1.

*

“As many years as my father, my grandfather and myself farmed this plot,” Brendan began, warming his hands by the meager heat of a peat fire, “You’d think we planted rocks instead of vegetables. I pulled up enough this afternoon to be extending that outer fence.” Night had settled quietly about the countryside. On the highlands edging the Island, one could taste the salt in the air and hear the waves gently wash the shore. Further in as the sounds of water softened, it became too quiet, almost as if the crickets, the bullfrogs and the small animals kept their own counsel for fear of British occupation, or of the Irish reoccupation. Peat snapped in the fire, and smoke choked with dampness gathered close to the ground. Sprite snorted. He stretched out next to Brendan, turning glazed eyes to the fire. This was Liam’s old dog, and maybe the only thing Brendan had to remember kin by. He rolled his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension that built up as he worked earlier, and then he patted the top of the old mutt’s head.

"At least it'll be your own rocks, and your own vegetables  that won't go to England on the next boat," Wee Sean added referring to the law that split Irish property between all the children. By the time the English finally left, most of the Irish fed their families from famine plots, which were only a few hands by a few hands. “Did you plant any vegetables?” he asked, scratching the hair about his chest.

“Aye, some.”

Wee Sean nodded. “Good to hear. From what Corrigan is telling me, the Brits didn’t eat every chicken on the Island.” The small man shrugged. “Only the Lord Himself knows when we’ll be building them coops. ‘Tis a start anyway.”

“’Tis at that.”

Brendan turned a tired eye on the Priest. His oldest and closest friend, knocked a rock from beneath Brendan’s foot before nearly kicking the foot itself into the fire. “Oh, now we’ll be hearing the good Father’s temper tantrum. What is it I’ve done this time, Patrick? Did I murder someone?”

“Did I speak to you?” the Priest growled, waving his hand above the fire, shooing away some of the smoke. Earlier he had stacked rocks on either side of the fire and balanced a grate above that. Now he busied himself, preparing the fish he had caught while Brendan worked in his fields.

Brendan eyed Wee Sean. Give the Priest time, and he’d enlighten anyone caring enough to hear.

“Hundreds of years without dignity, and we’re returning to this?” The Priest paused long enough to heap fat into a sizzling skillet. “I think,” he began again, this time with less emotion, “I was expecting to return as I left.”

The beacon from the lighthouse on the main land would be lighting the harbor at this point in the evening. Only a gray column of light sweeping the sky was visible from this part of the Island. Brendan kept his eyes on that as he took Patrick’s words to heart.

“I didn’t honestly expect them to dismantle the Church stone by stone,” Wee Sean offered quietly.

“No, and I didn’t expect them to be chopping down what Himself had planted.” Father Patrick dropped a handful of potatoes and onions into the pan, and shook them about. “I left carrying the Eucharist close to m’heart. I was expecting to bring it back safely and tuck it away in the same Sanctuary I got it from to begin with.”

“Patrick,” Brendan commented, “We’re all suffering from the same illness.”

“Still, I wonder what use they found for the altar stone.“

“Or who drank the Sacramental wine.”

The Priest hard eyes snapped from his pan to Brendan. “I don’t find that funny.” Returning to his work, he gave his pan another shake.

“I’m thinking dredging this up again and again ‘tisn’t rebuilding the Church or our homes,” Wee Sean offered, as he drew to his feet. “And I’m thinking that maybe ‘tis time to find Murphy and Corrigan.”

“At least before they break into that jug hidden in Jerry Corrigan’s pack,” Father Patrick cautioned. “They’ll be kicking his football off the Backside.”

Brendan laughed and Wee Sean smiled. “Who would have thought,” the smaller man said, “That the three of us would be worrying about what cliffs they’d be falling from?”

“Or either of them not eating,” Patrick offered. “Fish cooks up quickly. Tell them that when you catch up to them.”

Wee Sean unthreaded the lantern from the lash about his waist and lit it by taking a stray piece of grass from the cooking fire. The light it created  accented the ridges and deepened the creases and valleys of his long, thin face, and the straight line his lips formed as he worked. He had a year or two on Liam, and maybe a few more on either Brendan or Father. “I’ll be back,” he promised as he replaced the chimney.

