The Mangan Inheritance

by Brian Moore

  “You’ll tell her?”

  She nodded and gently shut the bedroom door on the figure of the sleeping girl. In the yard Dinny waited, wearing his old serge suit jacket, worn trousers, and workman’s boots. As Mangan drove past the door, the old woman came out and waved to them. Up the winding lane, through the back yard of Duntally and out onto the road. Then Dinny adjusted his spectacles and consulted the road map, marking it with a stub of pencil. “You will go through Bantry and take the road south. Halfway down the peninsula you will see a sign that says Butler and Castle Head. You will turn there and go on straight down to the end of the peninsula. The road is not good. When you reach the town of Butler, you turn right—I am marking it here on the map. You will go on two miles and you will see another sign for Castle Head. You will come to the end of the road facing the sea. Leave your car there. You will see a fence to your right. You will climb over that fence and go up a track toward a farmhouse that you will see on the headland overlooking the sea. There is a bad-looking dog there, but he won’t bite you if you are not afraid of him. The farmhouse is not a farm any more, but was all done up by a rich German man that comes for his holidays in the summertime. He has a caretaker there, a German lad. If you see him you will ask for Johnny—remember that, Johnny—and he will direct you. If not, you continue on past the farm—it is all the German’s land—and climb the mountain behind. On the top you will see a second head standing out to sea and on it some old ruins of a castle. Go down there and you will find the man you are looking for. If he is not there, wait in the castle keep until he comes. He will not be long, for he will see you making tracks toward his place.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I will let himself tell you that. Here is my letter to him. And here is your map all marked up. Can you remember the rest of it?”

  Mangan reached his hand across the gearbox and was handed the brown envelope. He read what was written on it:

  IMPORTANT TO M.J.M. FROM DINNY

  “So, I ask for Johnny,” he said. ”m.j.m. Are those his initials?”

  “They are. He goes under the name of Johnny in those parts, but Johnny is not his right name. You will have all that explained by himself. I have told him that you write poems.” Dinny permitted himself a small smile. “That will stand to you with him.”

  “Is he a poet, then?”

  But Dinny did not answer. They drove on down the mountain, seeing Drishane below them like a miniature in the morning light, its church steeple, the purple wall of the Sceptre Hotel, the huddle of gray slate roofs. As they came down to the crossroads connecting their road with the main road from Drishane to Skull, Mangan noticed a now-familiar truck at the side of the ditch. Sitting on its tailboard were three workmen in their serge suits, their scythes and shovels stacked against the cab of the truck. The driver, a large man with a pipe turned upside down in his mouth, sat at the wheel. He and the three workmen looked back in curiosity as Mangan pulled in behind the truck. Dinny turned and put out his hand, horned with calluses, the nails ditch-digger thick but clean and trimmed. “I’ll say goodbye, Jim,” he said. “You’ll be back this way before you go, then?”

  “Maybe tonight.”

  “You’ll be welcome to spend the night at Duntally. But, remember now, not a word of what you see or hear to my mammy or Kathleen.”

  “Okay.”

  He watched as Dinny walked up to the truck ahead, the workmen on the tailgate saluting him. “How’s the boys?”

  “Morning, Dinny.”

  “Sorry I’m late, lads.”

  Mangan pulled out, passing them. All waved to him as he went by.

  Two hours later he reached the end of the peninsula. In the last hour, as Dinny had predicted, the road was not good. The town of Butler was on a steep downhill street which ended at a quay facing a sweep of bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Although it was after 10 a.m., the shops had not yet opened, and there were no vehicles in the street. He drove down almost to the quay before he saw the road to the right, a road so narrow that if two cars met on it one would have to back up until it could pull in at a gap in the hedge. He went two miles up this road and did not see a single house or meet any vehicle. The hedges disappeared, leaving a view of the land on the other side, bare, barren, all rock and bog and moss. Ahead, lonely as a crucifix marking a highway death, was a signpost at the junction of the road. It pointed to Castle Head. He followed it, the car jolting on the rough surface, his speed down to ten miles an hour as he moved out onto a high headland with cliffs falling on either side toward strands far below. As he went on, the road dipped down until it came to an end at an abandoned stone jetty, its sides slimed with sea moss, the waters beneath swirling in a heavy bed of kelp. He left the car there and, looking to his right as Dinny had instructed, saw a barbed-wire fence on top of a low stone wall. A set of stepping-stones was cut into the wall, and above them was a new, printed sign: no trespassing. He ignored the sign and used the stepping-stones, carefully parting the barbed wire.

