The Great Fury

by Thomas Kennedy

  “Tea,” Oengus added. “And just some eggs Mom.”

  Small talk got them through breakfast.

  “At this time of the year the ferry to the Blaskets starts from Dunquin every hour from eleven,” Bridget informed them and she put a straw basket covered with a dishcloth on the table.

  “I’ve packed some sandwiches and a flask of boiled water and tea bags and instant coffee,” she said.

  “I’ll go get my backpack off the wardrobe upstairs,” Oengus offered, not wanting to be seen dead or alive carrying a packed lunch in a straw shopping basket.

  “Good,” John said, “I’d like to walk to Dunquin. I’ve had enough of planes and cars.”

  “You better get moving so, for you’ll need an hour,” Bridget advised.

  “We go over the shoulder on Mount Eagle. It can be a stiff walk in places, but its not long by car,” Oengus added. He had been looking forward to a drive in the fancy red car.

  “I’ve walked it many the times,” John said. “And if it’s OK I’d like to walk it one more time. Just to feel my roots. I’ve been a long time gone.”

  Bridget gave him a sharp look. There was something in his tone, nostalgia or sadness or something else she couldn’t quite get.

  “If we go now we can take it easy and we’ll do it in an hour,” Oengus reassured John.

  They set off, turning up the boreen at the back of the farm and followed the line of a dyke uphill climbing steeply over grass and then rocky ground.

  Behind them they had fine views over Ventry and Dingle harbor and as they continued westward they started to see the southerly outlines of the Blasket Islands followed by Great Blasket itself.

  What was a normal walk for Oengus became difficult for John and he had to pause frequently and admire the scenery. Oengus realized he needed to slow his pace and that despite being a New York Fireman his uncle John was not as fit as he could be.

  After cresting another ridge they entered a wide valley. They crossed a watercourse on stepping-stones and followed a path that undulated between stonewalled fields.

  They followed the path through low gorse and it bent right around the rocky shoulder of Mount Eagle. This place was littered with small round stone buildings known as Clochans in various stages of collapse.

  “The English call these Clochans ‘beehive huts.’ They were made in pre-Christian times,” Oengus explained.

  “I know well son. They are all over this area. But I will show you one on the Blaskets that is in a stone circle and I promise it will blow your mind,” John said enigmatically.

  Oengus remembered that John was a native of the area and did not need explanations. He smiled and led on.

  From here on the pathway descended steeply down to the main road. The entrance road to Dunquin was steep and they came in off the main road and wound down to the crossroads and headed for the pier.

  There was a cluster of people, mainly tourists waiting on the pier for the ferry to Great Blasket Island.

  Oengus held back and let John order the tickets in his American accent.

  O’Sullivan, the boat operator, noticed that Oengus was with the American but said nothing. He knew well that Oengus’s people had once lived on the Blaskets. But the island had been abandoned in the nineteen fifties. He wondered if Oengus’s people still owned land there. It was then the penny dropped; he’d got a fix on John.

  The yank had to be Sean, John in English. The long lost elder brother of Bridget. Sean who had run off to America and got a job as a fireman. They’d called him the ‘Dunquin Devil,’ for Sean had been wild back in his day.

  “Do you have a time of the last return?” O’Sullivan asked.

  “We’ll overnight, first ferry back in the morning,” John said.

  “There’s no hotel on the Island, only a cafe.”

  “The weather is good and we’re camping on the old family place,” John countered.

  “Tusa Sean?” O’Sullivan asked in Gaelic - ‘are you John?’

  “You haven’t changed O’Sullivan,” John replied in English, adding, “When did you start in the ferry business?”

  “When the fishing went bad,” O’Sullivan said, smiling and pleased he’d recognized an old comrade of his youth.

  “Great days, salmon fishing in a Curragh,” John remarked.

  “Great days,” O’Sullivan agreed and handed him the tickets. “We sail in a minute, good luck with your trip.”

  As he ticketed the queue of tourists O’Sullivan was thinking, I’ll have a story for the pub tonight. The stolen child seen going back to the Blaskets with his uncle the ‘Devil of Dunquin.’

  Of course they all knew about him as John. For he’d been in the papers, one of the heroes of nine eleven. His photo had been splashed in the Kerryman over the by-line ‘Local hero fireman saves lives in New York catastrophe.’

  Nothing for about forty years and then he’d popped up famous. But quiet about it and O’Sullivan could respect John for that. They knew about Oengus too but no one talked of him for fear of the bad luck. But he was a nice lad, ‘the stolen child.’

  As they cast off O’Sullivan noticed that two Island women who were going over to get the cafe ready moved when Oengus came near. No one wanted the bad luck and no one wanted to look in his eye. He crossed himself and wished for a safe journey.

  The tourists were oblivious of anything except the wonderful scenery.

  But Oengus noticed. For him the ache of loneliness was never far away. For he knew himself as somebody who neighbors and their children treated politely but with a wary reserve.

