Irene

            But she would see them go. She would watch those glinting waters until they returned to barrenness. That was her right. That was her claim. This shore, no matter how far away it was pushed, belonged to her. She had claimed it long ago.
            She was raised above all this now, watching the harbour from above. She was watching the men gather themselves and the women disperse among them for final goodbyes. She did not smile. She watched as an obelisk, immovable by any force, natural, moral, or romantic. Brown is a difficult colour to make romantic, even by the sunrise’s efforts.
            Despite herself, she was looking for him down below. She would catch sight of what looked to be one of his friends and she’d follow him for a while to see if he would lead her to Cormac, but such a thing was difficult when on a hill looking down at walls and rooves and sails.

 Cormac could see in the night, or so he told himself. He had enough light by the moon, and he knew where he was going as he staggered out of the pub and onto the rocky roads. He said nothing to the calls behind him for one more round, simply waving a hand in the general direction of the closed door. He knew where he was going. He must have, for he’d told the barman that he did.
            The tear. Yes, that was it. He had to go see about the tear.
            Irene could see to the tear. Irene McGowan. The McGowan girl. And now, somehow, he was at her door. He looked about himself. Apparently, he had known where he was going. Knock? Key? He felt in his pocket for a moment, trying to decide, but it must have been a little longer than a moment because Irene opened the door, earthy hair about her shoulders and messed as if she had been sleeping. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes did, and Cormac was fairly certain that it had little good to say about what she was seeing.
            He pointed at the shoulder of his uniform jacket. ‘Tear.’
            Her dark brown eyes failed to waver from his. ‘And that would be my problem, would it?’
            But she ushered him inside.

 There was a part of Irene that tugged her down towards the ocean. Once or twice, beneath her skirt, she took a step forward, but the wind’s pressure in the cloth’s folds seemed too comforting to fight any more than that. It was like a dog’s head resting on her chest. It reminded her of her life and place. You have claimed. She has claimed. The claims stand. Though she regretted it, Irene could learn to live by the wind’s pressure. She traced her thumb along the top of her palm, where her fingers joined the rest of her hand. Her lip twisted slightly at the tickle that came through the callouses. She traced it again, just to feel it. Then, she turned her palm to the wind and let it soothe the callouses. When the wind picked at them, she sometimes felt like they really were receding. She felt, then, as though she had the chance to return to her childhood. It had not been so long ago, after all.
            This was not one of those times. The wind was warm, and it came from the sun. It came over the sea, far above Cormac and the buildings, to the palm of her hand. It was blowing in from the ocean. She raised her other hand to her lips and blew a cool ‘O’ onto its callouses. This was soothing, though not as soothing as a favourable wind that reminded her of youthfulness. Close, receding youthfulness.
            Cormac, of course, had had callouses even then.

 Cormac was supported and guided to the fireplace. He slumped into the wood-backed chair and Irene had to push him forward and drag the jacket from his back, opening the tear further. Cormac waited for her to say something deprecating, but she never did. Maybe she’d run out of commentary. She tossed a few logs into the fire along with a match and left the room. Cormac stared at the fire until she returned and he could stare at her. She settled into the other chair with her stitching needles and thread.
            ‘Bar fight?’ she asked, her voice quiet as if she didn’t expect him to understand; as if he was a pet.
            ‘Something like that,’ Cormac rubbed his sore arm, and then his other sore arm.
            Irene began stitching and he watched her hands weave about her lap. He knew he was inebriated but he could have sworn that she was glowing. It could have just been the fire. It was probably the fire.
            ‘I’m glad you were awake,’ Cormac said.
            ‘I wasn’t,’ Irene rubbed her eye with the back of her hand. ‘I could sleep through an earthquake but not you.’
            ‘I need that jacket for tomorrow,’ Cormac said. ‘High tide.’

 ‘Tell me again why you have to leave at high tide,’ Irene lay with her head on her father’s chest. He was leaning against his rock. He claimed that the sun warmed it, even when it was setting. The rock wasn’t on their property, but he had claimed it. She had his hand in hers and was tracing the new callouses he’d brought home.
            He took control of their hands and manoeuvred one in waves. ‘We have more water at high tide.’ He cupped their other hands, hers in his, and rested it against the waving ones. ‘We like having that water so we don’t hit the bottom and get stuck.
            He suddenly brought his cupped hand down and struck it against his knee. Irene’s was still afloat.
            ‘If we get stuck,’ he explained. ‘That means it takes longer to get out and that means we’ll have to stay out there longer.’
            ‘Or you could not go.’
            He chuckled but not like his old chuckles. This was one of the new ones that was woven with sad sighing. ‘But I have to go.’
            ‘To get money?’
            ‘Yes,’ he said and leaned over her, poking his head into the side of her view. ‘And so I can come back to you.’
            Irene sat up and nestled herself by his side. He put his arm around her, and she took his hand once more to remember all the callouses there now. She’d learn all the new ones when he came back.
            ‘I could go with you,’ she said. She understood what she was saying. She had no misconceptions about sailing. ‘I could cut my hair and pretend to be a boy. You have boys on the ship, don’t you? Cormac was saying that you do.’
            ‘But I like your hair,’ her father twisted it about her fingers. It was light and she wished it was dark. Her mother said that it might get darker as she got older. ‘And yes, we do have boys on the ship, but you wouldn’t like any of them and when did you start listening to Cormac again?’
            ‘I don’t have to like them. I’ll work hard.’
            ‘You will, will you?’
            Irene nodded.
            Her father sighed, but she couldn’t tell what emotion it belonged to. ‘Let’s just stop talking about it, why don’t we. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.’
            ‘I already know you’re gone,’ she nodded to the other side of the valley, behind which was the ocean. ‘You’re already out there in your heart.’

