by Brian Friel
Jack One of our priests took so much quinine that he became an addict and almost died. A German priest; Father Sharpeggi. He was rushed to hospital in Kampala but they could do nothing for him. So Okawa and I brought him to our local medicine man and Karl Sharpeggi lived until he was eighty-eight! There was a strange white bird on my windowsill when I woke up this morning.
Agnes That’s Rosie’s pet rooster. Keep away from that thing.
Maggie Look what it did to my arm, Jack. One of these days I’m going to wring its neck.
Jack That’s what we do in Ryanga when we want to please the spirits – or to appease them: we kill a rooster or a young goat. It’s a very exciting exhibition – that’s not the word, is it? – demonstration? – no – show? No, no; what’s the word I’m looking for? Spectacle? That’s not it. The word to describe a sacred and mysterious …? (slowly, deliberately) You have a ritual killing. You offer up sacrifice. You have dancing and incantations. What is the name for that whole – for that –? Gone. Lost it. My vocabulary has deserted me. Never mind. Doesn’t matter … I think perhaps I should put on more clothes …
Pause.
Maggie Did you speak Swahili all the time out there, Jack?
Jack All the time. Yes. To the people. Swahili. When Europeans call, we speak English. Or if we have a – a visitor? – a visitation! – from the district commissioner. The present commissioner knows Swahili but he won’t speak it. He’s a stubborn man. He and I fight a lot but I like him. The Irish Outcast, he calls me. He is always inviting me to spend a weekend with him in Kampala – to keep me from ‘going native’, as he calls it. Perhaps when I go back. If you co-operate with the English they give you lots of money for churches and schools and hospitals. And he gets so angry with me because I won’t take his money. Reported me to my superiors in Head House last year; and they were very cross – oh, very cross. But I like him. When I was saying goodbye to him – he thought this was very funny! – he gave me a present of the last governor’s ceremonial hat to take home with – Ceremony! That’s the word! How could I have forgotten that? The offering, the ritual, the dancing – a ceremony! Such a simple word. What was I telling you?
Agnes The district commissioner gave you this present.
Jack Yes; a wonderful triangular hat with three enormous white ostrich plumes rising up out of the crown. I have it in one of my trunks. I’ll show it to you later. Ceremony! I’m so glad I got that. Do you know what I found very strange? Coming back in the boat there were days when I couldn’t remember even the simplest words. Not that anybody seemed to notice. And you can always point, Margaret, can’t you?
Maggie Or make signs.
Jack Or make signs.
Maggie Or dance.
Kate What you must do is read a lot – books, papers, magazines, anything. I read every night with young Michael. It’s great for his vocabulary.
Jack I’m sure you’re right, Kate. I’ll do that, (to Chris) I haven’t seen young Michael today, Agnes.
Kate Christina, Jack.
Jack Sorry, I –
Chris He’s around there somewhere. Making kites, if you don’t mind.
Jack And I have still to meet your husband.
Chris I’m not married.
Jack Ah.
Kate Michael’s father was here a while ago … Gerry Evans … Mr Evans is a Welshman … not that that’s relevant to …
Jack You were never married?
Chris Never.
Maggie We’re all in the same boat, Jack. We’re hoping that you’ll hunt about and get men for all of us.
Jack (to Chris) So Michael is a love-child?
Chris I – yes – I suppose so …
Jack He’s a fine boy.
Chris He’s not a bad boy.
Jack You’re lucky to have him.
Agnes We’re all lucky to have him.
Jack In Ryanga women are eager to have love-children. The more love-children you have, the more fortunate your household is thought to be. Have you other love-children?
Kate She certainly has not, Jack; and strange as it may seem to you, neither has Agnes nor Rose nor Maggie nor myself. No harm to Ryanga but you’re home in Donegal now and much as we cherish love-children here they are not exactly the norm. And the doctor says if you don’t take exercise your legs will seize up on you; so I’m going to walk you down to the main road and up again three times and then you’ll get your tea and then you’ll read the paper from front to back and then you’ll take your medicine and then you’ll go to bed. And we’ll do the same thing tomorrow and the day after and the day after that until we have you back to what you were. You start off and I’ll be with you in a second. Where’s my cardigan?
