Hope from the Ocean: (The Prequel to Fireflies )

by P. S. Bartlett

  “Soap. Ye wash with it,” Noreen said, taking the bar and running it across the bristles of the scrub brush and then slapping it into Patrick’s hands. He rubbed the soap between his hands, up and down over his face and across the top of his head and back again.

  “Ye have no nits, I hope?” Noreen asked quietly.

  “None that we know of, Ma‘am,” Patrick replied.

  “Good. Well, stand yerself up and let me scrub the rest of ye. After today, yer on yer own but I’ll make good ‘n sure ye done it right,” she declared and shook her index finger at them.

  Once what would become a weekly ritual of bathing was completed, they climbed from the murky water and she wrapped them each in a cloth blanket and handed them clean underthings and clothes to wear.

  “We don’t have much but we have all we need. These should do. Ye’ll wear these on the work days and on Sundays ye’ll get clean ones. We’ll work on new shoes as well–new to ye, that is.”

  Noreen turned and marched off toward the house, stopping briefly to snatch Rory from the ground and toss him squealing on her hip, reaching for Brianne.

  “Get dressed and I’ll put ye ta work.”

  Loch was standing behind them now with a shovel and pail, and he smiled deviously, turning his head to the stables.

  Chapter Two

  The weeks that followed were tolerable at best for Patrick but the morning of the first new day told of his place in their new home and it wasn’t changing any time soon. One undeniable fact was that he realized how deeply Dillon mourned. Sometime during that first night, he awoke to find his brother curled up next to him on his makeshift bed on the floor. Loch had neglected to mention the girls slept in one bed with Bran, while he and Kevan slept in the other. He lied. Rory was still too young and slept in his crib, roomed in with his parents. Loch and Kevan had plenty of room for Dillon and Patrick but positioned themselves so that they couldn’t manage to lay comfortably anywhere. Patrick couldn’t bring himself to fight for something that wasn’t his anyway. Eventually, Dillon found a spot with the girls but gave up that down pillow full of sweet dreams to be closer to his brother.

  It wasn’t that they were outcasts, but Loch wasn’t going to welcome them with open arms. Kevan spoke up on their behalf but was overruled. The other children obeyed Loch’s authority and one by one they all finally fell asleep. Brianne whispered to Patrick as he made up his bed on the floor that he was welcome to sleep at the foot of their bed but he shook his head and pulled the small blanket his aunt had given him up over his shoulders and drew his legs up tight underneath it. Without a word, Brianne slipped her pillow beneath Patrick’s head and kissed him goodnight. Sometime in the early morning hours, Patrick in turn lifted Dillon’s head and slipped the pillow carefully under it.

  * * *

  “What’s that smell?” Dillon shot up.

  “Shhh! Lie down,” Patrick whispered, pushing his head back into the pillow.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Don’t ye know what bacon smells like?” asked Loch.

  “He knows. He’s dreamin,” answered Patrick.

  “Why are ye on the floor, Dillon?” asked Aideen, hanging off the bed. Her long wavy red locks were tickling his face.

  “Stop that, ye silly girl!”

  Aideen laughed and rolled off of the bed on top of him.

  “Ouch! Are ye mad?” he shouted, rolling her off.

  “She is a little mad, me thinks,” whispered Brianne, “but she’s lots of fun!”

  Patrick stood up and pulled on his clothes, nudging Dillon to do the same.

  “Where ye goin’ so fast?” Aideen asked, still lying on the floor looking up at them.

  “Don’t we have chores to do?” Patrick asked.

  “We eat first. Then we do them. Can’t do much work on an empty stomach,” she replied, scrambling to her feet.

  Loch rolled over on his elbow and stared at them, shaking his head. Once Loch was up and getting dressed, they all did and one by one made their way to the kitchen.

  “There ye are.” Noreen greeted them.

  “Mornin’, Ma! Want me to feed Rory today?” asked Aideen.

