A gentle breeze wafted through the sky, stirring wee Peter's brown curls as he watched from the low branches of the tree. Soft brown eyes drifted across the landscape around him, brushing over the rolling green hills that fell gently into the sandy beach below. Rays of gold stretched across the small town, seeping through cracks under doors and into windows, warming the little boy's face before they slipped below the horizon.
It was like an elf had blessed the land with her magic, letting it shine in the setting of the late summer sun. Peter had lived here his whole life. The whole four years. And he wouldn't change it for the world.
"Peter!"
He looked over to the sound of his mother's Irish lilt, hopping down from the boughs and running over to where she waved from the door of their cottage. Mary smiled, tousling his locks as they walked inside. "Dinner's ready." They sat down at the table with Richard and began to eat, Peter talking wildly about the adventures he had that afternoon in the garden and showing his father the shell he and Mary had found. Richard chuckled softly, inspecting the shell with his intelligent, dark eyes.
"It's quite stunning, isn't it?"
Peter nodded, running a finger over the pearly coating. "You can hear the sea in it," holding it up to his father's ear.
" I can!"
Mary laughed, her green eyes lighting up. "Have you heard anything from your brother yet?" she asked, putting her cutlery down neatly.
"Ah, yes." He swallowed the bit of food in his mouth and continued. "The house has been bought."
Peter, who had been studying the shell, suddenly perked up. "Hmm? What house?"
The two adults exchanged a glace, Mary's eyes probing Richard to tell. He sighed and pushed his chair back, inviting Peter to sit on his lap. The small boy obliged, looking up into his father's face. "I recently got a new job offer... in America." Peter blinked, waiting for his father to continue. "This means that we're moving to the US, near where your Aunt May and Uncle Ben live."
Peter had only met Ben and May once or twice when he was little. He hardly remembered them at all, and he certainly didn't want to leave his home. "When are we coming back?" he asked innocently.
"We don't know. It might not be until your older." Mary took his hand, rubbing the back with her thumb. It was evident that she didn't want to leave her home country either, but the offer had been too good to turn down. Peter's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to think. They were leaving home, their country, and might not even be coming back.
"I don't want to go."
Richard sighed, giving Mary an "I told you so" look. She rolled her eyes. "I know baby," she said softly, picking him up and putting him on her lap so that he faced her with his legs dangling over the sides. "I don't want to leave either. But, we can have lots of adventures in America."
She leaned in close, their foreheads touching as she whispered. "I don't know much about America either, so it'll be a new experience for both of us. Ceart go leor, mo ghrá? (Ok, my love?)"
Peter nodded slowly. "Tá, mama."
She gave him a smile, running her fingers through his hair. "Oh don't look so sad, we still have time before we leave! Richard, where's the fiddle?"
Peter perked up at the mention of the fiddle. That always meant his father would play while his mother sang. Mary picked up her son and rested him on her hip, grinning as Richard tuned the old fiddle. The mellow strains filled the room, slow and enchanting as the candles flickered around them. Mary began to hum and the pace picked up, Peter joining in. He loved this song.
High is the moon tonight (ya-da-dada-dada)
Hiding its guiding light, high
Heaven and earth do sleep
Still in the dark so deep
I will the darkness sweep
Yadada-dadada-da
Yadada-dadada-Yadada-dadada
Mary began to waltz around the room, singing with Peter on her hip. Richard kicked in with a fiddle solo, letting Mary spin their son around the room laughs bouncing off the walls with the music. Despite the sky being dark outside, the room felt as though it was filled with sunlight, their shadows dancing and spinning by the flickering flame of the candles. It was like it had always been, and Peter held on to the hope that it would never change.
* * * * *
The November sky was grey as Peter stared dejectedly out the window, the last time he would do so. The soft lapping of the waves on the sand that hand lulled him to sleep each night was still there, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves as the breeze blew. He pulled his coat around him tighter, shivering in the cold.
