‘Go on, quick, or you’ll get this between the eyes.’
He regretted having to threaten a child, and he knew too that he was pushing his luck, but what was to be lost at this late stage?
The window was clapped shut, footsteps pattered down inside and a few moments later Jack heard voices in a muttered conversation. He leaned as close to the door as the heat allowed and could make out snatches of what sounded like an argument:
‘... Don’t tell me he’s here, that cursed liúdramán. He’s the one that put out my eye. Tell him I’m not at home at all.’
‘But he knows ...’
‘I don’t care. We’re not letting him into this house an’ that’s that. He’ll destroy us if he gets his ugly head inside the door, an’ I won’t ...’
After a very few minutes the young devil’s head popped out above again. He was close to crying.
‘He don’t want to see you,’ he whined, ‘an’ anyway, he says he isn’t at home.’
The window was slammed before Jack could add a word to this. He was left once more in the gloom of that sweaty corridor.
‘They don’t want me. That’s all about it,’ he sighed, turning away, a flicker of a smile dimpling his cheeks. ‘Nothing for it, I s’pose, except to try the place above again an’ hope there’s a bit more Christianity there this time.’
Cautiously he made his way back up towards the light, every step drawing a deeper sigh from his old lungs, his pauses growing ever more frequent.
When the Pearly Gateway once again faced him he was almost past caring, but he summoned up his final ounces of energy to totter towards it.
He leaned on the Sacred Stones with both hands, head bowed, panting, then turned, slithered to the ground and sat there motionless, wordless. For a moment only, though. A voice boomed out close by, a voice he had heard very recently.
‘Don’t tell me you’re here again. Didn’t I order you to go down to the place below?’
There was precious little of welcome in the rasping tones.
Looking up, Jack saw St Peter, hands on hips, glowering at him. He blinked, mouth open, then rolled painfully onto his knees, ready to pray if that was what was required.
‘You wouldn’t want me spending the rest o’ my time in a dark hole the like o’ that, surely,’ he answered weakly.
‘It has nothing to do with me,’ said Peter. ‘I’m only in charge o’ this gate. Remember that when they’re heating you below.’
‘But I thought there was supposed to be things like Mercy an’ Love an’ Forgiveness up here.’ Jack hoped he sounded indignant, but could no longer be sure, so exhausted was he.
Peter threw him a dirty glare.
‘I won’t bother going through the ins and outs of it with you now, ’cos not one bit o’ difference is it going to make. All I’m telling you is that you’ll have to go, an’ go this minute.’
‘But you can’t ... I mean ... I’m an Irishman, amn’t I? Is St Patrick inside? Or St Brigid, or Mochulla of Tulla. Any o’ them holy people won’t see me sent to a place as ugly as that.’
Peter looked suddenly old, as well as thoroughly sick of this conversation.
‘For the last time, you’re going down out o’ here. That’s all about it. They can’t help you, so don’t embarrass ’em by mentioning it.’
‘I’ll believe that when I hear it from their own mouths, not before, so bring ’em out. If you do that much I’ll ask no more o’ you.’
Peter hesitated just an instant, but it was enough to give Jack a final straw to grasp at.
‘When they find out that one o’ their own countrymen was treated like a piece o’ dirt – an’ in the wrong, too – there’ll be another war in there’ – he jabbed his finger towards the Gateway – ‘even worse than one ye had before. The Irish are one big family, no matter what world they’re in. You know little if you don’t know that much. But if you don’t you’ll find it out shortly.’
Peter looked worried now, darted his eyes here and there, then stared long and hard at Jack.
‘Hm ... Wait there until I find out what the rule-book says.’
He retreated several paces inside the Gateway, reached into a small cubby-hole and tugged out a huge leather-bound tome. Its weight staggered him and Jack was about to jump to his assistance when a vicious scowl stopped him in his tracks.
‘Stay where you are,’ Peter ordered. ‘You can’t pass that threshold until I consult the Book o’ the Blest here.’
