Chapter Text
Searing white light pierced the young man’s eyes as he stumbled out of the cave. His head swirling, he halted, inches away from where an incline steepened into a deadly tumble.
Blinking against the sunlight, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was in the air—how high up, he could not judge. He was on a mountain—where, he could not tell. Below him stood a patchwork of fields interrupted by small forests. A modern road cut through the land, running left to right, hopelessly empty of cars—and help.
As the murk in his mind dissipated, he noticed his right hand gripping something. He brought it up to his face. It was a silver branch with three golden apples, about the length of his arm, and lighter than any paper.
He blinked at it. He distantly wondered if the apples were safe to eat. His stomach, churning from the height and the mystery of his whereabouts, convinced him otherwise.
Beautiful though the branch was, he could not find any use for it. As if compelled, he set it down on a grassy bump. He forgot all about it and set about getting down from the mountain.
He navigated the dangerous terrain on trembling limbs. Every pockmark and dip in the sea-formed limestone threatened his steps, nipped at his fingers, and caught his toes. He refused to look back at his starting point. He wouldn't until he was on level ground.
Once his aching feet felt the safe, spongy grass of the foothill, he looked back at the cave. It stared down at him, dour and foreboding in the gray rock of the tabletop mountain.
He recognized it immediately.
With a wavering moan, he fainted.
***
It was some time before a car appeared. A couple of hikers intending to ascend the mountain spotted him crumpled on the ground. They stopped to gather him into the backseat and drove to the nearest clinic.
When the young man revived, the doctor asked him for his name. He gave it, then asked if he was in Sligo.
The doctor confirmed it and heard more of the young man's story. He asked the poor soul how he had gotten into Diarmuid and Grainne's cave.
The young man had no clue.
***
The doctor called his parents. The distraught couple and their eldest son tore through every red light and stop sign, making it from Dublin to Sligo in under three hours. It gave the Gardaí enough time to interrogate the young man.
They searched his pockets but found nothing. Not a wallet, not a bus ticket, not even a pound note.
How did he climb up to the cave? He did not know.
What was he doing up there? He did not know.
Was he with anyone? He did not know.
Only his parents could confirm who he was and where he lived. And they were more than keen to divulge their suspicions on how their youngest turned up in County Sligo.
It all began with that girl. Annie or Anna, or whatever her name was. She was a loose woman. No parents. Went where she pleased. Wore her long red hair down to her waist where it could float in the breeze as she walked past impressionable men.
Their son had taken a liking to her, started dating her in secret, defied the Fourth Commandment. The shame of it all. Necked with her in parks, in cinemas, and even in his bedroom. One of the neighbors spotted them in the park, practically tangled in each other's limbs while they rolled on the grass. And the girl was on top. All this from a future man of the cloth!
It was she who spirited him away these past two weeks, they were sure of it. Led him away from comfort and safety and up to the highest cave in all of Ireland. And for what? A more secluded shifting spot?
But when asked about his girlfriend, the young man couldn’t remember her. No prodding or secondhand information could jog his memory.
His parents apologized profusely for the bother. They all piled into the small car and made the long, quiet trip back to Dublin. His parents took turns berating him. God help them, how they feared he'd met his end at the IRA's rifles. All the votives lit at the Mass said in his honor. His poor granny praying until her voice went hoarse. What a terror he'd been to his suffering family!
Barely a word made sense to the young man. He languished in the tortuous sludge of half-sleep, fogging patches on the cold window he used for a pillow.
The day after their prodigal son returned, his parents summoned a priest. The older man and the young man had a good, long talk. They spoke about honoring parents, the tragedy of fallen women, and how close the devil was to claiming his soul.
Then they spoke about the young man’s future. Tradition had already decided for him, but the conversation put the heart crossways in him. He accepted the path laid out for him. There would be no more moneymaking schemes, no more amateur stage shows, no more chasing girls.
Come the end of summer, the young man would enter the seminary.