  On the other side of the wall was a footpath, a narrow, little-used track in the long rush grasses, leading back up the headland to a white, two-story farmhouse overlooking the sea. It seemed to be about half a mile away, and as he settled down to the uphill walk, the intermittent rain through which he had driven all morning was hurried off by strong, gusty winds coming in from the sea. High cumulus clouds sailed over the blue dome of sky. Below, to his left, the sea fielded a platoon of angry whitecaps to race on top of its blue-marine depths. The bare green headland, the white house, the azure sky, all of it reminded him of a painting harshly etched, lonely as a Hopper landscape. He felt alive with expectation, as though, like someone in an old tale, he at last approached the sacred place to meet the oracle who knew all secrets. He put his hand in his pocket and touched the daguerreotype as though it were a charm. And at that moment, running down toward him, silent, at great speed, he saw a huge black dog.

  At once his fear of dogs came upon him. In the car coming here he had uneasily remembered Dinny’s warning and wondered if before approaching this place he should find a stick to protect himself. But he had done nothing and now, more menacing in its silence than any howling wolf, the dog came at him, straight as a train track. He stopped. The black dog ran right up to him, then skidded back on its hind legs and stared at him, its lips curled back over long fangs, emitting now a low continuous snarl. He won’t bite you if you are not afraid of him. Remembering Dinny’s advice, but with no confidence in it, Mangan made a step forward, then another, until the dog was inches from his knees. Suddenly the animal slunk aside, letting him pass, and, as he quickened his step, followed him, snarling, snapping its teeth at his heels. Resisting the urge to run, he went up toward the house at a measured pace.

  He saw chickens behind a wire run, pigs in a yard, and smoke coming from the chimney. The dog suddenly ran wide from behind him as though circling to attack, rushing through the long wild grass, passing him, going toward the house ahead, and as it did, it began to bark, its angry sound caught and half lost in the gusty Atlantic winds. Mangan saw that his route led through the farmyard, past the front door of the house, and that he must open the yard gate to go on. The gate was not locked. The dog had reached the front door and stood there, barking, as though to alert the occupants that an intruder was on the way. As Mangan opened the gate and closed it behind him, a young man came out from the front door. He wore jeans and an Irish sweater, and with his fair hair and tanned face he seemed like a tourist. “Morning,” he said.

  “I’m looking for Johnny. I have a letter for him.”

  “A letter for Johnny?” the young man said. He spoke with a slight European accent. “For Johnny,” he said again, and smiled. “Do you want to leave it here? I can give it to him when I see him.”

  “No, I have to deliver it,” Mangan said. “It’s a letter of introduction.”

  “To Johnny?” The young man smiled again. “Very well, then. Go on up this path, up the hill there—right up to the top.
Once you are up there, you can see the other side of the headland and a second headland. On it, right at the end, looking out to the ocean, there is the ruin of a castle. Go down to the castle and see if you can find him. If not, you will have to come back here and leave your letter. Good luck. You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I worked once in Santa Rosa, California. Semiconductors,” the young man said. “Good luck with Johnny.”

  And waved and went back inside the house. The dog, which had stood guard beside him, turned and, ignoring Mangan completely, went down the yard and crawled under the half door of what seemed to be a stable. Mangan went on, climbing uphill, the track now little more than a rabbit run, sinking up to his knees in heavy gorse and long grasses, then scrambling over rock and climbing up rock face to the higher ground. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the headland and looked back down at the farm and its outbuildings.

