It was a calendar of birds and it hung on a nail over his uncle’s rattan chair in the kitchen. Declan took it down and flipped through the pages. April was the month of the great blue heron. His ma and Mairead died in April.
September was a horned puffin, October a Canada Goose, November a common loon, and December a bald eagle.
For Declan the December eagle was an omen, for hadn’t it watched over him during his attempted escape to Sea Island? So it was only fitting that this eagle now guard that promise of freedom, that last day of December which Declan had colored in red with a crayon so that when December came around and his Uncle Matthew glanced up at the calendar he would not fail to notice both the reminder of his promise and the eagle’s fierce eyes and deadly beak threatening revenge should he and Kate renege on their promise.
Meanwhile, in the month of the puffin, Declan could stop running for a while, he could relax; the deal with his uncle and aunt was forcing him to slow down and take things easy. He was surprised at the relief he felt: for the first time in five long months, he could stop rushing; he could stand still.
Five months ago, with the deaths of his ma and sister in April, he had suddenly become a different person—had changed overnight. Joining the Holy Terrors had allowed him to lose himself in action and revenge. Then when Matthew sent for him, giving the police a good reason to get rid of him, he had lived like a wild animal, constantly on the run, always looking over his shoulder.
Now he could stop searching for ways to escape. A few months in this peaceful place between the sea and the mountains would do him no harm, would help build up his energy and strength for his return after Christmas. And if those two meddling, do-gooder fixers, Matthew and Kate, thought they were going to work on him to change his mind, then they had another think coming. Declan felt almost light-hearted.
He thought about his return to Ireland. A new year. It would be a new, triumphant Declan keeping the promise he had made himself when he was torn away from his native soil: he said he would be back and he would. He felt tough, invincible. It would be a new beginning.
And once he was back, he would join the IRA if they would have him. Brendan Fogarty said they were recruiting for the Fianna, the IRA youth auxiliary for young people who were quick and smart, who knew the streets and the police and the Brits, who knew the ropes. Declan was already an expert maker of gasoline bombs. He knew just the right mix of sugar and flour and gas, and the right kind of bedsheet strips that made good fuses. Milk bottles made the best bombs. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the joke about the woman who asked the milkman to leave her one bottle of milk and two empties.
And he knew how to make a nail bomb with gelignite and razors and nails and ballbearings, knew how to attack the Brits on foot patrol with fast hit-and-run tactics, knew how to steal a double-decker bus—as the Holy Terrors had done—and wedge it in one of the Shankill Road streets, set it on fire and burn the Protestants down, the way they had burnt and destroyed the Catholics in the Falls and Ballymurphy neighborhoods.
He would make a good IRA man.
He would strike a blow for national liberation, a blow for Ireland’s freedom.
And he would revenge the deaths of his sister and his parents.
At night as he lay in his Canadian bed, listening to the ocean, he thought often of his ma and his sister. He still found it hard to accept that they were dead. Gone. Death was so final. He remembered his ma in many different ways. Standing at the door of their house, Mairead only five, clinging to her legs, himself about eight, playing with the other kids in the street. “You’ve played enough, Declan. Don’t you see it’s dark?” Her voice worried. Or out in the street at four in the morning with all the other women, thumping and rattling their trashcan lids on the curbs, bravely refusing to be intimidated by the Brits or the police terrorizing the Catholic neighborhood with their surprise search-and-harass games.
He began having his nightmare less often.
“Make that noise again.”
“Hmmnn?”
“The bird call. I like it.”
Joe pursed his lips and whistled.
Declan laughed. “I can’t tell the difference between your whistle and the real thing.”
“Redwing blackbird.” Joe pointed to a bright flash of black and red in the thicket.
It was lunch hour. The small lake was a mere five minutes’ walk from the school. Declan lay back in the grass, relaxed and happy, the warmth of the sun on his face.
Joe sat, watching the lake, back straight, his legs folded under him.
“Too nice a day to waste in school,” Declan murmured.
“You talk all the time of going home to Ireland,” said Joe. “But you know what?”
“No, what?”
“You will stay here. You like it too much to leave.”
“Not a chance.”
“I know it.” Joe laughed. “You’re hooked.”
Declan opened one eye. “What do you say we take the afternoon off school?”
Joe shook his head. “No thanks.”
“You scared you’ll get into trouble?”
“No.”
“Then why not?”
Joe grinned. “I like school.” “I’ll fight you for it,” said Declan. “I win, we skip school. You win, we go back, okay?”
“I don’t fight,” said Joe.
Silence. “But I’ll wrestle you, if you want.”
“Wrestle?” said Declan.
Joe nodded. “No striking. Wrestling only.”
“Okay.” Declan leaped to his feet, and crouched, ready to wrestle.
