On the other side of the fireplace, Granny O’Connor sat in her chair exchanging news with an elderly neighbor. Granny’s spinning wheel was stilled in honor of St. Patrick; she tatted instead, making lace for Margaret's dowry. Granny’s frail frame was wrapped in a huge shawl, a linen cap upon her head.
“And may God and Mary be with you! So you're back, Grandson,” she said to Daniel. “And how were things in Clonakilty? Did Owen go to Mass this morning?”
“Aye, Granny, he went,” replied Daniel, setting down a bucket of mussels, and removing his hat and saluting the neighbor after kissing his grandmother's cheek. Granny was reputed to possess the second sight, and although she could often predict the gender of a child, the gift did not extend to knowledge of her grandchildren’s doings. “As for Clonakilty, it was full of hungry people like us, trying to glean some sustenance from the sea.”
“And you were blessed, as I can see. May God and St. Patrick be praised!” said Granny. Joanna and her maid, Kitty, had already begun washing and preparing the food. There was little time to spare; people would soon be arriving for the feast.
“John! Patrick! Bring up the barrel of stout from the cellar!” ordered Joanna. “Meg! Norah! Make sure all the mugs and plates are clean, and set them on the table. Then take the oatcakes from the oven! The rest of you help me over here! Hurry!” They all scurried into action.
Norah shrieked. “Mammy, Charley put a mussel down the back of me frock!"
“No, I didn’t. ‘Twas an accident!” insisted Charley.
“Charles, I'm warning you once,” said his mother, in the tone that none dared challenge.
The parlor door opened, and out stepped their father and young Michael. Behind them in a cabinet could be glimpsed the few treasured books of the family, collected over many years and often with much sacrifice. There were the works of Plato, Plutarch's Lives, the Summa of St. Thomas Aquinas, Dante's Divine Comedy and a collection of sermons of the fathers of the Church. Cousin Jim Ronan, the local cosherer or matchmaker, was there in his best Sunday suit, hat in hand.
“I have an announcement,” said the head of the family. Michael O’Connor's long snow-white hair was tied in a pony-tail in the fashion of the last century. His bushy eyebrows remained almost black, and were made more prominent by his receding hairline, which also emphasized his aquiline nose. He gave the impression of belonging to a bygone era, and of having stumbled momentarily into the present realities of oppression, tenant farming and potato famines, which he did not seem to regard as permanent hardships, but as only temporary inconveniences to be overcome as soon as possible.
“I have an announcement,” he said again, and paused until the chatter ceased. “After much consultation with the matchmaker . . .” Cousin Jim bowed solemnly. “. . . Who has made inquiries on my behalf as to lineage and dowry, our Michael here . . .” he put his hand on young Michael's shoulder, as the latter blushed. “. . . Is going to ask permission of Mick, I mean, Mr. Michael O’Leary, to court his eldest daughter Rose Sheila O’Leary, beginning Easter Sunday.”
Joanna burst into tears, embracing her son and rumpling his curls. Timothy turned another somersault, almost knocking over the barrel of stout, while the others cheered, all except for Owen, who ran out of the house at the mention of Roisin’s name. The parents exchanged a glance as the door slammed behind their wayward son. Daniel had realized at an early age that his father and mother could say more to each other with a single look than others could in many words. He wondered if his mother’s tears were for Owen's disappointment as much as for Michael’s happiness, as well as for her personal belief that an O’Leary was not of high enough birth to marry an O'Connor. Granny and the cosherer, who had the genealogy of everyone in the district committed to memory, assured her that Roisin’s maternal great-grandmother had been a MacCarthy, which, of course, made everything right.
Owen did not return until the feast was well underway and all the neighbors, half of whom were relatives of various degrees, were crowded into the kitchen and eating heartily of the cockles and cabbage – which, pork being scare, had replaced the traditional bacon and cabbage – the oyster stew, and the mussels with oatcakes. Some were sharing mugs of stout, for there were barely enough to go around, and so boisterous was the gathering that few noticed Owen slip in from the barn. He briefly regarded Roisin O'Leary with a stricken countenance, while taking a mug from Tim, and draining it over the protestations of the younger brother. Joanna snatched the mug away from him and deposited a plate of food on his lap. She whispered something to their father, who had been enjoying a lively political discussion with the other men.
