Stocking. 1. The pattern made by knitting one row, then purling the next, alternating between the two with each new row.
The garment then has a “wrong” side and a “right” side. The
“right” side has a herringbone-like appearance and the “wrong”
side has a bumpy texture. 2. The dust of the past.
—R. Dirane, A Binding Love
Sean did not require any light to find his way home. All he needed was the sound of the sea. As the town fell away behind him, the ocean called from the west. Galway Bay and the mainland were to his left and east and he could hear them easily enough. But he was a man of this island. He was as old and as west as west could be.
Even now, the lavender light faded to gray, and though he could have stepped onto the road, Sean was not one to walk upon asphalt. It was new and covered the memory of the path he used to take home as a child. He didn’t like new. He didn’t like asphalt. So always he made his way to his house by walking just off the road, his footsteps leaving a dark, winding ribbon of dirt to follow in the growing night. It was the path he had worn through the years and he knew its every dip, rock, and root. It was the way home—the way west.
The ocean roared, coming closer, and when it was at its loudest, Sean looked to the western horizon. As he stepped off the ribbon of dirt onto the gravel of his walkway, the old man watched the waves rolling in beyond the dark and solitary shadow of his house. Late spring should have had the sea coming in from the northwest; but the waves were hitting his little beach from the southwest, confirming what he was already smelling on the breeze. Two days hence, that surf would push his sand north, crashing in from the south. Heavy southern tides coming in the beginning of June were queersome. The thought sent a bubbling shiver skipping up his spine.
With a sigh, Sean shuffled up to his front door, the sea and sand disappearing behind his house. He turned the knob and stepped into his front room.
“God bless all here,” he announced to the darkness of the empty house. Dipping his fingers into the shell of water that sat in its tiny nook in the wall to his right, he brought his hand to his forehead but stopped before crossing himself. He watched the drop of water cling to his finger in the shadows.
“Da?” Matthew, at fourteen years Sean’s eldest, called from outside.
“Claire! Look!” Sean squatted down, watching Brendan totter on his feet. “Come here, Brendan. Come here, my boy.”
“Looks like he’ll be in the curragh faster than us all,” Sean’s second son, twelve-year-old Joe, said as he followed his father through the door, dipping his own fingers in the shell of water.
“Aye.” Matthew chuckled from behind. “Me and you against Da, Liam, and Brendan.” And then he dipped his own fingers. “God bless all here.”
“You two’d beat us,” Sean conceded. “You have Joe and that pipe.”
“You’re getting better, Da,” Joe replied.
Brendan fell into Sean’s embrace as Claire came into the room from the kitchen with three-year-old Liam by the hand. Standing up, Sean met Claire’s blue-green eyes. He saw her pride in Brendan’s achievement. But he also saw they were wide and moist. The small but ever-present furrow upon her brow deepened as she gazed about the floor, seeking that which Sean was unable to bring in from the sea. He hadn’t had a decent catch in three weeks.
The older boys must have seen it, too. “I’ll just have tea and bread,” Matthew announced, skipping past his father. “I’m tired and feeling poorly.”
“Me, too,” Joe added, following his older brother across the living room.
Sean watched Matthew walk past his mother and disappear into the kitchen. Joe peered back over his shoulder, meeting his father’s eyes. He gave a little nod. Sean nodded in return. Though Joe was not yet a teenager, Sean could see the man in him already. Joe vanished into the kitchen.
Sean gazed back to Claire, who stood silent as she wrestled with a squirming Liam.
“I suppose these wee ones are hungry. They’ll want stew,” Claire whispered.
“Aye. I’ll just have tea and bread.”
“Me, too,” she said and turned back to the kitchen.
Sean looked down at Brendan in his arms, the reflected halo glittering still above his head. With a prayer on his lips, Sean kissed his son’s cheek.
“God bless all here,” he repeated, his voice still a whisper. There was no answer, just the sound of his own breath and the light wind blowing through the thatch above his head. Absently, he crossed himself and shut the door.
