Fourfront, page 8
East of the house, at the bottom of the coniferous shelter-belt where there was still some uncovered earth, a blackbird and a robin foraged for food. The blackbird was a male, she knew that from its bright-yellow bill. How shiny bright! The robin sporting its red breast.
Mary’s heart was full of joy. What pleasing contrasts: the jet-black blackbird, its bright-yellow bill; the robin’s red breast, and the pure whiteness of the snow!
“Glory be to God!”
These were happy signs. Good omens. The robin accompanied Christ when he was crucified. Christ’s blood fell on its breast. Her favourite Christmas cards displayed the robin on them.
She walked around the house, her wellington boots crunching the virgin snow, leaving their imprints. What a lovely white cover of snow that lay on the house-roof! So gentle and soft! Likewise, on top of the granite wall of the haggard.
The white contours of the countryside. The hills. The glens. “The Himalayas” beyond. Hehir’s currachs. Everything.
Very little movement anywhere. Restfulness. Perhaps there were small animals out hunting but it would be hard to see them. Mice, rats, otters, they would leave their tracks.
The sheep had been gathered. They were housed. There weren’t many sheep nowadays.
Curran’s, Barrett’s, Hehir’s. And the Faherty’s. These were all the houses that were left.
Curran’s was the newest house. It was the only concrete house. But who was in it? Nobody. They left a couple of years after building it. All away, now, in foreign parts. The land leased to Colin Barrett.
The ruins of Martin Shéamais’s house down below. He, another Barrett. His land gone to rack and ruin. He never left it to anybody, he never made a will. Bog-cotton growing where he used to have potatoes and turnips. He had a brother, Michael, in Ballinasloe, but he didn’t own it. And what good would it be to him anyway? Not a sinner ever visiting him.
Bridie Hehir on the hill above to the south. Same age as herself. Her house in a very bad state. No way in but a path through the currachs. She had to come through her path to get that far. Never greeted. Hadn’t greeted for ages. Pulled down her shawl over her head and never spoke, although they had gone to school together.
Bridie wore a long dress like she wore herself; down over the tops of her wellington boots.
Bridie’s husband was long dead, like her own husband. Bridie had a son, Tom, in England but he rarely came home, or wrote. Her own daughter, Mary, died of TB. A beautiful girl. She was only twelve.
A few old folk, now, that was all that was left in the whole village of Tullagh. Tullaghalougha! The “remnants of the tribe” as someone had put it.
Now, it was all up to Colin Barrett. And he wasn’t young either. It was very doubtful, at his age, that he’d ever get married. Who would marry him? Still and all somebody might, there was always someone, if only he searched properly.
It was unlikely, either, that Tom Hehir would ever return. What for, really? Although if he was any good he could do many the thing. A real harum-scarum. The Hehirs would die out like the Faherties.
But the Faherty blood was still there. If only just. She would have to mind herself.
“God between us and all harm!”
She heard a hen call. Announcing that she had laid an egg. A fine call. A hearty call. A proud call. A call as arrogant as any hen. Why not? It warmed Mary’s spirits.
She thought about the call. A triumphant call. Full of courage and hope.
A young call. Brave and innocent like the bleat of a lamb. As safe and satisfied as the laugh of a bold child.
This was the wholesome sound of a haggard. The joyful cry of an expectant dawn.
Two dark-brown hen-eggs tucked tightly under a thick clump of red ferns. The ferns capped with snow. The nest-egg and the newly-laid egg. They were the pretty sight in the cosy comfort of the nest!
How pleasing it was to have a hen lay when most hens were in their non-laying season!
She stood looking in at the nest. The sight of fresh eggs snug in their nest was always something to behold. Especially in a well-concealed nest.
No matter how of ten she had witnessed it, it always gladdened her heart. A birth. Each newly-laid egg was a new birth. These eggs so carefully, so skilfully, sheltered from the cold elements. So warm within, so bleak without.