  “By all means. The rest of ye have a seat. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  Dillon appeared to be falling for their aunt already. He was smiling and twice Patrick had to pat him on the thigh to stop him from swinging his legs. He always did that when he was happy or excited. Patrick envied his brother’s resilience but even he had yet to find one unpleasant quality in this plump, cheerful lady, except she’d been too heavy-handed on his spine with a scrub brush. He even bounced his own leg but Brianne discreetly calmed him with a pat of her own.

  “Did ye boys sleep well?”

  “Aye, Ma’am,” Patrick answered.

  “There wasn’t enough room. Patrick had ta sleep on the floor,” Dillon spoke.

  “The floor?” Aunt Noreen looked annoyed and immediately turned to Loch. Her chest was out again and her chins down.

  “Lochlan Flynn, I’m sure tonight neither of these boys will be sleepin’ on the floor.”

  “I think we just need to work it out, is all,” he replied, glaring at Dillon.

  Noreen flopped plates of fried bacon, vegetables and soda bread before them and threatened them to within an inch of their lives if they touched it before the eggs were done and grace was said. Dillon was overwhelmed by the aroma and his eyelids sat up under his copper brows. He reached for a spoon and had his hand swished away by Brianne, who knew the rules far better than he.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Dillon nodded and placed his hands back in his lap for grace.

  Noreen spoke the Lord’s Prayer and before she said amen, she asked for patience and blessings for their expanded family. No sooner had she uttered the word, they all picked up a spoon or fork and didn’t sit it down until their plates were cleared. Even Rory finished his eggs and bread.

  With a clap of her hands they were up and cleaning their dishes. Patrick felt a hand on his shoulder as he washed his plate and fork. Loch leaned into his ear and told him to meet him in the barn and to bring Dillon.

  “Okay children. Let’s get to work,” Noreen shouted over their chatter, picking up Rory and dropping him on her wide left hip.

  “Aideen? Ye’ve got the baby this mornin’, unless ye’d rather do the laundry.”

  “No Ma, give him here.”

  Rory screeched and tried to reach for Brianne but she dashed out of sight to begin gathering the laundry for her mother.

  “What do we do?” Dillon asked, running along behind his brother on their way to the barn.

  “I’m sure Loch has some dirty work waitin’ for us out here,” Patrick answered, stomping his way across the yard. He felt stronger and taller this morning after a full dinner and a breakfast that would stuff a horse.

  “About time ye two got here. Ye can start by cleanin’ out these stables,” Loch ordered as he handed them a bucket and shovel. His demeanor was condescending, bordering on cruel. His body jerked and moved in thrusts and deliberate motions, giving off a constant air of frustration and discontentment. His words were not remarkable but his delivery of them was bitter and harsh.

  Loch grabbed a bucket as well and headed out of the barn to fetch water to fill the troughs. He turned back to Patrick with a scowl, appearing as if he’d gotten a good whiff of horse manure. Patrick’s easy anger returned and he was powerless to control it.

  “Loch!”

  Loch stopped and looked back again, as if he were terribly inconvenienced.

  “What?”

  “What did we ever do to ye? We didn’t ask fer this, ye know. We didn’t want to be here anymore than ye want us here,” Patrick shouted. Dillon dropped his bucket and ran toward the outhouse.

  “Just get ta work. I don’t have time for this bickerin’ with ye,” Loch answered, turning away and back on his course.

  Patrick stood firm but shook like a wet dog. His rage and frustr
ation gave him the strength not to collapse into the dirt but he felt pins and needles in his eyes and then his nose. A thick tear pushed its way out and down his cheek and then another, until the shaking became a full on sob, forcing him over. He caught himself by the knees and pushed himself back up. The world fell silent until all he heard was his own breathing and the muffled sobs of his brother, coming from inside the outhouse.

  “Dillon,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he turned and ran to him, and pulled on the outhouse door. “Dillon, ye come out now! Ye get out here.”

  “No! I want ta go home. I hate this place! I don’t want to be an orphan.”

  “Well, ye are. Now come help me. I need ye, Dillon.” Patrick’s voice softened. He whispered through the cracks in the door and pressed his cheek against the rough dry wood until he felt the door press back.

