New Irish Short Stories

by Joseph O'Connor

  *

  I had turned away from the cities of the mainland, where they love what is worthless and worship that which is false. That part of my life was done with. But I grew curious to see what was over the promontory, to see the town from where the sound of the bells came when the wind blew from the east. Eventually I would have to go there. I was not yet producing enough to eat.

  And I had nothing left to drink, even with the refills.

  I set off, empty bottles rattling in my pack. The spiders had been spinning in the cool of morning. The webs between the branches of the trees and the bushes were strung with tiny pearls of moisture, and I slashed ahead of me with a stick to clear the way. The path climbed gently, following the seaward stab of the promontory, and as the sun gathered strength the dew burned off and the smell of the pine and rosemary rose on the warm breeze. The sea became bigger and brighter with each step upwards, the light breaking and scattering on the wavetops, and when I looked back I could see my home, and the evidence of my work and striving: a tiny patch of order suspended in the infinite wild universe of earth and wave and sky. And each time I looked back it was smaller, and dearer to me. Then it was gone, and I was high above the world and cresting the promontory, keen to see what was on the other side.

  The track reached its highest point, and the vista of an immense bay opened on the other side. And straight ahead, in the distance, where the steep hills met the water, was the town, with its harbour and fort and the steeple that rang the distant bells that came to me on the wind. I caught my breath and gazed.

  I removed my pack and sat on the rock. It would be one of those Venetian towns of clean-hewn stone, built to face the sea. A point on the trade with Ragusa and Constantinople. Perhaps it had seen Turks and Crusaders in its time, before settling into the era of peace. I could imagine the gardens in the outskirts, tame fig and lemon trees, bees bumbling in the lavender and oleander. I could imagine the narrow alleys of the centre, the high windows and heavy doors of the houses of merchants. There would be wide quays, fishing boats swaying in a forest of masts, men conversing in the cafés. At one point I rose and put on my pack and continued along the track, the town glittering ahead of me. But then I stopped and turned back and sat again upon a rock, my head in my hands, undecided. I stood up and my bottles clanked again and I felt foolish and cowardly. I had to buy provisions.

  I set off again towards my destination, but I was soon stopped again, this time by the sight of a small boat in the bay. I could not be sure at first, but then it appeared to me to be the old man, on course to round the promontory. I turned and hurried back, running at times, to arrive at the bay, or at least the house, before he could.

  I reached the house, sweating, breathing hard, and unloaded the bottles from the pack. I did not wish him to know what I had been about to do. I found him down at the cove, unloading supplies onto the jetty. He laughed when he saw me – my beard was now as long as his. He seemed better disposed to me than the first time. And I was glad to see him. I had seen nobody since I had come to the island. He had brought wine and rakia, rice and flour and oil, matches and candles, and jars of various delicacies – olives and capers and honey. With a stubby pencil he scratched out a sum on the wooden boards of the jetty, listing each item. It meant the end of my money, almost. We carried the supplies together up towards the house.

  He looked at my improvements with grudging admiration. Some of the grapes were ripe already, and we cut a load, which I bartered against the price of the rice.

  I fetched two cups and we sat on logs on the veranda and drank.

  I pointed to the hammock and spoke the word he had said that day. He shook his head. I repeated it, trying variants, putting the stress on different places in the three-syllable word. His face hardened, and he shook his head. I was sure this was an act, he knew perfectly well what I was referring to. I tried to speak his language. You say. Word. House. Night. Word. Night. And I repeated again the word he had said, pointing to the hammock and the place near the vines where the monkeys would appear from.

  He shook his head and rose. I rose also, tossing the last drops of rakia from my cup onto the ground. There was nothing I could do if he would not talk. We carried the grapes down to the jetty, not speaking. I went back up to the house and began to drink the wine.

