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island floating on its surface. From the cliffs you could look at Rathlin Island and the waters of the Moyle that churned in front of it, or you could turn to the left and examine Ballycastle Bay and the town that rose behind it. With your back to the sea you could watch the swift shadows of clouds darken the surfaces of the already dark lakes. Below, on the beach, there might be one or two dulse gatherers and, to the left and right of Rathlin, fishing boats bobbing like small, floating sea birds. Moving purposefully past these curraghs might be the Rathlin-Ballycastle ferry. This small vessel knew no schedule, returned sometimes hours, sometimes days after it set out. Once when it was owned by Sean MacDonnell, who lived on the land, it wintered on the island. Once when it was owned by Fergus MacFee, an islander, it wintered on the land; its furious respective owners cursing God and the sea.
    Father Quinn had been lucky and unlucky. The day was fair, the crossing easy. But unlucky because, since the day was fine, he was unlikely to find his friend Brian O’Malley at home. The priest carried a copy of Horace under his arm, guiltily, knowing that this was not the real reason for his visit. Normally the twomen met once or twice a month to talk about Latin, mathematics, and philosophy, and O’Malley’s cottage was the best place for that. But, Quinn reminded himself, he should be grateful that the walk from Ballycastle to Ballyvoy was not as lengthy as that to Coolanlough, and on a fine day Ballyvoy was where O’Malley was most likely to be found.
    Eventually the priest rounded a bend in the road that led up from the harbour town. Now he could see the straggling cottages and cabins that made up the village. He heard wind and birds and his own determined footsteps on the gravel, then the expected sound of sustained chant coming from the hedgerows. Quinn joined in unconsciously, mouthing noun declensions, moving with facility into verbs and then shouting enthusiastically long Latin sentences concerning Roman campaigns until the other chanting voices ceased and a tall form emerged from an opening door in the shrubbery that lined the side of the road.
    “Well,” said the schoolmaster, “how is it that you’ve come on a day such as this?”
    Behind him the voices that had been dutifully reciting broke into chaos. Words and laughter burst out from summer leaves. Great scuffling erupted.
    “Creeping up like this you might have been one of the inspectors of the old days.” Both men remembered when hedge schools such as this had been forbidden by law. “I’ve most of the children here though they’re itching to be gone, if it’s some talk you’re after.”
    Father Quinn was passing the old leather book from hand to hand nervously. Four or five blackbirds paced at his feet. “It’s about something else I’ve come,” he said, “besides Latin.”
    Two small boys rolled out of the entrance and wrestled in the dust on the road. The dark birds spun away.
    “Back in with you,” roared O’Malley. “On with Caesar. Do the part on England. Recite in whispers.”
    The boys disappeared. Hisses slipped through the wattle, thatch, and lattice of the old structure.
“Britannia est magnum insulum,”
the voices announced in unison.
    “Magna insula!”
shouted O’Malley, tossing his head back briefly in the direction of the greenery. “We’ve been looking carefully at your
Lives of the Saints
, if it’s that. And grateful we are for the loan of it.”
    “Fine, fine,” said Father Quinn, “but, no, it’s hot that.”
    “Should I send them off, then?” The whispering beyond the leaves stopped. The very air seemed to listen. The priest looked furtively up and down the road as if he were about to perform an act for which there should be no witnesses. “If you have no objection,” he said, “it might be best.”
    O’Malley turned and entered the shrubbery. “Two more sentences,” he demanded, “and then be gone for the