The Grey Horse

by MacAvoy, R. A. ;

  And he was glad Toby had finally taken to horses. He glanced at the boy, who had taken the reins in his left hand and was pulling his shirt out of his trousers with the right. Hot afternoon.

  It was in the blood, thought Blondell. A son of his was born to ride. And a Delagardie son, too. They were bruising hunters in the shires. Even Hermione had been a rider, in her younger days.

  Blondell remembered the sight of his wife as a young lady, in a primrose habit seated upon her black hunter, the horse she had left in Lancashire when he brought her to his home. Again, that was a shame, for he would have been happy to have the beast shipped. Or replaced by another, because (good God) this was Ireland and full of horseflesh.

  He thought of his wife in her sitting room, doing sunflowers on a canvas like wallpaper. “Toby,” he said aloud.

  Toby looked over, warily. He had hoped to get away with his shirttails out. Hot afternoon.

  “There’s no need,” said Blondell, “to mention to your mother that we spoke to the priest while we were in town.”

  Toby’s blue eyes measured his father’s face without sentiment. “She wouldn’t like it.”

  “I don’t really know.” Blondell smiled, but kept his attention between his horse’s ears. “But it was our business, after all.”

  Toby meditated for a while, as sweet airs crawled up his shirt and dried him. He could smell the sweat of this old pony, and he wondered why he should like that smell better than his own sweat. “She doesn’t like him because he’s a Roman. After I talk to them, she wants me to go wash up.” Blondell started. “After you talk to whom? To priests?”

  “To any Romans, though I expect a Roman priest would be worse.”

  The subsequent silence was broken by the heavy beats of the half-bred and the hoof spatter of the pony next to it. “Your mother …” began James Blondell.

  Toby hated it when his father said “your mother” like that. Or when his mother said “your father.” It was not fair to hold him responsible.

  “… Your mother was not born in this area, and she isn’t used to the locals. It’s true,” and he laughed, making the gelding’s ears prick, “they do take a deal of getting used to.”

  “She’s a foreigner,” interjected Toby. “She’s not Irish.”

  Blondell’s easy smile turned into a frown. “That’s not strictly true, Tobias. She’s British, and Irish is …”

  “Rory says we’re all foreigners, even Anraí and Áine.”

  “Don’t interrupt when I’m speaking,” said his father by reflex. But he wasn’t actually unhappy about having his thoughts cut off. “All foreigners, eh? Well, that’s a good philosophy, I think.”

  “Except him. Rory, that is.” Toby nudged his pony, which had fallen behind. He had to nudge quite hard before the pony sighed and cantered up. Toby spoke with more animation in his voice than was usual, and as his face stretched, he began to show a hint of his mother’s nose. “He says that he was here before the Milesians, who were called ‘fir bogs,’ I think, and that there were trees over …”

  “Toby …”

  “… over all Ireland except Connemara, where the lime goes to granite, and …” Toby heard his father retroactively, and mumbled to a stop.

  Blondell was looking down at his son with a face both irritated and smug. “You’ve lived among the Irish all your life, son, and you ought to know by now that they make stories. They are not lies, precisely, because they more than half believe them themselves. It’s the basic childlike-ness of the race, and it’s appealing in its way. But you are going to have responsibilities, and you have to know the difference.”

  Toby blushed angrily. “I thought we were Irish,” he said, very quietly. His father set his horse into a canter and chose not to hear.

  Both beasts glistened with sweat, and Toby had a pad of white hairs shed off from the pony’s coat onto his trouser legs. But the canter made a lovely breeze, and when they passed the donkey cart and the man waved, looking slightly dazzled at their speed, he lost all his resentment.

  Toby was not afraid to gallop nowadays. Nor to fall.

  Blondell pulled in first. His round face was slick. “Spare your mount in the first heat of spring, and he’ll do you fine in September.”

  Toby looked solemnly at his father, and gave no hint that he knew him to be winded. “What did the priest say, Father? About the rents?”

  Blondell loomed close to his son. “What would you know about that, Toby? I left you outside.”

