Surge

by Frank McGuinness

  Would there never be an explanation?

  The pile lay there for weeks, never moving. No matter how far the tide came in, not one piece of the pile moved from the spot it had been placed in.

  ‘How’s that possible?’ Shamie asked Conn, the barman, one night. ‘That the tide never washes away the rubbish?’

  From the other side of the bar came Mikey Bolger’s voice. ‘Ah sure, ’tis physics, isn’t it?’

  ‘How’s that?’ Shamie said.

  Mikey was what people liked to call a ‘lean streak of misery’: tall and gangly, with the added misfortune of a neck almost as long as his legs. He was also not the brightest bulb in the box. As Conn was often heard to comment, ‘You’d think, the size of him, they’d have managed to fit a bit more brain in.’ Mikey craned his long neck and looked blankly at Shamie for a moment, finally giving up and dropping his head again.

  ‘I’ll tell ya who’d know that now,’ Conn said. ‘The Worm.’

  Shamie nodded his head vigorously. ‘Oh, the Worm’d know all right.’

  The Worm had gotten his nickname not because he was shifty or untrustworthy in any way but because he read books. As it turned out, Shamie never got to ask the Worm, because the next day, the village woke to see that the junk pile had been turned into a house. The door and window were plastic sheeting, the beer signs had been hung all the way around the walls, and Sean Connery stood outside the door as though guarding it.

  Joe Ryan made sure that his walk that morning took him past the hut. As he approached, he saw a man sitting outside the doorway. At first glance, Joe thought he might be a tramp.

  ‘Morning,’ the man said.

  Joe put his hand to the peak of his soft cap. ‘Mornin’.’

  As he studied the man’s face, Joe changed his mind. Despite a few days’ worth of stubble, it didn’t look like a face that had been exposed to the elements.

  ‘Looks like it could be a nice day,’ the man said.

  ‘Weather forecast is good,’ Joe replied, having come to a halt. He felt his heart pumping a little faster. So this was the architect, the mysterious elf. He wanted to run back to the village, wake everyone up out of bed and tell them.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ the man said.

  Joe looked around warily, as though he was doing something wrong, and then felt stupid having done it. He sat down, wincing as he did so.

  ‘You okay?’ the man asked.

  ‘It’s the gout. Givin’ me an awful time.’ Sean Connery was glaring down at him.

  ‘Terrible thing,’ the man said, rooting around in the bag beside him. He took out a small bottle of clear liquid and offered it to Joe.

  ‘Try this,’ he said.

  Joe shook his head. ‘Ah, it’s a bit early for me.’

  ‘For the gout. Try it.’

  Joe put out his hand cautiously and took the bottle. Opening it, he took a quick swig.

  ‘Jaysus! Tastes like dishwater.’

  The man smiled. ‘Couple of days,’ he said, ‘you’ll be right as rain.’

  Joe told all those assembled in the Wreck that night about his meeting with the man and the concoction he had given him.

  ‘And didya drink it?’ Shamie asked, doing little to hide his disgust.

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘But sure it could be anythin’ …’

  ‘Not at all. That man knows what he’s talkin’ about. Sure, he’s obviously one of them “fate” healers.’

  The Worm was sitting over a pint of stout. ‘Reminds me of a story about this Greek philosopher from ancient times,’ he said. ‘Forget his name. He was the wisest man that ever lived, but he lived like a tramp. Wore rags, slept in a cardboard box …’

  ‘Did they have cardboard in them days?’ Shamie asked.

  ‘Well, I dunno, a wooden box then. Anyway, one day Alexander the Great came to see him. He told the philosopher who he was and how he’d conquered the known world and how he commanded mighty armies and had untold wealth and riches, and he asks the philosopher, “Is there anythin’ I can do for you? Just name it.” And the philosopher says, “Yeah, move a little to the left. You’re blocking me light.”’

  There was silence around the bar for a moment, and then Shamie said, ‘That’s the stupidest joke I ever heard.’

  ‘It’s not a fecking joke,’ the Worm said. ‘It’s a story.’

