*
“Aye, Father Plunkett,” Molly O’Sullivan pushed from the crowd, and
grasped him by the elbow. “Are you here to welcome us to your celebration?”
This woman stood as tall as Father Patrick himself. Dark blonde hair fell about
her shoulders in a young manner, although her bulging nose and sagging cheeks
reflected years of over indulgences. The top of her dress cut across the bulges
of her ample breasts.
“I’ll welcome you.” He studied her from head to foot, his eyes coming to
rest right there.
“You like that, do you?” she asked, pushing herself forward.
“’Tis no wonder you’re ailing the whole of winter.”
“That’s it? You’re worried about m’ailing?”
Patrick unglued his gaze from her bust line, and turned up to take in her
eyes. “Take pride in yourself, woman. Concern yourself with your behavior. And
for the love of God, Himself, put some clothing on.”
She pushed against him. “Clothing? Did you say on or off?” Her cohorts
laughed.
He drew in to steady himself. “Promise me you’ll be returning to the
mainland this evening?”
She snorted, and backed away from him. “Oh, Michelene,” she called behind
her. “Come see who’s visiting with Mam.”
From behind the legs of others, a wee head appeared. The boy smiled from
ear to ear when he saw the Priest. Father Patrick returned the boy’s smile and
tousled his hair. “Michelene, is it? How is m’wee friend today?”
Dirty little bugger he was, with a wayward tangle of red falling into his
eyes. He had a smudge circling his wide delicate smile. He had bright green
eyes, and could rob the bitterness from one’s soul. “I’m good, Father. Can I be
walking with ya?”
“I’m about to check with the ladies cooking the lamb. Maybe they’d have
something for you.” The little one smiled, and took up Patrick’s hand. He
turned his small face up to look at the Priest, and as he did, his free fingers
found his mouth.
*
“Will you look at him,” Bridey said, directing Liam’s attention to the
Priest. Father Patrick sat on a rock. Children of all ages gathered at his
feet. He shared with them the story of Innisfen’s last warlord and how he
defended his island from intruders. Liam’s big red dog sat beside the small
redhead. The dog’s head topped the wee one’s, his tongue hung out and his tail
wagged, and when the lad turned in his direction, the dog licked his face from
chin to brow. The lad laughed and tried to hug the dog. “Amazing is what ‘tis.”
“What’s that?” Liam asked.
“The affect Patrick is having on those wee ones.”
“What is amazing is how bloody cantankerous he is,” Liam growled, turning
away from the scene.
*
“You know what I’m thinking,” Jeremiah Corrigan squinted at Rory Murphy,
Wee Sean Darcy, and Brendan Kelly. The last three had found rest on the bed of
a broken wagon that had been left to rot when the Brits expelled them years
ago. Broken wheels laid half buried to either side of the wagon’s bed. “Is that
they bloody heard of us.” Corrigan stood, his hands tucked into the lash
holding up his trousers. He tried to lean away from the bright sun, but without
much success.
“Aye,” Rory agreed. “We were that good.”
“Aye, we were.” Corrigan nodded at Donald O'Hare. “We still are. But
maybe O'Hare is a coward.”
O'Hare, hands on hips, leaned back to take in Corrigan’s full size. The
man winced, but didn’t back down. “Now, are we talking football? Or planting
potatoes? I mean your lads here, are farmers.” The man, a blacksmith, was as
solid as a tree. He had thick upper arms and body, and a scar running across
one cheek and into his dark hair. A nasty white streak of hair fell to one side
of his head.
“Aye.”
O’Hare glanced at his friends. “Potato farmers. Those two would be so
big, neither could run. And the other two would be blown over in the breeze
from the harbor. Somehow, I’m thinking this match-up wouldn’t be fair. I mean
us against them?” He laughed and his mates laughed. He was right about the
wind. It was kicking up quite a fuss.
Wee Sean nudged his Timothy. Once he had the lad’s attention, he nodded
towards the fire. Tim ran off.
“Where’s the lad off to?” O'Hare demanded.
“He’ll be looking for Father Patrick,” Wee Sean replied, pulling a piece
of grass from between the planks of the old wagon. He placed the tip in his
mouth.
“Ah,” O'Hare nodded again. “Smart move, ‘tis. They’ll be needing the
Priest to conduct their Last Rights.”
Wee Sean adjusted his hat and grinned.
*
Tim Darcy caught up with the Priest just as Old Lady Keenan tried to sink
her disapproving claws into him one more time. By the look in Tim’s eyes and
the smile that creased the Priest’s face, Liam guessed at the nature of the
lad’s message. Tim took off, looking for others. The Priest smiled grandly at
Mrs. Keenan and excused himself. Tim stopped his brother Eamonn. Liam followed
the Priest’s example, smiling grandly at his wife. “Did I tell you how
wonderful you’ve been lately?”
“Me?”
“You. You seem to be accepting our lot well enough.”
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