Chapter I - Ghosties

I

Ghosties

February, 1923

Brigadier Ian Wendall drew in London dampness to steady his nerves. He next attempted to steady the tremor in his hand. If he concentrated. Yes. Now could he maintain it? He gave in after a moment and tucked his hands behind his back in a fine military stance. He turned towards the townhouse, and the face at the door. The little woman wore a crisp white apron over her dark dress. Obviously the Lady had been warned of his approach.

Lillian welcomed him, took his cap and overcoat, and guided him to the deep red parlor. His eyes were immediately drawn to an enormous fireplace, its ornate brass fan and thick wooden mantle. Above the mantle, Emily had hung a portrait of Reggie in full military dress.

A military home indeed. Reggie had brought her or sent her relics to memorialize each of his travels, and no matter where Ian looked, he found one. And somehow, she had managed to squeeze it all into this room. Silk from China and lace from Ireland had been made into table scarves. An array of ivory horns had been carved into animals, or a parade of animals from the Veld and gathered dust on tables and shelves. African tribal masks, animal skins, a variety of percussion instruments from every nook in Asia and Africa, bamboo and boa bob picture frames from every cranny were displayed on walls and tables.

A small footstool stood before Reggie’s chair. It had been made of tiger skin with ivory trim and weighed so much, Ian was confident that once Emily found a place for it, no one moved it again. What possessed her to carry it home from her one and only voyage out of England was beyond Ian’s comprehension.

He turned aside, hoping to find something not so obviously foreign and came across an ornate teak wood screen. A bamboo hostess cart with raised edges peeked out from behind it. On that side of the room, heavy white silk draperies opened onto the street.

Emily Talbot, a medium size brunette of thirty, offered him her hand. Last time he had seen her she had worn large, springy curls. Now she wore her hair short and wavy. Her straight brown dress came to mid calf. “Lady Talbot,” he said formerly.

“Lady Talbot? I take it your news is not good.”

“No. It isn’t.”

The woman turned to her servant. “Lillian, brandy please.” She nodded at a hearty fire. Ian escorted her across a slightly worn Oriental rug, and between sofas, to an overstuffed olive colored brocade chair. She sat daintily, and bounced once. She seemed to need momentary reassurance of her hold on life. He sat across from her in a matching chair. “Have you heard anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“And should I assume, Brigadier, that by your expression, you’ve accepted the worst possible outcome?”

He nodded again. The fire warmed his knees and feet, and left his backside to soak up chill still lingering in the room. Obviously she had had this room closed off for a while. He turned towards her again. “How are you holding up?”

“Frightened, but healthy,” she explained, rubbing warmth into the skin beneath her sleeves. “The children are frightened. I’m afraid I’ve never been good at concealing my feelings.”

Lillian arrived, carrying a tray with a brandy decanter and two glasses. She poured, handing the first to Ian, and the other to the Lady. The Lady swirled her drink in her glass, before drawing deeply. Undignified, maybe, but not surprising knowing Emily Talbot. “So tell me, Ian. What do you know?”

He cleared his throat. “I‘ve contacted regiments formerly serving in Ireland, hoping that Reggie is with one of them. And nothing. I‘ve telegraphed the Constabulary in Dublin, Londonderry and Belfast, and again nothing. And neither Scotland Yard nor the Home Office have any information about him. I’m willing to believe that if he is still in Ireland, he is on Innisfen.” Again, Ian concentrated on the hand that held the brandy glass, making an attempt to cover his tremor by imitating her swirl. “How much has Reggie told you about Innisfen?”

“Virtually nothing.”

Ian nodded. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Tell me about Innisfen.” The word tripped off her tongue like a curiosity that would find a home in her private museum. “If I read right, there is something of a civil war happening in Ireland. Is Innisfen involved?”

That surprised him, and he took a moment to study her. After all, this wasn’t a discussion concerning her own bad behavior, the current gossip or even her social calendar. “I’m impressed.”

“I do pick up a newspaper now and then,” she said with a smile.

“Innisfen.” He downed most of his drink. “Life on Innisfen was a daylight nightmare. It is an island off the Irish coast, in the County of Louth, barely south of Ulster. We commandeered it several years back.

“The last I heard from the area,” Ian continued, “Is that the Irish Regulars, formerly the I.R.A., were attempting to keep all comers off the Island. By agreement, we left behind quite a sizable amount of ordinance. The least advisable action is to allow it to fall into the hands of what the I.R.A. refer to as the Irregulars. And if I know the I.R.A. of Innisfen and Killelea, they will succeed.“ Ian attempted a smile. “I’m of the opinion that our Government hopes that the Irish will use the ordinance to blow themselves up.“ He cleared his throat. “They are brutes, to say the least. If you’re considering a trip to Ireland, wait. At least until Innisfen and Dublin are secured. As I understand it, most of the fighting is in the west.“

“And Louth is?“

“East.“ He nodded at his glass and took another swig. Yes, indeed. The very act of imbibing soothed the tremor. “As I said, our Government officials are hoping that the Irish will do themselves in. That way we can walk in afterwards and take up where we left off. If you ask me, we’re better off rid of Ireland.”

“So tell me about your life there.“

Comfort in his present situation came easier after another nip. “Our lads were dregs, drunks, derelicts and murderers. And unfortunately, as bad as the locals are, I believe we had more to fear from our lads than we did from the I.R.A. Where do I think Reggie has gone off to?” He growled at his drink now. “I honestly think our lads did him in before we left the Island. They hated him.”

Emily reached for the decanter and refilled her glass. “I know well enough he wouldn’t back down to anyone.”

“If it’s any consolation, Reggie was a very brave man.”

“No, Ian, it isn’t. One way or another, I would feel better if at least I had an answer. On the other hand, if Reggie decided suddenly to holiday in, oh, say Dublin or Cork, with a red haired Irish tart, I’d have a reason for feeling so angry at him.”

