4

*

Patrick let himself through the door after dark. Canon Hanrahan, Michelene and Brendan Kelly sat about the table, laughing over abandon bowls of cold potatoes. A peat fire provided little light, although Canon did set a lamp centermost on the table. Patrick hated to waste even a drop of kerosene, as expensive as it was. Most people in Killelea were living on barter, and few had the money or the wherewithal to bring fuel in from Dublin.

Canon sat in the chair while father and son shared a backless bench. Patrick closed the door behind him. “Shame on ya for wasting food,” he commented.

“Shame on you for not cooking something decent,” Brendan shot back.

“And shame on you for your pigheadedness. I heard how you’re being quiet to the others.” Patrick set his prize on the table. A large brown hare with a little meat on its bones after a long winter’s hibernation promised a change from over soft potatoes, eggs and fish. “Eamonn and Connor come across a nest when they hid the cart.”

“Are you all right, Patrick?” Canon asked.

He nodded in response. Truly, he was shaken. On his return to the center of town, Donald O'Hare sought him out to ask for some of old Mrs. Clohessy’s salve. The Dubliner had taken a room at the pub and left his horse at the smithy next store. This horse was rippled and rutted about the flanks with fresh wounds.

Canon Hanrahan turned his chair over to Patrick. “Sit. Are ya hungry?”

Patrick took his seat, but shook his head no. Those about him faded out of his consciousness as he lifted the rosary beads that hung at his side. He crossed himself, retreating into prayer, a world where Himself would provide those who entered peace of mind.

*

An hour or so later, Brendan left the Parochial house, with Patrick and Micholene at his side.

“Ya see any horses around here?” old James Keenan told the stranger. “We got a few donkeys, and only that because they were too stubborn for the Brits to be riding into France a few years back.”

“I hear ya had a racetrack here,” the stranger insisted.

“Once upon a time. Only I think the worst of them horses smelt better than you do right now.” The old man turned away, heading off to his work in the field.

The stranger, big as he was, latched onto the old man’s arm and raised his other fist. That was it. Brendan sprang forward, knocking over the stranger from behind. He bounced belly first onto the pebbled way. Brendan surprised him, hopefully knocking air from his lungs. Nothing more. The man caught his breath too quickly, and smiled in recognition of Brendan’s build. He pulled himself to his feet, curling both fists as he did. “Come on, with ya,” he challenged, swaying back and forth. “Let’s see how brave you are to me face.”

And who would be the idiot now? Brendan honestly expected to crumble like rotten wood from the crunch of the first punch. Old Man Keenan backed off. As suddenly as Brendan had charged into the situation, others charged forward. Rory Murphy grabbed hold of the man’s collar. “I’m I.R.A.,” the man cried. “You’re threatening a certified war hero here.”

“Let me introduce myself,” Rory smiled. “Colonel Rory Murphy, I.R.A. and this here is m’General, Brendan Kelly, also I.R.A. Get you’re bloody horse and get your bloody arse on it, and take it back to Dublin. And if I were you, I’d do it before the North Pale Regulars use a crop on your arse.” Rory pushed the man in the direction of four others. Each grabbed on, leading their charge down the way and about the cross in the center of the crossroads. “If you were talking to me,” Rory said to Brendan, “I’d expect a thank you.”

Brendan sighed. Then he smiled at his rescuer. “Colonel Murphy?”

Rory shrugged. “Let him ask around. General.”

Brendan nodded. “If I were talking to ya, Colonel, I’d ask you where the calf is.”

“If you were talking to me, I’d tell ya she jumped off the Backside with the goat and swam to England. Ya think you might come back soon? We could use your help clearing fields. General.”

“Confession, first.”

Rory, a big man, with round eyes in a round face, nodded and patted Brendan on the shoulder as he passed. He waved to Patrick and he moved off in the direction of the pub and blacksmith.

Brendan started off towards the Parochial House and the crowd gathered there. Enid stepped from the crowd. She studied him without expression. He wanted so badly to talk with her, make their differences go away. His wife glanced at the boy holding Father Patrick’s hand. Then she turned and walked away. Brendan didn’t forgive easily, but to fill those silences with voices.

Link to The Price of Adultery