Liam, An Irish Historical Saga

By Giuliano Aloisi

It is the mid-1800’s, the time of the Great Famine in rural Ireland. The country is under English rule. Born to Brigid and Ronan, landless tenants, living in an isolated part of the West of Ireland, life did not hold any promises for young LIAM. Ronan is hardened against the English and bitterly resents having to till the soil and work long hours on land that rightly belongs to the Irish. Brigid is meek and mild. Feared by the locals for her gifts, she arrives inexplicably into their town land. There are rumours abroad, unsubstantiated, that she has mystical powers.
Liam too, has inexplicable gifts. He has been seen swimming way out to sea with a dolphin when, by rights, he should have drowned.
Mysteriously, Brigid’s vegetables grow well in the patch of land behind their home. She provides for the table, uses plants for medicinal aid when necessary and still attends the local church on Sundays and lives a Christian life.
Liam has an unquenchable desire for knowledge and never ceases to ask questions about what lies beyond the horizon.
His father has no time for books and learning. It won’t put food on the table.
Hunger and want are realities that lead to death by starvation and disease.
When he meets the girl of his dreams, Cáit, it seems that Liam might be content with his lot. He no longer gazes out to sea and concentrates on providing for his family by poaching and stealing.
Liam witnesses neighbours and friends dying on the side of the road. Survivors often choose the emigration route, hearing that the streets of New York are paved with gold. Many never make it as far as the harbours of Cork, or Sligo. Some, who have stolen bread or vegetables are condemned to deportation, usually to faraway places such Australia. Their families never hear from them again. Others are shot in the act of stealing a chicken or potatoes.
When people believe the situation cannot get any worse, a blight hits the potato crop, reducing the potato to a putrid mess. Not even a seed potato is saved. The Irish peasant, reliant on potatoes as his sole food, faces immediate starvation. Meanwhile, the English continue to export grain and cattle to the United Kingdom, mindless to the troubles of those around them.
Liam grows up resentful and hot-tempered. Everything that is dear to him is changing or dying. Will he too, have a similar destiny?
Can he surmount the difficulties that surround him and his family? He suffers great personal losses, the hatred of the landlord, eviction, no work. Despair and death is everywhere. Fate plays a great part in providing him with a way out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giuliano Aloisi
• Release date: Jan 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310310928

Giuliano Aloisi

Giuliano Aloisi graduated from the Institute of Cinema and Television in Rome, Italy, in 1995, and works an animator and illustrator in advertising and educational publishing.

Book preview

Prologue

Commencing in the early 1830’s in Ireland, the story traces the life of Liam, one of the countless victims of the English invasion and the Great Famine (1845–1847). The devastating effects of the period were marked by extreme poverty, starvation, death, and mass emigration.

Chapter 1

Living out there in the wild countryside of Connemara had never been easy. The damp and cold coursed through a man’s body and the weak sunshine mocked the people from above. Liam’s job, from as far back as he could remember, had been moving stones from the field. They seemed to grow there. His skinny legs could hardly carry himself, never mind the heavy stones that lodged deep in the ground. His father Ronan wanted him to learn from the beginning that being Irish and being on the land was a curse. The landed gentry from across the water had taken care of that.

Don’t be thinking that life is going to get any easier as you get older. You might as well know straight away, there’s no joy in this world. We’re suffering at the hands of the English and nothing is going to change that.

Yes, Da was all the child could respond. His father scared the life out of him.

And yet Ronan was not a cruel man. He loved his family dearly; they were everything to him. However, he saw no sense in giving the boy a false sense of security and hope.

Liam, lad, you’ve got to understand, there are no handouts in this world. You’re going to have to work every day of your life to keep food on the table and clothes on your body. Ronan’s dark eyes looked directly into his son’s face and although he was only six years of age, Liam understood. He could count the wrinkles on his father’s weathered face and see the grey hairs starting to grow in his thick eyebrows. Ronan O’Neill couldn’t have been more than thirty at the time, but working the land for others had sapped the strength out of the man. He had a thick head of dark hair but when the sun shone down on it, red and saffron glistened through. He was still a handsome man; six feet tall with skin darkened by exposure to the harsh, cold winds. His fingers were gnarled and soil was embedded in his hands and fingernails. Try as he might, he could never clean it all off. His face was rarely smooth shaven; theirs was a rough way of life. He wore a collarless, worn-out shirt and shapeless, nondescript trousers held up with cord.