*

A few weeks later:

The keel of the small boat scraped the pebbles lining the shore. Wee Sean Darcy jumped from the boat first, water rising up above his boots, and nearly to his knees. By the looks of the man, he’d heave his breakfast if he had to spend another minute in that floating tub. Father Patrick Plunkett lifted his skirts and jumped in behind Wee Sean, soaking those same skirts nearly to the hem of his jacket. Liam enjoyed that. Father would be tugging wet wool away from chapped legs all day.

Better yet, Sprite lifted his big, ugly mug and barked. “Here, boyo,” Liam called. “Come see me.” The huge wolfhound lurched forward and out onto the sand. Straight to Liam, he came sniffing the ground about him and wagging his tail.

Ah, but it ‘twas good to see his boyos. Liam O'Brennigan vaguely wondered what took them so long to return home. But then here they were.

Three others helped Wee Sean and the Priest pull the boat onto shore. Each removed a pack and a bed roll from the interior. Did Liam know his boyos well enough? He could lay odds on what they were carrying in their boat. There would be hand tools, shovels, hoes and the like, and enough flax seed for the whole of them to be planting without the benefit of an old nag. That would have to be done first. Of course it wouldn’t be enough to get the old linen factory going again. That would take at least another year or two. Bridey’s brother, Brendan Kelly, would have potatoes and onions to plant in his own garden. The Priest, no doubt, carried a fishing pole, the Gospels and a skillet, as well as a hand full of vegetables to cook. Wee Sean carried a lantern tied to the lash about his waist. Once on the strand, he attempted to shake the water from the wick without spilling any of the lamp oil. There might be a jug with more oil to get them through the night buried in Wee Sean’s pack, Liam thought. Rory Murphy might have shears in the hopes that there would be sheep roaming about the island. Now, for sure it would be that Jeremiah Corrigan carried a football made of rags. The question would be then, who was it that would be carrying the poteen? 

Liam O'Brennigan pulled his shoulders way back, and fell in line with his mates as they stepped away from the strand. Sprite followed, bouncing about and howling as if he had something important to say.

Each man glanced about, showing hope and concern, and maybe not expecting either. Brendan Kelly reflected the after effects of a night of drink. Father Patrick attached himself to Brendan’s elbow, and steered the group in the direction of the churchyard. Jeremiah Corrigan nodded and patted Brendan on the back. Liam stepped aside as the whole of them paused to discuss the missing piers. A lot had changed in a short time.

“It amazes me,” Bridey commented as she materialized at his side, “That the bunch of them are still alive.”

Liam glanced at the gaunt, starved figure of his red headed wife. She was pretty once. “You have something to say to me, finally?”

Bridey shook her head and slipped into the background. ‘Hell of it all,’ Liam thought, following the group up the concrete path leading from the bay. This was a British improvement. It ended at a burned out hovel that had once served as a store house for Irish wool, linen and grain destined to be shipped to Dublin, Manchester or points beyond. Amazing how it is that they could improve so much while destroying so much more. 

Beyond, the Celtic countryside opened up to the rocks, newly sprouting greenery and hillside. One could see most of the island rise up from this point. Few trees and several small bushes remained, and none larger than the typical Republican could hide behind.

To the right of the storehouse rubble, the ruins of the village of Fenton faced the shoreline like the hairs on a mole. Rocks competed with plant life on the Island, and many of the residents joked about eating them in times of hunger. Indeed every building, the roads and the many fences were made of stone.

Now, Erin took back her own. Without residents and their attempts at maintenance, clover grew up between rocks in the roadway, in gardens, and along walks. Heather swayed with each new breeze blowing in from the harbor. The buildings had been torched, meaning the roofs and the better part of the interiors had burned. One couldn’t be sure if the walls and stone fences had been knocked in by force or by neglect.

To the left of the storehouse, the old dun left a ragged stone pock mark on the horizon. The British had commandeered it a few years ago to use as a fort, as it was intended to be used when first built hundreds of years earlier. The Brits had arrested Bridey, and held her there while trying to convince her to lead them to Liam. Liam unsuccessfully tried to rescue her. The Brits had scraped his remains off the walls after his charge detonated prematurely. The saddest part about it all was Bridey’s surprise when she crossed to the other side.

Liam passed on the temptation to smile. His antics were no worse in the end than a gnat buzzing in one’s ear. They had a greater hell dealing with Bridey’s tongue.

The whole of his living boyos mounted stone steps leading to the opposite side of the Island. The old stone church had been located back there. The building itself had come down, but not even the British had the stomach to disturb the rest. Liam slipped on ahead, figuring he’d meet them in the Churchyard.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Bridey told him now. She stretched out across a nest of neatly arranged rocks and hiked her skirts. Her shoes had disappeared. Toes, insteps, heals and ankles, calves and knees, all without an once of fat. “The old codger could care less about desecrating cemeteries. He liked m’red hair. He told me that, you know. He liked the color of m’hair and the size of m’breasts.’

Liam turned back towards her. “Your breasts are large, are they?”

“So they’ve shriveled away.” She examined the front of her dress. “I’m blaming you for that, too.”

He glanced off in the direction of where his mates approached from. “I’d apologize again, but something is telling me you aren’t interested.”

“M’only interest is in making your eternity into hell. Two life times with the same results. I’m surprised you haven’t taken them with us this time.” She nodded at the group as they neared.

Father Patrick pointed in Bridey’s direction. Brendan broke ahead of his friends, approaching the graves quickly. Without hesitation, he knelt and with red chapped hands, retrieved a stone from between Bridey’s feet for examination. Sprite lowered himself to the ground and pushed in next to Brendan. The mutt yowled in his conversational tone, and pushed Brendan’s arm with his nose. The man scratched the dog behind the ears. “Aye, Sprite,” he said. “Liam’s right here.”

Brendan had changed since the last time they saw him. Liam felt her sadness as she pushed up to watch her brother. He hadn’t joined the Priest and a handful of others when they returned to bury Liam and Bridey. The Brits were looking for him then. Now Brendan looked older and tired, ready to fall over and sleep where he landed. “There has to be some wood on this God forsaken island,” Brendan said. “The buggers couldn’t have burned everything they touched.”

