by Charles Egan
‘Or the worst, you mean. I’d suggest you follow where your brother’s been, then you’ll understand Luke, and you’ll understand what happened in the mountains, and what’s still happening there. Follow the lines of the Famine Roadworks. Go from here to Ardnagrena, then up to Lisnadee. You could go over to Knocklenagh too. Ask for Timothy Durcan; he worked with Luke the same way as John Gallagher did. He’ll show you where to go – up the mountains above Knocklenagh – Benstreeva, Teenashilla, Burrenabawn, and Croghancoe. All the mud villages right across those mountains, that’s where the dying was done. In the villages, and on the Roadworks.’
‘So what happened the roads after?’ Pat asked.
‘We had to leave off any that were not complete. Lisnadee – we finished that, and even the road to Ardnagrena, they got the base of the road down so it can be finished easy enough when Castlebar has money again. But it’s the roads up the mountains – the ones going over to Teenashilla and Burrenabawn, we never got a chance of finishing those. Some of the roads got as far as the lower villages in the mountains, but sure what use was that? There’s no one living in them anymore, so the roads ended up going nowhere. Another few years, and the cabins will have melted into the ground with no sign that anyone ever lived there at all.’
‘And the people?’
‘The most of them died. The fever was terrible in those parts. The snows too, some of the villages on Croghancoe were cut off for weeks and buried under snow. In most of them, not one person lived. But even where some were left, when they heard of free passage on ships leaving from Sligo, they all walked over – men, women and children.’
‘I know,’ Pat said. ‘I’d heard of that. Lord Palmerston, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. Some kind of government fellow in London, I believe. He was trying to clear his Sligo estate, all around Cliffony and Mullaghmore. No money in tenants now. The story was that the families from Croghancoe and Teenashilla and Burrenabawn mixed in with the Palmerston tenants in Sligo Dock, and nobody noticed them. Not that there were many of them left by the time they got to Sligo. And the voyage to Quebec was terrible.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said. ‘I’d heard tell of that too. The Ashburton…’
‘A hundred dead on that bloody ship, they say. It was just as bad on all the others. And the Carrick of Whitehaven sank.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Oh God is right. As if there were a God.’
‘I don’t know,’ Pat said, not wishing to talk about it. If a priest did not believe, could he?
‘And this Palmerston fellow,’ Father Nugent went on, ‘what a great fellow he is too. I was reading it in the Tyrawly Herald the other day, how he believes in freedom for all the nations of Europe. They can have their revolutions, but Ireland can’t, and the only freedom his tenants have is the freedom to die. A godly man, no doubt.’
Pat closed his notebook.
‘I’ll have to go where you’re telling me so,’ he said. ‘Lisnadee and the rest.’
‘I suppose you’d better,’ Father Nugent said, ‘but ’tis getting late, and you’d best wait for morning. I’d go with you tomorrow, but I’ve too many visits to be making around here. They’re all looking for Extreme Unction and even here, I can’t get to every one of them. But before you sleep…’
He took a bottle and two cups from the cupboard.
‘…have some of this.’
Pat tasted it.
‘Poitín.’
‘Yes, it’ll warm you a bit. Now I don’t know how long you’ll be travelling, I’ll be travelling the lowlands myself over the next day or two, and then up to Knocklenagh. So what we should do is this – if the both of us ask after one another, we’ll be sure to meet, somewhere around Knocklenagh perhaps. No matter where we go, either of us, there’ll be people will see us.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Pat.
He slept in the priest’s house that night. The next morning, he attended mass in the tiny church. Even for a weekday, there were very few people, most of them women wearing ragged shawls and shifts.
*
He left Brockagh. Sometimes people came walking against him. He asked one family where they were going, and was told they were to meet Father Nugent in Brockagh in the hope that he might give them money to emigrate. Pat knew there was no chance of that.
Some of the houses on the road were still occupied, smoke from turf fires spiralling out from their chimneys, or from the front doors of the tiny cabins with no chimneys.
He stopped by a cabin with no smoke. Curious, he knocked on the door. There was no answer. He stepped inside, sniffing. He knew from the smell that it was only decomposition. The sweet smell of fever gangrene was absent. He stepped into what might have been a bedroom. Four corpses lay on the bed, two adults and two children. They were advanced in decay, but there was no sign of any animals having found them. He felt his stomach rising to vomit, but he fought the urge, holding his hand over his mouth. He would have to stop this. He had seen enough dead bodies already, their flesh rotting or eaten. If he could not take these sights, he could not ‘observe’ Mayo.
He left the cabin, carefully shutting the door and pushing the latch home. Then he leaned against the window, took his notebook out and wrote a description. He re-mounted his horse.
Ardnagrena. He walked along the new road, leading the horse at the edge. The base of the road had been laid, but these were large stones. From time to time, there were heaps of smaller stones on the side, but he knew that there would not be enough to give a proper top surface. He passed two quarries with more heaps of stone. Later, he met another donkey and cart, hauling more bodies towards Brockagh.