Jack wilted. He was beginning to have doubts about this Heaven place. If it made no allowance for a person’s good and helpful impulses what would it be like to spend the rest of eternity in? Not very satisfying, it seemed. But better to smile and say nothing just yet, he decided.
Peter, gasping, stumbled to a desk on the left-hand side of the short corridor, let down the book in a whumph of dust, then opened the brass clasps weakly. Any enthusiasm he might ever have had for this type of work was long gone. Jack could see that much clearly. Yet ... yet ... his whole future was depending on the next few moments. He could not stand by and not intervene in some positive way. He shook himself, and stepped forward.
‘Here, let me give you a hand with that ...’
‘Not an inch farther!’ ordered Peter. ‘I have enough on my hands with this. Another move an’ you’ll stay out there for good, even if you have a right to be in. I’m in no humour now for arguing. So don’t put me to it.’
Jack shrugged, sighed and decided to wait.
‘What’s that your name is again?’
Peter aimed yet another poisonous glare at Jack.
‘Jack McCarthy from Cratloe, County Clare. My father was a ...’
‘I’m not interested in your father one way or another!’ snarled Peter. ‘’Tis yourself that’s in the balance here now, so wait until you’re spoken to.’
Pages were riffled then, with a weary lack of interest, Peter’s fingernail scraping along list after list: ‘K ... L ... M ... N ...’
‘Hold on, there! Stop! You’re gone past the mark. Is it so you can’t read, or what?’ shouted Jack, indignant.
‘Oh, I can read all right,’ Peter replied absently, and then looked at Jack in an odd manner.
‘Then what’s wrong with you? Read out my name, an’ no more about it.’
Peter glanced at the book again, then smiled, a slow, broadening grin.
‘I can’t read out what isn’t there,’ he declared flatly.
‘What d’you mean, not there?’
‘Just that. Not here. So I’m afraid I’ll have to say bye-bye to you – now!’
There was a cold knife-edge to his voice.
He turned, clapped his hands, and immediately there appeared at his side two well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking types.
‘Angels, no doubt,’ groaned Jack, ‘or maybe some o’ them archangel fellows we learned about in sixth class. But what the hell does it matter? I’m sunk, unless ...’
His thoughts settled, frighteningly clear all of a sudden, on the one appeal he could still hope to make when all others had failed: St Peter might still not have forgotten that he had once been human.
‘D’you remember that leaky oul’ boat you had in the Sea o’ Galilee with the red cloak you stole off of a drunk Roman for a sail? An’ that huge fish you poached the time your father was sick in bed – the one you sold to buy the medicine with?’
Where it came from he had not the foggiest notion – it amazed him utterly – but this information had an electric effect on St Peter. He stiffened. His head jerked up. Mouth open, obviously confused, he stared.
When his voice came to him, it was a squawk.
‘How do you know ..?’
‘There are things,’ Jack intoned, trying to hide his own bewilderment, ‘that are hidden from the blest that only the truly Blessed can see. Or people from Ireland. An’ while I’m not claiming anything great for myself ...’
‘All right! All right!’ Peter flapped his hands weakly. ‘You have your poin
t made. I’ll consult The Man Inside an’ see what His verdict is. Wait here!’
He turned before disappearing round the corner.
‘An’ this is the final word, mind.’
Jack relaxed, since nothing else was to be done, and began to whistle a little tune, as much to cheer himself as to convince anyone who might be listening that here was a confident soul.
And someone was, for within a few seconds a little window over the Gate – the exact equivalent of the one in the Place Below – was opened and an old man’s head and shoulders appeared. His finger was to his lips.
‘Shhh!’ he whispered. ‘Listen. Don’t say a word. I’m Saint Mochulla of Tulla. If you’re wondering where them words you spoke to Peter came from, wonder no more.’
He cackled, but suppressed it quickly.
‘Now listen to me. If you have any sense, stay out o’ here. ’Tis the most ... most ...’
He seemed to be having trouble getting the word out, whatever it was, darting his eyes about, looking frightened of a sudden.
‘’Tis what?’ urged Jack. ‘I’m not following you.’