“Wood? For what?” Corrigan, a behemoth of a man, asked.

“A mold,” Brendan explained.

The Priest stepped away. This was the highest, most visible point on the Island, and it was here where the church had stood. The floor remained, and an odd stone or two. One of the few remaining trees sheltered the floor. A single warbler stretched up, offering his song to the heavens.

The Priest wiped his face with a calloused hand, pushing up the wire framed spectacles he wore and pressing his fingers hard into his eyes. Black Irish. The man had the same dark, straight hair that Liam had, that Murphy and several of the Islanders had. He had a strong jaw line and chin, heavy worry lines in his brow and bags caused from lack of sleep beneath his blue eyes.

“Patrick,” Brendan called. “You have no objection, do you?”

The Priest turned again, facing Brendan. “Objection to what?”

“A monument of sorts. Stack rocks, paint it with pitch and carve their names in it.”

“No, they’re deserving of at least that.”

Liam clasped his fists as Bridey laughed. “What I’m deserving of,” she said after a moment, “Is a fine home on the Highside, a hearth, chickens, sheep, a vegetable garden. And children.” She laughed again, and rolled towards Liam. “Do you think m’brother can fashion me children from rocks and pitch, Liam?”

“Bridget,” he cautioned quietly.

“Bridget,” she returned. “Never mind Bridget. If Liam hadn’t slipped up again, I might have a child or two.”

Liam turned and dissipated. He’d find his rest elsewhere.

The Lowside, a dent in the land, slipped downward from Fenton. He found his respite on a rock nearly the size of his old homestead. He liked to watch as the little yellow mutt the Brits left behind, tended his charges. A sheep would stray and that mutt would yip and snap at the animal’s flanks. Funny thing about life. Here was this dog, hungry, skinny and forgotten; where his sheep were fat, fluffy and needing a shearing. The smells and the textures. If only he could milk a goat or shear sheep again. Bridey was right. He screwed up.

“’Tis amazing,” she commented, dangling one skinny foot from the rock behind him. “What we’d have to do in order for the others to be remembering us so fondly.“ She kicked her foot out as if fancy free and fully enjoying his discomfort. “I’d like to say that I’d be alive if you hadn’t blown yourself up, but the fact is I didn’t expect to be finding you here after all I’d been through.”

“Is that it then? You hoped to be away from me?”

“I had hoped,” she began, swinging her foot to and fro, “That I had given myself to a cause without having you waste both our lives.”

The man slowly turned on his wife. “Am I wrong here, or was it our intention to rid ourselves of the Brits?”

“What is your point, Liam?”

“Do you see any Brits here?”

“Living or dead?”

Liam pulled himself to his feet. “Woman go haunt someone who bloody gives a damn.” He turned his back on her and charged off towards the harbor.

Link to Ghosties - 1

1.

*

“As many years as my father, my grandfather and myself farmed this plot,” Brendan began, warming his hands by the meager heat of a peat fire, “You’d think we planted rocks instead of vegetables. I pulled up enough this afternoon to be extending that outer fence.” Night had settled quietly about the countryside. On the highlands edging the Island, one could taste the salt in the air and hear the waves gently wash the shore. Further in as the sounds of water softened, it became too quiet, almost as if the crickets, the bullfrogs and the small animals kept their own counsel for fear of British occupation, or of the Irish reoccupation. Peat snapped in the fire, and smoke choked with dampness gathered close to the ground. Sprite snorted. He stretched out next to Brendan, turning glazed eyes to the fire. This was Liam’s old dog, and maybe the only thing Brendan had to remember kin by. He rolled his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension that built up as he worked earlier, and then he patted the top of the old mutt’s head.

"At least it'll be your own rocks, and your own vegetables  that won't go to England on the next boat," Wee Sean added referring to the law that split Irish property between all the children. By the time the English finally left, most of the Irish fed their families from famine plots, which were only a few hands by a few hands. “Did you plant any vegetables?” he asked, scratching the hair about his chest.

“Aye, some.”

Wee Sean nodded. “Good to hear. From what Corrigan is telling me, the Brits didn’t eat every chicken on the Island.” The small man shrugged. “Only the Lord Himself knows when we’ll be building them coops. ‘Tis a start anyway.”

“’Tis at that.”

Brendan turned a tired eye on the Priest. His oldest and closest friend, knocked a rock from beneath Brendan’s foot before nearly kicking the foot itself into the fire. “Oh, now we’ll be hearing the good Father’s temper tantrum. What is it I’ve done this time, Patrick? Did I murder someone?”

“Did I speak to you?” the Priest growled, waving his hand above the fire, shooing away some of the smoke. Earlier he had stacked rocks on either side of the fire and balanced a grate above that. Now he busied himself, preparing the fish he had caught while Brendan worked in his fields.

Brendan eyed Wee Sean. Give the Priest time, and he’d enlighten anyone caring enough to hear.

“Hundreds of years without dignity, and we’re returning to this?” The Priest paused long enough to heap fat into a sizzling skillet. “I think,” he began again, this time with less emotion, “I was expecting to return as I left.”

The beacon from the lighthouse on the main land would be lighting the harbor at this point in the evening. Only a gray column of light sweeping the sky was visible from this part of the Island. Brendan kept his eyes on that as he took Patrick’s words to heart.

“I didn’t honestly expect them to dismantle the Church stone by stone,” Wee Sean offered quietly.

“No, and I didn’t expect them to be chopping down what Himself had planted.” Father Patrick dropped a handful of potatoes and onions into the pan, and shook them about. “I left carrying the Eucharist close to m’heart. I was expecting to bring it back safely and tuck it away in the same Sanctuary I got it from to begin with.”

“Patrick,” Brendan commented, “We’re all suffering from the same illness.”

“Still, I wonder what use they found for the altar stone.“

“Or who drank the Sacramental wine.”

The Priest hard eyes snapped from his pan to Brendan. “I don’t find that funny.” Returning to his work, he gave his pan another shake.

