Chapter 6

Avery hadn’t listened to an analog radio for years. If ever. But here they sat, huddled over a radio in the living room of the B&B like it was 1945 and World War II had just ended.

The weather report babbling from the brown and chrome box in the middle of the table was not as encouraging. “Deepening depression of 978 hectopascals centered 300 miles west of Valentia drifts steadily eastward. The front will cross the southwest coast of Ireland later today and earlier tonight.”

It switched to commercials. Avery flopped back in the wickerwork chair and gazed at four of her new companions around the dining table: Cathal, Brenda, Rosemary—formerly known as Angela Merkel—and the old guy, Finbarr. They had all been nicely fed with Irish stew by the proprietress of the Reeksview B&B, a mile from Ventry. The first day of the tour had been great, if wet. The odd spurt of sunshine and appearance of rainbows during breaks in the clouds had made it seem magical rather than a washout.

“What does all that mean?” she asked the table, in the fashion of dumb female sidekicks in every sci-fi series pre-Firefly.

“It means a stormfront,” Cathal answered grumpily, forking a lump of lamb. Then he held her gaze for a second too long. “As you probably figured.”

It got him talking, which had been her intent. Since their conversation earlier he’d gone all taciturn and read two chapters of his book. When they’d got to Ventry town, their final stop, he’d spent more time looking into the sky than at the pretty shop windows. He couldn’t be enticed to have a drink in the pub, though with all the stag lads making such a racket it wouldn’t have been relaxing and she’d opted out too. At least he’d allowed himself to have a Guinness now and seemed to remember how his voice box functioned.

“No boats’ll be going to Skellig Michael then?” she prompted.

“None.”

“Are you thinking of going to Skellig Michael, dear?” Rosemary asked. The mid-sixties woman was from a sweet-sounding place called Gweedore in Donegal where they spoke Irish, and she was friends with Brenda’s cousin. Because of course.

“I’m sure hoping to,” Avery said with a sigh.

“And are you enjoying the tour?”

“It’s totally awesome. I’m making notes to bring back home. I’m really inspired by it all.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Well, I make computer applications.” Avery had no idea how much Rosemary knew about computers in general. “And one idea was to create tourism experiences for fans of Star Wars because Skellig Michael features as a location in one of the movies.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Rosemary said. “My Liam loves those. It’s the Jedi hideout, isn’t it? That’s very interesting. You’re making an app about that? He would buy that in a shot.”

“I’ve got my first customer then. Yes, I want people going there to be able to immerse themselves in the Star Wars universe while they’re standing on top of Skellig Michael. And then do the same with other movie set locations.”

Any potential to further sell herself was cut short because Brenda wanted to go over the plans for the next day, and to get everyone’s agreement on logistics, before they all inevitably drifted off to their separate bedrooms.

“And then if the day after tomorrow is fine, we could try out one of the beaches,” Brenda concluded. She turned to Cathal. “But you were going to try to get to Skellig Michael too, weren’t you?”

He looked up. “I was. I am.”

“You could try together, couldn’t you?” Brenda looked down the table at Avery.

He nodded. “She’d be more than welcome to try.”

Avery felt the challenge of his gaze. “Do or do not...”

“There is no try,” everyone around the table chorused. Except him.

Brenda and Rosemary laughed but from him, it elicited nothing more than a fraction of a frown.

“Is that something from the film?” he asked.

“It’s a wise old Jedi’s motto,” she said. “You kinda had to be there.”

“Yoda speaks backwards, you see,” Rosemary explained.

“Like Irish,” one of the stag lads said from the other side of the room. They all laughed, banging their forks on the table.

When it got to the point of universal annoyance Cathal leaned back and eyed their leader with such sternness that he shut up and they quietened down to a sulky grumble of dissent. Avery wished she knew that trick.

Soon afterward, Rosemary left for bed, followed swiftly by Finbarr and Brenda. Avery scooted up the table and took the vacated chair beside Cathal. His encouraging smile made her glad she’d taken the risk.

“I suppose your monks of old had their own mottos and strict codes of honor too?” she asked, desperate to hear what might inspire this intriguing man, if contemporary culture didn’t do it for him. She didn’t want him to think she was making fun of him, because she wasn’t. Not at all. She just wanted to know more.

“They did,” Cathal replied. “They suffered enormously just to get to the island. But again, that was the whole point. They called it green martyrdom.”

She rested her chin in her hands, marveling at how lovely he looked with firelight illuminating his broad forehead. “Green martyrdom?”

“In the Celtic understanding, there are three types of martyrs. Red martyrs die for the sake of their faith, often gruesomely, imitating Jesus on the cross. Let’s not talk about that. White martyrs leave behind all possessions, titles, and relationships—the hermits, anchorites, and most monastics. Green martyrs seek ascetic life in nature, no matter the circumstances.”

When he paused, silence filled the room. The stag lads were no longer messing around, but listening. “The monks who travelled to Skellig Michael were trying to imitate the desert fathers of Egypt, who renounced all worldly goods and led a life of contemplation in the desert. They wanted to be just as severe in their fasting and penance, so they sought out the harshest and most remote places possible in Ireland.

“And it wasn’t just an isolated few, either. In those medieval days many families wanted to send their children there, to be educated as monks or nuns. They’d start them at age seven or eight. They’d undergo intense spiritual training until seventeen or so. After this training, a monk—if given permission from the elders—could leave the monastery to become a secluded hermit, and go on to do spiritual battle in the wilderness.”

Like Padawans and the Jedi council, she couldn’t help thinking. If only she could harness this, somehow connect the two traditions.

“I’m sure I could weave this into my app,” she said aloud.

“I’m sure you could,” he said, in a tone that suggested it would happen over his dead, cremated, and very scattered body.

She opened her mouth to qualify what she meant but he gave her a curt nod and rose, scraping the chair against the flagstone floor. Empty pint glass in hand, he strode off toward the kitchen and she knew he wouldn’t be coming back tonight. That pissed her off more than she cared to admit.