6
—… The Gravekeeper! He’s as big an imbecile as he ever was …
—It’s a wonder, Caitríona, if he has a map, that he wouldn’t know one grave from another …
—In the name of God, man, what map! That fellow’s map is no better than the way the man from East-Side-of-the-Village divided the land with the tongs in the ashes, at the time of the “striping”11 long ago …
—Faith then, Caitríona, I held on to my patch of land at the top of the village in spite of you all, when every mother’s son of you wanted it for himself. There’s no beating it for fattening cattle …
—Oh! Do you hear that gadfly at his blustering again? …
—It’s a wonder, Caitríona, if corpses are being buried in the wrong graves, that someone wouldn’t inquire into it: report it to the Government, or tell the priest or the Red-haired Policeman …
—Oh! God help your Government! That’s the sort of Government we’ve had since Griffith’s crowd were thrown out …
—You’re a liar …
—And you’re a damned liar …
—Didn’t Big Brian say: “They’re pitching them into any old hole in that graveyard back there, as if they were fish guts or periwinkle shells …”
—Oh, the ugly streak of misery …
—If you don’t have a cross over you in this graveyard, so that your grave is well marked, not a day will go by without someone opening it …
—I’ll have a cross over me soon. A cross of Island limestone, like there is over Peadar the Pub and Siúán …
—A cross of Island limestone, Caitríona …
—They wouldn’t let any wooden crosses be put up, would they, Caitríona?
—They’d be thrown out on the road the next day …
—Do you think it’s the people who sell the other crosses are responsible for that? …
—Arrah! Who else? Everybody’s drawing water to his own mill. If wooden or cement crosses were allowed there’d be no demand for their own crosses. Then everybody could make his own cross …
—I’d sooner have no cross at all than a wooden or cement one …
—You’re right. I’d die of shame …
—This Government is the cause of all that. They get money in taxes on the other crosses …
—You’re a liar! That game was going on before this Government …
—It’s an awful thing to do, bundling your own kith and kin down into the ground beside a stranger …
—The bones want to be with their own, sure enough …
—That’s the Government for you now …
—You’re a liar …
—I heard they squeezed Tomás the Tailor’s son down on top of Tiúnaí Mhicil Tiúnaí last year …
—Oh, didn’t I kick the murderer off me! Another one of the treacherous One-Ear Breed who stabbed me …
—Last year I was at the funeral of Jude from our own village. She was laid down on top of little Dónall the Weaver from Sive’s Rocks. They didn’t know they were digging the wrong grave until they unearthed the coffin. I’m telling you the honest truth; I was there …
—You’re right. Don’t we know you’re right. They dug up four graves for the Poet, and in the end they sneaked him in beside Curraoin …
—May the devil pierce him! He has me demented with his silly verses. May he roast in hell; couldn’t he have stayed alive another while till I had a cross over me …
—Oho! The cheeky brat …
—I wouldn’t mind but I was worried that my wife at home would have given my fine big holding to the eldest son …
—Did you hear about Micil Chite’s wife from Donagh’s Village, who was nearly buried on top of Siúán the Shop. There was no cross over Siúán at the time …
—Oh! Siúán, you poor thing …
—Poor Siúán, you must have been in torment …
—I shouted up at her, straight out, to get away from me into the Half-Guinea Plot or the Fifteen-Shilling Plot. The last thing I needed was that lazy lump laid on top of me. The smell of nettles off her would have killed me …
—Didn’t they try to bury someone on top of you too, Cite? …
—Some insignificant little thing from Sive’s Rocks whom I’d never known, nor her parents either. By the oak of this coffin, I made her take herself off in a hurry! “I was badly got if the beggars of Sive’s Rocks are going to be my companions in the graveyard clay in the end,” said I …
—Honest. They had my grave dug up too. Some woman from Hillside Wood. “Ugh!” I said, “to put that coarse-grained barbarian from Hillside Wood down alongside me! Now, if it was someone with a bit of culture! …”
—Oh! Do you hear the little bitch from Mangy Field of the Puddles belittling Hillside Wood? Oh, don’t talk to me! I’ll explode! …
7
—… I fell off a stack of oats …
—… God help us forever and ever! If only they’d taken my earthly remains back east of Brightcity … The setting sun there would not have to slink and slant in order to reach me. The rising sun would not appear like a poor woman of the roads on her first begging mission, ashamed to venture beyond the obscure tracks of hill and cliff. The moon would not have to watch its step on an impossible tangle of hill, hummock and harbour when she desired to come and kiss me. I would have the vast expanse of the plain spread out like a multicoloured carpet before her. The rain would not come darting down like shots from a rambling ruffian blazing away on rough mountainy paths, but like the stately triumph of a queen whose presence among her people confirms the rule of law and prosperity …
—Dotie! “Sentimentality”!
—That foolishness again …
—… Look at me! The murderer gave me a bad bottle …
—… Went to the Plaza at seven … She came. That bright smile again. Accepted the chocolates. A flick … She’d already seen the flick at the Plaza—seen all the flicks in town. A stroll or a dance … She’d been on her feet in the Bookie’s since morning … Tea … She’d just got up from her tea … The Western Hotel … Certainly, a short rest would do her good …
“Wine,” says I to the waiter.
“Whiskey,” says she.
“Two large whiskeys,” says I …
“Two more large whiskeys,” says I …
“I’ve no more whiskey,” says the waiter. “Do you know how many whiskeys you’ve drunk since seven o’clock: twelve large ones each! Whiskey is scarce …”
“Stout,” says I.
