Upper Pasture
May 1798

   Patrick Hamill stepped his way down the path leading down from the upper pastures of the Antrim Mountains. Patrick was a wiry, black-haired youth of 17. He was of medium height, now that his growth spurt had kicked in. He wasn't solid like his Da or Hugh, his older brother. His muscles were lean and sinewy, but he'd always found them sufficient to any task he'd been called on to perform around the farm.
    "Peatie," he called back to his straggling brown sheepdog. "Come on. Hurry up and bring our little lamb down the path." His Ma wanted something extra for the kettle of potato soup that she kept hot from spring to fall.
    As Patrick walked down the mountain side, his mind wandered as it often did when there was nothing concrete to think about. He was fascinated by the stories of the Giants who had once roamed the glens and greens of Ireland. For his 14th birthday, Da took Patrick and Hugh to the fishing town of Bushmills. They stopped at ancient sites and to see family relatives along the way. They were gone for a week. One pleasant night in Armoy, they stayed with Ma's brother Henry and his wife, Mary. At a party there, he first realized the charm of Colleen Magill.
 

  The smell of salmon grilling and its taste was still with him, although it was three years ago. They caught more salmon in two days than they or Da's family in Bushmills could eat. Even more than they could cart home. Patrick still remembered the pleased look on Ma's face when they had given her, not only salmon from their rucksacks, but also the coins the excess salmon had brought.
   They visited sites of the past that still burned brightly in his mind. The remains of Dunluce Castle made a delicious contrast to the Giants Causeway into the North Atlantic. Great men, like Sorley Boy MacDonnell, had expanded the castle beyond what God would stand, who took it back in a ferocious storm of the preceding century. It seemed that God would only let the Giants work stand.
   On their return they passed through the Armoy monastery where the round tower of human antiquity drew his imagination. Patrick wanted to go in through its door, more than six feet above the ground, pretending to escape from the marauding Vikings, but Da wanted to get home before the fish went bad.
   Patrick took a large breath of the sweet Antrim Mountain air. He loved being in the open air. There was crispness in the May air of the upper pasture.
   He saw Colleen Magill walking the lower path. He