It feels so good to be back on Irish sod again that I don’t even bat an eye at the old nag I have to ride on. In France, I rode the finest horses in formation, and now I’m given a bag of bones worthy of an Irishman. But I set my sights for that little cottage on the knoll and can almost smell Ma’s stew over the fire.I can tell something’s different from the view up the road. Where Da once had fences for the livestock, I see shining, waving golden tails. I kick the old thing to gallop, but all she does is trot faster, farther up the path. I can’t breathe as I see that the fields reach up over the hills and cover the area where I perfectly recalled the farm should be. My blood thickens, and I turn the horse to head to the only place I think I can find someone to tell me where my family has gone.I walk through the dark, wooden doorway of the tavern and immediately inhale the thick smell of cheap whiskey and homegrown poteen. Only three men are in the room. The one in the middle turns at my entrance, and he does a double take upon seeing me.Art says, slurring slightly, “Count O’Hanlon!”
