Tommy sat at his kitchen table looking out of the window as a cup of coffee when untouched. Reform renamed themselves “Reformed” and with a wave of their hand dissolved Westminster, Holyrood, Cardiff and Stormont in favour of “Rule by Fiat” rather than democracy. Riots in Wales and Scotland as the the Y Ddraig Goc and the Blue Saltire were banned and torn from their posts by the grey shirted men of the Department of British Works.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Initially boats, planes and trains were full of migrants escaping “Stalag Nigel” to the more tolerant climes of the EU or Canada. The UK Health system stuttered and died. Food rotted in fields with no-one to harvest it, taxes rocked higher everyday as the gov coffers emptied, As the people left, so did the big companies, manufacturing and service sectors shrank overnight. Reformed took people’s minds off the spiralling trouble by planting mines in the English Channel and deploying the Royal Navy submarines to find and destroy the “little” boats. Truth be told there where precious few now. No-one wanted to come to the UK, where living was only possible if you had cash lots of cash. Multiracial tensions came to a head, and the rioters stormed a munitions facility in Manchester and soon the sound of gunfire was heard across the nation. He saw the light then, a small pulse of yellow against the dark. A candle, no mistake. He hadn\u2019t seen a house lit up since Ballymoney burned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The cottage sat crooked against the slope, one gable patched with tin, smoke rising thin from the chimney. He stood a long time before knocking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A woman answered, lantern in hand. Grey hair pulled back tight, clothes patched and practical. She looked him up and down, no fear in her, just measuring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll be cold,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI am that\u201d Tommy said. \u201cBeen walking since Portstewart. I saw your light.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLight is for me, not the lost,\u201d she said. Then, softer, \u201cBut you\u2019d best come in before the wind takes your ears.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside smelled of turf smoke and wool grease. A kettle hissed on the range. There were shelves of jars, beans, oats, honey, all neat, all full. He could hear sheep outside, the low bleat of them like slow breathing in the dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She gave him tea in a chipped mug, bread still warm. \u201cMoira,\u201d she said, by way of introduction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTommy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re far from anywhere, Tommy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI suppose there\u2019s nowhere left to be near.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She grunted at that, neither agreement nor argument.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Later he found her outside, wrestling a broken door against the wind. The hinge had gone. He took it from her without asking and steadied it against the jamb. His hands remembered work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have to,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019d rather be doing than sitting,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I\u2019ll not take charity\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the door was hung straight, she nodded once. Approval enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll stay the night,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you\u2019ve room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s always room. Sheep don\u2019t talk much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiled, the first time in months. Curryfree \u2013 Morning Tommy woke to the smell of frying bread. The light through the curtain was thin and blue, the kind of dawn that never quite makes up its mind. For a moment he forgot where he was, then the crackle of the range brought it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira was at the stove, hair loose now, humming something tuneless. A kettle steamed beside her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDidn\u2019t think you\u2019d sleep so sound,\u201d she said without turning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s been a while since I\u2019ve had walls around me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s work if you\u2019ve the hands for it. Fences need mending. Feed wants spreading. You any good with sheep?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m good with a hammer,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I can follow directions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019ll do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They ate in silence. The bread was coarse, the eggs small, but it tasted like a meal made on purpose , not scavenged, not desperate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, the world was still. Mist rolled low through the heather, and the hills crouched quiet around them. He could hear a stream somewhere close, the steady rhythm of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He found the tools in a shed that leaned against itself for balance. The spade handles were worn smooth; the nails sorted into tobacco tins. Everything had its place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By midmorning they were in the upper field, the wire fence sagging under its own weight. Moira worked slow but sure, her movements practiced. He followed her lead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever needed help before,\u201d she said after a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She paused, testing the line\u2019s tension. \u201cNow I\u2019ll take it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded. \u201cThat\u2019s fair.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They worked until the sun burned through the mist. When they stopped, the fence stood neat again, straight as a drawn line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira looked at it, then at him. \u201cYou\u2019ll stay a while,\u201d she said, not quite asking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you\u2019ll have me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTwo mouths are harder than one,\u201d she said, then added, \u201cbut the work\u2019s easier shared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiled. \u201cThen I\u2019ll earn my keep.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She gave a short laugh, the sound rusty, unused. \u201cWe\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As the day settled, he helped bring in wood, patched a hole in the byre roof. Moira cooked again , potatoes, onion, a bit of salted mutton. After they ate, they sat by the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWas there anyone left, where you came from?