For a moment Sean thought he should light the fireplace, but then the memory of Brendan and halos and tiny toes taking on the weight of what would one day be a man passed again across his mind. He knew he had work to do, so he left his front room to the darkness, heading instead into the kitchen. There he turned the knob of his gas cooker as he reached for his matches. With a flick of his wrist, the little piece of wood burst into flame, warming the kitchen with its golden halo. The old man set the match to the stove, which glowed blue as it came to life. Placing the kettle on the burner, he took a small round teapot from the shelf above his cooker, dropped in three tablespoons of tea, and set the sugar and his cup on the table. With his matches in hand, he walked around the counter and stepped through the door to his boys’ room.
In the darkness, the old man lit a match and set the flame upon the wick that floated freely in the small pool of oil in a seashell that sat on the worktable. He watched the flickering wick, seeking the yellow he had seen in the fire at the pub. It wasn’t there. Striking another match, he lit another shell candle, his memory floating like the lighted wick within the oil, drifting back to his boyhood, when the only light his family had was the driftwood fire upon the hearth and these little shell candles. The old man shook his head.
“No. Not that memory. Brendan.” He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to see only yellow—yellow with a certain iridescence.
“It had blue,” he whispered to the wick. The shade of yellow in the pub’s fire had a blue tone, reflecting the blue flame below. Sean searched his memory for what was blue in the moment Brendan took his first step. The sun burst through the clouds and with it, the blue sky beyond drifted in the window with the light. Sean chuckled, elated to have so easily found what was making the color.
Tottering back to his worktable, Sean pulled from beneath it a box of yellow dye and a box of blue. From a pail on the table, the old man poured water into a large shell and was about to sprinkle the dye into it when he stopped and glanced into the shell. The candles cast a mahogany hue on its shadowy interior. Sean gasped, bolting upright.
“Rowan,” he whispered. He could hear her voice. She was new, and he didn’t like new things.
“It’s witchwood—strong and magical,” Sean said, staring into the shell, and as the words came out of his mouth he could see the pain in her eyes. A pain he had put there.
How long had it been since a child had spoken to him—even in anger? They usually skipped away from him like leaves rolling away from a cold autumn wind. But Rowan did not cower. She did not run. Rowan held her ground. And now she was here—her pain, her eyes, and her voice had followed him home.
“Magic,” he breathed, her words repeating in his mind. He shook his head sharply. “No—Brendan.”
He closed his eyes tightly again. Yellow with blue. He needed swatches.
My name is Rowan. You are not nice.
“What the hell do you know of me? Go away!” he commanded.
The cold hollowness of Rowan’s angry eyes poured into Sean. That unfathomable emptiness had once tried to pull him down into the depths of the ocean, and now it grasped his heart, sending it strumming like horses’ hooves across his rib cage. Sean grabbed his chest.
“Rowan is no given name,” the old man gasped, seeking old memories of windows and halos and bread with tea for supper. The teapot whistled hoarsely in the kitchen. Stumbling out of his sons’ room, Sean went back into the kitchen. He bala
nced his weight upon one hand placed flat on the counter while he poured the water into the pot and put the lid on. Breathing deeply, Sean pulled the milk from his refrigerator and poured some into the bottom of his empty cup. He brought the teapot to the table and sat down to wait for the tea to steep and his heart to slow.
“Bloody Yank,” he said with a cough.
As he rested, Sean watched the steam float from the teapot’s spout. It drifted in the light from the boys’ room and disappeared into the darkness of the front room. Upon the drifting cloud, Sean watched fourteen-year-old Matthew and twelve-year-old Joe eat their bread and drink their tea as Claire fed Liam and Brendan. They were all hungry and cold, but they were together then. Now they were all gone and Sean was alone. He scowled as he poured the tea into his cup, its color mahogany as it hit the milk.
“Witchwood,” he hissed. Picking up his spoon, the old man stirred the tea. It turned a milky tan as he did so.
