The Waywards - Chapter 1, Part 1
The time is here. But before you dive into the first small piece of The Waywards, I want to thank you for being here in the first place. I wish I could share the entirety of the text with you, but I want to reserve some content for the day when this (hopefully!) gets published. While I won’t be sharing the whole book, I do intend to give you enough to follow the whole story.
As a reminder, I’ll share each chapter in three short installments (one per week) followed by a reflection piece on a major theme from the chapter. I’m hoping these reflections will not only elucidate my thinking and intent behind the chapter but also the relevance of the concept to our lives, here and now.
As with every post, please share any feedback, thoughts, questions you may have.
And now, please see the first installment below.
The Waywards - Chapter 1, Part 1
Looking West over the Atlantic, Mairtin saw his past and his future simultaneously. He knew what had to be done. He knew what it meant. A laden thunderhead hovered over the pelagic roiling like the spirit of God before land and sea were distinguished. He cleaved his gaze from the horizon and lost himself in the churning deep. Chaos begot chaos among the billows.
His harrowed thoughts were broken by the sound of two young boys shouting over the waves as they prepared to launch a paper clipper. They knelt on a pier that stretched out and disappeared into the increasingly tempestuous breakers. The boys looked weightily at one another on the cusp of their long-planned voyage. One of the boys gingerly placed the ship on the sea in a moment of deceptive calm. Almost instantly, a subversive wave pounced and swallowed the craft. The wide-eyed boys tore their attention from the ship’s demise and fixed each other’s watery gaze, wailing in harmony as they scrambled up and over the hill toward the nearby town in search of maternal reprieve.
Mairtin’s shallow forehead slowly tensed as he looked back at the clouds rolling in from the West, threatening the Irish coasts that had seen him grow and hope and fail. The air felt heavy. The breeze off the North Atlantic bit his cheeks and drew water from his eyes. With Desmond just three months old, Treasa had been intimating her desire for more progeny, though not as subtly as she thought. As his brow furrowed, his prematurely receding hairline became more prominent. His cheeks and sunken chin bore the evidence of a neglected razor. He knew, had assured himself, that this time, he would be different; he would be better.
Mairtin pursed his lips staring intently into the horizon. The cloud had gathered snuffing out the setting sun and blurring the line between water and sky. The sea had become cold. The wind told of the coming rain and brought with it the smell of salt and seaweed. Mairtin looked over his shoulder away from the tumultuous waves and stared at the flickering field of sound below him. He turned his back to the distant line he could no longer see and walked down into town.
