Chapter 1:
A/N: Another fic from Morgan Llywelyn's "1916." If you have not read this. . . read it. Read "1921" too. Actually, read everything she's ever written. She's a wonderful author.
This story is set after "1916" and before "1921." Paul is actually Father Paul O'Shaughnessy, an Irish-American priest. Kathleen is Irish, married to an American and living in America. The rest you should be able to figure out. ^_^
Paul eyed the waves. The ocean seemed forlorn, with its great rolling slate- colored waves and white foam. Mists rose and obscured the view of the horizon; Ireland behind him, the ocean and America before him.
Kathleen before him. Yet, at the same time, she was back there, on the Irish coast. The visit to Ireland had done nothing but make him want her more; to him, Ireland was her face, her voice, her tears.
He shook his head. If he didn't stop thinking now, he'd soon have steam coming out his ears to join the fog.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was always the first thing to spring to his mind. Always. Paul shook his head again, and then leaned over the rail. He felt like throwing up.
"Father, are you alright?" A young man paused beside him. "You look ill."
Paul gave him a weak smile. "I've still to get my sea-legs," he said. Actually, he had his sea-legs; sailing had never given him any problems. It was. . . other problems that made his face appear white and drawn, and gave him the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Really, it was just one problem.
Kathleen.
"Are you sure? Maybe you ought to go below decks and sleep," the young man continued.
"No, really, I'm fine. I just need a little fresh air, that's all." He silently wished the fellow away. He had no intention of carrying on a conversation with a stranger.
"Alright, Father. Good-bye." The man tilted his cap and walked off. Paul sighed with relief and looked out over the water again. The spray felt good on his face, with its salty tang and sharp smell. He stood there for several minutes, luxuriating in the water wetting his face, mind blank. Then a vision of her came into his mind again, and he cursed.
He cursed her move to America. Cursed whatever it was that had made him befriend a lonely young Irish girl. Cursed the husband who treated her so poorly, who abused her. He cursed the white collar around his neck, a symbol of the vow he'd made so long ago. He cursed his mother, who'd pushed him to this vocation. Cursed the church and his place in it, and almost everything under the sun, including himself.
But however hard he tried, he couldn't curse her. She meant too much to him.
A/N: Another fic from Morgan Llywelyn's "1916." If you have not read this. . . read it. Read "1921" too. Actually, read everything she's ever written. She's a wonderful author.
This story is set after "1916" and before "1921." Paul is actually Father Paul O'Shaughnessy, an Irish-American priest. Kathleen is Irish, married to an American and living in America. The rest you should be able to figure out. ^_^
Paul eyed the waves. The ocean seemed forlorn, with its great rolling slate- colored waves and white foam. Mists rose and obscured the view of the horizon; Ireland behind him, the ocean and America before him.
Kathleen before him. Yet, at the same time, she was back there, on the Irish coast. The visit to Ireland had done nothing but make him want her more; to him, Ireland was her face, her voice, her tears.
He shook his head. If he didn't stop thinking now, he'd soon have steam coming out his ears to join the fog.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was always the first thing to spring to his mind. Always. Paul shook his head again, and then leaned over the rail. He felt like throwing up.
"Father, are you alright?" A young man paused beside him. "You look ill."
Paul gave him a weak smile. "I've still to get my sea-legs," he said. Actually, he had his sea-legs; sailing had never given him any problems. It was. . . other problems that made his face appear white and drawn, and gave him the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Really, it was just one problem.
Kathleen.
"Are you sure? Maybe you ought to go below decks and sleep," the young man continued.
"No, really, I'm fine. I just need a little fresh air, that's all." He silently wished the fellow away. He had no intention of carrying on a conversation with a stranger.
"Alright, Father. Good-bye." The man tilted his cap and walked off. Paul sighed with relief and looked out over the water again. The spray felt good on his face, with its salty tang and sharp smell. He stood there for several minutes, luxuriating in the water wetting his face, mind blank. Then a vision of her came into his mind again, and he cursed.
He cursed her move to America. Cursed whatever it was that had made him befriend a lonely young Irish girl. Cursed the husband who treated her so poorly, who abused her. He cursed the white collar around his neck, a symbol of the vow he'd made so long ago. He cursed his mother, who'd pushed him to this vocation. Cursed the church and his place in it, and almost everything under the sun, including himself.
But however hard he tried, he couldn't curse her. She meant too much to him.