  The white pony sidestepped neatly away from his bulky neighbor, but Toby was unafraid. “You told me before we left. That we would stop at the Catholic rectory after the saddler’s.”

  Blondell remembered. He loosened his own shirt from around his neck. “He really didn’t know as much about things as I’d hoped.”

  Toby had an odd thought; he wondered if his own lies were as obvious to his father as his father’s were to him. He made a note to himself to be careful. He looked ahead down the gravelly road. Perhaps he would overhear Father telling Mother. Or likely Mother would tell him straight out. She would if the news were bad.

  “I can’t believe that little grain sack can take a fence,” said Blondell, and was surprised at the hostility in his own voice. He really had no feelings against the old pony.

  “She can,” answered the boy with more than childish restraint. “But my jumping lessons are not with her. Anraí puts me on a grey hunter horse. I really like him.”

  “Henry? I thought you preferred the young fellow: MacEibhir.”

  “I mean I like the horse. It’s Henry who gives me the lessons. I never see Rory while I’m jumping. Henry says he doesn’t want to be there when I fall on my head.” Toby laughed very pleasantly, but his father gave a small wince.

  “And do you think you’re going to fall on your head, Toby?”

  “Oh, no. Jumping isn’t much. It’s the horse that does it, after all.”

  Tadhg Ó Murchú’s thoughts were quite similar to those of Blondell. He was disturbed; he had believed the landowner to know more about the people around him than seemed to be the case.

  He sat beneath the lithograph of St. Peter’s, with a tea tray beside him. He had drunk his tea but taken the cake that went with it and shredded it into a pile. His jam he had dissolved into his tea and drank, so that Nóra would not be able to tell he hadn’t eaten. His small Welshman’s face was intent on nothing; he had a headache.

  The letter from the bishop had been scathing, and yet the bishop had no idea what Ó Murchú’s involvement was, but only suspected he had not condemned the Land League in language strong enough. Such a shame about the church. Usually Ó Murchú could keep Catholicism and nationalism in two separate bins in his mind, but now that was difficult. Perhaps he would get a visit from some monsignor or another.

  The bell tinkled for a visitor, but Ó Murchú didn’t move. He waited until Nóra shuffled forward and told the woman that Father Ó Murchú was at his tea. Then he caught up as many of the crumbs as he could, leaned toward the open window, and threw them into the bushes. For the birds, he said to himself, although birds would have a hard time getting in to them.

  That Blondell should have taken such a hard attitude at the first hint of unsettlement among his tenants! And have expected the parish priest to act as his bailiff! Ó Murchú’s hands, greased with crumby butter, grew hot at the thought. Englishman, aping the Gaels when it amused him.

  Was a landlord on the land any better than a landlord in England? Of course he was, because he would care at least for the soil, if not for the human cattle that tilled it. But better infinitely was a hundred families on their own holds. There was really no lasting rapprochement between the people and men like Blondell, thought the priest, and each party knew it.

  Ó Murchú heard Nóra outside the door of the parlor. He was suddenly aware of the state of his hands, which gave away his subterfuge. In an effort at concealment, he wound his fingers together and rested his nose upon them. Entering the r
oom, Nóra found the priest at prayer. So she thought. And the old woman had endless respect for Ó Murchú in that role, though she had none in any other, so she stood silent until he was forced to look up at her.

  “That girl was here,” she said.

  “What girl, out of all the girls in the parish?”

  “Black Máire Standún. She wanted to see you, but you were at your bit of tea, here.”

  The priest felt disappointment sluice through him, as though he had taken cold water instead of tea. “Thank you, Nóra,” he said.

  Ó Murchú was a steady dreamer, though he didn’t usually take account of his dreams, and that night he had a very clear one.

  There was a noise outside his bedroom window, and he thought he heard Ruairí MacEibhir’s breathy, inconsequential voice. He rose, feeling the cold, and stepped over to chide him for making noise on the town streets. But it was not Ruairí, but a strange man, slight boned, long nosed, with curling black hair and beard, and wearing a white shawl.

  A tinker, thought Ó Murchú.

