Between the white sand of the bay and the Mull of Kintyre lay Rathlin Island.
Mia draws her feet through the silver grains on the beach and makes intricate patterns which she knows will awake the spirit of the nearby island and break upon the shore of the distant Mull. As she does so a fierce spell rises from the strand.
A raw, deep-seated voice grittily races through the caverns of her head as she dares to cry out the name of her brother. He has left home to seek for work and her widowed mother has anxiously explained, "He's gone beyond the waves my dear, beyond the lie of Rachery."
The distance was as nothing Mia thought - all but a few miles across the sound: the only obstacle being the relentless fierce waters of the North Atlantic nosing in and around the basalt rocks and the bearded headlands.
She pulled out the crumpled envelope and through salt-tears made out the postmark in hesitatingly long syllable beats: Phil-a-del- phi-a Ju-ly 4th 1921.