Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille
Page 22
But already the deciduous trees on the mountain summit are a gapped sentence. The cliff on the steep seashore is a dark full stop. Out there on the horizon the half-formed letter ends in a blot of ink …
The colour is drying on the brush and the scribe’s hand feels writer’s cramp …
The graveyard demands its due … I am the Trump of the Graveyard. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard …
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—… Who are you? … Who are you, I say? … Are you deaf or what? Or dumb … Who are you? … The devil take your rotten soul, who are you? …
—I don’t know …
—By the testimony of the blenny!2 Red-haired Tom! Why are you making strange, Tom? I’m Caitríona Pháidín …
—Caitríona Pháidín. You’re Caitríona Pháidín. Now, then. Caitríona Pháidín. Caitríona Pháidín, then …
—Yes, Caitríona Pháidín. You don’t have to make the Tale of the Yellow Calf3 about it. How are they up there?
—How are they up there? Up there. Up there indeed …
—Why can’t you answer a person who speaks to you, Red-haired Tom? How are they up there?
—Some of them well. Some of them unwell …
—A fine bringer of news you are! Who’s well and who’s unwell?
—It’s a wise man could say, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say who’s well and who’s unwell. It’s a wise man, faith …
—Since you lived in the next village, don’t you know whether our Pádraig and his wife and Jack the Scológ are well or unwell? …
—Faith then, I was in the next village, Caitríona. In the next village, sure enough. Not a word of a lie but I was in the next village, indeed …
—Have a bit of gumption, I tell you. You don’t have to be shy here, any more than you were above ground. Who’s well and who’s unwell? …
—Little Cáit and Bid Shorcha are often ill. Faith then, they could even be bad enough …
—A fine story you have! I don’t remember a time they weren’t ill, except when there were corpses to be laid out or keened. It’s high time for them to be unwell at this stage. Are they at death’s door? … Do you hear? Are Bid Shorcha and Little Cáit at death’s door? …
—Some people say they’ll pull through. Others say they won’t. It’s a wise man could say …
—And Jack the Scológ? … Jack the Scológ, I said? How is he? … Have you got rheumatism in your tongue? …
—Jack the Scológ. Jack the Scológ, now. Yes indeed, Jack the Scológ. Some say he’s unwell. Some say he’s unwell, for certain. He could be. He could indeed … But many a thing is said that hasn’t a grain of truth in it. Many a thing, faith. He’s probably not unwell at all …
—Will you not quit your tomfoolery and tell me if Jack the Scológ is confined to bed …
—I don’t know, Caitríona. I don’t know, faith. Unless I tell you a lie …
—“Unless you tell me a lie!” As if it would be your first lie! How fares Nell? … How fares the pussface Nell?
—Nell. Yes indeed. Nell, Nell indeed. Nell and Jack the Scológ. Nell Pháidín …
—Yes, yes. Nell Pháidín. I asked you how she’s faring …
—Some say she’s unwell. Some say she’s unwell, for certain …
—But is she? Or is it more of her tricks? …
—Some say she is. They do, definitely. She could be, faith. She could be, without a doubt. But many a thing is said …
—Confound your toothless gob! You must have heard if Nell is able to go in and out of the house, or if she’s confined to bed …
—Confined to bed. She could be, faith. Faith then, she could be …
—Suffering Jesus! … Listen to me, Red-haired Tom. How is our Baba who’s in America?
—Your Baba who’s in America. Baba Pháidín. She’s in America, sure enough. Baba Pháidín is in America, so she is …
—But how is she?
—I don’t know. Faith then, I don’t, Caitríona …
—It’s the devil’s own business if you didn’t hear something about her. That she was unwell, maybe …
—Some say she’s unwell. They do, for sure. She could be …
—Who says it? …
—Faith, unless I tell you a lie, Caitríona, I don’t know. I don’t indeed. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with her …
—Who’ll get her money? … Who’ll get Baba’s money?
