by Molly Aitken
‘Why don’t you read from Genesis 19?’ Kieran said to Enda. His words had a slipperiness. I couldn’t remember Kieran ever asking to hear the Bible, and never a particular text. Enda’s neck was pink in the firelight.
‘Kieran,’ coughed Dad, awake and glaring. ‘Don’t you be turning into a religious one too.’
‘Read it out to us, Enda,’ Mam said, yanking the thread in the skirt she was mending.
Enda scratched the back of his neck. ‘“And there came two angels to Sodom at even.”’
Kieran laughed, threw the basket aside and pulled off his boots, his feet close to the fire. Enda kept reading, his face unchanged as if Kieran was just a whirring bluebottle, and when he dropped the Bible into his lap, to escape the warm mould smell Kieran had released, I got up and went to sit next to Enda. He shut the Bible with a snap.
‘Do you ever wish we’d been let to be friends with Felim?’ I whispered, glancing at Mam to be sure she couldn’t hear.
Enda’s hands tightened around the Bible. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
‘But everyone’s angry at Aislinn. I’m worried about them.’
‘She chose to leave God behind and let herself be open to everyone’s judgement. What could I do to help them now?’
He stood, the Bible thudded against the floor and I bent to pick it up while Enda vanished into the little room. Kieran spat in the hearth and it hissed. Mam sighed and got up and disappeared into the big room. Dad was whistling softly as he slept. I flipped to the passage Kieran had asked Enda to read. If the priest had given a Mass with this story at its centre, I wouldn’t have understood, but in one night my understanding had grown and I knew Kieran, like me, had stumbled on a secret moment between our brother and Felim, and he saw it as wrong.
When I glanced up from the page Kieran was watching me, a frown between his eyebrows that said to me we were not to speak about our brother.
* * *
Aislinn’s child was born that winter and no one realised until Pegeen heard the baby’s cry when she passed the cottage in the spring. We’d not seen Aislinn for months and Felim only the odd time when he walked through the village on his way to somewhere else, somewhere hidden, where I was sure he would meet Enda.
Inside her cottage the fire was blazing and Aislinn sat close, singing to a bundle in her arms. Her chest was bare, showing the smooth half-moon of her white breasts. Her nipples were flushed and puckered like lips and I stared, fascinated, as she lifted the baby to one and it began to suck.
I squatted next to them. The baby was too beautiful, even more angelic than Felim, its eyes cornflower-blue, and a soft white down clinging to its head.
‘What’s its name?’ I asked.
‘Etain.’
The baby smiled up at Aislinn, all trusting.
‘I’ve not heard that one.’
‘It means passion. Names can guide our future. I changed my own name when I came here. I used to be Norma.’
I laughed. ‘Aislinn suits you better.’
‘Choose your own children’s names well.’
‘I don’t really want children,’ I said. ‘How’s Felim? I’ve not spoken to him all winter.’
She stroked the baby’s head, her lips drawn into a tight line. ‘I’ve not seen him much myself.’
‘He asked me if I’d marry him.’
I meant it to be funny, to make her laugh, but her face was ridged with horror.
‘Do you love Felim?’ she asked.
‘In a way, I always have.’
‘Don’t marry him, Oona. He’s not the one for you.’
‘I know that,’ I said.
She nodded, and I thought she might tell me she knew he loved my brother but she only began to hum a tune to the baby.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Felim was stood in the doorway. We hadn’t heard him come through the garden.
‘Oona’s come to see me,’ Aislinn said. ‘Does that bother you?’
He grabbed a piece of bread from the table and turned and strode out the door.
She raked her fingers across her face.
‘I’ll go after him,’ I said.
‘Don’t. He’s in a mood. Better leave him to it.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ I ran out the door before she could call me back.
I found him on the beach. The sea was wild, as if it was angry with us. The shells were bluer than rockpools. The sky was somehow quieter; the short cliffs all around softened the wind and hushed the gulls.
