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next to theirs. Both men had earlier drained a bottle of potcheen distilled by the Irishman out of devil knows what. They’d planned to visit Kirriemor, the nearest town. Down there was a drinking den where local men, ploughmen of the land, gathered, and some others—low women, the kind O’Connor desired. The local men were notorious both for their hard working and their drinking. The women, wild and without scruples, filled their beds; there were more than enough reasons for the nomadic men to linger.
    ‘Curse that blasted snow,’ bellowed Rory. ‘Is there no food? I’m at death’s door with the hunger!’
    Bruar answered, ‘I’ll skin a rabbit in the morning, but for now shut your mouth, father, and give us all peace.’
    From a boiling kettle Jimmy poured his father some tea, which was gratefully accepted. ‘Thanks, my boy, you’re a fine son, not like that bugger there who spits on his own father.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘You deserve all you get, craving drink; no wonder Bruar scolds you.’
    ‘You remind me of your mother—a gentle-spirited angel, never raised her voice, not once. But him,’ he stared at Bruar, ‘too much of me, that’s your problem.’
    ‘Heaven help me then, eh Jimmy?’ Both boys smiled at the comment as each strained their eyes, trying to play a card game around a flickering candle to while away the storm, ignoring Rory’s simmering disgust at the dreary, storm-filled night.

     
    As the hours ran by the storm intensified. Rory, wide awake and cold sober, called to O’Connor. ‘Hey, in the next tent, how do you fare?’
    His neighbour, obviously unable to sleep for fear of his tent taking off into the snow-heavy sky, called back, ‘Well now, I have never felt such a force of wind in all me life. May the Holy Mother keep a watch on any poor soul out in this, they’ll be stone dead if they’re not sheltered, to be sure. The ground will be well buried when that stops, and we’ll see a few lean days in its wake.’ The Irishman muttered on incoherently, and in time fell silent. Rory called out to ask him if he wanted to join them in their tent, in case the howling wind stole his.
    Silence followed. This bothered Rory, so he moved clumsily past Bruar’s feet to get closer to his neighbour’s canvas home; his son shoved him back. ‘God, man, can’t you go to sleep? Leave him where he is, there’s enough rank smells in here already. O’Connor’s fine.’
    ‘Mind your tongue, boy, I’m still your father and I’ll have a bit of respect. Are you alright, man?’
    There was something wrong, because if anything the Irishman was renowned for his runaway mouth. His voice was usually a match for the best of storms, but now not a murmur came from his abode. Rory raised his voice, but still nothing.
    ‘Maybe he’s swallowed his Irish tongue,’ Jimmy joked.
    Bruar laughed loudly and said, ‘With a bit of luck, eh, brother?’
    ‘I swear you two buggers have no shame. Now get out of my way, I’ll have to see if he’s alright.’
    ‘Oh, sit where you are, I’ll check him.’ Bruar stretched a woollen balaclava over his head, slipped one foot outside the tent-flap, but before he took another breath he felt something slump against the tent and slide down the canvas.
    ‘What, in God’s name, is that? Hell, I’m staying put. That must be a ghost, for no living thing could survive this night!’
    Rory buttoned up his jacket. ‘Stupid lad, there’s no such things. Now get out of my way. I’m more concerned that a bough of that creaking oak that hangs over us has just dropped its load of snow, and maybe the whole bloody tree will be next to come down! Or have you considered that it might be a lame deer; one that could feed us for a month.’
    Before another word left his mouth there was another thump against the tent; a weight dented the canvas, then rolled down. All three now darted outside. Snow, powered by a high northerly wind, blinded them. Hands groped in the pitch dark