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Father pulled up next to the wharf and tied off on a hook, which was installed by the British after their Brigadier had floated off down shore during a drinking bout. Did they expect him to suddenly awake from his stupor and tie himself off? Or maybe they thought the wee folk would do it for him. Patrick helped the child up the ladder, and then pushed up behind him. Once on the wharf, Michelene smiled up at Patrick and took his hand. “Father can I be staying with ya again if m’Mama isn’t back yet?”

“And yer thinking I’d throw ya off into a boat and let ya drift off to England, are ya? Or maybe I’d plant ya out in Kelly’s field and let the fairies come after ya?”

The lad chuckled as bright and as warm as the sun above. The pair stepped off the wharf and began their trek up the pebbled way. The wee black dog that begged on the way, raced to Michelene, scattering gulls, puffins and chickens in its path. The cur bent to the lad, his tail wagging and his tongue hanging nearly to the ground. He jumped and he barked, and Michelene knelt to greet him. The child laughed as the dog continued his dance. Patrick directed them onward, again, parting a flock of gulls. The birds were back in force, tending to nests hidden high on the rocks, and scavenging about the wharf and along the pebbled ways.

“Father! Father Patrick!” Tim Darcy, winded and red, wheeled about the cottage across from the Pub. He darted off the way as a rock struck a wall, sending chickens clucking and flapping their wings. “Father Patrick, we need ya now!”

Grabbing Michelene’s arm, he hurried off. Tim urged him on. Without missing many steps, Patrick bent and lifted the child up. The wee dog raced behind Patrick, his bark turning angry as they came abreast of the Pub. A small mob gathered there. “Run, laddy,” Donny Duffy laughed. “M’next one will be calling yer name in the wind.”

Patrick paused. The dog snarled, and fowl pecking at the way hurried off. Donny Duffy saw Patrick and turned aside, as if his intention was to be speaking with his cronies. Their laughter, the dog’s bark, the call of the gulls and the waves washing against the shore quieted beneath the alarm sounding in Patrick’s head.

“Father Patrick!” Eamonn Darcy opened the grainy, weathered door of the Keenan cottage. Patrick hoisted Michelene up, his cassock becoming tangled in the lad’s legs, and battled onward. Eamonn glanced across the street. Once his brother reached the door, he yanked Tim inside. Patrick slipped in, passing his charge to Eamonn.

Maureen Darcy peeked over her shoulder. She sat on a stool next to an old bed and feather mattress. Someone shivered beneath a tattered wool blanket. Maureen dipped a rag into a bowl of water and wrung it out. “Across the way,” she explained. “The whole of them. They’re cowards.”

Patrick moved in beside the woman. Beneath her, Mrs. Keenan lay, her temple split and bleeding, and her eyes attempting to roll up into her head. The strength of her will kept her from slipping off. She reached out grasping Patrick’s hand between both of hers. She breathed with a tremendous effort. Her lips quivered. “Patrick?”

“I’m here, Mrs. Keenan.”

She patted his hand. “Yer a good boyo, Patrick. I know that. I saw it in you when you were a lad. I’m proud of you. I’m proud I was yer Mam’s friend.”

“Can I hear your Confession?” he asked quietly.

“Confession?” she drew in. “Confession.” Still holding onto him, she turned to Maureen. The expectant mother dipped her rag again and washed away fresh blood. “I’m fine, Lass. Let us be.” Maureen turned on Patrick, questioning him with her eyes. He nodded. “Confession?”

“Are ya up to it, Mrs. Keenan?”

“Aye. Aye.” She drew in again, a tremor overtaking her body. “M’Confession. Bless me, Father. Yer a wonderful priest, Patrick. If I’m sorry for anything, it’s not making yer mother understand you’d be a better husband and father.”

Caught by surprise, his priestly demeanor slipped aside like a blanket falling from one’s shoulders. “I’m sorry?”