She retrieved the old nest-egg, leaving the newly-laid one to do its duty.
The cock was proudly scratching the earth-floor of the old barn. Chuckling, cackling, gurgling. Warning. Digging. Observing. His tall red comb slightly swaying.
“God be with her people who had built that barn, who had worked the horse-cart, the iron plough and the harrow!”
There were so many old bits of machinery. All rusting and rotting.
She the last of the family. She had better mind herself. It was up to her to prolong the family name for a little while longer. But there was no point in getting too uptight about it. As of yet, at any rate, there was still Faherty blood in the townland of Tullaghalougha.
What would happen when she was gone? Who would buy her land? Faherty land!
The wheel would turn. But, alas, not for her family. It was happening already in some areas. People were now seeking out remote places. Monied people.
In the future sites, would be bought and houses would be built, fine big houses. Attractive houses, with prominent exaggerated windows. There would be motor cars, and garages to house them. But not for her folk.
“God bless the old people!”
What was sad was how the old stock would be forgotten and their memories discarded with them; after all they had done. All their toil and good work. Neglected, banished and forgotten. That was a pity.
She scanned the area to the north-east. Keagh and the hills of Letter. Down in the glen, behind those hills, lay the village. The village was on the main road. A by-road branched from the main road. Her road branched from the by-road. Just now all roads were covered with snow.
A stranger wouldn’t know the roads with the snow. Wouldn’t know there was a road. She would. She knew the contours; the brinks and the bushes.
The ruts and the crests were all levelled. The ruts of the donkeyand horse-carts; of the motor cars of the fishermen and the fowlers.
That night Mary lit the twelve candles, the same as she did every other Twelfth-night. Small candles of different colours: yellow, red, green and blue.
She lit them, as always, on the same timber-bar, a bar that also acted as a door-bar at night and as a bar for mashing boiled potatoes in the large pot. As always she put the barlying on the kitchen table beside the window and put the candles standing on it. The window facing the road.
She was now the same age as her husband when he died. The same age as her father and her mother. None of her people were more longlived now than she was, and they were all long-lived. Twelve years her senior her husband was when he died outside, weeding the turnips.
She counted the years since: eleven, ten, nine . . . one.
A flame from the fire on a piece of twisted paper that was how she brought light to the candles. An uncouth way, she had always thought, and she wished for a more sophisticated method because the lighting of the twelve candles required proficiency. What was needed was that all the candles be lit at the one time, or barring that, in quick sequence. One shouldn’t much precede the other, nor should any wind or puff of air blow on one rather than on the other, because this was a race: a race of time and life. This was a test. A test of endurance and life-span. The first candle to quench, the person whose name was attached to it was the first to die.
Like every other year Mary attached a name, on a little slip of paper, to each candle. Her own name. The name of her husband, her daughter’s name. The names of her brothers and sisters. Her father’s name and that of her mother’s. All of them now dead save herself.
Every year hers was the last candle to die, and she thought that strange. Her religion told her not to pay any heed to this but she believed it to be an omen.
She sat down by the fire to watch the candle-race as she had done every other Twelfth-night. It would take an hour or so. She loved the sight of the candles. All the colours. The black wicks. The yellow lights, at times flickering like angels dancing. Red, blue, yellow, green. Aholy night. Almost as holy as Christmas night.
It was also a sad night. Christmas over for another year. One day to go: the Twelfth-day.
The stems were shortening. Sometimes the dam of candle-grease at the bottom of the burning-wick would burst and run down the side; hardening again, however, and leaving a decorative design.
As the candles wore on the battle became more intense. The souls of the candles struggled. Gasping for life. These were the precious last moments.
Lost in thought she stared into the distance. In her mind’s eye she saw the white snow. The white-blanketed countryside. The snowflakes falling gently. White quietness to the ends of the earth. No stir, no movement. Serenity. Holiness.
