Four days after her papa’s disappearance, she heard the gunshots again. The sound cracked through the tiny apartment like a whip and Bridget scurried to hide under the table, trembling all over. Angry shouts reached her ears, filtered through the fifth story window from the street far below. Someone was screaming – no, several someones. The building shook as a larger explosion rang out and the flickering kerosene lamp that stood on the table above her teetered dangerously close to the edge. Bridget pressed practiced hands to her ears, eyes shut tight, trying in vain to picture herself under the thatched roof of the cottage she had called home up until twelve months ago. Back before her papa had whisked her off to the crowded and manure-smelling streets of Cork City. Before he left their stuffy quarters every morning at the crack of dawn, only to return long after dark. Before she knew anything of the bad, British men.

          They were the reason Papa hadn’t come home four nights ago; Bridget was sure of it. The thought of him venturing out into the filthy streets, crammed with noisy cabs and armed men in uniforms was scary enough, but knowing he meant to free Cork City – along with the rest of Ireland - of those very men made it all the worse. They had taken local food. Killed Papa’s friends. Now they had him. Of course, she knew in her heart her papa was a hero and that he would find his way back to her. He always did. She just hoped that time came sooner rather than later.

          From her position under the table, Bridget gave a start, sensing movement to her left. She opened her eyes just enough to witness a mouse scurry over to a crack in the floorboards, slipping between them to disappear. How nice it must be, she mused, to vanish from the world like that. Away from the fear and anger and death, simply traveling between realms. Someday, she and her papa would leave this place and do the same. They’d find a boat and go far far away from nasty men in black and tan uniforms and those that brought them here from across the channel. She fancied her papa a pirate and she, his pirate princess, just like the stories he used to tell underneath the starry country sky. They’d ride the waves, visiting other lands and finding hidden treasure, returning to shower their beloved homeland in gold, silver, and rubies. But most importantly, she and her papa would be together. The thought brought the faintest trace of a smile to her lips.

          The amount of grime and dust in the air was beginning to make her nose tickle and Bridget stubbornly wrinkled it until she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

          Achoo!

          Her hands came unclamped from her ears and she froze for a moment, fearful of nearby prying ears. Next door, a child wailed while several raised voices argued back and forth. From the opposite wall, a hacking cough issued, along with a chorus of frightened voices. Footsteps and shouting sounded from above and out on the street. The tension in her body loosened slightly. She pressed the wooden rosary that hung around her neck against her chest and let out a long breath.

          Bridget crawled out from underneath the rickety table, cautiously standing up. She bent down to gather up the piece of sewing she’d dropped beside the family rocking chair in her fright. The detailed piece of furniture had been one of only three things from home they’d brought with them on their move to the city. It had belonged to her mama, made and gifted to her from Papa as a wedding present. Having no memories of her own of the woman who brought her into the world, Bridget had taken great comfort from its mere presence both in their old life and this new one. Her feet still dangled a few inches off the ground whenever she took to climbing into its seat – which happened more and more frequently over the last few months – but Papa always said she would grow into it one day.

          Placing the roughly stitched piece of fabric up on the table, Bridget shivered as the chilly December air seeped between the windowpanes. She pushed the rocking chair closer to the still burning stove, its heat bringing a rosy color to her cheeks. It occurred to her that it was late and, as if on cue, her eyelids began to droop. The clamor from the neighboring rooms had died down and this relative quiet, paired with the stress of the past few days, weighed heavily on her mind and body.

          After changing into the nightdress Papa had proudly brought home for her several months ago and tucking the rosary underneath its collar, Bridget dragged the blanket off the bed and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders. Peeking under the pillow, she then reached underneath it to pull out the book that lay beneath. It was the only form of printed text their small family owned but it was the only one that mattered, according to Papa. She traced the cross that engraved its surface. Bridget had been struggling through the book of Maccabees when Papa first approached her about leaving their home on the outskirts of Cork County. He’d always been insistent on her learning to read, explaining it was a kind of magic few people of their status could wield, but at that moment he placed a strong hand over the dark script. He’d held a torn envelope, which bore a green seal with a golden harp. He asked her if she remembered the story of the wild evil black pig, which plagued people up north thousands of years ago. She did. Saint Patrick had stopped it. Papa nodded and said he must do the same but instead face the bad men who had forced their way into the country a long time ago and refused to leave ever since. Papa’s friends had already made a start, but they needed his help. She grew frightened at the thought of her papa in danger, but he had wrapped comforting arms around her small figure, pressing a kiss to her forehead and promised they would be back home before she knew it. Blanket and book in hand, Bridget climbed back up into the rocking chair, curling herself into a tight ball and imagined just that. Home. The word ignited a warmth within her much brighter than that of a burning stove. As she began to nod off with her book hugged tightly to her chest, an old bedtime verse came to mind. Bridget spoke it to herself softly, thinking only of her papa.

