Hope from the Ocean: (The Prequel to Fireflies ) Page 9

  “Oh, darling, I can’t tell ye how proud I am of ye.” She placed a gentle kiss on Sarah’s cheek.

  “Sarah, I couldn’t have played that better myself, child. Ye were wonderful. Of course, I do believe that little chat with yer father may have added something to yer exuberance with that piece,” her grandmother noted.

  “Da is going to get the horses for me, Grandmother. I’m going to learn to ride and jump and how to take care of them. I’d trade everything I own to have these horses but I am happy I won’t have to.” She giggled and fell into her grandmother’s arms.

  “I suppose if ye’re going to be a horse woman, we’re going to have to have ye fitted for a riding habit. I have no idea what the fashion is for riding horses these days but we’ll have to take a trip up to Dublin and go shopping.”

  “Aye, Ma, we must! I surely can’t wear one of these fancy gowns. It would be rather cumbersome, don’t ye think?” Sarah said with a laugh.

  “Absolutely. We must go find out what the proper young lady wears to ride horses these days,” Her mother replied.

  “Oh, Mother, may we go tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps we should give yer father a chance to hire the man and once he’s here at work, we’ll go,” Elizabeth answered.

  The sting of the misplaced words of her husband had apparently already passed. The joy in Sarah’s voice combined with her mastery of the piano at such a young age was the ointment that always soothed Elizabeth’s wounds. Although Sarah was spirited and possessed a wild heart, her absolute dedication to all things proved her well-balanced and level-headed–at least most of the time. Elizabeth’s years of painting a picture of the perfect daughter one day at a time was developing into a masterpiece.

  Since she’d first wrapped Sarah in her white lace christening gown, understanding this was the only opportunity she’d ever be given to raise a child, every brush stroke was meticulously placed and every color carefully selected. With each layer of pigment and the nodding approvals of her own mother’s tutelage to guide her hand, she and William were confident that in a few years a fine gentleman worthy of her artistry would find Sarah the picture of his dreams. William’s only worry was that Sarah was painting a self-portrait.

  “Come along, Sarah, let’s get ye ready for bed,” her mother said.

  “Grandmother, would ye like me to come to yer room and read to ye a bit before I go to sleep?”

  “That would be lovely, dear. I’ll choose something for ye and place it on the chair by my bed.” She set a kiss atop her glorious raven hair as she stood to go upstairs.

  The three women of the house walked together up the winding staircase as William watched, still internally berating himself for making such an insensitive remark to his wife. He adored Elizabeth. When they met, he vowed to win her over all of her other suitors. Despite his stature and not-yet-established law practice, his kind and generous nature won her heart. She had seen something in him, either his potential as a husband and father or his vow never to take her away from the quiet country life; he wasn’t sure which. But he knew she’d never regretted it, even when he shot his mouth off without thinking. She could hold her own and never shrank from confrontation.

  “Oh, Da! I forgot to say goodnight!” Sarah shouted, bounding back down the steps and practically leaping into his arms.

  “Goodnight, my love. I’ll see ye at breakfast.”

  William poured himself a brandy, collected his pipe and tobacco pouch and headed into the library. Upon entering the room, he eyed a pile of books next to a large pillow on the floor. Next to the books was a small horse figurine resting on its side. He bent down and picked it up, looking over his spectacles at it and admiring the fine handiwork of the craftsman who made it. It fit in the palm of his hand and the mane and tail were made of dyed string. After a few moments, he set it aside and went to work returning the books.

  One by one he collected them and put each one back on the shelves, noting the subject matter and titles. Every book was about horses, either reference, pictures or care and feeding. He hadn’t realized he had this many books about horses—twelve in all. One book was all about different breeds. He tucked it into his satchel to look at on his carriage ride back to Dublin and also to discuss later with his chosen trainer.

  He opened one of the books on horse racing, which had a whole section referencing The Curragh. There was a story about Shorty Green’s horses and his record number of wins. Beneath the name of every winning horse was “Daniel Flynn, trainer.”

