‘It’s nine o’clock. Here’s the news, read by Maurice O’Donnell.’ 

The timbre of the radio presenter’s voice was clear and distinct. The tone was constant like the adhan, the muezzin prayer call. A call for the faithful to listen.

More fecking propaganda, Rory said loudly to himself. Stop the nonsense. Get on with it. Rory’s pleading had an immediate impact. He got the message he had been waiting for.

‘At noon we will mark the thirtieth anniversary of the day the tsunamis from La Palma and the Eriador region off our Continental Shelf destroyed our nation. We are encouraging as many survivors as possible to attend the annual memorial event. The Commander has asked me to tell you we have increased the number of sailings of our river cruise fleet to accommodate visitors to Howth Island. Anyone wishing to travel should contact their local Sheriff.’ 

The radio presenter continued with news for the communities across Iceapelago - the thirty islands that were once Ireland. 

Rory turned off the radio. He was fortunate that his still worked. It had been salvaged from one of the rusty, wrecked and abandoned cars that there were strewn all over the grounds of Malahide Castle: detritus of what was called the Eriador event. The radio was powered by electricity generated by a solar panel array that covered the entire roof of his small mobile home. He had found the photovoltaic panels in the back of a delivery van. As a skilled handyman, he was able set up a personal supply of electricity that was the envy of his neighbours. 

‘Well, we best get ready,’ said Rory to Alfie, who whimpered by way of a reply. Alfie, a cross terrier of sorts, hated being on a boat. He was ill for days after last year’s sea trip to Howth Island. Dogs like terra firma. Keeping one’s paws dry was all that mattered. Today, though, he would suffer for the sake of his master. 

Rory was in a restless mood. Sitting astride on his battered sofa, he looked at the silent radio on the side table with total distain. He distrusted radio presenters as much as he distrusted everyone else. He had become increasingly melancholy - some would call it depression - as the nearness of today’s journey approached. His annual pilgrimage to a sacred site was the one trip each year that he hated, yet had to do.

Alfie sensed his master was in poor form. His mood, his brooding, was darker than usual. He was distracted to the point of absentmindedness. He had not been brought for his daily walk for nearly a week.

Rory fidgeted and muttered to himself as he prepared his departure. He snapped to attention and signalled his return to reality in stroking Alfie’s chin with his gloved right hand, unaware of the dog’s astute perceptions. The dog was all he had left that mattered to him. He reached onto the table, opened the biscuit tin and held a cracker in his open hand. 

‘Here you are.’ Alfie snapped the plain biscuit and swallowed it in one movement. He was really hungry. 

Rory had already packed his rucksack. He had plenty of ice-melt water in a plastic bottle. The winter rain water harvest had been good. His water butts were full and should last until the first of the winter snow arrived in a few weeks’ time. The fruits he grew on his allotment would be sufficient for the day’s return journey. He had saved a precious chocolate and almond bar, acquired months ago as a luxury with his ration cards. He would allow himself this treat once the memorial ceremony was over.

As he got ready to leave, he stroked his fully developed beard. He was told by his friends that he looked like one of Jesus’s apostles. He took this as a compliment, although it was meant to be otherwise. Like everyone else, he had long abandoned any sense of sartorial decorum. He wore a heavy parka long coat with a faux fur collar and several cotton jumpers and polo necks from a designer shop long since gone. He had worn blue jeans for years. His ‘old reliable’, he called them. Underwear was another long-abandoned luxury. He had washed his boxers until they disintegrated. A red beanie, a permanent feature on his balding head, declared he was a fan of Liverpool Football Club, one of many sporting organisations wiped out decades ago. His army boots were removed from a corpse at the time of the flood without a second thought. His two pairs of thick woollen socks were washed every month. The seawater had dulled them to a dirty white colour. He was one of the few residents equipped with sturdy clothes for the severe winters.

***

The siren sounded. This was his signal to move. He walked the short distance to the river cruiser berth located on the eastern fringes of the Castle grounds with Alfie a few paces behind him. The path - part of the old Butterfly Garden - was lined with thick rhododendron bushes that grew wild. Their vivid pink flowers attracted bees from the local hives. A few neighbours also made their way slowly to the dockside.  

What had been a mainline railway culvert running adjacent to the Castle was now a channel of deep water with safe and easy access to the sea. It was like an inshore canal, but without locks. The few steps down to the main floating deck were manageable even to Alfie. The cruiser berth was the Castle’s main transport link to the other islands. All its provisions were imported through the facility and stored securely in the nearby outhouses.

Today, Rory had no interest in the delivery of supplies, however critical they were. He was confident he would make it to Howth in good time for the annual memorial. He waited patiently at the quayside with Alfie at his heels. In the distance he could see the supply boat - an adapted eight-berth river cruiser - make its way up what used to be the main Dublin to Belfast railway line, now submerged to a depth of twenty metres at low tide. The boat swivelled as it approached the dock and with a skilled sharp manoeuvre the skipper positioned it beside the pier in one effortless movement.

‘Welcome aboard the Route 42 sailing to Howth Island,’ said the boatman as he greeted each of his passengers. ‘Make yourselves at home. It will be a fine sunny day with calm seas so take advantage of the conditions.’

There was no safety announcement. No life jackets. In the Iceapelago world everyone knew life had little value. If someone got into trouble nobody expected anyone else to risk their life to save them.

The boat travelled down the old railway culvert for a kilometre to the submerged and once-thriving seaside village of Malahide. The top part of the spire of St Sylvester’s Church was the navigation point for the boatman to turn in an eastern direction for the ten-kilometre journey to Howth Island. Rory’s parent’s house had been on Main Street, a few doors up from the famous Gibney’s pub. The icy blue waters were clear. Looking down he could make out the roofs and chimneys below the surface of the water. Cars were tossed in all directions, left abandoned, full of barnacles. He got very emotional as memories of his childhood came flooding back. It was hard to believe that he had spent his youth playing in the flooded streets below. Soon he was crying. Large uncontrollable heavy sobs. He was left alone. The other passengers were also trying to cope with the their own personal experiences. Only when Alfie nuzzled against his trouser leg did Rory regain his composure.

He looked out onto the heights above the village. There was a prominent tree line delineating the sloping escarpments. The water lapped gently at the base of a row of detached red-bricked houses that rose up the hill from the village centre. All long abandoned. Evidence of the power of total destruction. Rory thought that the vista looked like a remote Caribbean island favoured by pirates escaping the attention of enemy ships. An island where isolation and secrecy protected its inhabitants.

The low purr of the electric boat engine was the only sound. Gulls flew high over the seashore. They would not stay long as there were slim pickings to be had. 

They made good progress on smooth seas. Rory closed his eyes more than once to imagine what the landscape had once looked like. The railway line was below water, as were all recreational and commercial facilities and dozens of residential estates. No trace remained of the local golf courses. No roads could be seen. The towns of Portmarnock, Baldoyle and Sutton were watery graveyards for their lost inhabitants. In the far distance, only the very top tip of Lambay Island was visible. To the north all the coastal towns were gone, apart from a few small hillocks. The coastline was now thirty kilometres inland.

‘See there, ahead,’ shouted the boatman.

Rory looked forward to see Howth Island, or more correctly what was left of the Howth Head Peninsula.

‘I’ll have you dockside in thirty minutes. We’ll return to the Castle immediately after the memorial ceremony is over.’ 

The boatman saw that many of his passengers were clearly distressed. This annual event pulled at every possible heart string. He did not seek to communicate with them. He sympathised. After all, he too had lost family members. 

***

There was a large crowd at the dock located at the top of Chapel Street, now halfway up from the level of the old quay walls. Boats from the other island communities were arriving and competing for scarce space at the berths. 

The annual memorial service was well-established. Everyone knew what to expect and what to do. The survivors walked up a hill to the town square. The platform where the speeches would be made was a basic wooden-framed structure. No flowers, no bunting, no fancy seating. The flag of Iceapelago, pure brilliant white with small aquamarine flecks, lay limp. The dignitaries were starting to take their positions.

Rory stood at a distance, in the shelter of the raised doorway of Abbey Tavern, once famous for its lively ballad sessions. This had been his preferred viewing position from the time he attended his first memorial ceremony. He didn’t want to be part of the ‘crowd’.  His grief was deeply personal. His young wife and two boys were always in his thoughts. He and his wife were childhood sweethearts. They schooled together in Malahide, dated as teenagers, and were married in St Sylvester’s Church. Their friends teased them about their ‘whirlwind romance’ that lasted over six years. So long ago. As he was working in Malahide Castle on that eventful day, his wife had taken their young children to the pier at Howth to watch the annual yacht regatta. Despite their ages, six and eight, the boys did not object to the idea of a walk. They knew a chocolate-covered ice-cream was their reward at the end of the pier. Rory would never know if they got that treat. They were among the first casualties.

The first of three tsunami waves from La Palma hit the pier at two hundred kilometres an hour at a height of thirty metres. The waves carried tonnes of flotsam and jetsam, cars, trees, boats, bodies and fish as they progressed up the funnel of the Irish Sea. They pummelled into an unprotected harbour with no warning, sweeping everything away like boiling water dissolving ice. 

His wife’s bloated body was found months later fifty kilometres inland. Her unique engagement ring, a two diamond and emerald cluster, enabled a positive identification. He was able to pay his respects. She was buried with dignity in the cemetery on Malahide Castle Island. Rory, who dug her shallow grave, was the sole mourner. The children were never found. That above all else saddened Rory. And on this day every year he struggled profoundly to come to terms with his loss. The fact that two million people died in the Dublin Bay Area was no consolation. He felt constant guilt that he was not with them; a common feeling among the slowly dwindling number of survivors.

The Commander of Iceapelago moved forward to the raised podium to make his speech. He was a tall, quite distinguished, heavy-set man in his early sixties. He too was a widower and a father to dead children. This probably explained why he was so dour and serious in appearance. He looked the part-dressed in a full uniform with his campaign medals from better days glinting in the sun. As an admiral of the Naval Service when the Eriador event happened, he was the logical choice for the position as the head of Iceapelago. With the government system, along with the political class, wiped out he stepped into the post by virtue of being the most senior public servant left alive. 

Nobody envied him his job as the person in charge of thirty communities that operated for the most part with a high degree of autonomy. That was the new way of life. The citizens of Iceapelago had no place for democratic central institutions. What mattered to everyone was  that essential supplies were delivered by the river cruiser fleet and drones and that all the communities were fully provisioned ahead of the six months of Arctic conditions that began every year on Winter Day. The Commander controlled the cruisers’ schedules, allocated surplus food and fish, and rationed electricity and its use. Importantly, he had operational responsibility for Iceapelago’s small fleet of commercial drones that had the capacity to deliver people and goods across the length and breadth of the islands. That was his main source of power and influence.

The Commander started his address. He shouted his words through a loud hailer. There was no microphone.  

‘We’re here today to pay our respects to the six million people on the island of Ireland who died as a consequence of the tsunamis which arrived unannounced thirty years ago today. Our national day of mourning - Eriador Day - caused significant, abrupt and generational change. It destroyed physical assets, emotions and relationships, family and community units. Our main cities and most of their urban areas were flattened and shattered, with transport, telecommunications, energy, healthcare, water and other essential infrastructure assets damaged beyond repair. Continuing mid-Atlantic volcanic eruptions and associated tectonic plate movements also reshaped the very geography of Iceapelago. Towns, villages and rural areas did not escape the destructive powers of nature.’ 

‘At this moment of marking the loss of our loved ones, we must remember that we were not the only country to have suffered. The sudden and dramatic collapse of the Greenland Ice Sheet, followed soon after by the cessation of the positive climate effects of the Gulf Stream and the subsequent rapid thermal expansion of the world’s oceans, resulted in severe Arctic winter conditions across the Northern Hemisphere as far south as Europe’s Iberia Peninsula and across to the Gulf of Mexico. As we know to our cost, essential supplies, including basic goods and fossil fuel, became unavailable as manufacturing capacity and the transport systems of the countries across the North Hemisphere disintegrated. It has become a survival of the fittest. Deep sea ice and never-ending snow blizzards over a six-month-long winter season has challenged us all.’

He is about to make his usual set of apologies and excuses, mused Rory.  As he had heard it all before, he thought he might return to the dock. His instinct told him that perhaps, just perhaps, the Commander might have something meaningful to say other than general sentiments about the well-being of the survivors and how difficult life was for everyone. 

‘While our deep sadness continues, we must look to the future. Our nation of islands remains intact and viable. Communities of survivors across Iceapelago have no option but to cope and collaborate despite the primitive conditions.’

There was applause from a section of the large crowd despite the fact that the Commander read the same speech every year.

Lackies, you can always depend on someone to suck up to the Commander. Rory did not notice that his habit of talking to himself out aloud was getting worse. His personal thoughts should be just that. But expressing critical views of leaders within hearing distance of some people had already resulted in him being censured. As there were no gaols, his fine was the cutting-off of his electricity supplies for ten days. The greater the severity of a verbal crime the more electricity was restricted under the rules. Fortunately for him, Rory’s short rant - a minor mutter - went unheard. Alfie was not going to tell tales.

The Commander continued. ‘After the Eriador Day event we did our collective best to ration scarce resources, house and heat ourselves, educate our children, harvest food and fish, and to provide basic medical services. Everybody struggled to cope with frozen conditions over the bitter winter months. Some communities fared better than others. All faced unique challenges. There are sad stories, happy stories, stories of heroism, tales of disasters and celebrations. We got on with life. We had and have no choice.’

‘We’re adapting to the environment of Iceapelago to the best of our ability. This has been hard for us and the other nations of the North Atlantic that have had to cope with their own losses and a new way of life and living.’ 

‘I’m happy to say there’s good news for a change. Our diaspora in North America, who have funded so many projects over the past decades, have surprised us yet again. Because of their continuing generosity, twenty solar farm arrays are on their way to Kilkenny Harbour by barge from the east coast of the United States. The many communities that have been struggling with their winter electricity supplies will get one of these kits as soon as they arrive. Our emigrants are raising more funds to provide us with renewable energy equipment and the lithium batteries we need. Before Winter Day further essential equipment and supplies will be on our shores. This may be the last winter where cold and ice kill our citizens in great numbers. The radio bulletin will announce which communities will benefit when the solar arrays arrive. Very soon we’ll take delivery of two drone ambulances, which will be based at the Athlone Island Medical Centre. Finally, I am glad to announce that an additional twenty heavy lift drones will be delivered over the coming weeks.’ 

The level of applause rose a decibel. Everyone knew the importance of having drones as they kept everyone and everything connected. Depending on conditions, some of the larger models could also fly during wintertime. Timely medical evacuations were a serious issue for all the communities. 

Rory had had enough of speechifying. As the Commander continued, Rory returned to the water’s edge close to the viewing area beside the Eriador memorial statute. The famous Malahide artist, John Noel Ingoldsby, had created a work comprising the material that had been washed ashore. Twisted forms of iron, aluminium and wood were mixed with bottles, plastic sheeting and many pieces of broken household furniture. This mish-mash of tsunami flotsam was suspended over the base, which was a smashed SUV. The inscription read To Our Friends and Families - The Fallen Will Never Be Forgotten.

He looked out to sea with a vacant expression. He opened his rucksack and pulled out a rose that he had carefully wrapped in a protective cover. He held it softly in his gloved hand. He cultivated a small cluster of damask roses in the small garden beside his mobile home during the growing season with the purposes of picking the best of the crop for this day. This rose was special. He and his wife were avid gardeners before her untimely demise. Each year he threw a rose into the sea at Howth. A perpetual connection, a bond, between them. Alfie barked as the rose landed on the water. He knew his master was sad today. He would feel better now that the rose was cast to the sea.

Back at the platform, the Commander wrapped up his talk. He rarely had good news to impart. It was noticed that he smiled as he wished everyone safe and well ahead of Winter Day. The other dignitaries, including the Howth Island Six, shook his hand. They welcomed the honour that Howth was chosen as the location where the annual Eriador event was marked.

Most of the crowd lived on Howth Island, so they were in no hurry to leave. They mixed and mingled with the Howth Six and speculated which communities would get the much sought after solar arrays. The non-residents headed promptly to their boats. There was little to do in Howth. Its cafes, bars and restaurants were all destroyed and those that survived had long run out of supplies. Everyone felt safer on their island and in the company of their communities.

Alfie noticed them first. He was startled. He had never seen their likes before. His body froze with fright. His ears stiffened. They roamed around without a care. There must be at least ten of them. Clearly they were not scared of humans. Many were being fed by hand as if they were pets. What concerned him most was that they were bigger than he was. 

A pair of the Arctic foxes on the fringe of the group spotted him. There were few dogs left on Iceapelago so he was seen as a threat. The foxes’ instinct kicked in. They attacked without hesitation with their fangs visible. Alfie bolted and ran to Rory as fast as his tiny legs could manage. He barked to catch his master’s attention. Lucky for him, Rory had also seen the Arctic foxes and guessed they had set their eyes on Alfie as their lunch. He bent down swiftly and lifted Alfie into his arms.

The foxes stopped in their tracks metres away. Fearless and hungry. They stared at Alfie and growled and howled at him. The humans near the dock were ignored. The foxes only had eyes for the small cross terrier. The female’s tail was rigid as if she was about to pounce.

‘Get away, you pests,’ said Rory. ‘Leave my Alfie be.’ He turned to the dock and boarded the river cruiser for the return journey. The foxes did not move. They stood their ground metres from the gangplank. ‘Poor Alfie. I’ll mind you.’ He stroked the dog’s head and squeezed his ears softly. Alfie settled on Rory’s lap as the remaining passengers took their seats. They could not see the foxes from their position deep inside the river cruiser’s cabin.

The boatman number checked his passengers. ‘All present and correct. We’ll set off. I’ll have you back on Malahide Castle Island in time for a late lunch.’ That drew a smile from his passengers. 

Unnoticed, two pairs of foxes jumped silently onto the rear deck of the cruiser. Unseen, they hid behind the small inflatable life raft that was covered and secured by a black tarpaulin.

Alfie smelt their scent. It was strong. He barked to alert his master and tried to jump out of his arms. These rabid intruders should not be allowed on this boat.

‘Now then, Alfie, settle down.’ Rory gave him an even bigger hug. He was unable to move wrapped in his master’s embrace. The motion of the sea soon had him dozing. With Alfie asleep, Rory ate his much-cherished chocolate and almond bar. He kept a quarter for his faithful friend. 

The annual event at Howth drained everyone’s emotions. It brought back bad memories that could not be erased. It was no surprise that conversation among the passengers on the return journey was muted.

***

When it was their turn to get off the boat, Alfie noticed the foxes’ scent was not as strong. This was for a good reason. The foxes had not wasted any time jumping off the cruiser as soon as it docked. By the time Rory and Alfie were getting off the boat the foxes were under the chassis of one of the abandoned cars that littered the seafront. They watched Alfie walking alongside his master. The foxes concluded it was too risky to pounce on him. Maybe another time.