Jack goes out to the garden. Kate gets her cardigan.
Michael Some of Aunt Kate’s forebodings weren’t all that inaccurate. Indeed some of them were fulfilled before the Festival of Lughnasa was over.
She was right about Uncle Jack. He had been sent home by his superiors, not because his mind was confused, but for reasons that became clearer as the summer drew to a close.
And she was right about losing her job in the local school. The parish priest didn’t take her back when the new term began; although that had more to do with Father Jack than with falling numbers.
And she had good reason for being uneasy about Rose – and, had she known, about Agnes, too. But what she couldn’t have foreseen was that the home would break up quite so quickly and that when she would wake up one morning in early September both Rose and Agnes would have left for ever.
At this point in Michael’s speech Jack picks up two pieces of wood, portions of the kites, and strikes them together. The sound they make pleases him. He does it again – and again – and again. Now he begins to beat out a structured beat whose rhythm gives him pleasure. And as Michael continues his speech, Jack begins to shuffle-dance in time to his tattoo – his body slightly bent over, his eyes on the ground, his feet moving rhythmically. And as he dances – shuffles, he mutters – sings – makes occasional sounds that are incomprehensible and almost inaudible. Kate comes out to the garden and stands still, watching him. Rose enters. Now Rose and Maggie and Agnes are all watching him – some at the front door, some through the window. Only Chris has her eyes closed, her face raised, her mouth slightly open; remembering. Michael continues without stopping:
But she was wrong about my father. I suppose their natures were so out of tune that she would always be wrong about my father. Because he did come back in a couple of weeks as he said he would. And although my mother and he didn’t go through a conventional form of marriage, once more they danced together, witnessed by the unseen sisters. And this time it was a dance without music; just there, in ritual circles round and round that square and then down the lane and back up again; slowly, formally, with easy deliberation. My mother with her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. My father holding her just that little distance away from him so that he could regard her upturned face. No singing, no melody, no words. Only the swish and whisper of their feet across the grass.
I watched the ceremony from behind that bush. But this time they were conscious only of themselves and of their dancing. And when he went off to fight with the International Brigade, my mother grieved as any bride would grieve. But this time there was no sobbing, no lamenting, no collapse into a depression.
Kate now goes to Jack and gently takes the sticks from him. She places them on the ground.
Kate We’ll leave these back where we found them, Jack. They aren’t ours. They belong to the child. (She takes his arm and leads him off.) Now we’ll go for our walk.
The others watch with expressionless faces.
* Lugh – pronounced ‘Loo’. Lughnasa – pronounced ‘Lōō-na-sā’.
Act Two
Early September; three weeks later. Ink bottle and some paper on the kitchen table. Two finished kites – their artwork still unseen – lean against the garden seat.
Michael s
tands downstage left, listening to Maggie as she approaches, singing. Now she enters left carrying two zinc buckets of water. She is dressed as she was in Act One. She sings in her usual parodic style:
Maggie
‘Oh play to me, Gypsy;
The moon’s high above,
Oh, play me your serenade,
The song I love …’
She goes into the kitchen and from her zinc buckets she fills the kettle and the saucepan on the range. She looks over at the writing materials.
Are you getting your books ready for school again?
Boy School doesn’t start for another ten days.
Maggie God, I always hated school. (She hums the next line of the song. Then she remembers.) You and I have a little financial matter to discuss. (Pause.) D’you hear me, cub?
Boy I’m not listening.
Maggie You owe me money.
Boy I do not.
Maggie Oh, yes, you do. Three weeks ago I bet you a penny those aul kites would never get off the ground. And they never did.