  The tinker said nothing, but met Ó Murchú’s gaze with the welcome of an old friend. With a bare, swarthy arm he gave through the window a wand with leaves on it.

  The priest took it and yelped like a dog, for it was a living nettle. But instead of dropping the thing, he found he was grasping it harder. He glanced up in surprise, and then he recognized the dark tinker, and he knelt down on the boards of the floor.

  “Dear Lord,” he said.

  There was a snort and a stamp, and the Tinker floated away from the window. In actuality he wasn’t floating, but was sitting on the back of a horse, which shone in the night like clouds around the moon. This horse backed away from the window and nodded, nodded its unconfined head. It crossed the garden, high stepping, and bounced over the garden wall.

  The Tinker had been wearing báinin, but no shoes. He had sat bareback as neatly as a boy. But, then, Tinkers were legendary in their way with horses.

  Ó Murchú was left alone in the cold of the open window, with a stinging nettle in his hand. It reminded him somehow of Máire Standún, so he flung it away from himself and went back to bed.

  A warm Sunday had brought Donncha MacSiadhail to the pier at An Sruthán, to watch other people work. Morrie Ó Nigh, fisherman on one of Standún’s hookers, ought to have been cleaning and stowing after the night’s haul, but he wasn’t. Instead he squatted on the stone next to Donncha’s stone, with a whistle stamped and rolled out of tin.

  The sun washed over Donncha’s rough countenance and touched the bald spot on the top of his head. He allowed it to do so: unlikely it would stay long enough to burn.

  “How is it you work on the sabbath, anyway, Morrie? What does the priest say to that?”

  The fisherman was tall. He wore a dark geansai with chains knit into the sleeves, and a cap over his carroty hair. “Ask about the boss, not the priest, my friend. Seán Standún tells us that the sabbath begins at midnight, so the night’s fishing actually belongs to Saturday.”

  “Whereas, we all know that the day begins at sunset the night before, so that’s false.”

  Morrie grinned with his teeth around the whistle, which had suffered in its paint from such usage. “You tell what’s true and what’s false to the owner of the boats, Donncha. I’ll listen from around the corner.”

  “And then, do you have off the night of Sunday, which is really Monday? Or does he come round weekly to the church’s way of thinking?”

  “We leave after midnight, that’s all.”

  Donncha’s face was intent. “And what does the priest say for the good of your souls?”

  A painfully shrill whine of the whistle prefaced Morrie’s answer. “He’s sorry for us, poor lads that we are. The man has a heart under his black robes.”

  Donncha touched the end of the whistle with his finger. “Let’s hear the tune again.”

  Morrie put his hands to the holes of the tube, which rested in the far left corner of his mouth. It was a swinging hornpipe, with three parts. He repeated each of them twice.

  Donncha listened, hiding his face in his hands for better memory. When it was done he said, “And that’s called ‘The Broken Foot’?”

  “Either that or ‘Fenton’s Rout.’ People have not settled yet.”

  “Two very different names.”

  Morrie put the whistle in his pocket and scooted his behind down the face of the rock, which then became his pillow. “You weren’t on the street at the time, or you might think they fit better. Actually, I would have liked to call it ‘Máire Standún,’ only there’s already a tune by that name.”

  Where Donncha was seated he could see both the waters of the bay, where the Dreoilin lay moored, and the road down to the pier from the land above. “Fancy gig coming,” he said quietly to his companion.

  Morrie sprang up skidding. He spanked his trousers furiously. “Is it Seán Standún?”

  “Who else?” Donncha accompanied Morrie to the side of the boat, moving with less energy. He watched the owner’s fair head bob with every rut of the road, and saw the blue eyes in the narrow face, measuring men and rigging as he drew near.

  “I get my money from a Gael who is a Gael,” said Donncha, neither loudly nor whispering. “There is no ‘Mr. O Reachtaire’ there, and no labor on the sabbath, except what the horses need to live. And Anraí is a better horseman than I am, I say freely. Is Mr. Standún a better sailor than you?”

  Morrie gave Donncha an owl’s look, and Donncha giggled. As Standún’s cart approached, the groom pushed himself off the cloth bumpers, still chuckling.