—Baba Pháidín’s money? …
—Yes, what else? Baba’s money … Who’ll get Baba’s money? …
—The devil do I know, Caitríona …
—Did she make a will? Did our Baba make a will yet? Aren’t you damned heedless! …
—Musha, I don’t know that, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say …
—But what do the people of our village say about it, or the people of your own village? … Did they say Pádraig will get it? Or that Nell will get it?
—Some say Nell will get it. Some say Pádraig will get it. Many a thing is said without a grain of truth in it. Many a thing, indeed. I don’t know myself which of them will get it. It’s a wise man could say …
—You wordless toothless booby! Everybody so far made some sense, till you arrived! How fares Tomás Inside? … Tomás Inside. Do you hear me?
—I do, Caitríona. I hear that, for sure. Tomás Inside. Faith then, there is such a person, so there is, for sure. Not a word of a lie but Tomás Inside exists …
—Where is he now?
—In your village, Caitríona. Where else? In your village, definitely. I thought you knew well where he was, Caitríona. He was in your village all his life, I think, or am I right?
—Warbles on your stupid grin! What I asked you is where is he now? … Where’s Tomás Inside now?
—Devil do I know, unless I tell you a lie, where he is now, Caitríona. If I knew what time of day it was, but I don’t. I don’t, indeed. He could be …
—But before you died where was he?
—In your village, Caitríona. He used to be in your village for certain. In your village, indeed.
—But which house? …
—Faith then, I don’t know that, Caitríona …
—But you know if he left his own house on account of the leaking roof or something …
—Some say he’s in Nell’s house. Some say he’s in Pádraig’s house. Many a thing is said that …
—But he’s not in his own house? … Do you hear? Tomás Inside is not in his own house? …
—Tomás Inside in his own house? In his own house … Tomás Inside in his own house. Faith then, he could well be, indeed. He could indeed. Only a wise person would say …
—You silly blabberer, for that’s what you are, Red-haired Tom! Who has Tomás Inside’s land?
—Tomás Inside’s land? Faith then, he has land. Tomás Inside has land, definitely. Tomás Inside indeed has land. He has land …
—But who has his land now? Does Tomás himself still have it, or does our Pádraig have it, or does Nell have it? …
—Pádraig, Nell, Tomás Inside? Yes now, Pádraig, Nell …
—On the devil’s tracks to hell with you, and tell me who has Tomás Inside’s land! …
—Some say Pádraig has it. Some say Nell has it. Many a thing is said without a grain …
—But you are sure that Tomás Inside himself doesn’t have the land? … You are sure, Red-haired Tom, that Tomás Inside himself doesn’t have the land? …
—Tomás Inside himself, if he has the land? Faith then, he could have, so he could. It’s a wise man could say who has Tomás Inside’s land …
—You useless shit! What a present I got: Red-haired Tom! A heap of disease! It was the epidemic brought you here. Only for that you wouldn’t come till you’d rot. Indeed, nobody would murder you on account of your tongue, anyhow! What an asset to the graveyard, you red-haired rubbish! Be off! Ugh! …
3
—… I fell off a sta
ck of oats …
—… A white-faced mare …
—… May the devil take yourself and your useless verses!
Can’t you see I have enough on my mind, not knowing if my old lady at home might give the holding to the eldest son …
—… I had a patch of ground at the top of the village …
—… “Mártan Sheáin Mhóir had a daughter,
And she was as broad as any man …”
—… Monsieur Churchill a dit qu’il retournerait pour libérer la France, la terre sacrée. Mon ami, the French Gaullistes and les Américains and les Anglais will capture la France. That is promis by Messieurs Churchill et Roosevelt … That is a prophétie … Prophétie … Prophecy, je crois en Irlandais …
—“Foretelling” is what we call it on the fair plains of East Galway. That is the correct Old Irish …
—Oh! Listen to her again! …
—It was prophesied that the glen would be as high as the hill.4 I remember the time when the people were afraid not to touch their hat to the Earl’s bailiffs and stewards, not to mention the Earl himself. Nowadays, it’s the people who expect the Earl to touch his hat to them. Upon my soul, I myself saw him one day bowing to Nell Pháidín.
