Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  Behind him, from inside the cave, the voice called out, “And listen! Your God claims to be ‘all-merciful,’ and he claims to be ‘all-just.’ He can’t have it both ways. To be merciful, he can’t be just. To be just, there’ll be times when he mustn’t show mercy. What’s your answer to that, old man?”

  I told you earlier that Patrick had left behind some writings, and one of his most famous works was something many of us learned in school called “Saint Patrick’s Breastplate,” a kind of a cross between a hymn and a poem. It came into his head now. His brain started to keep time with the drum, and he stood there, a glowing smile on his face, nodding his head. To the rhythm of the drum he began to speak the words of the “Breastplate.”

  “I rise this day. Through Heaven’s strength. Lit by the sun. Bathed by the moon. Gloried by fire. I have the speed of lightning. I am swift as the wind. I am deep as the sea. I am stable as the earth. I am firm as stone.”

  Suddenly, he heard from the cave a great whoosh! of sound. Still smiling, still chanting the words of the “Breastplate,” he looked back at the cave and saw that the black satin screen had disappeared. A bright orange light glowed inside, and in the entrance he could make out some shape, not quite an outline or a ghost—what I shall be content to call a shapeless shape—and it gave off a very frightening air.

  Patrick, still nodding his head to the beat of the drum, turned fully to face the cave, and now he stepped far forward.

  “God’s power will support me,” he chanted. “God’s wisdom will advise me. God’s eyes will look out for me. God’s ear will listen for me.” He walked steadily forward. At that moment, the cave went dark as coal. “God’s hand will guard me. God’s shield will protect me.”

  As fast as a cannonball, the shapeless shape hurtled past Patrick, at about head height; a strange-looking article, it looked like a flying goat.

  “I call up,” cried Patrick, “all God’s power between me and the forces of evil.”

  The wild shape got bigger—and bigger—and bigger. It flew just over the drummer’s head; the lad ducked—and the next thing that went past him was Patrick, running like the wind, extraordinary for a man his age.

  The drummer stood and watched. He saw this great, ugly creature in the sky, steaming and enraged, traveling in a southerly direction, and Patrick chasing after it so fast he nearly caught it. The drummer waved to the crowds behind him, and they began to run in pursuit. Within minutes this great colorful crowd of people began to stream across the lovely plain that lies just north of Templemore.

  At this point in the chase, Patrick seemed faster than the Devil, whose goat’s tail had changed its nature. The tail grew and grew, and eventually it became thick and strong as a bullwhip, with a point like an arrowhead on the tip.

  Yards from each other, they raced to the flat top of the mountain. Patrick reached out to grab the Devil’s tail. He caught it but had to let it go again because it was red-hot—it felt, he said afterward, like grabbing an iron from a blacksmith’s fire.

  At that, the Devil became desperate to get away. His way was blocked, so he bit a big chunk out of the mountaintop and carried it off in his mouth. Patrick, stunned at the size of the hole in the mountain, hesitated for a moment, and lost his advantage. By the time he looked up, the Devil had gone too far ahead to be caught. Patrick gave up the chase.

  Up ahead, at Cashel, the Devil stopped for a rest, and he dropped the stone out of his mouth. That stone became the Rock of Cashel, the most famous sight in Ireland. If you knocked down all the ancient buildings on the Rock, took up the stone, and hauled it back up to Templemore, it would fit exactly into the slot on the mountain they call to this day “The Devil’s Bit.”

  Lucifer—for it was he, the Fallen Angel, once God’s favorite—looked back, and he saw coming toward him across the open countryside not only Patrick but this huge crowd of happy, vividly garbed people, clapping their hands to the rhythm of the drummer. He knew he had lost, and as fast as his legs could carry him he ran to the nearest port—which was Waterford. He changed his shape into that of a gentleman and got on a boat to England, where he lives to this very day.

  And that’s the story of how Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland forever and banished the Devil to England. Some people say that explains why there has always been such trouble between England and Ireland. The Devil stirs it up.

