*
“Ya know, Sean,” Bridey told him as he stretched out for the night, “I
remember your wedding. Oh, but Maureen was so pretty. Ya know, She’s still
pretty. And expecting again. Can ya think of anything more precious than one’s
family? All those babies. I was there with almost every one. Sam’s birth I
missed. I was here, in the dun at the time. Patrick brought me the news during
his weekly visit. Broke m’heart I couldn’t be with her. The best though, was
Deirdre’s. I remember us talking about her wedding day. How much we’d enjoy it.
How we’d plan it together. I’d have a right to, ya know. I did hold her tiny
head with all those beautiful curls as Canon Hanrahan Baptized her. Another
mother to her, I‘d say. Her Godmother no less.”
Wee Sean stared at the stars above. The moon reflected off droplets of
dew forming on the clover about him. It was one of those clear, crisp nights
where one could see forever upward. The only interruption would be the beam from
the lighthouse as it traveled the night sky.
Off in the not too far distance, Patrick and Brendan sat together
discussing whatever it was. Sprite sat at Brendan’s side, glancing over his
shoulder now and then, and even lifting himself up and turning himself about.
The laddy slept restlessly, wrapped in a woolen blanket, and not much further
than Patrick, himself, could reach out a comforting hand to the child. The wind
had shifted, coming in from the Lowside, and carrying with it a low, unnerving
rumble.
Wee Sean barely moved. “Oh, but wouldn’t it be wonderful,” Bridey
continued. “Deirdre and Connor Corrigan. Ya know you’re right about Jerry
Corrigan. A horse’s arse at times. But Connor is a good lad. I’d say he’s
nothing like his father, but think of it. You need something done, who’s the
first person there? ‘Tis you, ‘tis Brendan, ‘tis Father Patrick, and ‘tis Jerry
Corrigan and Rory Murphy. And Connor is another one. Just like his father, he
is. The first one to be helping ya out when ya need it. You should be happy
he’s interested in Deirdre…”
*
“You know, Patrick, ‘tisn’t like Naughtonby has much to offer us,”
Brendan commented.
“No one said anything about betting ‘em.”
“Not to you, they haven’t.” Sprite hopped up again, and spun about,
tearing up clover with his claws. “Come on, laddy, calm down,” Brendan soothed.
The dog howled his reply as he threw himself down again. He crept closer to
Brendan and licked the man’s hand.
“He’s skitterish tonight,” Patrick commented. A night so quiet, that one
could hear the waves caressing the shore, and that in spite of Sprite making
his share of noise. But then again, even the frogs seemed to be aware of the
dog’s discomfort and kept their silence.
“I’m almost ready to concede that the fairy folk are about.” Brendan
stretched out as Sprite attempted to crawl into his lap.
Patrick chuckled. “Jerry Corrigan. Ranting and raving, he is, and the
wind just whooshes through, picking the hair up off his back. Just like Sprite,
he is. Almost funny, excepting I’m feeling as creepy as he is.”
“No,” Brendan agreed, “Not a comfortable night.” He began to rock back
and forth as he drew up images from the past. “Remember the night Cathal Brugha
died? It was a night like this.”
“Uneasy,” Patrick agreed.
“Aye, uneasy.”
*
“Cathal Brugha?” Liam demanded, turning full force on Reggie. “Dead?”
Reggie shrugged. “Not something I recall.”
“And where is Michael Collins?”
Reggie shrugged again.
Liam turned away. “The world has changed. And maybe it isn’t for the
better. Cathal Brugha and Michael Collins. Great men they are.”
“Outstanding men,” Reggie shrugged. “If the I.R.A. is your cup of tea.”
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