Chatty Myrtle climbed out and stood beside him, almost a foot smaller. “It was the Nine Years’ War, wasn’t it? Home economics is what I teach, not history. Where are you from?”
Ronan told her. She said, “Is this your first time up here? Because if it is, we’d better get going. If the police or the army come, they’ll have questions for you.”
“Why?”
“Ah, why? Why anything?” Her style had too much force to be called enigmatic, but she gave no fuller answer, returned to the car, and revved the engine.
He watched the line of the river until they lost it. “Is the border along here?”
“Is a pig fat? It certainly is! My uncle says he’s going to write a song called ‘The Particular Peculiarities of the Irish Border.’ I don’t think we’ll hear it being whistled. But I like his point. I mean, if you look at that church—see that wee spire on the hill over there?” Myrtle O’Farrell’s bosom kept her at a distance from the steering wheel (and most things in life). “There’s a Protestant clergyman, he’s a nice man, especially for a Protestant, he preaches every Sunday morning from the pulpit in that church. And he’s on this side of the border, in the Six Counties of Northern Ireland. But the flock of the faithful, to whom he’s preaching—aren’t they sitting on their backsides in their pews down south in the Republic, in the Free State? And why? ’Cause the border runs straight through the church. Did you ever hear anything so nonsensical?”
Ronan twisted in his seat to look. “Is there no dividing line? Nothing by which you can tell?”
Myrtle O’Farrell’s jowl wobbled with agitation. “They don’t need one—the border’s in people’s heads. Although it hits other parts of them too. There’s a man teaches in the same school as me—he sleeps in the Six Counties, and his wife sleeps in the Free State, the Republic. And they’re both in the same bed. He always says they had to start an invasion to have children.”
The hedges were high and the sun low, as the Storyteller’s chronicle described. Ronan watched for deer but saw none. Myrtle O’Farrell asked no further questions—she ran entirely on her own fuel and talked endlessly of nothing in particular. Soon she turned off the road down a sharp slope into a cottage yard.
“This is Uncle Bob’s house—our family all has English names, Robert and Myrtle, my brother is called Charles, and my father is called Nigel. I never understood why; we’re as Irish as wet grass.”
An elderly man came to the door, wearing a gray knitted waistcoat and gray tweed pants. He greeted his niece with a yell and said, “Is this a husband you have here?”
“What am I, Uncle Bob, a baby-snatcher?”
In the kitchen the man fastened on Ronan.
“That’s a southern accent. What’re you up to?”
Ronan said, “I’m looking for a man who tells stories.”
“Every man tells stories,” said Uncle Bob.
“And every woman,” said Myrtle.
“Are you sure that’s what you’re after?” Uncle Bob looked suspicious. “Because you’re just about the right age for trouble.”
“Trouble?” said Ronan.
“You’re very innocent-looking. I’m not sure about you. You’re a long way from home.”
“I’d say he’s all right,” said Myrtle. “Are you all right?” She unpacked clean laundry from a large shopping-bag.
“I think so,” said Ronan.
Uncle Bob narrowed his red-rimmed eyes further. “Don’t you know what’s going on up here?”
“I know there’s been trouble from time to time.”
“Is that all you know? Well, I’ll tell you what you should know. For the last five years there’s been an IRA campaign all along the border. You people in the south—you know nothing. Fat as fools down there, while we get it in the neck. The IRA attacks barracks and policemen, they kill people when they can, close up if they’re able, and just because we’re Catholics, we get blamed. That’s the kind of thing you should know, isn’t it?”
Ronan said, “I sort of knew it.”
Myrtle had unpacked food from the car. She poured three glasses of milk. “Uncle Bob has an ulcer, that’s why the milk.”
“Do you hate England?”
Ronan sat back from the question and the ferocity of Uncle Bob’s eyes.
“I—I suppose I don’t know.”
“Well, you should know. I love my country—that’s Ireland, by the way, even though I live inside the English part of it—but I don’t hate England. Sure, I believe she has no rights here nor ever had. She should have left a long time ago and let us sort it all out between us. Do you think about these things?”
“I’m only a history student.”
“History? Begod, I’m your man. Did you know that this border, out there across the lower field—it wasn’t the first partition of Ireland.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No, it was by no means not. I’ll tell you what was the first division of Ireland. It came from the time the people who worshipped the goddess Danu was hammered by the Milesians—d’you know about the Milesians?”
“A race of mighty men taller than Roman spears,” quoted Ronan.
“Hah! You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking. Up from Spain they came thousands of years ago, thousands. And they had spears, whereas the Danu people only had spells. And a spell is like your arse—it has its uses, but not in a fight.”
“I said you came to the right house,” said Myrtle.
“And when the Spanish defeated them, they made a treaty, and the Milesians took all of Ireland above the ground, and the Danu took all below the ground, where they are living still—that was the first political division of Ireland. Did you know that?”
“We were taught it at school,” said Ronan.
“And did you never think to question that you were taught as a historical fact that people live like sprites under the ground of Ireland?”
“No,” said Ronan.
