Free The Night Swimmer by Matt Bondurant

knees high into the air and stepped widely from side to side, his heavy rubber boots flopping and slapping against his bare legs, muttering a jaunty tune in Irish. The backhoe crouched behind him in the darkness like a patient spider. I made my way up the Waist toward the Ineer.
    A rattling Citroën came flying down the hill, the gears whining as the driver downshifted to slow it, and I stepped off the road by putting one foot over the ditch and using my hands to grasp the stone wall. I held myself there suspended, a maneuver I would perfect in my time on the island. The single headlight stabbed at me as I clutched the fence, then went probing on down to the North Harbor. When I turned back up the hill I saw a figure moving along the top of the ridge, walking with a halting gait, a small silhouette against the night sky, glowing faintly white. He was moving away from the road, across the fields toward Highgate’s place and he stopped and seemed to gaze at me. What would I do if he came sprinting down the hill? I thought about diving into the Ineer to escape. We stood there, watching each other for a few moments, before he turned and lurched up the hill, moving beyond the horizon.
    Each evening after dinner at the Five Bells I would wait at the top of the hill outside Nora’s gate near midnight, watching Highgate’s fields for the armless man. I found that he was a regular fixture, and I was able to observe him from the sanctuary of Nora’s front garden without incident. He never came closer or varied from his course. But he knew I was watching. He would pause, and turn his long face toward me, the wind ruffling his shaggy head of hair, regarding me for a few moments before vanishing into the night.
    *  *  *
    Nora claimed to be unaware of such a man in Highgate’s fields.
    You could go ask Highgate himself, she said, setting a stack of toast on the table. He sells milk and cheese, so he’s open for visitors.
    Is this milk from his farm? I asked, pointing at the small jug on the table.
    Oh, no, she said. Tourists buy most of it, I think? I know that he ships a bit to the mainland. I don’t think any islanders use his products.
    Why?
    She shrugged.
    Highgate and his woofers are a bit of an odd bunch, she said.
    And nobody, I said, has ever mentioned seeing a guy walking through the fields at night?
    Nora stood at the head of the table with her hands full of jam packets. She wouldn’t look at me.
    Go over to his farm, she said, and ask him yourself. That’s all I can offer.
    She blushed and scooted into the kitchen.

Chapter Four
    I had been talking about the lighthouse enough to intrigue Fred, and so he arranged with Bill to take a day sail on Ceres out to Fastnet on a Sunday morning. When Bill brought his long white sailboat into the harbor the sun was brilliant and the skies clear, and as we walked down the cobblestone street to the quay it was hard not to cry out or hold your hands to the sky in response to such beauty. Fred packed a cooler full of bacon and tomato sandwiches, a tub of baked beans, crackers and cheese, and six bottles of white wine on ice, and we swung the cooler between us as we jauntily strode down the quay.
    It is all shining, Fred declared in a loud voice, it is Adam and the maiden!
    Fred had been making great progress with his research and was in an antic mood. He had determined that our voyage was to be an epic undertaking.
    Bill wore a ball cap, the visor tucked low over his eyes. Like Fred, he wore cargo shorts and sandals even though the temperature couldn’t have been more than sixty degrees. He stowed our cooler and the small bag of extra sweaters, hats, and a camera, and Fred started untying the lines. I stepped aboard and stood in the stern, holding the boom.
    What do you need me to do? I asked.
    Find yourself a good spot, Bill said. Enjoy the day.
    I was hoping that Bill’s wife would be along for the ride, and I asked him about her.
    Nell