  The Storyteller’s mouth had grown a frill of saliva, a surf on the tide of his words. Ronan saw the man grow larger in his chair as the black coat swelled to the size of a conjuror’s cloak, and all the characters in the story sprang from its folds.

  Clearly the Storyteller was making up none of this; the old man had lived in the world of his tales. He was there, on a clifftop, when the ice floes broke over the coast of Donegal. And he must have been hidden in the ferns when the bear attacked the Architect. Where was he when Dana stood at the door of the palace? In the shadows outside, near the horses? Or just inside the great doors?

  Tonight proved it. Everybody knew the Devil’s Bit; everyone in the room had seen it, and many had even climbed it. Ronan had seen it himself hundreds of times. And, of course, the Rock of Cashel adorned postcards and calendars. All true, every word—and Ronan, still sitting on his bench, sipped his bedtime milk.

  Somewhere in the midst of these delighted thoughts a new tide of unease began to swirl. It flowed from the usual source, his mother and he turned to look down the large room.

  All guests now gone, Alison looked venomous. Her mouth had tightened; she arched her neck a little; she rubbed her knuckles together. Kate’s cheeks grew rosier, and she wagged an angry finger at her sister. His father sat still as a pool, head bowed against the fierce murmurs. After a moment he rose and began to pace the floor. When he caught Ronan’s eye, he smiled and raised an eyebrow to suggest bedtime. Then, as Ronan climbed the stairs, John turned back and tried to cope again with his wife’s feral state.

  Alison O’Mara adored her husband, and he worshipped her. But their undiluted passion for each other meant that she kept getting pregnant—at increasing and serious risk to her health. Contraception did not exist: it was banned by the church, outlawed by the state, because, as every Irish Catholic knew, sex between man and wife could only have one purpose—procreation, not pleasure. That’s what the church taught and the law supported. Consequently, Alison O’Mara could not and would not use contraception, nor would she let John discuss it.

  They had only one course of action available to them—abstinence. If they abstained from each other, they committed no sin, nor did they put Alison at risk—a tough choice in a relationship founded on delighted nightly contact.

  In the early days, when Alison and John sat reading, their arms or hands or knees had always touched; sooner or later, Alison would put aside her book, lean her head on his shoulder, and doze while he stroked her hair. When she woke, she invariably smiled up at him and said, “I’m ready for bed.”

  A few times a year they went out and danced. Together they shimmered across the dance floor, glamorous, bright-eyed, perfect in each other’s time. Back at the table, even among friends, their eyes recorded only each other. More liquor, the romantic and clawing intimacy of the homeward car journey, and the playful climbing of the stairs—all helped to prime the mood and build toward heaven.

  And then the long arms of the priests and the doctors reached in and pulled them apart. Slowly they saw the ardor of their bedroom cool. Steadily, the freedom that had once delighted them was stifled. Inevitably, the erotic fun of the dance, the car, the fields, the woods, evaporated; caution hurts eros.

  As pregnancy after pregnancy failed, and all impulse was handcuffed, they tried the one remedy known to work for others. The church allowed itself a tolerance of the “safe”—i.e., infertile—period; pregnancy was assumed a risk only on certain days of the month. At first they had high hopes—but it embargoed anything sudden; where formerly they had devoured each other, asking only “How?” now they drew up calen
dars asking “Whether.” In the end they found that no regularity could be depended upon, and the sixth miscarriage almost took Alison’s life.

  Only she and her husband knew how the frustration played out in their souls—and they handled it in different ways. Where John took a resigned view, she turned to prayer and a new zeal for her faith. At every level available she became the church’s local advocate. Volunteering for parish duties, she stoked her own piety; the flowers, the cleaning, the music, the choir. She enlisted other local women to help polish the floors and furniture of her beloved God’s church. If they failed her standards, she whipped the broom from their hands and waded in deeper.