  ‘Well … stupid story.’

  ‘Jaysus, ye haven’t an ounce of culture between the lot of ye.’

  After three days, Joe announced to anyone who would listen how much better he was feeling. As soon as he said it, the floodgates were opened. By that evening, there was a queue of villagers snaking its way along the beach and up to the man’s hut.

  There was Brendan with his arthritis, Maureen with her corns, Stephen with his haemorrhoids. The whole village seemed to be there. And the healer agreed to help every one of them as best he could, asking only one thing in return: that they tell no one outside the village about him.

  Of course, everyone agreed that this would not be a problem.

  Three weeks later, word got out.

  They started coming slowly: a few cars pulling up in the village on a Sunday afternoon, their passengers taking a walk along the beach and gaping at the hut. Most simply passed it off, but one or two lingered and knocked on the door.

  The healer never answered. It was as if he knew they were outsiders.

  At first, neither he nor the villagers mentioned the new visitors; they simply carried on as normal: patients and physician. But, before long, it couldn’t be ignored any more. The numbers were increasing, and on weekends the villagers could barely get out of their houses with the cars parked all around. The outsiders’ curiosity was aroused even more by the occasional loose tongue in the village describing miraculous cures.

  The healer had given up answering the door to any of them now. Occasionally he could be seen through the plastic sheeting, looking more disappointed than angry.

  Matters got worse with the arrival of a group of young men and women with long hair and tie-dye T-shirts, who used the words ‘guru’ and ‘shaman’ when referring to the man and sat outside the hut day and night singing and chanting.

  One morning, when they woke, the door to the hut was open. They looked at each other anxiously, until finally one of them tiptoed up to it and peered inside. It didn’t take long for word to reach the village.

  The healer was gone.

  But, even then, they didn’t leave. They started to treat the hut as though it were some kind of shrine, laying offerings outside and praying for the return of their ‘saviour’. Joe watched them every morning as he went for his walk, and he was amazed. Not a single one of them had ever met the man or been affected by him, yet they all believed that he would save them in some way.

  The entire village could see the breaking point coming, and when it did, no one was surprised. One Saturday night, after closing time, Conn was walking home from the Wreck when he heard a commotion on the beach.

  In the distance he could see the hut in flames.

  He walked down towards the beach and could see all the outsiders scrambling to try and put out the fire. But it was no use. It had gone up like a tinder stick, and by morning there was nothing left but ash and melted plastic.

  Over the next few days, the outsiders drifted away, bit by bit, until there was no one and nothing left on the beach. Even the remains of the hut were washed away. Life in the village went back to normal: quiet resumed, the traffic disappeared, and all the old ailments and sicknesses gradually returned.

  One morning, months later, Joe was on his morning walk when he saw a familiar figure on the beach. He stopped beside the man and eased himself down slowly onto the ground.

  ‘The gout at you again, Joe?’ the man asked.

  ‘Ah sure … you know yourself.’

  ‘Want me to give you something for it?’

  Joe smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Sure, you won’t be sto
ppin’, so I’ll have to get used to life without it sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.’

  They were silent for a moment, as the waves lapped gently at the sand.

  ‘Sorry for what happened to your house,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s only a few planks of wood. I’m sorry for what happened to your town.’

  Joe glanced over his shoulder back at the village. ‘Ah, they’ll live.’

  When he turned back, the man was standing and reaching his hand out.

  ‘It was nice meeting you,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other again.’

  Joe stood also and shook his hand. ‘I’ll be here.’

  He watched as the man started down the beach in the direction of the rocks. It was the same route Joe took every day. When you reached a certain point, the water came in over the rocks and you had to turn back. For a second, Joe wondered where the man was going. He contemplated waiting around to see if the man would turn back, but decided against it and walked back to the village.