  Without a word, Dillon stepped out and walked back to the barn. Patrick watched him for a moment and then followed. He wanted to apologize for upsetting him but he wasn’t sorry for confronting Loch. If Loch was going to put that boot in his arse, he had his chance but chose to walk away.

  Dillon labored with the full buckets, lugging them to the manure pile one by one and didn’t utter a word the rest of the morning. When they finished, he picked up a brush and gently began to stroke the horse they called Goblin, down over his neck. The horse pulled away but Dillon followed. Patrick watched from outside the stall. His brother looked so tiny and meek next to the big gray colt, yet he showed no signs of fear.

  “That’s it, boy. Isn’t that nice?” he asked Goblin.

  “Mind his back legs. Since when do ye know how ta do that?”

  “I seen people do it. It’s not hard, ye know. I’m fine. I can take care of meself.”

  He looked fine indeed. Whatever came over him before he stepped out of that outhouse had full hold of him now. He ran in there as frightened as a mouse and emerged an angry bear. Patrick understood completely that anger was a very simple and free emotion to come by and the easiest to manage. Anger gave him a clear view of the world, or so it seemed. It was obvious Dillon’s rage was being channeled into bravery as all fifty five or so pounds of him now commanded the obedience of a fifteen hundred pound animal. He even pulled over a stool and stood on it to reach the horse’s back and mane.

  Patrick marveled at the change in his brother’s mood and chose not to question it. Dillon was now completely involved in his new self-chosen chore and looked completely at ease.

  “Ye brushin’ Goblin all day? There’s two other horses in here, ye know.” It was as if Loch had materialized out of the air. Patrick wondered how long he had been standing there, watching them.

  “I’ll brush them all,” Dillon answered without taking his eyes from his work.

  “He likes ye,” Loch said.

  “How do ye know?”

  “Yer still alive.”

  Loch walked away but not before he took one last look at Dillon, standing on the stool with Goblin as still as a statue beneath his touch. Patrick followed Loch out of the barn, to inquire as to what his next round of duties would be. Loch heard him on his heels and stopped.

  “I don’t hate ye, alright?” Loch said before turning to face Patrick.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t hate ye. Now go get Frost and bring her ta me in that field. I cleared it yesterday for more potatoes.”

  “I don’t like horses.”

  “Then get yer brother ta do it and bring that wheelbarra’, too. I said I don’t hate ye but that doesn’t mean I like ye neither.”

  Loch marched off toward the field, glanced back at Patrick and shook his head.

  “This will be a long day,” Patrick thought. “They will all be long days.”

  By the time he returned to the barn, Dillon was brushing Frost. He stood on the stool and spoke softly to the animal. Patrick gazed in awe at his brother’s miraculous ability to put the horse at ease and nearly hypnotize it with his voice. He’d never laid a hand on a horse in all of his nine years.

  “I need that horse. Can ye help me?”

  “I’m almost done. What do ye need him for?”

  “Loch needs him to plow.”

  Dillon seemed to go mute. Patrick believed his brother’s anger was directed at him and he grew weak inside.

  “Help me with this it’s too heavy,” Dillon ordered and together they pushed the yolk over Frost’s head and Dillon climbed down from the stool. As if he’d done this all his life, he took the horse by the reins and headed to the field. Alone now with his thoughts, Patrick leaned against the wall inside the barn and sighed. The voice of his soul spoke to him, telling him he didn’t belong here and he never would. It was the same voice he heard while existing in Old Kilcullen. He was convinced he didn’t belong anywhere. A realization came over him that food and a roof over your head aren’t nearly as precious as belonging somewhere. He struggled to recall any memory where he felt cherished or even accepted by anyone but Dillon. He pressed his eyes closed and covered his face with his hands but found no such memory, only blackness. He felt a wedge forming between him and his brother already and that was a blackness he couldn’t bear.

  “What are ye doin’?” a small voice asked.