  *

  The weeks passed in work, and my grapes were swelling and becoming sweet and were particularly abundant in the area close to the house, where I had worked hardest. But I did not know how I would manage. I had no way to transport the ripe grapes. I had no boat, and going by foot over the headland would be too laborious. The solution was to make wine at the house, but I had no barrels. And no experience making wine. A small mistake would ruin everything.

  At some point I would need help, and that meant dealing with the town. In the meantime, I carried on working.

  I’d drink the wine, the moon would rise, and I’d fall asleep in the hammock and dream intricate pieces of theatre where the actors swapped masks and voices. Impossible cities, tunnels and trains and staircases and corridors. Money that disintegrated when you went to pay for the ticket. Broken phones. Guards that demanded the password that you had on a scrap of rag, ink washed out with the rain. Maps that grew and shifted beneath your eyes. The key dropping through the bars of the drain in the crowded street. The impossibility of ever getting home, of ever coming to rest; only the endless trials of the endless road, the purpose of the journey misconceived from the outset. Dreams where your teeth crumbled in your mouth and your hair fell out. Dreams that resembled life. One night I woke in the hammock from my troubled visions, my mouth dry from wine, to the scratching of their claws on the stones. I opened my eyes and saw the stars as a spray of luminous dust, as it appears only in parched and blacked-out lands where you are utterly alone.

  I turned my head, and saw that they were three. The new one, I knew, was trouble. He was heavy, thick-necked and brutish, short wiry hair over most of his body. He slouched insolently. The first male was tugging at the arm of the female, entreating her, as she glanced towards the brute. This went on for some time, the brute lying on the ground on his side, leaning on one elbow, picking at his teeth with a twig, watching some point in the distance. Once he turned to look at the lovers, and spat. The first male tried to embrace the female, to kiss her shoulder and neck, but she was writhing away from him. She broke free of his grip and hissed in his face, baring her teeth, and he struck her face with an open-handed blow that made her totter to the side, clutching her face, whining in pain and anger. The male stood over her, fists bunched, ready to do it again. She glanced at the brute, who was now paying attention. He tossed away the twig and slowly, heavily, got to his feet and lumbered over to the smaller male. It looked choreographed and inevitable. There was no contest, but the smaller male was obliged to see the scene through. The blow – a swift uppercut to the chin – sent him sailing back through the air. His head hit the flagstones with a crack and he lay sprawled, out cold, legs splayed, arms in the crucifixion position, ribcage heaving. The brute turned to the female. Her resistance was token. He forced her down and got her legs apart. It seemed to cause her some distress at first, but then she got the hang of it. It was a different kind of mating to what she’d entered into with the little fellow, each thrust from the brute pushing her back across the ground. The muscles across the brute’s back tensed. He grunted and his body slumped, pinning her beneath him. He disengaged and got to his feet, while she lay there, looking soft and bruised. He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and walked away, disappearing in the leafy darkness beneath the vines.

  Slowly, the little monkey managed to raise himself to a sitting position. His tail twitched uncontrollably. He climbed to his feet and, looking all the time at the ground, hobbled in the direction the others had gone.

  When I could no longer see him and it was again entirely still, I reached for my glass, on the treestump beside my hammock. It was full to the brim, though I could not remember
having filled it.

  *

  The work continued, and I became troubled. I was concerned about the grapes, that all I had laboured for should fall to the dust and rot, when it might become good wine, something to store and to savour. Yes, it was the wine pulling me back to the world, the swelling grapes demanding to be picked and pressed, me wandering the rows, knowing I would have to soon go back over the promontory and ask for help. I could tell the summer was at its peak and already foresaw the grey days of winter, the falling of cold rain, gusting in from the sea, me shivering by the stove in the house. I was thinking about the future again.