  The practical waterfront covered, Alison next commandeered moral high ground and appointed herself a protector of her community. With one hundred percent of the parish attending church on Sundays, she acquired the force of an abbess, insisting that there was an example to be set. Thus the O’Maras said nightly prayers, nominally led by a dragooned John but driven by Alison. In an open crusade she exhorted all families in the neighborhood to kneel on their farmhouse floors and finger their beads every night. Within months she could be confident, for example, that every family who came to hear the Storyteller had said a rosary before leaving home.

  This fervor made her erratic. On the one hand, Alison was first in the world to help any girl “guilty of mortal sin”—pregnant outside wedlock. Yet, of those who stigmatized such a creature—i.e., the church or its pillars—she brooked no criticism, on any level, in any form.

  Imagine, then, her view of the Storyteller on Patrick. He had mightily transgressed; “He called our national saint a sinner”; why had she not intervened?

  Kate tried to protest, “It was only a story.”

  Alison countered with, “The Bible is a story.”

  To which John said, “Dear, you can’t have it both ways. Are you dismissing the Bible as a story? Or are you supporting it? If you dismiss it, then tonight was harmless. If you support it, then tonight’s story had its own validity.”

  Alison bit hard on her lip and said, “Stop being such a bloody lawyer. I’m not dismissing the Bible. I’m merely saying that stories have their own power, especially over impressionable people. And he vilified Saint Patrick’s character. He called him a sinner.”

  Kate said to her, “What Saint Patrick did was his own business.”

  “Most certainly not!”

  “He wasn’t saying Saint Patrick was bad,” said John.

  “John, it’s our duty to cherish and defend our saints. They guide us morally through life. They are our protectors and spiritual guardians. We owe them our support.”

  “I bet Saint Patrick was bad-tempered,” said Kate. “With teeth like that.”

  “This is no time to be frivolous,” said Alison. “That man believes what he says, and he wants us to believe it. That’s my worry—the belief he creates. It’s degenerate. He’s degenerate. People have left our house thinking Saint Patrick was a deeply flawed man. And that Lucifer actually lived in this country. Here. A few miles away! The nerve of it!”

  “Some days I think he’s around still.”

  “Don’t blaspheme, Kate! He actually said sin was an asset.”

  “It was only a story,” said John. “Anyway, what do you propose we do about it?”

  “You have to talk to him in the morning. Tell him that this house fears and loves God, and we’ll not have the good name of God’s holy saints interfered with here.”

  “But this is crazy—”

  “Keep out of this, Kate! Well, will you tell him?”

  John O’Mara shrugged. “If you want me to tell him, I’ll certainly say something. But I’ve told him he can stay for the week.”

  “Well, he can’t.”

  “This is such arrant nonsense.”

  “Kate—that’s enough!”

  After which they fell silent.

  John O’Mara shrugged. “I’m not asking him to leave. You’re the one feels strongly.”

  “But you’re the head of the household, aren’t you?”

  “This is rubbish! If people knew—”

  “Kate!”

  In this sullen air they drifted apart, blowing out lamps and candles and heading, one by one, for the stairs. Ronan raced ahead of them, worried to the heart. Did this mean no more stories?

  He awoke later than usual; his father had not called him. Josie Hogan made breakfast, singing as ever and blinking behind her owl’s glasses.

  “Where are they all?”

  “Your father’s gone to work.”

  “Already?”

  “So’s Kate.”

  “Where’s Mama.”

  “In the land of dreams,” said Josie.

  “Did you see any sign of—”

  Josie shook her head.

  “Not hide nor hair. Wasn’t he good last night?”

  “D’you believe him, Josie?”

  “About the Devil’s Bit? ’Course I do.”

  In the barn the Storyteller’s boots stood like monuments at the bottom of the stair. He reached in, touched them, and exhaled in relief. The old man wasn’t gone—he must be staying.

  But by the time he got to school, he began to worry afresh. The Storyteller had no one at the house to protect him from another attack. Should he go home? If only he could slip out…

  Miss Burke looked preoccupied. Ronan clambered from his desk and made for the door—no good.

