Hope from the Ocean: (The Prequel to Fireflies )

by P. S. Bartlett

  “Thank ye, Mr. Caffey, and a good day to ye.” Pearse shook Caffey’s reluctant hand one last time, popped his hat on his head and strolled out of the office.

  Caffey slammed the butts of his hands down on his desk and glared at the closed door. He came from behind his desk and watched from the window as Pearse climbed into Fanny’s carriage and her driver headed off in the direction of the stables.

  “What a hunk of steamin’ cac ye are, Pearse Duffy.” He returned to his desk and pulled the records and all documentation on Shorty’s four fine thoroughbreds, his two ponies and the black stallion he was about to breed. He rested his head in his hand, turned the pages on each horse, and thought of poor Shorty rolling over in his soon-to-be grave when he heard the news of what either his wife, her brother or both were about to do.

  “Damn shame.”

  * * *

  Peter the groomer was now at work cleaning the tack. Liam had become engrossed in his work and forgotten all about Pearse Duffy by the time the man himself was standing at the rail behind him clearing his throat.

  “I’m busy here, can’t ye see? Come back later,” Liam shouted then turned around to address whoever was trying to get his attention.

  “Excuse me, boy, but I won’t be comin’ back later. I’m here to speak with Daniel Flynn. Now, run and fetch him and make it quick,” Pearse ordered.

  Liam was shaken and lost his equilibrium. He fumbled the brush in his hands, which spooked the pony, stumbled over a stool and fell backwards with a thud. He lay there, looking up the nostrils of Pearse Duffy’s wide, bulbous nose as he stood over him with his hands on his hips and his paunch poking out from beneath his coat.

  “I don’t have time fer this,” Pearse grumbled, reaching down to help him to his feet.

  “Ye lookin’ for me?” asked Dan, leading Fanny’s Boy.

  “It’s PPPPearse Duffy, Boss.” Liam stammered, as he clambered to his feet and dusted off his clothes.

  “Aye I am, Mr. Flynn. I’m here to speak to ye about…”

  “Let’s go someplace more private, Mr. Duffy,” Dan interrupted, handing Fanny’s Boy off to Liam. “Take him to the paddock and let him graze a bit. I have a feelin’ he ain’t runnin’ today. This way, Mr. Duffy. We can walk and talk.”

  Dan led Pearse toward the track. It was a frigid five minute walk.

  “Mister Flynn, I’d appreciate it if we could simply discuss…”

  “Just a little bit further now.”

  “Why are ye leading me out here?”

  Once they reached the bull ring, Dan pressed his hands down on the rail and stared out at the track.

  “Mr. Flynn, I really…”

  “Dan. Just call me Dan.”

  “I prefer to keep things more formal, if ye don’t mind–when it comes to business.”

  “Oh, so ye’re here to discuss business already? I was expectin’ Mrs. Green, but not today.”

  “Poor Fanny isn’t up to talking yet, but in her grief she asked that I handle things for her until she’s feeling up to it. To be quite honest, I doubt if Fanny will be dealing with any of her husband’s affairs and has given the task to me indefinitely.” Pearse leaned back against the rail and attempted to see Dan’s face when he spoke to him, but Dan didn’t flinch. Pearse could have been speaking of the second coming of Christ and Dan wouldn’t have raised a brow let alone make eye contact with him.

  “So what is it ye’ve come to tell me, Mr. Duffy? Let’s not beat about the bush. I’ve got work ta do.”

  “Ye were right in what ye told the boy back there. Fanny’s Boy won’t be runnin’ today. None of the horses will be runnin’ today or any other day until they’re sold.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m only followin’ Fanny’s wishes, Mr. Flynn. Could we step inside somewhere?”

  Pearse stuffed his soft hands into his pockets.

  “Cold, are ya?”

  “Ye’re a man of few words, Mister Flynn.” Pearce abruptly said.

  “Words, especially the wrong ones, just cause trouble. Trouble I don’t need. So do we have a job, Mr. Duffy, or not?” Dan finally turned his head just enough to meet Pearse’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry but once the horses are sold, Fanny and I will settle up accounts with ye and yer men. We’ll treat ye fair,” Pearse spoke quickly and his voice shook either from the cold or apprehension.