  Apart from his car, which he could see far away as a tiny red speck on the road where it ended at the sea, the farm and its outbuildings were the only sign of man in that entire vista of land and ocean. And then, turning, he looked over to the other side of the headland on which he stood, and saw a twin headland jutting out into the ocean. Both headlands rose hundreds of feet above the sea, and as he looked over at the far one, he could see, at its lip, a stone ruin like a Norman keep, overlooking sheer cliffs and, far below, small sandy beach coves. All this, Dinny had said, was the German’s land. And as the German’s neat white compound was the only human habitation on this headland, so, on the far headland, the ruined stone castle was the only man-made thing. All about was land used only as lookout point and stronghold by long-ago Norman conquerors and since abandoned to seabirds, rabbits, and, here and there, high on the rocky ground a few black-faced sheep.

  He began the long trek down the far side of the headland into a grassy gully, wet with rivulets, and up the slope of the second headland, moving out toward the castle at its tip. White and yellow heather, yellow gorse, and tiny beautiful wild flowers met his grasping hands as he climbed the steep incline and again reached high ground. From here he could see that the headland sloped down as it went out to sea. As he started down toward the ruined castle, he could see ahead of him a splendor of white-capped waves and high, scudding clouds. As he continued his descent, he began to notice narrow tracks, sheep paths with sheep droppings everywhere. He even disturbed a few sheep, large and fat in their thick woolly coats, with black faces and curious amber eyes. They looked at him with no fear and, indeed, refused to interrupt their grazing to let him pass. The headland was vast. It took him almost an hour to reach the land surrounding the castle or keep. Here, long ago, men had laid out a green, grassy meadow enclosed by an ancient broken stone wall. The castle was Norman, as he had surmised, a square keep three stories high, with, around it, the ruins of attendant buildings. An interior wall enclosed what had once been a courtyard or jousting field. Ivy and weeds grew in and out of all these ancient habitations, and when he looked up he saw that the ruin was roofless. Sheep grazed in the interior court, ewes and lambs settling comfortably in the shelter of these ancient walls. Perhaps the shepherd, Johnny, also lived in the ruins. Mangan climbed through a gap in the courtyard wall and went toward the looming rectangular shape of the keep. He went in at an archway, a door opening which gave into a lower chamber. Inside were sheep droppings, thistles, nettles, and a stagnant smell of damp. He could discern in the shadows the shape of the lower chamber, the ten-foot-high fireplace, the narrow slitted Norman windows. The stone ceiling was still intact. The upper stories must be reached by a stairway, but he walked around the lower chamber and did not find one. He went out again and peered up at the top of the keep. The upper stories appeared to have collapsed and there was no way to climb to the top of the tower. “Go down to the castle and see if you can find him,” the German had said. But there was no sign of anyone.

  He thought of calling out “Johnny?” but felt foolish. There was no one here. He looked at his watch and saw that it was already past noon. He went out of the courtyard and walked down to the tip of the headland, which was less than a hundred yards from the castle. Here the headland split into two fingers, a narrow fjord hundreds of feet deep. Far below, wild seas crashed on rocks and curled on a small sandy strand. Seagulls coasted upon the air currents above the chasm, delicate as paper airplanes, ignoring him as though he were a ghost.

  He turned back toward the keep. In another country this ruined castle on its splendid promontory of land would be a tourist sight, a national treasure ringed by guards and regulations and opening and closing hours. Here in Ireland it was a sheep pen. He looked back up the headland, remembering that the young man had said that Johnny might not come and that he could leave his letter at the farm. Why hadn’t Dinny mentioned this possibility? He sat in a tumbled-in gap in the courtyard wall, feeling hungry, tricked, on a fool’s errand, alone here at land’s end in an empty ruin. He rose and walked the length of the grassy courtyard. The sheep, dozing in the shelter of the walls, looked at him with amber, contemptuous eyes. And then at the end of the courtyard he saw a wooden box, like a mailbox, jammed on top of the loose heavy stones in the wall. He went toward it and saw that it had been daubed with red paint. johnny. messages. The box was open. Inside, in a plastic folder, was a child’s notebook and a pencil. Through the plastic he saw, written on a sheet of child’s ruled paper in a handsome italic hand:

  Leave note stating your business.

  It will be picked up soon.

