by Eoin Brady
Shade emptied the contents of her backpack out onto the table and cursed. No matter how careful she was when packing it always ended up in a ball of cables, camera straps, lenses, wires, batteries, the drone and her laptop. She showered, which in her book came close to a good night’s sleep, and dressed in relatively clean, wrinkled clothes. She knew if she lay down on the bed, even for a moment, she would pass out. She connected all the electrical umbilicals that kept her in contact with the online world.
She drank tea and wrote down her first impressions of the island, her trip and her feelings about it all. Studying maps on the wall, she noted all the points of interest she wanted to visit. She always got excited in a new place when she found out minute details that were often left out of articles. I reckon I can get the whole island documented within the week. Then she would condense it down onto a single page on her blog.
Once hunger became intrusive she drained the dregs of her tea and set out for the shop. She loved walking in the rain, though she found it much more enjoyable now, without the potential loss of electronics. Nip shot out the front door so fast that Shade thought the poor thing had given itself whiplash. Once she’d locked the door behind her she followed after. At the top of the hill she took a right. The view as the road rose above the village was spectacular. Everyone she passed greeted her in Irish, especially the tourists, who seemed eager to share the few words they knew. Nip ran towards a cluster of students sitting outside the shop who were calling him Monty. One boy rubbed his head to settle him down and just like that, Shade lost her guide and only friend.
CHAPTER 3: THE DÚN
“Come on lads! If we get it done before the rain comes again then the first round’s on me. Otherwise you’ll all be going thirsty until tomorrow, as we’re not leaving here until I’m happy.”
Not so silent curses followed the stage foreman, Cillian’s, announcement. None of the crew had ever known him to crack so much as a grin before. He conducted the construction team like the cast of a pantomime, while the professional actors rehearsed on the finished segment of the stage.
“That’s it, doesn’t have to look pretty. Sure it’ll be a bonfire the day after,” one of the workers said.
“Very much doubt that,” Cillian said. “Islanders value everything, especially construction timber. This will likely be used to repair someone’s shed in a few days.”
That had a certain appeal to it; the only stage his play would ever be performed on would burn after or be put to better use. Actually wait, why is that so appealing again? Cillian yelled at Diarmuid for inattention, bringing him back to the task at hand. His arms shook from the effort of carrying beams into the fort but he relished the distraction from worrying how the play would be received. Sawdust covered the ground, finer particles lined his nostrils so that each breath smelled of fresh cut wood. Diarmuid drowned out the lines from the actors as he hammered boards into place, he could recite the play by heart at this point.
The work continued long into the evening before Cillian declared that he was content with their efforts and they could “go off and get pissed”, as he put it. Rain soaked them twice more before work ceased for the day but, despite his threats, Cillian ordered them to put two rounds each on his tab. The general mumbled consensus amongst his team as they left in groups was that he would likely lose money on this job for giving them access to his tab. “Well sure, he’ll know not to next time,” one of the younger members said in a tone one would use with a child that has eaten too many sweets and made himself sick.
Most of the crew left in a hurry before Cillian found more work for them. All that remained to finish was the safety check and a touch of polish. There was time for it tomorrow but Diarmuid stayed behind to finish it. He used the odd-jobs excuse to avoid the crowd in the pub, if only for a while.
“Cillian! Can I take him off you now?” Katie, one of the lead actors in the play, was standing on the wall of the fort. She carefully stepped over wobbling stones towards the stairs.
“Fire ahead. If you don’t I reckon he’ll have a thatch roof put on over the fort if we leave him here alone. The plumbing, plastering and heating fitted too, if left to it overnight. Cheers for the help, Diarmuid. Katie mentioned you’re not in work at the moment. If you’re ever in need of it, give me a shout.” Cillian shook his hand.
