The story would come later, when the harp has faded and the fingers stilled.

The men sit on the granite slab, facing the water.

The boat will come soon.
Aye.
Will you go?
Will you?
It will be a day coming and the winds may move. In the meantime they may move.
No. No, not this time.

The dog crouches, ears pricked, watching for rabbits, hearing the catch in the men’s soft voices.

I’ll not go.
Nor I.
The boat will be here soon.
Aye.
Not I.

Time passes, touching even the granite. Split in three pieces it stands, each man’s name carved deep in the redness.

Who were they, do you think?
When the boat came they went, two to the mountains and one to the sea. And then they were lost to the men or to the waves. And nobody tells their story no more.

Wind blows, spattering foam. Hand touches shoulder.

Are you crying?
No. No, I’m not crying.