Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  On the sofa she found a small musical pipe, a music pamphlet, and five hardcover books. Fionn came around the corner from the kitchen.

  “I brought the pipe for Rowan. And a book on how to play it. Everyone on the island learns to play the whistle.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  “I brought you something, too.”

  Rebecca stepped back, watching Fionn with trepidation as he nodded to the sofa.

  “My mum said maybe you needed books on Irish knitting.”

  “Oh!” Rebecca exclaimed, offering a small smile.

  “Come on, then,” Fionn replied, coming closer to her.

  Rebecca backed out the front door. He followed, closing the door behind him.

  “Fort’s this way,” he said as he veered off to the left, away from the gravel drive. “I wasn’t sure what you needed, so I asked the librarian at Trinity for help. There’s patterns in those books. Sharon said you’ve been wanting to write about the ganseys for a while.”

  “Yeah. I was working on the grant for this project for a few years.”

  When Fionn came to a stone wall, he rested his left hand upon its surface and hurdled it as easily as Trace had done. Turning back to Rebecca, he offered her his hand over the wall.

  Reluctantly she took it, sticking her right foot into a crevice between two rocks and lifting her left foot to the top of the wall, then leapt forward to the other side. Slowly, she removed her hand from Fionn’s palm and ran her fingers through her hair with a quick smile.

  Cocking his head, Fionn turned and struck out through the shin-deep brush. Rebecca followed him.

  Her feet hit the uneven, grassy ground heavily, twisting her toes and ankles in opposite directions. Whenever she thought she had her foot on a level piece of ground, it would slide to the right or left as small bits of stone or smears of mud gave way beneath her weight.

  “Sharon and John and I used to race to the fort after Mass. John always won,” Fionn said over his shoulder.

  “Was he faster than you guys?” she asked.

  “No. Sharon and I would fight all the way, so we were too busy to compete.” He chuckled.

  “You fought?”

  “Not hitting—with hands anyway. Just we’d argue about everything and were always in trouble because of it, so we’d run to the fort after Mass.”

  “Why?” Rebecca asked, steadying her left foot as she hopped over a puddle.

  “’Cause Sunday supper was always at my house and Father Michael always would come. Sharon and I needed to have a break between homilies.”

  “Did Father Michael not have anywhere else to go?”

  “Oh, he could have gone elsewhere, but Sharon and I were in need of special spiritual care, as he saw it. Poor John. He just got caught up in it with us.”

  The toe of Rebecca’s left shoe was stuck in a crack in the ground. With a grunt, she freed it. They came to another wall and Fionn popped over it. He held out his hand.

  “Let me try,” Rebecca said, winded. With her left hand flat on the stones, she jumped up, achieving the top of the wall. She then stumbled over it.

  “That was graceful,” she breathed.

  “Aye,” Fionn replied with a grin and walked on.

  Rebecca looked down at her knees, which brushed through the tall green and gold grass as she walked. Here and there grew equally tall maroon-colored weeds, the tiny seeds shaking loose as she passed, sticking to her damp pant legs. Gray rock outcroppings also rose from the brush. The rains had washed the soil off the barren stone of the island and collected it in deep crevices, making pockets of earth in which the grasses grew. Bending down, Rebecca touched the weathered rock.

  “It must have been so hard to pull life from this stone,” she muttered absently.

  “Hard by yourself,” Fionn replied.

  Looking up, Rebecca found him stopped just ahead of her. “It had to be hard, period,” she said.

  “Aye. But hardships are easier to bear with others. That’s what my dad says, anyway.”

  Rebecca rose to her feet, staring at Fionn and his red hair standing in the mist as if he, too, had just grown out of the rock. He was from this island, though he had left it. She could tell. She could easily imagine Fionn with his father, fighting the sea in those little fishing boats Sharon said they used to use on the island—nothing but oars and cowhide and tar and wood to keep them free of the waves.

  “You ever hear that story?” Rebecca asked.

  “What story’s that?”

  “The women of these islands knit such unique sweaters. Each one different—each one holding a picture of the soul of the person they knitted it for. They do this so if one of those boats—”

  “A curragh.”

  “Cur-rah. Yes. If a curragh is lost and a body washes ashore, they’ll know who it is. And his wife can bury him properly and let him go.”

  “I never heard it put that way,” Fionn replied, smiling.

  “You ever hear that story?”

  “Aye. But it only happened once here that I remember. ’Twas the night Sean Morahan lost his sons. Only one body washed ashore and it was pretty banged up. It was his gansey that told ’em it was Matthew—Sean’s eldest.”

  Fionn spun slowly on his heel and continued walking. Following his path, Rebecca watched how his feet hit the ground, never hesitating or slipping. She tried to walk where he walked, step where he stepped.

  “You guys still make curraghs?”

  “Aye. My dad has one.” He skipped over a small stone hill. Rebecca did also.

  “I’d like to see it sometime,” she said, gaining speed as she followed in his wake.

  By the time they reached the next wall, Rebecca was at Fionn’s side. She grabbed the stones and hurled herself over the wall. She smiled triumphantly as Fionn jumped over behind her. He laughed.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Rebecca said.