There was a young woman, dressed in white, standing at the head of the road. Tall, slim, with well-shaped thighs and long hands. Fine dark hair down to her waist. Clothed in a flowing frock down to her heels.
There was a black-haired young man with her. Tall and handsome. Wearing a black suit and a high hat. He had doffed his hat and he was curtsying to the woman. She swinging to face him, her frock flowing like a cloak. He taking her hand. She staring him in the eyes, they both moving to kiss each other. Gently, lovingly, of one mind, oblivious to the world.
Mary felt tranquil. Peaceful, at ease, young and in love. Optimism flowed through her body. Bravely.
The young couple, hand in hand, were walking towards her. Sometimes they giddily hopped and skipped, but they weren’t coming any closer. The woman on occasions reclined her head and allowed it to rest on the man’s breast. How lovely! Their lives entwined. How lovely! Sun and snow shone. Birds and children sang.
Momentarily she was distracted by the candles. By now they were short and weak. Shortly they would begin to die. Some of them would fight, others would die quickly; a clean death without resistance.
Once again hers was the last candle. Its butt short and struggling. Its strength ebbing.
Its slender black wick standing alone in the middle of its small pool of watery grease. The wick fell but its flame did not extinguish. Its root continued to draw sustenance from the lubrication that surrounded it. Once more it blew into a wide white light.
When the fat wore thin, the flame caught hold of the timber and a small black stain appeared.
The sky had changed. Its sullen texture metamorphosed to brightness. It was freezing sharply. A galaxy of twinkling stars appeared in the heavens, shepherded by a diamond moon.
Purity. Holiness. Sacredness.
Mary sensed that eyes viewed her through the window. Although this sense came suddenly to her she did not startle, because the eyes did not come promptly but gently and slowly as if out of a fog.
The eyes were those of an old woman. Penetrating red-rimmed eyes. Very red. As red as blood. They looked without blinking through the glass-pane. Hoisted to the centre of the pane, staring. Staring at her. They had neither head nor body attached to them.
They were her grandmother’s eyes, she recognized them. Sixty years ago. They were her mother’s eyes. Thirty years ago. They were her own eyes.
She reclined her head. The numinous light of her candle took hold of the little strip of paper on which “Mary” was written. Once more the flame increased. Then, without clamour or shout, a light breath of cloud ascended.
translated by the author
DARA Ó CONAOLA
Born on Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands, but now living on the neighbouring island, Inis Oírr. Has written a number of books, including short stories, a novella, stories for children and local history. Many of his short stories have been translated into English and were published in the collection Night Ructions. Dara’s fascinating and much-acclaimed writing is full of wonder and imagination.
Runs a craft shop and also teaches.
Night Ructions
It was night, almost. The boy was in a hurry. Didn’t fancy being caught in the dark. But it wouldn’t be all that black, he thought. Hadn’t he been playing on the road the night before and all was bright as the living day.
Never mind that. He wouldn’t like to be going down Barr ’n Fhána too late as it was an eerie spot.
“Sure, I’ll throw in a couple of stones,” he said as he built up the gap. “They’d never go over the two stones.”
He meant the small flock of sheep and the big ram that were gathered in the middle of the mound and appeared to be happy enough with themselves. And why wouldn’t they be?
They had plenty of grass. They wouldn’t be there at all, of course, were it not so late and the boy not able to bring them out any further on the crags.
He threw a few stones in the gap as planned and hurried off.
The sheep stood immobile in the middle of the ground at first but bit by bit they began to graze.
Night spread over the island. The sky darkened at first but then began to grey, and night took on its own shape.
The moon or a sliver of moon was somewhere but was hidden by a frosty vapour that filled the entire sky. You couldn’t say it was dark. May be, even, the moon was full somewhere, busily penetrating the film of hoar.
The spirit of night was activating all things around. Reminding the bird it was time to doze. It drove the boy home. Night’s business is best left to the night.
