Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at Mairead. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, knowing there was some conversation happening in Mairead’s story that had nothing to do with Claire.

  “So you can know Sean.” Mairead turned to gaze out at the sea. “After they found Matthew and knew it was him from his gansey, the father came.”

  “What father?”

  “Father Michael. He came and read the last rites and baptized the babe. Claire is what Mary named her.”

  “But she died.”

  “That she did, and Mary not long after. They’re buried next to Matthew in the cemetery in the center of the island. You should go. Lots of designs on the old crosses there. You can tell the family by the carving on the crosses. They match the family’s ganseys.”

  At this point Rebecca didn’t care about the ganseys. She wanted to know what Mairead was doing by telling her about Sean. “Why do I need to know Sean?” she asked.

  “It was after the funeral that Sean went mad,” Mairead continued.

  “Mairead,” Rebecca whispered.

  “And Claire left him. Not one night passed after her son, his wife, and her granddaughter were buried before Claire left. She came to shore in Sean’s own curragh, washing up on O’Flahertys’ beach. She didn’t stop there. She showed up at the Blakes’ and begged for Padrig to take her to Galway in his fishing trawler, which he did. When Sean found out, he followed her there.”

  “And he choked her,” Fionn Sr. said.

  “Aye. Almost killed her. But he’s her husband and she left him without telling him and so they didn’t put him in jail. That’s how things were in this country back then. There was no divorce until 1996. So the family sent her secretly to Derry. No one knew where she was but us, and we paid for it from Sean for many a year. There she stayed. Over time, Sean just blew himself out, like a great fury rising in the ocean does. Nothing can keep going like that—yelling and cursing us for not telling him where his wife was.”

  Rebecca turned her head south, seeking the island. She wanted out of the boat.

  “She died in Derry and is buried off island with her cousins. We didn’t know how Sean would act if we buried her here. We didn’t want to get him started again. Anyway, that’s Claire’s life.”

  Rebecca looked at Fionn, who was staring at her. His eyes were as steady as they had been in the morning.

  “Becky?”

  “Yes, Mairead.”

  “The storm was forty years ago. Forty years is a long time to hang on to something, but that’s how long it’s been for Sean. Forty years of not talking, of being alone in darkness. Of not even being able to see a hand held out to help him.”

  Rebecca held Rowan tighter, burying her face in the little girl’s hair.

  “But now he sees Rowan’s hand. It’s the first time in so long that he’s seen anyone. And you have hold of her. And now we have you.”

  The surf sounded around Rebecca in the purple shadows. Fionn put up the oars and slipped over the side, the water rolling across his pant legs as he pulled the boat to shore. When the curragh was clear of the water, Fionn Sr. stepped up to Rebecca with his hands out.

  “I’ll carry Rowan up,” he said quietly. Taking a deep breath and with great effort, Rebecca released Rowan. Fionn Sr. picked up the little girl as Rebecca crawled out of the curragh. She didn’t look up at Mairead or Fionn as she followed them silently over the sand.

  She knew Claire. She understood all too well what Claire was about. But for some reason, in this conversation, Rebecca felt as though she was Sean. All these six years, she had been in darkness, too. Had there been a hand held out to her? She hadn’t had anything to hold on to; she had just been blowing in the wind—an angry, deafening wind blowing since that Thanksgiving night.

  Fionn helped Mairead up the stairs. Rebecca crawled onto the first high step behind them, and as she set her foot on the second, leaning her weight into the rock, her shoe slipped.

  She cried out as she listed over the edge, but at that moment Fionn reached back and grabbed her by her arm. She looked up into his face, which was dark in the fading light.

  “I have you, Becky,” he said, and his voice seemed to still the wind.

