The Blacksmith and the Ruby

Morning mist hovered above the meandering river undisturbed by even a breath of air. Kingfishers darted from the overhanging trees to spear minnows through the crystal-clear water. Over rock and around root the torrent babbled, filling the air with nature’s music. In the sky, birds sang to welcome the coming day as they danced on invisible currents, snatching freshly hatched insects from the sky.

In the distance, another noise joined this morning chorus. The faint sound of a horse and rider approaching, but the timing was askew. Cling, cling, cling, clang, rang the falling hooves. Cling, cling, cling, clang, in lazy repetition. High on the hill above the river a lone horseman appeared, his cowl drawn up to ward off the dew; his mount seeming to favour one leg, laying the hoof more gently than the others.

The rider paused and looked down on Rosendale, a tiny community built on an ancient fording point. Smoke from early morning cooking fires was beginning to pool above the thatched roofs. He gently urged his mount forward, demanding no more than the animal was comfortable to give. Their progress was slow, but it was determined. Before long he clopped betwixt the sleepy houses. He rained his steed to a halt when a rangy boy appeared in a doorway.

"Good morrow, Lad. Do you have a Smithy near about?" he asked, folding back his hood and the morning sun glinted on his long golden locks. The boy looked at him with awe. It was a reaction he was accustomed to. He radiated power and vigour, his face was so handsome it could stop time itself, and his smile was so beguiling the birds would fall from the trees at the sight of it; or so he had been told. The boy stood slack-jawed which made him laugh good-humouredly.

"I see the cat has been away with your tongue," he teased, which broke the spell fallen over the child.

"Aye, Mr Shipman is our Blacksmith. Yonder is his yard," said the boy, pointing to a cluster of mud-walled buildings near the banks of the river.

"Much obliged, young Squire," said the rider and he dismounted to lead his horse the last stretch of the journey. When he reached the Blacksmith's forge, the fire had not yet been stoked for the day, so he tethered his mount to a post. He stroked the beast’s neck with affection, blowing air across its mussel, something he knew she loved. The animal whinnied and nuzzled his neck.

"There, there, Girty. We'll have you fixed up in no time," he said, stroking the horse’s velvet ears with the touch any lover would envy. 

"A fine animal," called a voice, making him jump slightly. A bear of a man stood behind him, watching. He was powerfully built, if not overly tall, with a thick growth of curly-black hair on his chin, and more to match across his ham hock shoulders. The man smiled kindly, offsetting what might otherwise be an intimidating stature.

"Mr Shipman?"

"The very same."

"My mount has thrown a shoe. Can you accommodate us with a few hours rest and a new set of iron for my friend?" he asked, patting the animal on the neck.

"You're a stranger to these parts," said Mr Shipman. It was not a question but an observation.

"I've travelled a long road, with longer to go, but my journey is my own, so I have time, and coin to spend," he said, taking the man’s questioning with good humour.

"Coin be coin, no matter what quarter it travelled from. You are welcome, Mr ...?"

"Lonsdale."

"You're welcome to my home, Mr Lonsdale. Come, you must be hungry," said the Blacksmith, gesturing toward an open door.

"It's hospitable of your sir."

"There is pottage on the fire, but I can't attest to its quality. I'm a fine worker of iron but there my talents die."

"Is there no Mrs Shipman?"

"Sadly, she was taken by a fever seven winters back."

"You never took another wife?"

"If you knew my Mrs, you'd know there could never be another. She'd come back and haunt me should another lass ever cross my threshold," said the Smithy, his voice full of good humour and giddiness.

The rider nodded, as if happy with the reply, then entered the home. The two men warmed themselves in front of the cooking fire while they ate oats stewed in goat’s milk, and they drank a tankard of cloudy ale.

When the meal was finished, the Blacksmith set about examining the horse's leg. She was holding it slightly off the ground, putting as little weight on it as possible. The bushy ironworker cooed soothingly as he took her forelock on his aproned leg. He cleaned the area with a pick and nodded sagely, before gently resting the foot back on the ground.

"She's not yet lame, but not far off either. The shoe was badly fitted if you ask me. It has come loose and has been chafing the poor thing with each step. We'll make a new set for your girl, but she should rest two nights, mayhap three, before being shod again."

The rider nodded, and although the length of the wait pained him, he said, "What you think best, Mr Shipman."

The Smithy pointed to an open-sided hay manger. "You may loge in yonder rick, if it would please yea."

"It looks as fine as any tavern I've ever encountered," he said, smiling through the lie. He slipped the saddle from Girty and rested it on the fence. Mr Shipman led the horse into his paddock and left her there with a friendly pat on the rump.

The hay was soft and mostly free of insects. He lay back and drew his cowl around his body, feeling every mile of the road he’d travelled pushing down on his eyes. He gladly fell into a dreamless slumber.

The sun was in its final quarter when the sound of hammer on metal roused him. He stretched himself and rose, calling a cheery greeting to the sweat covered Mr Shipman before strolling into Rosendale. The village wasn't big, but it was beautiful. Pigs squealed in pens as they nosed through the mud for remnants of their last feed. Chickens ran wild in the spaces between houses. He could see children minding sheep, goats, and a few thin cattle, in the surrounding grassland. Women waded in the babbling river, slapping sodden garments against the rounded rocks. The air over Rosendale was heavy with happiness which infected everyone who called it home. It was a tonic for his heart.

He purchased eggs, a creel of potatoes, a chicken for the pot, and a skin full of ale. He knew Mr Shipman would insist on offering him vittles, sadly he had been right about his cooking abilities, and the rider had seen just how bare his cupboards had been. Once back at the forge, Mr Shipman had made a good show of refusing the offered supplies but not good enough to make the refusal anything more than politeness. Later, they shared a meal and anyone would have guessed they were life-long friends.

***

Being a Blacksmith is a proud profession, but it’s a hard one. When he’d first seen the tall, handsome man standing at his forge, he felt uneasy, but when he smiled, he did so with both his face and his eyes. He saw the way the rider dotted on his animal, and that more than anything told him the rider was a good man. When Lonsdale appeared, laden down with food, this virtue was placed beyond doubt.

They shared meals, and good conversation, for three days, but his guest had an otherworldly quality. Perhaps it was his beauty. On the riders last night with him, he was woken by a sound he knew as well as his own heartbeat; the sound of his bellows breathing life into his forge. He rose from his sleeping mat and crept to the window.

The night was moonless and the tall stranger stood before the forge, warming himself against the chill of the night. He had stoked the coal into a fiery glow and shadows danced across his face. He appeared to be speaking, but to who? He was alone. A fountain of sparks rose from the forge while the tall man spoke. Perhaps he was praying. That was when something strange happened.

One glowing spark didn't rise like all the rest. It seemed to dance around the rider’s head; glowing brilliantly, and growing by the second. When the spark reached the length of a man’s middle finger, the Smithy finally recognised it for what it was. A fairy. Everyone knew such magical creatures existed. They were responsible for both good and bad fortune, but he had never seen one before. His heart raced, and his eyes remained glued to the unfolding scene. The fairy darted in and whispered into the rider’s ear, causing the tall man to nod and scratch his chin. The riders winning smile was nowhere to be seen, if anything, he seemed to be brooding. The fairy and the man conversed; the magical creature seemed deferential to the rider. In the Smithy's mind, the pieces of a puzzle clicked together, and it was with fear and trepidation he realised who he’d been sharing his days with. The man standing at his forge was the Fairy King!

