West, in the Foggy Valley

by Tadhg O'Rabhartaigh

  A verse of poetry came to the young man before he noticed;

  The mountains look on Marathon

  And Marathon looks on the sea,

  And musing there an hour alone

  I dreamed that Greece might still be free.

  “Good on you!” the priest said, and he gave him a friendly clap on the back. “The same thought crossed my own mind often as I looked around from this mountain. Will we ever see the day, do you think when the Irish people, will be back in possession of these old gentle mountains as before?”

  “We will, Father,” the young man said, and the passion in his voice took the priest by surprise. “We are not going to let our ancient nation die in the claws of the Imperialist, like a mouse dies in the claws of a cat. There is a young generation rising up around us, some of them as young as twenty, who want to listen to political speeches rather than vain sounds of musicians. Already, there are lads in Dublin and elsewhere, who are dreaming great dreams. I met a few of them during the short time that I was there, and although they have scant knowledge right now, I can tell you Father, that their voices will be heard, and their strength be felt a short time from now. Nothing will satisfy them except the Ireland of yore. Ireland for the Irish, and master of her own affairs. Did you ever hear about Connrad na Gaeilge, Father?”

  “Many times,” the priest said. They are doing noble work; and while I do not wish to diminish their great work, I’m afraid and very afraid that they have taken on too much. The whole world knows that once the life is taken out of the body it is impossible to put it back again. I admit of course that the Irish Language is alive in small parts of the country yet; but if so it is only alive in the very backward places, places that are away from the general world, places that are not very important. I find it hard to believe that we will see the day when Philosophy will be studied as Gaeilge/in Irish, in Trinity College, or theology in Maynooth.”

  “I am certain that day will come, however near or far away it is,” Marcus said; “but first we must make the British put their tails over their shoulders, and get their claws clean away from the green grass of Ireland.”

  “I am afraid brother, that they will have a difficult task,” the priest said, smiling. “It would be a good job to sink them on their way out to sea-may God forgive me- but I am afraid that they have too strong a grip on Inis Fail/Ireland, for us to make any kind of an impression. Are you coming, Triona?

  The three of them walked back down towards home.

  “I heard that you were going to be spinning in the Greasai Rua’s house tonight, Triona,” the priest said.

  “That is our plan, Father,” she said. “The Greasai Rua’s wife has a huge pile of wool, that she would like to spin for a few blankets for the winter.”

  “You will have a big night.”

  “We will have a neighbourly time at any rate,” she said. “It is seldom that a spinning night is not great pleasure. Even if we only laugh through a verse of Bhabaro.”

  “Would it be any harm if someone like me was to be present?” Marcus said. “The sound of the spinning wheels would do me good and it is a long time ago since I heard any verse of Bhabaro.”

  “Why wouldn’t you join them,” the priest said, “especially since you have an interest in their work. I bet you won’t be the only man in the Greasai’s house tonight.”

  Shortly after nightfall that night, Marcus came to the Greasai’s door and he bent his head in the doorframe. The kitchen was like a mini factory from the fire to the door. Young girls were sitting around on stools, and the pedals of the spinning wheels were busy under their feet. It was very pleasant to be listening to the humming of the spinning, and to be watching the white threads passing through nimble fingers. In the middle of the kitchen there was a heap of wool, which young women were carding, and forming into rolls. The Greasai’s wife and her daughter were on their best making boxty and potato cakes. The place was alive with the sound of loud conversation and hearty laughter. And up in a corner wearing his little leather apron was the Greasai Rua, sitting on a stool and he keeping conversation with the young women between rounds of hammering with his little hammer.

  “On my word,” he said, “here comes Diarmaid na mBan. Divine God, isn’t popularity a great thing. For the person who has it, no sooner does he appear under the mountain, than all the girls are out, on some excuse or other to take a trip to Ailbhe’s Well.”

  Triona was sitting beside him and this kind of talk made her blush in spite of herself, because she thought that everyone in the house was watching her. She took a roll of wool from beside her and she threw it at the Greasai Rua. And then her shyness disappeared and she started to laugh, when she saw how carefully the Greasai was plucking the wool from his little red moustache.

  “If you are accusing the young girl of misbehaving,” Marcus said, “I am afraid that you are putting yourself in danger, pet; because the most honest man in the Gleann will tell you that he saw her with his own two eyes doing the pilgrimage. Don’t you know, Greasai Rua of the little shoes, that there are two sides to every story, and that it is dangerous for a little old talkative man to be giving judgment on one side of the story before he has heard the other side.”

  “On my conscience, but you are improving well at the teasing, young stringer whose back would make two backs for the average man. Come up here to the corner son, before you get a knock on your head on the couples/ceiling.”

  It was obvious to Marcus that the fun and laughter had died a little since his arrival. And that did not go un-noticed by the Greasai Rua either.

  “Bad cess to you,” he said, “that you did not stay away from us. We were having great comradery until you came amongst us. It was very big hearted of you to come in here like a cold wind and silence all my girls.”

  Marcus pretended that he was offended by that talk, and he stood up pretending sadness on his face.