—The pussface! The cocky little lump! She used to give him socks and chickens for nothing, to get the road built for her. There were no flies on that one. She knew it would benefit himself too, for the fowling …
—I saw him one day bowing to Nóra Sheáinín …
—The Earl is a cultured person. Honest …
—Honest, your rump, you Mangy-Feet Nóirín …
—… The “malicious egg” was in the prophecy. That was the mine that killed us …
—… That an Antichrist would come before the end of the world and that three parts of the people would convert to him. I really think we’re close to it now. And the state the world is in: people on the dole gobbling meat on Friday as ravenously as any black heretic …
—… Before the end of the world comes, that there’ll be a miller somewhere down the country with two heels on one of his feet. He’ll be called Peadar Risteard. I’ve often heard it said. I was talking to the Small Master, shortly after he came to our school. I mentioned it to him. “Faith then,” he said, “that man lives where I come from.” He told me the name of the place too, if only I could remember it. Somewhere down the country, anyhow. “He does, upon my soul,” he said. “I know him well, and there isn’t a word of a lie in that story: he has two heels on one of his feet. He’s a miller, and he’s called Peadar Risteard …”
—… That everybody would have to dip his bread in the sweat of his own brow. And don’t they?
—Not at all! Look at Billyboy the Post dipping it in the Big Master’s sweat, and do you think Nell Pháidín’s son, who managed to come by hundreds of pounds, is dipping it in his own sweat? And Tomás Inside is forever dipping it in the sweat of Caitríona Pháidín and Nell. Very soon now Nell will be dipping her bread in Baba’s sweat …
—Ababúna! May she not live to see it! …
—… That a man called the Devil-Air5 would rule over Ireland. And doesn’t he?
—Arrah, that’s not Columkille’s prophecy you have at all …
—You’re a liar! It is Columkille’s prophecy I have …
—Don’t believe Columkille’s prophecy unless you get the right book. Only one book is true …
—That’s the one I have: The True Prophecies of Saint Columkille.
—Hold on now. Allow me to speak. I’m a writer. The True Prophecies of Saint Columkille was a book written to deceive the public …
—You’re a liar, you old puff-ball!
—He is indeed, and a barefaced liar!
—I’m a writer …
—If you had written as much as would cover the whole sky and more, you’re telling lies. A holy man like Columkille to go writing a book to deceive the public! …
—Exactly! A holy man. You’re insulting the faith. You’re a heretic. No wonder there’s an Antichrist close at hand indeed. Do you even know there’s a God?
—The oldest inhabitant of the graveyard here. Permission to speak …
—Only one man has the true prophecy of Columkille now: Seán Chite in Donagh’s Village …
—What a coincidence! Your own first cousin …
—The Redman in Donagh’s Village has it too …
—It seems the prophets migrated to the nettly groves of Donagh’s Village, and it’s now their Holy Ground …
—At least the true prophecy of Columkille is to be found there, which can’t be said of the flea-ridden hillocks of your village …
—Liam in our village is a great prophet. I’d spend my whole life listening to him. His prophecy makes great sense to me, and some of it has already come true …
—The false prophecy of Liam of Sive’s Rocks.
—Not a false prophecy at all. It is the unadulterated prophecy of Columkille, the last prophecy he made. But Liam often used to say that only a third of it would come true, as Columkille left two-thirds of his prophecy false …
—You’re a liar! A holy man like Columkille …
—Oh! Don’t be surprised if you see an Antichrist approaching any minute now!
