

From Easter

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Today I am going to tell you about Miss Baker, who loves a man from Maldon. He works in the mines and is full of sweat and gold dust but alas! no gold. None at all. In Maldon, after finishing your tea and scones, you are off to see the mines. Your gaze is held by the hypnotic dance of the horse drawn carts, winding up the hill and around the crater, that cuts into the earth like a wound. After waiting for the metal containers, trug trug trugging out from the inside, the carts are filled. Then, down the road, made by pick and shovel, as that railway in Queensland was hewn, cut and shaped by Red Lynch, the fiery Irish foreman, way down by Nureemba. It is the biggest gold rush the world has ever known. Half the world comes from Canada, America, England, Scotland. Oh yes, plenty come from there. A Scot will hover and hum over an opportunity anywhere the world over. Miss Baker knows that when she falls in love with Robbie Maclean. He is shovelling earth into containers at the mouth of the mine, when she gets her first glimpse of him. Beads of sweat stand out on his brow. He works in a slow steady rhythm, pausing now and then to push a lock of dark hair back from his forehead. The rhythmic movements of the shovel, glinting in the sun, catch her eye. She is standing on a nearby hill and pauses to get her breath back. His arms work the soil. Back and forth, back and forth. That man, Miss Baker says, works like a galley slave in days gone by. Each time he touches his brow, his hand leaves behind a smear of earth. Earth from inside the black mouth of the mine. Earth plundered for gold. Trickles of sweat and earth run down his forehead. Gold in his eyes. The more he shovels with strong muscular movements, the more sweaty his brow. How strong, yet vulnerable, he looks. Somehow, the contrast makes her smile. Miss Baker says, when she first looks at Robbie Maclean, standing there, full of gold dust, at the mouth of blackness, it is not with lust in her heart. That comes later. On that first day, when it is time for the man to stop, he leans on his shovel and lets out a big sigh. Then, as he looks up from the work, he becomes aware that someone is watching him.

From Whitsun

I awoke to the sound of gentle snoring. I coughed politely. There was no response.

'Lying here, listening to the rain, reminds me of the rain forest' I began.

Dr. Porterre woke with a start. 'What was that eh?'

Should I share with him the terror and drama of talking to sharks? I decided to plunge on. 'One of the sharks is my champion. He warns me of danger. But I keep diving for buried treasure. I'm searching for my shadow self.'

There was silence from his leafy lair. Was I wasting my dream on thin air? How could Dr. Porterre understand about the sharks unless he got inside my head to dream the dream with me? But how? I waited several moments before forging ahead with the tale of the giant sting ray. Again I waited. 'Aha' or even 'Hmm' would have been nice. When no encouragement was forthcoming I took the coward's way out, praising the benefit of pink pills. Used to tiptoeing around the doctor's feelings, my own were put to one side. After all, what was I but a mere patient?

From Halloween

On the eve of battle I stood in my pyjamas on the corridor outside Daffodil and Amaryllis, waiting for my fellow conspirator. He did not disappoint me. Later that night, I was filled with a surge of hope. And what is hope but enthusiasm? En Theos. Two Greek words meaning, A God Within - as I discovered in the school dormitory, torchlighting my way through the delights of dictionary land. Lying there in Daffodil, I rolled the words over on my tongue, savouring their sound, shape and meaning, tossing them about, making them my own. En Theos: two smooth pieces of translucent amethyst, tasting far sweeter than any lozenge. I felt surprisingly calm. Everything was in place. I would strike at dawn.

From Michaelmas

As soon as the new Annalivia Hospital opened, chaos reigned. Surgeons were denied access to the glinting operating theatres full of expensive equipment.As the hospital bordered a busy under pass going north, accidents were bound to happen; Casualty was crammed; waiting lists for operations grew longer. The lifts broke down, stranding the Minister for Health in mid air. Rumours circulated that his pet project, destined to save the overstretched Health Service, would lose him votes. Especially those of nurses. The Labour Court was to set up a commission to examine and report on nurses' role in the Health Service. Matron would be part of a group from the commission that would travel to Australia to examine nursing practices over there.

