Hope from the Ocean: (The Prequel to Fireflies )

by P. S. Bartlett

  Near the conclusion of these evening gatherings, Noreen would bundle Rory in her arms and carry him off to bed while the rest of the children remained, waiting for their brother to entertain them. The first evening of this ritual came as a shock to Patrick. Although not a reader, he was a very good listener and the realization that this orator of magic tales was Loch showed him that not everyone he’d ever known was exactly what they seemed. This was perhaps his first real glimpse into what a family truly was.

  Loch was a master story teller. Once Rory was asleep, Aunt Noreen would listen quietly while sewing or completing whatever duties she carried over into the evening and Uncle Dan puffed on his pipe in a corner chair. Occasionally, Loch gathered the children into an audience and told them of fairies and leprechauns until Aunt Noreen stepped in to whoosh them off to bed. The story would often not finish until the last pair of eyes were closed for the night. In the dark, his voice took on a warm foreign tone, which soothed them to sleep. Loch had a gift. Commanding their undivided attention made him appear even more important and powerful. This may have been his only gift but Patrick knew you only needed one as long as you used it well.

  This first winter proved to be mild in comparison to the normal winters they’d seen, but it was a cold one nonetheless. By Christmas, an occasional blanket of white fell over the village but it didn’t last more than a day before the unseasonal temperatures pulled it into the dry soil. Preparations for the holiday began in mid-December and the whole brood joined in merrily to help. The house was cleaned from top to bottom, repairs made and swags of holly were draped on every doorway. A lighted candle sat in the window every night as a symbol of the guiding light which led Joseph and Mary in the dark to find shelter. Although this guiding light was symbolic, it was customary to welcome anyone who needed shelter and a hot meal on a cold winter’s night.

  On Christmas Eve, it was Loch who told the tale before heading out to midnight mass. His enthusiasm and compassion for the story of the birth of Christ stirred them all into excitement and had them rushing about the house in preparation and bundling themselves for the walk to church to celebrate it.

  “Aideen, please sit with me tonight,” Dillon whispered.

  “We will all be sittin’ together,” she shouted over the ruckus of the children scrambling for their coats and hats.

  “I’ve never been to church on our Lord’s name day at midnight. I’m frightened He’ll be angry if He sees me there for the first time and wonders where I’ve been.”

  “Don’t be silly. He sees ye every Sunday. As far as His name day, well, I’m certain He’ll be happy ye finally showed up!” She squealed, put her arm around his shoulder and pressed his cap down over his eyes. Aideen had an infectious enthusiasm for everything in life. Be it joy or sadness, she lived and breathed every emotion. Perhaps that is what drew Dillon to her and held him there. Patrick knew he was terrified of ever being unhappy again.

  Patrick watched and listened, observing from the doorway where he stood ready and waiting to go. He no longer yearned for Dillon to hide under his wing or ask him for his company. He was growing indifferent to that ache, as he had all the others. For a time, he longed to wake up with Dillon curled up next to him but that too had passed. The further he pulled away, the easier he survived. Patrick was beginning to realize he was his own worst enemy but he lacked the ability and the knowledge to stop it. He hadn’t cried since the day he confronted Loch and since then, no emotion or incident had affected him enough to draw a tear. His fears were the opposite of Dillon’s.

  “Off we go!” Aunt Noreen shouted, with her famous, “woosh, woosh, woosh!” behind it.

  Mass hadn’t even reached the halfway point and all of the children were either lying against one another or simply slumped over asleep. Rory was draped across Uncle Dan’s lap, with his head nestled against his chest. Loch was the only one still participating and most of his interactions were contained to staring a hole in the back of Lucy Burke’s head and redirecting his attention when she glanced back at him. Aunt Noreen caught him and pinched the soft flesh inside his upper arm but a few moments later, he was back at it again.

  Upon their arrival back home, Brianne pulled Patrick aside and handed him a scroll of paper tied with string.

  “What’s this?”

  “I made this for ye. I made one for everyone really,” Brianne whispered, her cheeks turning to rose.

  Patrick tugged at the string and started to open the rolled paper.

