“Of course it’s the communal graves connected with the prophecy that everyone comes to see,” Maggie went on.
“What prophecy?” I asked.
“Do you not know about the Achill prophecy?”
“I guess not.”
“Folks swear it’s true. Now, some of them believe in leprechauns.” She smiled.
“Even so, let me hear it,” I said. We stood side by side, looking out across Achill Sound, as Maggie told the story.
“It goes back to the seventeenth century, when an Irish prophet named Brian the Red predicted that, one day, carriages on iron wheels would come to Achill Island, belching smoke and fire. What’s more, on their first and final journeys, these carriages would be carrying the dead. Sure enough, when the railroad came to Achill in the 1890s, the first train carried home the bodies of thirty migrants who had drowned on their way to jobs across the sea in Scotland.”
“How awful,” I said.
“That was just the first tragedy,” continued Maggie. “In the thirties, a score of boys from Achill, also migrant laborers in Scotland, died in a terrible fire. Their bodies also came home by train, on the last run before the line shut down. They’re buried over there.” She pointed.
I followed Maggie into a plot of grass marked off by an iron fence topped with sharp iron crosses. At the far side of the enclosure stood a high tombstone listing the names of those drowned in 1894. There were as many women as men, and some Achill families lost more than one member. “You can see why the story became a legend,” Maggie said. “The deaths were a calamity for the whole island.”
“It’s heartbreaking,” I said. “I can see why people would resent my uncle’s plan. A honky-tonk version of the railroad would mock the tragedies.”
Maggie nodded. “Achill’s a small island with a tiny population. There’s hardly a family here that wasn’t touched by one disaster or the other. The resentment could go deep.”
Here was another possible motive for my uncle’s murder and another avenue for the gardai to pursue.
Maggie consulted her watch. “Let’s move on. I’d like to get out to the other end of the island and show you Keem Bay.” She whistled for Happy, who came bounding out from behind a tombstone, his pink tongue lolling on one side of his mouth. He danced around Maggie’s ankles as we walked to the car. “In you go,” she said.
A short way beyond the graveyard, we passed a fifteenth-century watchtower that once belonged to the pirate queen Grace O’Malley. “She was a terror, that one,” said Maggie. “My kind of woman.”
The scenery grew flat again as we followed the perimeter of the island, with dramatic ocean views on one side of the road and windswept, treeless bogs on the other. Occasionally we passed whitewashed houses and Blackface mountain sheep. “Sheep outnumber people five to one on Achill,” Maggie said, braking to allow a poky pair to meander across the road. We waited for the sheep to get across, and then we set out again. In the distance, green hills and gray mountains gave definition to the landscape. We also passed walls of imposing cliffs. Those at the western end of the island are said to be the tallest in Europe.
We turned inland near the hamlet of Dooega in order to join the main road leading out to Achill Head. This road spans the width of the island (about fifteen miles) from the Michael Davitt Bridge, linking the island to the mainland, all the way to the tip at Keem Bay. It passes through the tiny villages of Keel and Dooagh, the houses all white with gray tile roofs.
Then comes a spectacular stretch where the narrow road climbs steeply and the land falls away in a dizzying drop to the sea. I was glad I wasn’t driving. For an American, it’s bad enough to always be on the “wrong” side of the road in Ireland; here you are on the wrong side of the road at the edge of a cliff. “Almost there,” said Maggie, by way of comfort. That was before a series of corkscrew turns.
Finally, she pulled into a dirt parking area looking out at ocean, cliffs, and, far below, a crescent, sandy beach. We got out to explore. The beach was pristine and deserted. Intrepid swimmers had access by means of a steep descending road, but there were no takers today. The water glowed with a surreal aquamarine light. “This used to be a favorite spot for shark fishing,” said Maggie. Maybe that explained the absence of swimmers.
Happy bellied up to the edge to look over, his snout on his forelegs. We gazed for a minute or two. “Maggie,” I said, breaking the spell, “what’s the story with you and this guy you’re staying with, if you don’t mind my being nosy.”