“I’m thinking dredging this up again and again ‘tisn’t rebuilding the Church or our homes,” Wee Sean offered, as he drew to his feet. “And I’m thinking that maybe ‘tis time to find Murphy and Corrigan.”

“At least before they break into that jug hidden in Jerry Corrigan’s pack,” Father Patrick cautioned. “They’ll be kicking his football off the Backside.”

Brendan laughed and Wee Sean smiled. “Who would have thought,” the smaller man said, “That the three of us would be worrying about what cliffs they’d be falling from?”

“Or either of them not eating,” Patrick offered. “Fish cooks up quickly. Tell them that when you catch up to them.”

Wee Sean unthreaded the lantern from the lash about his waist and lit it by taking a stray piece of grass from the cooking fire. The light it created  accented the ridges and deepened the creases and valleys of his long, thin face, and the straight line his lips formed as he worked. He had a year or two on Liam, and maybe a few more on either Brendan or Father. “I’ll be back,” he promised as he replaced the chimney.

The pair watched their friend and glow from his lamp disappear behind a gentle hillock. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about,” Patrick instructed.

“Sometimes,” Brendan commented as he stretched out across the grass, “I’m thinking I see Bridey and Liam watching us. Bridey would be doing her best to raise his ire and he’d be wearing that look of his, saying he had enough and can’t wait to disappear on her again.” Chill bumps sprouted beneath the sleeves of his sweater. The breeze made it worse.

*

If only Brendan knew. Liam picked himself off the stump he sat on and turned away. As good as it was to be with his friends again was as bad as it hurt. Tall, skinny Brendan, with a mug as ugly and bony as the day is long, and hair as red as his sister’s, let his heart and his laughter light up the lives about him.

Wee Sean was a smart one. What Himself didn’t give the man in size, He gave in good old fashioned horse sense.

The Priest, hot tempered and self-important, could control a football better than most men not wearing a skirt, and could cook better than many of their wives. For that matter, the Priest taught Bridey everything she knew, which wasn’t a great deal. Liam could cook better than Bridey. Although he considered the good Father one of his closest friends, he’d never admit it to the Priest. Liam couldn’t stand to see him gloat.

At the very least, he did make his peace with Corrigan and Murphy before it ended. They were big men. Living on the south end of the island placed them near the linen factory, docks and warehouses of Fenton. They farmed smaller plots of land and worked wherever needed, whether fishing from the big schooners or loading ships during harvest. They each earned a decent wage.

Corrigan tied his faded brown hair off in the back and let it hang past the collar of his shirt. Liam once cracked that if he’d lift Corrigan’s tail, he’d find a horse’s arse beneath it. Even Murphy laughed. That started the weekly football matches between the village workers and the farmers, with each match growing more physical than the one before it. Father Patrick controlled the ball like a musician controlling his fiddle. Brendan looked frail, but played with so much heart, he surprised everyone caring to watch him. Wee Sean slipped through the tightest places. That was until Corrigan and Murphy formed a wall the size of Erin itself. When that happened it was simple enough to pick Wee Sean up and let him control the ball in the air. And when every match ended, Jerry Corrigan would crack a joke and the seal on a bottle of real Irish whiskey. Those were good times.

“I don’t know if it’s worse seeing them as they are now, or not seeing them for so long,” Bridey said, stepping in beside him. “The few of them that made it over here to bury us were drunk.”

A moment passed before he spoke. “Are you going to blame me for that, too?”

“Brendan had a hangover when they beached this morning, and I promise you he’ll be having a good one come tomorrow morning. I’ve never known himself to be drinking so much in six life times.”

“Do you think maybe your crazy near sister would be having anything to do with his drinking?” He studied her for a moment. “Eternity would be a lot bloody worse with her in your place.”

Bridey turned away from him, her form dissipating into a fine mist. Ah, guilt. He could give good Irish mothers lessons in how to use it effectively.

He laughed it out as he returned to the discussion at hand. “What’s bothering me more than anything,” Brendan was saying, “Is that Liam would cry if he were here to see the state of his beloved Erin.”

“He would.”

Liam tuned his ears in closer.

“Michael Collins.” Brendan shook his head sadly.

“Aye, Michael Collins,” the Priest agreed.

“What about Michael Collins?” Liam demanded. “The man’s a saint. You people are talking like he betrayed his country.”

*

At the bottom of the cliff on the Backside as they called it, a lone guard walked the length of the strand, back and forth, back and forth. Moonlight glinted off the waves, his cracked spectacles, off his dented metal helmet and off his twisted bayonet. Back and forth, back and forth, stopping on each rotation, snapping to attention and switching shoulders, before beginning his journey again. The mist would roll in soon obscuring the moon and him. Yet, he stayed his post.

“If I could cry,” Bridey said, “It would be for him.” She tucked her feet beneath her, arranging her skirts to fall straight over the rock she balanced on.

“Bridget,” Liam roared, bending into her ear. “The bugger is a Brit.”

“They pushed him off the cliff. He tried to protect a prisoner.”

Liam watched the figure shoulder his weapon. “He’s still a Brit,” he said with less rancor.

“Liam, look at him. Tell me he doesn’t look familiar.”

“Aye.” He turned away from that. He’d watch the fog roll in from the Frontside.      

Link to Ghosties - 2

2

*

Morning brought Old Man Keenan stepping from the first boat to arrive, him possibly intending to be taken away from the recurring argument himself and the Old Woman had conducted for the last thirty years. Smith, O’Brien and Arthur followed the old man up the cement path to meet Wee Sean, Murphy and Corrigan. Keenan, one eye larger than the other, gummed air or maybe the inside of his mouth as he thought. He leaned forward, the bill of his snap down cap, and his beak pointing down, and his chin rising nearly to meet the tip of his nose. “Problems?” Keenan demanded. “You mean outside of the fact the buggers possibly ate m’ pigs and sheep, or sent m’cows off to France? I’m hoping they at least left m’goat behind.”