  “Wait! I mean, don’t open it while I’m standin’ here, just in case ye don’t like it.” Brianne hurried off into the parlor to join the rest of the family and hand out the remaining scrolls.

  Patrick held the yellowish piece of paper in his hands and then turned toward the small kitchen lamp for more light. As he unrolled the rest of it, an image began to peek out until once completely stretched, he recognized it immediately as his own reflection. The charcoal lines were slightly smeared but it was unmistakably his face. Brianne had captured him perfectly, even though the drawing was no larger than the size of his hand. He was filled with pride, knowing his face would forever be captured in time. Such a treasured thing should never be taken for granted and he knew he must put it in a safe place. He rolled the paper up, put the string back in place and scurried to the bedroom. He’d saved the old flour sack his uncle had given him the morning they stopped in Naas and had been collecting small things in it. He looked around and listened for footsteps and upon hearing none, pulled the sack from under the bed and quickly stowed the picture inside.

  In the wee hours of Christmas morning, Aunt Noreen dressed the goose she’d washed and plucked clean, preparing it for quite a ceremonious farewell, and stowed away the soft feathers for pillow stuffing. She allowed the children to sleep well past their usual dawn rising, if for no other reason than to enjoy a bit of peace while she prepared the Christmas feast. By the time she finally tied the goose closed, it appeared twice the size it was before she’d plucked it. A savory mix of vegetables would be basting away all afternoon in goose blood and grease inside this bird, which only yesterday had chased Rory, nipping at him as he giggled.

  “Goodbye, old bird. Ye certainly earned yer keep,” she sighed, sliding him into a pan and covering him with a cloth.

  Patrick laid awake, waiting for someone else to be the first out of bed. He didn’t have to wait long before he saw Dillon’s head pop out from under his blanket and soon, the rest of him was on his feet.

  “Patrick! It’s Christmas! Happy Christmas, brother!”

  “Happy Christmas, Dillon,” cheered Aideen and Brianne, soon followed by Kevan and Bran.

  The children rushed around the room, scrambling into their clothes, making their beds and even combing their hair. Patrick smiled at their delight but waited until the crowd thinned out before finally dressing along with Loch.

  * * *

  Uncle Dan was awake early as always. He stood in the kitchen and greeted each child with Aunt Noreen, wishing them a happy Christmas. Loch and Patrick however, had yet to emerge from the bedroom. He crept to the doorway of the room to find out what was keeping them.

  “Not havin’ a happy Christmas, Patrick?” Loch inquired, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders.

  “I’m happy enough.”

  “Enough? Enough for whom?” Loch commented, blocking Patrick’s path from the room. “Enough for a boy who’s never had a happy Christmas? Yer brother is about ta burst with joy and yet it looks as if it’s just another day in the field to ye,”

  “Loch, I want no quarrel with ye. Please let me pass.”

  “I’ll let ye pass when I’m through,” Loch grumbled. “I don’t get ye. How is it that a boy who came from nothin’ and now has everythin’ he could ever need isn’t happy to have Christmas? Are ye as ungrateful as that? Is our home not good enough? Don’t our food and our warm beds suit yer fine taste?”

  “Loch, that’s enough,” his father said as he entered
the room.

  “Da, I was just tryin’ to…”

  “I know what ye were doin’ son, and I think these boys have been through enough. Patrick, ye go on along to breakfast, son. Loch, I’ll have a word with ye.”

  “Thank ye, Uncle, but I’m fine. Loch just misunderstood.”

  “Misunderstood?” Uncle Dan crinkled his already crumpled face in confusion.

  “He doesn’t think I’m havin’ a happy Christmas. I’m just tired, is all.”

  “Ye aren’t sleepin’ on the floor again?”

  “No sir. Just not used to midnight mass. Maybe didn’t get my sleeps out, sir.”

  “Go on to breakfast, son. There just may be somethin’ special waitin’ on ye.” He patted Patrick on his head.

  “Thank ye sir,” Patrick said, making his exit.

  Loch sat on the bed, looking up at his father’s confused expression. Dan could tell Loch was seething.

  “Loch, I’m disappointed in ye, son. For months these boys have worked hard, done everythin’ ye asked of ‘em, but it doesn’t seem enough. Do ye want to make an already difficult circumstance worse?”

