Theydidn’t have much money growing up, and he joined the military becauseit seemed like a good way out, a good way up to better things. He wassmart. ROTC, active duty, advanced training, special forces—it all cameeasily to him, and he thrived. He was one of those masochistic clownswho loved SEAL school. They trained underwater—escape and survival.One time, their hands were tied behind their backs; they wereblindfolded, weighted, and dumped into the pool. They had to freethemselves and get to their scuba gear. Terrifying, a test of calmunder pressure as much as skill. Richard had loved it. He’d gottenloose and just sat there on the bottom of the pool for a long minute,listening to the ambient noise of everyone else thrashing, taking inthe weight and slowness of being submerged. He’d been the last one out,but he’d been smiling, and his pulse wasn’t any faster when he finishedthan it had been when he started.
“He’shalf fish,” the trainer had declared, holding up Richard’s hand. “Yourfeet like that too, Fishhead?” They were. He’d graduated top of hisclass. His teammates still called him Fishhead.
Richardgot on a discount travel website and searched under “Last MinuteDeals.” Belize—intriguing, but sounded too hot and too much like theequatorial places he’d been to recently for professional reasons. SanDiego, ironically. Las Vegas, not on a dare. Ireland—ten days, rockbottom airfare and rental car.
Cool,green, quiet. He could have sworn he heard his dead mother whisper, “Doit. Go.”
Luckhad gotten him back into the country in time to be at her bedside whenthe cancer finally took her. That was enough to make him believe inmiracles. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine her spirit pushing himon. He booked the trip and wondered why doing so made his heart race.
Hismother only ever said two things about his father: he was Irish, and hewas like something out of a fairy tale. Richard had figured this wasa metaphor, that she’d had a wild fling in Dublin or Galway with somesilver-tongued Celt who’d looked like a prince or a Tolkienesque elf.Gotten knocked up and came home. When Richard was young, he’d urged herto go look for him, to try to find him. He’d desperately wanted to meetthis fairy-tale father. When his mother said it was impossible, he’dtaken that mean to the man was dead.
Ireland,then. Not because he thought he could find his father or getsentimental at some gravesite, or even because he wanted to. Butbecause his mother must have been there, once upon a time.
Itwould be going back to where he started.
Whathe loved most about Ireland: how green this country was, and how closethe sea was, no matter where he went.
Dublinwas a city like any city, big and cosmopolitan, though he found himselfhaving to adjust his thinking—a hundred years was not old here. Historydripped from every corner. He didn’t stay long, ticking off the touristboxes and feeling restless. He picked up the rental car and headed downthe coast on his third day.
Irelandwas having a heat wave. He rolled down the windows, let the smell ofthe ocean in, and arrived in Cork. Found a B&B at the edge of town,quiet. Went for a walk—these towns were set up for walking in a way fewAmerican towns were, a central square and streets twisting off it, allclustered together. Cork was a tourist town,shop fronts painted in bright colors, signs in Gaelic in goldlettering, just like in all the pictures. He still somehow foundhimself at a bar. Pub, he supposed. The patrons here were older.Locals,not tourists. No TV screens in sight. Low conversation was the onlybackground noise. He ordered a Guinness, because everything he’d readhad been right about that: Guinness was better in Ireland.
“YouAmerican?” the barman asked. Two stooped, grizzled men who must havebeen in their seventies were sitting at the bar nearby and looked overwith interest.
Richardchuckled. Everyone had been able to spot him before he even opened hismouth. Maybe it was his jeans or his haircut or something. “Yeah.”
“Youlooking for your roots? Family? Americans always seem to show uplooking for their ancestors. Every single American has an Irishgreat-uncle, seems like.”
“I’mjust on vacation,” he said. “Enjoying the scenery.”
Oneof the old men said, “What’s your name, son? Your family name?”
“Mymother’s name was Green.”
“Huh.English. Could be from anywhere. Your father?”
“Idon’t know.” He gave a good humored shrug. “He was supposed to beIrish. But I don’t know his name.”
Thebarman snorted. “Most folk looking for family at least have a name togo on.”
“Sorry.Mom liked being mysterious.”
“Hey,”the second grizzled old man said. “Hold up your hand there, son.”
Hegot a sudden thudding feeling in his heart. The back of his necktingled, the sort of thing that would normally have him reaching forhis sidearm and checking on his teammates. But it was just him and thecuriosity of some old men.
Helifted a hand, spreading his fingers to show the webbing.
Theroom fell quiet. Richard squeezed his hand shut and took a long drinkof beer.
“Son,”the second old man said, his voice gone somber. “You’re in the rightplace.”
“Theright place for what?” Richard muttered.
“Youknow the stories, don’t you?” A couple had come over to the bar, thesame age as the two men, their eyes alight; the woman had spoken. “Thestories about hands like yours?”
“It’sa genetic mutation.”
Thewoman, short white hair pressed close to her head, shook her head.“It’s the stories.”
“CanI get you another?” the barman said. He’d finished his drink.
“No, it’sokay. I think I’d better get going—”
Thefirst old man put a hand on his arm. Richard went still. He felttrapped, but he couldn’t exactly shove the guy off. The man said, “Gosouth from here, past Clon and out to Glandore Harbour. That’s whereyou start.”
“Butwhat’s there—”
“It’svery pretty,” the woman said.
Nobody would say more than that.
Heknew the stories. He got a degree in English with his ROTC scholarship,he’d taken classes in folklore and mythology. Maybe looking forthat fairy-tale father.
Itwas a genetic mutation.
Irishback roads were harrowing in ways Richard thoroughly enjoyed. Barelyenough room for cars to pass, no markings, curving right up againsthedgerows or stone walls, or to the edge of cliffs,
