by T L Harty
Bringing the cup to my lips, it occurred to me that Grammy may only be interested in this information to encourage my visions. The visions that I hated…that reminded me of what I was.
“I’ll answer this last question,” I scolded, “and then no more. When a criminal was sentenced, the only punishment available was death. If there weren’t even three people in a tribe or clan that would defend the accused or speak to save their life- they were considered dead to the clan already.”
“There was one man in the druid order who would carry out the sentence,” I continued. “They called him “Donshe.” I don’t know anything about what history says, but I saw this Donshe take a convicted man out into nature. It was a bog, which was considered a sacred place. The Donshe used the noose, the knife and the drowning to bring the sentenced person to the brink of death in hopes they would come to repent of their deeds.”
“It was believed that when someone was close to death,” I continued, “they would come to know truth. Their afterlife could be better if they came to this knowledge. The druids were trying to save the man, even in the end…even if they had committed unforgiveable crimes.”
Grammy just stared at me. “That is amazing,” she gasped. “You have changed my view of our people to an even higher regard than before. That is the one thing that was hard to forgive in their history.”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “From what I can tell, that ceremony did not happen very often. Most of the people were model citizens.”
“It’s such a big deal!” she yelped.
“Yes, well, it’s over now,” I reminded. I pointed toward the Irish shore and said, “It must have been such a nerve-wracking trip for people to cross this sea.” Looking over at Grammy, it was apparent that she was still ruminating on my words. “Did you hear what I said?” I interrupted her thoughts.
“You’re right, it is getting a little chilly up here,” she answered. “Let’s go below.”
I giggled, but kept the joke to myself. “O.K.,” I agreed.
“Can you imagine how people must have felt crossing this sea hundreds or thousands of years ago?” she asked.
“I can’t imagine, but it had to be nerve-wracking,” I repeated.
“Mmm hmm,” she agreed.
For the rest of the ferry ride, I left Grammy to her musings. She was deep in thought over what I had shared with her, and it was best not to disturb the process. There were tourist pamphlets on the ferry, so I read those and put a couple in my bag. The pictures in them were better than any picture I would take.
An announcement came over the loud speaker to inform everyone that we were thirty minutes from shore. Grammy and I gathered our belongings, and went outside to watch the shoreline as it got closer.
There was something about this trip that made it hard to control my visions. I kept going back and forth from the view before me to a completely different vantage point- one where I was low in the water and being jostled around. The shoreline appeared so vast and wild one minute, and modern-day the next. The sensation was bringing about sea sickness. I focused on suppressing the vision, which helped me feel better.
After disembarking, we were herded into the customs line for a check of our paperwork. I showed the man my passport, and waited for Grammy to go through. The officer looked at the paperwork and then said, “Thank you. Enjoy Ireland, Mrs. Cunningham.”
My curiosity was contained for the better part of one minute. “Cunningham?” I questioned, once the officer was out of earshot.
Grammy shot me a look, and said, “We can talk about that at lunch.”
When we opened the doorway to leave the port, it was like entering another world. Dublin bustled with activity. London was just as busy, but the boat ride was quiet and I half-expected the wild, vastness of my visions.
Grammy hailed a taxi that took us to the bed and breakfast where we would spend the next couple of nights. Everything was picture-perfect. Grammy checked her watch as we walked into the B & B. It was a little past noon. When we got to the check-in desk, Grammy asked, “Will we still be able to have lunch or are we too late?”
A lovely young woman smiled and responded, “There is always extra made. I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you put your bags away in your room, just come right back down to the dining hall. Here is your room key.” She was kind, and I liked her right away.
When we got to the dining hall, there was a buffet lunch laid out. We were famished so no words were exchanged while we loaded up our plates.
We picked a table that left us fairly secluded, where I stated the obvious, “So, you travel under a different name.”
“Cunningham is one of a couple names I go by,” she shared, taking a sip of her water. “I use it when traveling abroad so no one can find me. The name Cunningham has so many different variations that it can easily get lost in this part of the world, if need be.”
“So no one finds you?” I repeated. “Who’s looking for you?”
“No one, don’t be silly,” she laughed.
“But you just said…” I started.
Grammy cut me off, asking, “Did you see those desserts? What are you going to have?”
And just like that, the conversation was over, having been derailed by some chocolate cake. The only saving grace being that it was delicious.
After lunch, we went out on the property for a stroll. The gardens in the back of the B & B were colorful and fragrant. Everything was so green and lush, flowers were in bloom. Grammy insisted on taking a bunch of pictures. There was a little wrought iron bench where we sat to take it all in.
“How do I love thee?” Grammy asked. We had said this to each other for as long as I could remember.
“Let me count the ways,” I added.
Then we both finished, “I love thee with the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.”
We smiled at each other. Grammy got a little teary-eyed, while I pretended not to notice.
“Wasn’t that an English poet?” I asked, trying to change the tone of the conversation.
“Yep,” she confirmed. “She was actually popular when she was alive, which was not very common.”