With hands deep in his pockets, Corrigan turned, looking directly into Liam’s eyes. Pity Corrigan couldn’t see him.

A brutish wind pounded in off the sea, snapping waves up high into the air, and carrying a cold mist inland. Clothing snapped, grasses laid nearly flat to the ground, with the shrubbery crushing in against itself.

“Water,” Wee Sean cried about the tempest. “Without the trees, sea water is blowing across the Island and straight into the well."

“And what are you suggesting then?”

“What else?” Corrigan broke in. “We build a wall.”

“Nay, you build a wall. I will find m’goat.”

Corrigan, hands still in pockets, turned on Wee Sean and Murphy. “Goats, huh?” He said, rocking from his toes to his heels and back again. “So, Wee Sean, seen any goats wandering around?”

“A few chickens. No goats that I can recall.”

“Me neither,” Murphy agreed, with a shrug. This man wasn’t as tall as his cohort and maybe a centimeter or so short of Liam himself. He owned a square Irish face, nearly black hair which he shoved backwards over a balding spot at the back of his head. Like Liam to Wee Sean, or Brendan to the Priest, Murphy fit to Corrigan like his head to his hat or his hand to his glove.

The trio turned their backs on the old man and the other newcomers. “This would be a lot bloody easier,” Rory Murphy grumbled, “If we could bring a horse across on the next boat. Some reason I don’t see that happening. Anyone interested in hauling rocks up hill?”

“Maybe I can send for m’lads,” Wee Sean offered. “Bring’m across in the morning.” They started off, up the cement walkway towards the storehouse.

“Thinking about going across and getting them yourself?” Corrigan challenged.

“Thinking about choking on your dinner?” Wee Sean returned.

“I knew Old Man Keenan wouldn’t help,” Murphy advised. “Waste of time for the asking.”

As the trio topped the cement walkway, something, a hedgehog maybe, darted out at them, and away again. Behind it, egging it on, darted one of those little yellow British curs. It paused only long enough to take them in before darting off with its tail between its legs. Skinny thing.

*

With the wind picking up, few trees stopped the mists from scouring the face of the Island. Without offering, or without comment, Brendan Kelly, Father Patrick, and the newcomers minus Old Man Keenan, threw themselves into the task, carrying rocks from piles scattered about, to one forming nearest the work site. The well itself was protected by a natural overhang on one side. Wind worn stumps dotted the leeward side. Behind them, the land rose to form the cliffs on the Backside. Old Man Keenan wandered about, calling out for his goat by name. Hardly a crease or a wrinkle existed where one couldn’t see, and when the wind blew just right, the old man’s voice carried up.

“Here, Precious. Dad needs you.” Jeremiah Corrigan chuckled and heaved another rock into place. “With a few branches here, we could build a roof.”

“At the very least,” Brendan Kelly offered, stacking his haul into the pile Corrigan worked from. “I could root clippings from the shrubbery about the dun. Plant ourselves a barrier here.”

“And how long would it be before that takes hold?’

“It’d be better than nothing at all,” Father Patrick advised.

“Aye. Next year or the year after.” Corrigan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He turned to retrieve another rock from the pile. “Father, if I were you, I’d be praying this hasn’t been tainted by sea water.”

“We can pray together.”

“Aye. We could,” the big man agreed half heartedly.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the good Father offered, “There is a protected well beneath the manor house of the old dun.”

“Hump.” Corrigan put his back into lifting the next rock.

Rory Murphy paused in his efforts, focusing on Corrigan. “Forgive him, Father,” he said with a smile. “He’s thinking about ghosties and goblins.”

Brendan Kelly lurched up in horror, focusing on the pair. “You’re talking about our own.”

“I’m talking about the same bugger who threatened to toss me off the Backside last time we knocked back a bottle together.”

Kelly smiled and Wee Sean laughed outright. “I can see him saying it,” the little man said. He glanced Corrigan’s way. The behemoth didn’t respond, but continued working. “We’ll go. Brendan, Father Patrick?”

Father Patrick studied Kelly. “No, Wee Sean and m’self. Brendan, you said about clippings.”

“No,” Kelly passed a stone on to Murphy. “You won’t be leaving me behind.”

“Brendan, stay. You don’t need to be there.”

“Aye, I do,” he said, coming about, facing the Priest. “I’ve been looking for an excuse.”

The Priest used a moment to study his friend, before turning about “Then we better be going. It’ll be dark too soon.“ Jackets had been thrown haphazardly on the ground. Father Patrick had picked them up earlier and laid them neatly across a stump. Now, he returned there, grabbing up three jackets. He passed two on, one to Wee Sean and the other to Brendan Kelly. He donned the last himself, turning on Kelly as he dressed. “You know what you are, don’t you?” he said as Sprite rose to his feet and shook.

“No, Patrick, what am I?”

“You’re prideful, and you’re stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn? You’re calling me stubborn?”

“You don’t think you are?”

“I’m just thinking ‘tis funny that you’d be calling anyone prideful or stubborn. Now tell me about m’temper, Patrick. I dare you.”

*

Now this was enjoyable, Liam thought, planting himself across the stump with the remaining jackets. Patrick Plunkett and Brendan Kelly acted more like an old married couple than priest and parishioner. “Pity Patrick wasn’t a woman,” Bridey commented “I’ve always thought he’d be making Brendan a better wife than Enid does.”

“Pity I didn’t push Corrigan off the Backside,” Liam returned. “Big, ugly, horse’s arse that he is, is afraid of us.” He laughed that much harder.

Link to Ghosties - 3

3

*

Knowing where Bridey had gotten herself off to at all times, was proving to be a gift from God, Himself. Especially when she wrapped herself up in one of her moods and Liam wanted to avoid her. Although when he approached the old dun at Wee Sean’s elbow, he also felt her fears as she awaited outside an elaborate wrought iron fence in the forest of tree stumps. She never spoke of her confinement here, nor did she spend much time at this end of the island. Liam assumed it was part of her attempt at punishing him for their demise. His connection here was brief, and although unpleasant, most of his memories were elsewhere.