He kicked a stone and it went skidding off into the little waves.
‘You love me, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Why would you ask me that?’
He dragged a limpet off a rock and poked at the yellow flesh.
‘Is Enda with the Father?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. You’re the one who goes with him.’
‘The priest won’t have me in his house now. Enda won’t talk to me now either.’
‘Because of your mam?’
His blue eyes shimmered. ‘I know who he is.’
‘Who?’
‘Its father.’
‘Etain’s?’
‘Et-tain.’
‘What’s wrong with you? She’s just a baby. It’s not her fault.’
‘It’s Aislinn’s fault. And it’s his. He ruined us. He ruined it all.’
‘Felim, do you mean Liam?’
His eyes startled like I’d shone a light into them.
‘I saw him swimming with your mam. He’s Etain’s dad, isn’t he?’
‘So it’s him.’
‘Will I get Enda for you? He’s your friend, I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘He hates me now.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? Why do any of you hate me?’
‘I don’t hate you.’
Felim brushed my arm, a touch so gentle like the stroke of a wing overhead, and leant in. He pressed his lips hard to mine. My eyes were wide open and so were his. I pulled away.
‘No. You don’t like me like that. I know you don’t.’
‘But you love me.’
‘No.’
He strode towards the waves and walked into them up to his knees. I watched as the rain hammered down on him.
Some loving part of me was falling away. I felt a cold hatred of him, that he could think he was allowed to kiss me.
The wind cut cold over me, rushing off to somewhere far away. I wished I could go with it.
In the meadow, the girl’s voice was made of clear joy, rising up with the songs of a family of housemartins and a single cuckoo. She was alone for once and could listen to the thoughts in her own mind. She could finally follow her own yearnings.
When the earth split open and he crawled up from below, she was only a little surprised. His breath was fire and his eyes black as coffee.
The girl had never seen a man like him. She didn’t run, even though her mother had told her to fear the unknown.
And so he took her away.
The Old Man
I leave Kate’s road of tall houses, breathing hard still, heading for the river.
Mam is sick and wants to die on the island. I will see her when I go. I never thought I would. I counted on her being dead years ago. A mother should always die before her children. When Enda died, Pat asked me if he should phone Ireland to tell my parents. I said no one had a phone on the island when I left, but he said he’d figure it out and I didn’t have the strength to tell him not to. I don’t know if he reached them, but no one sent word. Enda and I were the outcasts after all.
When I was still a child Enda told me a story. I can still hear his voice, as nervous as scrunching paper.
‘Once,’ he said, ‘there was a village where all the people looked alike. I don’t mean they all had black hair and big feet. No, what I mean is they all looked normal. All the women tied their hair up tight and all the men shaved their cheeks. The villagers did this because if they did not they knew the sea w
ould take them. To them, difference meant death. So when a little boy began to grow wings he told no one. He hid them under his shirt and he was always in pain because his feathers bent and the sharp ends stabbed his back. He had to wash in his room at night so no one would see him. He would unwrap his wings, spread them out and let them breathe. Even though he hid his difference, one woman felt it about him. For a long time she couldn’t figure out what was wrong about him, but was determined to find out. One night she hid by his open window and watched. When she saw his wings unfold, her whole body was soaked in fear and horror and also passion, and it was this, her desire, that sickened her. She ran home and the next day she told everyone the boy’s secret and the villagers built a huge stack of turf high enough to reach the sky. When they were finished some of the men fetched the boy and told him to climb to the top of the pile to see if there were any ships at sea, but he refused. Hearing this, the woman who had spread the whispers about his wings begged him to rescue her baby who she’d forgotten up there. He agreed.’
‘What happened to the boy then?’
‘They burned him alive.’
‘Why wouldn’t he just fly away?’
‘His wings weren’t strong enough.’
