the island.
I spent a good long time walking the shore. I wanted to discover something. Mairtin OâMalley found an explosive on the west beach, and there was a notice on it saying: do not touch. notify authorities immediately. He phoned from the post office, all the others there and listening, speculating about the possibility of the IRA. Was there not a car hidden in a turf pile on the wild boreen across the bog linking Oughterard to the Westport road, and didnât yer woman send something from every pint to the boys in the north? The Garda came by special launch and took the thing away. He wore gloves and touched it first with a broom. Mairtin felt cheated, and his children were angry.
â Ye mean ye let him just take it?
â Aye.
I saw things I could not carry: a boulder pale green with algae and scrolled with lichen; a pool so small you could cover it with your hands, but filled to the brim with little weeds and no doubt amoebas; the long path of sunlight leading to the mainland. But Iâve never found anything worth keeping in my life. The pebbles I take become dry and dull ( Whatever did ye choose that one for? ), the grey thing a distant cousin of a jewel seen in wet sand. The sticks must be burned, no matter that they lie on the shore like reptiles sniffing the wind. Once, when I lived near the Pacific, I saw the whales go by, enormous and dignified. No one else was there to see them. But you cannot display or prove a memory.
This is the way the generations begin. There werenât trees to link a family to, you could say they were all forced from the crevices of stone like crabs brought to the light. Miceal Walsh the elder, possessor of a tin whistle, a head full of airs, âFinneganâs Wakeâ and âFlanaganâs Ball.â Miceal the younger, husband to Margaret so long in the grave (barren-wombed as she was), husband to Bridie. Bridie Walsh, mother of six named for the saints, bare-footed, the youngest still in the red petticoats of the islands.
â It is so the faeries will not know whether they are male child or female and will be too confused to take one so.
â Oh.
And there was Sean, son of Padraig and Moragh, brother to the seven. Padraig, deceased but alive in the twilight memories; Moragh, deceased; the seven now departed to the marriage beds of a southerner, a northerner, a traitor and a slut. That accounts for four, and no one talked about the remainder.
Mairtin the father. Mairtin the son, half-witted but a visionary. Brother to Triona, Declan, Paddy Joe. Hawk-nosed brother to the petrel, the grey goose.
â Does Mairtin Og ever talk?
â And sure what would he say? Where heâs been to tell us or done to spin to a tale worth our listening?
Festy Kenneally, a trammel-netter, a drifter on tides, a distiller, with bones for the weather and a taste for the poteen. Kathleen Clancy, a bearded virgin, possessive of a butter churn, a wireless. Her competition, the crone, professional keener and something of an oracle. And the sundry, an assortment of sainted children, men of the seaâs kin, the dogs, the knitters, a healer, the quiet breeding seals.
THE GREEN FIELDS OF CANADA
THE HOUSE WHERE THE DROWNED MAN lived has been empty four winters. Before I ever came, they nailed the door shut, boarded the windows. All the whitewash has flaked, has gone to the wind.
I am told again and again of the tragedy, its impact.
His was the only body not found. The other three washed up on strands from Clifden to Aughrusmore, carried in the current north or south. I did not see them, I lived somewhere else then, but I know where they are now: in simple pine boxes sunk deep into earth on the islandâs western reach. The crosses are Celtic, are granite, are engraved with their names.
But the man whose body knows no rest. He is somewhere in the passage between island and mainland. After storms I half expect to see him on the rocks below my house. I found a
I spent a good long time walking the shore. I wanted to discover something. Mairtin OâMalley found an explosive on the west beach, and there was a notice on it saying: do not touch. notify authorities immediately. He phoned from the post office, all the others there and listening, speculating about the possibility of the IRA. Was there not a car hidden in a turf pile on the wild boreen across the bog linking Oughterard to the Westport road, and didnât yer woman send something from every pint to the boys in the north? The Garda came by special launch and took the thing away. He wore gloves and touched it first with a broom. Mairtin felt cheated, and his children were angry.
â Ye mean ye let him just take it?
â Aye.
I saw things I could not carry: a boulder pale green with algae and scrolled with lichen; a pool so small you could cover it with your hands, but filled to the brim with little weeds and no doubt amoebas; the long path of sunlight leading to the mainland. But Iâve never found anything worth keeping in my life. The pebbles I take become dry and dull ( Whatever did ye choose that one for? ), the grey thing a distant cousin of a jewel seen in wet sand. The sticks must be burned, no matter that they lie on the shore like reptiles sniffing the wind. Once, when I lived near the Pacific, I saw the whales go by, enormous and dignified. No one else was there to see them. But you cannot display or prove a memory.
This is the way the generations begin. There werenât trees to link a family to, you could say they were all forced from the crevices of stone like crabs brought to the light. Miceal Walsh the elder, possessor of a tin whistle, a head full of airs, âFinneganâs Wakeâ and âFlanaganâs Ball.â Miceal the younger, husband to Margaret so long in the grave (barren-wombed as she was), husband to Bridie. Bridie Walsh, mother of six named for the saints, bare-footed, the youngest still in the red petticoats of the islands.
â It is so the faeries will not know whether they are male child or female and will be too confused to take one so.
â Oh.
And there was Sean, son of Padraig and Moragh, brother to the seven. Padraig, deceased but alive in the twilight memories; Moragh, deceased; the seven now departed to the marriage beds of a southerner, a northerner, a traitor and a slut. That accounts for four, and no one talked about the remainder.
Mairtin the father. Mairtin the son, half-witted but a visionary. Brother to Triona, Declan, Paddy Joe. Hawk-nosed brother to the petrel, the grey goose.
â Does Mairtin Og ever talk?
â And sure what would he say? Where heâs been to tell us or done to spin to a tale worth our listening?
Festy Kenneally, a trammel-netter, a drifter on tides, a distiller, with bones for the weather and a taste for the poteen. Kathleen Clancy, a bearded virgin, possessive of a butter churn, a wireless. Her competition, the crone, professional keener and something of an oracle. And the sundry, an assortment of sainted children, men of the seaâs kin, the dogs, the knitters, a healer, the quiet breeding seals.
THE GREEN FIELDS OF CANADA
THE HOUSE WHERE THE DROWNED MAN lived has been empty four winters. Before I ever came, they nailed the door shut, boarded the windows. All the whitewash has flaked, has gone to the wind.
I am told again and again of the tragedy, its impact.
His was the only body not found. The other three washed up on strands from Clifden to Aughrusmore, carried in the current north or south. I did not see them, I lived somewhere else then, but I know where they are now: in simple pine boxes sunk deep into earth on the islandâs western reach. The crosses are Celtic, are granite, are engraved with their names.
But the man whose body knows no rest. He is somewhere in the passage between island and mainland. After storms I half expect to see him on the rocks below my house. I found a
Similar Books