His wife, Brigid, might have been a beauty if she only had a bit of flesh on her bones. Instead, her face was gaunt and her hollow cheeks bespoke years of hardship. Her blue eyes were reminiscent of the clear blue sky on one of those rare summer days when the sun’s rays glistened on the sea and her long black iridescent hair framed her minute face and body. Her clothes hung on her body as though she were a spectre. She was that thin. She devoted her life to her small family and it tore her heart out that she couldn’t give the ones she loved a decent meal.

Liam was a good-humoured boy with an appealing face, with freckles that danced all over his nose and cheeks in summertime. His foxy red hair stood out in clumps on his head, refusing to sit down. He had a skinny body but it was well proportioned even if his knobby knees did stick out from below his short pants. His curiosity for everything around him was astounding—he constantly tired Brigid out with his never-ending list of questions, many of which she had no idea how to answer.

Liam and his parents lived in a stone, thatched cottage with a solitary window, a wooden door half falling off its hinges and a single cot in the far corner. The window was mean and the aspect was dark and miserable. The stone walls were icy in winter, with draughts coming in through the gaps and holes that were filled only with bits of earth and straw, often blown away by the fierce winds coming in off the Atlantic. The cottage was near the edge of a narrow dirt lane. The landscape was devoid of trees. Comfort was the warmth of the fire whenever there was enough turf to feed it. It was smoky, dank and depressing. And yet the young lad was content, as he knew no better. Helping his mother and looking good in her eyes was all that he wanted.

He often used to sit and watch her as she spun wool on the old pine spindle, questioning her about everything she did—his thirst for knowledge far exceeding his youth.

Is that hard to do, Ma? I mean spinning. It’s mysterious to see sheep’s wool turning into something you can knit with. It’s kind of magic, isn’t it? Can you teach me?

My mother taught me and her mother taught her. It’s women’s work, Liam. I could show you how it works but your father wouldn’t let you spin. He’d be really angry. He wants you to learn men’s work, like digging, plowing, sowing seed, caring for the animals. And he’s right. You’ll need to know those things for when you grow up and have your own family.

Ma, I want to stay with you always. Can’t things stay the way they are now?

Ah, Liam lad, will you whisht? There’s work to be done. Away with you now and milk the goat. Your father will be in soon for his dinner and he’ll need a cup of milk after his hard day working on the landlord’s estate.

But why does Da have to work for the landlord? Why don’t we have our own land, Ma?

Liam, you’re too young to understand. The English have everything. We couldn’t stop them. Now if we want to eat and have a roof over our heads we have to work for them. If we’re not very careful we’ll be on the side of the road. Now come here and give me a kiss and go and do as I asked.

In spite of the heaps of questions that were building up in his little mind, Liam did as he was told. He went and he put his arms around his mother’s neck and kissed her on the lips and then, pulling himself away from her embrace, walked slowly towards the cottage door, reaching for the latch that was barely within his grasp.

Make sure you close the door, will you? she said. There’s a howling gale coming in from the sea today.

Liam picked up the tin milk bucket and pulled the door until he heard the click in the latch that meant it was properly fastened, then he walked the short distance on the icy dirt path to where the goat was tethered by the shed. She could be really nasty and kick out at Ronan, but was always docile with him. Putting down the bucket, he went inside the shed and found the three-legged wooden stool that they used for milking. Sitting himself down beside the nanny goat, using her body as shelter, he started milking her, humming away to himself. Soon he had her milked and brought the quarter-pail carefully back to the house, standing on his tippy toes to open the latch. A gust of wind threw the door back on its hinges and he wasn’t strong enough to push it closed. He placed the pail on the table as he usually did and then looked at Brigid.

I’m sorry, Ma, I can’t do it. Will you help me? The wind’s too strong for me.

He put his back to the door, trying to reverse his steps but still couldn’t close it. His mother smiled at his efforts and got up from the spindle, which she placed against the stone wall.

Of course, I’ll help you. The wind is very strong today. I’d say rain is coming. Next time you’ll do it yourself. I know you will. You’re getting bigger every day. Now, put some water in the pot for the potatoes, there’s a good lad, she said and swooped down to place a kiss on his cheek and hug him to her. Brigid watched him fondly as he tried to pour water into the pot without spilling it and smiled to herself as some spilled onto the dirt floor. It was a bit heavy for him to manage, but he’d have to learn.

I spilled some water on the floor, Ma, he said, not sure whether to tell her or not.