I don’t remember the day Enda told me that story, if we were in the kitchen or the little room at night, if he was sad or thoughtful. I didn’t realise it had meaning, that he was telling me about himself. I’m not sure if the woman was Mam or just an example of what could have happened to him if they found out. Mam never showed any sign to me that she knew what Enda was, but then again, I didn’t pay enough attention. I was too absorbed in myself.
Now Enda is gone, and she will be gone soon too. I wish it had been the other way around, but my prayers never were answered.
There’s a payphone perching on the bridge. I could call, just to hear Pat’s voice, the regular, smooth sound of his vowels, but he’d only ask questions, ask if I’d found our daughter, and there’s nothing to tell him.
I walk on, my canvas shoes soaked by the streams rushing across the pavements. These streets are almost unchanged. Grey, grey Connemara stone, blackened with rain. It’s not my Ireland. Mine is battered cliffs, empty fields, songs of curlews in the sky and old men telling stories by the fire.
I never painted Galway for Joyce in stories, preferring tales of places I’d never been, like the rainforest or desert, but if I had perhaps my memories of home would have lodged deeper in her because tales grounded in truth are always more meaningful.
I press a hand to the damp brick of a building. This passageway is just off the main street; a shop selling antiques with a peeling front is, pushed in on either side by a cobbler’s and a butcher’s.
Inside, the floor and walls are cluttered with dusty grandfather clocks and oil paintings of cows in fields. A chipped rocking horse watches me from one corner. The ceiling snatches at my chin and tips it up, saying look, look. Model ships float as if on an ocean. Beneath the hulls, deep in the air-water, I am drowning.
A man dressed like a respectable scarecrow plods in from the back, licks his hand and begins to flatten his already wet hair with a damp palm. He looks more ancient than half the objects in here.
‘Do you have any notebooks?’ I say.
His bushy eyebrows bounce up. ‘You a foreigner?’
‘Yes. No.’
‘Well, you are or you aren’t. You can’t be both.’
‘I’ve not been back in twenty years but I was born on Inis. Do you know it?’
‘Course, never been myself. I hear there’s nothing to do but pony rides. I’d rather the Canaries for a holiday. Sure I get enough rain here as it is. Would you like a towel for your hair there?’
‘Oh.’ He’s right, I’m drenched. ‘You’re all right, but thanks.’
‘If you’re sure. I’ve not got any notebooks but I’ve a few of my grandson’s Aislings. Those are the copies the children use in school here.’ He’s rustling under the desk. ‘I always leave a few in case he comes here and wants to fit in a bit of homework. Aisling means dream or vision in Irish, did you know that?’
‘I did know.’
‘You do?’
‘I used to know a woman with that name.’
‘And what happened to her?’
‘She died.’
‘Death comes for us all. Ah, I’ve got them.’ He holds up some yellow notebooks. ‘I’ve got a typewriter, although I couldn’t tell you it works.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll just take those. How much?’
He grins chocolate-coloured teeth. ‘What do you want them for?’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘What do you want it for?’
‘To write,’ I say.
‘Yes, but what’ll you write?’
‘An apology.’
He nods. ‘How many do you need?’
‘One should be enough. How much?’
‘Ah, it’s yours.’
‘You sure?’
He smiles. ‘I wouldn’t say so if I wasn’t.’
‘Thank you.’
I reach the door and one of the grandfather clocks begins to chime.
I stop in the cemetery wrapped around the prod church and sit on a tumbled grave. The rain drips from the leaves of the branches above and onto my head. When I passed here all those years ago I heard Christopher Columbus stopped in Galway on his way to America. He came into the church to pray for a safe passage to India. He got his safe passage but he never made it to India. I didn’t pray here before I left. I was over praying.
The Lost Boy
Rockpools shimmered with light. Hair stuck out like sunshine.
‘Oona, wake up.’
Aislinn hovered above me, the girl balanced on her hip. My head and belly still ached with my monthly bleeding. After the midday meal, when Mam went to the priest’s, I had lain down.
