2

* * *

Tim Darcy had finished his schooling the year before, and had since rode into Waell's Crossing six days a week to pick up the post and newspapers. Personally, there wouldn’t be a job better than this in the working world. That’s excepting for the days when it rained and was chilly, and the few days when snow lingered in the air and dusted the ground. But on a day like this. Spring, beautiful spring. The skies were crystal blue and it smelled of damp grass because of a late night storm. He enjoyed this much, much more than either Eamonn or Connor could enjoy their station on the bog, cutting and stacking wet peat.

More than the job itself, Tim enjoyed riding past where his brother and future near brother would be working, and taunting them. He’d speed up, throw his arms into the air, and hoot as loud and as long as he could. Ah ha! He was free, riding his bicycle out and off to see parts beyond Killelea, the surrounding fields and bogs.

Sometimes Eamonn tried to chase him, and sometimes he was too tired to care. The day after Deirdre and Connor’s betrothal became official, Eamonn waved back and hooted. Tim stood and pedaled harder. He felt pretty good about this, too. “Whoaoaoao!” He bounced on the pedals, and bounced the air filled tires off the pebbled road. And off a rock. He flew into the air as the bicycle collapsed beneath him.

Connor and Eamonn dropped their tools and ran. Tim, though, landed in a heap of damp softness, grasses and clover, and jumped to his feet almost as quickly as he landed. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” he told the others, shaking last night’s rain drops from himself and his clothing. His brother and his mate stopped. Tim sprang to the road, picking his bicycle up, and taking off hurriedly.

He hadn’t realized the tear in his trousers or the scrape on his knee until Mrs. McLeary pointed it out to him when he took his seat at the Post Office. After a moment’s rest, he stood. Better to keep moving then to let the knee stiffen up on him. He took to the closest window.

“Tim, is it?” Peter McLeary inquired. “Ya have to see this.” The older lad pointed to the street outside. Across the road by Barry’s Public House, a man chased about a horse. His mouth moved in a savage manner although his words were lost beneath the roar of an automobile. Peter actually pointed to the automobile. Tim nodded at it, but returned his attention to the man with the horse.

The man grabbed a crop from another man’s hand and applied it to the horse’s flanks as hard as he could. Again and again, he struck the animal. Its lips parted and it bucked. And it pranced. And again, the man struck it.

Peter noticed that. “Bloody brilliant,” the lad commented.

“Peter.” His mother corrected from behind a wooden counter. “Mind your manner of speech.”

Ignoring his mother, the lad rolled his eyes at the outer world. “He should be killing it with that stick. He says he rented a horse just like that one to a Brit and his lady. That’s what he’s looking for. From Dublin, he is. He wants his other horse back. Says the Brit didn’t return it. Beat it like that, and I wouldn’t find it surprising that the horse ran away.”

“That’s terrible,” Tim said. “How can he do that?”

“What? ‘Tis his horse. Do what he wants with it.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed to beat it like that.”

“Says he’ll beat the beJesus out of the other one when he finds it. Brits, too.”

“Tim.” Mrs. McLeary set his pack on the counter between them. “Lucky for you, ‘tis, that the post isn’t heavy today. You‘d be making us pay otherwise for the bump on your knee.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. McLeary,” he said, crossing the floor towards the counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Peter.” he grabbed his pack and hurried off.

*

Canon Hanrahan encouraged Patrick’s handling of the old horse. And why wouldn’t he? Patrick hadn’t left Killelea long enough even to row Michelene over to Innisfen to visit with Brendan. That was fine with Canon Hanrahan as well.

The two spent time watching Patrick and helping out when they could. The old horse was as friendly with them as she was with Patrick. Although Patrick did have a start the day he found Canon Hanrahan trying to balance the lad on the horse’s back. He fully expected the horse to kick the old man and throw the child. To his surprise, she accepted Michelene’s weight as if she fully understood the situation. The bairne laughed and so did the old Priest.

“Father Patrick! Father Patrick!” Tim Darcy, flying on his rickety bicycle, his pack flapping behind him, hit bump after bump as he crossed the field in their direction. The lad pulled to a stop just before Patrick. He huffed and he puffed, and he reached out towards the Lass. “You got to get her out of here,” he called, his eyes frantic and sweat running in rivulets down his red cheeks. “That bloke that hurt her so terrible is on his way. He’s looking for her.”

“What man would that be, Tim?“ Canon Hanrahan asked, stepping in beside Patrick.

“A man from Dublin. He put into Waell’s Crossing with me there. And he beat this horse, right across the arse. Beat it bloody, he did. He said this Brit and his lady rented one of his horses and didn’t return it yet. He said he’ll have them and the horse and that he’ll do what he has to bring it home.”

Too much at one time. Canon Hanrahan pulled the child from the Lass’s back and tugged at her reins. He led her to Patrick’s side. “What are we doing with her?”

He didn’t think about this, but took the reins. The old race track had a few nooks and crannies an outsider wouldn’t know about.

*

Much to Eamonn’s dismay, Tim arrived with a long tale about Father Patrick and that horse he had been tending, and a man Tim came across in Waell's Crossing. “I know it’s stealing,” Tim cried, “But look how good she looks now. I mean, are you willing to let her go back there and get hurt again? I just wish Father Patrick could help the other horse.”

“I think,” Eamonn commented, forking a large chunk of peat, “That you should be making deliveries.”

“Eamonn, think of the horse.”

“Wonderful. I’ll think of the horse as I’m stacking peat. Go, before I chase ya out of here.”

The frustration of not getting Eamonn’s support was written in the curl of Tim’s lips and the angle of his brow. At last he gave in and picked up his bicycle. “Connor,” Eamonn called as his brother wandered off. He tugged on his mate’s sleeve. “Connor. We’re falling behind. We need to load the cart yet.” Michael Smith would arrive soon with the donkey cart.

“That cart,” Connor whispered, “The one those Brits brought in. That bugger shows up here…”

Emanon dropped his pitchfork. “Come on. Last thing we need is Father Patrick before a constable for stealing a horse.”

Connor patted him on the back and took off ahead of him. “That far warehouse, where Michael’s storing peat. We’ll bury it.”

Link to I.R.S. and the Lass - 3