Chickens scattered and Sprite backed off as they approached ghostly and gnarled whips of dormant rose bushes. In season, they grew about the fence and about the larger buildings that made up the Dun. The Brits used he buildings as barracks, an armory, wash houses and the like.

Father Patrick led the way to the building where he said prisoners were kept. The dog snarled as they approached. Sprite’s hair rose along his spine and his ears became pinned against his head. Father paused to examine a larger than normal square rock set into an obvious repair of an exterior wall. “Altar stone?” he asked of Wee Sean and Brendan. He ran his hand along the top edge of the rock, touching a spot along the side that he was more than familiar with.

Brendan nodded, “Aye. Looks like we‘ll find most of the old church here.”

‘Of course,’ Liam thought, none of these men would know of the damage he caused when he tried to set his charge. And it wouldn’t be the first time that repair materials came from unused buildings. Once upon a time this great estate had a formidable wall. It’s stones were used later in the construction of both the village of Fenton, and in the warehouses lining the Frontside. In fact, Dun Fenton had been dismantled and rebuilt several times over its history.

Liam followed the others inside, and deep within the bowels of the building. They paused to examine the exposed and still damaged drain pipe where Liam had tripped up. He and Brendan had planned that excursion together, but had become separated when they were interrupted by troops. Where exactly Brendan wound up, or how he returned to Killelea, Liam wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, was that if he hadn’t tripped over a rat the size of that wee yellow dog, he might have planted his gelignite where he could have caused real damage.

Voices and footfalls echoed fiercely the length of an enormous stone hall. Mice scurried unnoticed between them, their legs, over and under debris, in and out of cells and sewers. A lone cat darted from the darkness as it chased a mouse. Liam stepped lightly. He could appreciate a good mouser. All those days he sat with Bridey before she passed, he wasted most damning the ships that carried the mice in, and wondering how to get rid of them. It seemed as if the cats hid from the Brits and didn’t come out again until were assured the invaders were gone. How much barley would the mice had eaten over the years if not for the cats?

If Liam remembered the stories he heard as a child. This building was begun at least a hundred years before the Brits landed, and maybe even before the Vikings came. An old Celtic warlord tried to protect the sanctity of his island against the lord who ruled Killelea.

The name Fenton belonged to Brian Fenton, the last Earl of Innisfen, and his family. He was a good man in his own right, although he had a serious gambling problem. During his better days, when his winnings were good and his wealth intact, he saw to the construction of the wrought iron fence that now surrounded the property. When the Earl’s luck failed him, he lost his home. It had been bought and sold several times since. 

The last owner used the manor house and the grounds as a private school. British and Scottish children from all over Ireland were educated and boarded on the grounds. Irish children from Innishfen and Killelea attended day school. Tuition from by Irish parents came in the form of labor. They ran a school owned farm, tilled school owned vegetables and sheared school owned sheep.

If nothing else would come of an education, all of Innisfen and Killelea could read their newspapers, and together they could enjoy the words of great Irish orators like Patrick Pearse and the words he spoke from the steps of the General Post Office in Dublin on April 24^th, 1916. He said: “IRISHMAN AND IRISHWOMEN: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom…” Pearse and several others were executed soon after.

Liam read the words on his return from France. He didn’t think much of them at first, but as the peace deteriorated, he came to cherish them.

The Brits controlled the mainland during the day. The IRA controlled the night. When it became insanely dangerous for a British soldier to lay his head down to sleep, the British military took over the island. The children were turned out and sent home. Teachers moved to Killelea and lived with the farmers from Innishfen in deserted cottages throughout the town. 

Wee Sean raised his lantern, and turned, throwing his light out at walls made of cut rock and mortar. Reinforced wooden doors on either side served as cells once. Liam vaguely wondered how many Republican souls still waited release behind those doors. The wind whistled through the hall and rattled doors, making him think he heard the moans of the prisoners.

“You don’t need to be going through every torture chamber in the place,” Father Patrick protested as Brendan rattled a door. The latch mechanism thundered as it gave way, and Brendan challenged the good Father with a look. Then he threw the door open. Wee Sean held up his lantern and Brendan pushed in. A moment passed and a big eyed, skinny ghostie stepped out into the hall. Brendan returned, wearing a sickly expression. Wee Sean stepped out behind Brendan, and quietly closed the door. The bony creature that escaped with their invasion melted back into the door. Father Patrick, Wee Sean and Brendan stepped lightly now keeping their voices down to whispers.

Liam decided he would prefer to be walking with Bridey. If she felt the need, he’d take her abuse.

He found her sharing a seat on a stump with a toad. Sprite sat on the ground next to her. “How is Brendan?” she asked when he joined her.

“Your brother has grown up, Bridey,” he commented.

She nodded. “Brendan is the brave one. I.. I..” She glanced quickly up at him, and then away again. She bit her lips. “I can’t be going in there again.” She rose, and walked away.

He followed her on foot along the dun fence in the direction of the Frontside. Rusty wrought iron leaves, roses and shamrocks caught the last light in a cavernous effect. Wispy stems from the overgrown rose bushes climbed the inner fences and wrapped about the top uprights. Someone in the past had been careful to trim them back or tuck them behind the fence. The red and gold sun slipped down behind the town of Killelea across the harbor, lighting their way, and turning the harbor water to gold. It amazed him still that in this new phase of their lives, they could walk during that time when shadows should be long and large, and not see theirs at all. 

One could see the rocks across the bay, the outline of the lighthouse on top, and a pale yellow light emerging from the top of the lighthouse. It was grand indeed to see that. It meant truly that the British had left, considering the light remained dark during those years the Brits occupied the Island.

“If I could cry,” she told him. “I would be crying for myself, and for that Major at the bottom of the Backside. And I would be crying for that bugger and his jug.” She sniffed and wiped her nose as if she would be shedding the bodily fluids she no longer possessed. “The two of them protected me. The Major wouldn’t allow them to touch me. They wanted to. The whole of them.”