‘’Tis the most monotonous cursed place anyone could be in,’ sobbed Mochulla, collapsing limply over the window-sill. ‘An’ I’m stuck here for the rest of eternity, singing oul’ hymns that don’t even rhyme, bowing an’ scraping to a crowd o’ thoolramawns that call themselves my betters, an’ who think they are better than me, what’s more, ’cos I’m only from a “rabbit-hole the like o’ Tulla”, as they call it. If I only knew what I was letting myself in for up here I’d have committed a couple o’ robberies at least in Tulla, an’ maybe even worse. But I’m caught here now. No going back for me. But you’re not in yet. An’ if you have any sense you won’t be. Whatever else you do, stay out of it if you have any respect for yourself. An’ good luck to you.’
He slammed out the little window without one word more, leaving Jack with much to think of and far too little time to do so.
‘It’d be a foolish thing not to trust a Clareman, I’m thinking. An’ a saint, moreover,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t have a minute’s luck for it,’ and a saying of his dead mother came to mind: ‘What’s near to home is near the bone.’ That decided him.
Accordingly, when Peter appeared in the little corridor, smiling, a few moments later and broke the good news, a surprise awaited him.
‘Praise an’ bless His Divine Highness for ever more, McCarthy! You’re in. He’s to allow an exception in your case.’
‘Safer for him,’ thought Jack. ‘Or they’d never again see a wink o’ sleep in there.’
But he held his peace. All he replied was, ‘Hmmm. This’ll have to be considered. I’ll take a few turns around the yard here an’ I’ll tell you when I have my mind made up. I won’t be too long,’ and off he went, hands behind back and brow furrowed.
Peter gawped. Democracy was a concept he had no experience of. Foolishness, though, he recognised at first sight.
‘Get your ugly miserable skin in here – NOW! – or I’ll take it on myself to carry out His blessed orders in a way you won’t like.’
Jack was all mildness when he answered.
‘Thanks very much, sir. I appreciate your good wish for me. But I’ll stay out, if you don’t mind. I’ll go down to the Place Below again. If I keep working on the door with my hammer long enough they’ll let me in, I’d say. There’s a pile o’ people in there that I’d prefer to be talking to than the crowd in here.’ Jack made this decision, even after a brief recollection of some of the hardy old backbiters and hypocrites who used to inhabit the chapel in Cratloe, swathed in prayers and beads in it, all bloodthirsty outside.
‘Gimme a straightforward blackguard over an angel any day o’ the week. At least I’d know how to handle him,’ he thought, then held out his hand, all regret.
‘So goodbye. ’Twas nice meeting you, after all I heard about you.’
‘But ... but ... you can’t!’ spluttered Peter as Jack turned to go. ‘What’ll Our Master think o’ this? ’Tis a thing unheard of. I’ll be thrown out myself.’
‘What I’m doing is no reflection on you at all, Peter. ’Tis my decision, an’ mine alone.’
‘But ... please! Not down there, of all places. If you have any respect for me.’
He sounded near to tears.
‘But where else have I to go?’
‘No place ... except ... except ...’
A faraway look crept into Peter’s eyes, followed by a mischievous little smile, well hidden from Jack behind his beard.
‘Stand there a minute. I think there might be a finish to this that’ll keep us all happy.’
‘I hope there is,’ sighed Jack, ‘but show it to me quick, ’cos my mind is made up.’
Again Peter disappeared round the corner. He was back within a minute, a little man in tow who looked more like a large ball with legs than any person Jack had ever seen.
‘How would you like this fellow as company in your travels?’
Jack said nothing, only eyed the creature suspiciously.
‘Well?’ Peter was impatient.
‘I don’t see how ...’
‘Ah, you don’t see, eh? Is that your bother? Well, maybe this’ll help you –’ and Peter reached into a small alcove and brought out a little brass lamp.
‘You might need this since you’re going down out o’ here,’ and he passed it to the fat dwarf. ‘In fact, you’ll need the both of ’em.’
‘Why would I? Is it so you think my eyes aren’t comrades, or what?’