“What are we doing this afternoon?” I wondered, not having looked at the itinerary in a while.
Grammy answered, “We are going to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. It is the biggest tourist attraction in all of Ireland.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still a book,” I decided. “How exciting can that be?”
Grammy didn’t answer, and said, “I’m just sorry we don’t have enough time to travel all over Ireland. Promise me that if we never travel back here together, you’ll come here some day on your own.” She waited for a response, and then repeated, “Promise.”
“Fine, I promise,” I relented, not sure if my uttering was sincere.
“Our history is all over this land,” Grammy said. “No matter how long I’m away, it still feels like home every time I return. There is something new to learn during every visit.”
“What is your favorite little factoid or part of Irish history?” I wondered.
“Well, there is so much to consider, but something that is very telling of the Irish people’s spirit is found in the colored doors of Dublin,” Grammy explained. “There is a lot of speculation as to why people started painting their doors with bright colors. Supposedly, someone painted their door red because their drunken neighbor, on the way back from the pub, would keep trying to get into the wrong house. After the door was painted, the neighbor easily recognized that it was not his home.”
I giggled, while asking, “You like that the Irish drink?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I love that even though all those doors were supposed to be the same, the people found a way to make them their own. There were strict rules in place about how a Georgian home needed to be maintained, and they found a loophole. They painted and decorated their doors to express their individuality.”
“A trip to
the hardware store is not that impressive,” I concluded.
She ignored my comment, as she often did when I spoke prematurely or before her point had been made.
Grammy frowned at me and continued, “Ireland was under British control during Queen Victoria’s reign. When her husband died, she was devastated. There was a decree for all doors in Dublin to be painted black as a sign of mourning. The Irish rushed out to buy the brightest paint they could find for their doors. The moral of the story,” Grammy giggled, “is that the Irish have a wonderful disrespect for everything.”
We sat there on the bench and laughed until our stomachs hurt. We had only been in Ireland for a couple of hours, but Grammy’s story made me appreciate this place. She tapped my leg three times, then started heading toward the B & B. It was time to get on with it.
A taxi took us into the heart of Dublin where I saw the doors we had just discussed. How much more they meant to me now that we had been previously introduced. Even amid my teenage angst, a smile would not be denied.
Grammy said, “We are almost on O’Connell Street.” She adjusted to get a better view, and there was something very familiar about her body language.
“This is the statue of Daniel O’Connell,” Grammy said, pointing. “He was a leader in Ireland who worked tirelessly for religious tolerance and the dissolution of the union between Ireland and Britain.”
It all became clear- Grammy was preparing for full tour guide mode. She spoke quickly because the driver would soon turn the car around to go back toward the college. The street wasn’t that long. As Grammy mentioned names I wouldn’t remember, and information that didn’t pertain to me- my mind naturally wandered.
The buildings in Dublin were the perfect height. Other large cities had skyscrapers that blocked out the sun, but Dublin’s were much lower. There were seagulls that danced around overhead. The city was filled with bicyclists, but not everyone was in a rush like back home. Trees lined the middle of the street, which added some green to the picturesque scene.
“Did you hear me?” Grammy asked.
“No,” I answered honestly.
“That post office right there is the site where the Irish Proclamation was read. It declared Ireland’s independence from the United Kingdom,” Grammy shared. “We’re going to see a copy of the document at the college today.” She smiled, expecting a grand reaction.
The post office building she showed me was beautiful. Six, large columns faced the street. It looked slightly out of place, like it was designed in Greece. She wanted me to be excited, but the sea air had made me a little sleepy. “That will be really nice,” I said, trying my best to sound thrilled.
The driver dropped us off in front of a large building with a clock on it. The building had a huge door in front with a smaller doorway cut out. Even the smaller doorway allowed for Grammy and me to walk through it side by side.
“We need to go meet our host at the Campanile,” Grammy announced. Her legs were much shorter than mine but, at times, she could move them twice as fast. I attempted to keep pace, as we made our way through a gorgeous courtyard.
Grammy waved at a young girl. Once we were close enough, they embraced in a hug. I turned to look back at the courtyard we crossed. It was beautiful. If it weren’t for the people dressed in modern clothing, we could be standing in a scene from the 1800’s.
“Hi, my name is Paige. I’m your guide this afternoon,” the young girl said. “I attend Trinity College.”
“Nice to meet you,” I replied, still keeping my eyes on the sights. “I can’t get over what a beautiful campus this is. It was all a little blurry on the way in because Grammy decided we should jog.”
“Why were you hurrying, Muriel?” Paige asked, addressing my grandmother. “You’re still fifteen minutes early.”
Inhaling in shock, I sarcastically announced, “I had no idea we were that late!” My own words made me smile, but looking over at Grammy- it was apparent she was not amused.