  William lit his pipe and sipped his brandy while thumbing through the books. Before long Elizabeth appeared in the doorway looking for him to come to bed.

  “I’ll be along in a minute, Lizzy. I just want to finish putting back these books,” he yawned. William only called her Lizzy when they were alone. It was a pet name to him and she adored it.

  “Why? She’ll just have them all drug out again tomorrow.” Elizabeth chuckled.

  “Where did this little horse come from?” he asked, placing the horse in her hand.

  “Oddly enough, a few weeks ago she came running in from the stables while the men were preparing them for the impending tenants, and one of them found it buried in the dirt. It must have belonged to a child of the previous owner of the house.”

  “Whoever did this was an artist for sure.” He took the horse back and studied it under the candle in Elizabeth’s hand.

  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at the horse, believing whoever carved it had left their mark. With a little spit and a good rub, he was finally able to make it out. He laughed and sat it down on the table where Sarah would find it the next day.

  “What is it, Will?”

  “Sarah was meant to have that horse, Lizzy! It fits her temperament.” He laughed and took her arm under his.

  “And why might that be?”

  “Here, have a look.” He picked the horse up again and turned it over under the candle light.

  Carved across the belly of the wooden horse was one word–“RASCAL.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dan arrived back home at what may have been one of the lowest points in his life. His steps were slow and he sighed again and again, anxious and worried about Patrick’s well-being. He hardly knew the boy. Since the day he brought Patrick home, Dan had barely had a handful of conversations with him and they were usually one-sided, with Dan giving instruction or advice and Patrick nodding in compliance. He didn’t even know if the boy was savvy enough to survive on the road, let alone in a city the size of Dublin. The glimmer of faith he held on to was the fact that with little to no adult assistance, Patrick had managed to keep himself and Dillon alive until the morning he picked them up. What he did know was he had to face Noreen and confirm her fears. He’d spent the entire journey home from Naas searching for a way to break the news to her without breaking her heart but came up with no comforting words. The look on his face when he entered the house told the tale before he could even speak.

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?” Noreen asked, eyes filling with tears.

  “Aye. He left the money with an old timer and the wagon with a corner boy and hitched a ride to Dublin before the sun even came up.”

  “Couldn’t ye go after him? Couldn’t ye at least have tried to catch him?” she cried.

  “Accordin’ to the boy, he had at least a two hour lead. I’d already run poor Tammy ragged. There’s one more thing.” He hesitated. “He was ridin’ with a man who was headed to the port. The boy said the man was in a hurry to meet a ship.”

  “What kinda ship?”

  “I don’t know, but my mind tells me a passenger ship to America.” He sat down on the sofa and his head fell forward in defeat.

  “Why can’t ye go there and try to stop him?” Noreen sobbed.

  “Because, I haven’t the slightest idea where ta look. Don’t ye think I’ve thought of all of these things? Don’t ye think I’ve been beatin’ me head against a wall all the way home?”

&nbs
p; Noreen flopped down on the sofa next to her husband and took his arm. Rory came running in from the kitchen, followed by Brianne.

  “What’s wrong?” Rory asked.

  “Now don’t get all riled, Rory,” Noreen stated, and took him by the hand.

  “No, I want ta know what’s goin’ on. I overheard the other kids talkin’ and sayin’ ye think Patrick’s run off. Is it true, Da? Is it?” Big bubbles of tears filled Rory’s eyes and poured down his face.

  “Aye, son, Patrick’s chosen to leave us and he’s gone to Dublin.” Dan sighed.

  “But why? Didn’t ye try to stop ‘im? Didn’t ye tell ‘im we need ‘im and we’d miss ‘im if he left?” Rory’s body shook and he could barely catch his breath.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Noreen said, pulling the boy into her lap.

  “I knew he was gonna run. He told me so,” Brianne finally spoke up. She was barely audible as her hand covered her mouth.

  “What did ye say, Brianne? Ye knew it but ye didn’t tell yer Da?” Noreen shouted, rocking a wailing Rory in her arms.

  “I wasn’t sure he’d really do it, Ma. I swear it to ye. I figured he’d at least say goodbye.”