  “Ronan O’Mara. No toilet break until half past ten.”

  With a swerving finger Miss Burke directed him back to his desk.

  Alison had seen Ronan leave for school. She had long been dressed, waiting for a clear coast. Downstairs she sent Josie to the barn with a tray of breakfast—and instructions to tell the Storyteller to come to the house when he had eaten.

  An hour later, she received him in the parlor. Immaculately groomed, severe as a lady in an old photograph, she said, “Close the door, please.”

  He stood before her with his hat in his hand and his fear on his face. And he recoiled as Alison went straight in.

  “You mentioned Italy last night. How did you come to live in Italy?”

  He straightened up, a little surprised, and composed his answer as firmly as a man expecting praise.

  “Irish College in Rome, ma’am. Six and a half years.”

  But she struck with the speed of a snake.

  “A spoiled priest?”—the scathing term for a failed seminarian.

  The Storyteller defended.

  “Spoiled, yes, ma’am. By all these lovely people up and down the country listening to me through the years. Priest—no. And never would be.”

  “So if you failed to go through, how can you presume to speak about Saint Patrick?”

  “Probably, ma’am, because he, like me, was one of God’s creatures. And he’s my native saint, too.”

  Whatever the bravery of his face, his soul felt as thin as a playing card.

  He could never have won. With a disdaining finger and thumb Alison handed him an envelope. He stood back, unwilling to take it, and she thrust it until he gave in.

  “Please go. We can’t have blasphemers in this parish.”

  “No, ma’am, no, I’m no blasphemer—”

  “You’ll not undermine what we stand for here. Go. And go now.”

  “Ma’am—your husband, there’s an understanding—”

  “My husband’s not here. Do I need to summon help?” said Alison.

  Her viciousness chilled him. He wheeled around and left abruptly, never looking back. In his wake she winced in every bone at the hurt she knew Ronan would feel.

  From his desk Ronan could see part of the village street. The man swept past the gate, walking like a machine, and Ronan shot out of the classroom—too fast for Miss Burke.

  “Sir! Wait!”

  The boy ran headlong, and the Storyteller guessed who called him. Still racked by Alison’s force, he held up his hands as though to ward Ronan off; then he walked ev
en faster. In a moment the steepness of the hill would hide him from the village and the shame.

  At the top of the slope Ronan caught up. The Storyteller’s stride was too fast, and he longed to grab the frayed, black sleeve, but his nerve failed. For a moment the old man glanced down at the boy, and then he looked away again, as though he dare not engage. He began to talk, more to himself than to Ronan.

  “I’ve been well treated. She gave me money. It’s all right!” He ended each sentence with a whimper, a kind of upward Nnnnh. Then he paused and said again, “She gave me money.”

  “You can’t go! I’ll tell my father!”

  That was always Ronan’s greatest threat—but the Storyteller pressed on. However, his head had lifted a little, even if his face still bore anguish.

  “Your father’s a decent man.”

  “He’ll want to know where you are. And what’m I going to tell my aunt?”

  On the narrow country road the tall man strode ever faster while he tried to shake off the blond boy running by his side.

  Ronan sprinted several yards ahead and turned so that he could look at the Storyteller’s face. But he then had to trot backward, because the man would not slow down. In the distance another figure appeared on the slope. Deirdre Mullen, a girl from the senior classes, had been sent by Miss Burke to fetch Ronan back to school; she held out his coat.

  Ronan renewed his plea.

  “Please stop! Please come back home with me! Sir?!”

  On the previous night, as he lay in bed after the Patrick story, Ronan had come near to panic. What if he lost the Storyteller forever? The man had become his personal wizard, had taken Ronan into his magic life. An arched eyebrow, a little nod that others never saw—he made Ronan feel he had traveled across the globe to these fields, to this village, to the O’Mara fireside, just to meet him. Now, on the pillow, he decided: If Mama sends him away—run away with him! Become his apprentice. Learn how to tell stories. After all, the man promised to teach him.