  CHAPTER 21

  Liam’s Lesson

  Liam’s Lesson [Template 3 Pattern 3 Dye Lot 22] Center Panel—1. Three braids, middle braid woven with Celtic knot triple spiral midway through. On each side of center panel, small bobbles knitted of angora, followed 24 repeat panel of single zigzag with ribbing. Moss stitch used as texture at edge. Color—apricot. 2. Creation.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Sean stood on his beach Saturday evening, smiling as he thought of Rowan and Siobhan in Old Man Dirane’s dinghy south of town. He had forgotten how to watch the small things that children notice. After sitting in the boat together, they had crawled about the boulders, poking their fingers into the sea anemones. The first time one spat, Rowan screamed and slipped backward. Sean laughed as he caught her. Crabs crawled sideways, peeping up through the little pools with their beady eyes, seeking a rock or shelter from the sun and the strange, giggling shadows above the water’s surface. Seashells and sand and blackened, dried kelp made shapes of horses and birds as sure as any cloud could do in the sky. It had been so long since Sean had seen the world through a child’s eyes.

  The old man listened for the pipe, the pain of his missing sons raw in his heart this day. The waves rolled ashore, flowing over the sand and up to the tips of his shoes. They touched his toes, tickling and taunting him to come closer. But he knew better. Friendly as they were, pouring shallowly across the beach, in the catch of a breath the tide could pull the sand from beneath the feet.

  Waves had a lesson to teach, and as Sean watched the sun slide behind the edge of the world, reflecting its purple-golden light upon the spattering of clouds in the heavens, he remembered Liam and the day his third boy learned the water’s lesson.

  “Da, look at the sun!” six-year-old Liam whispered, taking hold of his father’s finger to share the awe of the sunrise.

  “See those clouds there, boy?” Sean asked, pointing to the hundreds of tiny clouds scattered across the pink-apricot sky.

  “Aye.”

  “My da used to say when the sky appears so, ’tis the Almighty gathering his flock.”

  The sun’s light twinkled in his little boy’s eyes at the wonder of God. Sean smiled, remembering the day his father had told him such.

  “We’re ready, Da,” Matthew called from the curragh, his brother Joe standing next to him. Both tall and strong teenagers now, they had released the boat from its mooring stones and set the net without his help.

  “Matthew and Joe and I are gonna turn the curragh and ready it for the day. You stay on the shore here. Don’t go near the waves. And remember, Liam,” Sean said, taking the little boy’s chin in his hand. “Never turn your back on the sea. Your ma is not here to watch you, nor will she be anymore. Women are in the house. Men are on the sea. You’re old enough to watch yourself. Watch yourself like the man you’re learnin’ to be.”

  His boy nodded courageously, turning his head again to the east to catch the rising sun with its flock of pink-golden sheep. Sean walked west toward his boys, the ocean, and his boat. With a great push, the three of them turned the curragh over, setting it gently on its keel.

  “You mend those nets, Joe?” Sean asked as he grabbed the oars.

  “Aye, Da. Me and Liam. There’s still a snag in the middle, but it’s not unravelin’.”

  “We need more rope for the cable,” Matthew added with a grunt as he and his brother dragged the net to the curragh.

  Sean needed new cable. He needed new nets. But the catch had been small again this season and was not likely to get better.

  “Let me look,” he said. The three of them grabbed the net in different places, pulling it wide upon the sand. Sure enough, there was a wad of string in its center.

  “What’s caused that?” Sean ask
ed.

  “Not sure, but it’s a right snag,” Joe replied.

  “Da,” Matthew said quietly.

  “Aye?” Sean said, stepping lightly across the net.

  “Where’d ya send Liam?”

  “Nowhere.” Sean squatted down to look more closely at the snag.

  “He’s not on the sand, Da.”

  Sean stood and looked up and down the shore.

  “Liam!” he called.

  “Liam!” Joe yelled, racing up the beach toward the house. “Liam! Where are ya?”

  “Where is that boy?” Sean growled, walking carefully across the net.

  “Da!” Matthew shouted, running toward the sea. “Da, he’s in the water!”

  Sean shot a glance out to the water and there, bumping on the pink-golden waves, was a spot of white. It was Liam in his gansey.

  Sean spun around on his heel, twisting the net around his feet. He fell hard on the sand.

  “What is it?” Claire’s voice came down from the house. “Where’s Liam?”

  Sean rolled out of the net, tearing at it as he watched Joe and Matthew fly into the bitter-cold water.