  Johnny

  Was this where he should put his letter? And if so, how long must he wait? Angry at Dinny for not explaining this rigmarole, he took out the thick brown letter and placed it in the box, then turned and looked up the mountain slopes. There was no one in sight. He walked back across the courtyard and, as he did, two huge black crows came in to land before him, flapping their awkward wings. They settled on the grassy court, waddled a few steps forward, then shut their wings and looked at him, heads sideways, reminding him of judges in an old French cartoon. “Kaah!” one of them cried, and the other, as though alarmed, opened its wings again and followed by its mate, flew up to the top of the tower. He turned to see what had disturbed them and it was then that he noticed the dog. It was coming down the mountainside, and when he turned toward it, it at once sat down, watching him, then rose stealthily and came on, a black-and-white border collie stalking him as though he were a runaway sheep. It ran quickly now and, reaching the courtyard wall, jumped up on it, watching him. Then, as though satisfied that he would not move, it jumped down, ran down the yard, and vaulted up on the wall beside the message box, poking its nose expertly inside to seize the letter in its jaws. It turned, looked at him, then jumped down the other side of the wall and ran up the mountain slope, lifting its head high and making clever small detours when it encountered high grasses. He watched it go up until it became a speck on the mountainside and disappeared in a hidden gully.

  Above him, a gull cried in anger and wheeled out toward the ocean. He sat facing inland, watching and waiting. The cold wind whipped his face, and behind him, far below, he heard the repeated rush and break of the waves. He was watching for the dog to reappear, but it did not, and as he sat there on the wall like a target he felt he was being watched. He searched the rising slope behind the ruined castle, but the only movement back there was of the three sheep he had passed on his way down. He waited. Time passed. His watch said ten past one. The blue sky began to cloud over and within minutes was gray, the sun screened behind a milky haze. The wind increased.

  Behind him he heard the sheep bleat and, turning, saw two ewes hunch to their feet, spilling their sleeping lambs out from the shelter of their legs. He looked behind them and saw two sheepdogs leap upon the wall, the small black-and-white collie which had delivered his note and its twin, but with brown-and-black markings. The dogs looked at him, then jumped into the grassy courtyard and sat, as on guard, facing him. He h
eard a step somewhere behind the wall. It was in the ruined keep. He turned toward the keep, sure that he was being watched, and as he did, a voice called out above him.

  “Look up this way. Look up at the tower. I want to see your face.” It was a man’s voice, pleasant, musical, and at ease. It spoke in the local accent.

  Irritated and a little afraid, Mangan turned, jumped down off the wall, and walked to the center of the courtyard. He faced the tower. As he did, he saw a shadow move in the slitted Norman window on the second floor of the keep. How did the man get up there? There was no stair. He peered at the narrow window, a long slit in the stone, designed for a bowman to slip his longbow in and release an arrow. He could see in silhouette a head with a hat on it. The second floor of the keep must have some sort of roof, for it was not open to the sky as was the roofless uppermost story.

  “Stand still there, will you?” asked the voice.

  He stood, showing his face.

  “My God,” said the voice. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

  He listened for footsteps in the tower, but heard none. The crashing waves, the high wind, caused his ears to play tricks on him. But the dogs, with their keener hearing, ran across the yard to the ruined entrance to the keep. A man appeared in the doorway, a man of about Mangan’s height. He wore an old felt hat, turned down all around, and a fisherman’s black slicker, stiff as a tarpaulin, which had the collar turned up, visoring his face. He wore stained old tweed trousers and rubber Wellington boots.

  Now as he came closer the man reached up to the collar of his slicker and opened it, letting it fall back to reveal his windburned face, which was partly hidden by a few weeks’ growth of beard. But even with the beard, even in the shadow cast by the low-brimmed hat, Mangan saw it clear. It was his face.

  He stood and stared, filled with the giddy feeling he had first experienced when he looked at the daguerreotype in his father’s cottage in Quebec. But this giddiness contained a sensation of fear, not elation. For the image in front of him moved and was alive and came toward him, smiling his own smile. This image of himself as an old man put out a hand. He took that hand, feeling the hardness of a workman’s palm. But it was his hand, the fingers and nails and palm the exact size and formation of his own.