Prickles of ice ran the length of his arms. Time stopped, noises silenced, and the breeze stifled. He leaned into her. “Who, Bridey?”

Brave? She faced him down, standing before him, without a shred of fear. Just as she always had. “The guards. He called them ruffians. He was brave. He faced them down so many times. They threatened him. They plotted against him. And the Brigadier. The Brigadier was frightened. He’d be drinking his Scotch whiskey. Always with a bottle at his side. He stood up to them though.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The Brigadier. He told me he wanted me. That if I gave you over to them, he would be taking me into his home. He’d be feeding me and dressing me in silks. He’d make me into a fine English lady. He wanted to touch m’red hair, and draw from m’breasts, and he’d give me anything I wanted.”

“Why are you telling me this? Is there something you want from me?”

She stepped back from him, looking soulfully at him through dry eyes. “I told him the only thing I’d be needing on this earth was m’husband.”

“You did, did ya?”

“Aye. He kept at it. He begged. But then after that explosion, he quit talking to me about you. I.. I didn‘t think… I didn‘t want to think that maybe…” She turned away from him again. “He still… begged me to eat.”

He paused himself. “So you knew it down deep then? About me?”

She glanced at him again, and again turned away. “It occurred to me. I honestly didn‘t know if I could survive without you.” Her nasty side reemerged as she twisted his way again, and this time full force. “I’d think you could figure that out on your own. I did starve to death on your account.” She continued to study him. His turn. Knocking his feet out from under him with a click of her tongue, and getting even for that remark about spending bloody eternity with Enid.

Link to Football?

II - Football?

Chapter II

Football?

Brendan, Wee Sean and the Priest found themselves quite a surprise. They took one outbuilding at a time, entering and taking stock of what they found. They found a well opening in one building, and indoor plumbing in one.

They also found the armory, and as the British promised, it was well stocked. One wall held nothing but shelves and shelves of explosives. They noticed dynamite and wondered how easy it would have been to damage railroad tracks and British boats if only they had something that stable to work with. Maybe, just maybe, Liam would still be with them if he had dynamite that night instead of gelignite. On another shelf they found gelignite. They steered away from that.

Giant crates holding new weapons, everything from Thompson machine guns to handguns, were stacked along a middle aisle. They found bullets and blasting caps, fuses and timers. They crossed themselves, thanking God for such great wealth, and then tiptoed from the building.

They toured the main residence and were happy with the wealth in furnishings they came across. A nicer surprise surfaced on the way out. They found the main kitchen at the back of the house. On perpendicular walls, two giant arches opened into spotless hearths. A larger wrought iron stove with its belly door opened, dripped cinders and coals onto the floor. Beside that someone had stacked a full cord of wood. Father Patrick’s attention was drawn to a wooden work table. Sunday was coming, and as of yet, no one had thought about what to use in place of the altar stone. He turned slowly, rubbing the stubble on his chin, as Brendan latched on to the handle of a locked larder door.

Wee Sean disappeared, returning moments later, carrying with him a mallet and chisel. Before the sun set completely, the whole of them removed the lock and the door, and broke it into pieces. Beyond that, they found full barrels. “Flour,” said the Priest with a smile large enough to light the night itself. “Sugar, salt and yeast. I know what to do with that.”

Brendan held up an unfamiliar glass bottle. “Scotch whiskey? I doubt I’ve ever saw this in the hands of a good Republican.”

“Seeing where it comes from, are you planning to drink that?” Wee Sean asked, reaching out to touch it.

“Sure. We’ll be returning it to England on the first boat to pass us by.” He laughed. Placing the bottle between his knees, he unwrapped the cork, and struggled to yank it out. It came with a pop. Father Patrick wiped his hands together as Brendan lifted the bottle to his lips. The first bite of good liquor choked him. Father Patrick took it away, he laughed himself and hefted the bottle. Wee Sean waited his turn, ready to reach up and retrieve the bottle for himself.

Outside, Sprite made friends. The trio emerged from the house, stores in hand, finding that small yellow dog Sean had described earlier. Sprite lifted his huge head, barked and looked to be smiling. He yowled at Brendan, saying something important. Still reclining, he inched towards the wee dog. Staying low, the wee dog backed away. Father Patrick pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it his way. Whatever it was, the dog grabbed it and scurried off. Sprite wagged his tail and followed the men off.

* * *

In short order, walls went up, chickens were fed and housed, and fields were planted. Men slept under tents made from woolen blankets at night, and when the rain, mist and high winds made that impossible, they didn’t sleep. Wives arrived early on most mornings, and returned to Killelea late at night.

Brendan met his wife when she emerged onto shore. “I’m guessing that you’ll rebuild the pier soon,” she commented. Enid Kelly didn’t reach his shoulder. She pulled her dark hair to the back of her neck in a knot. She was pudgy, which was surprising. She ate no more than anyone else, and she worked as hard as anyone. It just seemed her body grew out in odd directions. She owned a weak chin, small soft jowls, and the skin above her eyes drooped.

“Soon,” Brendan replied with a smile. Should he kiss her hello or not? As he leaned towards her, she pulled aside, her attention turning towards the town of Fenton. He drew away, sneezing into his fingers as if he had to.

“So, Father Patrick, Wee Sean. How has it been with the whole of you? Are you getting along?”

“Getting along fine,” he answered directing her along the walkway. Sprite fell in on the opposite side. Enid didn’t like the dog, and the dog didn’t seem to care for Enid. “With Jeremiah Corrigan and Rory Murphy that is. Old Man Keenan is another matter. I’m doubting that anyone can get along with himself.”

“And I’m always thinking ‘tis the Old Lady who’s so difficult.”

“Aye, ‘tis both of them.” Brendan glanced at his wife. “Will you be going back tonight then?”

“Aye.” She smiled, nodding at Wee Sean, who hurried to meet his wife. She turned nearly around, following him. “As many bairnes as they have, it makes me wonder….” He glanced back in time to see Wee Sean reach up and peck Maureen on the lips. Maureen had him by at least three fingers, but then every adult in Innisfen and Killelea had passed him by. “I’m hearing rumors, mind you, that she’s with child again….”