  “If that is the way you feel,” he said, “it is as well for the cold wind to leave again.”

  Triona glanced at him, but he winked roguishly at her, and she knew that he was only pretending. The Greasai got up and he went between him and the door.

  “You won’t leave this house Mr. Mac Alastair,” he said, “until you socialize like a Christian. Up you go there, I tell you, before I do something I might regret.”

  Marcus began to laugh and he went back to the fire. He pulled his stool close to Triona and he watched her spinning.

  “Since they are blaming us together,” he said to her, “we might as well do something about it. And now, sister, clear your throat and give us a verse of Bhabaro. Maybe it will encourage the silenced women who lost their hearts when I came in.”

  This made the young women laugh and they began to coax Triona.

  “Good enough,” she said. “We will sing some of the old verses first. But then we must sing some of the new verses that we composed; because that is the best part of the concert.”

  When she was ready she began singing soft and low to the beat of the spinning wheel; and it wasn’t long until every wheel in the house was on the same beat as if there was only one wheel. Every woman took her turn, at the lines that were composed in Gleann Ceo, when their mothers, and their grandmothers, and even older mothers again, were young girls, gathered together for a big nights spinning in the times gone by:

  Ba bhinne liomna ceolta sian glor a bhi ag mo gra,

  Ach dibriodh se that saile uaim’s ni phillfidh se go brch.

  ‘Bionn se ag gabhail fan Chruaich an ait a bhfaigheadh na madai mna.’

  ‘Cuirfidh do mhuirnin culaith eadaigh ortle bata beag draighneain.’

  At the end of every verse they all sang

  ‘’Babaro’ora ‘mhile gra.’

  And towards the end the sound of the spinning wheels could not be heard at all above the sound of their singing:

  ‘Babaro ‘gus ora mhile gra,

  Babaro ‘gus ora mhile gra.

  Seo Babaro le dadaro go dtara an la ban,


  Babaro ‘gus ora mhile gra.’

  It wasn’t long until all the old lines were sung and an odd woman began to compose new lines on her own. Why wouldn’t they do what their old grandmothers had done before them? Even if everyone present laughed at the lines they composed that did not stop them. You could say that it gave them the heart to compose even more. This caused all the girls present to blush especially if they were going out with any of the young men mentioned. Then the girl who was embarrassed composed another verse, which embarrassed some other girl, as well as giving everyone a good laugh. Most of the time it seemed to Marcus Mac Alastair that the spinners were teasing each other under the guise of poetry:

  ‘”Eoghan was lying at the back of the house waiting for

  Chet Bhan. ‘What did Seimi find in the grass but Mhici

  Aird’s pipe?’

  Sometimes they used English:

  “’All the water in Loch Eala wouldn’t wash his yellow jaw.’

  ‘He said he’d come on Sunday night, but no the devil a toe.”

  Any body eavesdropping outside the Greasai’s house that night, would think that there was more fun than spinning going on within. But the truth is that they were working very hard at the spinning. If anything the fun improved the work. Eventually the heap of rolled wool got smaller and the pile of thread rolls got bigger until not a roll or the makings of a roll was left. At midnight the young men began to gather at the Droichead/Bridge. The Greasai’s wife had the tea ready, and after they washed their hands in a little tub at the end of the room, the mother and daughter went around on the young women with mugs of steaming tea and plates heaped with boxty and potato bread, steeped in butter. The feast was only beginning when the sound of heavy boots was heard on the doorstep and a group of boys arrogant looking boys arrived. Some of them were brothers of the spinners who were already there, but some others were not.

  “Maise my seven blessings on my good men!” the Greasai said. “Were you afraid that the gentlemen from Dhun le Grein would come on these fair ladies on their way home? I hope you did not come without some musical instrument.”

  Some of the boys were not from Gleann Ceo but they were musicians, especially flute players. And of course there were flute players among the local lads. The flutes were taken from their pockets in three pieces, assembled together. The spinning wheels and the stools were put aside, or up on the loft overhead, and the eager girls were taken out on the floor for set dancing. They sang along with the flute playing and they cheered heartily. They danced and they created a racket, and the beads of sweat gathered on their brows. Marcus sat up in a corner with the Greasai and he watched the dancers. He noticed the pride and confidence in Triona’s face above all the others. After a while he took her out for a dance and he noticed how lovely and cool her hands were besides any of the other hands, which were damp and sweating. There was a purity about her that he was thinking was in her soul as well as her body. He also noticed that the young men seemed to like her and that they were keen on her every time that they gave her a swing. He was thinking: when it comes to the time it will be lucky for the man who gets her in his house and if God blesses her with children she will do a good job with them. But then maybe she will do as many like her have done; to enter the Convent and spend her life in religion.

  The dawn was breaking over Sliabh an Iarann, and the birds were singing merrily from the two sides of Gleann, when Marcus Mac Alastair put his boat on Loch Eala, setting for home at his ease.

  FIRESIDE CHAT

  It was Christmas night again and the sleet snow was blowing from the north across the hills like a blizzard. People were rushing home for shelter and the heat of the fire. All the shopping was done in Ballinashee and also in Eoin an Droighead’s shop. As it drew towards suppertime most of the Gleann Ceo people were in their own homes, listening to the wind howling outside in the trees and spitting against the windows.

