* * *
Patrick emerged from the last house on the lane and out onto the common.
His friends had dug his frying pan from his pack. A moment passed before he
realized the damage Jeremiah Corrigan might have committed with eggs in his
cold pan. “If you’re hungry,” Patrick cautioned, “You should have called me.”
“Lord help us if we knew what home you were bestowing your blessings on,”
Jeremiah cracked. “I know how to cook.”
Patrick had trouble prying himself away from each home, and out of the
clutches of each apologetic housewife. When first invited to bless a home. Rory
Murphy laughed about how the women of Naughtonby were insuring their entrance
into Heaven by not allowing their men to taint Innisfen’s Confessor. After all,
it wasn’t as if these women didn’t have their own priest, or that Canon Tucker
hadn’t blessed each home on the lane from time to time.
Patrick roughly yanked the skillet away from the larger man. “Fine. Use
your own pans then. You want eggs, you heat the pan properly and melt some
grease first.” He worked quickly, cutting up onion and potatoes he had carried
along with the eggs, and frying them up in the pan which he had balanced on a
rock near the flames. “Where is our competition?”
“Looking for more poteen,” Wee Sean responded.
Patrick sniffed, surprised at how strong the odor of fermented potatoes
was. “Did they spill it?”
“Nay,” Brendan laughed. “We did. Forgot how irritating it can be when
you’re dealing with the whole of them smitten with the drink like that.”
“Forgot how irritating the whole of them are sober,” Wee Sean commented.
“’Tis as if they’re intentionally trying to wear us down before the match.”
Patrick glanced about, taking in the elder members of the squad. “Eamonn
and Connor? I hope neither have been influenced by how freely the poteen is
flowing.”
Jeremiah Corrigan and Sean Darcy both glanced about the group. Then one
turned on the other. “I’m thinking the lads had more brains than that,” Jerry
commented.
“And I’m thinking they’ll find out what ‘tis to play football with their
heads hurting and their stomachs aching,” Wee Sean added.
Corrigan nodded. “Amen
*
Eamonn Darcy met Annie Eustace. She was a lass with straight red hair,
green eyes, a bright smile and a friend. Connor Corrigan wasn’t interested. “Ya
don’t understand,” the larger one cried a second and a third time. “I’m spoke
for. ‘Tis his sister. Eamonn, tell her. Tell her about Deirdre.” Eamonn hardly
noticed the lass with hair as dark as coal and eyes to match. Truthfully this
one was barely as big as Deirdre was, and only a fraction of Annie Eustace’s
height. “Eamonn,” Connor began to panic as this wee bit of a lass attached
herself to his elbow and demanded his attentions. It ended too quickly. Connor
yanked Eamonn from Annie’s arms, picked him up bodily and dragged him off.
*
“Is either of ya sober?” Jeremiah Corrigan demanded when his son
deposited wee Eamonn on the ground by the peat fire.
Connor battled his way to his feet. “I’m sober,” he cried none too steadily.
“’Tis this fool. He’s following Annie Eustace about like a cur following a
bitch in heat.” The lad wiped his nose on his sleeve, turning between his
father and the others. “I’m telling him and I’m telling her. I’m not interested
in her friend. He wants to court her, fine. Do it when I’m not having to worry
about her father and his friends walking off with m’chickens because Eamonn
Darcy can’t keep his mind on the match.” Connor twisted about, coming to face
each man, showing his desperation. “I don’t need anymore poteen, or any of
Annie Eustace’s friends, or m’best boyo forgetting who his mates are.”
Eamonn brushed a piece of straw from his dark hair. “I’m not forgetting
anything.” He glanced up at Connor and then at his father. “I mean Annie
Eustace is,” he shrugged, “Interesting.”
“Interesting is it?” Wee Sean cocked an eye at his son. When Eamonn
reached out to him, Wee Sean turned away, preferring a seat by the fire. “Funny
‘tis how the name Eustace keeps popping up.”
*
Old Mrs. Clohessy claimed to have a special homemade salve that healed
pig, horse, donkey or man from any ill God felt them deserving of. It certainly
smelled vile. Patrick wasn’t thrilled about becoming part of her blasphemy, but
on the other hand, he hadn’t found anything to work the inflammation from the
old horse’s flanks.
When they landed early that afternoon, Patrick unharnessed the old lass,
and led her off for a drink and a good brushing. He fed her oats and carrots as
he talked to her, reassuring her he had no wish to hurt her. She snorted,
nodding as if she understood him.
After a late meal, Patrick decided to take his chances. He crossed
himself and asked Himself to forgive him for his part in the old woman’s
blasphemies. He spread the ointment over his fingers, examining it in the
moonlight. He smelled it again and nearly gagged. He took another moment to
assure himself this was right. Then he applied it to the horse’s arse. The old
Lass jumped away from him at first, but then when he pushed in beside her, and
soothed her with his words, she stayed still, allowing him to spread it over
her wounds. A moment passed and her stance changed. She threw her head back and
snorted. She quivered once, and then pushed closer to where Patrick worked.
“You’re liking it, are ya? Good, Lassie. I’m hoping it works.”
*
Bloody long night and a bloody headache to deal with come morning. Gun
shots rang out from near fields, disturbing sleep and setting the bairne to
tears. He wanted his Mama. Bloody dog stood on his hind legs, way over human
heads and bayed. Brendan attempted to calm the child and the dog. Fathers in
the group ordered the child quiet. A man didn’t cry for his mam at the first
bit of noise he heard.
Jeremiah Corrigan disappeared at the first crack, and returned after a
few moments. “Aaron Heaney. Laying in the midst of his fields and shooting at
the moon.” He threw himself on his back and crossed his feet. “Next challenge
and I’ll not be crossing the Channel. Amen, Little Man, I think I’ll be
developing your water sickness.”
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