“Declan? We’re just old friends. We used to be more, but that was years ago.”
“So this is just a platonic visit?”
“More or less,” said Maggie, wiggling one hand.
“Okay, then. What’s he like?”
“Declan’s older. A confirmed bachelor, lives by himself. He’s well off and does what he pleases. He can be charming when he wants to. You can tell me if you think he’s good-looking. He’s smart. He thinks a lot of himself, though, and he’s got a know-it-all side that puts some people off. We had fun for a while, but he was too pushy for me. Or maybe I wasn’t ready for someone like that. I was young at the time.”
“How do you mean, pushy?”
She looked at me slyly. “He wanted us to try a swingers’ club! I was mortified, really I was. If I’d had time to consider, I might have come round, but Declan pushed me, and I didn’t like it. I walked right out the door—didn’t talk to him for five years.”
I felt my eyebrows go up.
“I was a young eejit. I’d do differently now.” She bent down to pull Happy back and lift him into her arms.
“You think you’d go?” I asked.
“Don’t pretend to be surprised, girl. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“I’m not naïve,” I protested. “I’ve heard of those clubs. Where was this, in Dublin?”
“They have them in Dublin for sure, but no. It was right here on the island.”
“There was a swingers’ club on Achill Island?”
“Not just ‘was.’ There still is. It’s an open secret, and it’s been going on for years. You know, there’s not much else to do here, especially in the winter. The weather is miserable. There’s nothing like a pagan orgy to warm things up. A small circle of locals keeps the thing going. At least, that’s what Declan tells me.”
I had a hard time getting my head around the idea. We had come to Achill on the advice of a nun, my cousin, to get a glimpse of the old ways of life in Ireland, expecting—what? Turf smoldering in the fireplace, Céillí dancers, fiddles and shillelaghs, tales about the little people, maybe, but certainly not this. “I’m speechless,” I said (illogically). Wait until Toby hears about this, I thought.
6
HERE ON THE ISLAND?” Toby exclaimed.
“Yup. That’s what she said.”
“You don’t suppose we could—”
“No, I don’t.” I had enough on my mind with my uncle’s murder and worrying about my mother’s involvement. I didn’t need the distraction of a sex club, even as a topic of conversation. My move to table the motion was abetted by the fact that we were out in public, but I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. “Just drink your Guinness,” I counseled, pointing to the pint glass of black liquid crested by a thick layer of cream-colored foam. Toby shrugged and stared into his beer, daydreaming no doubt.
I was nursing a half pint of the bitter stuff myself but with a dollop of syrup swirled in to cut the aftertaste, strictly a ladies’ drink in Ireland. “Guinness is good for you,” they say. They do; signs all over Ireland say just that. It must be one of the most successful ad campaigns ever dreamed up. As I looked around the crowded pub, almost everyone had a glass of the dark brew in hand.
The musicians too had pints in front of them. When they weren’t playing, they were sipping. Angie sat up close to the players, to get the full benefit of Bobby Colman’s sexy baritone and flirtatious glances. There were three men in the band and six instruments among them. Bob
by played the fiddle and a banjo, not at the same time. A huge, shaggy, copper-headed guy with an inflated chest and a bushy beard swapped between a tin whistle and a bagpipe. And a hunched-over elder kept time on the bodhran, a handheld drum resembling a tambourine. Now and again, he would switch to squeezing a small accordion. They played with raucous spirit, Bobby singing lead and the others joining on the chorus, with a combination of sentiment and defiance that only an Irish folk tune can evoke. The subject of this one was a young patriot named Roddy McCorley, who was hanged by the British during the 1798 rebellion. The pub was crowded; there was foot-stamping in the audience. “Up the rebels!” shouted a patron, and the cry was echoed by other men. Bobby Colman leaned forward and sang:
Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud, and young,
About the hemp rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There’s ne’er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
I was ready to grab a pitchfork and march to the bridge myself, to stop the execution.