A hand rested on his shoulder, massaging him soothingly. He looked up to find his mother's quiet, green eyes. Her red hair that so often was let loose in the wind was pulled back in a neat twist, displaying her delicate features. "It's time to go," she said softly. Peter nodded and pulled away from his window, taking one last glance at his empty bedroom. It was odd, seeing the room he had spent so long in suddenly barren of anything pertaining to him. He dropped his gaze, letting his mother steer him out of the little home.
He said one last farewell to the roses in the garden, waving goodbye to the gentle ocean he had spent many summer days in, giving the big tree one last hug before climbing into the car for the drive to the airport. The green hills rushed by, the small village fading from view as they drove away.
The airport was massive. There were people everywhere, voices and footsteps echoing off the walls. Peter stayed close to his mother's side, squeezing her hand tightly as they walked through. He kept his eyes on the ground, his brown curls bobbing as they moved along.
The plane was noisy. A baby was crying. The engines were loud. Peter spent the first half an hour squirming in his seat, watching out the window at the fluffy clouds rolling past. It was kind of enchanting, being so high in the blue yonder, the clouds below them and the star above. Eventually Peter fell asleep, his head resting against his father's shoulders. Richard smiled, running his fingers through his son's hair, making the curls frizz and split. Peter slept for the rest of the flight, receiving a lot of prodding when it was time to put his seatbelt on. His ears filled up as the plane descended and he winced, moving his jaw around to get them to pop as they left the aircraft, earning a few odd looks as they went and collected their baggage. They finally popped when he was seated in the car, thank goodness.
His eyes widened when they reached the city. Night was setting over New York, the skyline filling up with lights. Cars sped past theirs, horns honking as they rushed through traffic. People were everywhere. Massive crowds of them, walking, sitting, eating food in cafes and restaurants, bobbing in and out of stores... Peter had never seen so many people in his life. And the buildings! Tall, glittering towers of glass and lights loomed above them, their roofs scraping the dark sky. Even the night sky was different. Peter was used to seeing countless stars slashed across the inky canvas, but now the sky looked blank, void of any white pricks. Everything was completely different.
The car eventually stopped at a brick house, just outside the city. Peter hopped out tentatively, looking down at the rows of houses around him. The bustling city could still be heard, with cars roaring and trains hurtling along the tracks. Everything was so noisy compared to the still tranquility that Peter had grown accustomed to back in Ireland. Ireland. He wasn't even in Europe anymore. The realization suddenly hit Peter like a wave and he gasped, tears prickling at his eyes. Mary noticed and scooped him up, resting him on her hip. "It's okay," she said soothingly as they walked through the door. Boxes were stacked up against the wall, but some furniture was prepared. Peter scanned the new house, taking in how big it was. There were even stairs.
"Shall we see your room?" Richard asked. Peter nodded and they went upstairs and went into Peter's new room. A bed was already prepared, accompanied by Peter's boxed belongings. A wooden wardrobe watched the room, like something out of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.
Peter scrunched his nose. "It's weird."
Mary gave a small laugh. "You'll grow into it. Now, your father is going to get dinner while we get you into your pajamas and get everything you need for bed and away, okay?"
Peter nodded, reaching for the box closest to him. He hoped he'd get used to this.
* * * * *
Peter should be sleeping, he knew he should, but he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, a train rushed past, or a dog barked, or the highway roared louder. It was too loud. He missed the gentle lapping of the sea, lulling him to dream-filled slumbers. But he wasn't home: he was far away, in a new land.
He shivered, pulling the blankets further over his head. It wasn't quite as cold as back home, but here the cold wasn't the usual comforting chill that reminded him that Christmas was around the corner, or filling his mind with fantasies of snow. No, this cold left him empty, shivering under the blankets in a strange place. He was scared.
After several minutes of talking himself up, he ripped off the sheets and scrambled out of bed, recoiling as his bare feet hit the floor. He cracked open the door and tiptoed down the hall to his parent's room, opening the door slowly. To his surprise, they were both awake, reading in the warm light of the lamp. Mary gave her son a soft smile. "Is it too noisy?" she asked, pulling back the blankets and patting the bed. Peter wriggled in next to her, resting his head on her chest.
"I don't like it here," he whispered. "I wanna go home."
"I know," she breathed, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "But you'll soon get used to it. I promise."
