So we did the old clunker “Come, Holy Ghost,” though I don’t think any of us had ever sung it Nuala Anne’s way before.
“ ‘Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blessed
And in our hearts take up Thy rest
Come with Thy grace and heav’nly aid
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.
“ ‘O Comforter, to Thee we cry,
The heavenly gift of God most high.
The font of life and fire of love,
And sweet anointing from above.
And sweet anointing from above.
“ ‘To ev’ry sense Your light impart
And shed Your love in ev’ry heart.
To our weak flesh Your strength supply:
Unfailing courage from on high.
Unfailing courage from on high.’ ”
Who is this astonishing young woman? I asked myself. I consume her with my kisses. I sleep with her every night. I hold her naked in my arms. I bathe her in the shower. I nibble her breasts. I lick the smooth skin of her belly. I taste the sweetness of her loins. I intrude my body into hers. I know a little bit, not much, about her moods and her fears and her passion for neatness. But I really don’t know her at all. At all. She is pure mystery. A mystical genius. She has turned this night at the Point into a spiritual experience for all the people here and for everyone who is watching on this soggy, mystical island. Pure mystery and pure genius. I don’t deserve her. Worse yet, I have no idea about how I should properly cherish her.
HAVEN’T I BEEN TELLING YOU THAT ALL ALONG, ASSHOLE?
“Shut up and listen to the music.”
“Now, aren’t we going to sing a song I hate? We’ve stolen it from poor old Ludwig V and we’re not paying him any royalties for it. I think the lyrics are all tarted up. Why are we singing it tonight? For the same reason we sing it, maybe too often, at Mass. Great music!”
So we did poor old Ludwig V’s “Ode to Joy” in its contemporary Catholic “tarted-up” form. Nuala didn’t have to do anything, however, to save the glory of the music. The whole company swarmed out to join her.
“ ‘Joyful, joyful we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love.
Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee,
Praising Thee, their Sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness,
Drive the dark of doubt away.
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of day.
“ ‘All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
Earth and Heav’n reflect Thy rays.
Stars and angels sing around Thee,
Center of unbroken praise.
Field and forest, vale and mountain,
Blooming meadow, flashing sea.
Chanting bird and flowing fountain,
Call us to rejoice in Thee.’ ”
“Sure don’t I hope when I meet your man in Heaven He doesn’t hold that song against me. We didn’t do all that badly by Him, did we now? … Well, in a couple of days, aren’t me man and I going out to Galway to visit me ma and me da? And I can just imagine herself working all day long to clean up the house for us—though it’s always neat and spotless. So I thought maybe I’d read a poem from Father Paddy Daly about that.”
She read with her thickest Galway brogue:
“ ‘All day long
She has been arranging our welcome:
“ ‘Scouring down the house,
Sweeping under beds,
Pulling out the old crocheted counterpanes,
Shining glasses and tableware,
Dusting sideboards and picture frames.
“ ‘Now she sits in a deep chair
Till we come crunching under the beeches
To the door.’ ”
“Och, didn’t I forget to tell you the title? What would you think the title is? I’ll tell you: Doesn’t Father Paddy call his poem ‘God’?”
The singing went on. She rehabilitated the old warhorses—“Bring Flowers of the Rarest,” “Pange Lingua,” “Lead, Kindly Light,” “Lord, I Am Not Worthy.” She sang some old Irish-language hymns, which like all Irish songs sounded sad. (“Och, Dermot Michael, are all the happy songs about lovemaking?”) Good-dog Fiona continued to glare at the audience.
“Would youse ever let me read another one of Father Paddy’s poems? It’s called ‘Journey’s End’:
“ ‘After the tempests
And the lightening at sea,
I am ashore in a sunlit place.
“ ‘I lift myself to. climb the shingle
But my feet give way
And I crawl to the marram on my elbows.
“ ‘I wait now,
Watching the white perfection of the gulls,
Until He welcomes me.’ ”
“And,” she went on, “doesn’t he use the capital haitch for Her?”
She let that sink in for a moment. The anxious young man half stood from his seat and then slouched back into it. I hope that one of Gene Keenan’s swarms of Guards had seen him, too.
“Well,” she went on, “isn’t it time for some brandnew songs?” They’re written by me good friend Father Liam Lawton down below in Carlow, and I like to think that this is the way Irish sacred music will develop in the years ahead? Didn’t your man write it for the fifteen hundredth anniversary of Colm of Iona? It’s called ‘Sail the Soul,’ and can’t you hear the boat racing over the waves between Ireland and Iona?
“ ‘Lord of the pilgrim and Lord of the way,
Guide every footstep, every journey I make,
Lord of the seeker and Lord of all truth,
Clear be the vision wherever I look.