That’s alright, son, it will soon dry up, she said, taking the pot from him and placing it over the hearth to boil. You’re doing fine for such a young man. You’re all that’s dear to your father and me.

Ma, why is there just me? Why don’t I have any brothers and sisters? Micheál has three sisters and Mrs. O’Connell has four children in the house down the lane. I’d love to have someone to play with sometimes. Couldn’t you find another baby, Ma?

’Tisn’t as easy as all that, Liam. Maybe the Lord only wanted us to have you. Now, run to the well and get some more water and stop with your questions before your da comes in.

As the afternoon progressed and the light faded, she’d watch through the window for her husband to round the bend and come slowly up the lane, weary from his day. She never lost that joy of running out to greet him. It was that warmth and love that kept the man going. Brigid could tell the condition he was in, some days more downcast and depressed than others and she knew how to make him relax and help him forget the repetitive, backbreaking work that he was obliged to do for their landlord.

Oh, we’re glad to see you, my darling, she’d say, I’ve been watching the window this past while and Liam has been helping me with the housework.

He’d follow her into the cottage, taking off his mucky boots at the door and banging them together to remove the mud and manure that stuck to them. Later he’d get a sharp stone and scrape away all the remaining dirt, but his first thought was to close the door on the world and be with his family.

She always had some warm water and homemade soap ready for him to wash up before they ate. There was little talk before then, just her gentle humming or singing as she went about her tasks or spoke to their son, asking him to run and get some turf for the fire or whatever it was she needed.

She’d take in the little things that as a man he’d never notice: a fresh tear in his shirtsleeve; the elbow worn out of his gansey or a rip in his trouser leg, and set to repairing after the evening meal was finished. Each evening she set herself down with her workbasket darning and sewing. She was clever with the needle and could refashion secondhand clothes from the church to fit them all. When Ronan’s only white shirt became scuffed and worn, she turned the collar and cuffs. She washed and stitched old used corn sacks then filled them with straw to provide them with bedding. Liam’s bed was a stuffed sack in the corner away from the cot where his parents slept. He had a couple of clean rough sacks to cover him but they gave little or no warmth in the chill of winter.

Sometimes in the middle of the night Liam would creep over to Brigid, asleep in the cot that she shared with Ronan and tug at her hair. Then he’d whisper in her ear, cupping his hands, Ma, can I get in beside you? I’m fierce cold.

Sure you can, but be very quiet and don’t wake your father, she’d respond softly.

Then he’d scramble over her tummy and snuggle between his parents where the warmth of their bodies would have him asleep in no time. Liam was sure his father never knew he was there, but Ronan used to wake up and cherish the moments of peace quietly in his heart.

---

Brigid and Ronan knew that their son was different from other children. Already at his young age, he was showing signs of that insight and talent that some maintained was tainted by the fairies. He was fascinated by nature and the changes that took place each season, both on the land and at sea. His curiosity was boundless for events and incidents that others his age would not have even noticed.

Ma, why do you think so many people go away across the sea on those boats? he’d ask time and again. I can’t see any land out there, except for the Aran Islands and nobody goes there except the ones that live there.

His mother knew Liam was fascinated by the ocean, its high seas, the currents, the waves and the tales that were woven by the locals. She often tried to quell his desire to know more about the emigrants. She had a secret dread that her only son would take off across the sea to some unknown land. She had heard that some people on the far side of the sea were a different colour, that they didn’t wear any clothes nor did they believe in Our Savior. There was no way she wanted Liam being affected or influenced by those strange tales.

Shush, Child, don’t be filling your mind with such nonsense. Some of the homeless take off to places I know nothing about and more of them drown trying, she added.

But Ma, I want to see what’s on the other side of the ocean.

And what would we do without you here? This is your home. We are your family. Our faith is built on the family: your Da, you and me. I don’t want you thinking like this anymore, do you understand me?

Yes, Ma, he answered obediently, but the truth was that every time he looked out on the sea, he longed to know what was out there. He felt a tug from over the horizon, though he was too young to articulate his ideas.

---

Hunger was a common visitor to their home. Liam could remember crying with the pain in his belly and his mother holding him to her, rocking him. The warmth of her body and her comforting motherly scent sometimes lulled him off to sleep. His dreams were random and wild. He dreamt of huge waves carrying the fishermen out to sea, of happier times with his da and ma laughing, of berry picking in the autumn and of food on the table.

Liam used to help Brigid in their small plot out the back of the cottage, planting seed potatoes and cabbage in the early spring.