“Time for the ceilidh! Time for a bit of song and dance!” their father called.
Patrick brought out his bodhran, a wide drum, and one of their Casey cousins had a set of pipes, while Michael senior took out his treasured fiddle. The general idea of the ceilidh was that each member of the company would contribute to the entertainment of the others with a song, a story, a dance, or recitation.
“Come, Tim!” cried John as he jumped to his feet and began step-dancing with one of the neighbor girls. Tim joined him with Margaret, while everyone else clapped and rattled spoons in time to the music. The Irish jig, outlawed many times by the English, along with Irish instruments, had gone underground but had never been lost. Granny said that the Irish held their arms stiffly at their sides when they danced so as to trick the English if they happened to look in the windows of the pub.
Daniel sat at Granny’s feet, which tapped to the rhythm. She had often told them how she loved to dance as a girl, when to avoid the prying agents of the landlord as well as the constable, they would find a flat rock in the furthest pastures and jig upon it. His wee sister Norah sat beside him, leaning against his arm, her grey eyes wide as she watched the dancers, whom she could not follow because of her limp. Granny reached over Daniel and patted Norah's shoulder. “Mo mhiurnen!" said Granny. "My sweetheart, you'll be giving us a fair song soon!" The fire in the hearth leaped and crackled as if it were itself engaged in a dance; the candles flickered and twinkled in a luminous ovation. Daniel felt wrapped in the joy of home.
The evening progressed with love songs, drinking songs, and ballads of battles won and lost. Granny told the tragic tale of Togher Castle, of the schoolmaster who lived there and kept a school, until one day he sent a disorderly child to the top of the ruined tower. The child fell off and was killed; all the parents chased the schoolmaster out of the area. Then Daniel gave a recitation of some of his favorite passages from Homer's Odyssey, first in Greek, then in English. Afterwards, it was Norah's turn. She shyly hesitated. “Come, Norah, give us a song!” said Joanna.
“Give us a song, a run mo chroi!” urged Granny. Daniel encouraged her by grasping her thin hand and she clung to him as she rose. Her high sweet voice intoned the first verse of “My Lagan Love.”
Where Lagan stream sings lullaby
There blows a lily fair.
And like a lovesick leanansidhe
She has my heart in thrall
Not life I own, nor liberty
For love is lord of all.
There was a spiritual quality in her singing that swept the company into a dream. Daniel found his thoughts turning to Helena and her tossing blond curls; it seemed as if his heart would break in two for her. If only the entire universe did not stand between them.
Granny whispered in his ear. “The leanansidhe has your heart, Grandson.”
“Oh, Granny.” Daniel reddened.
“You forget I have the second sight. But I would know anyway. Nothing consumes so much as the love-faery when she has you in her clutches. It shines in your eyes, Daniel. But...she is not from around here....”
“Who?” he asked.
“‘Tis your bride I'm speaking of.” Her warm eyes had a distant expression.
“I have no bride.” He wished Granny would be quiet and listen to the song.
“Aye, but you do, lad. She is alive and in the wor
ld. You will find her one day...in another place...far, far away.”
As Norah finished the song, there came a knock on the door. Young Michael opened it to Dr. Smythe. Daniel climbed over several people to greet him.
“I have news for you, Daniel. No, no thank you, I don't need to come in. I received a letter from a colleague in Cork City, my friend Dr. Collins, to whom I took the liberty of writing about your medical skill. He surpasses me in knowledge and reputation, and often employs medical students as assistants. He would be happy to take you on and the training would be invaluable. Now, lad, I don't know where all this will lead...I don't know if it will get you into the Royal Medical College in Dublin, the way things are, but if you think it is worth a try....”
“I do, Doctor,” said Daniel. “One hundred thousand thanks to you! Please come have some stout.”
“No, thank you, lad. I must be off. We'll talk in the morning.” And he rode away into the night.