Joe stood calmly and pulled off his sweater and his shirt. He peeled off his sneakers and socks. Then he undid his belt and stepped out of his jeans, and stood practically naked in his Jockey shorts.
“You don’t need to undress,” said Declan, embarrassed and puzzled, glancing quickly around to see if Joe’s performance was being observed.
Joe folded his clothing carefully, and placed the pile on the ground beside an old cedar tree. “I don’t like to look all mussed going back to school.”
Declan laughed. “You think you’re about to win?” He threw off his sweater.
“Of course.” Joe grinned and rushed at Declan, grasping his smaller opponent in his arms and throwing him down quickly with a thump, and pinning his shoulders to the ground.
Declan gasped as all the wind was knocked out of him. “I wasn’t ready!” he choked.
Joe jumped up, and stood back, grinning. “Best man is two falls. First fall goes to me.” He crouched, waiting for Declan to rise.
Declan got up slowly, resting on one knee until he was breathing normally. Then he advanced cautiously, arms ready. They met. Declan tried to get a grip on Joe, but his fingers slid uselessly off his adversary’s dark skin and hard-muscled body. Joe had no trouble, however, gripping Declan’s shirt and pulling him off balance.
“Wait!” yelled Declan. “I want to take off my shirt.”
Joe stood back, grinning. Declan wriggled out of his shirt and threw it to the ground, not taking his eyes off Joe, prepared should he rush again and try to take him by surprise. But Joe waited until Declan was crouching and ready, his bare skin pale and gleaming.
They met and grappled. Declan tried to get Joe off balance, but Joe was too quick on his feet, shifting and wriggling, and using his strong grip and muscular arms to force Declan down. They fell together, wrapped around each other, pulling and pushing, grunting like a pair of wild animals. Joe tried a pin, but Declan arched his back, and kicking out at the sky with his legs, managed to pull himself clear. He spun about immediately, and threw himself at Joe’s dark shoulders, twisting himself, coming up on his knees behind Joe with a sweaty, sliding half nelson. But he couldn’t hold it. Joe’s neck muscles strained, his arms and shoulders bulged. Declan fell back with a gasp, and Joe was on him, and they rolled about in the grass for a while, each trying to gain the advantage, until they were at the very edge of the lake, Declan on his back, too exhausted to hold Joe off. He could see a pair of mallards upside-down as Joe pinned him for the second time. “You win!” he gasped.
Joe stood back, gasping for breath, his torso soaked with sweat.
Declan rose unsteadily to his feet. “You’re the powerful wrestler, Joe, right enough.” He grinned, and reached for his shirt.
“Good fight,” said Joe happily as he dressed.
The mallards, a duck and a drake, clambered from the lake and stood watching the two boys in astonishment.
“We’d better get to school,” said Declan.
The shrill, piercing whistle of a redwing came fluting up from the thicket as they started back. At the end of October, Ana told him he had put on some weight. “You look healthier,” she said one afternoon as they strolled home from school. “More relaxed.”
Declan frowned and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
“But you need to smile. And laugh. Leah says you’re not so stuck-up the way you used to be.”
“I was never stuck-up,” Declan declared hotly. “And as for smiling and laughing, I leave that to those who have reason to.”
“She thinks you’re cute.”
“Where I come from cute means cunning. Like a fox.”
“She means lovable.”
“Is that right now? And what did you tell her?”
“Me?” Ana shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, I just told her to keep her eyes off my big brother.”
Declan almost smiled.
The month of the Canada Goose was a good month for sunshine. The trees were changing color and there was a hint of fall in the air as Declan and Ana set off for school each morning.
Although Declan had earned a grudging respect from the other kids at school, he knew they did not like him. He could read it in their too polite faces, but he did not care: they were no countrymen of his. Joe was different, of course. Declan’s friendship with the Indian boy was growing stronger each day.
Nor did most of the teachers take to him, Declan noticed. Though his natural curiosity led him to read most of the required texts, he handed in no work. He didn’t care what they thought of him.
Mr. Hemsley, however, who taught Social Studies and who was young and cheerful, tried to encourage him. “Your test scores are very good, Declan, especially in the free response questions. I admire a student with opinions of his own.” He smiled. “Try to keep an open mind, though, and try to understand other points of view, okay?”
Miss Oliver, the elderly English teacher, wanted to know why he had handed in no essays. “You cannot hope to pass the course on test marks alone,” she said. “You’re an intelligent boy; why do you take no part in the class discussions?”
“I’ve nothing to say,” lied Declan, not revealing the real reason, which was that participation spelled acceptance, and he had no intention of accepting any part of this alien country. That would be falling for his aunt and uncle’s trap; he wasn’t that much of a fool.
The weather stayed warm right into November, month of the loon, and then was suddenly, sharply cold. Otter Harbour blazed an autumn bronze, and the huge old maples on the main street flared crimson against the sea and the sky and the dark embrace of the forest.