VI
Connor’s
Lament
“I left there, Father,” Connor explained, as the pair walked the pebbled
way through Killelea, “And here is m’Dad, and Old Man Darcy nose to kneecap,
screaming at each other.” He shook his head. A breeze filtered between them,
and tall grass to either side of the way swayed. “Deirdre is in tears. I tried
to reason with her, but Mrs. Darcy told me to go.”
“So what would you be wanting from me?” Patrick asked.
“Maybe reason with her old man. I’m sure if he apologizes to m’old man…”
Patrick chuckled. Gulls dipped above them, and walked with them. One
flapped its wings and cawed before taking flight. “I should be reasoning with
the devil himself. What makes you think Wee Sean is any more reasonable than
your father is?”
Connor swallowed hard. He turned aside to take in the whole of the
Harbor. The sun would be so bright it would burn one’s eyes as it came to
reflect off the water. It gave off plenty of heat, but the land about him
radiated cold, and the breeze stirred it up, bringing chill up off the ground.
“There can’t be two men in this world that stubborn.”
“Your father has an edge here, but not by much. I’ve seen Wee Sean and
Liam O'Brennigan get into some terrible battles. And believe it or not, it was
usually Liam who backed down.”
“The great Liam O'Brennigan?”
“Great is it?” Patrick laughed at that one. “Liam O'Brennigan was one of
the most irritating men I know of. Bridget Kelly was his only saving grace.”
“Still, will ya talk to ‘em?”
“I can talk. I can’t be guaranteeing that either one will listen. Or even
if they do anything about it.”
“You’ll talk though?”
“Aye. I’ll talk to ‘em.”
*
Wee Sean cracked the soil again with his shovel, and stood on the blade,
bouncing to force it further into the ground. He hefted soil and rock up and
dumped it in the growing pile beside the pebbled road. He took a moment to look
at Patrick. “You know,” he said at last, “I’m not sure if I should be talking
to you after your part in dragging me off the Island Saturday last.”
Patrick braced his hands on his hips. “Not that I’m suppose to be
knowing, but you did bring home a goat.”
Birds, big, black and sleek, darted above. They cawed and Wee Sean hit
the soil again with the blade of the shovel. “What goat?” he asked, feeling out
the top of the blade with one foot. “Not that anyone remembers the trip back,
but the bloody thing is missing. How do I know Jerry Corrigan hadn’t drowned it
when he set me adrift?”
“How do you know he set ya adrift if none of you remember the trip back?”
“And how do ya think I wound up on the Backside looking up?”
“Maybe the bunch of you were so drunk, they forgot to pull the boat onto
shore.”
“And maybe Corrigan and Murphy planned it. They thought nothing of
dropping a sack over m’head and tying me feet up. Why would it be so strange
for them to be setting me adrift?”
“Did ya think maybe, Wee Sean, that they might be needing ya for the next
football match?”
“What next football match? We still can’t find the bloody goat.” Wee Sean
bent to pick up a larger than average rock from his hole and tossed it aside.
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