Ma, how do big potatoes grow from these little potatoes?

Just stick it in the hole that I made for you and in a few weeks you’ll see the plant growing out of the ground. The flowers will come on the green plant and the potatoes will grow under the ground. Don’t you remember your Da digging them up last year?

I’m not sure if I do remember. But this year I’m going to watch every single day until the plants come up, he said, rubbing his grubby hand down his face.

Brigid laughed and with a little spittle on the corner of her apron, wiped his face. As she cleaned him up she thanked God for all their blessings and especially the joy of a son.

At night, she prayed to The Holy Family to relieve her family from suffering and want.

Blessed Holy Virgin Mary, look down upon us from heaven and take pity on us sinners. Give us enough to eat and drink that we may be better able to serve you, Amen.

Each night Brigid also led them in prayer, reciting the rosary in the Irish language:

"Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire,

atá lán de ghrásta,

Tá an Tiarna leat.

Is beannaithe thú idir mná,

Agus is beannaithe toradh do bhroinne, Íosa."

They knelt by the fireside, each one of them taking a decade of the rosary. A decade meant ten Hail Marys, followed by the Glory Be. In addition to these prayers, depending on the Liturgical Calendar, other prayers were added. Ronan found it hard to be thankful for anything and often scorned the local parish priest for the hypocrisy he demonstrated to the local gentry. The parish priest was in a tough position. He was slave to the whim of the English, some of whom showed leniency to the Irish, but this was by no means true of all landlords.

Whenever Brigid managed to get some grain, she’d make some kind of bread or gruel and dole it out, keeping the largest portion for her husband. She would cook in a single pot—that was all she had, apart from a kettle that she could swing into the fire and a small iron plate to place the pot on. Liam was fond of sitting on a three-legged wooden stool near the hearth watching her as she kneaded the dough and sang some melody as she worked. She always cooked the same food, bread and potatoes; there was never any meat or other vegetables unless Ronan caught an animal in a trap that he’d set. The boy knew that his da would be in trouble with the English if they found out, but he couldn’t understand why. So, inquisitive as he was, he asked his mother.

Ma, why can’t we go fishing or catch rabbits in the fields?

Liam, you know right well we’re not allowed any of those things. The English people won’t let us. They’d send your father away on a ship to Australia at the other end of the world and we’d never see him again.

We won’t tell them, we’ll hide whatever we catch, he said, with that innocence that only children possess. Doesn’t Da find salmon and trout sometimes? Does he have to hide them?

Hush lad, don’t talk to anyone about what your da brings home. There are times when that’s all we have to eat. And no, we don’t hide it. We eat it the same day because we’re hungry. Only the English can fish in the rivers and streams; though when we’re really hungry your father and some of the other villagers poach fish to feed everyone, she tried to explain. It’s not right to steal, but the land and the rivers belong to us Irish anyway. Your father waits until he hears that the overseer or landlord will be away. He knows the good pools to go to and when the fish are likely to be biting.

But what if the bad English saw Da fishing? What would they do? Would they shoot him?

I’ve already told you they’d put him on a ship and send him far, far away. We’d never see him again, she said, adding that he shouldn’t worry because his father was bigger and stronger than the landlord.

That explanation seemed to satisfy Liam but that evening he wouldn’t eat anything even though his parents tried to coax him.

I want you and Ma to eat, he said, I don’t want you to be hungry. Then the landlord won’t take you away and put you on a ship.

Liam lad, I’m not going anywhere. Your mother and I want you to grow up and be a strong man, so eat up! The landlord isn’t going to see me fishing or poaching game. I’m way smarter than him.

So it was that the inhabitants of the land were primarily concerned with survival. And to survive they had to provide feed for their animals, be it a goat or a cow. Each household’s meagre acreage was given over to potatoes that they planted twice yearly. They hobbled their animal’s legs to prevent them from straying too far away from their cottage, but at the same time they were able to wander slowly and graze. Often it was the long acre, a strip of land on the edge of the lane that provided the essential feed, which was fine until the police caught up with his father. There was precious little grass or vegetation of any kind back there, so every day Liam would lead the goat out of the field and down the road. With a bit of luck she’d graze away there for the day. Sometimes there would be complaints from other farmers, but for the most part there were few passersby.

Ronan used to set snares to catch rabbits or hares when they got desperate with the hunger. When he was old enough Liam went with him.

Come on, it’s high time you learned how to set traps yourself. Be mindful though, you’ll be lucky to get away with a hiding if the gamekeeper ever catches you, said Ronan.