  *

  The sun went down on our world of trouble, and the moon rose red, and I sipped the dark wine, and my eyes rolled back in my head. When they opened again the stars were singing, and there was sound on the wind like the tinkling of bicycle bells, windchimes. The stars blurred and swam about the sky like little silver fish. I turned my head, and there he was, the brute, riding a little red open-top motor car, one hand on the wheel, elbow of the free arm resting on the door, the female in the passenger seat. It was an old model, big round headlights, all curves, and he was making circles and figures of eight in this toy-town machine. Beyond, towards the vines, a party was going on, the creatures – monkeys, little people, I no longer knew – were swarming in and out of the shadows of the plants. It was pretty lively around the bar, the males trying to attract the interest of the females, a lot of fooling around, tugging and shoving, strutting and dancing. One little fellow was doing magic tricks, finding coins behind the ears of a female. I spotted the male I know from before, the one who took the beating, and he was on the hard stuff, propping up the bar, while behind him a bartender was mixing cocktails, throwing bottles in the air and catching them behind his back with his tail, that kind of thing. And over the buzzing of the little car’s motor the tinkling and ringing was getting louder, mixing with other sounds, becoming music, and a swing band was braiding through the vines in procession, the horn notes punching through the night, the tails of the players swaying to the beat. Finally, all these little creatures were through – the bass cellist, struggling to keep up, was last in position. The car screeched to a stop, and the brute and his monkey-bitch jumped out and started jiving. The monkeys at the bar were all shaking it, the whole joint jumping to the rhythm, I felt the ground itself shaking to the beat. The barman was showing off, dancing about with a cocktail shaker in his hand like a maraca. The little drunken monkey remained alone at the bar. He tried clicking his fingers, but his rhythm was long gone, and his foot slipped from the footrest, and he nearly toppled over. The tune ended, the brass section dipped their instruments, and an accordionist and a fiddle player stepped forward and struck up a tango. The dancefloor turned serious, even the brute straightened up and threw his head back, took his partner’s hand and pranced her across the floor. They leaned towards each other, appearing to support each other, moving as a single being, her doing little decorative sidesteps and drawing little circles and half-circles and ochos in his orbit. The sad monkey drank and watched. When the end of the melody came, the crowd cheered the brute and his bitch, and he leapt into the driver’s seat, over the door, and flicked hers open. She got in, and they did a final circuit of the assembly, her waving as they cheered, then accelerated into the night. The party began disintegrating after that. Monkeys were getting more evident in their lasciviousness, pairing off, there were some nasty little scuffles, mean but brief, while it was established who got who. The bar was shutting up, and the musicians were moving off in a line, playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. They twined in and out of the grapevines until they were lost to sight, the sounds becoming smaller and smaller, the tinkling windchimes of the stars ringing again in my ears with the chatter of the cicadas in the still hot air of the summer night – and I could remember the words from somewhere:

  Some say this world of trouble

  Is the only one we need

  But I’m waiting for that morning

  When the new world is revealed

  Oh when the saints …

  All that was left of the party finally was the wounded little monkey, lying on his side, tail limp and lifeless with drunkenness. I reached for my brimming glass and drained it, spilling half over myself, then I rolled out of the hammock and hit the ground. Don’t worry, monkey, I said, as the stars waltzed round my head, I’ll save you. But I appeared unable to rise. I was glued to the ground. I lifted my arm but the gravitational force of the earth was more than usually strong and my arm slapped back down. My legs and my head had no better luck.

  I awoke and the earth was shaking. The stars were blown out, and I could hear the vines and trees whipping and tossing like they feared to be torn apart in the wind and the rain. The clay beneath my face had turned to mud. My bare feet splashed through puddles as I stumbled to the house. Inside was pitch darkness. I felt my way to the cot in a dream and collapsed there.