 ‘Marry me, Irene,’ Cormac said.
            Irene looked up at him with an analysing stare and he became aware that his mouth was hanging open.
            ‘No,’ and she turned back to the stitching.
            Cormac watched her at it for a while, eyes moving from her hands to her face and her hands again. She pierced her fingers once or twice, but didn’t seem to notice.
            ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Please?’
            And this time she simply shook her head, not looking up from her work.
            ‘Okay.’
            Irene tutted as she held up a part of the jacket to the light. ‘Stain.’
            She stood up, leaving the jacket over the back of her chair and returned with a kettle. It dropped into Cormac’s lap with a thud and compressed him a bit.
            ‘Water,’ she said as she sat back down to continue stitching.
            There was a pump down the street and Cormac was getting near well enough to walk to it. He managed it after a little while and pumped out the water, debating to himself whether it was good preparation for sailing or simply wearing him out. Such thoughts had not occurred to him when he had struck that man in the stomach. That had been a matter of honour and not stitching and stains.
            He returned, and Irene insisted on placing the kettle over the fire herself. Cormac hummed to himself. Such mistrust would not do in a marriage. It’d be for the best that she said no.

 It occurred to Irene that she could sit. Perhaps she should sit. That could very well have been the right thing to do in such a situation. She’d surely be able to see just as much of the rows of sails and the columns of men if she were sitting. She had no intention, now, of going anywhere. She had gone to Cormac enough. If he wanted, he could come to her and they could be together on that hill.
            ‘Yes,’ She whispered to herself. She would say yes if he were to ask her now. She stumbled over an image in her mind of Cormac walking those streets, feeling at the stitching on his shoulder and mumbling his question over and over again to himself. He was trying to find a way to say it to which she couldn’t say no.
            The hill. That was the way to say it. Say it to her on that hill.
            The wind had cooled, just a touch. It was still not cool enough to soothe her callouses. At least, though, it was blowing the sails towards her. At least it was giving them that chance. The ocean’s waves against the shore strained against the wind’s blowing. It was growing impatient. It had laid its dazzling claim. They are my right.
            Then take them. Take them and take them all around the world.

 Irene sat on a crate and watched the men go up and down the planks to the boats. She drummed a little rhythm on the wood and said a little prayer for each man, just as her mother had taught her to do. A gruff one walked past and looked at her in the corner of his eye. He grunted as he went by and said a word to Irene’s father. He nodded and came over to kneel in front of Irene. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair was tied back. It didn’t fall about his face as he let it do when he was at home. It fell in curled pillars around his temples when he was home.
            ‘Are you in fine form, my young lass?’ He asked.
            Irene nodded.
            His smile turned sad. It was in his eyes that it did.
            ‘I’m going to need that crate, Irene,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need that now.’
            Irene came down off the box.
            ‘Give us a hug, Irene,’ he said. ‘There’s a good girl. Back before you know I’m gone.’
            But Irene already knew he was gone and now his hair was tied back.

  They were all gone. Every sailor to the last had boarded his ship and was now being pulled into the ocean’s sweet kisses and rocking embrace. They are my right. Irene’s fingers drummed a little rhythm against her skirt. She held them to her mouth, one hand at a time, blowing on the callouses. She watched the ships and their rhythms as they disappeared into the horizon. Some women said off the horizon, but she knew that they went into it. It claimed them. The horizon was the ocean’s slave master. The ships were brought to it, consumed and produced by it.
            Then she watched a little more, just at the sparkling sea. It is my duty. Yes, your duty.
            Then she turned and, with the wind at her back, she descended into the hill’s valley, resting a hand, as always, on her father’s rock. The rock they had sat at all those eves. She said a prayer for him and a prayer for Cormac, just as her mother had taught her to. Then, she went home and put away her needles and thread.

 ‘Cry for me, Irene,’ Cormac said.
            Irene looked up from where she was dabbing a cloth into the boiled water. ‘What?’
            ‘I have a feeling that you won’t.’
            ‘You know I always do.’
            ‘Not this time,’ Cormac slipped down in his chair and looked at the fire. ‘I’m doubting you this time.’
            Irene chuckled one of those sad chuckles that she tended to do and began to scrub at the stain with soap.
            ‘What?’
            ‘You doubting me. It’s funny.’
            ‘I know,’ Cormac smiled faintly. ‘Just one tear, though. For me.’
            By the fire, tears seemed impossible for the both of them. Their eyes were dried by the heat. What lay behind their eyes had evaporated. Besides, what was there to cry about? Cormac and Irene were sitting beside the fire together. Things were as they were meant to be. For a moment, they both believed that, but those moments were separate and neither felt it at the same time.
            ‘Marry me,’ Cormac mumbled, unaware of the words he was saying.
            Irene paused from her scrubbing, still not looking up. ‘Just come home first.’
            Then they could be like this, pushed away by the ocean together, far from the horizon, deep in these green valleys where the wind could blow ever above them.
            But that was if he came back.