Kilkenny, Ireland. November 7 1982

I remember it quite well. It was just before the shearing of our sheep in 1982. My man and I, ye see, we keep sheep. We've always held them on our farm just outside Kilkenny City. Connor and I had celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary that year, a quiet affair with a shared pot of tea and a few of my fresh scones. I was used to Connor going out in the early morn and coming in late in the evening. It was the rhythm of our life, as steady as the rising and setting of the sun.

He tended the sheep and the land, and I kept the home, the garden, and the chickens. We worked well together that way. It was everyday life, you see, a comfortable dance of routine.

On that particular Monday morning, Connor met me in the kitchen. We had our typical breakfast. A farmer needs to eat well before he heads out to work. I had the fire crackling in the hearth, filling the room with a smoky warmth. We sat at the small table in silence. Connor read the local newspaper, its pages rustling softly, while I made fried potatoes, eggs, sausage, and fresh tomatoes with toast. After we finished, it must have been about 6 a.m. We took our morning tea outside on the small bench in the early sun. We spoke about the recent events in Kilkenny; the O'Connell boy, young Sean, had been making trouble in the village. Scaring the local folks at night, teasing the cattle and the like. Two weeks prior, he had let all of Farmer O'Malley's cattle out into the fields. That boy kept saying he didn't do it, but we all knew that child was a wellspring of mischief.

We live a bit outside the village, about 5km from our farm, so we only had trouble once in May of '82 when he tried to get into our barn. Our nearest neighbour, Farmer O'Malley's farm, was about 3km away from our farmhouse, down a lane lined with tall hawthorn bushes. Just as every morning at around 6:15, while Connor and I had our tea, we saw O'Malley ride by on his tractor, his hand raised in a familiar wave. We waved back, he waved back, and that was that. Connor kissed me and told me he'd be in at 12 for lunch. Then he headed out into the fields, his boots crunching on the gravel.

I'm just an old lady, but I remember that day. It was such a strange day. After Connor had gone to the fields, I started my routine. At 6:45, I cleaned the kitchen, the soapy water warm on my hands, and started making fresh bread for lunch. That usually took me about 30 minutes; then, I would head to the back of the house and do the washing from the day before. At around 7:30, I was hanging the wash, pinning shirts and trousers to the line, when I heard a loud bang. I noticed the power had gone out. It wasn't the first time; in these old farmhouses, the fuse will blow once in a while. I went inside to the meter closet and reset the fuses, and the power returned. But it happened again and again that day. At least once an hour, that fuse would blow.

I cleaned my house, dusted, polished, and cooked. And at around 9:30 a.m., my daughter Adelaide rang the phone, a small, black thing that sat on a table in the hallway. She rang every Monday to see how we were doing. We had a friendly chat on the phone; my grandbaby had learned to walk that morning. Adelaide was excited to tell me about it, her voice filled with a mother's pride. We spoke for 30 minutes, and then I checked my bread. That's when the fuses blew again. So I reset them and went back to the kitchen. My bread was ready, and I took it out of the oven. The house was filled with the smell of warm yeast. I prepared lunch for Connor at 11:30. I set the table with two plates, two glasses, and the knives and forks—ye know, the primary meal stuff. I had fresh bread, fresh cheese, and butter. I poured two glasses of milk and made a new pot of tea.

Connor typically comes in around five minutes to 12 for lunch. It was a firm rule of his. But this day, he didn't. At a quarter past 12, he wasn't there either, so I thought there must have been something wrong with one of the sheep. I waited until 1 p.m., then, a strange feeling of unease settling in my chest, I went to the sheep shed to see what was happening. As I walked out of the house, the fuses blew again. This time, I left them; I figured I would fix them when I returned home. I walked out of the house and took a left towards the barn. The barn is about 500 meters from the house, and I could already hear the soft bleating of the sheep. Usually, our dog, Johnny, a loyal border collie, greets you as you approach the barn, but he wasn't there this time.

There was nothing strange in the barn. The sheep were calm, and the tools were in their proper place. But Connor wasn't there either. So I got on the scooter we kept for getting around the land and went out to the fields. I saw the sheep grazing in the area as usual. But I couldn't find Connor or Johnny anywhere. The sun was shining, and there were plenty of white clouds in the sky. It was just a typical day, but this was not normal behaviour for my Connor. When he leaves the farm, he always tells me. He never just disappears. I checked all three of our fields, and they were nowhere on the land. I told myself to calm down. My Connor is a strong man. I was sure he was okay. Once back at home, it was now a quarter to 2 p.m. I flipped the fuses and cleaned up the uneaten lunch.

I rang Farmer O'Malley to ask if he had seen or heard from Connor, but like me, the last time he saw Connor was while we were having tea earlier that morning.

Between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m., I rang several people. I called the doctor's office, Adelaide, and I rang Jonas at the feed store. No one had seen Connor. I even called Constable O'Brien, but he hadn't heard from Connor either. The worry was starting to turn into a hard, cold knot in my stomach. The silence on the phone was the worst part of it. At 5:15, the fuses blew out again. I walked to the back of the house to the fuse box and flipped the switches.

As I did that, my Connor burst into the front door. He didn't look like my Connor. His overalls were ripped at the knees, and his white hair was dishevelled. His eyes were wide and wild, filled with a panic I had never seen. He was talking fast and sounded very confused. When I asked him where he had been all day, he said he couldn't remember. He told me he thought someone had hit him on the head. He said he woke up in the barn just before returning to the farmhouse.

I still believe it was the O'Connell boy up to no good, but I know what I saw. I had searched the whole barn, and my Connor wasn't there. I know he was telling the truth. I just don't know where he was.

Sincerely,

Dela Bryne