The boy from Clonakilty wins the county final,
but the trophy sits in his shed. He’s drafted
into the army, sent to a remote island for
training. The night before deployment, a storm
hits. His unit is ordered to stay put. The radio
dies. No one returns.
The island’s old priest had warned of the tide’s
rhythm, how it shifts every thirteen years. The
boy finds a stone circle at the shore, carved
with symbols no map records. He touches the cold
rock, and the wind stops. The sea retreats three
miles.
He walks the dry seabed, past broken boats and
rusted iron. A hole opens in the sand, revealing
a tunnel. Inside, he finds a cache of letters
dated 1920, signed by a man who led a failed
uprising. The last page is a list of names—his
own family name appears.
The storm returns at dawn. The boy climbs back
to the surface, but the island is gone. He
stands on the same shore, now a village square.
A crowd gathers. The priest speaks of a new era,
of a slogan painted on the pub wall: “No more
silence.”
The boy’s name is called. He steps forward. The
crowd chants. The priest hands him a flag. The
boy’s hand trembles. He raises it. The wind
howls. The sky splits. A light falls on the
square. The boy’s face is lit. The crowd holds
its breath.
He does not speak. He turns. The flag slips from
his grasp. The wind carries it into the sea. The
crowd disperses. The priest walks away. The boy
stays. The tide rolls in.