He nodded, nestling in close, letting his breathing match the rise and fall of her chest. She began humming to him softly, repeating a simple lullaby she'd sung since the first night she held him in her arms. His eyelids flickered, growing heavy. For a split second, he was back home, the candles burning as his mother sang him to sleep, her angelic voice whispering peace to his heart. Slowly, slowly, he faded off into a sleep, his head on his mother's chest.
* * * * *
The alarm rang, jolting Peter from his sleep. He rubbed at his eyes, groaning as he fumbled blindly to shut the infuriating ringing off. Instead, he accidentally knocked it onto the floor. Smooth.
He groaned again, rolling half out of bed to check his phone. Yep, nothing interesting, just Ned spamming his phone for him to get up. The usual. Peter finally dragged himself out of bed, pulling on the first shirt he spotted, and trudged out, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Mornin' May," he mumbled, stifling a yawn. His aunt laughed, giving a peck on his cheek.
"Morning, sleepyhead. Excited for today?"
"Wha's today?" It was then that he spotted his neatly ironed blouse and brown slacks, the green and yellow tartan sash laid out neatly. "OH!" It was the World Day for Cultural Diversity, so, as tradition at Midtown School of Technology and Science, everyone got to wear their national dress and talk about where they're from. He smiled slightly and sadly as he ran his finger over the soft tartan. He missed his mother. And his father. It had been nine years since they passed, leaving Peter with his aunt and uncle.
Peter wolfed down his breakfast, taking a quick shower and combing his hair out before racing around the apartment, filling his satchel with books and homework. Finally, he rushed out the door, giving his aunt a peck on the cheek, "Don't forget the fiddle!" she called. Peter walked back inside with a sheepish smile and picked the case up off the table. May laughed and shooed him out the door, waving a goodbye. Queens was a buzz, as it always had been, but the constant crowds and noises didn't bug him like they used to. He had grown to love the concords of people with their voices filling the air, the growling engines, the smells of Chinese and pizza wafting from restaurants nearby. This was home now.
He hopped on the train, ignoring the few odd looks he received as he scrolled through his phone, waiting for his stop. When it arrived, he jumped off, avoiding being run over by Flash by entering through a side entry. Ned and MJ were waiting for him, Ned giving his best friend a wave while MJ gave him a nod. Ned was in a barong Tagalog (an embroidered, long-sleeved formal shirt,) while MJ was in a colorful patterned wraparound dress with a matching headscarf to hold her many tiny braids back from her face.
"Nice outfit," she said, waving at his sash. "Thought you'd be in something more Italian."
Peter's eyes twinkled. "Oh no, May's the Italian one, not me. Nice hair."
"It took hours. literally. I went straight after school and got back around dinner. It's a good thing it lasts a long time."
They walked to their lockers, coming across Betty in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops and a large hat under her arm and Abe in a brightly colored Isiagu top. "Hey guys!" Betty said, giving them a wave. "Where are you guys from?"
"Ned is Filipino, I'm African-American but we did a DNA test and the African traced back to Zimbabwe, and Peter is..."
"Irish."
The group did a double-take as Peter let his Irish lilt slip in. "Wow. I was not expecting that," Abe responded. "I'm Nigerian and Betty is Australian."
At the mention of her name, the girl put the hat on her head, which had corks attached to the brim on strings. "They don't actually wear these hats, but they don't really have a national dress, so I came in the most stereotypical thing I could think of. Apparently, they call flip-flops 'thongs'."
MJ snorted. "Australians are officially weird." She gave Abe a fist bump, much to his surprise, as MJ never gives anyone a fist bump. "Oh no, here comes the Flash Mob."
Flash sauntered up, a smirk on his face as he eyed the group of teens. "Sup nerds," he said, leaning on the lockers. "You guys look... interesting, to say the least. Hey Parker, shouldn't you be wearing a kilt if you're Sco'ish?"
Peter quirked an eyebrow at Flash's poor attempt at a Scottish accent. "First of all," he retorted, letting his Irish accent kick in at full power, "I'm not a Scotsman, I'm Irish, and second, I don't own a kilt. I do, however, have a tartan sash and a coat of arms of the family clan."