*

Liam regretted the day his near sister arrived. Although Brendan drank himself to sleep each night, and awoke holding his head each morning, the expression of dullness he assumed on her arrival was worse by far.

Enid, with the help of Maureen Darcy, Maureen’s eldest daughter, Mary Murphy and Old Mrs. Keenan took over the cooking duties, allowing the Priest to return to Killelea. Old Canon Hanrahan, the tottering old fool, claimed to be needing his help.

Liam spent many lonely hours watching Wee Sean build pens and repair walls, and envied him the camaraderie he shared with Rory Murphy. Brendan Kelly, alone with his seeds, and alone in his fields, was not lonely. He talked to the winds, the seeds, the soil and to Liam himself. If only Brendan could hear Liam’s answer.

Bridey spent her hours in the sun stretching and listening to the women as they labored over a weak peat fire. She reported later that Maureen and Wee Sean’s eldest, Deirdre, developed an eye for Connor Corrigan. “And how many years ago would it be, that Wee Sean would have locked her in the closest nunnery rather than to see her with the likes of him?” She laughed and clapped her hands as she related the discussion, and maybe, just for a moment or so, her cheeks turned rosy again.

Link to Football? 1

1

*

Once the last boat returned the ladies to Killelea, Liam visited the Backside where a solitary figure continued his march back and forth across the strand. Liam stretched out across a rock, and tucked his hands behind his head. He watched. Waves cracked protective rocks and spray shot skyward. A living man might have been drenched at best as spray fell to earth with explosive force. At worst, a living man might be washed out to sea. Back and forth, back and forth, water falling on himself constantly, and yet the man remained dry.

Something about this situation reminded Liam of a ditty. “..She was a fish monger, and sure it ‘twas no wonder, for so were her father an mother before…”

The guard paused momentarily half way across the strand.

“A music lover, are ya?” Liam asked.

“You, Sir,” the guard said, “Have a voice second only to a diseased bull frog.”

“And I’m assuming that because you’re the last of your kind, that you, you bloody Limey, are guarding a lost cause.”

The man turned on Liam and squinted. He owned a long, thin face, and intelligent blue eyes behind spectacles with cracked lenses. Small strawberry curls peeked out from beneath his dented helmet. The specter wore it at a jaunty angle, the strap crossing the edge of his chin. Liam wore one of those for a very long stint while serving in the British military. The memory made his chin itch. The British specter pursed his lips and swallowed. “I am aware of the outcome of your little rebellion. Should I congratulate you?”

“Do you think that would make m’boyos know I’m here?”

The Brit paused, resettling his composure. “If your companions were to become aware of your existence, do you think the ruffians who tossed me bodily to the wind might collect my remains and return them to my family?”

“Is that why ‘tis that you’re guarding the Backside all this time? Do you think you might be flagging one down?”

“Hump.” The guard returned to his route and began his march again. A half of a circuit later, he paused, changed his weapon with the twisted bayonet to the other shoulder and turned about. He paused at the same place he had before, turning again in Liam’s direction. “I am as miserable as you are, Sir. I march because it helps.”

“Would it be helping me if I march then?”

“My life has been dedicated to the King’s service. This is what I know. What is it, Sir, that you know?”

Liam studied the stars that emerged from between gray clouds. “M’life, Sir, has paused for war, both for England and for Erin. Although I had planned to set aside my weapon and kick about the football. I should be downing a jug of poteen right now, planting m’flax, shearing m’ sheep, and avoiding m’wife.”

“And if I were to believe all that had been said about the Irish, you should have fourteen or fifteen children, and never draw a sober breath.”

Liam crossed his arms before him. “No more than necessary. Sobriety that is. And don’t be mentioning wee one’s about Bridey. She’s still punishing me for getting blown up during her hunger strike. Not an easy recipe for breeding children.”

“Ah,” the Brit responded. “And you are the infamous Liam O'Brennigan.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I’ve had the pleasure of posting a guard on Mrs. O'Brennigan. I understand why you would try to avoid her at times.”

“Aye. She has a tongue sharper than m’sheep shears.” Liam nodded at the guard. “And you are?”

“Major Regional Smote Talbot. It has been my unfortunate honor to serve with this band of miscreants and blackguards who manned this outpost. The Crown formerly sent men like them off to penal colonies in Australia and South Africa.”

“Reginald, is it?” Liam studied the man. “You can be standing in the spray over there, Reginald, or you can come here and sit where it’s dry.”

The image faded beneath the fall out of a huge wave, and materialized moments later on the rock next to Liam. “It’s Reggie,” the man explained.

Liam took a mighty look at the image beside him. “And it seems to me we’ve been around before,” Liam commented.

“You do look familiar.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance know what happened to the likes of Michael Collins, Cathal Braga, oh, let’s see, Arthur Griffith or any of the others, would you?”

“The last thing I heard of your Michael Collins,” Reggie commented, “Was that he and Arthur Griffith had negotiated a settlement with the Crown for the disposition of Ireland.”

“Michael Collins is a saint,” Liam commented. He smiled, his chest expanding with pride. He shook his head after a moment. “He’s also a soldier. Eamonn De Valera is the head of the Sinn Fein. Negotiations belong to the politicians. Not the soldiers.”

“De Valera was head of the Sinn Fein. Apparently he wasn’t happy with the outcome. Stepped aside when Collins and Griffith agreed that the Northern six counties would remain with the British if they so voted, and that the rest of Ireland would become a free country.”

A great bubble of air that had been Liam’s pride exploded. “Oh, nay. Not Ulster. Michael Collins, the saint that he is, would never trade away Ulster. De Valera, the weasel that he is, maybe. Never Michael Collins….” Liam held his right hand straight out. “Michael Collins, mind you, shook that hand. A saint, he is. A hero, he is. He‘d never do such a thing as that.”

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