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Raleigh gazed out to sea, mind as dark as the clouds. It was mirrored too in the water, grey and unsettled, sloshing against the ferry’s hull. Quite a day it was shaping out to be. It would rain soon.

Raleigh headed back into the lounge. He settled back into the booth he had occupied and took a sip of scotch. As he heard an Irishman once say, [i]this’ll put a fire in ye belly[/i]. Raleigh hadn’t touched a drop of it in forty years but today it appealed to him. [i]Atticus Mac Cléirich[/i]. The name fanned the flames in his stomach. Both evoked painful memories.

It wasn’t like Raleigh to feel bitter. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and rubbed. Why was he here? What did that incubus want of him now, after so many years and all that had transpired? It was all so conflicted. Whatever the nature of his summons, Raleigh deduced it was important and urgent. Inquisitive, Raleigh had obliged. Rain trickled down the window.

The Irish Sea was in a mood this morning. It was clear skies when the ship departed Liverpool at 10:00. Such was British weather, Raleigh thought to himself, a wild mistress. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was good to have been back home, he supposed.

Work had taken him abroad for longer than anticipated, five years longer. What had originally been a relatively simple job in the Amazon basin developed into something much more. The scale of deforestation was alarming and someone of his particular skillset was urgently required. Collecting samples and specimens, blessing trees, calming forest spirits, securing sanctuaries, Raleigh’s work was cut out for him. There was no time for creature comforts.

He had been enjoying a little time off when Atticus’ letter had struck him, smack in the face as he was about to putt on the ninth green. Raleigh couldn’t help feeling it was deliberate; outwardly it must have been amusing to see a man fall sideways into a sandy bunker and roll several feet downhill. He read the message in between sputtering fits. No rest for the wicked.

Vacation over, Raleigh terminated his golf session, gathered some belongings and set off for the Liverpool ferry port. Teleportation or the airplane would’ve been quicker and easier, but Raleigh felt a good drive would soothe his nerves and bring some clarity. The Irish countryside would be nice too.

Raleigh took another long sip of scotch. He watched as fingers of water ran down the window. It had been almost thirty years since he had last seen Atticus. Raleigh had had a brief stint at the Boston branch as several jobs had cropped up there that piqued his interest. It was there he met the then-director of operations Atticus Mac Cléirich. He was a likeable chap and Raleigh considered him a good friend. He had a magnificent beard as Raleigh recalled. The calamity that befell them all but severed their bonds. Raleigh stared into the dwindling whiskey. A woman’s face flashed in the amber, and then was gone. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“We will shortly be arriving in… Dublin,” an automated voice came over the intercom, alerting drivers to get back to their cars. Raleigh necked the remaining liquor, slammed the glass on the table, and got up, readjusting his fitted charcoal blazer. The Mercedes smelt of pinecones and cedarwood, reminding Raleigh of home. Soon the ferry arrived in port, allowing the passengers to disembark. Raleigh drove southwards, windscreen wipers swiping away the downpour.

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Pebbles crunched underfoot as Raleigh neared the fabled Ardgroom Stone Circle. He saw eight figures dotted around the monoliths. Looks quite the party, he mused. Step by step nearer, Raleigh felt an intensifying weight deep down in his gut and a feeling that he was making a grievous mistake. It was too late to back out now. A cold breeze whistled by, soft and solemn. He walked into the centre.

“Hello, Atticus.”