Diarmuid managed to contain the wince, hoping that Cillian could not feel how blistered his hands had become after so little work on his part. When he let go a fifty euro note fell to the ground between them. Diarmuid’s inner voice let out a stream of curses and his face radiated heat. Unconcerned, Cillian picked it up and gave it back to him. “You have my number, anyway.” His eyes lingered long enough on his face that Diarmuid knew that he must be glistening with embarrassment.
“You might want to check over my bits again, just to be on the safe side,” he said for the sake of saying something.
“Eh – not to worry about that, I was going to do final checks here before heading down to join you.”
“Going to wait until I was gone to save my pride?” Diarmuid joked.
When Cillian turned to survey the stage Diarmuid drew in a long breath to steady himself.
“I’ll take a bruised ego over a lawsuit any day. I’ll see you both after.” He left them to walk around to check the work and make sure his tools were all accounted for.
“We’re going to rehearse the play in full in the house before heading out. The cast would appreciate it if you would join us,” Katie said. “I would appreciate it,” she added at his hesitation.
“I’m a bit tired Katie and sure I’ll see it tomorrow. I saw most of it today actually.”
“You’re not going to disappear on me again are you?” she asked, probably noting the sweat that was starting to prickle his brow and upper lip.
He wiped his face with the dirty sleeve of his jumper. “It’s a small island.”
“You’ve checked the ferry times already haven’t you? To see if you can slink away back home.” Katie said.
“Yes. I’m aware there are no more until tomorrow.”
“You’re not a good swimmer are you?”
“Feck off. I’m here.”
“And I’m glad that you are. How are you feeling? I haven’t seen you around this many people since we were back in school.”
Without being able to bleed away his anxiety through the distraction of work, his thoughts and heart were beginning to compete to see which could go fastest. When his anxiety started up the best way he had to describe it was smoke rising in his mind, and it was getting thicker. His thoughts were starting to rush about in search of a fire that he already knew did not exist. Even with Katie? No, it’s the prospect of tonight. “I just need a walk to settle down. I’ll be at the pub, don’t you worry.”
“Well …” Katie jumped down from the wall, the contents of her bag clinking. “I have your medicine right here.”
“Well sure I’d intended the walk to be the remedy.” He did not like that his reliance on alcohol was something she knew about. He had yet to come to terms with it himself, but he would not deny that alcohol was something that helped. He would take anything that could possibly make him feel normal again. He shouldered the offered bag. “Is there a tracking device in here?”
“As you said, it’s a small island, I won’t need one. Besides I’ve had the guys take a wheel off your bike.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to use a unicycle.” Diarmuid walked with her out of the fort. Looking back he could not help but feel good about how things had gone. What a stage. From pen and paper to hammer and nails. “How are you feeling about the play?” he asked.
“I never worry about these things until they’re over. That way there is a finite amount that can trouble me. Otherwise I’d end up worrying about every possibility and probably a few impossibilities.”
“That’s a nice way of looking at it.”
Diarmuid walked with her until their paths diverged by the church. “It
’s good to see you back in the world,” she said. “I’ll have a pint put on for you. Be there to drink it, or wear it afterwards. Oh, and I’ve a piano brought in as well.” She winked at him while walking backwards.
“Here, that’s no way of convincing me to join in tonight. Go on sure, I’ll see you later.” Diarmuid took a smaller road behind the church towards the opposite end of the island where there were no houses or stores, just empty fields and isolation. He put his headphones on and let the music work out the mental knots that were threatening to overwhelm him and ruin the evening. His breathing slowed but his heart still beat quicker than the brisk walk called for.
Following the path along the coast he walked close to the cliff’s edge until a gust of wind made him stumble and his legs lost most of their rigidity. Shaking, he stepped back to a safer distance but could still see waves break against the stone of the Aran Islands and erupt in great white plumes, like clouds under construction. He found a comfortable spot sheltered from the wind and sea spray. He put on his cap and thick grey hoodie to fend off the sharpest edge of the wind and opened a bottle of beer. It was generic swill that you drink for the sole purpose of getting drunk. The first cold mouthful enhanced his sense of contentment after spending the whole day working. It lasted the rest of that bottle and only grew with those that followed.