The Blacksmith watched as the rider held out his palm and the fairy flew down to land there. Without anger or compassion, the man closed his fingers, crushing the tiny being. The blacksmith was shocked, why would he do such a terrible thing. The rider squeezed his hand for ten ticks of any clock, then opened his fingers. Something glimmered in the light of the forge as the rider looked at it. He seemed satisfied, and stowed whatever he held in his cloak. Shipman moved to get a better look and the rider looked in his direction; as if he’d heard the him. The man’s eyes searched the darkness for the one who spied on him.  Shipman dropped to his knees and scurried back to his sleeping mat. Whatever the Fairy King was up to, it was no business of his. That night, he failed to find even a moment’s sleep. 

In the morning, he completed shoeing the chestnut mare in record time. The man, or whatever he was, complimented him on a fine job and held out three silver coins for his work, and his kindness. The Blacksmith took the coins, gushing his thanks, but the truth of the matter was he'd gladly forgo the money just to get rid of the stranger. Every moment the rider took to saddle his beast seemed to last an age. The man finally placed his foot in the stirrup and swept his leg over the horse's rump causing his cloak to flare. Something flew from it and landed in the hay where the stranger had been sleeping. He thought about telling the rider but the truth was, he wanted the man gone. Instead, he raised a hand in salute as the man rode away.

Once he was alone, he sifted through the straw and his hand found something hard. He hoped it was another silver coin but when he opened his fingers, he got the shock of his life. Sitting in his hand was a ruby, as big as a robin’s egg and a red as blood. The value of such a jewel was beyond imagining. He stood there, dumbfounded. He considered racing after the stranger to return the gem, but the thought of chasing down a being from the underworld strained his bravery. He rolled the ruby across his fingers and let the light play across it. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

He started to walk down into the village, eager to show off his prize but doubts crowded his mind. Would they make him give it back? Would they want him to share his fortune? Would one of his neighbours steal up on him in the dead of night, to stave his brain in? In the end, he turned around and walked back toward his house. The rider may well return for the jewel, so he’d better keep it safe. There was no point in telling anyone else. He lifted the hearthstone and scooped a tiny hollow in the dirt below. He put the jewel in the hole and replaced the granite slab. All day he worked, but his mind was filled with dancing red light and the desire to hold the gem once more.

The day passed, and the stranger failed to appear. That night, the Blacksmith bolted his door, a thing he had never done before, and removed the ruby from its hiding place. Late into the evening, he watched flames dance through the gem. That night his dreams were filled with castles and banquets, fine horses and silken robes. When he unlatched the door in the morning, his treasure hidden once more; the yard was empty. As the hours passed and the stranger failed to appear, he began to believe he might get to keep the stone.

Days turned into weeks, and people started to comment on the changes in Mr Shipman. He never came to the village to share a tankard of ale with his friends anymore, in fact, he never strayed more than a few yards from his home. His naturally friendly demeanour soured, and those who turned up with something to mend were dealt with brusquely. None were invited to share an ale or a meal. Slowly, fewer and fewer people called to the forge. Then came the day when the coals weren't lit at all, and Mr Shipman's door failed to open.

The darkness that hung over the Blacksmiths home deepened and started to spread. One by one, misfortune fell on all the houses of the village. Small things at first, like a lame calf or hens refusing to lay, but early in September there came a night so cold it froze the ground solid for two days. By the time it thawed, every vegetable waiting to be harvested was black and rotting in the ground.

With no crops to gather, the villagers had to resort to killing or selling their livestock. By mid-winter, famine had settled on the inhabitants of Rosendale. Over those long dark months, every family lost people to starvation or sickness. Even Mr Shipman was suffering, he’d eaten the last of his hens and was on the brink of starvation, but he refused to speak about his treasure. His soul was devoured by greed, his mind as black as the spuds rotting in the fields. He had the power to save himself, and all his neighbours, but he couldn't make his fingers release the ruby.

It was the darkest night of January that the storm came. He lay on his sleeping mat, floating in and out of dreams, while the roof above his head creaked in the fury of the gale. Something made him open his eyes and was shocked to see the rider standing over him. With a flick of his elegant wrist, every candle in the room burst into life, and the fire embers roared upward, renewed by fairy magic.

"You have something of mine?" said the man sternly, standing over him. In his withered state, he had no hope of defending himself. He was powerless to stop the man taking his precious ruby. Lonsdale, or whoever he was, held out his hand and the flagstone flipped into the air. The ruby floated across the room to land softly in his palm. The tall man closed his fingers on the gem and hunkered down to glare into his eyes.

"Did you think I'd be so careless with such a thing? Did you not imagine I knew you had it all this time? You're truly are a foolish man, Mr Shipman."

"I was keeping it for you," he said, levering himself up against the mud wall of his hut. Thunder split the sky, and the hut was lit up by lightening.

"You take me for a fool? You kept this for yourself, even when it could have saved your friends and your neighbours. You let so many die, and for what? A pretty pebble? I gave you the chance to be different, Mr Shipman, an opportunity you squandered. You would be suffering still, but for Girty. You can thank her for my compassion. She said you had gentle hands."

Fat tears ran down the Blacksmiths face, unsure if he was going to live or die. The rider stood to leave and he couldn’t help crying out for his treasure. The Fairy King stopped and turned, "What was that?"

"Please, don't take it from me," he sobbed.

"This thing?" asked the rider holding out the ruby.

"Please," he snivelled, holding out his hands, begging.

"So be it," said the tall stranger with a sorrowful look, and tossed the gem to him. He fumbled, but managed to catch the gem, clutching it with both hands to his chest.

"Thank you, Sire," he croaked and fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was really his to keep.

"Look again," said the rider.

Shipman opened his fingers, and his face was bathed in golden light. There in his palm stood a tiny fairy, with gossamer wings. The creature stuck out it’s tongue and zoomed away, leaving a trail of sparkles in its wake. It shot up the chimney and was gone.

The Blacksmith cried out in agony. "Things are not always as they seem," said the rider striding out into the storm.

The next morning the tempest had passed. The village was damaged, but it still stood. Every house would need repair and fences were down, but with no livestock to keep penned, that was a job that could wait. Trees had been uprooted, and the river was in flood. In the heart of such devastation, cries of delight echoed. The rangy boy who had directed the stranger toward the Blacksmith all those months ago had discovered huge wagon, filled with food, abandoned in the middle of the village. The whole community gathered and discussed what to do. Hunger might have had something to do with their decision because they declared the wagon, a gift from God.

It was decided that every man woman and child in the village would receive an equal share of the bounty, and should an owner appear, they would all work in unison to pay off the debt. Even Shipman, who still remained locked in his house, was allocated a fair portion. His oldest friend offered to bring the Blacksmith his food.

When the man pushed open the Blacksmith's door, he found Mr Shipman sitting up on his sleeping mat. His body was as cold as ice, his face seemed to be frozen in a scream. In his outstretched hand, he held a lump of dirty grey stone, as if offering it up in his final moments.

The Lovers - A Father Tom Story

Father Tom carried two kitchen chairs outside and positioned them in a pool of bright sunshine. The meadow beyond the dry-stone wall was ripe for a hay harvest, and the gentle breeze made the grass blades sing as they danced in celebration of the summer. He closed his eyes and let his ears do the seeing while cosmic rays warmed the few exposed parts of his skin. He could hear children playing in the distance, cry's of excitement grew and fell depending on the whim of the wind. Somewhere in the hedgerow a pair of sparrows chattered as fat bumble bees hummed while they hopped among the clover.

"I've never seen a happier man," said Jane, and he opened his eyes lazily. He smiled at her and took the mug of tea she was holding toward him. She sat on the second chair and straightened her apron before turning her face to the sun, it was as if she were washing in it.

"That is a glorious feeling," she said and sipped her tea.

