Presenting,
A C R O S S
The Sea
1
P A P A — G O N E
The green hills seemed to roll, just before Colin’s eyes. He watched as the wooly sheep grazed there, so content. So happy. Though despite being fenced in for their own protection, they looked free. They didn’t have to be who they were supposed to be or what people wanted them to be. They got to live a peaceful life and then would die peacefully. Filling Colin’s stomach.
He saw a distant Gold Finch flutter away from a tree branch. It looked to be a baby, just learning how to fly. Imagine, it’s about to be the first time in all your life you are going in the air, and then suddenly—swoosh! Your mother nudges you out and you almost plummet to the ground, but you suddenly begin to fly. You flap your wings and up, up, you go! How free you’d feel.
Colin gazed at all the beautiful wonders of Ireland. So many mountains, so many hills. So much to be thankful for. Yet so much to long for as well. What lay beyond the coastal mountains? Adventure, most likely. But Papa always said,
“Your home, your life…it’s not out there.” He would point to their small village down in the valley.
“It’s there, son. There with our people. Boys like you should be learning a trade, learning a useful skill. Not always disappearing and longing for silly things like adventure.”
“But Papa—”
“Colin. Listen to me. Your place is here. Not out there.” Papa patted him on the back and made his way down the steep trail to the village of Cele (Ceh—lay)
Rocks surrounded those trails. Some boulders had fallen off from the mountain before and had crushed travelers. There was always a risk.
Just as Colin had turned back to gaze at the view, Papa screamed. Colin never saw him again, since that day.
Papa was crushed under the strong rocks that had tumbled out onto the dangerous trail. Papa had died that day, and had fallen off the face of the mountain. People gathered around, villagers. They had him already wrapped in cloth and onto a wagon.
Before Colin had reached the bottom, Papa was already gone. Never to be seen or heard again.
Colin held back urging tears just remembering. Today marked the anniversary of one whole year since Papa died. Colin had missed him more than anything else in all the world. He wanted a papa so much. Someone who would always be there. Ever since Papa left this world and entered into another, Mama had been sickly often. At this very minute, when Colin had left the house, she was in bed, coughing up a storm. She was very ill. She looked awful, with no one to care for her except Colin and his twin sister Fiona. Fiona knew little about healing and taking care of the sick, but she sure knew how to voice her opinions and speak her mind. She was very embarrassing sometimes, and the complete opposite of Colin, who was afraid of his own shadow. He was too shy to talk to most people besides his mother and sister, and he never went out unless Fiona was there. Fiona did the talking, Colin did the thinking. That’s how it had always been and that was how it probably would always be. When Mama would go to the next world, which he thought must be very soon, it would just be Colin and Fiona left. The last two Braygans in a very long line. A line of well respected merchants and farmers.
A voice startled him.
“Colin, come quick! It’s Mama! She’s failing!” Fiona’s voice carried on the wind and half the village probably heard.
“Fiona? Where are you?” Colin looked around.
Fiona yelled once more. “Get the doctor! Now!”
Colin raced down the trail, nearly slipping to his death.
He ran across town hollering, “I need the doctor!” He crashed into a bake sale table, but couldn’t stop to turn it right side up. He could be Mama’s only chance of living.
He dashed through the doctor’s door nearly flew into the man himself.
“Whoah there, son. What be the problem this time?” His friendly Irish accent made everyone feel comfortable.
“It’s Mama, I mean Mrs. Braygan. She’s falling ill. Very ill, sir.”
The old man rubbed his beard and grasped his briefcase tightly. “Hitch up the horses, son. This might be an emergency.”
Down the road, went Colin and the doctor, Mr. Finn O’Connor. They scared the chickens as they dashed down on the old wagon. The tired out horses ran their fastest and galloped with all their might. There hadn’t been an emergency like this since Papa. The horses were now used to laying and grazing, not galloping down narrow roads, being yelled at by their usually quiet, kind master.
“Go, Briga! Go Dairdy!” He yelled, while he snapped the reins and frightened them into running faster.
“These horses aren’t so swift as they once were!” Mr. O’Connor yelled. The wind was roaring past them and dust flew up in their face.
At last, they reached the little hill on which the Braygan’s cottage sat. All alone, was the little house. Cozy and private. Papa had been proud of this house when he first built it. He said it was the finest house in all of Ireland. But of course, he only said it when other folks weren’t around. Colin used to love the hearty conversations they had as a family, sitting by the brick fireplace, when Papa would smoke his tobacco and Mama would play the bagpipe. The music would float through the air, while the spicy-sweet aroma of stew would fill the house. Colin remembered when he was little and Papa would arrive home on his horse Brave, and Colin would run to the window screaming, “Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” And then, he’d run outdoors and Papa would pick him up and set him on his horse and would let him take the reins.
Colin smiled at the memory.
“Boy, wake up! Wake up!” Mr. O’Connor waved his hand in front of Colin’s face.
“Huh?”
“Give me the bucket back there.”
“Where?”
“Back there! What are ya daft? Fill it with water and come inside.”
Colin reached behind his seat and taking the bucket, ran to the well and filled it up. He dashed inside but stopped immediately when Mr. O’Connor put his finger to his lips to quiet him.
Mama lay in the little trundle bed, sleeping. Her face was red and bumpy and her arms and forehead were burning hot.
“What’s wrong?” Colin managed to speak. But he knew the answer. He knew the day was coming. Mama was dying.
Fiona walked in from the kitchen.
“It’s bad, Colin. It’s really bad.” She rested her hand on Colin’s shoulder.
Colin looked to the floor. He said nothing.
“Children.” Mr. O’Connors looked at them with solemn eyes. “It’s too late. She was taken to Neamh (Ny—av).” Neamh is the Irish word for heaven. They believed that if a soul was found honest and had a true heart full of grace, then you would be brought into Neamh. But if not, then your soul would be brought to the dark place. The place opposite from Neamh.
Colin stood there speechless.
Fiona did the same.
“There’s…nothing I can do. I’m…very sorry children.”
And that was the end for poor, sweet Mama.
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