He raised his second beer in salute to the view. Already the scales were tipping from incapacitating anxiety to the fear of missing out. There were two more songs left on the playlist. I’ll go after they finish. My leaving for the pub has nothing to do with the fact I’m on my last beer. He settled back into the rock, found a comfortable position and let the last heat of the day warm him. He felt peace, at least for a moment. He took out his notebook and started to write.
CHAPTER 4: ISLAND BOY
The island sprawled out below her as the road rose above the village. Soft clouds cast solid shadows that crept across the land. Ireland hid behind undulating mountains on the mainland. After New York, Shade could appreciate how detached the island was from the rest of the world. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a litany of vibrations like Morse code, signalling that one of her automated blog posts was now live. She imagined all those eyes on her high-paying affiliate links seeded throughout the post. I’m going to treat myself to a nice coffee.
The shop doubled as the island’s post office and covered only the essentials. Shade was glad they too considered coffee a necessity, but the only type available was instant granules in an open jar next to an old kettle. A bottle of milk stood sweating in the sun beside it. With no hope of a good brew she felt the full weight of the miles behind her catching up.
The newsstand was full of farm journals but there was also a TV guide and a Hollow Ways travel magazine, an old one. She bought that and picked up a copy of a farming paper for the sole purpose of using it as a prop for a photograph. She wandered about the three sparse aisles wishing that she had done a shop in Galway.
The woman in the post office was the same one that had given her a lift to the house. The shopkeeper was an elderly man and spoke in rapid Irish when Shade approached him. She assumed it was a question by the tonal inflection at the end of the sentence. His glasses hung perilously close to the edge of his nose as he sorted through the days post. His eyes darted through the contents of her basket before he emptied her shopping onto the counter. His lips moved soundlessly as he totted everything up, enough and more for a few days, along with a few cans of dog food. He paused at those and asked, “Are you staying here for a while so?”
“For a week. Arrived off the boat this morning.”
“Oh really? What do you make of the place so far?”
“It’s a … little bit different.”
“A little different.” He chuckled. “It is that. Would you be interested in a map by any chance? Histories and stories compiled …”
“I’d love one.”
Enthused, he opened a copy on the counter, the groceries beneath it making mountainous protrusions on the land and ocean. “If you continue on up the road there you’ve got Dún Chonchúir; that’s closed at the moment while they set up for the play. Synge’s Cottage and then beyond that the cliff walk, that takes you by his Chair. You can follow the coast around there.”
“How long does that walk take?”
“Usually about three hours I’d say, if you were to do the whole thing on a good day.”
“What time do you close?”
He looked down to check his watch. Shade thought that was the end for his glasses, but they clung on to the edge of his nose. “Four hours.”
The woman stuck her head out from the post office. “The ticket for the play is there for you if you still fancy it.”
“Please.” There was a rack of postcards by the post office window. Shade took three of the best ones and sent them off with a brief hello to her sister in Reykjavik, Hayley in London and one to her empty apartment in Venice. She loved sitting down after a long stint on the road and looking at postcards from the places she visited.
Shade paid for her groceries and ticket, then the shopkeeper offered to store her shopping back in the fridge until after she finished the walk. She felt good after doing a shop first thing. It was a ritual that grounded her in the reality of a place – nothing like needing toilet paper to make you feel normal.
Tiredness disappeared in the face of exploration. Each diversion in the path caused her hesitation and a lingering wonder after the road not taken. One of the main points of interest she passed was a white church. When taking a photograph of it she angled the shot so that the old fort was in the background. Imagine the power such places once held over their isolated communities. To her, the church was as much of a novelty as the fort. No wonder I’ll never make godmother. She could hear construction going on inside Dún Chonchúir so there was no hope of sneaking a peek.