Be Lord of my longing, be Lord of my life,
Lord of the pilgrim and Lord of the way,
May safe in our shadow be our rest each day.
“ ‘Sail the waves, may God safely guide us,
Through all the days, may Heaven inspire us,
Comforting winds in glory will sing,
Soft falling rain God’s healing will bring,
Sail the shore and find Heaven’s shelter,
Sail the soul in waters so gentle remain.
“ ‘Lord of the story and Lord of the song,
May all of our voices unite now as one.
Lord of the symbol and Lord of the sign,
Gathered together we share bread and wine.
And when the land is parched and dry,
Be Lord of all wellsprings and Lord of all life,
Lord of the story and Lord of the song,
Be our companion till life’s work is done.
“ ‘Sail the waves, may God safely guide us,
Through all the days, may Heaven inspire us,
Comforting winds in glory will sing,
Soft falling rain God’s healing will bring,
Sail the shore and find Heaven’s shelter,
Sail the soul in waters so gentle remain.’ ”
“Lord of the story, lord of the song,” Nuala Anne observed, “isn’t that just the right God for us Irish? … Your man’s other song that I want to sing is called The Cloud’s Veil.’ ”
“ ‘Bright the stars at night
That mirror Heaven’s way to you
Bright the stars in light
Where dwell the saints in love and truth
“ ‘Even thought the rain hides the stars,
Even when the mist swirls the hills,
Even when dark clouds veil the sky,
God is by my side,
God is by my side.
Even when the sun shall fall in sleep,
Even when at dawn the sky shall weep,
Even in the night when storms shall rise,
God is by my side,
God is by my side.
“ ‘Blest are they who sing
The fellowship of saints in light
Blest is Heaven’s king
All saints ador
e the Lord Most High
“ ‘Even thought the rain hides the stars,
Even when the mist swirls the hills,
Even when dark clouds veil the sky,
God is by my side,
God is by my side.
Even when the sun shall fall in sleep,
Even when at dawn the sky shall weep,
Even in the night when storms shall rise,
God is by my side,
God is by my side.’ ”
The suspicious-looking young man seemed to have settled down. I relaxed. Still I’d be happy when we got out of the Point and back to the private dining room at Jury’s where I had arranged for a dinner party for herself and her parents and the young men and women who had helped put on the concert Ah, the creature would flow all night long!
“Well,” she said with a monumental Galway sigh, “isn’t our concert almost over? Aren’t concerts just like life? They slip through our fingers and before we know it, it’s almost over? Doesn’t the priest from out our way have something important to say about that? In Connemara, you know, the ocean is everywhere. You only have to walk a little way and there it is. Och, isn’t a walk by the ocean just the thing for it when you’re discouraged and feeling old and tired?
“The ocean is one of the delights for the human eye. The seashore is a theater of fluency. When the mind is entangled, it is soothing to walk by the seashore, to let the rhythm of the ocean inside you. The ocean disentangles the netted mind. Everything loosens and comes back to itself. The false divisions are relieved, released, and healed. Yet the ocean never actually sees itself. Even light, which enables us to see everything, cannot see itself—light is blind. In Haydn’s Creation it is the vocation of man and woman to celebrate and complete creation.
“Isn’t that grand now? … Well, I hope I’ve helped you just a little bit tonight to push down that world towards complete creation? I’m going to sing one more song now. It’s not religious exactly, though in a way it’s about life being stronger than death. It’s about a Dublin lass who wasn’t as fortunate as we are today. She died very young, but, like I say, as long as there are Irish anywhere in the world, they’ll sing about her. I sang it the first time I met me poor man who has to put up with a temperamental singer for a wife. I knew as soon as I sang it for him that he’d be me man, though, sure I wasn’t after telling him that then!”
Annie’s gentle elbow pressed against my ribs.
Dead silence in the house. They did not know what was coming. I knew since I’d heard her sing the song once or twice before—melancholy at the beginning, triumphant at the end.
“ ‘In Dublin’s fair city.
Where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes
On sweet Molly Malone
She wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“ ‘Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“ ‘She was a fishmonger,
But sure ’twas no wonder,
For so were her father and mother before
And they both wheeled their barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“ Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“ ‘She died of a fever
And no one could relieve her,
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone,
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!
“ ‘Alive, alive oh!
Alive, alive oh!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive oh!’ ”
After tumultuous applause, Nuala and the company did a couple of encores. In response to their cries, she also did “Molly” again. Then the company bowed and bid the happy crowd good evening. But we weren’t ready for the party at Jury’s yet. Not by a long shot.
Father Placid walked out on the stage, his portable mike in hand.
“Sit down, all of ye,” he ordered. “You’re not going home quite yet.”
