My body jerked awake as the sharp crow of the rooster pierced the dawn. Peeking out just a fraction, the sight of Cormac's auburn curls resting against my chest softened the impact of the cockerel's shrill warble, and I instinctively let my eyes drift closed again.

However, my respite was short-lived. As the bird released another high-pitched cry, I groaned, wishing that the cockerel had an 'off' switch.

Still, there were positives to be had in this situation and I knew I'd do well to focus on them.

"Looks like we made it through another night without a visit from the sidhe," I observed, carefully rolling free of the embrace that Cormac and I had shared throughout the night. Not wishing to give the situation a chance to get awkward, I stood and casually stepped over to where we'd stored the salve and bandages. "How are you feeling?"

"Rested," he replied, pushing himself up into a seated position on the hay bale as I brought what I needed for the dressing over to him.

"And how's your arm doing?" I asked as I started to tend to the burn.

"Better than it was," he assured me.

"It certainly looks a little better," I agreed as I washed and redressed it, acknowledging to myself that the psychological wounds would undoubtedly take more time to heal than the physical ones.

After breakfast, we tended to the needs of the various animals. Although Cormac was restricted by his injury, he still helped as much as he could, and between us we had many of the regular tasks finished by noon.

Cormac offered to help Mrs Doyle prepare food in the kitchen, so I took the opportunity to excuse myself, slipping away to be alone in the barn. My concerns regarding my own lack of free will had motivated me to make another attempt at opening a gateway back to the twenty-first century. However, much like my previous endeavours, it seemed that there was no amount of willpower or concentration that would incite the golden rings to show me the way home. Feeling frustrated after a relatively short period of concerted effort, I decided to give up and return to my companions.

Mrs Doyle was able to provide us with another home-cooked lunch, having saved herself some expenditure on hired-help. We learned that while Cormac and I had been with Orla the previous day, Mrs Doyle had stayed at the stall she'd set up in the market, encountering the two young men that usually helped her regularly on Tuesdays and Saturdays. She'd informed them that she'd made other temporary arrangements regarding her current labour requirements and that she'd let them know if the situation changed.

With me and Cormac now available daily to take over the services that these casual labourers had been providing, we set about weeding the vegetables. As I examined the terrain, it was evident that the jobs that needed to be undertaken exceeded those which Mrs Doyle had been paying for. Presumably she had budgeted everything she could reasonably afford, but it meant that there was too much additional ad hoc work for us to do in one day, especially with Cormac's arm still in recovery. However, I also recognised that the regular attention and care that Mrs Doyle had endeavoured to give her crops certainly made the task easier than it could have been.

By the time early evening arrived, I was physically fatigued and ready to relax. Mrs Doyle suggested we play a game of Twenty-Five to unwind from the day's labour, and we readily obliged. She told us that she used to play the traditional Irish card game with her late husband, and that she hadn't had much opportunity to engage in such a manner with others since his passing.

The 'chips' we used for scoring were small, smooth pebbles that the couple had collected from the local seafront during their courtship, and it was evident from her demeanour that the nuggets of nostalgia had been stored in their hand-carved wooden pot on the dresser for many years. 

Participating in the game with enthusiasm, she regaled us with memories of her beloved Seamus until she felt weary enough to retire to her bed.

With our host's permission, Cormac and I decided to continue in a two-player version of the game, promising to extinguish the kerosine lamps upon our return to the barn.

After winning the first two rounds with three tricks each time, Cormac's confidence grew, which led to him successfully 'jinking' the third round. The favourable outcome he gained from the riskier strategy appeared to lift his spirits, which warmed my insides.

"Well played," I commended him on his consecutive victories, making him smile.

"Thank you," he acknowledged, enthusiastically gathering up his winnings and shuffling the pack.

My mind drifted to thoughts of the diary as I watched the cards being dealt, and I abstractedly placed my stake of one pebble as I considered how to voice them.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" I ventured, taking advantage of his sanguine disposition.

"Ask away," he consented as he picked up his hand and scanned it.

"Where did you learn to write?" I enquired, knowing that Ireland's Protestant rulers of the early nineteenth century prohibited the education of Catholics.

"Hedge school," he replied without hesitation.

"Of course. That makes sense," I responded, realisation setting in as I recalled the relevant part of my history lessons.

Hedge schools were clandestine operations that got their name from their basic, sometimes non-existent, accommodation in which the lessons were carried out. With the education of Catholics being outlawed all over Ireland during this era, covert tuition was conducted wherever appropriate shelter could be found. The intention was to sustain the education of Catholics without raising the suspicions of the governing Protestants.

"What was it like?" I added, intrigued by the notion of a first-hand account of this practice, in contrast to the formal narrative typically given by the college textbooks.

"Not as comfortable as the Protestant schools, I imagine," he muttered. "But I can't complain, really. At least we can still get educated if we're careful."

