The Wall Builder – Part 2: Turf Fire

"Yes," said Orla. "I'd like that."

The kiss tasted of rain and tea. Mara's hand rose to her cheek, rough and cold and very gentle. Orla laughed softly and kissed her back, her heart doing something that made the grey hillside bloom. The wind pulled at their coats. The wall stood half-built beside them, every stone in its place.

"We should get out of the rain," said Mara.

"It's been raining for two weeks."

"That's why."

Mara's cottage stood at the end of a boreen, low and white, with a turf fire burning in the grate and a kettle on the hob. The air smelled of peat smoke and wet wool. They hung up their coats and sat by the fire, knees touching, the rain tapping the window.

"I'm not very good at this," said Mara. "I'm better with stone."

"You're doing fine."

"I'd like to be sure that you want to stay."

"I want to stay," said Orla.

They kissed again, slowly, by the fire, and the evening unrolled like a long grey ribbon. The bedroom was small and warm, with a patchwork quilt and a window onto the dark hill. They undressed with care, laughing at damp wool and stubborn buttons. Mara was thoughtful and steady, as she was with the wall. Orla was warm, open and teasing. They fit together without any force at all. Outside, the rain whispered on the thatch.

Weeks later, the wall was finished. It ran the length of the field, solid and beautiful, every stone chosen. Orla stood at the top with a flask of tea, looking down at it with something close to awe.

"It'll last a hundred years," said Mara.

"Longer."

"Longer," Mara agreed, and slipped her arm around Orla's waist. "You'll have to come and check on it."

"Every year," said Orla. "Possibly every week."

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