 

May the road rise up to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face

The rains fall soft upon your fields

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand

 

          She awoke to the sound of shattering glass and crumbling wood. Bridget sat frozen, eyes staring fixed into the darkness. Laughter was all that could be heard in the dead silent night, coming from the street a few blocks away. Then an explosion. Her body jumped into action, leaping off the chair to push it up beneath the window. She paused briefly, her breath catching, but she ​had​ to know. Balanced perilously on the chair, Bridget peered outside and went numb at the sight that met her eyes.

          The sky was blood orange, brightly lit from the spreading flames below. Their angry tongues reached upwards, devouring the center of Cork City, each spire and facet crumbling at their touch. Shadowy figures were visible amidst the flames, tossing indiscernible objects through the windows of more buildings. Another explosion. More shattering glass and crumbling wood. Bridget watched as the flames crept stealthily into a, yet untouched, smaller street behind. Drawing closer. Suddenly-

          A knock.

          She whirled around to face the door and nearly slipped off her precarious position on top of the rocking chair. It had been five days since a sound of any kind had last come from that door. Four days without a word from Papa, waiting with nothing but hope. Heart in her throat, Bridget scrambled down from the chair to hurry over and grasp the doorknob. She held her breath for a moment before pulling the door open to find-

          Not Papa. Staring back at her was a much older man with wiry grey hair framing his face and a flat cap on his head. His tunic sported large brass buttons with the symbol of a harp decorated on them. The familiar shape nearly made her gasp.

          “Yeh Bridget?”

          Bridget blinked at the mention of her own name, drawing her gaze upwards from the buttons to look at the man’s face. She nodded slowly. The man grunted, motioning for her to follow him before turning back around to head down the hallway. Bridget glanced behind her at the room then back at the retreating figure of this strange visitor. Could it be he knew where her papa was? Would he lead her to him? When they first arrived, Papa had closed the apartment door behind him and turned to kneel before Bridget, grasping her shoulders. He warned her about the many dangers of the city and asked her to promise him never to walk through it again while he was away. She’d promised. For twelve months, she’d kept that promise. Bridget turned on her heel to grab the book she’d dropped earlier and place a small hand on the rocking chair, whispering sorry before running out the door, down the stairs, and into the night air.

 

          The sky was still tinted orange as they made their way through the streets and closer to the center of town. The smoke thickened and Bridget struggled not to cough and give their position away. Several times, they had to stop in the shadows or backtrack a few paces to avoid the large number of Black and Tans that patrolled the streets after curfew. Sirens signaled the arrival of firefighters on the scene.

          “Can yeh read it?”

          Bridget started, looking over at her traveling companion. They had paused once more as the raging city fire was gradually taken under control. The smoke had dissipated slightly. He was staring intently at the book she held in her arms.

          “That there book yeh’ve got, can yeh read it?”

          She nodded mutely. The man, as though possessed by a kind of sudden manic energy, shuffled over to her, drawing out a folded piece of paper from his faded tunic. He gestured eagerly for Bridget to take it. Under his piercing gaze, she unfolded its tattered edges and glanced at its contents.

          It was a recipe, but not like one she had ever seen before. The numbers didn’t make sense and the ingredients were all scrambled in a way she couldn’t comprehend. Confused, Bridget read everything on the page as best she could, sounding out each word with as much precision as Papa had taught her. As she did so, the old man took out what looked like a small outline of a map from his pocket and began to make markings on it with each voiced instruction. When finished, he looked at his creation with a laugh of delight. Beckoning her to follow him again, they continued their way through several more side streets before turning into an almost invisible doorway hidden in the brick siding of a department store. Pausing for a moment outside, Bridget glanced back at the empty night street before closing the door softly behind her.

          It was a simple living space, but one that felt much cozier than the empty and cold apartment she had grown accustomed to in the past few months. A few steps led downward onto a concrete floor, which had several simply decorated mats laid across its surface. A gas stove stood in one corner and a table with a single chair at the head were squished in another. Several boxes lined the walls, all bursting with a variety of papers and maps which overflowed onto the bed. A spinning wheel stood at the center of the room. 