—Have a bit of sense, yourself and your Columkille! In our village we have the prophecy of the Mischievous Elf …
—We have the prophecy of Conán in our village …
—The prophecy of the Son of Murrough Sock on Hole is the one we have in our village …
—I heard the prophecy of Cathal Buí from a man from West Headland …
—A man from our village had the prophecy of Knotted Bottom. He’s in America …
—A man from our village had the prophecy of Malachi of the Songs. He married in Lakeside. He used to say that Malachi was a holy man. He lived in Joyce Country6 …
—My mother’s brother had the prophecy of O’Doogan. “O’Doogan’s Rule” he called it …
—There’s a man still living in our village who has the prophecy of Dean Swift …
—… That there would be “a road over every gully and English spoken in every shanty.” And there is! Nóra Sheáinín from Mangy Field has plenty of English, and there isn’t a gully into Nell Pháidín’s now without a bridge over it …
—… That “the Romans” would marry heretics. And didn’t the children of those people over here marry an Eyetalian, a Jew and a black! …
—Look out for yourselves now! It won’t be too long till you see an Antichrist. Marrying heretics … Do they even know there is a God? …
—My son knows as well as you do that there’s a God, even though he married an Eyetalian …
—… That the old man would be turned three times in the bed …
—It’s a pity, my dear, that I wasn’t turned now and again. If I had been, my poor buttocks wouldn’t be so blistered …
—… That Galway would win the All-Ireland in 1941 …
—In 1941? Some other year, maybe? …
—Not at all. Not at all. Why some other year? 1941. What else! Do you want to contradict the prophecy?
—This is the War of the Two Foreigners. It was in the prophecy: “On the sixteenth year Ireland will be red with gore …” And isn’t it so, this year? There was a war in Dublin and in East Galway at Easter …
—Wake up, man. That’s thirty years ago, or very near it …
—What do you mean, thirty years ago? The fighting was at Easter and I died around the Feast of Our Lady …
—Wake up, man. You’d think you came here just this year …
—He’s right about the sixteenth year …
—Arrah, listen to me, Pádraig Labhráis’s son. Have an ounce of sense. Columkille never said that …
—If he didn’t, Red Brian said it. The prophecy of Red Brian is what he has. My uncle has it too:
“On the sixteenth year after the thirty
Ireland will be red in its gore.
; And on the seventeenth year the women will ask:
‘Alas, where did all the men go’”?
The women of Donagh’s Village, Mangy Field, Sive’s Rocks, Glen of the Pasture, Wood of the Lake and Old Wood are asking that already. How do you think they’ll be in another few years, when there won’t be even one man left?
I heard my uncle say it was in Red Brian’s prophecy that a woman and her daughter would be standing on the Wood of the Lake bridge and that they’d see a man approaching from the east. He would be a black but they would find no fault with that. They would both lunge at him like dogs and they would grab him. The man would be full of fear. But the two women would attack one another then, each of them saying he was hers. The man would manage to get away in the heel of the hunt. That’s the time the men’ll be scarce!
—It’s no wonder, when they’re marrying Eyetalians, Jews and blacks …
—Since the news reached home every man is off to England. I reckon that the “autumn of the faint women,” as my uncle called it, is quite close now. The women of Mangy Field won’t be able to get men to marry them, nor will the women of Donagh’s Village or Sive’s Rocks. Isn’t that the reason I wanted so much to go to England myself: the women would tear me apart between them … I’d be like Billyboy the Post …
—Listen here, son of Pádraig Labhráis, yourself and your uncle have brought the women of Ireland into disrepute …
—Doesn’t the Big Master do that every minute of the day!
—Listen here, son of Pádraig Labhráis, yourself and your uncle have insulted the faith. Black heretics …
—Everybody says those who are leaving the country are the best of men. The reason for that, I think, is that we’re approaching the Antichrist and the end of the world, and if it happens that the road down to hell is in this part of the country there will be no end to the number of blackguards visiting us from Brightcity, from Dublin, and of course from all over England. I fear for our sisters …
—Hold your tongue you, Pádraig Labhráis’s brat! …
—Hold your tongue, you brat! …
—Arrah, I think it won’t be long now till England will be shovelled away to hell altogether. Hitler …