“They’re good,” acknowledged Toby. “You can’t beat the Irish for folk songs about martyrdom. It’s something in the national character. When you keep losing battles and you’ve got a harp as the official emblem of your country, it’s inevitable.” He took a swig and wiped the foam from his lips. “It’s the same with literature. Look how many of their writers have won the Nobel Prize—Yeats, Shaw, Beckett, Seamus Heaney. Joyce should have won but didn’t. For such a little country, that’s amazing.”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“I had a lit professor who thought it was because the Irish were held down so long by the British. Because their national aspirations were suppressed, they channeled their political passion into stories and music. I think there’s something to it. There are probably more storytellers per acre in Ireland than anywhere else in the world.”
“That’s a clever theory you have there, Yank,” said a voice behind us. The tables in the pub were pushed close together to accommodate the crowd, and our conversation had been overheard.
“It’s meant as a compliment,” said Toby, turning to glance behind him.
“So taken,” said the man, reaching to pat Toby’s shoulder, but his hand withdrew as he recognized me. I took a few seconds to register who he was. Then I realized it was up to me to make introductions. “Toby, this is Frank Hickey. We met at Aunt Laura’s house. Mr. Hickey was Uncle Bert’s business partner. This is my husband, Toby Sandler.”
“It’s Frank,” he said, reaching over to shake Toby’s hand. “Again, I’m sorry for your trouble,” he said without meeting my eyes. “A terrible thing about your uncle.” There was a silence, magnified by the absence of music. The band was on break. I noticed that Bobby Colman had drawn a chair up to Angie’s table; he was elbow to elbow with her.
“Would you like to join us?” I asked. Frank seemed to be alone.
“Thanks, I will. I just stopped in to hear the boys,” he said, as if his presence required an excuse. “Can I get you another pint?” he asked Toby, whose glass was half-empty. Mine he could see was still nearly full.
“Not yet,” Toby said with a smile. “But thanks. It takes me a while to get through one of these.”
“A big fella like you?” Frank scoffed. “Is it the black stuff you’re drinking?”
Toby nodded, and Frank went up to the bar to order. While he was standing there waiting for the foamy heads to subside so the bartender could top off the pints, I filled Toby in on what I knew about Frank’s connection to my uncle.
When he returned with the beers, Frank picked up the thread of his earlier remark. “You seem to know a good deal about Irish culture.”
“Not really,” said Toby. “I took a course in college on the Irish Literary Revival, so anything I picked up is secondhand and probably outdated.”
“And are you a professor yourself?” Frank asked.
Toby put up a hand in denial. “Not me. I run an antiques gallery back home.”
“Antiques, is it? Well, now. It’s just that we see a lot of professors from the States here in the summer visiting Yeats’s grave and such. And Laura tells me your wife is a university professor.” He looked at me.
“Yes, I teach art history,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “I wonder what your opinion is of our Irish painters. Do you have a favorite?”
Maggie would be the right person to answer that question, but she was at her ex’s cottage tonight. My field is nineteenth-century European painting, mainly French. I would guess that anyone with a passing interest in art could name a French Impressionist, but how many could name an Irish painter of any type? Ireland’s artists aren’t as well known as her writers.
Of those I know, my favorite is Paul Henry, celebrated for his depictions of the Irish countryside. He was influenced by the Post-Impressionists, and he lived on Achill for a decade. I had brushed up on his work before the trip.
My answer seemed to please Frank. He clapped his hands and said, “Well, isn’t that lovely. I’m proud to say I have a painting by Henry, or a share in it. Your uncle paid a lot of money for it at a Dublin auction. It was for the business; even so, if you ask me, he paid too much for it. But, no matter. He left it with me, for safekeeping. He’s on and off the island, and an empty house is no place for a valuable painting. What’s to become of it now, I don’t know. Would you like to see it?” He reached into a pocket, withdrew his cell phone, and scrolled through some photos.
