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themselves for three rows, were the white lawn chairs used for all of the town's meetings. The seats faced an open area marked by round fieldstones. The delineated ground resembled a giant pie or wheel, with its spokes leading to a pyre of spindly kindling.
    Marjan blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing.
    Tucked firmly atop the pyre, with its legs spread at a forty-degree angle, was a twelve-foot man made entirely of straw and dried nettle. Or what was left of a man. Marjan could clearly see a large hole gaping from his grassy pelvis.
    “The Cat's goat,” Fiona remarked drily. “Took a chunk off before I could get my hands on it.” Balancing the tray on one palm, she pointed to a row of elms on the far edge of the field.
    Roped to the smallest tree was a long-haired billy goat. Balli-nacroagh's resident boozer and philosopher of no less than nine doctorates, the Cat had recently celebrated what he had claimed as his centenary on earth in his favorite manner, namely getting sloshed on a bottle of strawberry schnapps while grooming his new pet goat, Godot, in the town square.
    Godot's sour-faced owner was currently crouched on his haunches next to him, feeding him from a pint of amber drink of which he also partook.
    Marjan remained speechless, utterly shocked.
    “And after all the work that went into connecting those limbs.Burning man, indeed,” Fiona muttered, leading Marjan to the refreshments tent, where it seemed half the village was also gathered.
    The stripy orange and white tent, one of the four used during the summer's annual Patrician Day Dance, was pitched in the field's northwestern corner. A pine table ran along its back width, showcasing Conor's crabapple cider, costing a punt a pint. Silver vats of steaming corncobs, buttered and sprinkled with paprika by Maura Geraghty, the Wilton Inn's formidable chef, were offered as savory sides.
    Marjan approached a table piled with goodies. Along with wreaths of entwined hawthorn, gingham-lidded jars of rhubarb-apple jam and marmalade, and loaves upon loaves of Mrs. Boy-lan's brown bread were miniature burning men being auctioned for the cause. Marjan read the cardboard sign next to the mini-effigies: BET ON YOUR OWN BURN! SUPPORT OUR TOWN HALL THEATER REVIVAL!
    “Fiona, you continue to amaze me,” she said. “When did you and Father Mahoney have time to put this together?”
    “Had the fifth-years at Saint Joe's help during their lunch hours. Didn't Layla tell you?” Fiona straightened a garland of alder and berries that had fallen.
    Marjan shook her head. “Layla's got a lot on her mind these days,” she replied. Scanning the sea of heads for her youngest sister, she finally spotted Layla and her boyfriend, Malachy canoodling behind a bale of hay. The two hadn't left each other's sides since meeting up at the train station.
    “I know how that is. Emer's been at that Californian school two months now and all I got was this jumper here. Not even a letter to go with it. Teenagers!” Fiona exclaimed.
    “How's Emer doing with her studies?” Marjan reached for a tray of cookies, lifting the tea towels off the sweet, butterynuggets. The cider being poured by Margaret McGuire wonderfully complemented the cookies' cardamom scent.
    Fiona popped a cookie into her mouth. “From the little I can make of it, she's taking Los Angeles by storm. Been assigned already to stage-manage the first-years' production.”
    “What an honor!”
    Fiona beamed with pleasure. “Imagine! A daughter of mine in the theater! Never thought I'd see the day!” The hairdresser stared off into space, briefly reminiscing on the years she had spent gracing the Irish stage.
    “Testing, testing! One, two, buckle my shoe … er, there was an old maid from Tuvalu—” A terrifying shriek pierced the air. Godot the goat replied with a plaintive bleat, while the gathered crowd grabbed their ears in similar discomfort.
    Father Fergal Mahoney was standing next to the gelded straw man, his