  Startled, Patrick ran to retrieve the wheelbarrow and rushed past Bran, nearly knocking him over.

  “I didn’t mean to scare ye. I’m sorry, Patrick,” Bran called after him.

  “What’s wrong with that boy?” Kevan asked.

  “I just spooked him, I guess. I think he was cryin’.”

  “Cryin’s for girls and babies. Get that box a nails and let’s go,” Kevan ordered, picking up a hammer.

  The remainder of the day and all that followed were the same. Wake up, eat and work. The only consolation of such a life was no matter what was going on inside your head, your eyes closed easily at night and your brain shut off quick. Loch and Kevan made space on the bed for Patrick and Dillon got his dreams, cuddled next Aideen, which proved everyone has to answer to somebody, even Loch.

  In a month long blink of an eye, Dillon settled down and fell in line, even gaining the attention of his uncle, who was enamored with his touch with a horse. When Uncle Dan returned from the race track in the evening, he would address Dillon and even engage in conversations with him. Dillon was gradually reclaiming his childhood. Within six weeks, his mourning had ended. Patrick accepted defeat, finding solace in the evenings either alone or entertaining Rory. He could get lost for a time in Rory’s giggles and sense of wonder at every little thing. In Rory’s innocence was a complete acceptance, which both comforted and validated Patrick. He still existed if only because Rory could see him. Rory didn’t care who Patrick was or where he came from, he just enjoyed being alive.

  Up until their uncle claimed them, Patrick’s and Dillon’s lives were marred with poverty and death but Patrick came to understand the younger you are when you face tragedy, the easier it is to overcome. He had yet to let go of their father’s hard cold eyes and the months, which lead up to his mother’s eventual journey to join him in the afterlife. It was as if she poured what was left of her soul into the ground with him when he died, and covered it with dirt. No down pillow could ever replace the light that once shined in her green eyes for him, and no warm fire at night or the rich aroma of fried bacon waking him, would close his wounds. The only thing that kept him from either coming completely unraveled or running for his life was taking care of Dillon.

  Dillon got out of Old Kilcullen. Patrick was still sitting on the side of the road waiting to be saved.

  Chapter Three

  Winter had arrived, bringing shorter days and thinner meals. Stews and rich soups were now the staples, along with lots of bread and butter. Thankfully they had stocked up while the bounty flowed in and Uncle Dan made provisions for them by saving during the warmer seasons for the leaner times. Their first few months in Caragh were damp and the soil was full of food but now it was empty, hard and dry.

&nb
sp; Patrick had almost no education. Foraging and farming potatoes in a half acre of land had taken most of his days back in Old Kilcullen, which left no time for learning. There were other reasons he’d yet to acknowledge, which left him with no memory of ever sitting in a classroom or even being read to as a child. He knew other children went to school and church, whose homes had shelves with books but in their one room thatch-covered hovel, a small worn bible was the only existing book and his grandmother claimed it the morning she came to claim his mother’s body. Its leather cover was detached and he’d only laid eyes on it a couple of times. His mother would only expose it from its burlap and string bindings to slide in a flower petal or a lock of hair. When handed a book in his uncle’s home, he would simply turn the pages for a while and remark that he wasn’t much of a reader.

  Regardless of his excuses, they were thrown together in the evenings for schooling. His maturity and solemn temperament gave the impression that he was much older despite his size and as such, he was usually excused from the lessons. Many of the town’s children attended formal school but due to the heavy workload of running a farm because of their father’s employment at the race track, Noreen took on the job with vigor and those of school age were bright and well read.

  Dillon dove into his school work and was thriving. He learned quickly and by their first real Christmas, he could read and write. The physical changes he was going through were equally as grand. His auburn hair had grown in thick and his spine was now covered in a layer of bread and meat. They were also both finally well acquainted with their cousins. Dillon had grown close to Aideen, who was nearest to him in age and who proved to be what Brianne had said months ago; she was indeed lots of fun. Her carefree spirit and laughter was infectious and Dillon caught it willingly and clung to her to keep it.