"That it is," he agreed and closed his eyes once more.

After a time Jane spoke, "Would you not think of putting on a pair of shorts, you must be baking in those black trousers."  Tom looked down at himself and agreed he wasn't dressed for the weather but he had become so accustomed to his uniform that he barely noticed it any more. To feel the touch of the sun on his legs would be lovely but his legs were not something he wanted to share with the world, and definitely not with Jane. Anyway, he didn't own a pair of shorts.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he said with a smile and was surprised at the frown that crossed Jane's face.

"Who says?"

"What do you mean, who says?"

"Who says its inappropriate for a priest to wear shorts on a hot day?"

Tom had to think a bit. There's no rule saying shorts were forbidden, and plenty of priests wore them on holidays, but this was not a holiday, it was just a particularly warm summer evening and he was sitting in the middle of his parish with one of his own parishioners for company.

"I guess the people, what they would think, I think," Father Tom was getting muddled up with all the Thinks.

"And what about you? What do you think?"

"I think there is nothing wrong with a priest wearing shorts if he wants to, which I don't by he way. Anyway, I don't own a pair of shorts," said Tom taking a sip of his tea and looking away into the sky.

Jane sat silently but he knew what she was getting at. The other day they had a particularly heated discussion about some of the more archaic rules of the church. Jane was in favour of a more liberal interpenetration of cannon law, a point of view that Tom actually favoured but something had made him argue the churches stand on matters. As the discussion progressed they each became more intent on making their point and Father Tom feared he may have gotten too feverish.

As the minutes ticked by, the heat was building and Tom felt beads of sweat form between his shoulder blades. Without thinking he undid his collar and opened the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Careful now Father, what would people think?" said Jane taking the empty mug from his hand and walking toward the kitchen. She can be a right strap that one, thought Father Tom to himself and opened another button in silent protest.

***

Sunday arrived and Father Tom said Mass in what can only be described as a heat wave. By the time he was half way through he would have gladly opted for a pair of shorts under his robes, even if it would have given Jane bragging rights for a year. The folks in the congregation were fairing no better as they sweltered in their Sunday best. The ladies had it slightly better than the men, at least they had the option of wearing those light flowing summer dresses that were in fashion. One young lady in particular stood out among the crowd as she wore a bright yellow dress which danced above her knees every time she changed position. The whole thing was held up by nothing more than a few gossamer threads of material curving over her tanned shoulders. She was the picture of youth, health and vitality, a condition not lost on the young man seated by her side. He couldn't keep his eyes off her and they spent most of the time holding hands, whispering sweet nothings and looking deeply into each others eyes. Father Tom envied the young couple their zest for life and was not the slightest bit put out that they paid little attention to what he was saying. In Tom's eyes, young love was the closest thing to Gods paradise on this earth.

After the end of Mass, Father Tom went to mingle with the people exiting the church and was just in time to see the lovers running hand and hand towards Brennan's Glen and the brook which babbled in the shade of it's overhanging trees. He was so caught up in the magic of that moment he didn't see Michael O'Brien coming. When the little man tapped him on the shoulder Father Tom nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Mr O'Brien, you startled me."

"Sorry about that, Father. You were miles away, you must have a lot on your mind," said the tax man, his substantial belly stretched the buttons on his waistcoat to their limit.

"I guess I was," said Father Tom regaining his composure.

"Was it about those two?" asked Mr O'Brien nodding his head at the young couple vanishing into the distance.

"As it happens, it was."

"I knew you'd have noticed. It's just not right you know."

"What's that, Mr O'Brien?"

"Them, and they way they were carrying on."

"Oh?" Father Tom said not understand exactly what the man in front of him was getting at. Father Tom didn't particularly like Mr O'Brien, he thought he was a bully if the truth be know. Father Tom had never forgiven him for the way he treated Tony Ryan. But as Father Tom was in the business of forgiveness, it was not a feeling which rested well with him.

"Canoodling," he said snidely, wrinkling up his pudgy face.

"Canoodling?" asked Father Tom, not that he was confused, but the use of the word canoodling seemed very prissy coming from the lips of Michael O'Brien.

"Disgraceful, at Mass of all places," O'Brien said, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets putting ever more strain on the fabric.

"Ah, I see."

"Not right is it, Father? Not the place."

"I guess not."

"I knew you would take it in hand. Have a word there, Father, like a good man," O'Brien said smiling believing their thoughts were in accord, and slapping Father Tom on the shoulder like some good old boy. Father Tom felt his dislike of the man solidify into a cold hard lump in his gut. As Mr O'Brien walked away, Father Tom tried to catch a last gimps of the lovers but they were gone.

***

Over dinner Father Tom recounted the story of the young couple to Jane, including what Mr O'Brien had said after Mass. Jane chewed her food thoughtfully as she considered the issue.

"I don't see what they did wrong," she said at last.

"It's not so much what they were doing but the way they were with each other."

"What way were they?" asked Jane, raising an eyebrow as if knowing Father Tom was holding something back. She watched him intently as he mentally tried out ways of explaining himself before discarding them as inadequate.

"It's hard to explain. They glowed."

"Glowed? Really?"

"Well, yes." Tom looked at Jane but she didn't say anything, she just smiled a knowing smile and watched him with twinkling eyes. Father Tom felt a blush rush up his neck and duck under his beard. He knew he had said too much, and she was looking at him like he was a giggling teenager. He felt like a giggling teenager. Why had he ever told her at all?

"Glowing or not, its not appropriate behavior at Mass. I'll have to have words with them before the next service, stern words," said Father Tom, sawing at his meal with vigor and avoiding the mocking eyes of his companion.

"Tea?" she asked after a few moments, signaling that she had moved the conversation on. Tom sighed inwardly and nodded.

"That would hit the spot," he said and Jane cleared the plates. As she walked through to the kitchen he herd her mumble happily to herself, "Glowing, by God."

Tom felt his blush reappear with a vengeance.

***

At the following Sunday Mass Father Tom made it his business to be around the gate as people arrived. A few minutes before the service was due to begin he saw the youngsters turn the corner and walk down the street. Thankfully some of the heat had been blown out of the summer by a stiff westerly wind and the young lady's dress was far more modest than before. Tom felt his face break into a beaming smile as they approached. 

"Good morning to you," he called.

"Good morning, Father. Unusual to see you out here, shouldn't you be getting ready?" said the young man with honest good humor.

"I'm just on my way in as it happens. You're Cillian Duffy, aren't you? Sally Duffy's lad?"

"The very one, don't say you've forgotten me? Its not been that long," he said with a beaming smile that was just as infectious as Mr O'Brien's nastiness

"And who is your lovely companion?" asked Father Tom extending his hand to the young lady.

"Father Tom this is Ellen, my fiance," said the young man with immense pride. The young girl radiated at the word and looked adoringly at her fine young man, and Father Tom felt his heart melt.

"Congratulations!" he said with genuine delight and pumped the girls hand even harder while placing a paternal arm around Cillian Duffy.

"It's a lucky thing we've bumped into you, Father, because we're not just home for a holiday. We wanted to ask you if you'd do the honor of marrying us?"

"Me?" 

"Please say yes," chirped the young lady gripping Tom's huge hand with both of hers. "It would mean so much to both of us. Cillian never stops talking about you. I was sure he was making half of it up but now I've met you in the flesh I know nobody else would do for the biggest day of our lives. Please Father," she blurted out without taking a breath.

"Well… of course!" 

The three of them stood laughing at the door of the church until Father Tom remembered he had to get ready for Mass. "Goodness gracious, I'm so late, call round to the house tomorrow and we'll work out the details." Father Tom raced away around the back of the church, flustered and very very late.