          The man was beckoning to her again, earnestly patting the single chair. “Come, come.” Bridget crossed over to him and sat, legs dangling over the edge. He swept over to the stove and placed a plate full of steamed potatoes and cabbage before her. She suddenly realized how ravenous she was. After scarfing down half of the meal, Bridgit glanced over at the strange man again. He was busying himself with the many papers that littered his floor, glancing between them and the new markings he’d constructed upon meeting her. She wondered what they could possibly be for. 

          She finished eating and brought her plate over to the wash bin, cleaning up after herself. With dismay, she realized how dirty her nice nightgown must be after her walk through the city. But she was also tired, so very tired. As though reading her thoughts, the man brought her over to the, now clear, bed. 

          “Sleep now. Tomorrow, big day.” 

          “But I can’t take your bed, where will you sleep?” 

          He merely grinned and moved to sit at the spinning wheel, beginning to work. Bridget blinked both with confusion and exhaustion. Deciding it would be best to accept his hospitality, she climbed into bed. Almost immediately, she fell asleep.

          The following morning, Bridget woke to murmuring voices. She cracked her eyes open to find the strange man and two others standing in the entryway. As if sensing her eyes on them, the visitors abruptly bade farewell and left, her host closing the door on their way out. She sat up as he moved to the wash basin, filling it with steaming water that had been sitting in a pan on the stove. He set a stack of clothes next to the basin before nodding at her and leaving the room. Bridget eagerly pulled off her grimy nightdress and hopped in, the warm water a blessing to her aching body. As she bathed, she noticed some of the papers that had littered the floor the night before were gone. She thought back to the visitors from earlier and wondered if the strange man had given them away. 

          After toweling off, Bridget pulled on the clothes the man had set out for her. They were boys’ clothes and a bit baggy on her slight figure, but she felt clean for the first time in ages. She made sure her rosary was well-hidden underneath the new shirt. The man returned almost immediately after she was ready and laid out a breakfast of bread and potatoes. While she ate, they were paid a visit by someone else. A boy who couldn’t have been much older than she stood on the other side of the doorsill and he handed the man a loaf of bread before running off again. She watched in fascination as he locked the door, breaking the bread to reveal a scroll of paper inside. He instructed her to read it. 

          This time, the paper displayed coordinates to somewhere and the name of a building she didn’t recognize. The man traced a finger along one of the maps on the floor and marked a giant X in one spot. She noticed it was one of many that dotted the map’s surface. As the day went on, they received several more visitors, some bearing notes and others listening intently as the man relayed information to them just out of her earshot. She eventually worked up the courage to ask him who all these people were. His eyes glittered in 

that unnerving way of his. 

          “They after fixing the country now.” 

          That was all the explanation she was given, leaving Bridget to wonder if they were doing what her papa set out to do. Was she playing her own part in defeating the bad British men? She hoped so. If only her papa were one of the visitors, then she would know for sure.

          As the day came to a close, Bridget yawned widely and tucked herself back into bed. The strange man once more sat at his spinning wheel and she fell asleep to its gentle hum. 

           The next day was much the same. And the next. And the next. Bridget soon lost count of how many days she had spent sitting at that table, reading note after note, following each visitor. Eventually, days became weeks and weeks became months. She missed her papa terribly. She’d asked Mr. Spinner - for that’s what she’d decided to call him - if he’d ever seen her papa. She tried to describe his warm smile and twinkling blue eyes but to no avail. Many brave souls passed through his door and not all of them returned. It was much too difficult to keep track of them all. 

          Weary of the constant reading, Bridget decided she no longer wanted to scour the contents of her precious book each night. But she still clutched it to her chest for reassurance, confident it would one day lead her back to Papa. Sometimes, her quiet voice could be heard reciting those last two stanzas of the blessing she held so dear. ​Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand. Until we meet again…

          It was with shock when, one summer day, she heard frenzied shouting from the other side of the door. It wasn’t unusual for the sounds of fighting and disturbances from the street outside to reach their small living quarters but usually Bridget would be told to ignore it and focus on her reading. This time, Mr. Spinner rose from his mountain of papers to grab his hat and rush outside. Bridget sat frozen, listening. Suddenly, a loud knock came from the front door, urgent and sharp. She looked wildly around at the empty room, realizing her position now was all too like what it was just a few months ago. Just like then, a decision had to be made.

