The west coast of Ireland, 1920.
It was what they called a fine dirty night, a steady light rain fell in the darkness, and the old man checked the shipment that had come ashore in the longboat. He pulled a knife from his pants pocket, and opened the slim wharcliffe point blade. Slicing neatly through the ropes binding the crate, the old man undid the brass clasp and hinged back the lid. There were the guns, greased and waiting to be used in the uprising. He closed the lid and left the cave by the narrow steep passage that climbed to the hill overlooking the sea, pausing by the brush that screened the entrance. He'd planted the bushes many years ago to conceal the small cleft in the rocks that led to the sea cave below, hidden from sight by the high tide.
Walking the short way to the little fishing village, he enjoyed the clean feel of the night, the crispness the rain gave the air. In the village, he went to the pub, the only spot of brightness with the yellow glow of light spilling from the windows, and the sound of music as he went through the doors. Inside a three man band of fiddle, drum and flute was playing a lively jig, and he stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey to warm his bones after the dampness of the sea cave.
A man in a worn reefer coat came and stood next to him and ordered a drink, and they tosted each other when the whiskey came.
"To the cause!" said the man in the reefer coat.
"The cause." said the old man. Then he wiped his hand in front of his mouth as he mumbled.
"They're there. Came in as planned." said the old man.
The other man was fiddling with a pipe in his mouth as he answered.
"I'll have a few lads with a lorry move them before daylight."
His business done, the old man tossed off the rest of his whiskey, and made to leave. A young woman from the the kitchen who had seen him arrive grabbed him by the coat sleeve as he was heading for the door. She had a covered bowl in her hands.
"Are ye not forgetting Rory's supper?" she asked him.
"Aye, he'll be grateful lass, and I thank you from both of us."
He walked home in the light drizzle and opened the gate to a fenced yard of a small white washed cottage. As he entered the yard, there was a deep growl from the partly open door of a shed, and a huge wolfhound lunged out the door, then seeing it was his master greeted him with yips of delight.
"Get down, ye great bloody beast. Come on, inside with you where there's a fire. Go on!" the old man spoke roughly to the big dog, but he had a smile on his face as he said it. Rory the wolfhound was his companion and guardian of his hearth. Inside, the old man uncovered the dish of scraps and set it down by the fire place where a peat fire was glowing. The old man tossed a few more chunks of peat on the glowing coals and soon a warm fire was heating the chilly interior of the cottage.
The old man sat down at the rough table, lit an oil lamp and took his pocket knife he'd cut the tarred rope with. He noticed it needed a little touch up on a stone when he sliced the tarred rope from the gun crates. Working slowly, he took a few minutes to hone the slim blade back to razor sharpness. Then he took his belt and laid it along the edge of the table and stropped it till it would shave hairs frm the back of his hand as smooth as his razor.
Finished, he held the open knife in his hand and studied it. It had been almost 10 years since his dear wife had given it to him as a birthday gift. The stag handles were a smooth buttery yellow, and the blade was a medium soft matte grey color. He used the knife well, but carefully in the time he'd had it. It had been one of the last things his wife had done for him before the sickness had taken her. He ran his hand over the stag, feeling the texture, and he then gently closed the knife and looked up at the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of a pretty woman with raven black hair and eyes the color of where the sea and sky meet. He'd had it done not long after they had married, more than 40 years before, and the artist had captured his wife well on the canvas. The old mans eyes misted as he thought of his departed wife, and his hand closed around the hand smoothed stag handle of the swayback knife.
The big wolf hound, sensing his masters sadness, came over and laid his head on the old mans leg. The man looked down at his friend, and gently stroked the grey head.
"Aye lad, I'm missing herself, that's true. A grand dame she was, you would have have loved her too. Now off to bed with you. Go on."
The wolfhound went over to the pile of old blankets by the hearth, and turned in a circle three times and then lay down with his back to the peat fire. With his head on his paws, he watched the room and his master carefully. The old man poured himself a drink and studied the golden liquid in the light of the oil lamp. Then he toasted the portrait on the wall.
"Here's to you my love, may we meet again when it's time."
He tossed off the whiskey, and looked again at the knife in his hand.
"It's an odd thing ain't it" he said to the wolfhound, " how a wee bit of horn and steel can hold such a powerful memory."
The wolfhound made no comment, so the old man turned down the lamp and went off to bed, and to what dreams may come.