When Mass eventually started, Father Tom was in rare form and delivered it with gusto. About half way through he saw Cillian lay his arm along the back of the pew where Ellen sat and he saw the scowl which landed on Mr O'Brien's face and refused to budge. That look was like a tiny black cloud hanging in a perfectly blue sky, and Father Tom knew he would have to talk with Mr O'Brien afterwards.

As it happened Mass was only just over when the door of the sacristy opened, Father Tom hadn't even had a chance to disrobe before the livid civil servant barged in.

"I thought you were dealing with those two?" he demanded.

"Really, Mr O'Brien, don't you think you are over reacting slightly?"

"Over reacting? I don't believe you are condoning this behavior?"

"What behavior, what have they actually done, Mr O'Brien? Its not like they are …"

"What about all the cuddling and whispering and all that. It's disgraceful and I bet they're not even married. You'd never catch me and the Mrs doing anything like that and I don't appreciate having it shoved down my throat at Mass either."

"As it happens, they're engaged."

"Engaged is not married and I'd expect you to under stand the difference. That's what's wrong with the world today, they are all at it." 

"Pardon?"

"At it, that's what they call it these days," ranted the red faced man. "Sex! Fornicating! Lusting! Debauchery! FUCKING! It must be stopped and stopped now!"

"Oh, come on, you're being ridiculous."

"Don't call me ridiculous!" ranted Mr O'Brien buffing out his chest and talking down to Father Tom in his most demeaning manner.

"Mr O'Brien, would you please keep your voice down."

"I will not, Father. I most certainly will not!" The fat little man turned on his heel and flounced out the door not even bothering to close it behind him.

"Oh, dear," sighed Father Tom turning away only to be confronted by a pair of grinning alter boys.

"He said fucking," giggled the ginger haired one and savored the word on his tongue. Father Tom looked to heaven and said a silent prayer for patience.

***

Cillian and Ellen arrived bright and early at Father Tom's house, bubbling over with enthusiasm for their coming nuptials. They all sat in the kitchen discussing dates, and venues for the wedding while Jane fused over the young couple with tea and cake. After an hour filled with joy and laughter, Father Tom had no choice but to broach the issue of Mr O'Brien.

"Cillian, you grew up here and you know how conservative some of the people are?" said Father Tom with a face so long he looked like a blood hound. He paused and prayed that the young man would save him from this misery.

"Yes?" he said, clearly not knowing where Father Tom was going with his halting ramble.

"Well…"

"Well?"

"Well, there has been a complaint that during Mass…"

"What are you trying to say, Father?" asked Cillian, as the couple looked at him with doe eyes. Behind them he could see Jane's worried face as she shook her head in the negative. But he knew he had to do it, it was his duty.

"Well, some people seem to think you are too, well, affectionate." On hearing the words ringing in his own ears, Father Tom felt as if he had pulled the trigger on Bambi. The look of perplexity floated on their faces. Slowly their smiles melted and were replaced with shamefaced embarrassment. It was then Cillian seemed to remember their clasped hands were resting on Father Tom's kitchen table and he released his grip. His hand vanished under the table, folded into his lap like a scolded puppies tail. Father Tom stared at Ellen's abandoned fingers, floating on an ocean of crouched tablecloth, and felt his heart break.

"It's nothing …" said Father Tom trying to rescue the situation but the light which had shimmered so wonderfully between the young lovers dimmed before his eyes until only hollowness remained.

"It's fine," said Cillian, slowly getting to his feet. "I understand, honest. We better be getting along," he said and went to touch Ellen on the shoulder but his fingers stopped short as if Father Tom's words formed a physical barrier about this lovely woman. Jane jumped to the rescue and ushered the young couple out, cooing soothing words as she went, while Father Tom sat impotently at the table.

When Jane returned she gave him the most withering look and the silence of her lips lashed out with a fury that no words could match. In the hall, the telephone erupted into life and Jane seemed glad of the interruption. When she returned, her eyes had softened as if the gravity of her feeling had been eclipsed by an even greater doom.

"It's the Bishop, and he's hopping mad."

***

Hopping mad had been a pale description of the Bishop's mood. Mr O'Brien had been burning his ear off about a house of disrepute masquerading as a house of God and had even threatened to launch an audit into the accounts of the diocese. Once the Bishop's fury had burned itself out, Tom explained as best he could what had actually taken place and said he had just spoken with the young couple in question.

It wasn't good enough. Something had to be done about Mr O'Brien before he unleashed the full power of the Internal Revenue on them all. The Bishop told Tom he was to do a strongly worded sermon the following Sunday on the importance of chastity and morality in modern society. Tom tried to reason with him, but the Bishops mind was set.

Night after night Father Tom worked into the early hours trying to pen something that would satisfy the Bishop and Mr O'Brien, while at the same time soothing his own conscience. In the end he came up with a relatively mild rendering of the churches moralistic teachings.

When Sunday arrived, Father Tom walked the short distance to the church with a heavy heart. He sat robed in the sacristy for such a long time that the same ginger haired boy who had giggled so much the week before, tugged on his sleeve and said in a worried voice, "They're waiting, Father."

Father Tom stood and made his way to the alter. He looked over his gathered friends and saw Cillian and Ellen half way back the church, seated side by side but with their hands held demurely in their laps. They smiled warmly at him but that golden glow which had enveloped them, and all around them, was sadly missing. On the other hand, Michael O'Brien perched himself in the very front row, with a smug grin plastered over his face. Father Tom blessed all that had gathered in the name of the Lord and felt alone for the first time in his father's house.

Eventually he neared the gosple and asked people to stand.

"Peace be with you," he said and raised his arms in the normal manner.

"And also with you," everyone answered in unison.

"Let us offer each other the sign of peace." As he watched people turn to each other and shake hands along the rows, he felt like Judas. He saw Michael O'Brien pompously squeeze every hand within reach.  

The Gospel seemed to be finished in a flash and it was time for his sermon. He drew out the two pages filled with his scrawl and read the first words, What is love? Father Tom could not rip his eyes from those words and he felt his hands grip the sides of the podium with such force he felt his nails dig into the timber. After a long time he looked up at a sea of confused faces.

"I have a confession," he said, and murmur ran through the room. 

"I stand up here every week and tell you how to best live your lives. I tell you to forgive those who do wrong, when I don't always do it myself. I tell you to be charitable and to be kind to your fellow man. I tell you to honor the Lord in your actions and live in the light of his love. I am a fraud!"

A gasp went up from the crowd and people began to whisper as Father Tom walked from behind the podium taking with him his sermon. Father Tom held it up and shook it, "This is my what I came to tell you today and it starts with the words, "What is love?" but its all a lie. It's not a sermon which was written with love in my heart, it was one which was written with sorrow, pain and fear at its core." 

Father Tom gripped the sheets and ripped them to shreds and when they were the size of confetti he threw them high in the air where the pieces rained down on the front few pews and the odious Mr O'Brien. By now everyone in the church thought Father Tom must be having a breakdown or something but he had never been surer he was doing the right thing and that the man above would be smiling.

Father Tom climbed down from the alter and stood in the middle aisle. "What is love?" he asked, and gazed around at the stunned people. "Love is doing the right thing even when its not popular, love is standing up to bullies and defending the weak. Love is when you hold others in your heart so tightly that you make the worst days better by just being together." Step by step he moved further down the church until he was speaking to a circle of faces trained on him from every side. He had stopped in front of Cillian and Ellen, who were as stunned and shocked as anyone in the room.