"Was it set up far from here?" I asked as Cormac won the first trick of the round.

"There's a glen near the crag where Eithne was last seen," he informed me. I knew the glen he meant and nodded. "Our teacher's house backed onto one side of it, on the outskirts of the village, and we used to meet there regularly. It would take me nearly an hour to walk over there."

I had to admire his dedication, while simultaneously acknowledging that his strong desire to be educated made sense. Throughout history, I was aware that denying access to anything often incentivises people to strive for it, and even more so if there's an intensified group mindset incited by prejudice. This wouldn't be the first government, or indeed the last, that had taken the view that an effective way to suppress a specific demographic was to keep them uneducated and had driven tuition into the shadows as a result. Hedge schools undoubtedly gave young Catholics hope that one day they could have the same rights as their Protestant peers, and their disadvantaged situation gave them plenty of motivation to improve their literacy.

"Didn't that get cold in the winter?" I wondered, recalling my own experiences of how brisk the Irish coastal climate could be during the frostier months.

"It sometimes did, aye. But I wrapped up well for the walk," he assured me. "The exercise helped me stay warm. Mr Quinn's house was a little draughty, though, so we sometimes wrapped ourselves in blankets while we were there. In the drier winter weather, he would have us collect timber on our way over and we'd light a fire in the hearth to try to help us stay warm."

"Sounds like you had a good teacher."

"Aye, I liked him a lot," Cormac confirmed with ease. "He used to be a cobbler before an injury left him unable to work with the precision he needed anymore. Our previous teacher was elderly and had become frail. So, Mr Quinn took over, supported financially by the parents of his students, and he's being doing it ever since."

"That sounds like a daunting career change," I observed as I won my first trick of the game. "He'd need a completely different set of skills."

"Aye, I'm not sure I'd have the patience for it," Cormac agreed. "The job seems to attract its fair share of practical jokes. Poor Mr Quinn was forever having his chalk hidden or goose-grass stuck to his back. He even had his shoelaces tied together a couple of times. Not by my hand," he added hastily. "But some of the others seemed to enjoy having a bit of fun at his expense. Luckily for them, he saw the funny side."

"Let me guess," I sighed, raising an eyebrow. "Eamon was involved?"

Cormac rolled his eyes.

"Aye. If there was trouble to be had, Eamon seemed to be mixed up in it."

"I'm certainly getting that impression," I concurred. "I still can't quite believe what we saw him doing at Orla's house."

"That was low ... even for him," Cormac agreed. "It's fortunate you've got that trinket of yours or Orla might never have known what was going on. Am I right in thinking it allows you to see any event that has already come to pass?"

His voice had taken a more solemn tone by the time he asked his question, from which I inferred the additional information he was potentially interested in.

"You're curious about how your house fire started?" I ventured.

"Curious, yes," he conceded. "But I'm not sure whether it's worth the price I'd have to pay to find out the truth."

I could understand that he might not want to relive the nightmare of his home burning to the ground in front of him and nodded.

"Even if you're safe now, watching a reprise is likely to be difficult," I acknowledged, recalling the acute sense of dread I felt when I'd witnessed the same scene from the twenty-first century. I had found the experience utterly harrowing, and I hadn't even been the one that lived through it. "If it makes things easier, I can investigate on my own and tell you what I find out afterwards?"

"How would that make any difference?" he asked, apparently bewildered by my suggestion. "Would less of my essence would be kept in recompense?"

It was my turn to be confused.

"What makes you think I want anything in return?"

"I heard what your said to Orla about capturing images in that box of yours," he explained cautiously, nodding towards the pocket I was currently keeping my phone in. "In order to preserve these visions, you surely have to acquire a piece of that person's soul. I assume you must carry a fundamental part of them with you, or you wouldn't be able to recreate past events involving them at your command."

Blinking in astonishment, I extracted the phone from my pocket and laid it on the table.

"You believe that my device contains elements of people's souls?" I asked, trying to ensure I'd interpreted correctly.

"That depends," he replied, clearly suspicious. "Is this ... device ... what you and Orla were talking about?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "But I'm not sucking people's spirits into it. Let me show you."

Cormac instantly stiffened, his eyes darkening under his furrowed brow as he watched me unlock the screen as if I were playing with a deadly snake.

I understood his caution. Without knowledge of the technology involved, this was bound to look like sorcery to anyone from this era.

"I'm just trying to prove to you that it's not what you think," I assured him, pausing my action at his obvious shift in demeanour. Intent on him understanding that my phone wasn't dangerous, I tilted my head and threw him a pleading look. "Do you trust me?"

His eyes met mine with no discernible movement other than their shift of focus as his bronze eyelashes lifted. Although his anxious stance remained, he nodded once in approval before focusing back on the phone.