  “But Da, that one there is ungrateful. He behaves as if…”

  “He behaves a boy with no Ma and no Da. He behaves a boy who lost his home and what little bit a family he had was wiped from the earth. Loch, I’m speakin’ to ye man to man. Find yer heart, son. Find yer heart. This world will pull it outta yer chest if ye let it. That boy’s heart is buried in the ground back in Old Kilcullen. No matter how horrible a man me brother Paddy was, those are good boys. This one is a little lost and is gonna take a bit longer to dig up his heart and live on. Do ye understand me?” Dan stared deep into Loch’s emotionless eyes.

  “I’ll try. Are ye askin’ me to go easy on him, Da?”

  “Does the boy do his chores and is he respectful to yer Ma?”

  Loch paused a moment and then nodded.

  “Then leave him the hell alone.”

  Dan stood and turned away from his eldest son. He felt he’d somehow failed him as a father and as an example of a man. He was disappointed that Loch was so hard around the edges. He wanted his son to save the hard edges for the real challenges in life and not abuse his strength intimidating his own kin. Loch hadn’t learned this from him and it troubled Dan to think the boy was born with such a temperament. Dan believed what was taught to him by his own elders; it isn’t only how you’re raised but also how you’re bred. If something’s bred into you, no amount of training or teaching can drive it out. You have to make the choice to change. Paddy’s was bred in by way of their father’s father. He too took the road to death in a bottle.

  Dan and Paddy hadn’t spoken since Dillon was still in his nappies. He’d seen them only a handful of times when his sister-in-law Colleen found her way to Caragh to ask for money to feed them when Paddy was on a binge. Paddy whittled his way down to half an acre of potatoes and worked odd jobs when he was on the wagon but from the second he fell off, he didn’t have a wife and two small boys. He’d disappear for days until Colleen’s Ma had enough of it and would keep the boys and send Colleen out to find him and drag him home. Dan and Noreen had offered more than once to just take the boys while they were small and would likely have little memory of that life but Colleen wouldn’t even consider it. They were all she had.

  On Dan’s last trek down to Old Kilcullen, before Paddy died, he laid eyes on his only living brother for the final time. Dan went home with a nasty cut over his left eye from a broken whiskey bottle and Noreen forbade him from ever interfering again…unless they were dead.

  Dan rarely interacted with Patrick but he didn’t need to in order to know what he saw in the boy’s eyes. To Dan, people were no different than horses. He could look into a horse’s heart through its eyes and know the good ones from the lost causes. Patrick wasn’t a lost cause; he was just lost. What troubled him the most was trying to make his own son see things differently, and the concern that he may never be able to.

  Dan wandered from the room, picked up his awaiting cup of tea. He sat in his corner chair and lit his pipe, waiting for Noreen to woosh them all to the table for the start of their all-day Christmas celebration. As much as he tried to believe Loch’s heart was good, in his eyes was a very different story. Loch’s heart was covered in a cold cloudy haze. Dan hoped it was only Loch’s hard exterior blocking his view.

  * * *

  By Christmas night, they were all stuffed fatter than the goose and huddled together for one of Loch’s tales. He was going to stick to the stories of the Bible but chose to veer from the course and snap them from their food-induced sleepiness with the story of Tír na nÓg.

  “I love this story, Dillon,” Aideen whispered, sliding closer to him on the rug.

  Dan watched from his usual place and reflected on the confrontation with Loch that morning. He wondered if perhaps he could be wrong about his eldest son and hoped whatever animosity Loch held towards Patrick would work itself out over time. Either way, he’d keep as close an eye as he could on the situation to make sure his stern words had taken root. For Loch to have the gift to express himself so genuinely and with so much expression and emotion, Dan believed there had to be more to the lad beneath his armor.

  “Gather ‘round now all ye children, as I’m about to tell the tale of the great Oisin and the Princess Niamh. Find a seat, close yer mouths and open yer ears,” Loch declared, pulling up his chair. They scampered to their spots and pulled in together in a semi-circle in front of him, leaving him enough room to prance about as he told the tale.