  Contributors

  FRANK MCGUINNESS

  Frank McGuinness is Professor of Creative Writing in University College Dublin. A world-renowned playwright, his works include Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme, The Factory Girls, Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me and, most recently, The Hanging Gardens. The author of acclaimed novel, Arimathea, and several anthologies of poetry, he is also a highly skilled adapter of plays by writers such as Ibsen, Sophocles, Brecht, and writer of a number of film scripts, including Dancing at Lughnasa. He wrote the libretto for Julian Anderson’s opera Thebans, produced by the English National Opera, which premiered at the London Coliseum in 2014.

  COLIN CORRIGAN

  Colin Corrigan was born in Co. Kildare and lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has an MA in Creative Writing from UCD and is currently pursuing an MFA at the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan. Two short films he wrote (one of which he directed) have screened internationally at festivals and have been broadcast on RTÉ. His short fiction has appeared in the Stinging Fly, The Fiction Desk and Amazon’s weekly literary journal, Day One.

  FERGUS CRONIN

  Fergus Cronin grew up in Dublin in the 1950s and 1960s. He qualified with a BE from UCD in 1972 and worked as an actor and an engineer. In 1979 he moved to Kilkenny, where he spent twenty-five years working in water treatment and raising two wonderful girls. In 2004, he moved to north Connemara to pursue his enduring interests in the worlds of media, theatre and literature. He has been deeply involved in many educational and cultural initiatives in the city, including the Kilkenny Arts Festival, the Cat Laughs Comedy Festival, KCLR and the Kilkenny School Project.

  MADELEINE D’ARCY

  Madeleine D’Arcy worked as a criminal legal-aid solicitor and as a legal editor in London before returning to Cork in 1999 with her husband and son. She began to write short stories in 2005. In 2010, she received a Hennessy X.O. Literary Award for First Fiction as well as the overall Hennessy X.O. Literary Award for New Irish Writer. Madeleine’s story ‘Dog Pound’ has been made into a short film, starring Frank Kelly. Her short-story collection, Waiting for the Bullet, was published by Doire Press in April 2014. She is a student on the inaugural master’s degree in creative writing at UCC.

  DEREK FLYNN

  Derek Flynn is an Irish writer and musician. He has been published in a number of publications, including the Irish Times, and was first runner-up for the J. G. Farrell Award for Best Novel-in-Progress. Derek is a regular contributor to Writing.ie, where he writes his ‘Songbook’ column and interviews writers and musicians. He released his third album, Debris, in May 2014. He can be found online at http://derekflynn.wordpress.com.

  HELENA KILTY

  Helena Kilty grew up in Skerries, Co. Dublin. For the past twelve years, she’s lived in Galway, where she divides her time between writing and working as a psychotherapist. She is working on a collection of short stories. She also writes non-fiction. She’s a member of the Galway Writers’ Workshop and completed the MA in writing at NUI Galway in 2012. Her work has been published in Skylight47, Crannóg and the Abandoned Darlings anthology.

  SHEILA LLEWELLYN

  Sheila Llewellyn did the MA in creative writing at the Seamus Heaney Centre, Queen’s, in 2011–12. She is now doing a Ph.D. there, in creative writing, and finishing off her first novel. In 2011, she won the RTÉ Radio One P. J. O’Connor Award for Radio Drama. She was shortlisted for the Costa Short Story Award in 2012 and in 2013. She has also been shortlisted for the Bridport Short Story Prize, the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize, the Seán Ó Faoláin Prize and the Fish Short Memoir Prize. She has read at the Ulster Hall ‘Literary Lunchtime’ events and at the Word Factory ‘Short Story Salon’ at Waterstones, Piccadilly, London.

  DARRAN MCCANN

  Darran McCann is from Armagh. He was educated at TCD and at Dublin City University. He worked as a journalist and had work published in local and national newspapers and magazines throughout Ireland and the UK before becoming a news reporter on the staff of Belfast’s Irish News. He went on to earn an MA, then a Ph.D., in creative writing at Queen’s – the latter being the first time a doctorate in creative writing had ever been awarded by an Irish university. His play, Confession, was produced by Accidental Theatre at the Brian Friel Theatre, Belfast, in 2008. His debut novel, After the Lockout, was published by Fourth Estate in 2012.