  The Blaskets weren’t far offshore. But the currents were strong and notorious. Not a place to be rowing a Curragh in bad weather. But on a fine day in a motorized ferry it was an easy trip. However there was a snag. The island had no pier and the passengers had to be taken ashore in a small boat with an outboard motor. It was part of the fun of the trip but some tourists found it a scary experience.

  Kevin, O’Sullivan’s eldest son, worked the transfer to shore with great good humor and skillfully maneuvered the small boat.

  O’Sullivan watched the passengers go. O’Sullivan liked to get a fix on his passengers. A second ferry operated out of Dingle Harbor. They never left any tourists behind on the island.

  The Blaskets on a wet night would not be a comfortable place. They liked to count them out and count them in. And if he took anyone with a Dingle ticket he’d radio the Dingle boat. Between them they got everyone home at the end of the day.

  Kevin watched John and Oengus. He could see they were heading up the trail towards what the locals called the ‘traffic lights’. Not that there were traffic lights, or electricity for that matter. It was just a local term for the junction between two trails. He watched a while and then got back to minding his own business.

  Oengus was unfamiliar with the island other than occasional remarks in conversation by his parents. He understood that they had title to land near the end of the island. And clearly John was confident that he knew the route.

  “This is what they call the traffic lights,” John explained as they reached a crossing in the trails. “This way,” he added and led on.

  It was a beautiful sunny day but the wind off the Atlantic had a cut of cold. It helped them keep cool as they climbed.

  Increasingly John needed to take breaks, standing with his hands on his hips breathing in and out and facing the wind and the broad Atlantic.

  “You alright?” Oengus asked after a third pause within ten minutes.

  “Just dying of cancer,” John said with a light grin.

  “Is that why you are home Uncle John, to take a last look?” Oengus asked sympathetically, trying to keep the shock out of his voice.

  “Something like that,” John said gruffly.

  There was a
toughness about him that seemed to forbid sympathy. He led on and Oengus followed.

  In time they reached their destination. It was a small ruined cottage in the lea of a large boulder.

  “We farmed here in the time of the Tuatha de Danann and in the time of the Fir Bolg and when the Celts came and we even survived when the Normans came,” John said proudly as he stood in the stones of ruined doorway of the ruined cottage.

  Oengus did not know how to reply so he opened his backpack and took out the chicken sandwiches and the flask.

  “Coffee?” he asked

  “Sure.”

  Oengus made an instant coffee for John and tea for himself. His palette was unused to coffee. They sat on the remains of the walls of the cottage and surveyed the landscape as they ate.

  “Why did they leave the Blaskets?” Oengus asked.

  “As you saw, the Island has no natural harbor. That was a problem. That and expectations,” John said.

  “What?”

  “Well back in the day when they knew no better they eked out a living with the farming and the fishing, but the modern world arrived.”

  “And?”

  “Oengus expectations rose. They wanted a doctor, hospitals, electricity, modern fashions you name it. Eventually the old ways were not good enough.”

  John gave Oengus an appraising look. “Oengus would you like the old ways?”

  “Old ways?”

  “Good earthy food, salmon fishing, simple life?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And no TV, no Internet?”

  “The internet is crap where we live,” Oengus said.

  “Still if you took a wife and she was having a baby and she might die? And then if you wanted what others could have? Until you saw the well off tourists, then you’d get restless for better.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Oengus, the old ways were fine but they were tough.”

  “Sure,” Oengus agreed.

  John took a few tablets from a small bottle and swallowed them with his coffee. “Sus beag,” he said.

  “A short break,” Oengus translated.

  John stretched out on a half wall surrounded by the stones that had once made up the top half. Oengus stood and amused himself with a stroll around the ruins of the cottage.

  The foundations suggested a small living area, two bedrooms a living room and traces of some outhouses. It was getting cold as the wind continued and he felt that he would soon be cold unless they moved on.

  And today was a fine day.

  Oengus tried to imagine the place on a wet day or in winter. Maybe, he considered, maybe those who left were right to leave and seek the comforts of the mainland. There they were a part of the modern world.

  “What time are we heading back?” Oengus asked, growing bored and cold.

  “There’s something I need to show you,” John said, stirring himself.

  Oengus shrugged, there did not seem to be much else to see.

  “Follow me,” John said, dusting himself down and leading off around the rear of the ruined cottage. Oengus quickly packed his backpack, making sure to leave no rubbish, and hurried to follow his uncle.

  As they left Uncle John picked up a hand sized rounded stone. Oengus wondered was John taking a souvenir but he said nothing, as he did not want to volunteer to carry it in his small backpack.

  There was no pathway and it was difficult under foot. John struggled but Oengus was well used to walking rough boggy terrain. Surefooted he followed his uncle, enjoying the walk and had anyone asked him he would have said, ‘boring.’ But to his surprise he was enjoying the outing.

  “Near the blackthorns,” John said pointing while he stopped to gather his strength.

  They could see the top of a Clochan and the makings of a circle in stones.

  “It is very overgrown,” Oengus remarked and led the way towards the small building.

  A small round building sometimes called ‘beehives,’ the Clochan was a superb example of the ancient’s skillful use of stone. It was built in circular layers each a slightly smaller diameter than the one below and roofed with a single capstone.