‘Take it, anyway. It could be a big help to you ... as well as to others.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Look!’ snarled Peter. ‘The only reason I’m offering it to you is because I kind o’ like you. An’ after what your people did to my people in Limerick that’s no small thing. So don’t abuse my hospitality, if you value yourself.’
The way he said this – without the slightest trace of mirth – made Jack squint at him more closely. He saw nothing to reassure him, only a hand holding a lamp.
‘I’m finished with you from this out. Go wherever you want. But if you have no light to guide you, there’s many a dark thing in wait for you. An’ even with this lamp there’s no guarantee that you’ll find what you’re looking for – if you even know what that is.’
He turned to the dwarf.
‘Light that, Fungusball, an’ guide him to the place appointed. Nowhere else.’
‘Place appointed?’ cried Jack. ‘But you said I was free to ...’
‘Shut up! You have no further say in this.’
He ordered the dwarf again to light the lamp, and the little man obliged by opening his mouth wide, revealing a set of vicious-looking pike’s fangs. One sideways twitch of his jaw sent out a flurry of sparks, one of which landed in the lamp, lighting there a little spurt of blue flame. It was obviously a well-practised operation for he seemed not at all surprised at his accuracy. Instead he wheeled, snorted and clamped a leathery crúb on Jack’s left arm, then with a strength which there was no resisting, began to drag him away.
Peter took no further part in the proceedings except to squeeze the lamp into Jack’s other hand, then turned wearily and walked off. The Pearly Gate clicked shut behind him and that was the last Jack ever saw of him.
And now it began to dawn on the same Jack that he had brought on himself something that he could no longer con-trol, or even hope to. For the hand that was clamped on him was as cold and unyielding as steel. Along the corridor, then down the dark stairway he was dragged, digging in now his heels, now his toes as he squirmed this way and that, resisting every step of the way. But his protests were useless. The dwarf, whose width was almost that of the stairwell, ignored pleas, questions and finally even his curses; he seemed preoccupied with something else entirely.
‘Why the hell do I need this gombo to bring me down here?’ Jack whimpered to himself, furious. ‘Wasn’t I coming fine o’ my own accord?’
But ...
he was mistaken if he thought he was being escorted to the Lower Region, for less than halfway down his captor stopped without warning, clutched him even more tightly, then gripped the wall on the left-hand side, snicker-ing. At once a door of sorts rattled aside, revealing a black-ness. He glanced over his shoulder and tugged Jack closer to him.
‘We – Here. This – You – Place. Go – Now. In. Good – Bye, Bad – Boy.’
He clumped down two steps more, forcefully, quickly, then yanked Jack over his head and into darkness that was too dark by far, a space that was world-wide yet coffin-narrow all at once.
He fell ... fell ... attempted to shriek. But nothing came, only a gurgling croak. How long, how far he fell he never after could recall; he knew nothing of it, for his senses left him after the first few seconds. So when he woke and raised his head timidly, imagine his confusion to find himself lying on the road outside Sixmilebridge graveyard.
He might, there and then, have concluded that the whole affair was no more than a bad nightmare, except for one thing: the little lamp glowing blue in his hand. Absently, still too preoccupied with getting his bearings, he attempted to snuff it out. But it would not be quenched, no matter how he tried with either breath, spit or his fingers. He was about to fling it from him when a movement on the road some distance away distracted him. He froze and stared. Two men were coming in his direction, both on bicycles, and each the worse for drink, it seemed, for they were wobbling this way and that, talking in loud, silly snorts and guffaws. Jack recognised them immediately: Seán O’Keeffe and Brian Gleeson, two old drinking-cronies of his. He leaped up, delighted, waving his arms to stop them.
And stop they did. Suddenly. Then with hardly a glance at each other they sprang from their bicycles, flung them aside and fled, roaring. Never had two men sobered up so quickly.
‘Wait!’ Jack yelled. ‘Come back! Why so are ye running?’
But they were gone and only the echoes of his own question answered him. Puzzled, he began to walk, more quickly with every step, towards home. Rest and a hot meal; yes, and a talk with his wife. That would do much to put these events in some kind of order, he told himself.
The Devil is an Irishman Page 11