  “Wait!” Sean commanded. “Wait!”

  Free of the net, he stood and raced after them, knowing that there would be only moments before the cold water would take its frozen fingers and still all three of his sons’ hearts. It was early April and the water was as cold as stone walls in January—as cold as death itself.

  “Liam!” Claire screamed from behind.

  Sean was in the water, overtaking his boys, and pushing them back to shore.

  “Get the curragh!” he yelled at them as the great rush of icy water crested his chest.

  He was swimming now, his fingers crackling as if they’d turned to ice. He didn’t care, for he could see his little boy lying lifeless in the water just ten yards away. Just ten, then nine, then eight. His heart pounded in his chest as his legs cramped underneath him.

  “Liam!” he called breathlessly, only seven yards away. He heard the sound of oars behind him.

  “Da!” Joe called.

  “Get your brother!” Sean said hoarsely as he felt the wake of the curragh overtake him.

  The boat passed by and Matthew dropped his oar, grabbing Liam by the back of his gansey, pulling him in. Joe’s eyes were on his father, for Sean just floated there, his legs gone from beneath him.

  “Matthew, pull the curragh around!” Joe yelled and with that, Matthew and Joe laid on the oars.

  Sean watched them row, like they’d done it forever. He couldn’t move his arms now, the water having seeped through his sweater. As he watched his boys come closer, Sean saw his father rowing toward him.

  I’ve told you, Sean, watch the nets!

  “Yes, Da,” Sean whispered.

  “Da!” Joe screamed and just when Sean watched his father’s face look down upon him as he sank into the water, a hand grabbed his right shoulder. Another hand grabbed his left.

  “Help us, Da!” Matthew cried. “Pull your legs in!”

  Sean knew he had legs, though he couldn’t feel them. He made his mind think about moving them.

  “Da. We got you. We got you,” Matthew groaned, heaving his father into the boat. Sean fell like deadweight in the bottom of the curragh.

  “Da?” Joe called.

  “Row!” Matthew ordered.

  Sean’s father was gone and only the memory of Liam being six yards away filled Sean’s mind. “Liam?” he whispered.

  “He’s not breathin’, Da.” Joe wept.

  “Shut up and row!” Matthew commanded.

  The blood was rushing back into his extremities, causing a painful, prickly feeling throughout his legs and arms. The curragh bumped gently onto the sand. Looking up, Sean found Claire’s face above him.

  “Liam,” he choked out.

  Claire lifted Liam’s still body from the bottom of the boat as Sean struggled to roll over.

  “Squeeze his chest,” he said hoarsely, now on his hands and knees.

  Matthew and Joe pulled the boat ashore and then helped their father out of it. On shaky legs, Sean watched Claire pushing on Liam’s small chest as the boy lay on his side upon the sand. He could see his son’s jumper, its flat, tight stitches knitted together in a thatched pattern. It was what all the Morahan men wore, for it was the stitch that Sean and his father and his father before him believed would be best at keeping out the cold and damp while upon the sea, giving time to those who fell overboard. Cold water could kill faster than most anything.

  Liam coughed.

  “He’s alive, Da,” Joe whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Claire rolled Liam over as the boy gagged and spat up water. He started to cry as she rubbed his back.

  “What happened?” Sean asked his little boy.

  “Please, Sean,” Claire said, taking Liam in her arms.

  “What happened to you, boy?” Sean asked again, standing up.

  “A wave caught me, Da,” Liam blubbered. “It caught me and I was under it. I screamed and screamed but I was under the water.”

  “Did ya not see it comin’?”

  Liam shook his head, spitting out words like they were salt water, making no sense at all.

  “You had your back to the sea,” Sean said.

  Liam’s mouth quivered as he nodded.

  “Did I not tell you to keep your eyes to the sea?” said Sean.

  Liam nodded again.

  “Well, what were ya doin’, then?”

  “I was watching God’s sheep,” Liam whispered.