  “Fair is one o’ them trouble words, Mister Duffy, but I’ll stay on until the horses are sold, as will Liam and my farrier and groomer. “

  “That’s agreeable. We aim to make sure all involved are compensated.”

  “If ye’re finished, I’ll just be gettin’ back ta work,” Dan uttered, turning back toward the stables.

  “Mister Flynn?” Pearse said, holding out his trembling right hand. “Glad to meet ye.”

  Dan tipped his hat and shook Pearce’s hand, at last looking him straight in the eye. Dan’s eyes were as blue as the sea on a cloudless day and just as deep, and he knew they could unnerve even the biggest of men when he caught their gaze. His stare could round your shoulders and tuck your tail when he possessed a thought about you behind it. Pearse looked as if he were being stung by a swarm of bees and yanked back his hand. He couldn’t get back to his fancy carriage fast enough to escape them.

  When Pearse raced by Peter and Liam, they chuckled to each other. “Slow down, Mister Duffy! You have ta watch where yer puttin’ yer feet ‘round horses!” Liam called out just as Duffy’s feet went out from under him and he landed in a fresh pile of horse manure a few feet from his carriage. Peter started to take off to help him but Liam snatched him by the arm and held him back.

  “Let that ole pile a shat help himself.” They laughed hysterically.

  “Ye boys get back ta work,” Dan ordered, walking up on them.

  “Oh Boss! Ye gotta admit the cranky arse had it comin’.” Liam laughed and tried to regain his composure as they watched the carriage driver helping Pearse to his feet.

  “Justified? Maybe so or maybe Mister Duffy just summed up his visit.”

  “What’s that supposed ta mean, Boss?” Liam asked.

  “Ye’ll figure it out. By the way, son, I’m sorry but he’s sellin’ the horses. I’ll put the word out that we’re all up for hire.” He shook his head and went to collect Fanny’s Boy from the paddock.

  Chapter Five

  Patrick and Loch worked side by side in the barn, while Dillon did his favorite chore of the day: grooming the horses. He seemed to shoot up overnight and hardly needed the stool at all anymore to reach the back of the animals, and to prove it would stretch as far as he could without injuring himself. Patrick was proud of his brother and he wanted to tell him but the words wouldn’t come. Words were becoming scarcer with each passing week. They would get stuck in his head and just spin and twist until they didn’t make sense to him anymore and he was afraid if they came out, they’d be misunderstood anyway.

  The barn was cold this morning and filled with horses’ breath. Dillon threw blankets over them after he’d brushed them, and even wrapped their legs for warmth. Patrick believed that all Dillon thought about was being able to ride one of them someday, after overhearing Dillon’s nightly prayers that their uncle would allow him to by spring. When Dillon watched Aideen ride Frost, he would gallop in circles as if he himself were atop a horse. Patrick knew his brother was pretending he was riding with her, side by side through the unplanted field.

  “Patrick?” Dillon whispered when Loch exited the barn for more hay.

  “Aye?”

  “Come here please, I want ta tell ye somethin’ but I don’t want Loch to hear.” Dillon stepped out of Goblin’s stall and closed the gate quietly.

  “What is it? I’ve got ta finish me work,” Patrick inquired sternly.

  “I want to ride this horse.”

  “Yer outta yer bloody mind, boy!”

  “Shhh! Please, don’t say a word. I thought ye’d understand.” Dillon frowned, stepping back inside the sta
ll.

  “Get back out here.”

  “Why should I? Yer only gonna say what Aideen says: “ye can’t ride unless me Da says so,” right?” He grabbed a blanket and flung it over Goblin’s back but the horse wouldn’t stand still.

  “Do ye want I should help ye with that?” Patrick asked, climbing up onto the gate.

  “Back off, yer scared of him anyway.”

  “Be careful. That horse could kill ye with one kick.”

  Dillon ignored Patrick’s pleas and finally gave in and grabbed his stool. He carefully climbed onto it and pulled the blanket again from the rail, speaking softly to the fidgety animal as one last time, he tossed the blanket. It landed on Goblin’s back but only for a split second before he reared up, kicking the gate and nearly taking off Patrick’s fingers.

  “Mother Mary, brother! Are ye tryin’ to kill me?”

  “What the devil is goin’ on in here?” Loch shouted as he ran back into the barn.

