Ireland

by Frank Delaney

  As long as Milo de Cogan and Raymond the Fat were around, Strongbow could be sure that things would remain reasonably safe and level. But soon another problem arose.

  Word began to reach King Henry the Second of England that Strongbow had done very well for himself in Ireland. He had taken Dublin, become king of Leinster, married an heiress, and repelled all invaders. Not only that, it seemed as if he had used his Norman army to extend his reach.

  Henry had difficulties himself trying to rule England and at the same time keep an eye to his dominions in France. The last thing he wanted or needed was the island to the west of him in control of someone he hadn’t treated very well. He remembered that the pope had asked him to make the Irish bishops behave themselves, and he took this excuse out of his cupboard, spruced it up a bit, and set forth for Ireland.

  By the time he arrived here in October of eleven-seventy-one, he had thought out a shrewd approach. His informers had told him that the Irish chieftains were afraid of the Norman barons, who were making raids all the time and seizing their land. So Henry set himself up as the savior of the native Irish.

  That was how he got control of both sides. Strongbow had no choice but to offer homage to his king, who, by the way, had come with a large army. “Speak softly,” it is said, “but carry a big stick.” In return, Henry told Strongbow that he could stay king of Leinster for as long as he lived. When most of the other Irish kings and chieftains saw Henry’s power, they agreed to offer their loyalty to him too. He allowed them to keep their land but now, for the first time, they were answerable to an English king, not an Irish one.

  In the six months that he stayed here, Henry effectively made himself king of Ireland, and by the time he went back in eleven-seventy-two, we were changed for ever. Bit by bit, Henry doled out Irish land to Norman generals like Milo de Cogan. The Irish chieftains and kings resisted the loss of their land, but the truth was the power of old Irish kingship was over.

  Strongbow lived for another four years. He died in June eleven-seventy-six, and they buried him in a great funeral at Christchurch Cathedral in Dublin, where you can see his tomb to this very day. His kingdom of Leinster was given to Henry’s son, John, who annoyed the Irish chieftains—for some reason he derived great amusement from the length and shape of their beards, and they thought him disrespectful. In time he became King John, and thereafter English kings and their sons and daughters ruled Ireland until we got them out of most of the country after the rebellion of nineteen-sixteen.

  We’re all taught to think that history happened a long time ago—as if “that was then,” so to speak. I don’t find it to be the case. When I’m in a place that has had a strong history, it’s the same to me as if it happened yesterday. And that’s what makes my life so interesting—everywhere you go in Ireland, there’s a vivid piece of history; it’s the great advantage of being born in a small and storied land. I think of Strongbow when I’m in Wexford and Waterford, and I especially think of him when I’m in the city of Dublin. And I see a man who carried himself and his sword well, whose shining helmet had a tongue of metal that came down and covered his nose, and whose wife looked up at him with adoring eyes.

  And that’s my story for you tonight.

  The technician switched off the tape machine; Ronan stood up; Kate clapped her hands in applause.

  “The coincidence,” she said to Mr. O’Sullivan. “He’s studying that period.”

  Ronan weighed in.

  “D’you know his name?

  “Is he still traveling?

  “Where is he now? Or when was he last seen?”

  For nine years he had been asking the same driven questions.

  The Director walked away, then said over his shoulder, “Did you know that the park of Saint Stephen’s Green was given to the city of Dublin by the Guinness brewery? Wasn’t that a most decent gesture?”

  “Where did he go?” Ronan raised his voice. “Did you pay him? We could trace him that way.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan said, “All folklore contributions are voluntary. Do you know the origin of the word lore, as in folklore? It comes from the word learn, and here’s a theory. Generally learn is regarded as a word from northern European, old German, and the likes; those isles around Frisia generated a trunkful of language.”

  The Director’s neat hands ushered them from the room, while he spoke fast to fill every space.

  “But I have a friend who says it comes from the Latin word lira, which means a furrow in the field, and that learn derived from lira because we furrow our brows when learning.”

  Taking control, Kate said, “Do we have any way of tracing the gentleman?”

  Ronan chipped in, “Of finding out who he is?”

  The director did not wish to seem rude.

  “Give my best to your father, will you? I believe he knows the gentleman, doesn’t he?”—and he eased away from them.

  On the street outside, Kate said, “Wasn’t that something?”

  They walked silently home, side by side. The quiet mood between them continued until they had finished supper.

  “You’re very quiet,” Kate said. “Speak.”

  Ronan pushed back his chair. He sent a hand across his hair, took a breath.

  “Listen. The night he came to the house. You weren’t there, that first night, Halloween. He walked in as though—as though he came from the Far East. Somewhere exotic. His face was a sort of yellow white. And I remember his hands were so cold and bony—God! Hearing that tape now. It brought it all back.”

  “I remember how you cried,” she said, “the day he left. We were so worried about you.”

  Ronan pressed on.

  “He came into the kitchen. Dad welcomed him. Mother was displeased but tried not to show it—she made him a meal. He had shaken my hand in the hall, and I was afraid to let my hand touch anything in case the magic was rubbed off. Do you believe in predestination?”

  “Oh, my!” said Kate. “What a question. I’d need a week to answer that.”