Father Tom continued in a softer tone, a tone that spoke directly to them while addressing the room in its entirety. "Love is never letting go of that hand, no matter what anyone says." Then he smiled. It was the smile that broke the spell and Cillian took Ellen's hand in his and kissed her delicate fingers. Big fat tears rushed down her cheeks and her chest fluttered as she did her best to keep her happiness inside but she clung to her man as if she had just been plucked from a deserted island. Tom turned and strode to the front of the church and mounted the steps to the alter.

"There is so much pain and sorrow and loneliness in the world, this is the one place where we come to feel loved. Loved by our Lord and loved by our neighbors. Reach out, make a difference in someones life today, don't let the tiny minded people stop you showing affection." The room was completely silent when Father Tom raised his hands and said, "Please stand."

As one, the room rose.

"Let us offer each other the sign of peace."

People looked around at each other, not sure what to do, all except for Cillian and Ellen who knew exactly what to do. They wrapped their arms around each other and hugged as if there was nobody watching. The silence was broken by a single person clapping manically at the back of the church. There, standing in the doorway as proud as punch was Jane, applauding as if  her life depended on it. One by one others joined her until the noise was deafening, but that was not the end of things. Wrapped up in the emotion people began to follow the young lovers example until the whole room was a laughing clapping hugging frenzy.

From the corner of his eye, Father Tom spied the boiling face of Mr O'Brien, that was until he was nearly knocked on his backside by the flying form of Mrs O'Brien. As he stood there with his wife hugging his neck and laughing uproariously, his daughters trying to encircled them both with their ample arms, the true miracle of the day happened, he smiled and hugged them back.




If you enjoyed this story, you can find more of Father Tom's adventures in one volume.

https://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2

What remains in the dark of the night

Life is fleeting. It runs through our fingers like fine dry sand. The harder we grip, the more tiny grains float away on the endless winds of time.

The sad reality of our existence is that nothing is permanent. In the beginning, the well of youth seems vast, too vast to ever exhaust. Tentatively we lower the pail of our innocence into those black waters and take a sip of adventure.

As the years' pass, we dip our bucket quicker and faster, sloshing that vital elixir carelessly in our haste for gratification. We draw more and more from the well until one fateful day we see a glimmer of stone shimmering below the surface. Some suffer a moment of dread, some refuse the truth of their eyes, some bow their head in resignation. There is an end after all. Now, we hesitate with our hand on that frayed rope, knowing there are so few fills left. In that moment we know what we have lost.

Parents vanish from our lives, siblings are mislaid among harsh words and caustic looks. Treasured belongings tarnish and rust, lovers grow weary, skin creases and folds, while lushes locks turn grey and adorn morning pillows. The only thing which remains constant is our honour. In the cold dark of night, when we see only a hand full of drops in our bucket, the deeds of our past come to stoke the fire in our soul.

Will we be comforted by a lifetime of love? Will we feel reassured by the way we treated our fellow wanderers on this path of life or will we be haunted by envy, gluttony and greed? Will abandoned friends, jilted lovers and resentful family be the people that litter our memory?

Who knows, perhaps a little of both.

Life is fleeting, so while there's water in your pail, drink carefully, and in the dead of night may your honour keep you forever warm.

The Embrace

The early morning sun breaks through a chink in the curtains and lies heavily on my eyes. The urge to hide is unbearably strong. In here, I’m warm and safe from the trials of the world. Nothing is lurking among the crinkles of my duvet to bring me sadness, or pain, or disappointment. Is it any wonder we run here when we are sick, when we’re in need of blessed rest, allowing our bodies repair the wounds of flesh and soul.  I feel the embrace of goose feathers and surrender myself for a moment.

In the end, I crack my eyes and languidly push away the covers. I draw the curtains aside and let the daylight flood my room. Out there, the world is waiting for me and I feel a surge of mixed emotions.   

Beyond this glass lies the unknown. Countless opportunities for anger, sadness, strife and trouble. Oh yes, there have been fleeting moments of bliss, moments of unbridled joy, but what is left when they pass?  A gaping hole is what. One which seems to linger endlessly.  Joy is a magnificent serpent, a wonder until you feel the prick of its fangs. Why would you try and stroke that particular viper if you’ve been bitten already?  

The answer is life.

Life is our most precious possession, precisely because nobody can say how long it will last or what it might bring. Yes it’s tempting to take the safest road, the one that assures no upset is coming our way. But that is an empty road to travel.

By contrast there are paths which reach for the sky. Tracks which tend to be narrow and filled with pot holes. Those routes take work and bravery to attempt. To climb a mountain you must endure the occasional stone in your boot, or scraped knees a plenty, but the feeling of reaching the summit is heaven.

Sadly we can’t stay perched upon that point forever. Eventually we must begin the climb back down.

So, as I look on a breaking day, a precious few hours of life, I refuse to morn for summits past. I straighten my back and embrace the journey ahead. By the time the sun sets on this day I may have found a new mountain to challenge or even be gazing fondly at a well-remembered view. I refuse to fear the unknown, I will not be beaten by self-pity or angst. No turned ankle or winter squall will stop me, for the journey is the true gift, not the destination.

Today is all there may be.  Tomorrow is never guaranteed.  

The wrong side of the tracks

When I was about thirteen I started secondary school. Every lunchtime we'd spill out onto the streets of town like a herd of wild animals, roaming in packs, or lounging on walls to display our coolness to the world. The town happened to sit on a rarely used train-line which mainly carried slow-moving freight cars. Although it was completely off limits, some of us would climb over the fence and walk the tracks to the far side of town as a shortcut. To my teenage mind, I was thumbing my nose at the establishment, walking on the wild side, a fugitive from justice.

Although I'd never let on to my friends, there was one particular part of crossing the tracks that always made me sick to my stomach. The bridge. The ground dropped away until there was nothing between the sleepers but fresh air. A hundred feet below a river churned, fast running, but not particularly deep. Every time I placed a foot on the narrow maintenance walkway the same feeling of dread fell over me. What would happen if the train came?

As casually as I could, I'd listen for the rumble of a thousand horsepower engine bearing down on us. I'd rest my foot on the cold metal of the track and feel for vibrations. All the way across the bridge I'd imagine what I might do should tonnes of crushing locomotive trap us with no place to run. Would I jump into the water below, risking broken legs, back, or even drowning? Would I have enough room to lie on the walkway and let the train pass over my prone body. Every step of the crossing I'd replay the scenarios in my mind, imagining the water rushing up at me and the shuddering impact when I hit that churning surface, or the feeling of the undercarriage screaming inches from my nose, tugging at my jumber until some low-hanging piece of metal sliced me open from head to toe, spilling my steaming guts all over the bridge.

Those images were bad enough to have rattling around in my brain as we crossed, but I also had to contend with Barry. Sometimes your friends can be your biggest nightmare. Barry was a butty lad with a small brain and a big mouth, who was never happy unless he was showing us up, or slagging us off. Every time we crossed the bridge Barry would climb on top of the ten foot high metal balustrade and walk the narrow ledge the whole way across. If that was not exciting enough for him he would hop from sleeper to sleeper, with the yawning drop between each not bothering him at all.

One day, myself, Barry and a few others were starting to cross the bridge when all my fears came true. Around the bend ahead, a wall of fume belching death came thundering toward us. Barry was hopping as normal from sleeper to sleeper when we saw it. We turned and ran away from the train, back toward the end of the bridge.

"Come on Barry!" I shouted over my shoulder but noticed he was actually hopping toward the train, not away.

"BARRY!"

