2. The Landing

As Written by me, Kathy

This morning, the sea was calm and blue like the sky was being poured right into it. The long-boat was almost ready to row ashore, and I could hardly keep my feet from dancing. I ran up to Father LeRoy, who was talking in a quiet voice with Sister Mary Claire, and I asked him straight out if I could go along.

And do you know what? He said yes, right off—no long pause or thoughtful frown. Just a kind smile and a nod. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I think now he must’ve had one of those quiet stirrings in his heart. The kind where the Holy Spirit is saying something, even if it’s not in words.

And now here’s the part I must write down carefully, because it matters. I brought Omelette.

That might sound silly to some folks, but not to me. After the storm the other day knocked the henhouse door clean off its hinges, Omelette had been so shaken. She wouldn’t eat right and kept fluttering around the deck looking for me. I think she was scared I’d leave her behind. So Sister Mary Claire surprised me last night by stitching up a little soft canvas pack with shoulder straps, just big enough for Omelette to fit inside with her head poking out the top. She lined it with a tea towel and even added a pocket for a scoop of oats.

“She’d rather be with you than left behind in this floating coop,” Sister said with a wink.

And Father LeRoy just nodded again and said, “She might bring more comfort than we know.”

So that’s how I ended up wearing Omelette like a rucksack, her little brown feathers tickling the back of my neck as we climbed down into the boat, Mini hopping behind me, her ears perked and eyes bright. Sister Mary Claire carried the water jars and prayer book, and Father LeRoy had his Breviary, pen, tablet and the rifle.

We pushed off toward the island, a mile and a half away, with two sailors rowing. The sea was so clear, we could see the rocks and coral underneath, like looking into a bowl of blue glass. But it wasn’t easy getting close. The water kept getting shallower and the reefs stuck out like old bones. We grounded once, then twice, and had to take down the sail and row careful and slow.

I peered over the side and saw two kinds of reefs—one dark and deep like old lava, the other white and laced with weeds. The boat rocked, and Omelette made a quiet little cluck in my ear, but she stayed calm in her pack. Mini gave her a look and then settled down between Sister and me, her tail-less little bottom tucked under.

We finally found a narrow channel between the cliffs—a secret way in, almost—and the boat scraped through with just enough room. The wind gave a few small sighs as we reached a kind of natural harbor, worn right into the rock by the sea. It looked to me like the Lord’s own thumbprint.

The sailors said they’d wait there with the boat and try their luck at fishing. They helped us unload the jars, tying ropes round them so we could pull them up the rocks. One of them, a bearded fellow with a toothy grin, gave me a wink and said, “Take care of your chicken, Miss,” and Omelette blinked at him like she knew just what he meant.

They promised not to leave us, swore it even—but they never came ashore again.

So we turned from the boat and began the climb, the rocks warm under our hands, and the smell of the island drifting down to meet us—green and wild and full of mystery. And there we were: a nun, a priest, a girl with her hen in a backpack, and a stubby-legged corgi… all of us stepping into the unknown.