LAST EDITED ON 08-10-03 AT 01:01 AM (EST)Raymond Andrews trudged alone along the dirt road in a state of extreme annoyance. The morning was almost gone and yet the chill in the air still clung to his skin, and the breeze grazed his pink cheeks like knives. He drew his wool coat tighter to his chest, balling his hands into fists to keep them warm. Thankfully his ears were warm under the stocking cap his mother had knitted before he joined the Navy four months earlier, but warm ears and head were not enough. The rest of him shivered, as much in irritation as the cold.
“Damn! Does it never warm up on this Island?” he said to himself as he blew into his fingers. He was in such deep thought that he never noticed he had veered toward the edge of the dirt road until his foot stepped down into a deep puddle. He felt the cold water splash over his boot and down into his sock. “I hate this place,” he grumbled.
In truth, there was much more on Raymond’s mind then the cold air. He had joined the Navy for many reasons, not the least being to “bring down the Hun.” Much to his chagrin, he had yet to see any action. After spending weeks in basic training and officers candidate school, he and his fellow shipmates had finally set off for France, only to make port in Ireland. His captain had then announced that they would remain there for at least two weeks, allowed generous liberties, and not said anymore. All the men had been disappointed, but Raymond most of all. Liberty was nice, but he had joined up for adventure, and to please his considerably naval family. At home in New York, his family fully expected him not only to enjoy life in the Navy, but stand out and join the ranks of past Andrews reaching back to the beginnings of the United States. Now he was stuck on land, with no adventure other than trying to keep warm. “Some glory,” he muttered to himself sullenly.
Earlier that morning, Raymond had joined a group of shipmates for a jaunt into the open market of a village near where their ship was anchored. They set off in high spirits, discussing with gusto the local girls with their colorful dresses, striped stockings, and earthy, flirty manners. Raymond was as interested in conquest as his companions, but had been distracted by his surroundings. As he walked along with his mates he had stared at the beauty around him. The rolling green hills dotted with heather and late spring wildflowers waved a welcome in the breeze, and the low hills seemed to call to him. But then, Raymond’s heart held a secret. He had the soul of a poet, and the hills offered a romantic diversion harder to pass up then any Irish lass he had seen thus far.
Because of this, when he had seen a particularly intriguing path leading up toward one of the heather and rock covered hills, his ever-present need to see where the path led overrode his need for female companionship. After assuring the group that he knew how to get to the market on his own, he had waved and marched off along the overgrown path toward the top of the hill. As usual, once his friends were out of site his mind quickly shifted to the romance of his quest: to see what lie beyond the top of the hill. This caused him to view his surroundings as more of a painting, or backdrop to his adventure. His senses took in everything, rather than specifics that would remind him later how to get back to the main road. When he was rewarded with a spectacular view of a purple and yellow dotted valley below, the path behind him was almost completely forgotten. Wanting to see more, he kept going until inspiration for a new poem suddenly hit him. Sitting down on a rock, he pulled out a small notebook and started writing. When his thoughts finally came back to where he was, he climbed to what he thought was the correct hill, only to find himself staring out at an unfamiliar vista. Confused and lost, he now found himself walking along the dirt road, wet, cold and angry. The beauty of the quest replaced with embarrassment at having to ask for directions. That was assuming he could find someone to help him; the road he was on was empty.
His chin was down, in an attempt to use his wool collar as a warmer. The wind had gotten stronger, and had he looked up, he would have seen the darkening sky above him. Instead he simply trudged along the road head down, hoping that somehow he would find a village, inn, or some place where someone could tell him where the devil he was. He was so lost in his thoughts and his attempts to keep warm, that he barely noticed when his body seemed to hit something.
“Ach, Man! Have ya no sense a’tall? Look what ya have done to my eggs!”
Raymond looked up and immediately wished he was anywhere but on the road. Before him stood a woman, hands on hips, legs spread apart, chin up and glaring at him. Under normal circumstances, he would have gazed appreciatively at her figure and red hair, but her eyes blazed at him from a freckled face full of anger. Beautiful eyes he noted, clear and blue-green like the sea; but if looks could kill, he would have been slain where he stood.
“Are ya just going to stand there looking like a lost pup?” she spat, “or are ya going ta help me salvage what’s left?”
Raymond came up out of his musing and started for the basket. He and the woman knelt down at the same time, knocking heads as they both reached for one of the few non-broken eggs.
“You‘re really doing well this morning aren't you?” she said as she rubbed her forehead.
“For my next trick, I will probably break my leg,” he said with a sulk as he picked up a different egg.
“Just don’t fall on what’s left of the eggs when ya do,” she quipped back.
“Hellcat,” he thought to himself as he helped her put what was left back in the linens lining the basket. Stepping back from her, he managed to regain his composure. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to pay for the ones that were broken?”
She turned her clear eyes up to him again and seemed to look right into him. He shifted from one foot to the other, but could not seem to stop himself from gazing back at her. Finally, she turned away from him, and began walking down the road. “No, these eggs were just going to buy my sister a new ribbon for her first dance.” She added over her shoulder, “She can just wear one of my old ones.”
He watched her skirts swish around her legs as she walked away, and suddenly remembered where he was. “Wait!” he pleaded as he ran after her. “Are you going to the market near the bay?”
“Yes, the village market does not have the variety of the city,” she explained as he caught up with her. They talked for a time, about the land, the flowers and the superstitions that seemed to define Irish existence. Raymond found himself forgetting about the cold, his wet socks, and the light rain that had started falling. In time, he even managed to forget he had been lost. He talked to the woman beside him about America, the wonders of New York compared to Dublin, and how much he was looking forward to going to France. As they walked, often they said nothing at all, giving him the chance to muse on how her long red hair would look unbound from its braid, and how her skirts moved when she walked. Raymond felt as good as he had sitting on his rock earlier in the morning. When they finally reached the bustling market, he was disappointed that they could not talk more.
She turned to leave, smiling a goodbye as she saw some friends. Raymond suddenly didn’t want her to go.
“My name is Raymond,” he said simply. “My friends call me Ray.”
“’Tis a nice name,” she said, and disappeared into the crowd with her friends.
Raymond spent the better part of an hour looking for the redhead with the basket, but finally gave up. Finding his friends, he went from tent to tent, sampling bram brack, and beer, and flirting with many of the girls his friends brought to his attention. But he couldn’t help but be disappointed when they didn’t have a pair of blue-green eyes, as deep as the sea.
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