  Fionn nodded, pointing east, and together they walked in that direction.

  “Why’d you leave here?”

  He tilted his head toward her, and a small smile grew across his face. “Many reasons. Sharon went to the States and John left to make music. I suppose I didn’t feel I fit in here without them. And then, what I’m looking for wasn’t on this island at the time.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Home. Every O’Flaherty but me has it. Hard to be in a place where everybody has what you want but you.”

  A gull spiraled somewhere overhead, calling through the mist. Rebecca had no home either—she was like that gull, flying from place to place, never settling for long. But she had no parents, no family. Fionn did.

  “Your parents’ house isn’t a home for you?” she asked, cresting a small hill. The land ended abruptly four hundred yards ahead, falling away into the sea. Beyond the end of the land, she could see where the deep gray waters rolled beneath the thinning fog, the surf causing ebbs and eddies in its mist.

  “That’s home, but not my home. Not a home I made.”

  Rebecca looked away from the sea, finding Fionn’s eyes soft on her. She swallowed.

  “Is that why you only come back at Christmas?” she whispered.

  “Who says that?”

  “Your mother.”

  “Talking to my mum about me, are you?” Fionn winked.

  Rebecca shrugged with a little frown. “About your sweater—gansey, I mean.” She started down the hill, leaving Fionn and his black eyes behind her.

  “Ah, she’s making me one! About time. I’ve had to wait a long time to get a new one.”

  “Why?” she called over her shoulder, stepping around a large square stone.

  “She has five children and eleven grandchildren and makes two or three jumpers a year, unless someone’s confirmed. Everyone gets a jumper when they’re confirmed.”

  “Is it jumper or gansey?” The grass grew so short in this field that even tiny stones popped their heads out of the dirt. Rebecca skittered quickly down the incline, since it wa
s finally easy to see clearly where she was going.

  “Depends on where you are in the country. So what else my mum say?”

  “She didn’t say anything. Exactly.”

  “What’s my jumper say, then?” he asked.

  Rebecca smiled a small, wicked smile, skipping easily to the bottom of the hill.

  “What’s it say?” he called after her.

  Rebecca giggled, trotting down the hill as the incline deepened. A gull shot by, crying as it sped toward the water.

  “What’s my mum up to?” he asked.

  Rebecca laughed, thinking of the twisted stitches. “When’s Mass?” she asked.

  She had reached the bottom of the hill only to find she stood atop a four-foot-high retaining wall.

  “I heard you don’t go,” Fionn replied, sliding up next to her, winded.

  “I was just wondering.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Where’s the fort?” she inquired, as she slipped off the retaining wall.

  Gazing out to the ocean from the cliff, Rebecca watched four seagulls spiral in the mist, racing past the cliff wall so close she was sure their wings touched it. She realized Fionn had not answered and glanced over her shoulder at him.

  He stood frozen on top of the retaining wall with a slight smile curling his lips.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You just walked through the fort, Becky.”

  Stunned, Rebecca spun around and looked up the slope. What she had taken for a hill was the fort itself—the retaining wall was its base.

  “Oh,” she said, startled at having missed it.

  “Some archaeologist you are,” said he, jumping off the wall.

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  CHAPTER 12

  Blackberry

  Blackberry (aka Trinity). 1. A stitch that creates one pattern by

  binding three stitches together. 2. Traditionally, this represents

  either blackberries or, more commonly, the Holy Trinity—

  Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 3. The true Holy Trinity—child

  and parents.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  After their trip to the fort, Fionn and Rebecca went back to the cottage and sat down for tea, talking about pasties and curraghs and Mass. As Fionn left, he said he would return in a week to retrieve the library books. Rebecca watched him walk down the gravel drive toward his parents’ home, the fog having lifted by midmorning. His red hair glimmered in the sunlight.

  The rest of that day, her fourth on the island, Rebecca set about spinning the balance of the wool given to her by Liz and Rose. When Annie dropped Rowan off that night, the women planned a playdate for the girls after church. Then Rebecca would visit Rose and Liz. With her spinning done, she hoped to see their ganseys.

  Sunday dawned fresh and clean, washed sparkling bright by rain and fog. With Rowan on the handlebars of her bike and the bag of spun wool in her basket, Rebecca headed out toward the O’Flahertys’ house. Trace followed as far as the road and when Rebecca bumped off the gravel onto the asphalt, he halted. Rowan waved good-bye as Rebecca picked up speed.

  The stone walls, fields, and surf were alive with sun and wind, and Rebecca’s mood lifted. Perhaps it was the change in weather and being out of the house that made her feel light. Or perhaps it was the anticipation of facing Father Michael after Mass. She wasn’t sure exactly why, but she felt as light as the Irish sky above her.

  As Rebecca and Rowan came to a stop in front of the church, Father Michael was already outside shaking hands as his flock prepared to go back out into the world. When Siobhan trotted down the steps, Rowan ran from Rebecca’s side and, with a brief wave to her mother, left with the Blakes.

  “’Tis a fine morning, Rebecca,” Father Michael called from the church steps. “Perhaps you’d like to come inside.”