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot really,\u201d he said. \u201cNot the kind you can go back to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nodded. \u201cThat\u2019s most of us now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, the wind sighed across the hill, but inside the cottage the air was warm, steady. The candle on the sill flickered against the glass, a small, stubborn light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy watched it and thought , for the first time in a long while , that maybe staying wasn\u2019t the same as giving up. The days shortened, the hills turning the colour of rust. Frost came early that year, whitening the rushes and the roofs of the outbuildings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy had fallen into the rhythm of the place, feeding, mending, chopping wood. The silence no longer pressed on him; it filled him instead, like breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One evening, as they ate by the fire, he asked, \u201cYou ever get visitors up here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira investigated her mug before she answered. \u201cUsed to. Mr Patel from the wee shop in Draperstown. He\u2019d drive up every month with flour, oil, a few tins. Good man, quiet. Always brought a packet of ginger snaps for the dog.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She set the mug down, hard enough to rattle. \u201cStopped coming last year. Word in town was they took him and the family. Transit van, broad daylight. Nobody saw them after. Folk said the high bog\u2019s got the Patels now. May the Lord and His mother have mercy on their souls.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy said nothing. There wasn\u2019t anything to say. The fire popped and settled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSince then,\u201d she went on, \u201cI\u2019ve no need of what passes for civilisation. World out there\u2019s lost its manners.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Flame, her sheepdog, padded over and laid his head on Tommy\u2019s knee. Without thinking, Tommy tore his slice of bread in half and handed it down. The dog took it gentle as breath, then wolfed it in two bites.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira raised an eyebrow. \u201cHe\u2019s not known for his friendliness. Seems he\u2019s taken to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe he just wanted the bread.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe,\u201d she said, smiling a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside the wind pushed at the door. Moira looked toward the window where the candle burned low. \u201cIt\u2019s late October,\u201d she said. \u201cTime the mountain sheep were brought down. Weather turns fast up there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy glanced at her, then at the dark beyond the glass. \u201cAll right,\u201d he said after a pause. \u201cHow do we do that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira smiled again, this time with a spark of something lighter. \u201cBoots on, rope ready, and a dog that minds. That\u2019s how.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stood, took her coat from the peg. \u201cYou wanted work, Tommy. Tomorrow you\u2019ll have it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded, feeling the weight of the coming cold but also a small, steady purpose he hadn\u2019t known in years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Curryfree \u2013 the Next morning<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Morning came sharp and hard. A skin of frost silvered the troughs and the grass crackled underfoot. The sun hadn\u2019t yet cleared the ridge; the hills were washed in pewter light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy pulled on the old coat Moira had found for him, a heavy thing that smelled faintly of lanolin and smoke. Flame whined at the door, already restless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira was outside, checking the rope coiled over her shoulder and the crook in her hand. \u201cYou\u2019ll want gloves,\u201d she said. \u201cThe wire bites when it\u2019s cold.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy nodded, pulling his cap lower. \u201cWhere do we start?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cUp the high pass,\u201d she said. \u201cThe ewes scatter near the stones. They\u2019ll move when Flame does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The climb was slow. The path twisted through heather and bog, the air sharp enough to sting the lungs. Mist hung in the hollows, shifting like breath. Every few minutes Moira would whistle, low and short, and Flame would dart ahead, a black-and-white streak against the dun grass and heather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When they reached the crest, Tommy could see the valley open wide below \u2014 grey fields, thin fences, the line of the cottage roof catching the pale sun. He stopped a moment to breathe it in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira scanned the ridge, eyes narrow. \u201cThere,\u201d she said, pointing. A scatter of white dots moved along the slope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She gave a sharper whistle, and Flame sprang to life, circling the sheep in wide arcs, pushing them down toward the lower ground. Moira\u2019s voice carried clear over the wind, giving commands in a language half-whistle, half-word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy followed, doing what she told him, waving his arms to close a gap, pulling a straggler from a gorse bush, steadying the fence when they reached the gate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By noon they had the flock penned, a hundred woolly bodies huffing steam into the air. Moira leaned on the crook, breathing hard but smiling, her cheeks raw with cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot bad for town hands,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot bad for mountain sheep,\u201d he said back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She laughed, a real laugh this time, bright and brief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They stood there a moment, the dog weaving between them, tail high.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve done a day\u2019s work,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019ll eat well tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy looked down the hill to the cottage, the faint trail of smoke rising already from its chimney. For the first time in years, he felt the tug of belonging, small, quiet, but real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReckon I\u2019ll sleep well too,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood,\u201d Moira replied. \u201cThere\u2019ll be fences to mend tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wind came cold again, carrying the smell of peat and sheep and the faint salt tang from far-off sea. Tommy turned his collar up and followed her home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Curryfree \u2013 Spring<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Winter bit hard, but they weathered it. By March, the thaw came. Water ran again in the ditches, and the fields softened to green. The air smelled of earth and lambs and smoke. Tommy felt something ease inside him, a knot that had been there for years slowly untying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira\u2019s way of life, the steady rhythm, the small satisfactions, had straightened out his soul. He\u2019d come to think of her laughter as part of the house itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But one morning in April, the house was quiet. Flame was whining at Moira\u2019s door, pawing gently. She lay still beneath the quilt, her face pale as linen, one hand on the coverlet. For a terrible moment he thought she was gone, then saw the faint rise and fall of her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He let out the breath he hadn\u2019t known he was holding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the kitchen, he made tea the way she liked it , strong, with three spoonfuls of honey \u201cto honour the bees.