Having gained his tacit agreement, I brought up the video of Liam Foley stealing Mrs Doyle's chickens and allowed it to play.

With cameras only just on the cusp of being invented, I knew I needed to find a way of explaining what we were seeing without using photographs as a reference point.

Remembering the images I'd seen depicted on some of the pieces of pottery that had been on display at the market, I thought that might a good place to start.

"It works a bit like a painting," I explained as the scene played out before us. "Except the images are moving instead of stationary."

"Moving paintings?" Cormac mused, apprehension still clear in his tone. "What kind of spell can create such a marvel?"

"There's no magic involved," I asserted as the short video reached its conclusion and I pointed to the phone. "The camera uses light to recreate what it sees. It's doing the equivalent of making lots of paintings very quickly, and then showing them to us one after the other."

Cormac's confusion was evident from both his expression and his silence, and I racked my brain to find a way to communicate the concept to him effectively.

"Do you mind if I use your diary to try to help explain?" I asked as an idea started forming.

Cormac agreed, and so we abandoned our game in favour of attempting to give him greater insight into the technology that made him nervous. 

It wasn't long before we were sitting together in Mrs Doyle's lounge, having fetched a quill and ink from her accounting supplies in addition to retrieving his new book.

Turning to the back page, I carefully sketched a simple illustration of ball and its shadow in the bottom right corner of the last sheet. Once it was complete, I flipped back a page and drew the same again, this time with the shadow in the same place but with the ball a little higher on its respective page. I'd never been much of an artist, but I knew I could replicate this simple exercise that we'd done at school when I'd been about nine years old, even without any talent. So, I continued drawing balls with their shadows in the bottom corners of the last twenty or so pages of Cormac's diary, with each one in a slightly different position to its predecessor.

"These pictures have obviously been created with paper and ink," I said, indicating the last of the illustrations that I'd drawn. "My device uses a different mechanism to do this, but the concept is the same. It can essentially draw whatever it sees quickly and easily," I continued. "But it's not capturing anybody's spirit. It's just reproducing the way things appear. Like I've done with this ball but using a more complex picture."

"But your device held a moving painting," Cormac emphasised.

"Correct," I agreed, as I started to flick through the pages of the diary that I'd just been drawing in. The ball appeared to bounce up and down as each of the sketches I'd drawn briefly came into view and was replaced with a subsequent one. "Just like this 'moving' ball," I added. "The device is displaying lots of individual pictures - things it's already seen - one after the other in quick succession and in the right order. And neither this ball nor the video recording you saw require any elements of anybody's soul in order to work. Just lots of illustrations."

It was evident from Cormac's silence that he was digesting this new information. As he watched, I flicked the pages of his diary with my thumb so we could see the ball 'bounce' again, hoping it might reinforce the concept and satisfy him that it was safe.

"Did it make sense?" I asked after a minute or two, wondering whether what I'd said was helping.

My companion's expression softened as his gaze shifted to the phone.

"Your device draws better than you do," he stated, with a hint of a smile forming.

Releasing a slow breath, I felt myself relax a little at his humour.

"I'm just out of practice," I chuckled, relieved that I appeared to have been successful in convincing him that my phone was harmless.

"Aye, so you're saying you can draw that with a bit of time and effort, are you?" he quipped, indicating the phone but looking directly at me.

"Hey, I'm a man of many talents," I grinned.

"I can't argue with that," he conceded, casting me an indecipherable look.

Smiling awkwardly at the compliment I didn't deserve, I broke eye contact and looked down towards the book I was holding.

The diary was still open on one of the pages I'd used for my demonstration, and as I abstractedly scanned it, I observed my sketch in a different light.

Blinking as I rotated my head slightly, I realised that my crude illustration of a ball with its shadow was essentially just a circle next to a thick, shaded line.

My stomach dropped and the colour drained from my face as I realised that the meaning behind those enigmatic circles, ovals and lines that you and I had found in the back pages of Cormac's diary was no longer a mystery. It had simply been a result of my own efforts to demonstrate how videos worked, based on an art lesson I'd had in school when I had been much younger.

No wonder I recognised the 'symbols' but couldn't quite place them.

"Are you all right, Aidan?"

Cormac must have noticed the sudden shift in my demeanour. I looked up to find his expression concerned.

"I'm fine. Just processing something," I assured him as I was drawn from my thoughts. I promptly steered my focus back to the matter at hand. "How are you doing? Did I put your mind at rest about my phone?"

There was a short pause as he considered his response.

"I think so," he decided with caution in his tone. "I may not fully understand, but I have every reason to have faith in what you've told me."

"I'm glad," I replied. "There's no guarantee we can find out what happened to your house. But I don't want a misconception about my phone to hold you back if you decide you want us to try."

Clearly starting to fight back tears, Cormac released a long, slow breath before he responded.

"Aye. Well. I think it's better for me to know the truth."