  “Oh, I’m fine out here,” Rebecca replied, grinning. “I tried to explain to you, Father, that I wasn’t coming to church on Sunday.”

  “It is Sunday?” the priest asked, perplexed.

  “Yes?”

  Father Michael glanced up to the church’s spire, then peered back at Rebecca. He raised his eyebrows. Rebecca frowned. Father Michael stepped back into the dark interior of the church, his smile as white as a Cheshire cat’s as he disappeared.

  “Good morning, Becky.”

  Startled, Rebecca spun around and found Liz standing behind her.

  “Come, I’ve made my special cakes for you. We can look at your spinning till the father’s ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Rebecca replied, her frown deepening as the old woman took her by the elbow and led her toward the priest’s house.

  Instead of answering, Liz said, “The wool we gave you is what we call bainin. Do you like that color or would you like to spin some oatmeal-colored wool?”

  “Baw-neen,” Rebecca repeated as she leaned her bike against the priest’s gate and pulled her bags of wool from her basket. “Is it important what I like?”

  “Just asking. Sharon teach you any Irish?” Liz asked, walking through the gate into the priest’s rose garden.

  The flowers were tight buds, not yet warm enough to open themselves to the late-spring sun. The garden itself had a checkerboard appearance, with flagstone walkways separating raised beds of flowers. To the left of the gate was a small wrought-iron table, its chairs dirty from a long winter of waiting for someone to sit.

  “She tried, but I’m not very good at languages. The only thing I remember is dubh means ‘black’ and falt means ‘hair’ and if I was to say, ‘Sharon has black hair,’ it translates into ‘the black hair is on Sharon. ’ I always found that funny because it’s like the hair can decide to get up and go somewhere else.”

  “Well, it does with men, doesn’t it? The hair leaves,” Liz replied.

  They snickered as they climbed the stair to the kitchen door. Liz opened it and Rebecca followed her in.

  Father Michael’s kitchen was small and sunny. To the right was a kitchen table sitting beneath a window. Rebecca placed the bag of spun wool on the table as Liz put water in the kettle and set it to boil. Coming back over to the table, Liz pulled Rebecca’s spinning out of the bag.

  “Ah, Becky, look at it! Like you’ve been doin’ it your whole life.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time looking at old fabrics.”

  “Perhaps. You’ll be ready for the wheel now.”

  “The wheel?” Rebecca inquired.

  “Rose can help you better with the wheel.”

  “Liz, I really need to talk about your ganseys.”

  “You will. You will. First, the wheel. Sit. Please.”

  As Liz poured the water into the teapot, Father Michael came into the kitchen.

  “Have you had one of Liz’s cakes?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “They are the father’s favorite,” Liz said, setting the pot of tea and a plate of crumpets and cakes on the table.

  “I’ll tell Rose you’ll be over shortly, Becky. Drink the tea while it’s hot,” Liz said, opening the door and stepping out of the priest’s house. The door shut with a heavy click.

  Rebecca shrugged uncomfortably as Father Michael seated himself. Glancing out the window, she watched Liz walk toward Rose’s house. The tinkling of tea as it was poured into the cup echoed in the silence.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” Rebecca began.

  “For tea and so I can get to know you.”

  “I have no desire to be a Catholic, Father.”

  “Well, I’m not here to convert you, Rebecca. Sugar?”

  “Please.”

  “Every time I want to talk to somebody, they think I have some agenda.”

  “You’re a priest.”

  “I’m a human being. If you’re worried about agendas, I’d be minding Liz and Rose. They may look like nice little old ladies, but looks can be quite deceiving. They’re the radical element of this town
.”

  Rebecca chuckled.

  “So your project is about ganseys, then?”

  “It’s more about the women who make them. Their feelings stitched into the rows—the memories in each pattern.”

  “The meaning of love as seen through a work of art,” Father Michael replied.

  “Yes! Poems written in wool and knots in the evening when the world slows down.”

  “When the world slows, it’s easier to hear the heart.”

  “Much easier here, I think.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just—slower here. No big rush.”

  “It’s a big rush for you back in the States?”

  “It seems there’s hardly time for anything. Especially being a single mom.”

  Rebecca peered out the window, watching a group of cyclists race by.

  “How long have you been raising her alone?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Rebecca asked with a sideways glance.

  “Just trying to know you.”

  “Not trying to get into my head?”

  “Trying to hear your heart, that’s all. Is it so hard to talk to me?”

  Rebecca sipped her tea, eyeing Father Michael skeptically. She was a true believer in scientific inquiry. It wasn’t that there was no God for Rebecca; it was that it didn’t matter one way or the other. She was an archaeologist. She studied the ages. In her life, aside from being the objects moving culture, religion and God were personally irrelevant.

  That being the case, Rebecca had never sat down with a priest before. All she knew about them she had learned from Sharon. By what Rebecca understood, priests had a way of getting into your private business before you knew it as you talked over tea or dinner. The last thing she had planned for the day was to get into any discussion with anyone regarding her personal business, especially any of her past as it related to Rowan. She shifted in her seat to rise, but the stillness in the kitchen held her to the chair. She took a deep breath, as if she was about to jump off a very high diving board.