On the rare occasion that a car moved on the land down below it looked like a toy crossing a model set. Cattle and sheep grazed the steep fields in small groups, rarely more than three animals per plot of land. Fields burned with the white flickering flames of cotton-tailed rabbits that dashed for cover when startled by her intrusion. Holidaying swifts languished on slow air currents, sailing through the gentler streams between the walls. The walls were everywhere. There must have been a fourth island and in their zeal for stacking stones the islanders had dismantled it for fodder. She stopped to write that down in her notebook.
When she passed the last house on the island, a small cottage, a rough and worn trail replaced the tarmac road. From this vantage point she could see the arable land wither away leaving stark karst landscape. A worn stone beach and a white seam of fizzing wash divided the land from the sea, where the waves wore down the island with ceaseless indifference.
An elderly man knelt between potato drills on ground so steep it would have made a mountain goat sweat. The dark soil and rich green of the potato plants stood in stark contrast to the sterile stone behind her and the cold grey blue of the ocean in front. There was something that would not be if not for the care and effort of people.
“Hello!”
The man looked up at her and laboured to stand out of his stoop. He stretched back further and in her mind Shade heard the creaking of his ancient bones.
“Could I buy a few potatoes from you?”
“Are they out already in the shop?” When he looked at her he squinted as if to keep the sun from his eyes, only it shone on his back.
Of course there had been plenty of generic, plastic sealed potatoes in the shop but these were spuds with a view. Had he not been there Shade would already have muck beneath what remained of her chewed fingernails.
“They do - but I like the idea of eating a bit of the island.”
He knelt down slower than when he rose. Giving a few dissatisfied grunts as he pulled up a plant, and shifted soil to pluck potatoes from the drill.
He saw Shade taking out her wallet. “Are you going to the music tonight?” He a
sked.
“Where is it on?”
“The pub,” he said in a tone that told her there was nowhere else it could be on.
“I am.”
“Then stand me a round there.” He threw the potatoes at her and she filled an empty pouch on her pack. “Or two,” he added.
“Do you mind if I take your picture?”
He nodded his head and gave a grunt as if to say ‘go ahead but be quick about it’.
Wild rock took the place of the manicured path. There was no barrier or visible trail to go by. Orienting herself by the new detailed map, Shade followed the coast to Synge’s Chair. Difficult to miss considering the size of the island. She ignored the scenery as she navigated a route over the treacherous terrain while trying not to sprain anything.
Shrubs and flowers did not grow far beyond the safety of their hollows. The gnarled, stunted trees shaped by the wind were like frozen, black tendrils of smoke seeping from the cracks in the stone. Wind and sea mingled in this exposed place to drown out the chirping of birds. Synge’s Chair was a stone barricade against the worst of the elements. Small purple flowers scattered across the rocks like precious gems at the entrance of a thieves vault. She sat down, crossed her legs and took out her notebook. Looking across the water she watched waves erupt against the cliffs of Inis Mór that sheltered Kilronan village.
Low cloud draped across the highest points of the largest island. Shade imagined Synge sitting in this very spot and channelling inspiration from the scenery to his pen, capturing a feeling of this place in ink.
Who sat here before him? Would he have taken pleasure in the sweet sound of whistling wind that cannot touch you? Within the window provided by the stone arms of the chair, not much has changed since his time.
A ferry departing from Kilronan port brought her back to the present. She took out her e-reader and opened Synge’s book on the Aran Islands to read some of the notes she had highlighted. It was a surreal experience to sit in his chair and read his words. Who will sit here a hundred years from now and parcel me, my time and thoughts into the steady mastication of history? She felt like a castaway on time, stuck on an island of it without the ability of reaching back, though her thoughts might be able to reach forward. That was one aspect that drew her to blogging and writing – the chance that her ideas would live on beyond her. The amount of views her older posts got showed that people preferred new things. Old words and thoughts rarely went viral these days. Everybody was looking for fresh distractions.