“How did you do it, Dad?”

Michael winked and tapped his nose. “I guess there’s a bit of the old craft still in me.” He gave Patrick a conspiratorial grin.

Pat had no idea what his dad meant. Many of the things going on in those weeks before the journey bewildered him. The clothes his mother and the other women were packing came from trunks in the back of their closets. The bright colors and wild patterns were startling to him. He’d never seen any of them in anything but jeans or tailored dresses for church and parties. The men were equally odd, packing briar pipes and gnarled walking sticks that had also appeared in the depths of the storerooms.

As the preparations grew more frantic, his confusion became tinged with a sense of dread that made no sense to him, either. He tried to shake it. This was his life’s dream. He didn’t want it spoiled by irrational worries. But the behavior of his elders gave him a sense that he was walking blindfolded on a staircase with no railing.

“There’s something off about this. They’re keeping secrets,” he complained to his cousin Jerry. “The aunts and uncles, my mom and dad. When I come in, they all stop talking. If the phone rings when I’m home, they ask the caller to ring them later. My parents argue in whispers after they go to bed.”

“Don’t be daft,” Jerry grinned. “You always did think the sun shone out your ass. They aren’t keeping anything from you. There hasn’t been a secret in this family since Aunt Kate ran off with the milkman. And we found that one out eventually.”

“I never believed she’d decided to join the Carmelites and take a vow of silence.” Pat was momentarily diverted from his worry. “Aunt Kate even talked in her sleep.”

“So, how do you think all of them together could be hiding some great, dark secret?” Jerry shook his head. “We need to celebrate, not mope about. After over a hundred years, we’re going home to Ireland! The first thing I’m going to do is have a proper draft Guinness. What about you?”

Pat allowed his cousin to ramble on but couldn’t escape the belief that his parents’ generation was in a turmoil about the upcoming trip. They were all thrilled and excited, definitely. But there was an undercurrent in their conversations that made him nervous. Something about the gathering, or Gathering, was putting them all on edge.

Eileen had no patience with his prodding.

“We told you,” she snapped when he’d been at her about it all during dinner. “It’s a sort of family reunion.”

“We have more family?” Patrick was aghast at the thought. “I suppose O’Reilly is a common name. So what could be so awful about that? Why are you all so jumpy? Is there something wrong with them?”

“Of course not!” She thumped another serving of potatoes onto his plate. “I’ve never met them, but I’ve never heard anything bad about them, either.”

“Then why haven’t I ever heard anything about them at all?” Patrick pushed the plate away. He knew that refusing food was guaranteed to get his mother’s attention, and her goat.

Eileen’s lips tightened to a thin line. She took a deep breath before answering.

“You’re hearing about them now,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. Then she softened. “I’d tell you more, my darling, but the others think it best if you wait until we get there. You’ll understand then.”

She got up and went to the kitchen for more gravy, but Patrick was sure he heard her mutter, “I hope.”

ON May twenty-fifth, the day of the flight, the O’Reillys met in the boarding area at the airport. Patrick had never seen his entire family all in one place outside someone’s home or in church. It mortified him to realize what a loud, uncouth bunch they were. The children were running around, squealing with excitement, and Cousin Jerry was egging them on. The others were all hugging and greeting as if they hadn’t all been seeing one another every day for most of their lives. His cousin Liz had dyed her black hair a neon green in honor of the occasion. Pat tried to edge away from them, to pretend he was just another businessman for whom a trip across the Atlantic was nothing special.

Of course they wouldn’t let him, but dragged him into the mob with jokes and claps on the back, all at eardrum-shattering decibels. Patrick felt the tips of his ears turning bright red. He vowed that as soon as they landed at Shannon, he was going to distance himself from these boorish tourists as soon as possible. They were going to Ireland to drink and party. He was on a sacred quest to find his heritage.

The flight was predictably rowdy. Pat couldn’t understand why the other passengers and the flight attendants were so tolerant. They even seemed to enjoy the impromptu rendition of “Galway Bay” from his father, Jerry, and the uncles.

In the gray light of morning the plane slid down through the cloud cover and the O’Reillys got their first glimpse of what for them was the Promised Land.

There was a whoosh as everyone let out their breath at once. Pat’s father put an arm around his mother.

“Look at it, my love,” he sighed. “Did you ever think there were that many shades of green in the world?”

Eileen smiled and caressed his hand. “I never thought I’d see them. Whatever happens, this is worth it.”

“Nothing will happen.” He cocked his head in Pat’s direction. “This will be the grandest vacation we’ve ever had. Won’t it, son?”

Pat didn’t answer. He was staring out the window with the fervor of a pilgrim in sight of Jerusalem.

THERE was a bus waiting for them with O’Reilly painted in big black letters on the side. The clan piled in, exhausted and eager at the same time. Pat realized that he had no idea what kind of place they were going to. He had imagined some sort of manor house, with polished wood wainscoting and stone fireplaces. Or perhaps a nice resort hotel with a golf course.

Instead the bus drove for what seemed like hours into a countryside where there seemed to be nothing but windswept fields and hundreds of sheep wandering freely. Finally, they pulled in to a sort of trailer park, with old-fashioned silver caravans arranged in concentric circles around a couple of large, whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs. There was smoke coming from the chimney of one of them, and Pat got his first whiff of the heady and slightly intoxicating scent of burning peat.

Then they were surrounded by a sea of people, all of them small, with dark hair and skin ranging from deeply tanned to the shade of pale milk. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Pat thought. There really are more of us in the world. The babble of accents was surprising, especially coming from such familiar faces. The English assaulting his ears was broad Australian, British, and Anglo-Indian. He even thought he heard cadences of Spanish and French. How far had the O’Reillys emigrated?

Pat and his family were shown to one of the caravans, which turned out to be nicely appointed in a three-quarter size that was perfect for them, with a small kitchen and a shower in its own stall next to the bathroom. Eileen was delighted.

“My grandmother told me about these, from when she was a little girl,” she told Pat. “Isn’t it cozy? Just like the ones the Travelers have, although not so colorful.”

She seemed disappointed about that, but, for once, Pat was too tired to try to get more information. He wanted a shower and a sleep. Then, he promised himself, he’d rent a car or a bike and strike out on his own.

It was the singing that woke him. Dusk had fallen and the bar must have opened. Pat now saw the sense in having this reunion far away from other people. He pulled on some clean clothes and ventured out.

A huge bonfire had been built in a hollow in front of one of the buildings. Long trestle tables and benches were ranged around it. Lamplight gushed from the open door and all the windows. The tables were full of people happily tucking into shepherd’s pie. Every hand held a glass. The smell of the lamb and potatoes was enticing.