  “What’s all the shoutin’?” Dillon stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for one of them to answer him but seconds clicked by and no one replied.

  “He’s gone, ain’t he?” he asked, not moving a muscle.

  “Aye, son.” Dan nodded. “He’s run off to Dublin.”

  Dillon backed out of the room slowly and then turned and ran out the back door.

  “Dan...,” Noreen said.

  “I’ve got him.” He jumped from the sofa and ran after Dillon until he finally caught up to him in the middle of the back potato field. Dan snatched him by his suspenders and pulled him back but Dillon lost his footing and fell. He wept low and soft but when Dan placed his hand upon his shoulder, the pain and grief radiated from his body like steam from boiling water. Dan sat in the dirt next to him with that supporting hand still smoldering on his shoulder.

  “Son, if ye want, we can head up to Dublin right now and look fer him,” Dan finally said, hoping even a wild goose chase might ease Dillon’s grief.

  “I know it wouldn’t do any good. I just…”

  “Ye just what, son?”

  “We had a fight last night. Almost came to blows. It’s all my fault. I was mean to him. I made him do it.” His cries bordered on a wail.

  “Don’t even think that. Brianne said she’d heard him say he was goin’.”

  “Aye, Uncle, but when? When did he say that? I’m a selfish, mean brother. I coulda been better. He was everythin’ ta me. He changed me nappies, clothed me, fed me and I wouldn’t be here now if weren’t fer Patrick, and this is how I’ve repaid him.”

  “Son, I’m sure he knows ye love him and that ye never meant to say anythin’ mean or make him want to run off.”

  “I suppose we’ll never know since he’s gone now.” Dillon sniffed and sniveled into his shirt sleeve. There wasn’t anything Dan could say to change that.

  “Da! Da!” Brianne ran across the field towards them, waving a piece of paper in the wind. She handed it to him. “Da, look what I have here!”

  “What’s this? Oh, it’s the picture ye drew of Patrick. Look at this, Dillon, yer brother forgot his picture. Here is somethin’ ye can keep…” Instantly it came to him what Brianne was so excited about. With the picture of Patrick, his odds of perhaps finding someone in Dublin who had seen him were much better than asking strangers if they’d seen a slim, brown-haired boy. He might as well have been looking for half the boys in Ireland.

  “Dillon, do ye know what this means?” Dan leaned down and showed him the picture.

  “It only means my brother left his picture behind because he didn’t want anythin’ to do with this place anymore. Not even ye, Brianne.” Dillon held his head low and pouted.

  “How can ye say such a thing? I found it on the floor near the bed. He must have dropped it when he was sneakin’ out. Some brother ye are.” Brianne scolded him.

  “That’ll be enough. I’m takin’ the picture and headin’ to Dublin. If I don’t find him, I’ll be back by mornin’. Ye comin’ or not?” Dan asked Dillon.

  “Yer brother’s a good boy and he loves ye, no matter what ye think,” Brianne said and then ran to the house.

  “Son, did ye stop and think that maybe none of this had anythin’ to do with ye? That fight in the barn last night most likely wasn’t about ye, so stop blamin’ yerself.”

  Dan knew that Patrick had been the constant and the light Dillon clung to for survival before they arrived. Patrick hadn’t changed at all since the boys came to live with him. He believed Dillon may have finally seen the unencumbered view of his brother as no longer a guardian but just a boy. He wondered how they’d ever be able to find him and whether or not it may already be too late didn’t matter. Patrick deserved someone to care enough to find out what happened. He could see the desperation in Dillon’s eyes and that was enough to push him onward to search.

  “Brother’s don’t let anyone or anything come between them,” Dillon whispered. “Blood is thicker than water. Brother or no brother, love trumps everythin’!” He turned towards Dan. “I can hear his voice in me head. Every word Uncle, every warnin’. ‘Good boy, Dillon. That’s right, Dillon.’ He was the only one ever cared. Nobody ever cared what I had ta say but Patrick ‘till we came here and I cast him aside the second I could. A poor excuse for a brother, I am.”