1 Irish Whiskey
2 Irish Whiskey
—18—
“I WANT to thank everyone who helped me,” the somber cleric began. “A lot of people let me down, but you have to expect that’s going to happen when you serve the poor and the hungry. I don t have to name the people who let me down. It should be obvious to everyone.”
The audience did not know quite what to do. Most of them did sit down, partly out of politeness and partly, I suspect, out of curiosity.
“Everyone thinks that there are no expenses,” he continued, “in running a concert like this. You hear that the singer isn’t taking any money, so you figure it’s all free. Well, let me tell you that no celebrity is ever free. They want all kinds of things and people to flatter themselves, and that costs money, money that could just as well have gone to the poor. They’re spoiled folk and you have to pay a lot to keep them happy, let me tell you. We take all the risk, and they get all the free publicity.”
Next to me Annie McGrail went stiff. Her husband’s fists were clenched, as were mine. I wanted to poke the bastard in his twisted, hateful mouth. The audience was immobile. The stupid fool was killing himself and his organization. The Irish do not take kindly to men who violate the rules of hospitality.
He ranted on, attacking abortion, divorce, premarital sex, television, the media, American consumerism. He predicted the ruination of the Irish people because of selfish American materialism. He didn’t miss many bases.
People began to drift out, quietly and sullenly. They were angry that a wonderful evening had turned bitter. He had destroyed the spiritual impact that Nuala had worked so hard to create.
Would he ever stop?
Good-dog Fiona watched him grimly. He was, the wolfhound realized, a bad man.
The members of the company stirred uneasily, not quite sure what to do. Their final curtain call had been aborted. Should they walk out? Should they try to silence this terrible man?
He returned to Nuala. He said he would pray that as she grew up she would learn the meaning of poverty and suffering.
Would he ever stop?
Fool that I was, I figured I had to stop him.
Me woman beat me to it.
Accompanied by Fiona, she strode up to the raving priest and snatched the microphone from him. He tried to pull it back but retreated from Fiona’s growl.
“ ‘Hail, Holy Queen, enthroned above, O Maria!
Hail Queen of mercy, Queen of love, O Maria!
“ ‘Triumph all, ye Cherubim!
Sing with us, ye Seraphim!
Heaven and earth resound the hymn,
Salve, Salve Regina!’“
The remnants of the crowd caught on. They joined with the Cherubim and the Seraphim.
“ ‘Our life, our sweetness here below, O Maria!
Our hope in sorrow and in woe, O Maria!
“ ‘Triumph all, ye Cherubin!
Sing with us, ye Seraphim!
Heaven and earth resound the hymn,
Salve, Salve Regina!’ ”
With the air of a man who expected to be martyred, Father Placid slithered away. I relaxed.
In response to cries from the crowd, Nuala sang “Molly” again.
As she sang, the nervous young man leaped out of his seat, produced a Swiss army pocketknife, and raced for the stage. Berkserker that I was, I charged after him, knocking aside a couple of kids who were cheering enthusiastically for my wife.
Naturally I forgot my shillelagh—Sir Lancelot without his lance.
No one noticed the man with the knife. He glided through the cr
owd like a slippery ghost.
The stage manager arrived with my two dozen roses and presented them to Nuala. She accepted them with a bow and a hoyden smile, a little girl who had received a reward for at last doing something presentable.
In the confusion of the departing crowd and the celebration on the stage no one had seen the man with the knife. He vaulted onto the stage, much too big a jump for a man as slight as he was.
I jumped up onto the stage after him. It didn’t look like I would catch up to him.
Suddenly a fierce howl filled the Point, a howl from the forests and the bogs of the Ireland of long ago, a howl from the days of Finn McCool, a howl from a descendant of Finn’s faithful Bran, the howl of an angry wolfhound.
I didn’t need to catch up to the man with the knite.
With a single bound Fiona sank her huge teeth into his shoulder. He screamed in pain and dropped the knife. He tried to break free from her implacable grip. He kicked and jabbed and twisted. Fiona hurled him to the floor, released his arm, and gripped his throat with her vast mouth. The young man was crazy enough to try to fight her off. Perhaps the Gardai had taught her not to kill unless there was no choice. Her teeth were poised to sink into his throat, she was holding him down with her massive weight, but she had not yet torn the throat out of his body.
The young man groped for his knife.
Fortunately for him, I got there first.
“All right, Fiona, girl!” a young woman Guard shouted. “Good dog, good dog! You can let him go now!”
Fiona was not about to let him go.
The young man yelled and pushed and begged, but the wolfhound clung to him like a cat playing with a captive bird.
“This seems to have got through your metal detectors,” I said to Gene Keenan, who had materialized next to me, as I gave him the Swiss army knife.
I turned to see my wife standing next to me, her harp held in the air like a weapon.
“Nice, Fiona,” said the Guard. “Good dog. It’s all right now.”
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