“Why would you?” Uncle Bob began to chant. “What country could be better than this land where the sun sets so beautifully? Who, but I, can find the clear springs of water here? And who, outside of me, can tell you how old the moon is? Who, other than me, can summon the fish from the ocean’s deeps?” He clapped his hands to applaud himself. “D’you know what that is? That’s the song of Amergin, the first conqueror of Ireland, who burst into song when he landed at Belfast. America was called after him.”
“Uncle Bob, drink that milk while ’tis fresh. And it was Kenmare he landed at, the other end of us altogether. And America wasn’t called after him, it was called after a fellow called Amerigo Vespucci.”
“Leave me alone, I’m enjoying myself.” Uncle Bob turned to Ronan. “You see—if you listen to me, you’ll soon learn that we don’t need to fight, because we’re the greatest talkers in the world. We can argue, cajole, wheedle, like no other nation on earth; we can charm the birds off the bushes. And why isn’t this remarkable power stronger than the gun? Because we talk too much.”
Myrtle winked at Ronan. “Some of us do.”
Ronan said, “Have you heard of a king of Ulster who had two horses, one black and one white?”
“No,” said Uncle Bob, taking out his dentures and polishing them on his sleeve. “And he could only ride one at a time anyway. But the kings of Ulster lived on that hill outside the door—that’s Navan Fort, where all the power was.”
Ronan stayed at Uncle Bob’s that night, in a tiny whitewashed room with a patchwork quilt. Myrtle made him breakfast and said if he wanted to climb the hill of Navan Fort, she’d wait for him and take him back down across the border again.
He stood on the highest point, where he hoped to imagine a king driving a chariot with a black horse and a white, and a blacksmith with hair like a nest of little black snakes.
She came from the west, he reflected; her name was Dana—and he looked westward. Trees and poor visibility defeated any possible view, and he had to content himself with believing that time had shrunken
the earthen mound to less than palatial size. As he left, he puzzled again over that story of the king and the two horses. What was its place in the history of Ireland?
Myrtle dropped him back on the banks of the Blackwater. Ronan spent two more days there, walking, reconnoitering, making notes; he stood under trees during showers; he watched the sun tip gold into the river; he peered at the ground, hoping to find the ancient mantraps. Once or twice he regretted not having his transcription of the Yellow Ford story, written down in the quiet days after the funeral, with him. But he remembered it well and did not leave the area until he knew he had likely covered every yard of the battlefield.
He stayed at Uncle Bob’s the next night too and listened to stories of ancient invaders or wild chieftains or local disputes about land—plus an occasional burst of polemic; “England has the worst cooks in the world,” and “Did you know Churchill was drunk the entire length of the war?” and “I heard a man argue one night that the queen of England is secretly a Catholic.”
But Uncle Bob suffered a drawback to his own powers of argument—he kept falling asleep. On both nights Ronan went to bed, leaving the old man snoring by the fire. Before he left on the third day, he finally managed to ascertain that Uncle Bob had never met nor heard of the Storyteller.
For the next leg of his journey Ronan combined yet another careful reading of the recent chronicle with the memory of a powerful tale heard.
“Is this the home of Mr. and Mrs. Kevin MacKenna?” he said to the woman who answered the door of a bungalow in Cootehill.
She looked at him. “Kevin!”
The man who answered her call had eyebrows like frightened shrubs.
“Hallo,” he said, nothing more, as he walked to his own front door and looked at Ronan.
“There was a recording made here some time ago. About Strongbow.”
“Who?” said Mrs. MacKenna.
“Strongbow.”
“Oh, that fella? Come in.” She looked at her husband. “When were we talking about Strongbow?”
Ronan recited: “Sunday the nineteenth of July, nineteen fifty-nine, at nine-thirty P.M.”
Mrs. MacKenna said to her husband, “Oh, yeah. We were, too. Dan was here.”
“Aye,” said Mr. MacKenna.
Ronan recited again, “The recordist on behalf of the Irish Folklore Commission is Daniel P. Kelly.”
“That’s my brother Dan,” said Mrs. MacKenna.
“Aye,” said Mr. MacKenna.
“And that’s how the recording happened,” she told Ronan. “My brother Dan.”
“I’m looking for the man who told the story.”
“He’s not here. But he could be any day—he said to me that whenever he was anywhere in the county Cavan, he’d make a beeline for us. The children love him, and I make him a big breakfast always. He’s very fond of eggs.”
“Aye,” said Mr. MacKenna. “He’s fond of eggs.”
Ronan said, “When did you last see him?”
“He was here in November.”
“And did he give any indication of what his future plans might be?”
“No, and he was complaining that the health was letting him down a bit—he was a bit bronickle, he said he’d a touch of a rattle in the chest. The only thing he said was that he might have to go down south for a funeral, but he wasn’t sure.”
“A funeral?”
“That’s all he said.”
“I met him at a funeral in December.”
“You’re more recent than us, then.”
“Over the years—how often did he come here?”
“Oh, a lot. He was very friendly with Kevin’s father, Kevin’s father had a lot of stories. That’s how Dan came into it—Dan has an electrical shop in the town.”
“Aye,” said Mr. MacKenna. “An electrical shop.”
