you hide?â Patrick asked.
âIâve fitted up a barrel. Itâs perfectly dry. Iâll show it to you if youâd like. Itâs over here.â
They cut around three rows of barrels. âHere it is,â Laurence said.
Patrick looked about. âWhere?â
Laurence giggled. âYou canât tell, can you?â He lifted the lid of his barrel. Patrick saw it was empty save for some straw.
âThatâs my home,â Laurence said with pride.
Patrick said, âWhat do you do all day?â
Laurence shrugged. âIâve counted the barrels lots of times. Sometimes I sing songs or try to recall things Iâve read. Or I try and think of all thatâs happened. Other times I just sit and remember my family.â
âLaurence,â Patrick said, âyou never did tell me of them. Or why you had to run away. Faith, was it something to do with the mark on your face?â
Laurence touched his cheek. âI have to forget all that,â he said softly.
âOh.â Patrick emptied his pockets. âI brought you some food,â he said. âBread and cooked rice.â
As Laurence reached for the food, he asked, âHow many days have we been traveling?â
âThis is the seventh day.â
âIt feels like a month,â Laurence said. âWhere do you stay?â
âAh, Laurence, you never saw such a place for noise. Sure, itâs crowded beyond belief and terrible dirty.â
âIs it warm?â
âCold. And rats, Laurence. Iâve seen a lot of them.â
âTheyâre down here too. Once I read in a book about sailors taming them.â
âFaith, I wouldnât.â
âI should like to try. It would mean company. Iâve been leaving some food near where I think one comes. I call him Nappy, for Napoleonâ¦. Patrick,â Laurence said, abruptly changing the subject, âcould I come visit you?â
âWouldnât risk it,â Patrick warned. âYou said yourself they were looking for you.â
Laurence sighed.
After a moment he asked, âWhat place are we going to?â
âBoston.â
âIs that a country?â
âA city, I think. My father will meet us there.â
âWhatâs he like?â
âFaith, not a big man. Nor one for smiling or singing songs. Nor can he read, not like Maura or me. For all of that heâs a God-fearing, kindly soul.â
âPatrick?â
âWhat?â
âWhen we get to America, can I go with you?â
For a moment Patrick was silent. Then he said, âThe thing is, Laurence, Iâm sure my sister is to marry that Mr. Drabble. Iâm not so fond of the man,â Patrick confessed. âAnd I donât know what all of that will bring.â
âPatrick â¦?â
âWhatâs that now?â
âWhy did you leave Ireland?â
âSure, you know of the terrible times there.â
Laurence shook his head.
âJesus, Mary, and Joseph! I would have thought everyone knew. Itâs something truly bad. When we had all but nothing, Da left for America to find work. And then didnât he do fine enough to send for us? Ah, Laurence, it must be a grand country. The promised land they call it.â
Laurence wondered what Patrick would say if he knew his father owned land in Ireland. Then he reminded himself he had nothing to do anymore with any of that.
âLaurence,â Patrick said after a while. âI had better go.â
âWill you come back tomorrow?â
âYou know Iâll try. But I canât always.â
Laurence said, âI didnât mean to frighten you.â
âI wasnât frightened. Not really.â
âIt was just something to do.â
âIâm sure. Look for me then.â
âI will.â
Patrick made his way back down the center aisle of the hold, found the ladder, and began to climb up. âBye!â he
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
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