The pair watched their friend and glow from his lamp disappear behind a gentle hillock. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about,” Patrick instructed.

“Sometimes,” Brendan commented as he stretched out across the grass, “I’m thinking I see Bridey and Liam watching us. Bridey would be doing her best to raise his ire and he’d be wearing that look of his, saying he had enough and can’t wait to disappear on her again.” Chill bumps sprouted beneath the sleeves of his sweater. The breeze made it worse.

*

If only Brendan knew. Liam picked himself off the stump he sat on and turned away. As good as it was to be with his friends again was as bad as it hurt. Tall, skinny Brendan, with a mug as ugly and bony as the day is long, and hair as red as his sister’s, let his heart and his laughter light up the lives about him.

Wee Sean was a smart one. What Himself didn’t give the man in size, He gave in good old fashioned horse sense.

The Priest, hot tempered and self-important, could control a football better than most men not wearing a skirt, and could cook better than many of their wives. For that matter, the Priest taught Bridey everything she knew, which wasn’t a great deal. Liam could cook better than Bridey. Although he considered the good Father one of his closest friends, he’d never admit it to the Priest. Liam couldn’t stand to see him gloat.

At the very least, he did make his peace with Corrigan and Murphy before it ended. They were big men. Living on the south end of the island placed them near the linen factory, docks and warehouses of Fenton. They farmed smaller plots of land and worked wherever needed, whether fishing from the big schooners or loading ships during harvest. They each earned a decent wage.

Corrigan tied his faded brown hair off in the back and let it hang past the collar of his shirt. Liam once cracked that if he’d lift Corrigan’s tail, he’d find a horse’s arse beneath it. Even Murphy laughed. That started the weekly football matches between the village workers and the farmers, with each match growing more physical than the one before it. Father Patrick controlled the ball like a musician controlling his fiddle. Brendan looked frail, but played with so much heart, he surprised everyone caring to watch him. Wee Sean slipped through the tightest places. That was until Corrigan and Murphy formed a wall the size of Erin itself. When that happened it was simple enough to pick Wee Sean up and let him control the ball in the air. And when every match ended, Jerry Corrigan would crack a joke and the seal on a bottle of real Irish whiskey. Those were good times.

“I don’t know if it’s worse seeing them as they are now, or not seeing them for so long,” Bridey said, stepping in beside him. “The few of them that made it over here to bury us were drunk.”

A moment passed before he spoke. “Are you going to blame me for that, too?”

“Brendan had a hangover when they beached this morning, and I promise you he’ll be having a good one come tomorrow morning. I’ve never known himself to be drinking so much in six life times.”

“Do you think maybe your crazy near sister would be having anything to do with his drinking?” He studied her for a moment. “Eternity would be a lot bloody worse with her in your place.”

Bridey turned away from him, her form dissipating into a fine mist. Ah, guilt. He could give good Irish mothers lessons in how to use it effectively.

He laughed it out as he returned to the discussion at hand. “What’s bothering me more than anything,” Brendan was saying, “Is that Liam would cry if he were here to see the state of his beloved Erin.”

“He would.”

Liam tuned his ears in closer.

“Michael Collins.” Brendan shook his head sadly.

“Aye, Michael Collins,” the Priest agreed.

“What about Michael Collins?” Liam demanded. “The man’s a saint. You people are talking like he betrayed his country.”

*

At the bottom of the cliff on the Backside as they called it, a lone guard walked the length of the strand, back and forth, back and forth. Moonlight glinted off the waves, his cracked spectacles, off his dented metal helmet and off his twisted bayonet. Back and forth, back and forth, stopping on each rotation, snapping to attention and switching shoulders, before beginning his journey again. The mist would roll in soon obscuring the moon and him. Yet, he stayed his post.

“If I could cry,” Bridey said, “It would be for him.” She tucked her feet beneath her, arranging her skirts to fall straight over the rock she balanced on.

“Bridget,” Liam roared, bending into her ear. “The bugger is a Brit.”

“They pushed him off the cliff. He tried to protect a prisoner.”

Liam watched the figure shoulder his weapon. “He’s still a Brit,” he said with less rancor.

“Liam, look at him. Tell me he doesn’t look familiar.”

“Aye.” He turned away from that. He’d watch the fog roll in from the Frontside.      

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