The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

gate, he saw a scatter of tourists climbing over the hilly ground between the old stones and crosses, over toward the roofless stone building that had been the church built in the name of the saint. His first reaction surprised him, as it was mild resentment that anyone should be there, with their cameras and backpacks and guidebooks.
    Stupid, he thought. These were just the people he hoped to appeal to with his theater. These, and more who would come for the beaches when the summer spread warmth along the coast.
    So he joined them, picking his way down the slope to the church, taking the time he’d yet to allow himself to study the Roman arcading, the carving going weak from time and wind.
    Inside with the rubble and graves, two ogham stones had been placed for safekeeping. And how, he wondered, had those lines dug into stone been read as words? A kind of Morse code, he imagined, devised by ancients and left at crossroads for a traveler.
    He heard a woman call out for her children in the flat accent that said States to him, East Coast, North. And seemed so out of place here. Did his voice have that same slightly-out-of-tune sound to it? Here voices should lilt and flow and have old music under each word.
    He stepped out again, looking up now at the tower. The old defense had its conical roof still attached and seemed even now as if it could withstand any attack.
    What had they come for, all the invaders? Romans, Vikings, Saxons, Normans, Britons. What fascination did this simple little island hold for them that they would war and die to take it?
    And turning, he looked out and away, and thought he saw part of the answer.
    The village below was neat and pretty as a painting, with the broad beach a sweep of sand glittering golden in the fitful sunlight. The sea spread, blue as summer, shimmering in that same restless light, foaming white at the edges.
    The hills stretched back and back, green and lush with patches of rich brown, muted gold to complete the quilt of land. Just the shadow of dark mountain peaks rose behind them.
    Even while he watched, the light changed, shifted, grew, and he could see the shadows of clouds swim over the land as the sunlight beat through them.
    The air smelled of grass, fading flowers, and sea.
    He doubted it was the beauty of the country that brought those who wanted to land here. But he was sure it was part of the reason they had fought to stay.
    “We’re a land that absorbs our invaders, and makes them one of us.”
    Trevor glanced around, expecting to see an Irish touristor one of the locals behind him. Instead he looked into Carrick’s wild blue eyes.
    “You get around.” With some surprise, Trevor saw that they were alone, when only moments before there had been at least half a dozen people exploring the hill.
    “I prefer a bit of privacy.” Carrick winked at him. “Don’t you?”
    “It’s difficult for me to be private when you pop up at will.”
    “I’ve been wanting to have a word with you. How goes your theater, then?”
    “We’re on schedule.”
    “Ah, you Yanks are big on schedules. I can’t tell you how many come through here, checking their watches and their maps and figuring out how to do this and that and the other all with staying on schedule. You’d think they’d toss such things aside when they’re about a flaming holiday, but habits die hard in some.”
    With his hair blowing in the wind, Trevor tucked his hands in his pockets. “So, you wanted to have a word with me about the American habit of clock watching?”
    “Just a bit of a conversational gambit. If you’re after seeing your uncle’s resting place again, it’s this way.” Carrick turned, walking gracefully over the rough ground with his silver doublet sparkling.
    “John Magee,” Carrick began when Trevor joined him by the marker. “Beloved son and brother. Died a soldier, far from home.”
    Trevor felt an ache around his heart, a kind of distant grief. “Beloved son, undoubtedly. Beloved brother is debatable.”
    “You’re thinking of your granda. He came here rarely, but he came.”
    “Did he?”
    “Aye, to stand as you are, with a scowl most often on his face and his thoughts dark and confused. Because it troubled him, he closed his heart. A deliberate click of a lock.”
    “Yes,” Trevor murmured. “I can believe that. He did nothing, as I can remember, that wasn’t deliberate.”
    “You’re a deliberate man yourself, in some ways.” Carrick waited until Trevor’s