  *

  Dead things are heavier. You sense when you pick up a living creature in your hands how little it weighs. A cat weighs nothing at all when alive, you feel when you hold its warm springy body that this is a creature that darts up trees, flies across rooftops. A dog too, even a big one, if standing, can be scooped up easily and will seem quite light. It’s different when life has fled from the flesh. And so it was the next morning when I picked this tiny creature up from where he lay beneath an awning of vineleaves, on the damp earth. Even though he weighed almost nothing, the surprise was that he weighed anything at all. How is it, I wondered, that he had become real, finally, being dead? And again this life seemed to me a dream, all light and movement, only exposed for what it was by the weight of the dead flesh.

  His bones – his ribs and shoulders, the little knots of his joints – protruded terribly. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and his eyes, like the eyes of any dead creature, be it fish or man, were duller than the stones on the ground. I lifted his corpse in my cupped hands and carried it towards the house and laid him on the flagstones. I went and got an old sack that had contained beans, and I ripped the cloth apart and wrapped him inside this shroud. I had to bury him so that the remains would not be attacked by birds and rodents. I fetched my mattock and carried that in one hand and held the bundle to my body with my other arm, and I ascended the path up the hill, high up, past the last of the crumbling abandoned terraces. The storm had blown itself out, and yet there was still a lot of dirty cloud scooting about, and a breeze was blowing the tops off the waves on the choppy darkened sea. Where my feet kicked the gravel of the path the soil beneath was dark with moisture. Yes, when the sun shone again the earth would put out its greenest shoots, the buds would sense their moment and burst into leaf and bloom. It would happen all over again – growth, pollination, the bringing forth of fruit, and its sure decay.

  I reached a patch of flat open ground with a pleasant outlook over the terraces below. Higher up, vague mounds and lines of rocks indicated long abandoned terraces. Lower down, and abandoned more recently, they gained definition. They became finely wrought geometric shapes just above my house, where I had lovingly cleared the land and tended the soil. The house itself was set in the middle of a swathe of level ground where long straight rows of vines flourished. It looked rich down there. It was my season’s work, though I had no idea if I could save it. Perhaps this view was my only reward: my land, and my little bay, and the sea beyond beneath the vast curving sky. I laid the shroud on the ground and began to dig. I hacked and chipped, and I levered out stones and rocks until the hole was deep enough, then I laid the bundle inside and began to cover it up, beginning gently with the finer soil and sand, then with the smaller stones, and then with the larger ones, which I tamped down with my foot. Finally, I searched the area for large clean rocks, and when I had enough I began to pile them up. I started with the largest flattest rocks and built up until I was using the smaller stones. I lost track of time, caught up in my work, and when I stepped back at last the
grave was a beautiful thing, a gently curved cairn that rose from the land as if part of it, set in that natural clearing, overlooking the world. I had the satisfaction at least that I had acted fittingly. I wiped my dirty hands on my trousers, picked up the mattock by the shaft and went back down towards the house.

  As I descended, the clouds broke, and the sun shone upon the land, transforming it again. By the time I reached the house the fever was overtaking me. I was cold in the sunshine and sweating. I took the bucket and fetched water. By now every movement was costing me great effort, my limbs were heavy and my mind torpid. With the bucket of water and a ladle by the cot, I lay down and covered myself with all the clothing and blankets I had, and still it was not enough, I sweated and I trembled. And yet it was strangely pleasureful as it progressed, to be drifting back and forth through sleep and wakefulness, detached from the world, opening my eyes again and seeing that it was still bright day through the door, and it seemed the longest day ever. In my indifference to time and its passage, I might have been awakening to a succession of days, more or less the same. It was unimportant, because all I wished for was to be allowed to lie there and do nothing. I would be drifting into unconsciousness, and I would wake myself with little yelps or shouts that seemed to have no source in anything I could remember imagining or dreaming but reminded me of a dog when it is disturbed in its dreams. And I recall thinking every creature is tortured in its dreams, the lowest and the highest, always running, pursued by phantoms, even when stretched out unconscious on the ground. But at last the evening did draw in, very slowly, and the night too was one of sleeping and waking, and all my heavy flesh wished for was to wish for nothing, to lie there, kissed by nothingness.