Daniel P. Kelly said, before Ronan could speak, “I haven’t it ready yet. It’ll be Tuesday.”
Ronan looked at him. “I—”
Daniel P. Kelly said, “Is it a repair you’re calling for?”
“No. I was speaking to Mrs. MacKenna. Your sister.”
“Oh. Tess. Yeah.” Daniel P. Kelly said, “She’s good, Tess.”
“I was wondering whether—I believe you recorded stories.”
“Ah. Now I have you. Most of the stuff I sent to Dublin, the folklore people. Is that what you’re after?”
“What I really want,” said Ronan, “is—there’s a man I’m looking for. The story about Strongbow.”
Daniel P. Kelly lit up. “Him! Oh, he’s massive! A massive person altogether, he has massive stories.”
“Do you have any more tapes of him?”
“No—well, yeah, I do, I have one—no, maybe I don’t, all his stuff goes to Dublin—but the recording on one tape, that’s how I got into it, I have up-to-the-minute tape recorders here. And one tape went bad on me, it came off, I got a lot of the story, but you can’t send out a thing like that.”
“May I hear any tape you have?” said Ronan. “I’m collecting that gentleman’s stories.”
Daniel P. Kelly went into the back room of his shop and emerged with a large green and cream machine. It had a lightning flash in front, a manufacturer’s symbol, and great square buttons.
“I’ve a tape here somewhere,” he said and searched a shelf laden with unopened mail, much of it very old. He drew out a red-and-black box marked BASF, slotted the spool on the machine, and threaded the tape. Daniel P. Kelly pressed the button, and the sound “wowed” into life. The recording had evidently missed the first few words, and the harsh, short-voweled voice began in mid-sentence.
Ronan opened his notebook—but this voice was different.
“That’s not the same man.”
“No, that’s my sister’s father-in-law.”
“Do you have any recordings of the gentleman I mean?”
“Well, I do and I don’t.” Ronan looked puzzled, and Daniel P. Kelly said, “I mean—I have a tape of him that there’s nothing on, he spoke into it but it didn’t take down his voice. There’s a story on this one, though. Here y’are.”
…nO SHORTAGE OF GHOSTS, BECAUSE what’s a ghost? A ghost is no more and no less than a spectral apparition from another time and place.
Well, the story I’m going to tell you is about a very strange kind of ghost that was seen many times not far from here, near the village of Ballycarron, where as we all know there’s a big convent. But the convent has nothing to do with this story, although it could one day, who knows? And by the way, the same thing has happened in Yorkshire and in France and in the county Clare and in east Limerick. Which is important to know—because there’s always naysayers who deny these things, and around here they claim this coach wasn’t a true thing at all, and that we have it because that American fellow, Edgar Allan Poe—his family come from near here, and didn’t he have a big thing with ghosts and stuff like that? So this is the story of the Black Hearse of Ballycarron, and it happened first in the year seventeen-forty.
There was a family near that village who I’ll keep nameless, only because their descendants are still scattered around the place, and some of them aren’t very pleasant people. Nor were their ancestors, who were given a fine parcel of land after the Battle of the Boyne. They got eight farms rolled together, and eight families were thrown out on the roadside to make way for these people, who came here from the island to the east of us, I won’t say what part they came from. Anyway, they came in, and they built a fine house with grand windows and a big curving staircase and an avenue a mile long. In this story, the avenue is more important than the staircase, although that plays its part too.
Like all foreign landowners in Ireland at that time, they employed the local people at next to no wages. But some of the servants became so important to them that they looked after them better than others. This offended many, especially a man called John Philbin, who had long sideburns down to nearly under his chin, mutton chops, they’re called. He was one of the farm s
tewards on the estate, and he was very good with the animals—he could always tell if a cow was going to be sick or why a horse was lame.
Like many men with skills, John Philbin thought he should get paid more than anyone else, only he had no gift of making himself liked. And when he heard that the chief butler, a foolish sort of a man but very pleasant and cheerful, was getting bigger money, John Philbin got very cross. One morning he approached the man of the house, and he said to him in his gruff way, “I’m worth a lot more wages than that fool you have polishing your knives and forks.”
The man of the house liked neither the words nor the tone in which they were delivered; John Philbin had a habit of coming right up to anyone he was speaking to and looming into the person’s face. Which he did that morning. What happened next tells you something about the treatment of servants in those days. The squire stepped back, owing to John Philbin’s face up against his.
“How dare you?” he shouted, and he called to two other of his workmen fixing a wall near at hand. “Grab this man and hold him.”
The two men didn’t want to, but they had wives and families to feed, and so they grabbed John Philbin—whom they didn’t much like anyway. While they held him, the squire horsewhipped him with a big whip—he ripped the clothes off his back with the force of the lash. I suppose he must have given him about forty or so strokes—a weaker man might have died.
When the squire finished, John Philbin stood back.
“Thank you, sir,” he said to the squire, but there was a strange light in his eyes as he said it. “I’ll see to it that in my gratitude to you, the carriage will come for you on time.”
I should point out here that this story is often called “The Ballycarron Carriage.”
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