"I can make it!," he said and continued to race the train to the far end of the bridge. The driver must have seen us at that moment because the horn blared, once, twice, three times and then the scream of metal on metal breaks joined the din. By this time we were all off the bridge except Barry who was still a dozen sleepers from safety. The train driver was trying to stop but his efforts were having no affect at all, he was going too fast and the engine was far too heavy. 

Barry had stopped leaping and was now trying to run across the sleepers. His head was swinging wildly from side to side looking for a way to escape, his terror blatant as he relised these moments may be his last. That was the moment his foot skidded from under him on the greasy timber. He fell back ward and one leg vanished into the void. He managed to wrap an arm around the thick timber beam and stop his fall. His eyes were huge as the first train wheel hit the bridge, the howl of breaks, horn, and metal wheels, mingled with Barry's blood curdling scream until it was impossible to say where one started and the others finished. The train divers panicked face loomed huge and white in the glass. 

There was nothing anyone could do. I got one last look at Barry as the train rushed over him. I don't know if I was yelling or not, I cant remember. It seemed to take forever for the spark spitting wheels to pass by us. When the last carriage cleared the bridge: blood, gore, and mangled body parts should have greeted our eyes, but by a miracle two thin arms were still wrapped around the moss covered sleeper with Barry's tear streaked face hovering inches above it.  We all ran over and dragged Barry onto the bridge as quick as we could before escaping the scene of our crime.

Barry didn't say a word for the rest of lunch time and was particularly quite during the afternoon classes, but by home time his natural boastfulness had overcome his fear. He ended the day standing at the bus stop bragging about taking on the train and winning. But between you and me, he never crossed the bridge again.

Pass the Parcel

You know when you arrive home and find that package you ordered from Amazon waiting, did you ever stop to consider the journey it has taken, or the people it encountered on the way. Yes, it might be a dull brown box but when you think about it, that innocent little box has a secret life you know nothing about. You may have been the spark that gave birth to its journey, and you will be the one to rip it asunder in its final moments, but what about the middle?

I got to thinking about this because of a story my mother told me the other day, and I thought it might strike a cord with some of you.

Recently, my Mom has been getting a lot of packages delivered to the house, some ordered by my Dad for one job or another, but most of them she ends up minding for neighbours who are out working.

The man who delivers the parcels is quite elderly, and in a past life was one of the post men for the area, an old school delivery man you might say. The man has become a regular sight standing on our doorstep exchanging a few words with my Mom over assorted packages. Anyway, Dad had been having trouble with condensation building up in their car and sourced some Silica to fix the issue. With one click the order rolled into life in a factory thousands of miles away, and the hidden journey of this brown package began. 

It took a couple of weeks for the package to arrive and by the time it did, my Mother had forgotten all about it. Mid-morning one Tuesday the doorbell chimed. My Mom went to open the door, wiping flour from her dough speckled hands with a tea-towel.

"Morning, Missus. Package for you," said the delivery man, getting her to sign for the padded envelope in his hand. As she printed out her name, the man turned the package over and over in his hands, looking at it quizzically. When he handed it over he looked at her earnestly and asked, "What’s in it anyway?"

Now, my Mom is a trusting sort of woman and would read nothing into such a question, where I might be shocked at the man's nosiness. She took the package in her hand, looking at my Dad's name the label and said, "Lord, I've no idea, why?"

"It's just that me and the lads at the depot were all trying to figure out what's inside, and it’s got us stumped. Seems to be squishy but then there are loads of little balls," said the delivery man, holding out his hand to give the package a squeeze in demonstration.

As my Mom, and the delivery man stood kneading and fondling the innocent little package, realization stuck.

"Ah! It’s the stuff for the condensation."

"The what?"

"The condensation in the car, look," said my Mom, pointing at the fogged up windows on the car in the driveway.

"You're joking?"

"Nope, found it on the internet. Apparently it will soak up all the moisture on the air and get it out of the car."

"Jesus, what will they think of next," said the old man scratching his head. He began walking away when he stopped and turned. "Why don't yea bring the car back to the garage and get them to fix it?"

"Ah, its a lot of bother for a little mist. We will give this stuff a go first."

The man waved and walked away down the drive, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his clipboard wedged under his arm, lazily taking in the fine spring day God had blessed them with. My Mom closed the door and thought nothing more about the whole thing. When she told my Dad, he could not figure out which was stranger, the fact the guys in the transport depo were feeling everyone's parcels to guess what people were ordering, or that the old guy was so perplexed by the package he actually asked what was in it. 

A few weeks after, the same man ended up at our house with a neighbours package.  As my Mom signed for it the man demanded, "Did the balls work?"

Most middle aged Irish women are not in the habit of discussing balls, working or not, with near strangers on the doorstep. The confused look on her face must have betrayed her shock as the man clarified himself saying, "For the car, did the balls work?"

"Oh the condensation? Yes actually, they did," said my more than relieved Mom.

"Well I never, mist drinking balls, what next?" he said with a jaunty salute, and strutted back to his van full of yet to be guessed mysteries. 


So the next time your delivery man gives you a look when getting you to sign for a package, give it a good squeeze, because sure as Billyo, he did.

If you enjoyed this why not try out some more tales from the Irish Countryside.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Misadventures-Father-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2

Birth

I'm being crushed! It feels like a huge hand trying to squeeze the life out of me, and succeeding. Everything is dark, I can hear the blood racing through my ears as my heart thunders and battles. I knew this day was coming, I've always know, but can't explain how I knew, instinct I guess, but now the moment is here, I'm terrified.

I'm being pushed by an unstoppable force, or is it being pulled. I can't tell, all I know is I want it to stop right now. None of this is good, none of this is right.

JUST STOP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!

In the darkness I feel sick, the pounding of my heart is a blur, blending with the muffled noise all around. I may be blind, but I can hear just fine. I feel a jolt and something changes, I can feel hands on me everywhere. They are like spiders running over my naked skin, probing, pulling, pushing, prodding.   Another jolt, and the huge squeezing hand slips from me. I can feel the cold on my skin, attacking me like a thousand shards of ice. I feel slick, water running off of me in all directions, slick and cold. Another jolt, and this one stings like a mother-fucker. I let out a shout but it sounds more like a squeal to my tortured ears, and then blessedly the jolts stop.

I'm so tired, bone tired,the kind there is no escaping from. I can feel it washing over me now, there is no fight left in me and I surrender to the darkness, drifting away from it all.

When I open my eyes, the world is blurry and bright. Shapes move in, shapes move out, I am sore all over. I try to move and feel a hand rest on my head. In the distance I hear her voice and inside my addled mind I try and put the words together.

"Mr Riley. Heart attack. Everything is going to be alright."

The light in my eyes grows brighter as the epiphany takes hold. I've been given a second chance, a re-birth, and this time I'm going to make every second count.

Roller-coaster

"You can do it," I think to myself as she took my elbow in her delicate arm and snuggled into me. We cross the crowded fairground, matching each other stride for stride, heartbeat for heartbeat.

I can't believe she's here with me! Feck that, I can't believe she even knew my name. I might have been staring at her, I'm not sure, but when she gave a little wave and dropped down from the bench, I peeked over my shoulder to see who she was really looking at. When she stopped in front of me and said my name, I damn near fainted. She smiled, I blushed, she talked, I stuttered, she wanted to go on the roller-coaster, my brain screamed no, but 'Sure,' come out.

I smile, trying hide the terror lurking in the depths of my gut, and then she caught a glimpse of the curving serpentine spine, arching high into the sky, and let loose a strangled sound of near-sexual joy.

"I love roller-coasters," she purrs into my ear, her warm breath kissing my skin.

"Me too," I lie, and force my smile a little wider.

