After the fury of Gabrielle and the destruction she caused here is something in a lighter vein. (I’ve written several drabbles about Gabrielle’s behavior but they are for another time.) Meanwhile, here is a short piece with an Irish flavor.
IRISH MIST:
“Are you going to ‘stitch and bitch’ today or are we going hiking? The view will be great, I promise.”
My darling stood, looking so handsome, his backpack slung over his shoulder. How could I say I’d rather go to my embroidery session?
“I’d love to go for a tramp. Just let me pack some food, grab my boots and we’re off.”
I pushed aside the vision of an afternoon in the warmth of the community clubrooms, the sun pouring in the windows, and the burble of friendly chatter. Instead, I imagined the view from the top of the mountain, and precious time together.
I scurried around, packing bread rolls, ham, pickles and a banana each; slid into boots, threw on warm clothing and filled bottles of water.
Dressed for the adventure we set off minutes later. The winter sun barely warmed us but the steady pace and uphill climb soon had us stripping layers and tying jersey sleeves around our waist, hats and gloves tucked into pockets, insects swatted and water gulped.
“Save some of that,” Liam warned. “We might not see a spring to refill them.”
I nodded, too short of breath to waste it on words. When we stopped for a rest I noticed a bank of clouds on the horizon. “Did you check the forecast?”
His silence answered. He hadn’t.
“There’s no shame in not reaching the top.”
“It can’t be much further.”
But it was. Each rise we crested presented us with another. The sun disappeared and the sky became cloudy.
“I want to go back.” My initial enjoyment had morphed into an ache in my chest and a wheeze in my tubes.
“We’re nearly there.”
“You keep saying that.” I put my jersey back on. The day had turned from brilliant to bloody awful. Typical Irish weather.
* * * * *
I should have checked the forecast. My plan for today had consumed me for weeks. Acting casual had been the hardest part, especially when I realised Kathy intended to go to her stitching group today. A steel band gripped my heart and my stomach lurched, but I dressed ready for the hike and presented myself brimming with enthusiasm, fingers crossed behind my back.
It hadn’t seemed this far when I climbed it last year; before we met, before we fell in love and before she informed me she was thinking of returning home, to the bottom of the world, as far away as you can get from Ireland.
“Look, there’s the cairn,” she said. Relief flooded me. I grasped her hand and we ran up the last rise. The weather front loomed overhead, dark and ominous.
“Grand view,” I shouted over the wind. She stood, braced against the pile of rocks, puffing from the climb. I dropped to one knee.
“Marry me,” I said. “Don’t go home.” I pulled the ring from my pocket and slid it on her finger. She looked from the ring, to me, and then to the view.
“I guess I could stand this weather, if I had you to keep me warm.”
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded. As we kissed several scattered rain drops turned into a pelting downpour.
“I love your Irish mist,” she murmured in my ear, “especially when it’s pretending to be rain.”
**********
The sequel to my dystopian novel “The Carbonite’s Daughter” has been accepted for publication by IFWG. Called ‘Quake City’ it is scheduled to be released in August 2024.