  Patrick and Dillon stood silent, Dillon on his stool, pressed back against the inside rail of the stall and Patrick holding his bloody hands together, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes open and closed in pain.

  “Come here. Let me see that,” Loch shouted.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  Dillon trembled at the sight of the blood and the stool rattled against the rail. Goblin walked calmly towards him, his huge brown eyes blinking at the terrified boy in a quizzical way, and then lowered his huge head and pressed it against Dillon’s chest. He leaned in against the great beast and slowly embraced him, wrapping his arms around its thick, muscular neck, and took a deep long breath.

  “I know ye didn’t mean ta do it, boy,” Dillon whispered, patting Goblin’s neck. “It’ll be alright.”

  Loch and Patrick looked over at the goings on in the stall and then continued back and forth over Patrick’s bloodied knuckles. He was in a great deal of pain but wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Loch.

  “At least go get them cleaned up, for God’s sake.” Patrick dashed out of the barn and up to the house, passing Brianne and Rory in the yard. Upon seeing the blood, Brianne swooped down, snatched Rory and gave chase, calling out for her mother.

  “Ma! Patrick’s hurt himself!”

  Aunt Noreen was in the kitchen preparing their lunch when Patrick burst in the door with Brianne and Rory close behind. Without a word, she grabbed her apron from around her head and dunked it in a bucket of water she’d brought up to make soup and pulled Patrick into a kitchen chair.

  “What happened?” she asked calmly.

  “Goblin reared up and kicked the stall. I had me hands on the rail and he accidently...”

  “That devil horse. I can’t for the life a me understand why Dan brought that cursed animal home,” she softly said, all the while blotting the blood from Patrick’s knuckles in order to see the damage done.

  Patrick looked away for a few moments but somehow found the nerve to look down at his hands. The skin was torn away in spotty bits and one piece of skin was nearly pulled completely away from the bone.

  “Brianne, get my sewin’ kit and the whiskey from the cabinet.”

  Brianne sat Rory in his pen and followed her mother’s orders.

  “What on Earth are ye doin’, Aunt Noreen?” Patrick asked, pulling his aching hands away.

  “I’m savin’ yer finger, boy. Ye might need it come someday.” She took him by the jaw and looked straight into his green eyes.

  “Here ye are, Ma,” Brianne said, threading a needle with white thread.

  “Now, this is gonna hurt worse than that stomp ye took but don’t ye move. Cry out if ye have ta but don’t ye dare pull away or that meat is gonna rot and that finger will have to come off.” She took him again by the jaw. She was good at grabbing their jaws to get their attention and let them know she meant business. She soaked the apron with whiskey and dragged the needle and thread tightly through it to coat them. Then she held the needle for a few seconds over the flame of a candle and pulled a chair in tight, facing Patrick.

  “Brianne, take the baby outside and keep the others outta here until I say so,” she uttered softly without looking away from her work.

  “Aye Ma,” she obliged, slowly creeping across the room to collect Rory. As she passed back through, she leaned over and kissed Patrick on his head. A tear ran down from her eye as she turned back to look at him and blessed herself before leaving the house.

  Patrick was in agony when the needle pierced his skin for the first time. His body went rigid and his head fell back but he stayed as still as he could. Tears streamed from his eyes until his shirt collar was soaked but he didn’t make a sound. Aunt Noreen pulled the needle through and out over and over until Patrick was nearly unconscious from the pain.

  “Ye still with me, child?” she whispered. “I’m nearly through.”

  The acute throbbing had subsided and was now more of a continuous discomfort and a tugging sensation, as the alcohol seemed to numb the wound a bit. “It doesn’t hurt as much as it did,” he weakly replied.

  “That’s the feelin’ in the finger dyin’, son. I’m sorry but often a wound like this will take away yer ability to feel anythin’.”

  “Will it ever come back?” He opened his eyes and watched his aunt as she tied the last knot.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Yer lucky it’s yer knuckle and not underneath or in yer palm. A wound like this under here can leave ye without the full use of yer hand.” She gently turned over his hand and drew a line with her finger over the underside of his.

  Patrick nodded and then rested his hands on the table. “What a mess I’ve made of things,” he mumbled and then lay his head down on the table as well.