  “No, son, yer not and that boy knows it.”

  “What boy, Uncle? Patrick’s never been a boy,” he whimpered, swiping streams of tears from his cheeks. “‘Are ye hungry, Dillon? Well, here’s some food. Ye tore yer britches, Dillon? Well here, let me sew that fer ye. Yer shoes hurt ye, Dillon? Here. take mine.’”

  Dan stood in silent awe of this boy and watched him grow up right before his eyes. He’d felt his own heart break before but this was the first time he’d watched it happen to someone else. “Come along son, stop tearin’ yerself up this way. We’ve got ta go or we’ll lose the sun.”

  Whatever goodness and light Patrick was born with, he’d willingly passed to Dillon. He simply gave it up as if he never needed it or cared for his own life at all. Maybe running away and starting over was the only way Patrick could ever live again. Somewhere in the world he might find that place where he could fill the gaping hole he must have had in his soul. No one is an abyss.

  “We are all wells, some deeper than others. Maybe yer brother just needs to find the right place to dig a new one.”

  “He can dig all he wants but not before I get ta say goodbye.” Dillon bolted to the barn and saddled Goblin.

  If starting over was Patrick’s fate, fine, but it was obvious to Dan that for Dillon not to look on his brother one last time for what may be forever was unthinkable to the boy.

  When Dillon finished saddling Goblin, he climbed on and kicked him with his heels. “Yah!” he cried out.

  With a deafening nay, Goblin reared up, gathered himself and raced off, hitting his stride in seconds. Dillon pulled him to an abrupt halt upon finding his uncle at the front of the house saying goodbye to his aunt.

  “Decided to join me, aye?” Dan said with a wink. “Let’s be off, then.”

  “Be careful! May the good saints protect ye,” Brianne shouted, running behind them until they reached the road.

  They made haste to Naas and rested briefly, watering the horses and looking for the corner boy or the old man. Dan hoped they may remember some detail of Patrick’s departure they hadn’t shared. His demeanor earlier in the day may have kept them from sharing anything else they knew.

  “What did the old man and corner boy look like?”

  “Everyone else.”

  They didn’t want to waste too much time searching for the pair but their chances of finding Patrick would be better if they could at least find out who the buyer was or exactly where he was headed. Any piece of information that wou
ld make him stand out and easier to identify could save them precious time. Time was already not in their favor and wasting any more of it was foolish.

  “Uncle Dan, is that boy wearin’ Patrick’s hat?”

  Dan proceeded towards the boy and Dillon had to run to keep up. When the boy looked up and saw Dan, he pulled off the hat and whirled it in his direction before leaping to his feet and running down the street. Dan snatched him by his shirt collar before he could duck into the alleyway door of a run-down shop.

  “Whoa, lad! I only want a word with ye!”

  “I gave ye the hat back! What more do ye want?”

  “I want ta talk to ye, is all.”

  The boy continued trying to squirm away from Dan’s grasp but once he had a firm grip on the boy’s arm, there was no way for him to escape. “Then talk. Ye’re hurtin’ me arm!”

  “Is there anythin’ else ye can remember about the boy that gave ye the hat this mornin’?”

  “Like what?”

  “The man he went with, was there anythin’ that stood out about him? Anythin’ unusual?”

  “I can’t think with ye squeezin’ me arm!”

  Dan looked over at Dillon and nodded. He slowly released the boy’s arm but pushed him back towards the wall of the building, keeping him cornered.

  “Think now, boy. We haven’t much time,” Dan insisted.

  “Well, the man who bought the lot comes here every week to buy for ships. Some are for passenger ships but some are for other ships, ye know?”

  Dan nodded.

  “Uh, he’s a big man, as tall as ye. He’s on the heavy side and has black hair. Uh…”

  “Think boy, think!” Dan ordered. “What else? The horses? The wagon? Anythin’!”

  “The horse. The horse, sir!”

  “What of it?” Dan snatched the boy by the arms and nearly lifted him off the ground.

  “The horses are black as coal but one of ‘em has one ice blue eye.”