The Barrow Lover

by Patrick Todoroff

  He shoved past me. I grabbed him and he turned on me faster than an alley cat, face blooming into rage. "No. You aren't my friend. You're the same as the rest, calling me stupid, calling names."

  He started punching me with his big ham fists, every word a blow. "No. More. No. More."

  I went back and back until I hit the window sill. The ocean wind hummed in my ears, blew my hair.

  My hands went up, but not fists. They clasped in front of me like a beggar. Like prayer. "She's poison, mate. Don't do it."

  Paddy grabbed my shirt, hefted me up on my toes. His breath steamed in my face, the wind blasted my back. Glee was pouring off Magalie like heat off a coal stove. Waves shattered on the rocks below.

  My eyes were shut, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Paddy, listen to me."

  "Why?" he growled. A lurch. Cold open sky behind me.

  "Because I'm sorry."

  "That it?"

  "It's all I got. I'm out of words, out of excuses, out of smart-ass things to say. All I got is sorry from the bottom of my heart."

  A pause. "You were gonna come to Daire with Meany. Why?"

  "I wanted to pawn that thing for whatever I could." I said miserably. "Get it far away from Carn."

  "But I had the locket," Paddy said. "Why'd you still come?"

  "Because... Because you're my friend. Because you're all I have left and I can't stand—" I choked. "I can't stand the thought of death taking you, too."

  My boots swayed, then touched floorboard. I opened my eyes to see Paddy glaring down at me. "You mean that?"

  I nodded.

  Paddy turned to Magalie. The pale princess of Senlis glided forward, worry etched across porcelain features. She opened her mouth to speak.

  "Don't." Paddy held up the open locket. "You said all he cared about was money. That he wouldn't follow after."

  "Jealousy," her withered voice insisted. "That one envies what we have. What we will have after. A new life, a new home—"

  Paddy scrunched his brow, looked from the locket to her and back to the locket. Then gazed around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

  "No," he said slowly. "I already got a home."

  With that, he snapped the locket shut and in one smooth motion turned and flung it past my head, out the window, far into the surging sea.

  Neither of us uttered a word. The wind gusted, the waves roared, but in that stunned moment, I swear I heard a scream.

  It took a bit but after a long minute, I looked at Paddy and where we were standing and said, "We have to get out of here."

  "I know a way out," Paddy said.

  We started for the door. "Teagan's here," I whispered. "We gotta find her."

  He smiled and nodded. "Righto. Finding things is what I do."

  ***

  I bought a ring out of Fade's glass case when they auctioned off his estate. The whole town was there and Mayor Tom presided. I got a good deal on account of there being no other bids on that particular item.

  Vicar Duffy said the blessings over us, and I took up helping Teagan mind the inn. Eighteen months later, she had our first child, a boy.

  We named him Paddy.

  Epilogue - The Waves Roll on

  The waters at the mouth of the harbor were contrary, the ocean sending ugly green and gray waves to batter their boat while the winds whipped up whitecaps and spray cold as snow.

  The older man with the orange cap and face like a hunk of driftwood bent double over the gunnels. The second man, younger, with a wispy beard he thought made him look older, sat on the bench beside him. Around their boots swirled a slime of sick and sea-scum. Mounds of rope net and empty wicker baskets were lumped evenly along the port and starboard sides.

  "Put your back into it, Garrit. I can't do it all myself," the older man rasped.

  The young man blushed, and burped back the sourness in his throat. "Sorry, Ferg. I's watching the horizon like you said." He leaned over and grabbed a handful of net. "You know, no matter how long you stare though, you can't exact line up where the sea and sky meet. The waves roll on and on, right up into the clouds if you ask me. It's like they're rooted in each other."

  "Fookin' poet are you?" The older man eyed him skeptically. "You know what I see?"

  "No, Ferg."

  "I see empty nets and empty creel, which means empty bellies and empty pockets. Now pull, damn you, and pray we get a catch."

  The two of them hauled the slick freezing hemp one heave at a time into their boat. It spilled across the bottom, a slithering mass of gunk, seaweed, and the occasional pale gleam of wriggling fish scales.

  Fergus rattled out what passed for a sigh. "Untangle this mess, creel anything with fins. We're not throwing back today."

  They spent the next half hour in silence save the slap of waves, the scouring rush of winds. Fingers numb beyond feeling, Garrit was fumbling with a particularly grisly knot when he felt something smooth and heavy as a clamshell.

  He pried it out between two lengths of rope and wiped it on his pants. Yellow gleamed through the muck. "Here, Ferg. Look at this."

  Fergus turned, expecting another twist of driftwood or some odd shell had fascinated the young man once again. Garrit wiped it more, held up a shiny disc between his finger and thumb.

  "That looks like—" Fergus began.

  "Gold," Garrit finished. "Viking treasure, you think?"

  "What are you quizzing me for?" Fergus groused. "You were the one reading books."

  Garrit pulled a rag out of his jacket pocket and began rubbing. "It's jewelry. Looks like...letters." He ran his finger around the edge, prying off a string of mermaid hair, and the top popped up slightly.

  Garrit teased the lid up and stared. "Will you look at that," he breathed out.

  THE END

  Special Thanks and Author's Note

  Gratitude as always to The Fortnighters for nudging the luck o' the Irish on this yarn, to Michal Oracz for another excellent cover, to Jim at Panera for the good cheer and occasional free carbs, to Glynda Francis for tidying up after me. Thank you.

  Readers, if you're looking for historical accuracy, please stop. Writing this, I pilfered five centuries of Celtic history, place-names and terms. Declan and Paddy's Eire is a fictional, mythical place that exists nowhere save my precarious imagination. I went with what felt right, sounded right, and I plead poetic license. I beg your indulgence and hope you found your time with them well spent. A thousand thanks.

  Patrick Todoroff - Autumn 2014

  SDG