  “Inside,” John instructed when he caught up.

  The entrance was narrow and it seemed very small and dark inside and Oengus hesitated, wondering how the two of them would fit and what on earth was the point of all this.

  John pushed and Oengus entered reluctantly.

  “I wouldn’t go there,” a voice said in an English accent.

  Oengus nearly collapsed in shock, unable to see in the dark.

  “Who said that?” he spluttered turning back towards John, who was squeezing in through the narrow entrance. The sound did not appear to have come from John and it was not an Americanized accent either.

  “Did you hear that Uncle John?” Oengus asked.

  “Sure.”

  It was crowded and Oengus saw John lift the stone he had brought from the ruined cottage and raise it above his head. Instinctively Oengus raised his arms to protect his own head. John grabbed Oengus’s arm and pushed, simultaneously bringing the rock down with his right hand.

  Oengus ducked, but then realized John was not aiming at him.

  John swiveled having pushed Oengus out of his way, and turning he brought the rock down hard on the stone at the entrance portal.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! The entrance stone said, changing color and sprouting legs and a head. A head with a bump on it.

  John shouted,

  “To enter the Otherworld

  We say a magic word

  shin a bhuil!”

  At least that was the last thing Oengus heard as he fell. It seemed like the floor had opened into a well. He hoped it was a well as he fell, followed by his uncle down a dark perpendicular tunnel, because there’d be water at the end of a well.

  But it wasn’t a well. He hit some sort of soft turf mound and bounced. He rolled immediately, conscious that his large uncle was just behind him. John landed with a grunt and the rock that he had hit landed on Oengus’s head.

  “Sorry,” the rock said as Oengus lost consciousness.

  Chapter Three

  Oengus awoke with a headache. He was in a bed. Briefly as he awoke he’d a moment where he thought he was at home in his own bed, but he swiftly realized that he was not. He touched and discovered that he had a bandage around his head. He sat up. His head throbbed.

  He looked around to see there were four beds in the room.

  “He’s awake!” someone said in a soft excited female voice.

  “Is this a hospital?” Oengus asked.

  The woman who came to his bed was not dressed as a nurse. She wore a green tunic and moved so smoothly she seemed to float rather than walk. She smiled and had warm brown eyes.

  “Hi!” a masculine voice to his right said in squeaky tones.

  Oengus turned his head and winced in pain. Then he tried not to make a face. There was a very ugly little man sitting up in the bed to his right.

  “Hi, I’m called Puca Beag,” the little man continued in his squeaky voice. “My friends call me Puca.”

  “Hi,” Oengus said without enthusiasm.

  Opposite he could see an empty bed. In the corner opposite there was the fourth bed with screens around it. He could see the legs of the bed had wheels but little else.

  “You’re uncle took bad,” Beag said, indicating with a long finger to the bed surrounded by screens.

  “Quiet Beag!” the woman in green instructed. She shone a torch into Oengus’s eyes, each in turn.

  “You’ll do,” she said in Gaelic.

  “Gura mile maith agat,” Oengus replied, a thousand thanks.

  “Hungry?” she asked with a smile.

  “Are y
ou a nurse?”

  “For you yes,” she said, and added, “Are you hungry?”

  Oengus frowned as it hurt to nod his head.

  “Still sore, it was a nasty knock,” the nurse said with a reproachful look towards Beag.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Beag protested. “His uncle hit me with a rock and opened the portal. We all fell down. And Oengus got a knock on the head. It was a pure accident.”

  Oengus wondered who had given his name to the ugly little man. And the man’s name was Beag, which is the Gaelic for small. Oengus let his eyes twinkle. At least the name was appropriate.

  “Why does he believe you think it was his fault?” Oengus asked the nurse.

  “Puca’s can shape shift to any shape,” she said. As she spoke she turned to Beag.

  “Beag why did you not shape shift into a feather?”

  “Didn’t think of that,” Beag admitted.

  The nurse inspected Beag’s head. He had a large bruise. She shone her torch into his eyes.

  “Out!” she said, “You’re faking it Beag.”

  “Can’t I have breakfast?” Beag pleaded. As he spoke the bruise vanished.

  “After breakfast you are out of here Beag,” the nurse said agreeably.

  “What time is it?” Oengus asked realizing they were talking of breakfast.

  “About midnight,” the nurse replied. “Oengus would you like breakfast, dinner or tea?”

  “Sure, but I’m not hungry we had chicken sandwiches just a while ago.”

  “Full Irish,” Beag asked, adding, “Bacon, Boxty bread, black and white pudding and mushrooms with two fried eggs and tea and toast with butter and jam and porridge with honey and milk to start.”

  “Sounds good,” Oengus said. “I’ll go with that. Breakfast for me.”

  “Or salmon freshly caught?” the nurse offered, feeling obliged to give a healthy choice.

  “Full Irish is fine please, nurse,” Oengus replied.

  “Me too,” Beag added.

  Another nurse came out from behind the screens at the fourth bed.

  “How is my uncle?” Oengus asked.

  “He’ll live. Better make it three breakfasts,” she added to the first nurse.