  Loch placed his forefinger to his lips and leaned in, hushing them to silence and in turn, capturing every eye—even Patrick’s. He paced back and forth before them, one hand behind his back and the other cupping his upturned chin, as if he were pondering something deep and wonderful. His preparations left them all in the agony of anticipation and it cleared their heads of any other thought, leaving them wide open and empty for filling as if they’d never heard the tale before. Loch made a final skim over his audience and settled into his chair.

  “Close yer eyes now, children, and I’ll fill them up with a vision of a magical place called Tír na nÓg,” Loch whispered. “Long ago, there lived a young handsome hunter by the name of Oisin. Oisin would hunt with his father and his fellow warrior-hunters, called the Fianna. There came a fateful day, while huntin’ deer, when the leader of the Fianna spotted somethin’ comin’ toward them across the sea.” Loch was again on his feet with a hand above his brow as if he himself were standin’ on the beach and so he began to play each part:

  “‘What is this I see?’ said Fionn, the leader of the Fianna. ‘It’s a horse! It’s a white horse gallopin’ over the sea!’” Loch exclaimed, gallopin’ about. “‘But wait! There is a rider upon the horse!’” He paused, his eyes wide. “‘Be still, my heart! It is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid me eyes on,’ said Oisin. There before them, ridin’ on the back of the white horse, was a young maiden with hair of gold down to her waist. Her golden tresses blew back and danced in the wind as she approached them. She wore a gown of blue to match the sky and it was covered in silver stars that sparkled in the sunlight. There they stood, unable to move until Fionn finally spoke up.

  “‘Who are ye and where have ye come from?’

  “‘I am Princess Niamh and I have come across the sea from my home on the island of Tír na nÓg.’

  “‘But why have ye come here?’”

  The children giggled softly as he spoke in the voice of each character, especially Princess Niamh.

  “‘I have heard stories of a great hero named Oisin. I have come to bring him back to my home on Tír na nÓg to live with me and my family.’

  “‘What is this place ye speak of? asked Oisin.

  “‘Oh, it is a magical place! Flowers bloom all the year round, nothin’ and no one ever dies, all of yer dreams and wishes come true and most of all, no one ever grows old. I wish to bring Oisin back with me so that w
e can spend our lives together forever. Come with me, Oisin, and ye will see that everythin’ I say is true.’

  “Oisin could not refuse the beautiful princess so he climbed upon the white horse with Niamh and bid farewell to his father and friends but not before tellin’ them that someday, he would return and share his story of life on Tír na nÓg,” Loch said, placin’ his hands over his heart. “Off they flew over the sea, off to Tír na nÓg. When they arrived at the island, Oisin blinked and blinked at the wondrous sights. Niamh’s father the king had prepared a huge feast to welcome him and they spent their days together, sharin’ the many joys and offerin’s of the island. Until…” Loch paused, scanning their eyes and making them wait as long as he could before continuing.

  “What happened, Loch?” shouted Dillon, who’d of course never heard this story before.

  Loch chuckled along with the other children. “Well, I’m ‘bout to tell ye just that! Even though Oisin loved Niamh and Tír na nÓg, he had a sadness in him, for he missed his home and his father. He missed his friends the Fianna and huntin’ with them. One day, Niamh asked him:

  “‘Oisin, what is botherin’ ye so? This is the happiest place in the world yet ye seem sad’

  “‘I want to go home and visit my friends and my family and ye must help me. I miss them very much!’

  “‘Ye may return on my horse to visit but the moment yer feet touch the soil of Ireland, ye will be lost to me forever. Ye can never again return to Tír na nÓg.’

  “Niamh was very sad and worried but she wanted Oisin to be happy and she hoped he would heed her warnin’ and not set one foot on Irish soil. Oisin climbed onto the big white horse and off they flew across the sea to Ireland. When they reached land, Oisin remembered not to get off the horse. He had only one problem,” Loch said, acting as a man who was pondering the meaning of life.

  “I know! I know! He forgot that a day on Tír na nÓg was like a hundred years!” shouted Aideen.

  “Exactly! He forgot that even though it only seemed he’d been at Tír na nÓg a few days, in Ireland, three hundred years had passed. All of his friends and his family had long ago died. His home was in ruins and everythin’ had changed so much that he was lost.”