  Sean ran both his hands through his hair and spun around. He gazed out upon the black water and for an instant, for a beat of a gull’s wing, he was angry. Angry at Liam for turning his back to the ocean, angry at Claire for looking at him so, angry at Matthew and Joe for jumping into the water instead of taking the curragh. He glanced over at his net, which lay upon the sand in a chaotic knot and Sean—Sean was angry at God, furious that life was so hard, that he had to start his boys mending the net at four and gutting the fish at five and in the boat by six. In the curragh by six to get the sea under them so they wouldn’t be afraid—so they could fish and survive.

  But in a flash the anger passed. The dawn was apricot upon the sky and the tiny clouds hinted at a warm, sunny day.

  Sean looked at the sky. He knew what he should do. He was wet and Joe’s teeth were chattering. Matthew was shivering and Sean knew if he looked over at Liam, the boy’s lips would be blue. Nevertheless, he should make Liam get up and help unknot the net and get in the curragh. It was what his father did to him whenever he fell into the sea, because a fisherman could not be afraid of the water. Food had to be put on the table. New rope and cables were necessary, and wool was needed to weave a man’s suit. There was no time a fisherman could be too cold or sick or wet or frightened to fish.

  But as Sean looked at the sky, he remembered the wonder of God’s sheep—of watching the men fish and wanting to go with them, though the dream of fairy wings or a crab crawling on the rocks could draw him away from the boats and the nets as easily as his mother’s call. He recalled being little, and though he was raising men, this day—this day, he remembered his sons were just boys after all.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, Sean.”

  “Take Liam in and get him dry.”

  “I want to go with you!” Liam cried in earnest. “I want to fish!”

  Sean turned around and looked at Liam’s face. His lips were blue.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow, son. And tomorrow after that. It’s late, and Matthew and Joe and I have to get supper on the table. Tomorrow, you’ll come. Today was—just practice.”

  “I want to go,” Liam said with a whimper.

  “I know. Tomorrow will be here and you’ll be warm and dry and we’ll try again.”

  Sean walked over and touched his son’s head.

  “Tomorrow I can go.”

  “Aye,” Sean said and looked at Claire.
r />   He saw the relief in her gaze. He nodded to her and Claire took Liam in her arms and made her way back to the house.

  “We’re cold now,” Sean said to Matthew and Joe as he watched Claire carry Liam up the hill. “But if we get movin’, we’ll be sweatin’ in less than half an hour. Remarkable things, these ganseys. When they’re wet, they get hot.”

  “Aye, Da,” Matthew replied.

  Sean turned to his sons.

  “You’re seventeen now, Matthew. You need a proper suit of clothes and we need new nets and some supper. We’ve got to go out.”

  “Aye, Da,” Joe said, teeth still chattering.

  As Sean walked by them, he grabbed his sons in his arms and held them to his chest.

  “You are good boys,” he whispered and kissed each of them on the head.

  Then, quickly, he released them and walked to the net. Tears flowed from his eyes and he thanked the Lord that his boys had done what he taught them to do. They looked out for each other and because of that he knew they’d survive.

  Sheep and apricot-colored sky. Sean contemplated both, and as there was no pipe upon the wind he turned his back to the ocean, leaving the incoming tide to wash his memory away.

  CHAPTER 22

  Zigzag/Single Bobbles Within Each

  Zigzag/Single Bobbles Within Each. 1. A zigzag with a single bobble within each “zig” and each “zag.” 2. An unplanned journey with someone unexpected. 3. Dirane—family on the island that usually knits this stitch into their ganseys. The Diranes are the storytellers of the island. In Ireland, such storytellers are called shanachies.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  On Sunday, Rebecca followed Liz into Father Michael’s garden. There was no mist this morning and the blooms in the garden had started to open, turning their bright faces toward the sky and smiling gleefully to all who passed. Rebecca smiled back, bending over to a peach rose and breathing deeply. It smelled of peaches, which made Rebecca smile all the wider.

  Climbing up the steps, Rebecca found the priest’s bright kitchen warmer than outside. As she took off her coat, she spotted a very old sweater on the table. Moving closer, she studied the pattern of the sweater as Liz poured hot water into the teapot.