April thought the fireworks she could see through the haze over the harbor towards downtown as the midnight bus left Logan for Braintree might have been just for her ... might have been a private welcome back from Ireland ... well probably not ... she would consider herself lucky if Mina and Evan had actually driven up to get her. April had completely forgotten that Boston was hosting the Democratic National Convention ... had completely forgotten John Kerry, John Edwards ... and George Bush. She had also completely forgotten about Paul and, surprisingly, even Jasmine. April had forgotten just about everything and everyone back here while lost for the last two weeks in a fey Irish timelessness among the narrow winding every which way looking-glass roads rolling in a seemingly most meaningful way past beckoning historic ruins and around irresponsibly crazy curves of green in so many more shades than she had ever imagined towards something that was always just beyond her grasp. A pre-dawn landing at Shannon and a numb but straight forward, too tired from the flight, and to dark in the drizzle ride, to the Bansha House just 5 kilometers east of Tipperary where Laurie, her travel agent (yes, April's mother, who hated computers, had used a living breathing travel agent and not Yahoo Travel, Travelocity or especially Priceline ... because she thought Star Trek was dumb ... for setting up this trip) had booked her a room for at least the first two nights after which April had lodging coupons and a list of possibilities in the southwest. April had slept the rest of that first day until waking for an excellent but edgy meal in the awkward company of the other guests in the house, one of whom invited April to join them for a piano recital in the parlor after the wicked apple cobbler ... April declined and returned to her room for a night of strange dreams.

Early the next day while crossing the pastures at Hore Abbey, avoiding the cows and just as importantly, the cow droppings, on the short hike she had decided on as the right way to set an Irish and medieval mood before visiting the Rock of Cashel, April heard the first voices ... voices that she couldn’t understand but that were still somehow enchantingly comforting ... a sort of Enya with less syrup ... with someone like Jim Morrison muttering in the background. During the next hour within the ruined stronghold at Cashel April tried to summon the voices again but heard nothing, except maybe Jim Morrison momentarily while downstairs in the museum when she was looking at the original cross carved to commemorate a visit by St. Patrick to Cashel. That evening April did join the others for the piano recital and after returning to her room, and pushing a chair in front of her door because she hadn’t like the way the young German web designer who had been showing off her piano skills had been looking at her, April almost instantly fell into another deep dreamy sleep.

In the morning she packed, without seeing the web designer, and drove west through the Glen of Aherlow headed for Blarney where just outside the small cave under the castle, only moments after finding a small golden key-like cross in the furiously green grass that she slipped into her jeans for a closer look later, she bumped into a smiling young man coming out of the dark hole in the rock brushing his hair back out of eyes the same mad green color who, after apologizing, told her that his name was Johnny Utah ... really ... it was ... or at least he wanted April to believe that ... he certainly looked nothing like Keanu Reeves ... which was OK with April ... she might have had a weakness for good looking girls that she had been considering exploring before this trip but she certainly didn't much like pretty boys.