Daniel blissfully stumbled back to his seat. Owen was singing “Eileen Aroon” in the haunting Gaelic words in which it was incomparable. Legend had it that when the great Mr. Handel visited Dublin, he heard “Eileen Aroon” and said that he would have given all his music in exchange for composing that one Irish song about secret and desperate love.
Sheolfainn fein gamhna leat,
Eibhlin a Run
Sheolfainn fein gamhna leat,
Sios go Tir Amhlghaidh leat
Mar shuil go mbeinn i geleamhnas leat
Eibhlin a Run.
Who in the song so sweet,
Eileen Aroon!
Who in the dance so sweet,
Eileen Aroon!
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Eileen Aroon!
Roisin did not remove her eyes from Owen as he sang in his plaintive tenor. He did not look often her way, but when he did, it was with burning intensity. It was as if the course of the song was their moment of passion, to be lived only in that moment, then never again.
As for Daniel, all the hope in the world flooded his being. To study medicine in the city under a prominent physician was an unlooked for gift from heaven! Surely it was God's will for him to become a doctor. Everything was falling into place. All he had to do was overcome the prejudice against Catholics, and save every penny, and then maybe he could become a licensed physician. How that would restore the fortunes of his family! Perhaps then he could marry Helena...no, she was a Protestant, but...sometimes Protestants did convert...”Eileen” was an Irish form of “Helen,” so for Daniel, in the haze of his fantasy, the song Owen sang was about her.
An dtiocfaidh tu no an bhfanfaidh tu,
Eibhlin a run?
Tiocfaidh me is ni fhanfaidh me,
Tiocfaidh me is ni fhanfaidh me
Tiocfaidh me is ni fhanfaidh me
Is ealoidh me le me stor.
Were she no longer true,
Eileen Aroon!
What would her lover do?
Fly with his broken chain,
Far o'er the bounding main,
Never to love again.
“Eileen a run, Eileen, my love,” he whispered to himself. “If I cannot have her, I will take to the sea. I will go far away to that other place.” Outside the rain came down. A brisk wind moaned in the eaves of the cottage, so strongly it caused the rain to beat against the window panes. And Daniel knew the wind was blowing from the west.
CHAPTER 2
Cry of the Banshee
April–May, 1821
“May no ill wind hinder us, my helpless babe and me
Dread spirit all of black water, Clan Owen's wild banshee
And Holy Mary pitying us, in Heaven for grace doth sue.”
–“Castle of Dromore”
It was in the depths of inner darkness that Daniel trudged back from Cork City, at the year's turning. The blackness of his mind surpassed the bounds of the material creation, for the sun gleamed through the mists of April's ending. As he reflected upon what remained of the shreds of his life, absorbed in a mental and physical agony, his senses were dulled to the exhilaration of spring. He had not eaten a decent meal in some days, and will alone drove his body on the long walk to Dunmanway. If he died, he would at least be at home. There had been another failed potato crop the previous year, along with great quantities of snow, and bog bursts. The potatoes soured and rotted in the ground. The famine that winter was worse than the one four years earlier, for it was accompanied by typhus. Granny O’Connor had died, and Michael and Roisin’s baby. And now word had reached him that his father was ailing.
Most of the money he had earned had gone to help the family in their distress, although he saved enough for ship’s passage to North America. Word had come to him from MacCarthy and O’Connor cousins who had gone abroad that there was plenty of land to be had in Canada. It was the only dream he had left, a dream fraught with the unthinkable sorrow of leaving his family. His years in Cork studying medicine had come to nothing. Dr. Collins was a fine man; he had given Daniel all the help and learning that he could, but there was no money left to go to Dublin and enter the Royal Medical College. It had all been in vain, as vain as his thoughts of Helena. For it was whispered throughout Cork City that Miss Helena Cox was to be married to an officer stationed in India. The bitterness of the thought of never seeing her again put to death his joy in life quicker than lack of food or water.