“You—have no manners,” he whispered to his cup.
CHAPTER 5
Ribbing
Ribbing. 1. Knitting one stitch, then purling one stitch, creating a pattern that looks like the furrows of waves upon the ocean.
This stitch is used widely on the wrists, neck, and bottom of the
sweater, for it is elastic in nature and gives easily. 2. A riddle.
—R. Dirane, A Binding Love
Rebecca sat sipping the last quarter of the glass of Bordeaux. Dinner was still warm in her belly as she listened to John and Fionn educate Rowan on the finer points of island play. They recommended climbing on the rocks south of town to search for sea anemones in the many tidal pools there. If poked quickly and the finger is removed, John explained, the anemone would spit water. Wagering on who could elicit the highest spit was a favorite game. Then there was the old mare belonging to Fionn’s father. Great freedom was to be had riding it on the small ribbon of dirt just off the road that led south, past Sean Morahan’s beach and toward the big fort. This was particularly memorable if you went near sunset. No one had a finer sunset on the island than Sean Morahan, for his was the only house that sat on a true beach.
Prowling around town playing scavenger hunt was fun. Inevitably, someone would put “raspberry-colored rose petals” on the list and there was only one place to find those—Father Michael’s rose garden. No one voluntarily went in there unless they were playing scavenger hunt, and if the priest caught you, it was conversation regarding mortal sin for tea.
To this, Rowan asked what mortal sin was, causing both Fionn and John to glance over with wide eyes to Rebecca. With an irreverent shrug, she reached down and scratched Trace’s head.
As she listened, Rebecca was keenly aware that it sounded like to do anything on the island required other people. All these games could only be played with a friend. Shifting in her seat, she thought of Rowan’s life—the constant movement from one university or college to another, losing her childhood on the road between towns. That was what Sharon said anyway, and as Rebecca watched Fionn and John, Sharon’s best childhood friends, explain to Rowan how to be a child of the island, the deep hollowness in her heart echoed, causing her to touch her chest to still the emptiness.
It had taken Rebecca two years to get free of Dennis. For those two years he was always there. He would time her trip home; she had to call home when she left work and arrive exactly thirty-five minutes later or he would throw a fit. He would call and leave messages all day on the telephone in her office. As she taught, Rebecca could hear the telephone ringing constantly down the hall. If she went to the store, Dennis would go with her. If she went to the movies, Dennis would go along. Rebecca had not one moment to herself for two years, except her solitary study in the library, and Dennis gave her only three hours a week to do that or he’d lose his temper. There was no time to think, no time to be with herself, no time to center.
When Rebecca finally gained her freedom, she didn’t want to report to anyone. She needed to move, to go where she liked, when she liked, compulsively uprooting Rowan and herself to reassure herself that she was still free. But in that freedom there was no peace and very little childhood for Rowan.
“Someone looks sleepy,” Fionn noted.
Rebecca started, peering over at Rowan, who listed in the chair, her head resting on her fist.
“I’m okay,” the little girl replied, rubbing her eyes.
“Come on,” Fionn said, standing. “You brush your teeth and I’ll check for fairies under the bed.”
“Sharon told me that only you can see fairies,” Rowan replied, following Fionn around the corner. Trace yawned and, rising to his feet, trotted after Rowan.
“Only when he’s circlin’ over Shannon,” John whispered with a wink.
Rebecca looked at him questioningly.
“When he’s had too much to drink,” John rephrased, chuckling. “Here. You dry. I’ll wash.”
Nodding, Rebecca tossed a dish towel over her shoulder and began clearing the table.
“Sharon’ll be asleep by now,” John murmured to the sink.
“It is late,” Rebecca said.
“Late, early. She sleeps all the time.”
“She’s really big, huh?”
“Aye.” John laughed. “And she hurts when she stands, so she lies down. As soon as she’s horizontal, she’s asleep.”
“The last month is hell—that’s for sure.”
