2

*

Morning brought Old Man Keenan stepping from the first boat to arrive, him possibly intending to be taken away from the recurring argument himself and the Old Woman had conducted for the last thirty years. Smith, O’Brien and Arthur followed the old man up the cement path to meet Wee Sean, Murphy and Corrigan. Keenan, one eye larger than the other, gummed air or maybe the inside of his mouth as he thought. He leaned forward, the bill of his snap down cap, and his beak pointing down, and his chin rising nearly to meet the tip of his nose. “Problems?” Keenan demanded. “You mean outside of the fact the buggers possibly ate m’ pigs and sheep, or sent m’cows off to France? I’m hoping they at least left m’goat behind.”

With hands deep in his pockets, Corrigan turned, looking directly into Liam’s eyes. Pity Corrigan couldn’t see him.

A brutish wind pounded in off the sea, snapping waves up high into the air, and carrying a cold mist inland. Clothing snapped, grasses laid nearly flat to the ground, with the shrubbery crushing in against itself.

“Water,” Wee Sean cried about the tempest. “Without the trees, sea water is blowing across the Island and straight into the well."

“And what are you suggesting then?”

“What else?” Corrigan broke in. “We build a wall.”

“Nay, you build a wall. I will find m’goat.”

Corrigan, hands still in pockets, turned on Wee Sean and Murphy. “Goats, huh?” He said, rocking from his toes to his heels and back again. “So, Wee Sean, seen any goats wandering around?”

“A few chickens. No goats that I can recall.”

“Me neither,” Murphy agreed, with a shrug. This man wasn’t as tall as his cohort and maybe a centimeter or so short of Liam himself. He owned a square Irish face, nearly black hair which he shoved backwards over a balding spot at the back of his head. Like Liam to Wee Sean, or Brendan to the Priest, Murphy fit to Corrigan like his head to his hat or his hand to his glove.

The trio turned their backs on the old man and the other newcomers. “This would be a lot bloody easier,” Rory Murphy grumbled, “If we could bring a horse across on the next boat. Some reason I don’t see that happening. Anyone interested in hauling rocks up hill?”

“Maybe I can send for m’lads,” Wee Sean offered. “Bring’m across in the morning.” They started off, up the cement walkway towards the storehouse.

“Thinking about going across and getting them yourself?” Corrigan challenged.

“Thinking about choking on your dinner?” Wee Sean returned.

“I knew Old Man Keenan wouldn’t help,” Murphy advised. “Waste of time for the asking.”

As the trio topped the cement walkway, something, a hedgehog maybe, darted out at them, and away again. Behind it, egging it on, darted one of those little yellow British curs. It paused only long enough to take them in before darting off with its tail between its legs. Skinny thing.

*

With the wind picking up, few trees stopped the mists from scouring the face of the Island. Without offering, or without comment, Brendan Kelly, Father Patrick, and the newcomers minus Old Man Keenan, threw themselves into the task, carrying rocks from piles scattered about, to one forming nearest the work site. The well itself was protected by a natural overhang on one side. Wind worn stumps dotted the leeward side. Behind them, the land rose to form the cliffs on the Backside. Old Man Keenan wandered about, calling out for his goat by name. Hardly a crease or a wrinkle existed where one couldn’t see, and when the wind blew just right, the old man’s voice carried up.

“Here, Precious. Dad needs you.” Jeremiah Corrigan chuckled and heaved another rock into place. “With a few branches here, we could build a roof.”

“At the very least,” Brendan Kelly offered, stacking his haul into the pile Corrigan worked from. “I could root clippings from the shrubbery about the dun. Plant ourselves a barrier here.”

“And how long would it be before that takes hold?’

“It’d be better than nothing at all,” Father Patrick advised.

“Aye. Next year or the year after.” Corrigan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He turned to retrieve another rock from the pile. “Father, if I were you, I’d be praying this hasn’t been tainted by sea water.”

“We can pray together.”

“Aye. We could,” the big man agreed half heartedly.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the good Father offered, “There is a protected well beneath the manor house of the old dun.”

“Hump.” Corrigan put his back into lifting the next rock.

Rory Murphy paused in his efforts, focusing on Corrigan. “Forgive him, Father,” he said with a smile. “He’s thinking about ghosties and goblins.”

Brendan Kelly lurched up in horror, focusing on the pair. “You’re talking about our own.”

“I’m talking about the same bugger who threatened to toss me off the Backside last time we knocked back a bottle together.”

Kelly smiled and Wee Sean laughed outright. “I can see him saying it,” the little man said. He glanced Corrigan’s way. The behemoth didn’t respond, but continued working. “We’ll go. Brendan, Father Patrick?”

Father Patrick studied Kelly. “No, Wee Sean and m’self. Brendan, you said about clippings.”

“No,” Kelly passed a stone on to Murphy. “You won’t be leaving me behind.”

“Brendan, stay. You don’t need to be there.”

“Aye, I do,” he said, coming about, facing the Priest. “I’ve been looking for an excuse.”

The Priest used a moment to study his friend, before turning about “Then we better be going. It’ll be dark too soon.“ Jackets had been thrown haphazardly on the ground. Father Patrick had picked them up earlier and laid them neatly across a stump. Now, he returned there, grabbing up three jackets. He passed two on, one to Wee Sean and the other to Brendan Kelly. He donned the last himself, turning on Kelly as he dressed. “You know what you are, don’t you?” he said as Sprite rose to his feet and shook.

“No, Patrick, what am I?”

“You’re prideful, and you’re stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn? You’re calling me stubborn?”

“You don’t think you are?”

“I’m just thinking ‘tis funny that you’d be calling anyone prideful or stubborn. Now tell me about m’temper, Patrick. I dare you.”

*

Now this was enjoyable, Liam thought, planting himself across the stump with the remaining jackets. Patrick Plunkett and Brendan Kelly acted more like an old married couple than priest and parishioner. “Pity Patrick wasn’t a woman,” Bridey commented “I’ve always thought he’d be making Brendan a better wife than Enid does.”

“Pity I didn’t push Corrigan off the Backside,” Liam returned. “Big, ugly, horse’s arse that he is, is afraid of us.” He laughed that much harder.

Link to Ghosties - 3