  Seimin Ban and Sile an Cairn were sitting opposite each other in front of the fire. The kettle was singing on the crook; and the cat was purring comfortably between them on the hearth flags. Seimin was in his stockings with his pipe in his toothless/mantach mouth, and a mug of punch on the hob beside him. Sile was sewing buttons on one of his shirts, and giving it her full attention. The punch was making Seimin merry, and he was inclined to talk.

  “Mac Alastair’s son did a lot of talking with Triona Guildea in Ballinashee this evening,” he said.

  “Where were they?” Sile asked, without taking her eyes from the sewing.

  “Inside in the back room by the fire in Teach an Choirneil. Himself had a good drop taken.”

  “Maise it is seldom he is not there. He can be found there, every day he goes out even for the smallest errant, just like some people.” Sile said hinting at Seimin.

  Seimin was stretching his hand to reach the punch, but he changed his mind. He decided it was better for him to wait a little longer. Sile was sharp enough tonight, by the looks of her. Maybe he was more intoxicated than he realized; but at the same time it was Christmas night, and if he drank a drop in Ballinashee he thought she should be able to hide her anger. Only God knew who would be alive this time next year.

  “They are saying that it won’t be long until we see him turning Catholic,” he said.

  “He will do that,” she said. “I believe that is what he is telling her trying to attract her. The whole world knows that the old master would disinherit him as soon as the first baptism water was poured on him. And are you telling me that Marcus Mac Alastair would let a coalmine and landlord’s dues out of his hands so easily? Some people have no sense.”

  “Did you not hear the little girl from this house saying that the old man is not too well at present. Maybe he won’t live much longer,” Seimin said.

  He was about to say that Mac Alastair has his insides burned out with spirits, but he checked himself in time. It was better not to talk about drink in front of Sile.

  “Devil a danger of his dying that soon,” she said. “He has plenty of the bad thing inside him, and the likes of him does not go quickly. But as bad as he is he is better than the stranger as a master. Marcus is a fine man now, according to the men in the mine; but wait until he gets control of everything. We have seen the likes of him before.”

  “It is difficult to say,” Seimin said, taking his punch timidly. “You wouldn’t recognise that mine since he got his hands on it. The old man was down on him for spending the money widening the passages at first. And I thought myself that it was foolish work he was doing. But it is clear to us now that he was right. The men have a better way of work, and they are willing to work harder. They have great respect for Marcus, especially since they got this raise in their pay.”

  “Isn’t it a wonder that the old buck allowed the rise in pay?” Sile said.

  “Why wouldn’t he allow it?” Seimin said. “The coal that is coming out of that mine now is as good as the coal that is coming from overseas. Marcus sent samples of the coal to lots of people he knows in big cities, far from here, and they are buying from him. They got other customers for him; and when they realized how good the coal was they did not mind paying the price for it. That pleased the old man, so it wasn’t all that difficult to get a pay rise from him. The same old man knew well what he was doing.”

  “I see,” Sile said, as she stood up and began to prepare the supper for themselves two.

  “There is great friendship altogether between the priest and Marcus.”

  “There is no getting between them,” Seimin said. “Devil the likes of the conversations between them sometimes! The School Mistress told me that there is seldom a night that the motorbike is not outside the priest’s gate, whatever they can be talking about. Bees? May be. They both have bees. But of course they couldn’t always be talking about bees.”

  “I bet they know themselves what they are talking about. Don’t you think that he should be in Droim Dhilliuir talking to the Minister? He would be the best to give him advice, I’d say.
”

  “He doesn’t go to Church at all, woman, dear,” Seimin said. The minister from Droim Dhilliuir is at Inis Coleman all right, but did you not hear little Nansai saying that himself and Marcus have no time for each other at all.”

  “God knows what truth is in the rantings about his turning,” Sile said. “Who knows what business he has in the priest’s house? But just the same I find it hard to believe that he would deny the protestant religion. Here, come over here and take your share.”

  The supper was over in Big Conor Guildea’s house, and they were all sitting comfortably around the fire, and the old pair were drinking a little drop of punch, because Triona and Feargal did not forget them when they were buying their bits and pieces in Ballinashee, for Christmas that evening.

  “Here’s to all our health,” Big Conor said, “and may we be alive at this time next year. May God strengthen the hands of the boys who are bringing in their pennies to us every week. With their wages and our pensions we want for nothing in this house, praise to God.”

  “Can I leave school soon,” Peadar asked, “and go working in the mine? I am as far advanced as the Mistress can put me. I can draw as much coal as Feargal any day; and himself and Pol an Greasai are in the mine since St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Don’t be in any hurry to the mine, pet,” the old woman said. “Indeed if there was any right poor Feargal shouldn’t be in it either, and the poor fellow only sixteen years old.”

  “Arah, it would only be company!” Feargal said. “I find myself getting stronger every day.”

  “May God reward Marcus Mac Alastair who put you in the best passage in the mine,” the old woman said. “You can be grateful to him, love.”