          Bridget jumped to her feet, the papers in her lap falling to the ground, and she hurried up the short flight of stairs to where the door stood waiting. Refusing to hesitate this time, she yanked it open – and was nearly crushed by the body that fell through it. Bridget yelped, jumping to the side as the clearly injured male figure fell down the steps and landed in a heap on the concrete floor. She rushed to close the door before running down to join him, eyes widening at the bloodied and tattered soldier before her. But there was something familiar too, about the dark hair and green shoulder straps on his tunic. Moving around him for a better view of his face, Bridget felt her heart stop.

          “Papa?”

          He had grown a beard since she last saw him, and his eyes were rimmed red from too many sleepless nights but to her he was unmistakable. Upon hearing her voice, he attempted to shift his body in her direction, but Bridget knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

          “Papa stop, you’re hurt.”

          He did as she asked, eyes remaining shut tight as he breathed heavily. Pushing him gently so he lay on his back, Bridget now saw where the real damage was. Blood stained a significant area beneath his ribcage and continued to seep out of the round bullet wound at a terrifying pace. She bit her lip, fighting back tears. How was she supposed to save him? Maybe Mr. Spinner would know … but she had no way of knowing when he would be back, and Papa needed help now. May God hold you in the palm of his hand. Bridget recalled how every time she scraped her knees or stubbed her toe back on the rough country terrain, Papa would be there to wipe away her tears and bandage her up. Now it was her turn to do the same for him.

          Thinking quickly, she ran to grab a bowl and fill it with water from the washbasin and a clean cloth. Setting it beside her patient, she then pulled off the bedsheet and began tearing it into long strips. Bridget worked steadily, cleaning the wound and wrapping it as best she could. The bullet would have to wait to be extracted later, preferably by someone with more medical expertise. She grabbed his arms and used every ounce of strength to pull him over beside the bed and prop a pillow under his head. As she cleaned her papa’s face with a damp washcloth, his eyelids began to move.

          “Bridget?”

          He spoke with a rasp in his voice, angling his head towards hers. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead at the effort. She dropped the washcloth and grabbed his hand in excitement, holding it against her cheek. 

          “Yes Papa, it’s me.”

          His eyes flickered open to meet hers in wonder and suddenly Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. Oh, how she had dreamt of this moment! He might be exhausted and hurting, but Papa was still very much alive. She intended to cling desperately to this fact until he was back on his feet again.

          “He found you.”

          The words surprised her.

          “You mean Mr. Spinner?”

          Papa coughed up a laugh and then grimaced, one hand at his injured side.

          “Is that what you know him as? The bastard always did enjoy his riddles and secrets far too much.”

          “You told him to find me?”

          Papa smiled, tucking a strand of long hair behind her ear.

          “You weren’t safe in that apartment alone. It should have occurred to me sooner, but no one can disappear quite as effectively as your “Mr. Spinner” can. What I didn’t know was that you would be roped into doing some resistance fighting of your own while I was away.”

          Bridget’s eyebrows furrowed before she gasped as he pulled a familiar piece of paper from his pocket. “H-how did you get that?”

          “Baked into a scrumptious loaf of bread I received last month. The directions helped me escape the clutches of those awful Brits I told you about. All thanks to you.” 

          Bridget sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her head and they simply sat there, clinging to each other, as the events from the past year washed off them. Papa murmured comforting words into her hair.

          “You led me home my little dove. Now we’re free. We’re all free.”

          Bridget raised her head to look at him.

          “You mean the Black and Tans-?”

          “They’re gone. All of them”

          Bridget once more felt her chest expand as warmth flooded in. Time had torn them apart, but fate knew it could not keep them that way forever. They had fought and they had triumphed and now they stood on free land, together, for the first time. Neither had come out unscathed but they would heal over time and face this next chapter together, whatever it might be. Papa took one of her hands in his own.

          “You have been so brave, and I cannot tell you how proud I am. I wish I didn’t have to ask, but do you think you can stay brave for just awhile longer?”

          Bridget frowned in worry but nodded fervently. Anything for her papa.

          “People are angry,” he explained, “There is still so much to be decided now that this land is free, and I cannot guarantee your safety while we remain here.”

          “Don’t leave again Papa, please.”

          He smiled at her wanly, hand falling back to his injured side. What effort he’d taken to speak with her had drained most of the color remaining in his cheeks.

          “I don’t imagine I’ll be going anywhere soon in this condition. But I want you to be prepared for what will come and for what might.”

          Tears were pricking the corners of Bridget’s eyes again, but they were the wrong kind.

          “We’ll make it through, I know it.”

          “Of course we will.”

          Papa’s eyes had closed again as he continued to breathe steadily but a smile still played on his lips.

          “Never lose sight of that hope my little dove, for it might just save us both.”