Chapter 7

Cathal was glad he didn’t have his phone with him as he’d only be tempted to obsess over the weather forecast this morning. One peek out the window this morning told him all he needed to know: It was going to get worse.

No Skellig Michael today.

Brenda accosted him while he was deep in thought, fishing his boiled egg out of a basket at the breakfast bar. The B&B people had really laid on a great spread this morning, which was good because he always ate more when he was in a bad mood.

“God, Cathal.” Brenda’s normally animated face was flat with concern. “I don’t know what to do with the lads. We can’t have another day like yesterday. You saw them. Jimmy Murdock kicked them out of his pub and he’s the most tolerant man this side of the Shannon. But today’s agenda is more wandering around the villages, each with a couple of pubs. To be honest, I’ve never had to deal with a stag party before.”

“I may have the solution for you, Brenda.”

“Oh?”

“With your permission, we could veer off the main tourist drag and hit one of the more sequestered spots, like, say, Cnoc na dTobar? It’s part of the pilgrim passport and to be honest, I was thinking of doing it myself today. But it would depend on a few things, of course.”

“Cnoc na dTobar… the Mountain of Wells. I know it, indeed. Climbed it myself as a girl,” she said dreamily, as if recalling a pleasant memory. “It’s a fair old hike though. They’ll need the rain gear, the boots, and the stamina.” Her face fell. “And they couldn’t all do it.”

“I think everyone except Finbarr could. We can lend Avery the rain-gear if she’s forgotten sensible clothing. It would do them all no harm.”

Brenda eyed him speculatively, clearly ruminating. “You know what,” she said slowly, “I could suggest to Finbarr that if he’s not up for climbing the mountain he can have a special tour of the town. My brother-in-law Kevin could organize it at short notice. I suspect he’ll just lure him to the pub and it’ll be all fine with Finbarr. If he agrees, then we’re set to go as far as I’m concerned.” She bobbed her head, looking pleased with her new plan. “It sure beats looking at tea rooms and plastic leprechauns from China.”

“My exact thoughts,” he agreed.

“And if Cnoc na dTobar doesn’t keep the lads out of trouble then nothing in this wide world ever will.”

“Just don’t tell them it’s a penitential mountain. It might put a dampener on their extended stag party.”

“No indeed, I might leave that bit out.” She laughed. “By mistake.”

*

“Take it easy in the beginning,” Cathal warned Avery. They were marching together through the wooden gate that marked the beginning of the climb. Cnoc na dTobar was one of those climbs that got exponentially harder toward the end. Brenda’s Plan B was in full swing.

“I have a brown belt in judo, just so you know,” she huffed, eyeing him up and down as if calculating the best move to throw him. It made him grin inside, to think of her trying.

After that, she went off on her own and walked with Brenda or Rosemary. Every so often, he’d turn to see where the blur of pink was through the drizzle. Just checking. Then, happily, she approached him an hour later, apparently seeking his company again. She was panting, clutching her side. “I’m not tired… it’s the altitude.”

“Of course.”

They marched on, over stone, moss, gorse, and heather. It felt companionable, this silence. Not that he didn’t like it when she talked, but he enjoyed even more that she didn’t feel chatter necessary all the time. He knew this already from the bus.

Only the wind and the hoarse cries of the seven stag lags punctuated the silence. He’d tried to learn some of their names in an attempt to humanize them—Dec, Rob, Anto, Mehmed, Sean Beag, Sean Mór, Conor. They were panting up the hill in T-shirts, oblivious to the wind, sometimes in front of them, sometimes behind. Their initial spurt had been alcohol-fueled. But now their tanks were low, their engines puttering. There was to be no sustenance until the top—Brenda had made that clear. And no suspiciously clanking plastic bags were allowed make the trip up either. At least they were staying well away from Avery.

“This is a bit… austere.” Avery let out a pained breath. “I’m surprised Brenda felt the need to drag us up here. I mean, it’s great, but… freaking hell, the weather.”

“It’s not Disneyland.”

She planted her hands on her hips, or what he suspected were her hips through the thick, oversize jacket. “Look, Cathal, I’m not some snowflake who needs my touristic experiences wrapped up in cotton. I’m not like that at all. I work bloody hard for a living. I’ve been to Cambodia.”

“I’m know you’re made of sturdy stuff,” he protested.

“But? There’s a but. What’s the but?” Her no-shit demeanor was undercut by her fidgeting with the phone, her fingers pink with cold.

“Do you think there’s a but? Or are you just curious to see what I’ll make up?”

“I don’t know.” She stomped further up, navigating around a protruding tree root. “The way you singled me out this morning for not having any decent rain gear? You might as well have called me a princess there and then.”

“That’s not a word I’d use to disparage somebody.”

“Yeah? What word would you use?”

His mind went to the dark place that stored all the insults his father used to hurl at him because he was the only one left to take it. “None that bear repeating on a holy mountain, and none that apply to you.”

“So freaking gallant.” She trudged on sulkily. She looked freezing, from the pink tip of her nose down to the fingers she was flapping about in an effort to get warm. If only he could take her hands in his and warm them up.

They’d reached the seventh station of the cross. The Skelligs came into view but only as a misty shimmering presence. He pointed out to sea. “They were considered to be the edge of the world before Galileo,” he told her. It didn’t get her talking but she nodded.

Backing away from the viewpoint to get on with climbing, he felt a pressure against the arch of his foot. He stumbled forward some awkward steps to regain his balance but fell helplessly, only narrowly avoiding a pile of sheep droppings. The culprit was a tree root sticking out of the ground.

Having steadied himself, he glanced over at her. She was grinning. Grinning and taking a video with her phone.

“Glad my phone still has some juice,” she said with a quirk of her eyebrows. “There’s so much action to capture around here.”

He brushed gorse thorns off his jacket and plucked one from the heel of his hand. “You’re certainly an opportunist.”

She flashed him a grin. “All part of my branding.”

“Phones are no match for the power of nature you see here, the power of silence,” he said, spreading his arms wide to indicate the Atlantic coast view. Her silliness, his own silliness, and the heady feeling of freedom out here in the wilds of Kerry, were making him dizzy. “That’s my branding right there.”

All he heard from her corner was a wet squelch. Her boot had landed in a pile of wet sheep shit. She eased it out, disgust twisting her nose. She let out a string of curses and finally muttered something about “limited edition” and “Leia slave boot.”

He tried very hard not to laugh, but as her Yoda guy apparently said, There is no try.

“Silence is good, yes. Very good branding there, Cathal.” She marched past him and called over her shoulder, “It definitely suits you.