  “It wasn’t yer fault that ole devil horse kicked ye,” Aunt Noreen declared as she ripped pieces of clean white cloth to wrap Patrick’s hands.

  “But I shouldn’t have been hangin’ on the rail like that. I’m not good with horses at all. Dillon was fine but I...”

  “But he’s yer little brother and ye were just lookin’ out fer him. That’s what brother’s do, son,” she explained as she carefully draped the bandages over his hands and tied them.

  “He doesn’t need me anymore,” he uttered. He was spent from the pain and the wall had collapsed from around him. He had no will left to fight today.

  “Nobody needs nobody but we somebodies always need each other. Don’t ever think that boy doesn’t need ye just because he can do things fer himself. He’s growin’ up, just like ye. He’s tryin’ to make ye proud, son, can’t ye see it? Can’t ye see how he looks to ye for yer blessin’?”

  “All I see is I just don’t fit in here.”

  “Oh child, maybe yer not supposed to just fit in. Some folks are different and have to travel far away just to figure out who they are. Others, well they just take a little longer to find their way around their own back yard.”

  Patrick hadn’t noticed his aunt had been stroking his hair throughout their entire conversation, until she stopped when a knock came at the back door and it slowly creaked open.

  “Is Patrick alright?” Dillon inquired.

  “Oh, he’ll be fine in a week or so. We’ll just have to find him a job to do where he won’t do any more harm to his hands. Come in here, Dillon.”

  Patrick raised his head from the table and gave his brother a crooked smile. Dillon snatched him around the neck like he’d done the horse and held on. “Don’t ye scare me like that anymore,” he cried.

  “I won’t, Dillon, I won’t.”

  Aunt Noreen swiped a tear from her round pink cheek and stood to push the chair back into place.

  * * *

  After dinner, while the children were busy at their studies, Dan sat Noreen down and broke the news to her about Pearse’s intentions. She stepped outside into the cold night air and muffled her sobs by burying them in Dan’s chest, until the close embrace of her husband calmed her. Dan reassured her again and again he would make things work. He conceded the
fact they may indeed run into hard times but she trusted in him to do what was best for the family.

  Shorty Green’s wake lasted the full three days, culminating on that third day with his funeral. The Flynn’s, not being close friends or kin, did not partake in the wake. However, Fanny did abide by Shorty’s last will and testament to allow Dan to help carry his coffin from their home to the wagon for transport to the church. Since this was the first death of anyone close to the family who had an actual funeral, Dan made it clear to the children the importance of mourning and prayer for the deceased.

  “No matter the man or woman here on Earth, ye don’t send them off to the Lord without lifting them in prayer and a proper burial. A human soul cannot rest without prayers of peace for the afterlife,” Dan told them the morning of the funeral.

  “Uncle Dan, did ye pray for me Ma and Da?” Dillon asked.

  It seemed the room was emptied of air and Dan collected his thoughts for a moment while he waited for the exhales.

  “Aye, I did,” he answered, turning his eyes to Noreen for corroboration.

  “Aye, child. Ye’re Uncle and I both prayed for them. Now let’s be on our way.”

  * * *

  The following week, Dan rested quietly in his chair and watched as Noreen sat Patrick down to remove his stitches. Patrick studied Noreen’s work and marveled at how she’d basically sewn him back together. He raised an eyebrow when the boy questioned her as to how she learned such an amazing thing and she minimized her skill, saying only that it was just one more thing she’d picked up along the way as a mother with no money for doctors.

  Once she’d rinsed the still pink and swollen wounds, she wrapped them tightly and told him she’d chosen chores for him that required no lifting yet would force him to flex and bend his fingers, keeping them pliable and free of atrophy. Dan added that he needn’t worry because within a few weeks, he would be back in the barn pitching hay and pushing a wheelbarrow as before. Patrick only nodded and walked off to bed.

  By late January, they were running low on their stores of potatoes. Shorty’s prize horses sold within three weeks and the scoundrel Pearse proved to be even worse than they imagined and paid Dan less than half of what he normally earned, which he had to share with Liam and the others. He decided the only fair option was to divide it four ways. Pearse had offered Dan the old gray pony but he surely didn’t need yet another mouth to feed. Dan took the pony anyway and handed it over to Liam. He figured Liam could get at least enough money for the pony to feed his mother and brothers until he found a new position.