  “Health to you, Morrie.”

  “Health to you and to Parnell,” whispered the fisherman.

  This evening there was the bright moonshine of four days past first quarter, and no clouds in the spring sky. Eibhlin’s rose arbor was heavy with pink bud, so that the branches of the climbers drooped. Within the trellis of willow, hidden from moonlight by the sweet weight of flowers, sat the fair girl herself. She was alone and sitting very still, but her eyes looked left and right.

  Eibhlín was very pretty. She had an oval face which was all pink flesh and no bones. Her lips were a pink rosebud and her yellow hair was pulled back, very smooth. She had been there a while, listening to her father shout orders to Máire and the nurse.

  Now she heard another sound: hooves at a rolling, slow canter, soon muffled but drawing near the house. She stood up, sat down, and waited more quietly than ever.

  Ruairí MacEibhir stepped in through the wicker garden gate, and his greying hair shone white. He passed the hen yard and made a large circle away from the beehive. When he reached the rose arbor he went directly to Eibhlín in the shadows and stood before her.

  She fluttered slightly and turned her head away. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I heard you breathing,” he answered. “It was either someone in the roses or the bees out again.”

  The whites of her eyes were brighter than milk, and their blue centers colorless. She took in his face, his broad shoulders, and the way his shirt fitted him.

  He, in turn, was not unaware of the lace of her shawl, which had been tied in a tight cross over the heart. “You’re still breathing,” he said, and took a step closer.

  Eibhlín played with her fringe. “Where … where did you leave your horse? I heard it.”

  “Where he’ll be no bother to you.”

  “It’s a long way to be coming here from Knockduff every evening, Ruairí.”

  “Not every evening. Last night there was a foal coming.” With a sigh, Ruairí lowered himself down onto the same bench which held Eibhlín. Close. She gave a little gasp and inched away.

  “Well, it is a pity that Máire will not see you.”

  “Oh, she will.” He went to staring at his right hand fingernails, where there was something that bothered him. Out of his pocket he drew a sharpened hoof-pick and began to work on it. “It’s just that she knows she needn’t hurry. If I were a clever
sort, I would fix it so she weren’t so sure of my heart.”

  “But …” He sighed again, but not from muscle soreness. He lifted his legs off the ground and onto the bench, tailor fashion. “Then I’d be someone else entirely, and not my father’s son, Ruairí.”

  Eibhlín reached out and touched his arm, with a moth-wing pressure. “I’m afraid it’s more than that. She won’t hear your name mentioned, day or night.”

  “She won’t?” He perked up. His hair rubbed against the pink roses, where it stuck like cobwebs. “That’s a better sign than I expected.”

  Eibhlín stared, with her forehead worked into what would someday become frown lines. “I am very sorry for your case,” she said in English.

  “What’s that? Again?”

  She repeated the sentence, and Ruairí just shook his head.

  “But Mr. Blondell was telling Father about your good English.”

  His quick smile caught the light. “That man’s Gaelic is a thousand times beyond my English. I have none.”

  Now the ripples in her forehead became creases. “How could he make such a mistake?”

  “Ask him,” answered Ruairí, and he smiled and sat, entirely at ease. Eibhlín looked at him only for moments, and then away. For a while both of them listened to Seán Standún’s parting comments on the day, and then the amount of light in the arbor was lessened further as his bedroom lamp went out.

  “I’m sorry I broke your father’s foot. It seems that was the wrong thing to do,” whispered Ruairí at last, and he shot the girl a glance half remorseful and half mischievous.

  It was Eibhlín’s turn to sigh. “It has made him into a fury, but still I have a sympathy with you in that matter.”

  “You do?” He edged closer, staring.

  She did not move. “Indeed. Father is not a reasonable man, and he has made life difficult for both my sister and I.”

  His eyes were as uncommunicative as those of an animal. “You mean he doesn’t approve of your chemist’s assistant either?”

  Eibhlín started, pressed her lips together, and edged away on the bench. “What have I to do with a chemist’s assistant?”