Boy Because there was never enough wind; that’s why.
Maggie Enough wind! Would you listen to him. A hurricane wouldn’t shift those things. Anyhow a debt is a debt. One penny please at your convenience. Or the equivalent in kind: one Wild Woodbine. (Sings:)
‘Beside your caravan
The campfire’s bright …’
She dances her exaggerated dance across to the table and tousles the boy’s hair.
Boy Leave me alone, Aunt Maggie.
Maggie
‘I’ll be your vagabond
Just for tonight
Boy Now look at what you made me do! The page is all blotted!
Maggie Your frank opinion, cub: am I vagabond material?
Boy Get out of my road, will you? I’m trying to write a letter.
Maggie Who to? ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ Whoever it is, he’d need to be smart to read that scrawl. (She returns to her buckets.)
Boy It’s to Santa Claus.
Maggie In September? Nothing like getting in before the rush. What are you asking for?
Boy A bell.
Maggie A bell.
Boy For my bicycle.
Maggie For your bicycle.
Boy The bike my daddy has bought me – stupid!
Maggie Your daddy has bought you a bicycle?
Boy He told me today. He bought it in Kilkenny. So there!
Maggie’s manner changes. She returns to the table.
Maggie (softly) Your daddy told you that?
Boy Ask him yourself. It’s coming next week. It’s a black bike – a man’s bike.
Maggie Aren’t you the lucky boy?
Boy It’s going to be delivered here to the house. He promised me.
Maggie Well, if he promised you … (very brisk) Now! Who can we get to teach you to ride?
Boy I know how to ride!
Maggie You don’t.
Boy I learned at school last Easter. So there! But you can’t ride.
Maggie I can so.
Boy I know you can’t.
Maggie Maybe not by myself. But put me on the bar, cub – magnificent!
Boy You never sat on the bar of a bike in your life, Aunt Maggie!
Maggie Oh yes, I did, Michael. Oh yes, indeed I did. (She gathers up the papers.) Now away and write to Santa some other time. On a day like this you should be out running about the fields like a young calf. Hold on – a new riddle for you.
Boy Give up.
Maggie A man goes to an apple tree with two apples on it. He doesn’t take apples off it. He doesn’t leave apples on it. How does he do that?
Boy Give up.
Maggie Think, will you!
Boy Give up.
Maggie Well, since you don’t know, I will tell you. He takes one apple off! Get it? He doesn’t take apples off! He doesn’t leave apples on!
Boy God!
Maggie You might as well be talking to a turf stack.
Jack enters. He looks much stronger and is very sprightly and alert. He is not wearing the top coat or the hat but instead a garish-coloured – probably a sister’s – sweater. His dress now looks even more bizarre.
Jack Did I hear the church bell ringing?
Maggie A big posh wedding today.
Jack Not one of my sisters?
Maggie No such luck. A man called Austin Morgan and a girl from Carrickfad.
Jack Austin Morgan – should I know that name?
Maggie I don’t think so. They own the Arcade in the town. And how are you today?
Jack Cold as usual, Maggie. And complaining about it as usual.
Michael exits.
Maggie Complain away – why wouldn’t you? And it is getting colder. But you’re looking stronger every day, Jack.
Jack I feel stronger, too. Now! Off for my last walk of the day.
Maggie Number three?
Jack Number four! Down past the clothes line; across the stream; round the old well; and up through the meadow. And when that’s done Kate won’t have to nag at me – nag? – nag? – sounds funny – something wrong with that – nag? – that’s not a word, is it?
Maggie Nag – yes; to keep on at somebody.
Jack Yes? Nag. Good. So my English vocabulary is coming back, too. Great. Nag. Still sounds a bit strange.
Kate enters with an armful of clothes from the clothes line.
Kate Time for another walk, Jack.
Jack Just about to set out on number four, Kate. And thank you for keeping at me.
Kate No sign of Rose and Agnes yet?