Lisnadee. Even though Father Nugent had told him it was finished, he was still surprised at the quality of the new line. It was solid, and very well surfaced. He thought back to all the years he and Luke had helped Michael in the quarry, and in repairing the public roads after winter. Yes, Luke had known how to do it, and to do it well.
Knocklenagh. This was a larger village, with perhaps as many inhabitants as Brockagh. He knocked on a door, but there was no answer. At the second door, a lean woman pointed him in the direction of Durcans’ house. He knocked. A woman answered the door, two children grasping her skirt.
He asked for Timothy Durcan.
‘He’s dead,’ she said.
Pat started.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘The fever took him. Only a few weeks back. But what brings you looking for him anyhow?’
‘Father Nugent sent me,’ Pat said. ‘I’d have thought he’d have known.’
‘Ah, sure the poor man, he’s fully distracted. He couldn’t even make it across to Knocklenagh the time Timothy was dying. Too many dead around Brockagh and up the mountains that time. Sure he wouldn’t know who was dead and who was yet living.’
Pat left Knocklenagh, and followed Mrs. Durcan’s instructions towards the mountains. As she had told him, there was no road towards Benstreeva, only a half-trodden track, part overgrown. He passed by the track, leaving Benstreeva behind. He reckoned he would see enough further up.
At Teenashilla, he followed a well-built road up the mountain. There were no quarries here, but glancing behind him he saw them far back, on the other side of the main road. How had the stones been brought up the mountain? Donkey and cart? Or creels on men’s backs?
The first village was mud cabins only. A few doors were hanging on their hinges. The first was empty, the next had the remains of two bodies. The third and fourth were empty.
Further on, there were two cabins with smoking chimneys. Up here there was no problem in digging turf, as the cabins were built into the bogs around them. He knocked on the door of one cabin, but there was no answer.
At the next, an old man came out. The first word he said was ‘Food.’
Pat took out a slice of brown bread and gave it to him. He munched it quietly, observing Pat.
Pat waited until he was finished.
‘What has h
appened around here?’ he asked.
The man looked at him as if he was mad. Then he spoke.
‘Hunger. Snow. Fever, then hunger again. What else is there to say?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Pat said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’
He mounted his horse and rode back down towards the main road. Half way down he stopped and sat on a turf bank. It was getting colder in the mountains.
He took out his notebook, and started to write.
What had he seen? People who did not exist? Even the living were only ghosts. There were no tenant farmers here, only desperate people clinging to an existence on a bog on the side of a mountain. Who knew they were here? Had any of them paid rent? All they grew were potatoes for survival. What rent could they pay? What landlord would care about them, or even know that they were on his land? Who owned it anyway?
When he reached the main road, he turned again and travelled up towards Burrenabawn Mountain. The road was good, but stopped abruptly. Since he was a short distance from the next village, he rode up the beaten track, noting that it had not been overgrown. Another tiny mud village, seven houses only. The story was much the same as at Teenashilla. Only two houses inhabited, the rest housing only bones.
He returned to the main road and rode towards Croghancoe. He came to another mud village some distance on, but no road had been built that far. There was a single cabin beside him, no smoke issuing. It was empty. He brought the horse inside, took his blanket from one of the panniers, and wrapped it around himself and the coat. He slept.
*
Croghancoe. As he reached the mountain, the day was bright but very cold.
A road had been built up to the first village on the mountain. Again, conditions were the same as the lower mountains. The road went on to another mud village, but even before he reached it, Pat could see it was empty. The doors to all the cabins were open, but there was no one inside. At one of them, he found a femur, blackened gristle still attached to one end. He left. The road went on, but after a few hundred yards the top surface came to an end, and the road base ended a hundred yards further.
Twenty yards to the side, there were three small trees. He dismounted, led the horse across, and tied it to one of the trees. He sat down and began to write.
He was startled as a shadow fell across the notebook. He looked around, drawing himself up quickly. A tall, old man stood behind him. His trousers were shredded at the ends, patched socks showing above broken shoes. He wore a rope as a belt, a thin shirt and jacket showing under his patched coat. His wispy hair was white, a grey beard covering most of his emaciated face. He was far taller than anyone Pat had seen in the mountains. Or anywhere else?
He leaned on a blackthorn stick, observing Pat.
‘Let you not be frightened,’ he said. ‘There is no call for fear.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Cairbre Mór is the name to me.’
Pat regarded him doubtfully, watching the expression on the man’s face.
‘Pat Ryan is how they call me,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘I know who you are.’
Pat stepped back. He was frightened now, though he could not think why.
‘But how…?
‘How would I not know? Now let you be seated.’
Pat sat again. The old man sat alongside.
‘So what more do you know about me,’ Pat said.
‘More than you know about yourself. Your eyes tell much.’
Pat turned away.
‘So you’ve been travelling here, and writing what you’ve seen,’ the old man said. ‘And now you must make your report, but to who? The Workhouse? The Union? Or perhaps the County?’
Pat was surprised again at how much this stranger knew of him. He was less fearful now.
‘The County, since you say it,’ he said. ‘They want to know what happened here. And what’s still happening, for that matter.’