  MIKE MCCORMACK

  Mike McCormack is the author of two collections of short stories, Getting It in the Head and Forensic Songs, and two novels, Crowe’s Requiem and Notes from a Coma. In 1996, he was awarded the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, and Getting It in the Head was chosen as a New York Times Notable Book. In 2006, Notes from a Coma was shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Year Award; it was recently published by SOHO Press in New York. He was awarded a Civitella Ranieri Fellowship in 2007, and he has been the recipient of several Arts Council bursaries.

  PAULA MCGRATH

  Paula McGrath is finishing her MFA at UCD, where her thesis is a novel in stories called No One’s from Chicago. She is represented by Ger Nichol, and her novel, Michaelangelos, is currently on submission. Her work has appeared in Necessary Fiction, Mslexia, ROPES Galway and other publications; she was recently shortlisted for the inaugural Maeve Binchy Travel Award and longlisted for the Penguin Ireland/RTÉ Guide Short Story Competition in 2013.

  MARY MORRISSY

  Mary Morrissy is the author of a collection of short stories, A Lazy Eye, and three novels, Mother of Pearl, The Pretender and, most recently, The Rising of Bella Casey. She is among the contributors to Tramp Press’s Dubliners 100, celebrating the centenary of Joyce’s Dubliners. Her volume of short stories, Diaspora, is forthcoming. Her short fiction has won a Hennessy Award, and, in 1995, she was awarded the prestigious Lannan Literary Award for Fiction. She has been nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and shortlisted for the Whitbread (now Costa) Book Award. She has taught creative writing in Ireland and in the USA for the past fourteen years. She currently leads the fiction component of the MA in creative writing at UCC. Her website on fiction and history is at marymorrissy.wordpress.com.

  GINA MOXLEY

  Gina Moxley is a writer, actor and theatre director. Her stage plays have been produced nationally and internationally. She was winner of the Stewart Parker New Playwright Bursary for her first play, Danti-Dan, produced by Rough Magic in 1995. Both Danti-Dan and Dog House were published by Faber, and The Crumb Trail, produced by Pan Pan, was chosen as one of the best contemporary European plays by the European Theatre Convention in 2010. She has also written several plays for radio, broadcast by RTÉ. Some of her short stories have been published by the Stinging Fly, and she was a contributor to Yeats Is Dead!, a novel by fifteen Irish writers.

  ÉILÍS NÍ DHUIBHNE

  Éilís Ní Dhuibhne was born in Dublin. She has written eight novels, six collections of short stories, several books for children, plays and non-fiction work. Her sho
rt-story collections include Midwife to the Fairies, The Inland Ice, The Pale Gold of Alaska and The Shelter of Neighbours. Among her novels are Cailíní Beaga Ghleann na mBláth, Hurlamaboc, Dúnmharú sa Daingean, The Dancers Dancing and Fox, Swallow, Scarecrow. She has received numerous literary awards, including the Bisto Book of the Year Award, the Reading Association of Ireland Children’s Book Award, the Stewart Parker Award for Drama, the Butler Award for Prose from the Irish American Cultural Institute and several Oireachtas awards for novels in Irish. The Dancers Dancing was shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction. Her stories are widely anthologised and translated. Éilís was for many years a curator in the National Library of Ireland. She teaches creative writing in UCD and is a member of Aosdána.

  RUTH QUINLAN

  Ruth Quinlan is from Tralee, Co. Kerry, and holds an MA in Writing from NUI Galway. She won the Hennessy X.O. Literary Award for First Fiction in 2013 and was shortlisted for the 2012 and 2014 Cúirt New Writing Prize. Her work has been published by the Irish Independent, ROPES, Crannóg, Skylight47, Emerge Literary Journal, Thresholds and Scissors & Spackle; she has also contributed both fiction and poetry to several anthologies. Recently, she joined the editing team of Skylight47, a poetry magazine based in Galway.

  CLAIRE SIMPSON