Her eyelids closed. She mumbled beneath her breath, and one hand slipped to her side. Patrick paused as her life slipped away. He tucked her other hand beside her. Then he blessed her, whispered the prayers of passing and anointed her with no more than the water in the bowl beside her bed. He swallowed away his visible grief. “What happened?” he asked of anyone behind him.

“Donny Duffy hit her with a rock,” Maureen spit. “He said she should not have protected the Brits. That she should have left him…”

Patrick turned away from Maureen and back to the boys standing by the door. Michelene wrapped his arms about Eamonn’s neck and held on. Think, he told himself. Before he lost his temper all together. No wait. “Eamonn, listen to me…”

Patrick charged across the way and into the Pub. The peal of a tiny bell exploded overhead as the door first crashed open, and then slammed shut behind him. Amidst heavily scarred white washed walls, he picked Donny Duffy from a tangle of men caught up in their own hilarity. They must have been celebrating that they allowed themselves beer from the pub rather than poteen from the closest still. Patrick eased into the crowd, demanding his anger and his shakes under control. He found the right table and leaned against it. Donny sat with his Guinness at his ready, and his nose nearly in it. The men about him quieted. Donny glanced up and drunkenly wiped foam from the tip of his nose. He giggled as he showed Patrick his palm. “So, Donny. Would ya be having any idea who the I.R.A. is?”

With a huge grin, Donny used his hand to take in his mates. “Right here, Father. We’re the new I.R.A. We’ll be taking care of things now.” He avoided Patrick’s eyes like a man avoiding a disease.

“I was actually referring to the real I.R.A.” Patrick lowered himself to meet Donny eye to eye by pulling his hands off the table and planting his forearms in their place. Donny glanced at him hesitantly and then everywhere but where Patrick bore in on him. Kieran Griffin and Michael Smith slipped to the back of the room. Patrick decided to enjoy this. “You all know of whom I’m speaking. They blew up the rail yard off toward Naughtonby. And you’d be remembering Sergeant Krupp, the evil, little weasel that he was? You all remember what they did to him after Bridey O'Brennigan was incarcerated. And God help you if you’d be forgetting what happened that got me arrested. A wee incident in the midst of the Channel that sent how many Brits for a midnight swim? If you remember, Brigadier Wendall thought it’d me or Canon Hanrahan that hid them.”

“I remember,” Donny gloated, leaning away from his response. He waved at each of the new I.R.A. members. “I was arrested, too. So was Kieran and Michael there. And the rest.”

“That’s right, Donny. That’s right. And do you have any idea where we hid them?”

“Nay, Father,” Donny laughed, bringing his tankard to his lips. “Where did you hide ‘em?”

“I have no idea m’self, Donny. They decided at the beginning that the less any of us knew, the safer we’d all be. They didn’t even tell their families. On the other hand, someone had to feed them. And of course, it wasn’t until after the Brits left that anyone told me. And believe me, it surprised the beJesus out of me. ‘Twas an old woman. Everyday, bringing them food and supplies. Even gelignite. She could have been killed. If not by the Brits, maybe have it go off in her hands.” He brought up one hand and rested his cheek against it. “Never handled gelignite, have you, Donny? ‘Tis picky. Goes off on it’s own now. From what I hear, that’s what happened to Liam O'Brennigan.” He nodded at Donny who smiled nervously at his friends. “After hearing how brave she was, I never expected she’d end with a rock to the head.”

“Mrs. Keenan?”

“Aye, Mrs. Keenan.”

“That old crow?”

“That dead old crow. Now, Donny, if I were you, I’d be avoiding either Old Man Keenan when he comes in from the fields, or the real I.R.A. They aren’t very forgiving now. Especially when ya throw rocks at their sons.”

“Well, they shouldn’t’ve been protecting her.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Wee Sean Darcy that. Especially since ‘tis his pregnant wife who’s preparing the old crow’s body.”

Link to Mrs. Keenan's Passing - 2