The picture showed a typical Paul Henry landscape. The first thing you noticed was the low horizon; a third of the painting was devoted to a white sky with billowing cumulus clouds. Pale mountains held the center. The foreground occupied less than a quarter of the canvas—white cottages, patchy grass, and a bit of the bay. The palette was delicate and subdued, at least as the photo showed it. For color, you can’t rely on a photo.
“It looks like a good example of his work,” I said.
“It’s hanging in my house at the moment. You’re welcome to come see it.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “But what’s the connection between the painting and your development plan? You said Bert bought it for the business.”
Frank explained that Henry’s work had become famous when it was used to popularize the west of Ireland as a tourist destination. In 1925 the railroad company used one of his paintings for a travel poster, and it became a national icon. So the idea was to promote their tourism project with a new Paul Henry poster. The original painting would grace the lobby of the planned hotel, and the poster would become a nationwide advertisement for the train ride.
Since seeing the Kildownet graves, I had a better understanding of why Bert’s railway plan was controversial. “Frank, did my Uncle Bert know about that eerie prediction that the first and last trains to Achill would carry the dead?”
“Of course he knew. I told him about it myself.”
“Well, didn’t he, didn’t you, wonder how it would go down with the public, getting them to take a ride on a train associated with death?”
“That was the whole point,” Frank responded. “The prophecy was the thing. We’d use it to draw people to the island. Bert was a marketing genius, you know. He was sure people would line up to ride the ‘Achill Death Train.’ That’s what he was going to call it. Chills and excitement, he said, that’s what people want. There would be a guide on the train to tell the story of the prophecy and the disasters, and even special effects, maybe a sound and light show for the ride at night. ‘It’s the sizzle that sells the steak,’ he used to say. Bert was going to do it up right.”
I was too stunned to say anything. Toby, who has an expansive view of humankind and who is generally less appalled than I am by instances of bad taste, asked, “What’s going to happen to the project now that Bert is gone?”
“I’ll push on without him. I have to, don’t I? I’ve invested too
much to give up now.”
A voice behind us boomed: “That’s your plan, is it? I tell you, Hickey, if you try to push your shite death train down our throats, you’ll end up like your partner.” The speaker, a big man with a buzz cut and a red face, loomed over Frank’s chair.
Frank shot to his feet, knocking over his glass. The black beer pooled on the table and flowed to the floor. “You’ll not threaten me in a public house, Michael O’Hara. Are you confessing, then, to the killing of Bert Barnes?”
“Not a bit of it,” the other retorted. “But there’s many a man on this island who had reason to wish him harm. There were twenty-three God-fearing families waiting at the station to bury their dead on the day the first train to Achill arrived, and you want to capitalize on their grief. Have you no respect at all for the families? We’re all still here, you know.”
It suddenly became quiet. Gradually a chorus of grumbles arose from adjoining tables. “Some of my people were in those coffins,” O’Hara went on. “And I mean to stop you.”
“We’re with you, Michael!” someone called out. “Can’t you let the dead of Achill Island rest in peace?”
“Step away from me,” said Frank, his chin leading, in defiance. “I want to get by.”
“Oh, ya do, do ya?” said O’Hara, not moving. At which point everyone in the pub knew a donnybrook was at hand. A brawl is so common when the Guinness is flowing that the Irish coined a word for it.
I can’t say who threw the first punch, but in a matter of moments the floor was a battlefield. Someone shoving to get close to Frank pushed my chair over, with me in it. That brought Toby to his feet, with arms churning. The man who had pushed me went down himself, but an ally of his jumped onto Toby’s back. He must have thought Toby was a friend of Frank’s, since we had been sitting at the same table. For a minute it looked like Toby was in trouble. He tried to break the hold but couldn’t. He and his attacker halted, locked together by the force of opposing strength. Then, twisting to the left, Toby drove his right elbow into his assailant’s gut. Toby pivoted and broke free.
The Dead of Achill Island Page 6