Paige picked up on the tension and immediately started her tour. “This is called the Campanile,” Paige explained. “It’s the most iconic landmark here at Trinity College. There is a superstition here that if you walk under this bell tower when it tolls- you will fail your exams. Because of that, some students have never walked under it. And this whole area is called Parliament Square, which is the heart of Trinity.”
“Trinity was founded in 1592,” Paige continued. “It’s Ireland’s oldest University.”
She then listed off a bunch of people that graduated from Trinity. The only ones that I recognized were Bram Stoker, Jonathan Swift and Oscar Wilde. There were a large number of scientists and mathematicians, but those would not be on my radar.
“But, I know you came to see the Book of Kells and the old library, so let’s go,” she announced.
I felt a little uneasy as we walked past a line outside the building. People were looking at us, wondering why we were so special. Truth be told, so was I.
Once we got into the building, I inquired, “Paige, why is it we get to go ahead of all those people?”
“Well,” she thought, “we aren’t going to be in here that long and you may not get a good look at the book if there was a large crowd. Also, we do this for people who are large contributors to Trinity.”
Grammy was greasing the wheels. That made more sense as to why we were receiving the VIP treatment.
Paige was young, but she was very good at knowing when to speak up. “Before we go in here,” she warned, “there can be no pictures taken. You can take pictures of the posters that line the walls and pictures of the old library after we leave the room. But, if the guards think you have taken a picture in the room where the book is housed, they have the right to confiscate all film.”
There wasn’t much to be said to that, so we continued into the exhibit. There were pictures of the art and calligraphy that the book contained. It was so intricate. The time involved in completing just one page must have been a week-long endeavor. It was written in Latin, using a medieval form of text, which was the same thing as calling it extinct.
We rounded a corner and there, in the middle of the small room, was a glass-covered case. If all those crowds outside were on this tour, there wouldn’t be enough room for everyone to get a good look at it. After approaching the case, it was easy to view the book. Grammy was holding my hand, smiling. After looking at the book for a couple of minutes, I followed the arrows into the next room.
“Where are you going?” Grammy inquired. “Don’t you want to look at the book some more?”
“Not really,” I answered.
“This is known as the old library,” Paige announced, as we entered the next exhibit. “It is the largest single chamber library in the world. It’s also regularly acknowledged as one of the most beautiful libraries in the world. We are very proud of it!”
“I can see why,” I gasped. “So beautiful…” It was unlike any building I had ever set foot into. Even the smell was intoxicating. The long hallway in the middle was formed by the bookshelves that ran perpendicular to the walls. The ceiling was very high and arched at the top, with dark, wood bones. It was two stories high, but you could see so much because of the open design.
Busts of writers and philosophers lined the end of the bookshelves, equidistance apart. Because the busts were light-colored, the eye was drawn to them. Through the middle of the hall were long, glass cases that housed some of the library’s treasures. Windows lined the building between the bookshelves, illuminating the past.
Velvet ropes made sure visitors didn’t get too close to the bookshelves or busts, as they were not encased or protected from human hands. Walking around in awe doesn’t lend itself to safety, and I bumped into one of the center cases.
“This is a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic,” Paige said, pointing to the document under the glass. It was evident she was annoyed with me, believing the Book of Kells deserved more reverence than I had given it.
I pu
t my hand on the glass, envisioning a woman writing the document. It was carefully thought out, while many drafts met a fiery end. Different people were able to share their opinions on the content. It wasn’t until everything was worded perfectly that it would be deemed completed and ready for signatures. The visions before me played like time lapse photography. Instead of reading about the history, I had just watched it happen.
“This was read on the steps of the general post office in 1916,” Paige continued, observing that this was of interest to me. “The campaign was called Easter Rising and the people were demanding Ireland’s independence from the United Kingdom.”
My Grammy had shared that with me in the taxi, but any information Paige shared would be elementary now. Nothing would compare to the eye witness account. I smiled but was glued to the spot, hoping to see more.
Paige came over to look at the document more closely, as though she must be missing something. Grammy moseyed over too. It was something Grammy had seen many times before, but she liked that something had caught my attention. Paige moved to the other side of the case, looking at it upside down.
“Ireland may never have been its own country if it had not been for this,” Grammy stated.
“It’s a shame we don’t know who wrote it,” Paige mused.
“Helena Molony wrote it,” I interjected, “at least, the bulk of it.”
Paige scoffed, but Grammy knew that my words may have some merit. Grammy was beside me and put her hand over mine. For as long as I could remember, it had been a signal between the two of us for me to stop talking. Whatever the circumstance, no more words were to be spoken.
However, Paige had exhausted my patience, which was an easy thing to accomplish given there wasn’t much of it to begin with. I didn’t take my eyes off the proclamation, not wanting to see Paige’s face.
“Helena Molony was in the group called Daughters of Ireland,” I started. “She was the editor for the organization’s paper called Woman of Ireland, and James Connolly’s secretary for a time. Both facts made her privy to meetings of both the men and women belonging to the Irish Republican party. She had a better understanding of the desires of the country than just about anyone.”