Chapter One
Oh yes, they were Irish. Not that Ireland would lay claim to them. They were born on the salty soil of New Brunswick. But even after their thick brogues faded, their sayings lasted a few more generations. Some were whispered into the darkness as a prayer, while others were spoken sharply, like a curse. These words held them together like the buttons on their clothes, keeping what was Irish, Irish.
It wasn’t the sayings or brogues that bothered Mrs. O’Brien. The old ways infused and soothed her soul. It was her husband’s constant longing for something more…something he felt was missing and far away. “Why can’t a man love what is in front of him, instead of pining for what will never be?” she asked the cook after breakfast. “The whole thing is beyond me.”
The cook shrugged and wiped her hands on her apron. “No disrespect Ma’am, but me ma says there must’ve been a fever on the boat when your people came over.”
“I don’t doubt that, Mae. So many died.”
“Oh, not that kind of fever Ma’am. She meant one that addles the brain.” The cook lowered her voice. “And those of your children too.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Aye, that may well be, but there’s no use getting cross with me for it. T’was me ma who said it.” Mrs. O’Brien ignored the cook, took her cup of tea and stepped out onto the porch. Her house faced east. All the houses in Tnúth did, the front of one looking onto the back of another. She leaned her
ample waist against the railing, causing it to creak, and smiled as her grass-green eyes took in all that surrounded her. She was born to be part of this…the morning, the start of something new. She felt as though wrinkles, creases and time had not touched her, the grey in her hair had never set in, and her feet still roamed bare. Her delicate features lightened, and she felt eternal.
Mrs. O’Brien had watched her village spring into a city before most had even known it was a town. At times the changes overwhelmed her. She looked beyond the rooftops at a sight she never tired of. Everything was built on a craggy slope, edging as close to the water as land would allow. There was hardly a level place for a body to stand, save one. The Flats. They were as smooth as the top of a table and held all that was dear: churches, graveyards, schools and, of course, pubs.
Looking to the sky, she tried to forecast the day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything was the way it should be. With her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other she greeted the morning, convinced that all would go well.
Across town, atop a hovel of a home, Patrick Fitzpatrick was making a similar greeting. There was no front porch to his quarters so he climbed onto the roof. Paddy closed his eyes and felt the sun rise. For a moment, it seemed as if he was rising with it. Colours melted into his skin and sang to his soul. He inhaled deeply. “I am free,” he whispered.
The sound of a slamming door in the street below interrupted the peace. Instinctively Paddy dropped. He lay flat against the roof and waited, out of sight. His mother was barely out of the house when she began screeching. “Paddy! Paddy! Where you be hiding yourself?” There was no answer. “Have you seen me boy?” she barked at the woman who lived across the way.
Maggy fleetingly looked up at the roof, then shook her head no.
“Probably after some skirt, I tell you that much. Now that he thinks he’s a man about town, he wanders off all on his own. Not so much as a word.” Miss Fitzpatrick spat on the ground and looked her neighbour up and down. “Come sniffing around you soon enough, mark me words. No collar or leash will hold him now.”
Grunting, Miss Fitzpatrick turned from her neighbour and paused. She grabbed the doorframe with one hand and faced east, towards Ireland, towards home. Her face calmed and her fist unclenched. It was as if a wave of serenity washed over her.
Facing east was a ritual for everyone who lived in Tnúth. To a man, they would step out their front doors, take hold of whatever was near, and let the ocean breeze salt their faces. Whether their day started at dawn or at noon, it mattered little. The salute was the same; it was what joined them.