“Two weeks, to be exact. We’ll see. She’s had breakthrough bleeding a couple of times.
“Scary.” Rebecca nodded, remembering Sharon’s call a month earlier. “Just a little longer.”
“Aye,” John replied.
As Rebecca dried the dishes, she rummaged around the kitchen, noting the full cupboards. There were cans of soup and vegetables, packages of gravy and sauces, a bag of sugar and shakers of salt and pepper. Two loaves of fresh bread wrapped in a cotton cloth sat on the counter next to a bowl filled with apples and pears, and to their left was a basket of yellow onions and potatoes. Opening the small refrigerator, she found it stocked with eggs, milk, butter, and cream.
“Who brought all this food?” she asked.
“Rose and Liz came by today to help Fionn’s mum clean the place. They thought you’d need some things to eat.”
It was all just too generous. Though Rebecca had offered to rent the cottage, Sharon had told her no one wanted her money. They were just excited to finally meet her after so many years and all of Sharon’s tall tales. Glancing around at the food, Rebecca knew she had to find some way of paying them back.
“I think we have enough here to last till the end of summer.”
John snickered.
“No fairies,” Fionn reported as he poked his head into the kitchen. “Best be going, John.”
“You’re going?” Rebecca asked.
“Aye. You and Rowan are tired.”
“I thought you were staying here.”
Fionn stepped closer to Rebecca. She held the plate she was drying to her chest like a shield. His black eyes smiled at her.
“Thanks for the invite, Becky, but I really don’t think the bed is big enough for the four of us and the dog.” He grinned, turning to the door.
Rebecca looked at her feet, embarrassed.
“You know that’s my parents’ house up the road. Mum made supper and dropped it by before she and Dad left this afternoon to Doolin. Went to visit my brother, Danny, on the mainland or they’d be here to greet ya,” Fionn said over his shoulder.
“Oh.”
“Good night, John,” Rowan called as she skipped to the open door of the bedroom in her nightgown.
“Thank you, John, for your help,” Rebecca added.
“It’s nothing. House key is on the table next to the fireplace, though there is really no need for it,” he said, walking to the car.
Fionn lingered at the door.
“Good night, Fionn,” Rowan said.
“Good night there, Rowan,” he replied.
“Better get t
o bed, sweetie,” Rebecca said.
Rowan turned back into the bedroom.
“I’m happy to have finally met Sharon’s friend Becky,” Fionn said with a smile.
“Mr. Fionn, whatever your last name is,” she said, not returning his smile.
“O’Flahe—”
“You said you’d drive slow.”
“Ah, I was just play—”
“I don’t care if you’re Sharon’s friend or John’s friend. I don’t care if you’re God’s best friend. If you ever—ever—do anything to put my daughter in danger again, I’ll make you the sorriest human being on this planet.”
Rebecca slammed the door in his face. Stepping back, she stared at the bright blue paint of the door, her breath tight in her chest. Her blood surged in her ears as she strained to hear any sound besides silence beyond the door.
“Have you seen my face, John?” she heard Fionn ask.
“What?” John’s voice was distant.
“My face. Miss Rebecca just ripped my face off, and I was wondering if she tossed it out here or if she took it inside with her sweet self.”
She heard John’s laugh. Fionn’s feet crunched across the gravel drive as John started the car. The motorcycle’s engine sputtered to a start. Rebecca heard the tires grind the gravel, and soon there was silence again.
“Bloody Irishmen,” Rebecca whispered, leaning her head on the door.
“Mama?” Rowan called from the bedroom.
“Coming.”
The heaviness of the day’s travel landed squarely between Rebecca’s shoulders. For a fluttering of an eyelash, she thought perhaps it wasn’t the right thing to do—slamming the door in Fionn’s face. But he had raced off with her daughter when he had said he would drive carefully. She had trusted him. He had broken that trust by saying one thing and then doing another. Flipping the living room light off, Rebecca clenched her teeth and stepped into the bedroom.
“It smells funny in here,” Rowan said.
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