1

*

“Who would we be playing?” Corrigan asked, tossing half a handful of feed to the chickens gathered at his feet. The old dun school loomed in the background.

“Naughtonby.”

He nodded, and tossed off the remaining feed. Chickens bobbed, pecked at the ground and flapped their wings. “I suppose we would be needing two new players I wonder if O'Hare has any ideas.”

“O'Hare is hinting around for a replacement coming from here for one of his mates.“

“Hmp.” Corrigan took a few moments to think about the idea of playing one more match. “I’m beginning to wonder if the bloody goat didn’t jump off the Backside. Or maybe that crazy little man with the water sickness pushed him.”

“Jerry, did ya set him drift?”

“Me?” Corrigan turned his attention from the chickens to Patrick. He braced his hands on his waist, leaving the feed bag to dangle against his leg. “I don’t remember if he came back with us that night.”

“What do ya remember?”

“I remember the goat kicking and the dog whimpering. If ‘tisn’t Wee Sean Darcy irritating the hell out of me, ‘tis your best boyo and that miserable mutt of his.” The man leaned into his words. “Not that I’m forgetting who owned him to begin with. The horse’s arse.”

*

“That’s it,” Liam cried, tearing away from his companions. “Corrigan’s mine.”

“And you’re planning to do what now?” Bridey asked from her place next to the wrought iron fence.

He didn’t answer her, but physically charged forward, scattering chickens and pulling in the breeze from the Harbor. “Who’s a horse’s arse?” Liam demanded, reaching up to speak into Corrigan’s ear. “Let me lift the horse’s tail,” he said, causing the hair falling onto Corrigan’s neck to rise on its own. “And I’ll be guaranteeing you what I’ll find.”

Jeremiah Corrigan shivered. He halted the argument he had going with Father Patrick and turned in Liam’s direction. He rubbed his neck and craned to see what he could see.

Liam leaned in for another assault. Bridey waved, catching his attention. “I’m off,” she called. “I have Wee Sean.”

*

Father Patrick returned to the strand long enough to check for forgotten firewood. What they found lining the walls inside and outside the dun kitchen would not last forever. Damn the British and their wastefulness, and the trees they chopped down for what reason, only the Lord Jesus Himself would be knowing. There’d be plenty of uses for it, maybe roofing material, furniture, tools, or anything else they might think of. Peat was enough to build a cooking fire with. It burned easier, although nowhere near as hot as wood.

A small boat headed in. Patrick gathered up wood and stacked it on the barrier wall next to the old store house ruins. He’d wait until the boat landed and he could help pull it to shore. Donny Duffy’s dark head became visible as the man turned to watch the direction his boat was headed. He’d never leave Killelea, or the closest distillery, without good reason. Patrick stepped into the waves, anticipating the arrival. “Nay, Father, don’t be getting wet on m’account,” Donny offered closing on him. An irritating habit it was, but the man never looked at one in the eyes.

“I’m used to it, Donny, I’m used to it.” Patrick clamped down on the bow and began to pull it in. Where does one look if not in the other’s eyes?

“Hold up there. I’m only staying long enough to drop off m’cargo.” Donny pulled one oar in. A small, bright eyed face smiled at Patrick.

“Ah, Michelene.”

“Can I be staying with ya, Father, whilst m’Mama is gone?”

“Sure.” The child held his arms out and Patrick pulled him from the boat. In spite of Donny’s attempts at keeping Patrick from getting wet, waves splashed him all the way to he knees. “I’m glad to have ya,” he told the lad. “Ya can help me carry firewood back to the dun.”

“Can I help ya cook?”

“Ya know ya can.”

Patrick turned his attention to Donny, hoping to ask the man where the lad‘s Mam got herself off to this time. But Donny had already pushed away from shore. The best guess on Patrick’s part was that Donny didn’t want to take responsibility for the lad when he could be doing some serious drinking. No matter. The lad was better off with him, with Brendan, and the others.

Link to Connor's Lament - 2