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* * *

Kieran Griffin barely seemed able to stand, and Donny Duffy wasn’t in much better shape. Enid left the Pub behind and went looking in another direction for someone to row her out to the Island. Most of the women had tried from time to time, and had even taken turns at the oars when their men were busy, but to do it alone was just a little too far for most of them. She was ready to give up when Connor Corrigan volunteered. “I have tools Brendan asked me to take to have repaired,” Enid explained.

“I suppose I should be checking on m’Dad,” he commented. He had little else to say. He kept his quiet and even suppressed his usual grin. He walked with her to the wharf, keeping his thoughts to himself. He helped her into a boat, and rowed her out without much more than a groan or two.

Father Patrick met them and helped to pull them ashore. “Is this your job now?” Connor teased.

“As good as any,” Father commented.

“Any break in the weather?” The boy turned hopeful eyes on the Priest.

After a moment of scrutiny, he nodded. “Aye. Believe it or not, Wee Sean is a touch more reasonable.”

“And m’Dad?”

“Hump. Good luck. As of this morning he isn’t speaking to Rory Murphy even.”

Once the craft had been properly beached, the lad took off up the cement walkway and out towards the far meadow where they had played their football matches.

“Should I ask?” Enid queried.

Father Patrick raised his hand to the back of his head. ‘”Tis complicated.” His hands dropped to his waist as he turned his attention full to her. “So what is it that brings ya across this day, Enid?”

“Brendan asked me to have his hand tools mended.” She bent over the boat and retrieved a canvas sack. “I’ll take it up to him, and maybe help him some.”

“I’ll be walking with ya,” Father Patrick told her. “I’ll warn ya now before you’re’ upset.”

“She isn’t with him?”

“Mollie O’Sullivan? No, ‘tis Michelene. She took off again and left the boy at the pub.”

Enid paused.

“Ya honestly didn’t expect me to leave him to Donny Duffy’s charge?”

She brushed away a bit of fluff from the tip of her nose. “No. Donny Duffy and Kieran Griffin are in no shape to be watching a child.”

“That’s coming from the world’s worst mother, is it?” Father took the canvas sack from her, and nearly dropped it because of the weight. He regained control over it and took off without waiting for her answer. Leave it to him to remind her of her worst fears. He climbed the stairs in a blink and headed off towards Dunside and the old Kelly homestead. Enid felt she had little choice but to follow.

Father paused at a stone fence and nodded. Brendan and the boy knelt in the potato field. It was quite a bit bigger than the old famine plot. Once upon a time the British passed laws saying that all the farm land in Ireland would be split between heirs when the owner died. That meant small farms were whittled into even smaller farms, and eventually into plots one could step over. Farmers continued to maintain them as a way to remember what was once, and the hope they had in the future of Erin.

Sprite stretched out beside father and son, and wagged his tail. They teased and laughed at each other. “Would you have any idea how badly your husband is wanting children?” Father asked.

Behind them, the flax fields began. Enid turned in that direction, pretending to take interest there. A bit of green barely broke the surface. A few months from now, the bottoms of the stalks would turn gold and harvesting would be underway.

She started back towards the Frontside and the harbor.

* * *

Not long after Enid landed another boat pulled in. Eamonn Darcy reported that Canon Hanrahan was ailing again and needed Patrick’s help. Vaguely Patrick wondered how the Canon would fair when villagers returned to Innisfen. He said his goodbye’s and joined Enid and Eamonn for the return journey.

Enid kept her quiet, and Eamonn shared his sister’s distress. “Aye, I’m disappointed, too. I can think of worse characters than Connor Corrigan.”

“I agree,” Patrick offered.

* * *

Emily turned her nose up at the cuisine. Again Ian reminded her. “You were warned.” She declared that potatoes were too starchy. Lamb was quite a bit more than he had wanted to spend on nourishment. He needed to conserve his resources for the return trip. No telling how much the thieving little blackguards would hit him up for without full protection of the Crown. To be so close to England and yet so far away was disconcerting.

But then the road entered onto the Irish Channel. Sea gulls and puffins darted overhead and now and again one could spot a hawk or peregrine. The green clover, purple and pink heather, deep blue sea and sky were as enchanting as Ian remembered. And then the drizzle began. Another thing he hated about Ireland was the dampness. England was only slightly better.

Emily glanced skyward as if she’d find a roof to the carriage somewhere, but then bucked up. She sniffed at the air when passing a small village or cottage. The smell reminded Ian of dirt and roasted herbs. She finally asked. “What is that smell?”

“That is the smell of peat fires.”

“Peat?” she turned on him, registering her surprise. “As in grass?”

“Exactly as in grass. In place of trees, they cut up pieces of the earth and feed it to their fires here.”

“I can’t see how that would burn with much warmth,” she commented pulling her coat in against her.

“It doesn’t.”

She marveled at the rock piles, the gulleys, the hills and ravines, and the little whitewashed cottages and their thatched roofs. Even in the rain, one had to admit it was beautiful. “All over Ireland,” Ian grumped. “Bloody rocks. Bloody rain. And bloody backwards, too.”

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