That part of the country was covered in a thick bush-like plant called gorse. Gorse had a beautiful yellow flower in spring and summer time. But the flowers hid the treachery of the spines that emerged out of its oval leaves as the shrub grew.

This is one of the best places to set our snares, Ronan explained. The landlord is least likely to come here because the thorns will injure his horse.

Da, show me how to tie it well, will ye? The boy’s hands were torn and bleeding from the sharp thorns and he became frustrated with the effort. I find it fierce hard to do.

Watch carefully now, we can’t be hanging around here for too long, Ronan answered.

Liam sensed that Ronan was proud of his willingness to learn. Very soon with his father’s help, Liam became adept at setting the snares: twisting the wire, making a noose, putting one end of the wire through the noose then making a second noose, securing a long piece of string to the second noose and attaching it firmly to the base of a gorse bush away from the sharp eyes of the landlord and gamekeeper alike.

He and his father used to go and check the snares frequently. Sometimes they’d come upon a rabbit that was only half dead.

Oh Da, it’s hurt. Can’t we fix it?

Nah, the kindest thing is to put it out of its misery, said Ronan, wondering at the same time if many of his countrymen didn’t feel the same way about their plight.

There was no time to consider the animal’s pain; Ronan just got on with it, wringing the creature’s neck with a skilled movement of his wrists. Skinning had to be done behind the slate shed after nightfall. Ronan buried the skins and Brigid boiled the rabbit, their mouths salivating all the while at the aroma. They’d have to eat slowly because their stomachs were unused to the rich food, and keep a watchful eye out the window for fear the gamekeeper or the landlord himself showed up. With some decent food in his belly, his father would be in better humour for a while. As the evening wore on, he and Brigid would sing old Gaelic songs by the hearth.

---

One of the happiest childhood memories for Liam was watching the sea from the field. He’d marvel at the fishermen setting out in their currachs or be enchanted by the rare and sudden appearance of a dolphin in their cove. Then if he could, he’d escape down the cliffside, calling to the beautiful mammal to wait for him. It was as though the dolphin knew the boy. He’d swim in and out of the little cove, occasionally springing up in the air out of the water with a splash, waiting for young Liam to appear from behind the cliff face. Liam would scramble across the rocks, surefooted as a goat, with feet hard as the toughest leather, oblivious to the shells of mussels, clams and cockles strewn there by Mother Nature. Liam had his secret meeting place in a little cove sheltered by the high cliffs and rocks that formed a natural pool that filled with seawater. Hidden from above, the dolphin he christened Mara, would come right up to the pool formed by thousands of years of being pummeled by the Atlantic surf, so the two could communicate. Liam would stroke her smooth grey skin and tell her all his dreams and wishes. He’d ask the dolphin what lay beyond the horizon. Was there another land over there? And if she knew where Tír na nÓg and Atlantis were? The little boy, lacking friends and much human contact, was captivated by this sea creature.

Liam’s mother often watched them from the top of the cliff. She never mentioned the creature’s strange connection with her son for fear Ronan would forbid it. In her heart Brigid knew that their son was only theirs on loan. Tears would flow freely down her face and try though she might she couldn’t stop them. Oh, my darling boy, what is to become of you? she thought. At those times she invoked the Holy Spirit to protect them all.

Chapter 2

In the warmer days of summer Liam would shake off his clothes and hold on to Mara’s fin and be carried through the surf. He loved to close his eyes and imagine he was a sea creature himself. He mimicked the mammal’s movements in the water and learned to swim and dive under the water with her, emerging way out to sea. Sometimes the current dragged the pair down the coast. Once it was dark when they got back into the cove. The moon and stars guided him up the side of the cliff that was treacherous enough during the daylight, but deadly in the black shadows that played tricks on the eyes. His father and mother were outside their home in the still of the night, calling his name.

Oh, Ronan, what if he’s gone? What will we do? she’d cried out.

Hush, woman, you don’t know that. You’re all too aware that he forgets time when he goes into that imaginary world of his. Aye, you think I don’t know what goes on with him. Of course I do, I’m his father and I love him too.

Oh, Ronan, I’m sorry. I was always afraid to say anything to you for fear you’d punish the lad. He’s a good boy, she pleaded, holding on to his arm and hugging him to her.

