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something hard that does not want to budge but the hands don’t care. Before he is ready, the priest feels something inside him folding back, the way water folds back from the shore to form another wave – and it crashes from his mouth, a terrible cry that is her name and then it’s over.
    After a time he cannot measure, he slowly sits up and looks about the room. He stares at the Chinaman, at his bare feet, the floor. It is hotter now and he feels hungry. The man is filling the kettle again, striking a match, as though this happens every day.
    ‘Thank you,’ the priest says at last. ‘Thank you.’
    The Chinaman squats beside him with a fresh glass of tea. Here is a man living happily in a clean place on his own. A man who believes in what he does and takes pleasure in the work. The priest must give him something. Heputs his hand into his pocket and feels there, Lawlor’s money. The Chinaman bows when he takes it but he does not count the notes. He simply drops it into a brown jar on the kitchen table.
    The priest points at the print on the wall.
    ‘What is this?’ he asks.
    ‘Old,’ the Chinaman says.
    ‘It’s empty,’ the priest laughs.
    The Chinaman does not understand.
    ‘Empty,’ says the priest. ‘Not full.’
    ‘Yes,’ the Chinaman says. ‘You trouble.’
    The priest finds his socks and goes outside for his shoes. The blue night has spread itself darkly over the fields. He pushes the timber gate and listens to the sound it makes closing behind him. He stands there and looks at the world. The spring has come, dry and promising. The alder is shooting out, her pale limbs brazen. Everything seems sharper now. The night has braced itself against the fence posts. The rake is a shining thing, well loved and worn.
    Where is God? he has asked, and tonight God is answering back. All around the air is sharp with the tang of wild currant bushes. A lamb climbs out of a deep sleep and walks across the blue field. Overhead, the stars have rolled into place. God is nature.
    He remembers lying naked with Lawlor’s daughter in a bed outside of Newry town. He remembers all those dandelions gone to seed and how he said he would always love her. He remembers these things, in full, and feels no shame. How strange it is to be alive. Soon, it will be Easter. There is work to be done, a sermon to be written for Palm Sunday. He climbs the fields back towards the road, thinking about his life tomorrow, as a priest, deciphering, as best he can, the Roman language of the trees.

Dark Horses
     

    In the night, Brady dreams the woman back into his life again. She’s out the yard with the big hunter, laughing, praising her dark horse. She reaches up, loosens the girth and takes the saddle off. The hunter shakes himself and snorts. She leads him to the trough and pumps fresh water. The handle shrieks when pressed but the hunter doesn’t shy: he simply drops his head and drinks his fill. Further off, the cry of hounds moves across the fields. In his dream these hounds are Brady’s own and he knows it will take a long time to gather them in and get them home.
    Waking, he finds he’s clothed from the waist down: black jeans and his working boots. He gropes for the clock, holds the glass close, reads the hands. It isn’t late. Overhead, the light is still burning. He gets to his feet and finds the rest of his clothes. Outside, the October rain goes shuddering through the bamboo. That was planted years ago to stake her shrubs and beans but when she left he took no mind, and the garden turned wild. On McQuaid’s hill, through cloud, he makes out the figure of a man walking through fields greener than his own. McQuaid himself, herding, counting all the bullocks once again.
    In the kitchen he boils the kettle, scalds the pot. The tea makes him feel human again. He stands over the toaster and warms his hands. His aunt brought up marmalade last week but there’s hardly a lick in the jar. With a knife he scrapes what’s left off the