Her grip on my arm tightens,  pulling it against the soft swell of her breast. I felt like making my own strangled sounds of bridled passion, but the band of fear around my chest keeps them at bay. With each step we take, the spiders web of timber struts grow in depth, breath, and height, until we stand in the shadow of my nightmarish nemesis, which looms above me like the sword of Damocles.  

From a covered section, a small train of carriages appears, clanking inch by inch up the near vertical incline, eventually reaching the highest point of the ride. Precariously balanced on the back of the serpent, the flimsy wagons stand proud, their excited passengers silent while the whole contraption pauses before plummeting headlong down the far side. A chorus of happy shrieks rents the air, steel wheels scream tortuously against the metal track, the rise and fall of the sound underlying each swoop loop and dive the captive merrymakers take. I followed their twisting progress as they rocketed around the flimsy construction, as the timbers take the weight of the passing conveyance, they groan, adding to the hellish noise. Once, twice, three times they go round, before the carriages eventually slow and stop. I look down and see the death grip I have on the barrier, my knuckles locked closed and white.

"Come on! It's our go now," she giggles, dragging me toward the ticket booth. She looks at me expectantly as I searched through my pockets for the double fair, and shove it across the silver ticket dispenser. Click, clack, click, clack, sings the machine before vomiting out two harmless pink stubs. I take them in shaking fingers, and passes them to a bored looking guy lounging on the gate. He made no effort to hide the leer in his eyes as he raked every crevice of my darlings body. I try not to notice the flick she gives her hair, or the extra bounce of her boobs as we walk toward the head of the line.

"I'm so excited," she squeals, while the same sleazebag ratchets the safety rail into position, his fist happening to fall squarely in her lap, her eyes falling squarely into his. After three good thrusts, he finally takes his filthy hand from the depths of her crotch and moves on to the next car. For a few moments, my rage makes me forget where I'm sitting, and the ordeal which lays ahead. When the car jolts forward, I'm soon reminded.

Soon, the nose of the car is pointing directly into the sky, like a rocket taking off in super slow motion, but I'm one hundred percent preoccupied with the five dainty digits clamped on the top of my thigh, a mere fraction from where I wished they were clamped. It wasn't until the sky vanished, and the ground rushed straight at me did my mind stray from that spot on my body. My hands shot forward and grabbed the rail on the front of the car and tried to become one with the steel. My eyes rattled in my head, my guts slid around inside my body, my feet went rigid with fear. Soon the wind drew a tear from my eye, mingling with the tears of terror that were flowing freely across my cheeks. That was when I saw it.

From the corner of my rattling streaming eye, I saw something fall away from under the railing on the far side of the roller-coaster. I whipped my head to the side but I lost sight of that point on the track, all I knew is that we were going in that direction. Frantically I searched the track ahead, trying to find what I had seen. When the car gave a little bounce I knew the shit had hit the fan. Something was wrong, something had broken, nothing was right. I heard a crack, and a splinter of timber just beneath the delighted screams of all those around me. I turned and tried to look back but all I could see was a field of waving arms and the voice inside my head bellowed "You're going to die!" 

That was when the real screaming started, my screaming. As we flashed through the loading tunnel, I waved frantically at the operator, who was leaning against the wall, leering at some new teenage girl that had caught his eye. I could feel the tissue of my voice box tear as I screamed "WERE ALL GOING TO DIE!" over and over again. I tried to jump out of the car, and felt her hands drag on mine with all her strength. As we came out of the second last loop, I saw it. Up ahead on the track was a dark stretch of nothing where shining steel should be.

"WE'RE FUCKED!" I managed to bellow as the darkness vanished under the front carriage. I ducked my head as low as I could, as if trying to kiss my own arse goodbye.

A fraction of a second passed, then another, then a full one, while the roller-coaster continued to roll and coast. The people around me were wide eyed and all looking in my direction. The train jolted, and began to slow. I glanced to my side and the most beautiful face in the world looked at me slack jawed.

As soon as the ride came to a stop, the safety bar sprang forward and I jumped from the car. I turned to help her out but she held her hands up in a way that yelled  'Don't touch me'.

I stood back as she got out of the car, and was shocked by the mask of revulsion she wore. Sure I had been a bit hysterical, but I had good reason after all. That was when I noticed her eyes were not looking at my face. As I looked down, I felt the moist denim shift on the skin of my leg, and knew what I was about to see. As she flounced away in a flurry of blond hair and embarrassment, the gathered crowd howled with laughter and pointed at my piss socked jeans.

I wish there was a better moral to this story than always speak your mind, never drink three cans of soda before taking your life in your hands and stay away from roller-coasters, they are the work of the devil.

Mary Rose

I opened the side gate and her voice boomed from the kitchen.

“Tom, have you finished cleaning out the shed?”

“Yes, Mom,” I call back. How does she do that? It's like some superpower that mothers get; knowing when one of their kids is making a break for freedom.

“Did you clean the bait out of the lobster pots?”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, getting as much impatience and frustration into my fifteen-year old voice as I could.

“Where are you going?”

“Jesus, Mom. A guard wouldn't ask me that,” I yelled back over my shoulder, rolling my eyes to heaven while doing so.

“Just as well I'm your mother then,” came the reply, not one bit phased in the face of pubescent truculence.

“I’m just taking Mary Rose out for a while.”

“Bring me back a couple of mackerel, will yea?”

“Right so, see yea later,” I said, hoisting my can of petrol and eventually making it all the way out the gate.  Anyone listening might wonder why a teenage boy would be so casual about taking someone out, and then being asked to bring back fish in response. The conversation makes a lot more sense if you know that Mary Rose is the name of my sixteen-foot skiff, and being the son of a fisherman, I'd spent nearly as much of my life on the water, as I had on land.

I walked down the road toward the pier, the petrol can swinging in my right hand, my fishing bag slung over my shoulder. In the winter, this road would be all but deserted, not today. In summer, the population of our little village tripled or more. City-folk, spending their holidays soaking up the semi-warm Irish sun. Ice-cream vans appeared and set up in the car park, the smell of vinegar laden chips mingled in the air with seaweed and drying fish. Gulls wheeled in the sky, while clouds raced across it, driven onward by the constant Atlantic breeze.

Today was far from warm, but it didn't stop me stripping off my top as I got close to the swimming platform. There were always girls hanging out there, swimming and showing off. You wouldn't find me down there, with the kids, but there was no harm in showing them what they were missing. When I was out of sight of the diving platform, I put my t-shirt back on because the breeze was cutting.

When I reached the harbour, Mary Rose was waiting on her trailer, exactly where I’d left her. I got the keys from my bag and unlocked the padlock. The other key opened a small locker built into the bow of the boat. In there I stored the life jackets, rope, baler and small anchor. The outboard motor and fishing rods were kept in the harbour master’s office.

I looked around and wondered where James was, he should have been here by now. I went to Mr Cooney's office and got the motor and rods. As I was passing the window when there was a knock. Mr Cooney poked his head out and said, "Stay inside the bay, Tom, there’s a swell running."

"I will, Mr Cooney," I said with a smile.

As I lumbered toward the boat James came running down the pier.

"You're late," I said, trying to make the heavy engine look light in my hand.

"Sorry Tom, the mother kept finding one more job for me to do," he said, slowing from a run to a walk when he was a few feet away.

"You're here now, let’s get moving before the tide turns," I said, using the tone my father uses with his crew. James smiled and his freckles danced across his nose. How could you stay mad at someone like him? Soon, we had Mary Rose ready for the water and we walked the trailer down the ramp until the light timber boat floated free. I drew the Mary Rose alongside the jetty, while James hauled the empty trailer back up the ramp leaving it in our parking place. The sun broke through the clouds and it got hot in the shade of the harbour wall. I stripped off my t-shirt for real, a sheen of sweat had formed on my rock hard and hairless body. While Jimmy wasn't looking, I took a moment to admire the ripple of muscle under my skin. I knew I looked ripped; I could see it in the eyes of the girls each time I passed.