  “But do you believe in it?”

  “Your reason for asking would help me to answer.”

  “Well—I know this is crazy. But I believe that I have—that I was born to have—some connection with that man. I mean, some important connection. I’m not talking about something easy, like meeting him again. There’s something more.”

  She said nothing; knew enough to let him talk.

  “Kate, you’ll think I’m a lunatic.”

  She shook her head. Ronan put his hands to his face, passionate with youth.

  “When he came through our door, he already knew I lived there. I know he knew. I know it. And—this is the crazy part. I felt as though he had come for me—as though he wanted me to do something for him.”

  Kate remained level, nodding and watching.

  Ronan shook his head. “Mad, isn’t it? This—this ‘thing’ that I feel he wanted me to do—it’s protective in some way. But how can a boy of nine, as I was then, protect a man as old as that?”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have felt it unless it had some truth,” said Kate.

  “It got worse. All along the line, every time I drew close to him—every time I met someone who had contact with him—the feeling was reinforced. There’s nobody else in the world would understand this except you.” Ronan stood, hands clasped behind his head. “And one other thing. Did you see today how the director deflected my question about the Storyteller’s whereabouts?”

  Kate said lightly, “He has excellent tact”—and they laughed.

  “But everybody behaves like that. In that same way. If I ask a direct question about where I might find the man, nobody answers me. Even Dad’s the same.”

  “When you say, ‘in that same way,’ is there a pattern? You know how keen your father is on observing patterns.”

  “Yes! Either they evade the question, or they deflect me with some interesting titbit. That O’Callaghan woman—she never answered. Barry Hanafin glared at me. Dad told me abou
t the twelve days of Christmas, the carol, you know, ‘my true love gave to me.’ And this man today told us about the Guinness brewery and Stephen’s Green and then about the word lore. It’s as if they’re all trying to throw me off the scent.”

  “Or,” said Kate, as though speculating, “acknowledging that they weren’t in a position to tell you. If they knew. Which they might or might not. And yet they don’t wish to be ill-mannered. In fact, if they wanted to throw you off the scent—as you suspect—they did so by honoring you very sweetly. They could have told you lies. Or they could have told you to mind your own business.”

  “Yeah, they could.”

  Dear Kate,

  Your sister is in the bath hosing herself down, I hear her singing! Josie has gone after another day of work avoidance, and I’m sitting here writing to you and Ronan. They say that it’s unmanly to speak what you feel, we’re supposed to keep what the English call “a stiff upper lip,” but hell’s bells, I miss you both.

  Are you well? How is Ronan faring? Do you think he has stopped growing yet? I didn’t until I was twenty-two. And is he eating well? And not staying out too late at night? Do you think there’s any danger he’ll turn into a drinker? So many students do, but I know you’ll keep an eye on him. I hope he won’t be a burden to you.

  Is there any chance of you coming down soon? There’s a big surprise here, but I won’t tell you what it is until you’re here. The house is empty without the two of you. Tell Ronan I found a good secondhand edition of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall in a shop in Limerick. Let me know if you’d like to come down, and I’ll organize train tickets, etc.

  With affection, John.

  “What d’you think’s the big surprise?”

  “A new car?” said Kate.

  “No. It’s something else—I wonder what it is.”

  John talked a great deal, very hearty and fond; he laughed at Ronan’s version of Bartlett Ryle.

  “What’s the surprise, Dad? We thought it’d be a new car.”

  “You’ll have to wait and see. With the emphasis on see.”

  Alison looked preoccupied—and exhausted—but denied that she was. She had prepared lavishly, as though for special visitors. Ronan’s experiences at college dominated the meal.

  “Okay,” said Kate at last. “We’ve waited long enough. What is this surprise, where is it?”

  John led them to a small sitting room that Alison used as a study.

  “Take a good look. And in point of fact, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  He flung back the door. In the corner of the room stood a tall wooden cabinet like a polished icon.

  “They’ve started test transmissions.” He tugged cables, twisted switches, opened doors. The television screen glowed blue and then fizzled with snow. Soon an image materialized, bumping and shimmering. “We’ll leave it on for a while.”

  They sat there, John, Kate, and Ronan.

  “Look at us,” said John. “Watching nothing happening. We’ll try again tomorrow night. They say there’s fog coming in. That’s always good for viewing, a foggy night. We can get the BBC very clearly from Wales.”

  At midnight, Ronan heard whispers on the staircase; was it an argument? He climbed out of bed and peeped. Kate and John stood outside Kate’s door; her head rested on John’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair repeatedly.

  “No, no. It’ll be all right,” he said over and over. Ronan barely made out the words. “It’ll be all right, it will, I assure you, it’ll all work out.”

  Ronan knew from her shoulders that Kate was deeply upset.

  John stepped away, his hand resting briefly on her cheek. Kate chewed her own hand and wiped her tears.

  “Kate, it’ll be all right, it’ll be all right.”

  One more time John stroked her hair and her face, walked upstairs, came back, and held out his arms. She leaned in to him and seemed helpless. He left her again—and closed his bedroom door behind him.