Everyone stared at Peter, shocked at how smooth his accent was. He gave Flash an innocent smile. "You look like a goldfish with your mouth open like that. What country are you from?"
"Gu-Guatemala... I thought you were Italian?"
"May is, I speak it, but I'm Irish. Born and bred in Leitrim."
"Wait I'm sorry you were born there?" MJ asked, taken aback by the news. Peter just nodded, failing to suppress a smirk. The bell rang and they hurried to get to class, the trio taking their usual seats at the back. Mr. Harrington marked the roll, then got the students to talk one at a time a bit about where they were from. Betty went first, then Abe, then MJ, Ned, Cindy, and finally Peter. He stood up and walked to the front, the fiddle case in one hand.
"Hey, everyone." He swallowed, trying to remember what he had planned on saying. "Many people think I'm American. Those who know me say I'm Italian. However, that's not quite true. I'm actually Irish. Despite what my Queens accent tells you, I was born in a small village on the coast of Leitrim and lived there until I was about four. Then I moved to Queens and took a long time to adjust to the new sights and sounds.
So you probably have a lot of questions, starting with: do I have an Irish accent? Yes, I do, I can never say Ireland without it." At this point, Peter let his accent kick in again, much to the surprise of everyone who hadn't been in the hallway.
"Do I speak Gaelic? Yup, It was actually the first language I knew, thanks to my mother. Do I have an obsession with eating potatoes and go round dressed as a leprechaun on St Patrick's day? No... though I do love potatoes.
The national dress I am wearing isn't the full outfit, since I don't own a kilt, but the sash and coat of arms are symbolic. In the Celtic countries, like Ireland and Scotland, families were often grouped together as clans. Each family had a specific pattern of tartan and a coat of arms to represent them. Since my dad wasn't Irish, I have my mother's tartan and coat of arms from the Fitzpatrick family. That's why there are so many different types of tartan: to represent each family. Of course, it's not common nowadays to see an Irishman walking around in full dress, but many family heirlooms do include tartan.
One of my favorite memories of Ireland was the music. My family would always be singing, or playing the fiddle or tinwhistle, so-" Peter lifted up the case in his hands, "-I brought the family fiddle just to play a little bit." Mr. Harrington gave him a nod and Peter got the old fiddle out, tuning it softly.
Then he began to play. The first notes of Dulaman rang out, first a bit timid, but growing stronger as he continued. He almost forgot where he was. It was like he was back in Ireland, the waves crashing on the sand, the breeze wafting through the trees as sunlight danced across the rolling green hills.
He finished with a flair, earning applause from the class. "Any questions?"
"What's the difference between a violin and a fiddle?"
"There's not a difference between the instruments, it's more of what you play. Fiddling is more folk and country, whereas violin is more classical and jazz."
"Do you still remember Ireland?"
"Oh yeah. We lived really close to a beach in a tiny white cottage with roses everywhere. And there was a massive tree I loved to climb."
"What's the difference between Scottish and Irish accents?"
"It's kinda hard to explain, but if you listen to how they say 'I', that should tell you. Irish say 'I' and 'Irish' with a more 'oi' sound compared to a more 'aye' sound."
"Thank you for that, Peter," Mr. Harrington said as Peter went to sit down. "I was certainly in the group of people who thought you were Italian, but you learn something new every day. Now-"
Peter smiled. He was proud to be Irish.
And one day, one day, he'd go back to the small cottage by the sea, the one surrounded by white roses, and climb that tree again. It would take him back to all the memories he had made there, the ones made with his mother and father, the ones that were full of laughter and music, and sometimes sorrow, but almost all joyful.
One day.
*applauds* beautiful Evie, beautiful. And an absolutely hilarious comment about you Aussies, if I might add. Evie wrote most of this chapter, but I edited and wrote the ending.
Yes, that was the wonderful Morgan at the end. :) HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS! Anything in Gaelic was also from Google Translate, so don't @ me plz. THANK YOU AND DON'T FORGET TO MAKE YOUR BED YOU WONDERFUL PEOPLES!!!