*
Patrick gave chase as the others piled one on top of the each other in
the center of the field. It bounced off a rock and right into the bushes that
edged the cliffs on the Highside. He battled bows of pine needles and broad
leafed bushes. When he moved one, another shot back and smacked him in the
face. He found the ball easily enough, and reached down for it. His foot
slipped, and stuck beneath a root. Gingerly, Patrick reached forward, picking
the ball from a patch of wild flowers. He tossed it backwards, assuring himself
he or someone else could pick it up in a moment or so.
Then he returned his attention to his foot, still caught sharply beneath
the root. He pulled softly at first, but without results. He tried harder,
yanking with barely enough strength to assure himself he wouldn’t lose his
footing again in the mud. “Hey, Father Patrick, let’s play,” someone called.
“I’m coming,” he muttered, yanking again. Without results, he glanced
once at the field as his mates took up their positions again. Then he yanked
with all his might. His foot gave way inside his shoe. It slipped free, and
once again, he fell. This time forward, through the brush at the end of the
Highside. And he continued to fall.
*
Lighting flashed across the sky and almost immediately thunder shook the
ground. As if the skies suddenly broke open, it rained hard and fast. Lightning
again branched out across the sky, this time, striking the wagon bed at the
edge of the field. The match ended with a shower of splinters and a small fire
that burned out in the torrents of rain that followed. Another shaft of
lightning and a clap of thunder sent men, women and children running for cover.
Brendan craned way above the heads of his friends in an effort to spot
his son. And when he did see the lad, he found his dog as well. Sprite latched
onto Michelene’s shirt with his teeth and tugged at the lad. Michelene tried to
free himself from the dog’s grip, and yet pull the animal with him towards the fir
tree at the edge of the cliff. Brendan hurried. To keep the lad away from the
edge and away from one of the few trees. Reaching down inside him, he set aside
sore muscles and fatigue. He tore across the field at full speed, sweeping the
lad into his arms and tearing about in the opposite direction. Accidentally, he
kicked the football, sending it flying again back in the direction of the
playing field. Sprite barked and followed.
Down the way a bit and off to the left was the homestead of a departed
IRA hero. Lightening flashed, striking somewhere on the island. Brendan headed
towards the cottage.
He tore through a splintered door that hung from one hinge. Inside, Wee
Sean, Maureen and several of the Darcy children took refuge under what was left
of a thatch roof. Brendan took the lad to a corner. He sat in wet straw and
caught his breath. Wee Sean and his family gathered about him and took up seats
on the ground as well.
“If I complain that m’bum will be wet,” Maureen teased, “Will you tell me
how wet the rest of me is?”
Wee Sean laughed at that and brushed a wet curl from his wife’s cheek.
Water leaked through the roof above him, and ran down Brendan’s spine. It
ran cold, but Maureen was right. The rest of him was cold and wet, too. He
turned his attention to his son. “Did you see the lightning?”
“Aye.”
“Ya don’t head for trees when lightning is striking about ya. Ya head for
a roof.”
“But Father Patrick.”
“What about Father Patrick?”
“He went in there to get the ball. And I didn’t see him come out.”
“I’m sure he’s found cover.” Wee Sean said.
Brendan nodded his agreement. When the child yawned, he pulled Michelene
to rest on his shoulder. In spite of the boom of thunder and the constant
pounding of rain on a leaky roof, and in spite of the drops that still found
them, Michelene’s eyelids began to slip. His thumb found his mouth, and he
began to suck. Sprite squeezed into the clump of bodies and pushed up against
the pair. “He’s a good laddie, here,” Brendan said, scratching his dog behind
the ears.
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