The Clearing © Givaga/stock.adobe.com
Ireland is a land of stories; if you know nothing else about the Emerald Isle, remember that. It’s impossible to go to Ireland and not have a fantastical tale (or two or ten) when you come back. This story is about, above all, what it means to be family.
It’s about finding lost connections, steeped in the mystery of Ireland’s centuries-long past.
It’s also about treasure, and those brave enough to try to find it.
In Ireland on St. Patrick’s Day, there is a three-day festival in Dublin. It takes place from March 15th to the 18th. People take off work to go to parades, imbibe in too-many green beverages, eat more treacle tart than their body can take, and celebrate St. Patrick kicking the snakes out from Ireland.
That’s what we were supposed to do, my siblings and I, when we hopped on a flight to Ireland for a week-long vacation.
But, Ireland had other plans for us.
My brother, Harry, my sister, Stephanie, and I left for Dublin, Ireland just before the holiday. Our plan was to hit up the parades, drink and eat to our heart’s content, and then go visit family in Roscommon. Our aunt and uncle had a house up there that couldn’t have been any more picturesque; it would be a welcome chance to relax after the hubbub of the city.
Really, what happened was Harry’s fault.
Say what you will about my brother, but he can never turn down a friend. Even one like Oisin.
The story starts on the plane, cruising at an altitude of eight miles above sea level. Harry, Steph, and I caught a redeye out of New York City, and we planned to be in bonny Ireland (as Harry kept calling it) by the afternoon.
The Flannigan clan was on the move, and I tried not to think about the dark, swirling maw of the Atlantic beneath us as we flew to Dublin.
I’d never been much for heights, even ones I couldn’t see.
“Alright, mate?” Harry asked. We were only a few hours from Dublin, and my anti-plane-freakout mediation was beginning to wear off. I didn’t need to look at his ruddy, blonde head to know he was grinning.
“Stop talking like that,” I said, “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep or something?” He’d taken a pain reliever for his back (an ache caused by a motorcycle accident) that should have knocked him out.
“I was, but I had weird dreams,” Harry replied.
I peeled up a corner of my eye mask. Harry’s tone had sounded weird. Steph was still sleeping on Harry’s right, while, as the oldest, I’d nabbed the window seat (strange, considering I hated flying).
“Yeah,” he said, “Something about a fish and a guy on a horse..” Even though I hated listening to other people’s dreams, I was intrigued. Harry sounded perturbed, which was unusual for him. But, Harry was also a jokester, and you could never tell if he was joking.
“That’s weird. Anyway,” I said, putting my mask back on, “Don’t talk to me until Dublin.”
I should’ve listened to him. I should’ve asked him more about the dream, but I was tired and anxious and mildly hangry.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.
Harry didn’t mention the dream again. He didn’t really talk to me until we landed, but I knew he stayed awake the rest of the flight.
The landing was bumpy, jolting and shaking the plane. As relieved as I was to land, that landing couldn’t have been worse, save for a crash that would’ve made headlines.
Steph sat straight up, blurting out an expletive.
“Good morning,” Harry said. His earlier mood had lightened, “We’re here.” The three of us gathered our stuff and, shaky legs and sore backs aside (we were in our thirties, after all), we toddled off the plane, happy to reach dry land.
Three Americans in Ireland—it sounds like the stuff of sitcoms. That said, the disembarkation and all the other stuff (getting our luggage, calling a cab to our hotel, settling in, paying the tab for the stay, etc.) went pretty smoothly.
We were first-generation Irish-Americans, after all, and we’d made this trip a few times.
It was great to be back.
Already, Dublin was a madhouse.
The festivities weren’t really going to kick off until the next day, but the city was flooded with people, the color green, and the sound of life. We walked down the brick streets, looking for a pub that would have greasy food and bubbly drinks.
Though we wanted to immediately go to sleep in the double hotel suite (Harry in the smaller room, Steph and I in the larger one, just like when we were kids), we knew that the best thing to do was hit the town. A nap would mean we wouldn’t sleep that night.
“I want a pub that’s out of the way a bit,” Steph said. We had to agree. My younger sister was the introvert among us. A librarian by trade, Steph’s biggest dream was to own her own bookstore.
Though she could be quiet, she also had a fiery side that you didn’t want to mess with.
As for Harry, he was a bit more carefree. He worked in tech, drank and partied on the weekends, and was rarely serious.
I was the eldest sister, the parentified older sibling who had to keep an eye on the other two while our mom, a single mother, worked. I was surprised Steph had wanted to come with us. Harry was a bit wild, even for a newly-thirty-year-old, and she thought I was bossy (I was).
Keen to show her that I was trying not to be bossy, I said, “Yeah, I agree.”
We got on our phones and found a pub, Donovan’s, that seemed pretty quiet.
“Well, I can tell you all are siblings.” That was the first thing Donovan’s bartender, a man with a name tag reading, “SHUT UP,” said.
He had a point—we shared the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and red cheeks, and we all were around the same height, 5’9”. Though our personalities were wildly different, our looks made us almost seem like triplets, even though we were just a few years apart.
“What’s your name?” Harry said, squinting at the nametag.
“None of your business, is it?” the bartender said. We all got a bit quiet, wondering if he was serious. Surely, a lot of American tourists came through and acted up. He’d probably had enough.
But, then he grinned. “Arthur,” he said, extending a friendly hand.
We introduced ourselves, got some pub food and drinks, and sat in the corner of the mahogany-laden, green-and-white-decorated pub.
Donovan’s was quiet (we’d had to walk a fair bit to get there), and Arthur brought our food and drinks pretty quickly. We sat down, discussing the plan for the next day. We’d be up early (as early as Harry would allow), and we’d head down to the first phase of the parade.
Though it was mid-March, the weather was temperate, with no more than a light jacket necessary for walking around the city.
We made our plans at Donovan’s, but little did we know, we’d get to do absolutely none of them.