‘What’re you doing in my room?’ I said, sitting up and struggling to rip off the blankets. Since Etain’s birth over a year ago Mam had hardly let me out of her sight, afraid I would learn some evil ways from the woman I was always running off to. Pegeen had told Mam she saw me talking to Aislinn on the beach. Every day, new whispers mushroomed at firesides. I couldn’t get away from it.
‘I need your help,’ Aislinn said. One cheek was streaked with mud and her red skirt was dark with water. ‘I can’t find Felim.’
The baby cooed and reached out a chubby hand.
I climbed out of bed.
‘He’ll be back,’ I whispered. ‘He’ll be out fishing with Enda.’
‘No. He’s never with Enda now.’
Since he kissed me on the shore, I had avoided Felim. I stopped visiting Aislinn and glimpsed Felim only at a distance trudging alone along the top road. I never saw him with anyone.
Her eyes flicked to the window, one hand pressed to her cheek. ‘He’s not right any more.’ Her lip was bleeding. She wiped it quickly.
‘He hit you,’ I said.
She shook her head, and then nodded. ‘I’ve walked the whole island looking.’
‘Why did he hit you?’
She paced up and down. The child nestled her head against Aislinn’s shoulder and sucked her fingers.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Aislinn said. ‘I don’t know. I’m afraid for him.’
There were few places to disappear for long on the island. The only way to really vanish was into the sea.
‘Go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll find him for you.’
She breathed out, lifting the hair from my face. ‘He talks about you and Enda every day.’ She wiped a tear from her eye with the heel of her hand like it was bit of dirt caught there. ‘I think he’s lonely. I’m afraid he’ll . . .’
A crash behind us.
‘What is she doing here?’ Mam stood in the doorway, a broken bowl at her feet. ‘You. How dare you bring that through my door?’ Mam pointed with a shaking finger at Etain.
Aislinn held Etain out to Mam, who flinched and stepped away.
‘You will not speak with my children,’ Mam said. ‘You’ll not lead them astray.’
‘Mary, have you seen Felim?’
Mam laughed. ‘God is punishing you. I knew He would.’
‘I never meant any harm to you and your children, Mary. I only wanted to help you.’
‘Get out,’ Mam cried, great tears plopping from her chin and on to the floor.
Aislinn reached for my hand. ‘Help me find him, Oona.’
I grasped her cold fingers. ‘I will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Mam and left.
Mam collapsed onto my bed, dragging her shawl across her face. I lowered myself beside her and took her hand. For a moment it lay limp against mine but then gripped me tight as she pulled in long, harsh breaths. Her tears stopped and she yanked her hand from my hold and wiped it on her skirts. It was worse than a slap. I darted up and was at the door, grabbing my shawl from the floor.
‘How did you dare bring her here?’ Mam said behind me.
‘She came in while I slept.’
There was a red spot on each of her cheeks. ‘Oona, get the supper going. The men will be hungry when they come home.’
‘I’m going to help Aislinn.’
She followed me across the kitchen. ‘You’ll stay here. That boy is bad.’
I didn’t turn to her but said, ‘You always say God protects us.’
‘I never said He would protect you.’
I knew she had killed the fear that had lived in her since my birth, of death taking me from her. She had realised she would still be living, breathing, praying, if God took me. She no longer needed me.
I walked away from her. I walked the island. The usual boats hung below the horizon. Enda would want to know Felim was lost but there was no way to tell him.
The only way to escape here was death but Éag was too far for me to reach and hidden behind rain clouds. No, there was no way Felim could be there. No one would agree to row him in this weather. The only other way to death on the island was down a dark passage with slimy walls where the souls of babies cried at night. I found him, a shadow of Felim in the opening of the cave, halfway into the belly of the island. There was no fear in me, but when he looked up it crashed over my body like waves onto a sinking ship. Felim’s face was dripping but his eyes were clear white and blue. When he looked at me his gaze flicked away, as if I was just another shadow of a dead child, not breathing, not a friend.