\u201d The smell filled the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He brought the cup to her bedside and pressed it into her hands. \u201cHere, now,\u201d he said softly. \u201cBit of warmth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira stirred, opened her eyes. She smiled, faintly. \u201cSo, I\u2019ve arrived at life\u2019s hard station,\u201d she whispered. She took a sip. \u201cNot a bad cup for a townie man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The question sat on his tongue , Are you dying?<\/em> , but she saw it there and answered without hearing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBefore all this madness,\u201d she said, \u201cthe doctor told me I had maybe a year. That was three years back so I gave it a good race. Guess the cancer\u2019s winning the race now. It\u2019ll reach the line before I do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy\u2019s eyes burned. \u201cBut, what about the farm? The dog? The sheep? What happens when\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira reached out, her hand trembling but sure. \u201cWhen St. Jude sends you a helper, Tommy, you don\u2019t question it. You were meant to come up that hill. Not perfect, but a safe pair of hands.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She turned slightly, reached under her pillow, and drew out two folded pages of foolscap paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy will,\u201d she said. \u201cSuch as it is. The place, the stock, the bit of money , all yours now. And some instructions. Don\u2019t spoil Flame. Don\u2019t overfeed the hens. And when my time comes, bury me under the rowan on the hill. I\u2019d like to keep watch over my kingdom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tommy took the papers but couldn\u2019t speak. His throat felt raw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at him then , really looked, and smiled the way she had that first morning when he\u2019d asked how to round up the sheep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you, Tommy,\u201d she said, her voice almost gone. \u201cFor coming when you did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her fingers tightened around his hand once, then relaxed. Tommy sat there, her hand still in his, while the candle burned low on the sill and Flame lay quiet at his feet. Outside, the first swallows of spring traced their circles over the green fields of Curryfree.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Curryfree \u2013 4 days later He had made a simple cross from two lengths of ash. On the crossbar he had carved, with a shaky hand,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Moira O\u2019Reilly He leaned forward and draped her rosary over the wood. The beads caught the light, pale against the grey grain, and stirred gently in the breeze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Flame sat beside him, ears pricked, tail still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust you and me now, boy,\u201d Tommy said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog gave a soft whine, as if in answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They stood together, looking out over the valley, green fields stitched with stone walls, lambs scattered like white stones in the distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wind moved through the rowan leaves with a sound like quiet speech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Somewhere far below, a ewe called to its lamb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n *** The End ***<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" A story about a broken man and his journey to understanding of life and sheep<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-46","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stories","category-things-that-happen"],"yoast_head":"\n
Portstewart<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Widowed 3 year ago, his wife was a native of Malawi. The straw that broke the resolve of his children started with anti-migrant rhetoric that stirred up trouble of the “Your Ma is a Nigger!” type and ended with one of Tommy’s grandchildren in hospital with a broken arm, leg and skull after a particularly savage beating decided that enough was enough and they left Northern Ireland and sought refuge in New Zealand. By all accounts they were happy there. Tommy ran a builders yard, built up from just him to a work force of 10 and by all accounts it was successful, until Brexit and the rise of Reform. When they got a majority in the general election of 2029. Their first action was to deport all and every foreign national and as most of Tommy’s workforce were Czech or Polish he was left with himself and old Jimmy, and all he could do was make the tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Reformed brought in more and more draconian measures to counter it. The UK seemed ready to split asunder. Scotland and Wales offered their citizens life in separate nations and had the manpower to do it. Border fences went up. Scotland declared independence and cut the oil pipeline to mother England. Wales likewise blew up the motorways into the principality and set up three very strict border controls. Both Scotland and Wales had elections, democracy and a modicum of decency slowly returned. England and Northern Ireland were the only bits left of the old UK and without British money to support it. Northern Ireland was the first to devolve into chaos. The paramilitaries roamed the streets, the police powerless to stop them as they had not been paid in 6 months and most of the remaining officers played cards and read the paper rather than stop the rampaging hordes of scum and nere-do-wells that had taken over control of the streets. Tommy sat in his kitchen looking out over Portstewart strand. There was nothing for him here, no-one needed him, his kids were gone The big house once full of laughter and smiles, now silent and glum. Tommy rose put on his coat, locked the front door and started to walk, he had no destination, he just walked.
Eventually deep in the Sperrins, near the dark waters of Lough Fea, he saw a cottage in the distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Curryfree – Night
<\/strong>The road narrowed as it climbed into the hills, grass creeping over the tarmac until there was none at all. Tommy walked between dry stone walls that had half-collapsed, fields gone to seed. Evening fell cold and slow. His breath came white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Curryfree \u2013 4 months later<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
The storms came howling off the Atlantic, turning the hills white and the fences brittle with ice.
They worked by habit and by faith, feeding, mending, keeping the fire alive. When the winds dropped, they\u2019d sit by the range with mugs of tea, listening to the sheep shifting in the byre and the ticking of the cooling kettle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Too quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy knocked once, then pushed it open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The breath left her in a long, soft sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/strong>The earth was soft from spring rain.
Tommy stood beneath the rowan, the spade head buried in the soil. The grave was neat; the turf laid back over with care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My Friend<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n