His mother felt her deepest fears had been realised and her face looked devoid of life—such was her anguish. Ronan caught hold of Liam as soon as he saw him scrambling over the edge of the cliff. Getting him back into the house, half-dragging, half-shoving him, he demanded some answers.

What the hell were you thinking, Liam? he yelled. Where have you been all this time? Have you any idea what you put your mother through?

Da, I’m sorry, I forgot the time, I was playing that’s all, said a half-scared Liam.

Jaysus, lad, how many times have we told you to stay away from the cliffs? Will you never learn? His father reached for the strap that was stuck on a nail on the back of the wooden door. Will I have to belt some sense into your skull?

Oh, leave him be, we’re glad he’s safely back to us, Brigid pleaded, to no avail.

Keep away from the cliffs and the sea, Ronan repeated, breathing heavily with the exertion of beating him. Your mother was beside herself with worry.

Liam kept his mouth firmly shut, gritting his teeth every time the strap landed on his scrawny frame. There was nothing he could say to improve his situation and though he felt the pain of the whipping, he wasn’t going to cry either. Meanwhile Brigid wanted to give him something to eat, dry him down and hug him to herself. Ronan forbade her to give him anything.

Some way or another that lad has to be taught sense. Fooling around, getting wet, and half-drowning himself, then climbing up that sheer cliff when he’s been told to keep away … I don’t know what we’re going to do with him. Ronan had given in to his temper and beaten Liam badly. Later he was ashamed of his actions, but couldn’t forgive the boy for his disobedience and carelessness.

The cliffs were a source, not only of great beauty and curiosity for the young fellow, they also provided the family with fresh eggs. Many birds built their nests in the crevices on the cliff face. Liam would sling a sack over his shoulder and lower himself down its precipitous overhang. Because he was so light and agile he was able to find footholds and handgrips in the natural limestone rock. He’d shoo the puffins and razorbills off their nests and take the eggs amid the screeching and flapping that inevitably ensued. His mother was grateful for the nutritious addition to their diet and never enquired too closely about their source.

One evening it had been raining heavily as Liam made his way up the cliff. He had been collecting eggs when he saw Mara playing in the sea far below. He couldn’t resist the opportunity of going down to spend a little time with his friend. Securing the eggs to a bush and tying his red scarf to it as a marker, he scuffled down, gripping the rocks and finding the old path where his feet had so often gone before. This time he was not so lucky. After all the rain, the ground was slick; he missed his footing and fell about twenty feet to a jutting plateau of rock that broke his fall. He had no idea how long he was lying there. Gradually becoming conscious of his surroundings, he lifted up his arm and felt something wet and sticky on the side of his forehead. Pulling down his hand he saw that it was covered in blood. His left arm was crooked and hurt him terribly. What was he going to do?

Help me, help, he yelled, to no avail. The wind carried his voice away out to the sea. Some fishermen rowing in their currach spotted him and risking being battered against the sharp cliff face, rowed in against the current. Two of them leapt out of the boat and scaled the treacherous rocks to reach him. Between them they managed to hoist the semi-conscious boy onto one of their shoulders. Then, making their way down the side of the sheer cliffs, they put him carefully into the centre of the currach. He was bleeding profusely from his forehead and his right arm was dangling awkwardly by his side. He was in a lot of pain as the fishermen rowed him into the nearby cove.

Thank you, thank you, he said repeatedly, while one of them climbed way up the narrow road to his house on the hill. He dreaded the thought of his father coming down to the beach to get him. He had disobeyed him once again. For once Ronan said nothing. He took the boy up into his strong arms and thanked the men.

Thank the Lord you’re safe, Liam, your mother and I were beside ourselves with worry, said Ronan, hugging him like never before.

Let’s get you to the doctor. Let him have a look at you. Your head looks alright, the bleeding has stopped, but your arm looks bent in a strange angle.

Turning around, Ronan listened to what the fisherman was saying:

We saw this dolphin leaping in and out of the water close to the cliffs. If it weren’t for that creature, we’d never have seen the boy, the fisherman explained. We normally don’t go that near the rocks, you know.

Ronan felt a sense of foreboding and thanked the Lord that Brigid was out of earshot. Some of the villagers were already suspicious of the lad—he seemed to escape death where another would not have survived. This event would surely give substance to their gossip.

And as villagers are wont to do, they spoke about the child’s lucky escape that evening in the pub.

There’s something quare about Ronan and Brigid’s lad, Brian, don’t you think? commented one of them.

Aye, I do, Brian answered. "Remember that time last year when we saw him swimming way out in the sea with