  Kate slumped against the wall of the landing. In her doorway she hesitated, then turned and tiptoed the few steps to Ronan’s ajar door. He raced back to bed. She came into the room and stood beside him. Ronan pretended sleep. She put her hands on his hair and stroked and stroked, then returned to her own room. Ronan never moved—and lay awake for hours, fear in his stomach like a weight.

  Saturday felt brittle. John told many jokes; Alison disappeared repeatedly—into her room, the garden, down the lane. Ronan studied. Kate and John had quiet conversations that suddenly brightened out into innocuous topics when Ronan came upon them. He wanted to ask, “What’s up?” but he dreaded the answer.

  After supper, Ronan poured drinks for all—and himself: a small whiskey.

  Kate never ceased fidgeting, smoothing skirt or blouse, turning an endless lock of hair in her fingers. Her eyes returned again and again to John and Ronan.

  “Have you ever seen such a resemblance between a father and son?”

  Alison nodded.

  “Poor boy,” said John. “Going to look like a bloodhound.”

  “Dad, I don’t like whiskey much.”

  John said, “That’s probably good news.” He went to the door. “Did anyone see if there’s fog? We might be lucky with the television signal.”

  “Dad, there was fog last night too.”

  John led the way to the television room. This time a picture clarified, and they watched a man talking to sheep farmers.

  “I saw this once or twice—this makes a good show,” said John. “They go to Wales and to Scotland and to the north of Ireland. ‘The Regions,’ they call it.”

  Ronan picked up something in his father’s tone, and felt an excitement rise. Was something going on here, something about which his father had prior knowledge?

  The scene changed. Over pictures of a river, the announcer said, “And now to our Northern Ireland region. Everyone knows the Irish like to talk. And such yarns as they spin, enchanting us with their shamrocks and leprechauns and their gift of the gab. Our Belfast studios have been speaking to a man who spends his life spouting the blarney. He’s a traveling storyteller; we caught up with him in country Londonderry, where he was persuaded to tell a tale or two by my Ulster colleague, Sam Hanna Bell.”

  Ronan jumped up. “Dad! Did you know?!”

  “Shhhhhhh,” said John, wagging a finger.

  Two men sat on a whitewashed wall. The image waxed and waned in gentle surges.

  “How long have you been living this life?” said Sam Hanna Bell in his earnest tweed jacket.

  The Storyteller said, “I took to the road in nineteen-twelve.”

  “Goodness. That’s forty-eight years of walking. How many miles, d’you think?”

  “I used to know. But as I get older, the notion daunts me, and I prefer to think of myself as like one of those acrobats in a circus—you know, the ones that walk on a big ball and keep it spinning under them and never fall off. That’s what I’m like—I’m walking on a big ball, this Earth of ours. And so far I’ve not fallen off.”

  “And where do you get your stories from?”

  “From the woods. From the mist on a hill in the dawn. From a curling wave out at sea that’s coming to the shore.”

  “In other words,” said Sam Hanna Bell, “from your imagination?”

  “From a world that thinks a story is the most important thing man has. That’s where my stories come from.”

  “And the one you’re going to tell us now?”

  “This is a true story—because the imagination doesn’t distinguish between true and false.”

  “Well, sir,” said Sam Hanna Bell, “we’ll all sit back and listen to you.”

  The camera glided closer to the Storyteller’s face; he looked directly into the lens—and thus into Ronan’s eyes.

  HERE IN IRELAND, WE’VE RECEIVED MOST OF our inner riches from Mother Nature. In olden days, the monks in the abbeys made art from natural matters. They were inspired by the sights they saw every day—a rabbit leaving its bur
row; a fox running across a hillside with its red brush of a tail streaming out behind it; a horse standing in a field, its back to the rain; a hawk making its point far up in the sky. And even their painting materials also came from the nonhuman world—bird’s feathers and colors from the earth.

  So: all our expression, all our means of saying what’s in our souls, came first from the universe that we see every day all around us, out under the air. We were not alone in this. For example, man made his first music from blowing air through reed pipes and kept rhythm by tapping a stick on another stick.

  But here in Ireland we made music from one very unusual source. It’s our greatest musical instrument, it’s very contrary to play, and it had its roots in the sea. This is the story of how we invented—the harp.

  Once upon a time, before swans learned to swim and before bears wore fur coats, the wife of Breffni O’Rourke, a Sligo chieftain, liked to walk the sands at Rosses’ Point. She enjoyed looking out over the Atlantic, hoping to see whatever glories might lie far away to the west. As she walked, she listened to the crawk of the gulls, the hiss of the tide, the ocean’s hush.

  One morning, however, she heard a new sound. It was strange and wondrous, it was melody so tinkling and beautiful, she thought she must capture it forever. She looked around to see where it came from—but nobody walked near her; the sands stretched white and empty, and she could not find the source of these harmonies.

  It was all very peculiar. The noise grew louder and then fainter and then louder and then fainter. She asked herself, What comes and goes, and then comes again and then goes again? After a moment’s thought, she found the answer rising in her brain—the wind! The wind comes and goes, and comes again and goes again. So the Lady Breffni looked in the direction the wind was coming from, and she found the source of the glittering tunes.