After leaving the Collins' house, he had sought high and low for work in Cork City, but there was none to be had. His savings were hidden away at Togher; he would at that moment give all his coins for one crust of bread. Many were unemployed and many were starving. His Ronan relations had shared food with him, but seeing they barely had enough for themselves, Daniel did not dare to prevail upon them again. He wandered the streets, lightheaded, shabby and extremely dirty. Rains fell, cold and pounding, until he wondered how the heavens could contain so much water. The worthies of Cork chased him from their doorways, as if he were a leper. “Papist scum” was one of the prettier epithets that he was called.
In the fog of his wanderings, Daniel suddenly found himself standing in a soup line, in front of Shandon steeple, not far from the old Butter Exchange. A young man about his own age stood in front of him, looking as pale and ragged as himself. They nodded to each other, but did not have enough energy to speak. The smell of the soup wafted his way, and Daniel's dry mouth began to water. He eagerly gazed towards the head of the line, where Protestant ministers of the Church of Ireland appeared to be greeting each person before sending them over to the pot of soup. As Daniel drew nearer, he began to hear what they were saying.
“Repeat after me,” said the minister. “I swear to renounce....”
“I swear to renounce...” mumbled a starving man.
“...The Church of Rome and the evils of papistry...” The man repeated the words in such a low murmur that Daniel could not hear him.
“...The idolatrous worship of the Virgin, the saints, and the Host...” continued the minister. “So help me God. Amen.”
“What's going on?” Daniel asked the young man ahead of him. “What are they doing?”
The young man regarded him with glazed, pitying eyes, and said nothing.
“Why, it sounds like apostasy to me, it does,” insisted Daniel.
“Apostasy it is, to be sure,” the young man replied after a long moment. “They make you renounce the Catholic faith before they give you a bit of soup. But I’m starving. I'll just go to confession after I eat. Some of us have apostatized three days in a row.”
Daniel's heart felt as though it had stopped and he felt himself go cold to the marrow of his bones. His stomach growled and gnawed like a caged animal. He had been told innumerable times by his parents and the parish priest that apostasy was a mortal sin. As he nervously put his hand into his pocket, his fingers brushed his rosary beads. His mind's eye viewed with clarity the O’Connor family at a low poin
t during the last famine, kneeling before the crucifix over the fireplace in the kitchen, as his father led the prayers. He could hear Granny's voice at the end of the rosary. “Well, we've done the best we can.” She gestured, rosary in hand, to the worn, wooden statue of the Virgin. “‘Tis up to herself now.”
“I'll not be putting an ‘Amen’ to any of that,” he said aloud, flinging himself out of the soup line.
He later could not recall how he left the city, and made his way through the starving land. What had been the point of it all, of all his years of study and assisting Dr. Collins in the hope of following in his footsteps? Why had he been raised so high only to be cast down lower than his original state? Why had he ever been brought to the Cox mansion, and laid eyes upon Helena, so that she haunted his dreams, and tormented his days? He had loved and served God all the days of his life. So why had He permitted such ills to befall him?
“There must be a reason. There is a reason for everything,” he thought. “It is not for us to know here...only in Heaven...Trust...Trust in God is needed, no matter what. ‘I neither fear nor despise.’”
Because of the mist it was difficult to follow the road. Occasionally, he would stop and rest, after foraging for a few nibbles of watercress. Days merged into nights; he seemed to walk in an endless twilight. Ahead of him all at once there loomed a tall monolith; he had wandered off the road. It was one of the standing stones, where the old pagans had worshipped. The stones were where, many said, the sidhe, the faeries, still lingered. Daniel slumped against the stone, too weary to walk another step. “Lord, take my life, I can go no farther.”
Someone was approaching him through the haze. It was female in form, with long, loose hair and robes billowing. Then he heard a wail, unearthly and disembodied, but so piercing that he was forced to cover his ears. “God help me, ‘tis the banshee!” he gasped. Tradition held that the banshee was a spirit, which heralded the deaths of members of old families like the O’Connors with a wailing shriek. His Granny had referred to it as the “washer-woman,” and had spoken of it as often as she did of other Gaelic legends, about which she had been an undisputed authority. Daniel made the Sign of the Cross, convinced his time had come. His head whirled, and he slipped into oblivion.
The Paradise Tree Page 4