Passing the half open door of Matron's office, I overheard Dr. Porterre giving her advice. I was not actually snooping, but pausing to get my breath back, after taking the stone steps too fast in the heat. For a week now St. Job's had been in the grip of a heat wave. Tulip ladies relinquished their cardigans and men took to wearing knotted handkerchiefs on their heads while outdoors. 'In Cairns make sure to stay at the Colonial Club Resort,' the Great Man advised. 'A haven of repose set in a garden of rain forest.' He sighed. 'Nothing like it.'

'Really Manon,' she feebly protested. 'I'll be working.' The Great Man seemed not to have heard her. 'Jumbo prawns to beat Banagher. Mad fresh from the Pacific.'

'I'll remember that.' Matron laughed a girlish laugh

'Plenty of sharks out there at the Great Barrier Reef,' he warned.

'I can take care of myself,' she countered, completely missing the point.'

'Of course Euphonia.' Suitably chastened, he wiped his brow with a polka dot silk handkerchief.

I laid my cheek against the cool wood of the door. Rivulets of sweat ran down my neck. We might have been in Cairns only without the delights of the Colonial Club Resort, described by Dr. Porterre; the secret pool inside a cave with its own Jacuzzi; an open rock pool into which, like Tarzan, lifesavers on vacation dived from impossible heights, golden hair glinting in the Queensland sun. The Great Man preferred lolling beside a secluded pool bar. If parched, you just swam a few strokes and drank, sitting on a stool at the bar, your legs in the water. It reminded me of a film I once saw where everyone went to Paradise.

From Christmas

'Doctor, in my dreams I find myself swimming in shark infested waters.'

'Unwise Mr. Quinn. Those fellows can bite.'

'Yes but they smile at me as they glide by. Grinning mouths with pointed teeth'

'Now I know about sharks. When I was in Cairns Colonial Club Resort-'

'I'd like to hear more of that Doctor,' I murmured politely, 'after I tell you about . .'

However, Dr. Porterre seemed to be in one of his rare chatty moods. 'Fruit bats at sundown. Flying high over the poolside bar. Making straight for the fruit trees.'

I could not give a fig about the Great Man's tropical experiences. His function was to hear about mine.

'In my dreams I'm collecting samples of marine life from the ocean bed for National Geographic. My fear of drowning is gone. Even the prospect of public acclaim doesn't bother me.' But the Great Man's was not listening. 'Those bats were as regular as clockwork. You could time your second G & T by them.'

I let it all wash over me. There was silence in the carpeted oasis. Just the two of us alone in green leafiness. Marooned in the tropics. Locked into our own dreams. I coughed. 'You know how one of the sharks keeps talking to me - in shark language of course- could that be my shadow self?' Dr. Porterre grunted. I waited. Then, from the green leafiness came the sound of snoring. The Great Man was asleep.

From Whitsun

'I'm glad to hear you're taking your medication,' you said.

'Oh yes. Indeed. I never miss a pill.'

It was true. I looked forward to a new prescription and never risked disapproval by hiding pills in my pyjama pockets or behind the radiators. If I so wished, I could write a book about pills. My experience has made me something of an expert. Before the catastrophe, my skills were needed in the ward, where I was beginning to achieve a reputation of sorts. Whenever new patients appeared, they soon learned to seek me out for information and advice about tablets and potions. I enjoyed the feeling of being helpful. Besides, I could barter my own brand of wisdom for more material rewards such as cigarettes and bottles of fruit drink. As you know, real drink was forbidden. Understandable really. It clashed with the effects of pills, bringing out symptoms of mania in some of the otherwise docile and depressed patients besides completely overturning the prescription arrangements. Fortunately I was there to calm down an obstreperous patient or advise a downhearted one so that general regularity could be restored to the ward. If given new pills, I professed a modest improvement in my general morale. Any display of elation meant the risk of being put on a heavy dose of tranquilisers. When my prescription remained the same for several weeks I declared myself somewhat down in the dumps - but not suicidal. The distinction was crucial. Being down in the dumps meant a little help could cheer you up whereas anyone who was suicidal needed constant watching - often in a locked ward.

---

Catalogue Information

---