James ran down the ramp with the last of the gear and we were finally ready to leave. I pumped petrol into the motor and ripped the starter cord. It fired on the second pull, idling nicely. I flipped the leaver forward and twisted the throttle a half a turn. As we steered a course out of the harbour, Mr Cooney was standing on the pier, his beard blowing in the breeze and he shouted, "Stay in the bay, boys!" We waved as one and continued on our way.

Jimmy jumped up on the bow, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the boat, his bare toes skimming the water. He was shirtless now and had his jeans were rolled up to his knees. We rounded the harbour mouth and came within view of the swimming platform. I saw James lie back a little further and flatten his tummy. I have to admit I sucked in mine as well. We idled passed the girls lying on the platform but never looked in their direction.

Once we were out on the bay the breeze whipped our exposed skin with no respect for our perfect physiques. It wasn’t long before we were bundled up in t-shirts and jumpers. James untangled the mackerel feathers and got the rods ready. I steered the boat into the channel and made for the middle of the bay. In twenty minutes, we had a bag full of mackerel. They were coming up two and three at a time. Pulling the fish off the hooks was soon was more trouble than it was fun. Mr Cooney was right, there was a swell running, but it was a big-old soft one. The rolling waves were well spaced. They were big, but nothing we couldn't handle. When James suggested going to Sullivan's Hole and trying for a few congers, I took a second look at the big soppy waves.

Sullivan's Hole was a famous fishing spot out on the bluff, where the bed of the ocean plunged deep and was surrounded by overhanging cliffs. It was a place where monster fish might still be found.

"Come on so," I said, pulling the anchor aboard.

We chugged up the bay, giving the entrance to the harbour a wide berth in case Mr Cooney was watching and soon were outside the shelter of the headland. Here, the big soft waves were big soft rollers, but still well within the capabilities of myself and the Mary Rose. I knew my boat inside out, I knew what she could do and what she couldn't. Still, I was glad to reach the shelter of the cliffs. Here there was nothing to anchor too, so I had to keep the engine running to keep us off the limestone buttress.

James dropped a line into the depths and was soon rewarded with a mighty battle from a six-foot-long eel. Then we swapped places, me trying my luck with the rod, while James kept us mostly in the same place. When the engine died, we had five eels lying the scuppers of the boat. James pulled and pulled on the ripcord but the engine refused to fire.

"Check the petrol," I said, dropping the rod and moving back along the boat. I pulled the stubby red canister toward me and felt plenty of liquid slosh around inside. I pumped the rubber ball on the hose, forcing petrol along the line. "Try it again," I said and James tugged on the cord five or six times. When nothing happened, he turned to me, his face stiff with worry.

"Let me try," I said, moving to the rear of the boat. I felt panic pierce my brain, and in my rush to pass James we nearly capsized.

"You get on the oars and pull us away from the rocks," I said, as I checked the connections on the motor, trying again and again to start the thing. I felt the boat rear up as a big wave passed beneath us and I looked over my shoulder. The wave wasn't actually any bigger than the others, we were getting closer to the cliff. The crests were being forced up by the rising sheet of rock below the water.

"Jesus Christ!" I said, jumping to James side and taking one of the oars in my hands. James was a lather of sweat and as white as a ghost.

"Come on, pull. PULL!" I screamed, and put every muscle I had to use. Inch by inch we moved away from the looming rocks. After thirty minutes frantic rowing, we were back where we had been when the engine died. Every part of my body screamed for a rest, that was when I noticed the oar James was holding was stained dark. I grabbed his hand and turned it over, the skin was ripped by the friction of the timber oars, blood oozed from his wounds.

"You take a rest," I said, taking both oars. James's shoulders slumped and he gulped in deep breaths of air, resting his ruined hands in his lap, the blood pooling in his cupped palm's. I pulled for all I was worth, but the swell and tide was winning the battle. I felt the power in my arms begin to go, the muscles of my shoulders shuddered, each stroke gaining us less and less ground. That was when James laid his broken hands beside mine and joined the fight once more.

No matter how much we tried, the wall of jagged rock came closer. Soon the waves were pitching the boat at nearly forty-five degrees before they released their grip on my tiny beauty. It was only a matter of time before one of the waves would carry the Mary Rose all the way in, and smashed us violently against the cliff.

"We're not going to make it," I said to James, who didn't need to be told the reality of the situation. "Our only hope is to get the timing right and try and get onto the cliff. We’ll be able to climb up to the top."

James nodded, but he looked frightened beyond words. "Put on the life jacket," I said, nodding to the thin gas operated unit which lay at James's feet. He slipped one over his head, then I got mine on. We kept pulling on the oars as I scanned the horizon for a smaller set of waves. In the end, the decision was taken out of our hands. A large wave rolled through which we just about managed to crest, the boat was sucked after the charging wave as it crashed to its death. The Mary Rose landed side-on against the cliff, timber cracked and water jetted in through the split planks. I reached out and grabbed the slippery stone with both hands, trying to hold the boat still and shouted, "Now, James!"

I felt the boat being sucked out from under our feet. My grip nearly went as the Mary Rose pulled away. James clung to the cliff beside me and we tried to drag ourselves up the barnacle crusted rock. The next wave reared up, exploding against the base of the cliff, engulfing me and James in freezing salt water. I forced my fingers to grip the stone like a vice. As the water ran off me, I felt the life jacket around my neck expand. I coughed out salt water and searched the rock face for James but he was gone. I looked down and saw him in the water at the base of the cliff. He was trying to grip the rock but his water saturated clothes were dragging him back into the ocean. His life jacket had not inflated. The gas canister must have been faulty.  The next wave picked that moment to hit, I managed to hold on, but James took the full impact and was driven hard against the rock. His head fell backwards, blood ran from his nose as he tried to climb clear of the water.

I scurried back down the cliff face, which was much harder than climbing up. I got low enough and grabbed the back of his jumper and hauled him up as best I could. From the corner of my eye I spotted the black wall of water a fraction before it broke over us. I just had enough time to let go of James's jumper and ram my fingers into a fisher. The water sucked my feet from the rock but my hand managed to hold on, the rough edges of the crevice anchoring me to the slippery surface. When the foam flecked water ran out of my eyes, James was gone. I searched the water under my feet, feeling tears mix with the stinging salt water in my eyes.

"James!"

Just beneath my feet, his head broke the surface. He coughed out pink-stained water, and took a few feeble strokes toward me. He reached up his ruined hand and searched my face with terrified eyes.

"Help me, Tom!" he cried. I leaned out and reached for him. Our fingers brushed as I saw another wave approach. It was going to wash us both from the cliff, I was sure of it. I felt the brush of James's fingers once more, then they were gone. This time, after the wave hit and the water ran out of my eyes, I was alone.

"JAMES! JAMES!"

I searched the ocean for him but it was empty. After another wave had died against the coast, and me. James had still not appeared. When I was horse from screaming, I began the climb to safety.

It took two days for the divers to find his body. The waves had pounded him against the rock and left him all but unrecognisable. I told everyone I couldn't remember those moments on the cliff face. But I could. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him looking at me, terrified, blood dripping from the fingers that reached out for my help. I woke every night, sweating, knowing I had done nothing but save my own useless skin.

As I watched his coffin sink into the earth, I knew I would be haunted for the rest of my life.