It was what they called a fine dirty night, a steady light rain fell in the darkness, and the old man checked the shipment that had come ashore in the longboat. He pulled a knife from his pants pocket, and opened the slim wharcliffe point blade. Slicing neatly through the ropes binding the crate, the old man undid the brass clasp and hinged back the lid. There were the guns, greased and waiting to be used in the uprising. He closed the lid and left the cave by the narrow steep passage that climbed to the hill overlooking the sea, pausing by the brush that screened the entrance. He'd planted the bushes many years ago to conceal the small cleft in the rocks that led to the sea cave below, hidden from sight by the high tide.
Walking the short way to the little fishing village, he enjoyed the clean feel of the night, the crispness the rain gave the air. In the village, he went to the pub, the only spot of brightness with the yellow glow of light spilling from the windows, and the sound of music as he went through the doors. Inside a three man band of fiddle, drum and flute was playing a lively jig, and he stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey to warm his bones after the dampness of the sea cave.
A man in a worn reefer coat came and stood next to him and ordered a drink, and they tosted each other when the whiskey came.
"To the cause!" said the man in the reefer coat.
"The cause." said the old man. Then he wiped his hand in front of his mouth as he mumbled.
"They're there. Came in as planned." said the old man.
The other man was fiddling with a pipe in his mouth as he answered.
"I'll have a few lads with a lorry move them before daylight."
His business done, the old man tossed off the rest of his whiskey, and made to leave. A young woman from the the kitchen who had seen him arrive grabbed him by the coat sleeve as he was heading for the door. She had a covered bowl in her hands.
"Are ye not forgetting Rory's supper?" she asked him.
"Aye, he'll be grateful lass, and I thank you from both of us."
He walked home in the light drizzle and opened the gate to a fenced yard of a small white washed cottage. As he entered the yard, there was a deep growl from the partly open door of a shed, and a huge wolfhound lunged out the door, then seeing it was his master greeted him with yips of delight.
"Get down, ye great bloody beast. Come on, inside with you where there's a fire. Go on!" the old man spoke roughly to the big dog, but he had a smile on his face as he said it. Rory the wolfhound was his companion and guardian of his hearth. Inside, the old man uncovered the dish of scraps and set it down by the fire place where a peat fire was glowing. The old man tossed a few more chunks of peat on the glowing coals and soon a warm fire was heating the chilly interior of the cottage.
The old man sat down at the rough table, lit an oil lamp and took his pocket knife he'd cut the tarred rope with. He noticed it needed a little touch up on a stone when he sliced the tarred rope from the gun crates. Working slowly, he took a few minutes to hone the slim blade back to razor sharpness. Then he took his belt and laid it along the edge of the table and stropped it till it would shave hairs frm the back of his hand as smooth as his razor.
Finished, he held the open knife in his hand and studied it. It had been almost 10 years since his dear wife had given it to him as a birthday gift. The stag handles were a smooth buttery yellow, and the blade was a medium soft matte grey color. He used the knife well, but carefully in the time he'd had it. It had been one of the last things his wife had done for him before the sickness had taken her. He ran his hand over the stag, feeling the texture, and he then gently closed the knife and looked up at the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of a pretty woman with raven black hair and eyes the color of where the sea and sky meet. He'd had it done not long after they had married, more than 40 years before, and the artist had captured his wife well on the canvas. The old mans eyes misted as he thought of his departed wife, and his hand closed around the hand smoothed stag handle of the swayback knife.
The big wolf hound, sensing his masters sadness, came over and laid his head on the old mans leg. The man looked down at his friend, and gently stroked the grey head.
"Aye lad, I'm missing herself, that's true. A grand dame she was, you would have have loved her too. Now off to bed with you. Go on."
The wolfhound went over to the pile of old blankets by the hearth, and turned in a circle three times and then lay down with his back to the peat fire. With his head on his paws, he watched the room and his master carefully. The old man poured himself a drink and studied the golden liquid in the light of the oil lamp. Then he toasted the portrait on the wall.
"Here's to you my love, may we meet again when it's time."
He tossed off the whiskey, and looked again at the knife in his hand.
"It's an odd thing ain't it" he said to the wolfhound, " how a wee bit of horn and steel can hold such a powerful memory."
The wolfhound made no comment, so the old man turned down the lamp and went off to bed, and to what dreams may come.
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Just something about an old slippie.