The same spirit had got into the big ram. In this charged atmosphere he glimpsed the reason and the importance of his being. An inexplicable feeling coursed through his blood. He could feel an inborn strength beginning to manifest itself and sensed the dignity and power which is the stamp of sovereignty.
And who could dispute his rule? Not alone on this mound. Anywhere! Still, he kept himself in check.
Shaking himself vigorously he went off in search of some sweet grass.
The moon was somewhere.
By this time it was fully night. The peace which most earth creatures desire was palpable in the air.
But also coming to a head was that giddiness which night inspires in its more adventurous denizens.
The big ram was one of that minority which night calls to highheaded deeds.
Like all his kind, he got little opportunity to prove himself, confined as he was to his own domain.
But things would change tonight!
He looked at the few stones casually thrown in the gap by the boy – the only obstacle between him and the wide world. He could see how easily he might toss them aside.
This was the chance he had been waiting for.
Whenever this night-time fitfulness got hold of him nothing could satisfy him but to break loose.
Hemmed in feeling . . . What wouldn’t he give to be out there and show the strutting high and mighty who was in charge.
Suddenly the stones were down.
Baa-a-a. The sheep startled and huddled together in the centre of the mound, seeing it was the big ram that had caused the furore.
They knew the big fellow was out for ructions. Nothing would stop him now.
On the road. Free. He could do anything he liked now, as nature prodded him.
The sheep followed. One after the other. Following him out on the road. Not knowing where they were going. He didn’t quite know himself. But he was on his way.
He went out past the Old Milking Place. Stopped at Beartleen’s Gap – nothing much there to rouse him. Out again.
It was still and you could hear his keen footfall coming through the eerie wisps of night. The sheep straggling behind.
Cló Naomh. Nothing stirring here. The procession continued.
They stopped at Róidín na bPúcaí. Momentarily between two minds. Down the boreen or stay on the road? Stay on the road. On. And on.
They passed Crogán a’ Cheannaigh. Creig na gCrúibíní. Róidín an Phríosúin. Buailtín a’tS a gairt. Towards Macha – Macha Mór. On to Ceann an Bhóthair.
There was more. Though the road stopped suddenly a great expanse lay beyond. Where the ditch crossing the road ended were two gaps. One to the right, the other to the left. A ditch separating the two gaps, dividing two mounds.
The big ram made for the east gap. The mound to the east.
It had sheep. Scattered here and there along the mound. Some lying down.
In among them the Young Ram. Proud as a king. He heard the commotion at the gap. A fit of pique. He recognized the Big Ram.
And the Big Ram recognized him. And he knew that it was this young ram that had made him frantic all night. He felt his blood seething, goading him on. He would face fiercely any foe that dared countenance him.
That challenge a waited him beyond the gap. Now that he was free and unfettered it would be so easy just to walk in.
The fellow inside was in fighting fettle too. He also wanted to assert his supremacy. He wanted to be free and display to the world what prowess he could command.
They faced one another. The Big Ram and the Young Ram. They didn’t spend long sizing each other up. There was no holding them now. They were free to lash into the fray.
Crash! Two skulls collided. All a-tremble. The Young Ram more badly shaken. Lost his ground. The big fellow’s next assault threw him even further back. It was clear that the Big Ram had more fire and wind.
The Young Ram backed off. Fell. Up again in a flash. Faced the Big Ram, again and again. Collapsing, again and again . . .
They moved to the outer edge of the mound. Through hollow and hillock. Over soft ground and stone. The Young Ram falling, retreating . . .
Until they came to the ditch outside. The wall of Macha. The Young Ram had no where else to go. But he wouldn’t yield. He faced the Big Ram . . .
And the Big Ram faced him – standing on his two hind legs and pumping all his strength into every shape he made.
The Young Ram didn’t know where he was, or in what world . . . The next onrush floored him completely.
All feet in the air. Tongue out. He had it. For good.