Maggie They said they’d be back for tea. (to Jack) They’re away picking bilberries.
Kate (to Jack) You used to pick bilberries. Do you remember?
Jack Down beside the old quarry?
Maggie The very place.
Jack Mother and myself; every Lughnasa; the annual ritual. Of course I remember. And then she’d make the most wonderful jam. And that’s what you took to school with you every day all through the winter: a piece of soda bread and bilberry jam.
Maggie But no butter.
Jack Except on special occasions when you got scones and for some reason they were always buttered. I must walk down to that old quarry one of these days.
‘O ruddier than the cherry,
O sweeter than the berry,
O nymph more bright,
Than moonshine night,
Like kidlings blithe and merry.’
(Laughs.) Where on earth did that come from? You see, Kate, it’s all coming back to me.
Kate So you’ll soon begin saying Mass again?
Jack Yes, indeed.
Maggie Here in the house?
Jack Why not? Perhaps I’ll start next Monday. The neighbours would join us, wouldn’t they?
Kate They surely would. A lot of them have been asking me already.
Jack How will we let them know?
Maggie I wouldn’t worry about that. Word gets about very quickly.
Jack What Okawa does – you know Okawa, don’t you?
Maggie Your house boy?
Jack My friend – my mentor – my counsellor – and yes, my house boy as well; anyhow Okawa summons our people by striking a huge iron gong. Did you hear that wedding bell this morning, Kate?
Kate Yes.
Jack Well, Okawa’s gong would carry four times as far as that. But if it’s one of the bigger ceremonies, he’ll spend a whole day going round all the neighbouring villages, blowing on this enormous flute he made himself.
Maggie And they all meet in your church?
Jack When I had a church. Now we gather on the common in the middle of the village. If it’s an important ceremony, you would have up to three or four hundred people.
Kate All gathered together for Mass?
Jack Maybe. Or maybe to offer sacrifice to Obi, our Great Goddess of the Earth, so that the crops will flourish. Or maybe to get in touch with our departed fathers for their advice and wisdom. O
r maybe to thank the spirits of our tribe if they have been good to us; or to appease them if they’re angry. I complain to Okawa that our calendar of ceremonies gets fuller every year. Now at this time of year over there – at the Ugandan harvest time – we have two very wonderful ceremonies: the Festival of the New Yam and the Festival of the Sweet Cassava; and they’re both dedicated to our Great Goddess, Obi –
Kate But these aren’t Christian ceremonies, Jack, are they?
Jack Oh, no. The Ryangans have always been faithful to their own beliefs – like these two Festivals I’m telling you about; and they are very special, really magnificent ceremonies. I haven’t described those two Festivals to you before, have I?
Kate Not to me.
Jack Well, they begin very formally, very solemnly with the ritual sacrifice of a fowl or a goat or a calf down at the bank of the river. Then the ceremonial cutting and anointing of the first yams and the first cassava; and we pass these round in huge wooden bowls. Then the incantation – chant, really – that expresses our gratitude and that also acts as a rhythm or percussion for the ritual dance. And then, when the thanksgiving is over, the dance continues. And the interesting thing is that it grows naturally into a secular celebration; so that almost imperceptibly the religious ceremony ends and the community celebration takes over. And that part of the ceremony is a real spectacle. We light fires round the periphery of the circle; and we paint our faces with coloured powders; and we sing local songs; and we drink palm wine. And then we dance – and dance – and dance – children, men, women, most of them lepers, many of them with misshapen limbs, with missing limbs – dancing, believe it or not, for days on end! It is the most wonderful sight you have ever seen! (Laughs.) That palm wine! They dole it out in horns! You lose all sense of time!
Oh, yes, the Ryangans are a remarkable people: there is no distinction between the religious and the secular in their culture. And of course their capacity for fun, for laughing, for practical jokes – they’ve such open hearts! In some respects they’re not unlike us. You’d love them, Maggie. You should come back with me!