‘Sure why bother a young fellow like yourself. There’s thousands in the workhouses can make reports. Or would, if they could write.’
‘Are you saying I’m not needed?’ Pat asked.
‘No, my young friend, not that at all. You’re most welcome.’
He put his hand on top of Pat’s head and turned it towards him.
‘Look straight at me,’ he said.
Pat looked at him, and felt the power of the pale grey eyes running right through him. He was frightened again.
‘By God, you’re most like him,’ the old man said.
‘Like who?’
‘Luke.’
‘Luke?’
‘Your brother, or did you think I was talking of the Evangelist. Maybe I should, but it’s your brother was better known in these parts. He held the power of life and death over us, he did, though it was a power he never wanted. And the ones who wanted it, sure they never had it. The priests, they thought they had power, but what could they do? Pray the Mass? Give out the Last Rites? And what difference did it ever make? The people cried to heaven for food, but they died anyhow. And last year they thought the priests’ prayers were answered, but now they see they were not. No, the priests have no power, but your report will have power. On your word, people will live or die.’
Who was the last one who had said that to him? Gaffney. Voisey and Father Nugent knew it well too, though neither had said it. But the old man was right, it was a power Luke had never wanted. Nor did he. But now he had it, and could not be rid of it.
‘On my word, you think?’
‘I do,’ the old man said. ‘Here, for certain. But where else?’
‘Where else? But what…?’
‘Is this the only place they need to know about?’
‘It is not,’ Pat said.
‘Where else, then? The County? All of it?’
‘Perhaps. In time…yes.’
‘So many reports! You are a man of vast power. Much of Mayo depends on your words.’
He pointed to the far west.
‘Look there, the mountain. You know it?’
Far in the distance, a high, rocky peak stood out against the horizon. It was bathed in bright sunshine, grey clouds racing down from the north.
‘Croagh Patrick?’
‘So you may call it. Cruachán Aille is the real name to it.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said, ‘just by Westport, where the ships go for America.’
‘But not your brother.’
‘No. He left from Liverpool.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’ Pat said, half questioning.
‘I do. We’d all heard of his leaving in these parts. He’s trying to escape what happened here, but his story will follow him wherever he goes.’
Pat thought about that. Would his own story follow him too? Working with Danny? A dangerous thing to have done.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it probably will.’
The old man nodded. ‘So where will you go when you leave here?’
‘Erris, I’d say. They say things are very bad out there.’
‘Ah yes, I know it. It’s one of the places you must visit if you wish to understand Mayo.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘I have.’
‘What was the business that took you there?’
‘I’m from there.’
Pat was surprised again. ‘You’re from Erris?’
‘I am.’
‘So why did you leave there?’
‘It was all to do with a woman. There’s some very powerful ones, you know.’
Powerful, Pat thought. Irene? Yes, there were some very powerful women. Troublemakers too.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘I knew of a most beautiful woman who was living at Dún Flidhais, at the south end of Carrowmore Lake in Erris.’
‘She was trouble to you?’
‘She was. I met her at the cattle fair in Crossmolina. Her husband was a breeder of cattle, and said to be a rustler too. The fact that she was married
meant nothing to me, and the pair of us were carrying on together. But when the husband found what we were about, there was one almighty fight, and I fought him like a savage. He would have killed me, but I hit him between the eyes with a rock, and he dropped to the ground. Then his family came after me, and I ran like hell, all the way from Dún Flidhais to Dún Chiortáin. I reckoned even Dún Chiortáin had become too hot for me, and anyways, I had lost the woman. So I went across to Glenamoy and Glencalry, then Sheskin and Eskeragh.’
‘Glenamoy to Eskeragh!’ Pat said. ‘That’s a hell of a long way walking. The most of it bog too.’
‘You know Mayo well then?’
‘I’ve studied the maps,’ Pat said. ‘They are remote, the Sheskin bogs.’
‘So they are, and it’s another area where there are many people living no one even knows of. People out living in mud cabins, or cabins of turf. They were hungry then, they’re hungry now. ’Tis another part you must travel if you wish to understand County Mayo. Anyone who doesn’t know Glencalry nor Sheskin nor Eskeragh, doesn’t know Mayo. And those other places, all the way up the tongue of land to Dún Chiortáin, they’re all places you must visit too if you are to understand Erris.’
‘I’ll go there if I’m asked,’ Pat said.
The sky overhead was darkening. Pat pulled his coat over his head. The old man stayed bare headed.
‘But now,’ he said, ‘we are here in the Mountains of the Ox.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said, ‘though you never said how you got here from Eskeragh.’
‘It’s easy said. From Eskeragh I went across the lands of Tyrawly, out to Ballycastle and down to Ballina. By then I was starving. When I was in Ballina, I met a girl selling eggs, and she fed me. She was from the lands of Tireragh, up here by the Ox Mountains. So I went with her, out by Brockagh till we came to her home in Ardnagrena, and there we settled. She’s long dead now, poor woman.’
In the distance, curtains of rain were crossing Nephin.
‘So what happened here?’ Pat asked. ‘What were the terrible things that Luke could not even tell me? Will you tell me?’
