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The man who stopped Brendan Kelly did so when the redhead climbed the ladder leading up onto the wharf. “Would you mind so much for me to be getting m’feet on solid ground?” Brendan declared while swatting away flies. The stranger stunk of sweat, urine and horse. Brendan tried to turn his head before it overpowered him.

“I’m looking for m’horse,” the man snarled.

Brendan pushed on past and began up the way towards Killelea. He nodded at several fishermen who had just landed. They scowled in the direction of the stranger, and turned away. Sprite leaped the distance between the boat and the wharf, and joined Brendan. “I’ve spent the week on Innisfen,” Brendan commented, turning his head away from the stranger’s stench. Ocean breezes, traversing in and off the wharf, sometimes brought him near tears, and sometimes relieved him by sending the odor off in another direction. “I haven’t seen a horse in at least that time.”

“Are you telling me there aren’t no horses on that Island?”

“No horses, no sheep, no goats and no calfs neither. Ya don’t believe me, go look for yourself.” Friends and neighbors waved their hands under their noses and hurried away.

The man leaned in as the pair headed off the wharf. “This Limey rented m’horse and didn’t return it. Said he was coming this way. You going to tell me ya haven’t seen a Limey lately?”

“Nope, I did see him. And his lady.” Brendan stepped onto firm land. That little dog his son played with came out to greet him. He bent quickly to scratch the animal about the neck. Sprite knocked his hand aside and pushed in, touching noses with the smaller one. The pair dipped and barked at each other. Brendan laughed. They ran about in circles, scattering fowl, still barking, and wagging their tails. A cat screamed and darted off the way. Women barely glanced at the dogs, but then glared at the stranger as they grabbed up small children.

“Where did ya see ‘em,” the man demanded after a moment.

“Last time?”

“Last time, yes. What? Are you idiots beyond the Pale?”

Brendan paused, pushing his hands deep into the top of his trousers. His fingertips pushed against the holes there that Enid needed to be mending. “You haven’t left the Pale,” he said. “Are you an idiot that you would have no idea where you’re at?”

“I’m in a place,” the man cried, his color deepening, “Where a man is too stupid to answer the question put out to him.”

“Fine, we’re idiots. Go find your own bloody horse. Then you and your horse can go take a swim in the Bay. Or maybe you’d be too stupid to know how terrible you smell.” He hurried off. Bloody Brits. Brendan turned back as a new thought struck him. Get this menace off again. “If you’re looking for Brits,” he said, coming back, “Try Derry. That bastard shows up here a week past and the I.R.A. ran him into Ulster.”

“The horse,” the man cried as Brendan turned away again. “Did he have a horse with him?”

“He did when he drove in here,” he called back over his shoulder.

“What about when he left? Did he take it with him?” The man tried to catch up.

“I wasn’t here when he left. I was on Innisfen.” Hurry, hurry, he passed the road marker, and then St. John the Baptist. He crossed himself when he passed the point where the Sanctuary would be.

He turned into the Parochial House, charging through the door without the courtesy of knocking. A shaft of light penetrated the dark room, falling at the foot of the old priest as he worked in the hearth. “Canon,” Brendan nodded and he removed his hat.

Canon Hanrahan nodded back. Michelene ran from the other room, with his arms up. Brendan swept the lad up.

“Are you looking to take the bairne with you?” the Canon asked.

“Actually I’m looking for Father Patrick,” Brendan glanced about the room as he said it.

“Father Patrick is with the la..” Brendan hurriedly placed his hand over the lad’s mouth.

“The man outside,” he said quietly, “Is looking for his horse.”

“He’s here, is he?” the Canon asked.

Brendan nodded.

“When have ya eaten last, Brendan?”

“A while ago.”

Canon removed bowls and spoons from the shelf above the mantle. “I can’t promise you anything decent. I’m not Patrick.”

“Neither am I.” Brendan set his son on the floor. “I’d be grateful for companionship even. Since Jerry Corrigan and Wee Sean set Kevin Eustace’s privy to burning, they’re nearly impossible to be about.

Link to I.R.A. and the Lass - 4