THE LATE AFTERNOON sun slanted through the grimy windows of the old stone stable. The stalls stood empty, their iron bars tangled with cobwebs and their old wooden doors battered and scarred. From the roof rafters, doves cooed softly, fluttering their wings and sending up motes of dust to dance in the sunlight.
Marcus Quinn huddled in the quiet shadows of the haymow, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. At his feet, a small pile of wood shavings lay scattered in the musty hay. This had become his secret spot, the place he retreated to when his world got too difficult to bear. Today was his eighth birthday and nothing had changed.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife his father had sent him last year for his birthday. The blade was sharp, honed by his grandmotherâs cook with the old whetstone she kept in the kitchen.
Marcus stared at the line of tiny figurines heâd set on a beam against the stable wall, counting them silentlyâbirds, dogs, horses, fish, even an alligator heâd carved from a photo in a book. His very first carving, an owl, had been fashioned from a scrap of sapwood heâd found in the rubbish bin. Though it was crude and a bit uneven, Marcus liked the way its wide eyes watched him.
Over the past year his carvings had become much more detailed, aided by the old tools heâd found in a box in a dark corner of the stable. Marcus pulled the box from its hiding spot beneath a musty canvas and carefully inventoried the tools, touching each as he counted them. The handles were all worn smooth with age, but the edges were still as sharp as razors and free of rust.
Marcus reached down and ran his fingers over the initials carved into the front of the rough-hewn box. E.H.P. Heâd wanted to ask his grandmother who the tools belonged to, but he was afraid sheâd take them away from him, fearful that heâd hurt himself. Everyone treated him like a baby, always hovering over him, always concerned for his feelings. But Marcus was much stronger than they gave him credit for.
The stable door creaked and Marcus quickly shoved the toolbox back beneath the canvas, then shimmied against the wall. Holding his breath, he waited, praying that the shadows would hide him.
âMarcus! Jaysus, Marcus, come on. Nana is waiting in the car and sheâs pissed.â
Marcus scowled. He and his two older brothers, Ian and Declan, had lived with their Grandmother Callahan for two years now, but Marcus still couldnât bear to call this place home. It was half a world away from his mother and father and the rest of his siblings, this big fancy house in a strange land where everyone talked in a funny voice and they played cricket and soccer instead of baseball and football.
Ian cursed. âDonât be such a baby. Just come on out. Nana said we can go to the cinema for your birthday. And then weâll have ice cream. She says itâll be a grand time.â
Cinema? The movies. Thatâs what it was calledâthe movies. Already his brothers had started talking like their mates at school, lacing everything they said with colorful curses and strange slang. Marcus shifted, sinking farther back into the dark. A strand of hay tickled at his nose and he fought against a sneeze, covering his face with his hands. The last of his tears still clung to his cheeks, and Marcus wiped his runny nose with his wrist, willing himself to remain silent.
His grandmother had ordered a wonderful birthday celebration with gifts and a cowboy cake and an afternoon outing in nearby Dublin. Though everyone had worked so hard to lift his spirits, it wasnât enough. After two birthdays away from home, he thought maybe this time heâd get to enjoy a celebration with his family, his ma and his da and all six of his older siblings.
He remembered the day heâd turned five, waking up in the morning and going downstairs to find the kitchen table covered with presents, all wrapped in the Sunday comics. He couldnât remember what gifts heâd received, but he remembered his mother sitting at the end of the table and watching him with tear-filled eyes.
Sheâd cried a lot that month and Marcus hadnât understood why. And then, one terrible night, his father had gathered them all around the kitchen table to tell them that their mother was very ill. Marcus remembered his confusion over the word: