FICTION
Every Piece Has a Place
It had been raining for hours, lashing against the windscreen and roof of the car, blurring the headlights into ghostly trails. The wipers thumped back and forth, marking time against the rain. The road, or what remained of it, had narrowed to a twisting ribbon, hemmed in by tangled hedgerows and the occasional ghostlike blur of a tree.
Inside the car, everyone was in a foul mood.
“I’m telling you, we should’ve turned back at the last petrol station,” the mother snapped in frustration from the passenger seat.
“And I’m telling you it was a perfectly fine road until it just … wasn’t,” the father shot back, gripping the wheel like he was trying to wring some sense out of it. “The phone’s satnav is dead. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, maybe don’t rely on a bloody phone to navigate half the country!”
In the back seat, their son sat curled in on himself, coat zipped to his chin, legs swinging just above the floor. Looking out, he pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Beyond the streaked rain, there was nothing but night. No houses. No lights. No signs. Just fields, trees, and blackness.
He wished he could disappear into the darkness. Out here, no one knew him. No one stared. No one whispered “midget” when they thought he couldn’t hear them or laughed when he couldn’t reach something on the top shelf in class.
In a few days they’d be back in the city. He’d be back to school. Back to the corridor where he always walked a little faster, head down, pretending he didn’t hear the jokes. His mum told him to be proud of who he was. His dad said bullies were cowards. But neither of them had to walk in his shoes.
He swallowed hard, trying not to cry. He didn’t want to ruin the trip: even if it already felt that way.
Then he saw it, a flicker, a faint glow in the distance. Maybe two hundred yards off, just visible through a gap in the hedgerow. He leaned forward, his face fully up to the glass.
“There’s a light,” he said softly.
The argument stopped mid-sentence.
“What?” his mother asked.
“There’s a light,” the boy repeated, “a house, maybe.”
The father squinted through the glass, then craned to see. “Could be,” he muttered. “It’s something, anyway.”
“You should go check it out,” the mother said. “Ask for directions.”
“In this?” He gestured at the windows. “It’s pissing rain, freezing and pitch black outside there, woman. Or hadn’t ya noticed? I’ll get double bloody pneumonia.”
“Oh, come on. Be a man. You wanted this whole ‘exploring the Wild Atlantic Way, like locals’ thing,’ remember? Well, go be local. Ask for help.” She was already reaching into the back for his raincoat.
With a groan that bordered on theatrical, the father yanked the coat over his shoulders. “This is madness,” he muttered, grabbing a torch from the glovebox. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the guards.”
“You’ve no signal,” she reminded him.
He muttered a curse under his breath as he exited the vehicle and slammed the door behind him.
***
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
The boy shifted. “Maybe he got lost,” he said.
“He didn’t go far,” his mother replied in a strained voice. “Probably just chatting his way out of asking for directions like he always does.”
Then, tap, tap, tap, a knock at the passenger-side window. The mother jumped, then rolled the window down halfway. Rain poured in like it had been waiting for the invitation.
“Christ! You scared the life out of me, I’m getting soaked!” she snapped.
“Well then, maybe open it less,” the father grumbled, sticking his head inside, hunched beneath the edge of the roof. “He says there’s a spare room. Offered it for the night. Says it’s no bother. We can wait out the storm there.”
“Who’s he?”
“Ould fella. Weathered but harmless enough looking. Said we’d do better not going any further in this muck.”
The boy sat up straighter. “Is it far?”
“Two hundred yards. Maybe less. Come on, grab whatever you need and bundle up. The whole place’s turned to bog out there.”
His mother hesitated but was too cold to argue. She turned helping her son with his coat, tugging the zipper up and flipping the hood over his head.
“Stay close to us, alright?”
Grabbing their overnight bag, she stepped out first, shielding her hair with one arm. The father scooped the boy under his coat; head bowed over him like a makeshift tent.
The wind howled as they trudged along the uneven cobblestone path, feet squelching in unseen puddles. Then, almost out of nowhere, the outline of the house emerged from the dark: long and low, built of stone, with a crooked chimney leaning against the sky. Smoke curled faintly above it. The door swung open before they reached it, the light and heat from inside bidding them welcome.
“Quick now, before the rain soaks you to the bone,” came an old voice, reedy, but firm.
The man who stood in the doorway looked like he belonged to another time. Short, thick about the middle, in his eighties at least. Silver stubble clung to his chin, the lines on his face folded deep with time. His eyes were bright with something ageless, and a flat cap sat atop his head. He waved them inside, shutting the door hard behind them.
“Terrible night altogether, sure as ever I’ve seen,” he said, ushering them toward the hearth, where turf crackled beneath a hanging iron pot. “Leave your coats by the door. Warm yourselves while you’ve breath in ye. Not many pass this way these days.”
The family huddled close, stepped into the main room: a simple space, with stone floors and whitewashed walls. The air inside was thick with the scent of turf smoke, old stone, and something faintly herbal; lavender, maybe, or something older, wilder. Two wooden armchairs faced the hearth. Between them, a small three-legged stool. On the far wall, a red candle flickered beneath a framed image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, its glass specked with soot. Beneath the picture was a simple, homemade-looking wooden table.
“I’ve stew on, if you’ve an appetite,” the old man said, nodding toward the blackened iron pot above the fire. “Nothing fancy, mind, but it’ll fill the belly.”
“We’d be delighted,” the father said immediately. Earning him a sharp elbow to the side from his wife. He winced. “Err … if it’s no trouble.”
She pulled him aside near the fireplace. “We don’t know this man.”
“He’s offering food. A roof. We’ve had nothing since breakfast,” the father whispered back, then looked towards the boy. “Our son’s starving.”
She glanced at the boy too; now as he sat quietly on the stool, rubbing his hands in front of the fire, pretending not to hear them. The mother hesitated, then glanced again at the pot. Her stomach growled in betrayal. That settled it. With a sigh, she stepped forward as the old man emptied the contents of the pot into a chipped wooden bowl.
The first spoonful stopped her mid-chew. “Oh … this is actually good.”
The old man smiled faintly, the warmth of the fire flickering in his eyes. “All grown myself. Nothing store-bought. A bit of cabbage, a few carrots and onions. You’d be surprised what a garden and a good pair of hands can provide.”
With his wife’s seal of approval, the father tucked in like a man on death row. The boy followed suit, soothed by the warmth, the food, and the dancing firelight that played across the walls.
When they’d scraped their bowls clean, the old man clapped his hands softly, almost ceremonially.
“Right then, I’ve no doubt, ye’ll be wanting rest — after yer long journey. Spare room’s down yonder. Only the one bed mind, but she’s a big one. Should hold the three of ye for the night.”
They offered quiet thanks to the old man, who was now seated by the fire, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other poking the fire with a tong. He nodded once.
“Sleep well now. You’re safe here.”
As they stepped into the hallway, the father whispered under his breath, “He never even asked who we were …”
The mother paused. “We didn’t ask him, either.”
She glanced back once at the warm light spilling from the hearth, then gently closed the door behind them.
The bedroom was small but spotless, whitewashed the same shade as the main room. Handmade blankets lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. A simple crucifix overhead, keeping them protected. On the washstand, a porcelain jug and basin sat untouched. The room smelled clean, still, like nothing had stirred in years, as if waiting, for them. The father shifted, uneasy in the quiet.
“Excuse me,” the father said, frowning, popping his head out of the bedroom. “Where’s the toilet?”
“No indoor convenience here, I’m afraid,” the old man said. “There’s a shed out the back, just past the door, to your right. But if you’ve no wish to face the night again, there’s a pot under the bed.”
The father’s mouth twisted as he looked upward. “Great! Old school.”
He sighed, pulled on his coat, and disappeared into the storm. Returning to the room ten minutes later, soaked and chastened by the night. “I swear, I’ll never complain about the toilet seat being left up again.”
The mother chuckled faintly as she sorted through the overnight bag. “Glad something positive came out of this.”
“Hmmph,” the father replied, peeling off his skin-soaked pullover and trying to hop one-legged out of his damp trousers. The mother unpacked pyjamas with careful precision, folding each item before laying it out.
“I need to go too,” the boy said suddenly.
The father paused mid-hop. “Now? Are you serious? For f—” He stopped himself mid-swear.
“Better now than in the bed,” the mother said without looking up, a small grin developing on her face.
With a groan that bordered on operatic, the father pulled his coat back on, while muttering inaudibly to himself as he grabbed the boy’s hand and led him out once again into the rain.
“This trip was your idea!” the mother called after them. “Remember that!”
By the time they returned, the mother was already beneath the thick blankets, clothes folded on the chair, the boy’s pyjamas laid out with military precision beside the washstand.
The boy rushed in, already giggling. “Race you!”
The father tried to hop faster, but the boy dove under the covers before his father could blink, vanishing into warmth and laughter.
“I win!”
“You cheated,” the father grunted, breathless as he climbed in beside his wife. He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Good night, sweetheart.”
The bed creaked under their weight. The parents curled together at the headboard while the boy claimed the foot, wrapping himself up like a caterpillar waiting to transform in the blankets.
“Daddy, your feet are right in my face.”
“Well, if you hadn’t won the race …”
But it was warm. Safe. For a little while.
***
Sometime in the small hours, the boy awoke giggling, his father’s big toe tickling his nostril.
“Ugh! Gross!”
He jerked upright, gasping in protest as he untangled himself, wriggling himself free from the blanket. He slipped off the bed and wrapped himself loosely in his dad’s oversized dressing gown, its weight a quiet shield against the dark. The stone floor was icy beneath his bare feet. His mum having brought everything else but slippers. The room was silent, save for the steady breathing of his parents.
A thin strip of light leaked under the door from the main room. Curious, and still a bit grossed out from the lingering smell of his father’s toe, he crept toward the light. He paused at the threshold, then slowly pulled it open. The fire still burned low in the grate, casting long, lazy shadows that danced across the flagstone floor. The old man still sat in his chair, motionless but alert, staring into the flames.
“And where do you think you’re off to, young man?” he asked without turning his head.
The boy froze. “I … I just —”
“Still lashin’ out there,” the man said gently. “Can’t you hear it dancing on the roof? You’ll need more than pyjamas and that fluffy coat on ya.”
The old man patted the wooden chair opposite him; a small, round table sat between the chairs, a square board on top.
“I like to play chess at night,” he said. “Can’t sleep much at my age. The mind gets restless. Needs exercise. Shame I’ve no one to play with.”
The boy lingered, uncertain.
“Do you know chess?” the old man asked.
He shook his head.
“No matter,” the old man said gently. “Sit yourself down. I’ll teach you.”
The chessboard gleamed in the firelight. The white pieces shone like polished stone. The brown ones were some type of wood so dark they seemed to absorb all light. The boy settled into the chair, his father’s robe catching on the armrest, his legs swinging over the edge: too short to touch the floor.
The old man slid a white piece forward. “This one here is called a pawn,” he said, tapping it with a stubby finger, “most people don’t think much of it. Smallest piece on the board. Weakest. It doesn’t travel as fast as the others. Just one step at a time. Slow and steady. But if it moves wisely, un-noticed …” He glanced at the boy. “It can sneak up and win the game.” He knocked over the King.
The boy stared at the pawn: just a little thing, barely noticeable beside the looming horse-headed and tower-looking pieces. But it could win. It just had to get there.
He looked at his own hands: small, stubby fingers that never could quite grip the pencil properly at school. He glanced down at his legs, which didn’t touch the floor when he sat. His friends had always complained that he walked too slow, but something about the pawn made sense.
“Why don’t they all just try to knock over the King?” he asked quietly.
“Because not all of them make it,” the old man said smiling, not unkindly.
They played slowly. Or rather, the old man played both sides, guiding the boy’s fingers, showing him where to move, when to defend, how to think ahead. The fire crackled softly. Rain tapped a steady rhythm above. The boy’s eyes grew heavy. The old man noticed. He sat back, voice soft as the coals dimmed.
“Off you go now, Eoin. You’ve learned enough for one night.”
The boy rose without a word and shuffled sleepily back into the bedroom, his father’s dressing gown dragging on the floor behind him. He climbed in beside his parents and was asleep before the blanket reached his chin. Outside, the rain kept time on the roof, steady, patient, unending.
***
Screaming woke him.
A cow’s head loomed over the bed, tongue extended, licking his father’s horrified face.
The mother shrieked again. “What the hell … ?!”
Its head poked through where a wall should have been.
The boy sat up, blinking against the sudden morning light. The thick stone walls were gone. In their place stood mossy, broken ruins. The wind whistled through what remained of empty window frames. Grass pushed up through cracked flagstones. There was no roof.
They had slept in the ruins of a long-abandoned house.
His father scrambled to his feet, furiously wiping the cow’s spittle from his face. “Where’s the old man? Where’s the fire? The room … ?”
There was nothing. No hearth. No table. No chairs. Just stones and weeds and open sky. And no old man.
“Grab yer things — we’re getting out of here!” the mother snapped as she snatched up their belongings, still folded neatly as they’d been left, and quickly crammed them into the overnight bag. “We can change clothes in the car!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” the father muttered, while scooping the boy up, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and bolting for the car.
They didn’t speak, they didn’t look behind them. Not until the doors slammed shut and the engine coughed to life.
The satnav lit up, like it had just woken up from a lovely sleep. Road clear.
Still in their pyjamas, the father drove in silence, eyes fixed ahead, while the mother stared out her window, arms folded tight, watching the fields roll past.
In the back seat, the boy reached into his pyjamas pocket. His fingers closed around something solid. Slowly, he drew it out.
A brown wooden pawn rested in his palm: dark, smooth, and cool to the touch.
He smiled, and closed his fingers around it.
John S. Walsh is an emerging Irish writer with achondroplasia. Raised by his father after losing his mother in childhood, his work often explores resilience, faith, and identity. Drawing on Catholic heritage and Irish folklore, he writes stories where the supernatural brushes against the everyday. He is currently working on his first novel.
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Image: Pawn by Bob, CC BY 2.0, via Flickr.com.
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