“Brandy,” says she.
“Two large brandies,” says I …
“Do you know,” says the waiter, “that it’s away past one o’clock, and even though you’re in the Western Hotel we still have to keep an eye out. There might be a police raid …”
“I’ll escort you home,” says I, as the waiter closed the door of the Western Hotel behind us.
“Escort me home?” says she. “By the look of you it’s me will have to escort you. Smarten yourself up there or you’ll fall in through that window. You can’t take it, is that how it is? Look how sober I am, and I had a large brandy more than you! You wouldn’t think I had a drop taken, would you? … Mind you don’t bump into that pole … Come on, walk. Let me take your arm and I’ll escort you to your own door. We might get a few more drinks in Simon O’Halloran’s on the way up. It’s pay-night and he won’t close till morning …”
I managed to get a look at her in the half-light of the street. She had that bright smile on her face. But I was putting my hand into my pocket and turning it out. Down to the one shilling …
—You silly fool …
—… Faith then, as you say …
—… I’m telling you the truth, Peadar the Pub. Caitríona Pháidín came in to me. I remember it well. It was late in the year, in November. It was the year we put winter manure on the Rape Field. Micil was spreading seaweed the same day. I was expecting the youngsters home from school any minute, and I turned the batch of potato
es I had roasting in the ashes for them. Then I sat down in the chimney-corner turning the heel on a stocking.
“God bless all here,” she says. “Well, the same to you,” says I. “You’re welcome, Caitríona. Sit down.”
“I can’t stay for a proper visit,” says she. “I’m up to my eyes preparing for the priest. It’s only nine or ten days now till he’ll be in on top of me. I won’t beat about the bush, Cite,” says she. “You sold the pigs last fairday. Ours won’t be ready for selling till the Feast of St. Brigid,12 if the Lord spares them … It’s a lot to ask for, Cite, but if you can spare it till St. Brigid’s Fairday, you would do me a great favour if you could give me a pound of money. I’m getting the chimney fixed and I’m thinking of buying a roundtable13 for the priest’s14 breakfast. I have two pounds of my own …”
“A roundtable, Caitríona?” says I. “Nobody around here has a roundtable for the priest, except the big shots of course. Wouldn’t he eat just as well off an ordinary table, as we’ve always seen the priests do?”
“The last time he was in our Nell’s,” says she, “she had a silver teapot Big Brian’s Mag brought home from America. I’ll get the loan of Siúán the Shop’s silver teapot, Cite, because I’d like to keep neck and neck with Nell and even a nose ahead of her. The brazen upstart!”
I gave her the pound. She bought the roundtable. Things were cheap at the time. She laid out the priest’s breakfast on it, and she made his tea in Siúán the Shop’s silver teapot.
By the oak of this coffin I gave her the pound, Peadar the Pub, and I never got another sight of it from that day to the day I died, whatever Siúán the Shop did about the teapot …
—You’re a liar, you Hag of the Ash-Potatoes. Don’t believe her, Peadar dear. I gave every single penny of it back to her, into the palm of her hand, when I sold the pigs the following Feast of St. Brigid … It’s in your nature, of course! It wasn’t often your own mother told the truth … I died as clean as crystal, thanks be to God … Nobody can ever say Caitríona Pháidín owed as much as a red farthing when she died, which is more than can be said about you, stingy Cite of the Ash-Potatoes … Yourself and your people before you always left a heap of debt behind you wherever you went. You have a nerve to talk! You killed your family and yourself with your ash-baked potatoes … Oh, don’t believe her, Peadar … Don’t believe her … I gave her every red penny of it into the palm of her hand …
I didn’t, you old hag? … I didn’t, you say?
Hey, Muraed! … Muraed! … Did you hear what Cite said? … I’ll explode! I’ll explode! …
Interlude Three
THE TEASING OF THE CLAY
1
I am the Trump1 of the Graveyard. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard …
For I am every voice that was, that is and that will be. I was the first voice in the formlessness of the universe. I am the last voice that will be heard in the dust of Armageddon. I was the muffled voice of the first embryo in the first womb. When the golden harvest is stacked in the haggard, I am the voice that will summon home the last gleaner from the Grain-field of Time. For I am the first-born son of Time and Life, and steward of their household. I am reaper, stack-builder and thresher of Time. I am storeman, cellarer and turnkey of Life. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard …
There is neither time nor life in the Graveyard. There is neither brightness nor darkness. There is no sunset, springtide, changeability of wind or breaking of weather. Nor is there lengthening of the day, or manifestation of the Pleiads and the Plough; nor the growing creature attiring itself in the cloak of Joy and Festivity. The lively eyes of the child are not there. Nor the extravagant desire of the youth. Nor the rose-tinted cheeks of the maiden. Nor the gentle voice of the nurturing mother. Nor the serene smile of old age. Eyes, desire, cheek, voice and smile all dissolve into one amorphous sameness in the unsqueamish alembic of the earth. Complexion has no voice there, nor voice complexion, for the indifferent chemistry of the grave has neither voice nor complexion. It has only bones crumbling, flesh decaying, and body parts once vital decomposing. It has only the wardrobe of clay where the discarded suit of life rots under the moth …
But above ground a heat haze hangs lightly on the air. The springtide is pulsing constantly in the channels of the shore. The meadow is as if a can of green milk had been spilt on its grass. Hawthorn, bush and boundary hedge array their formal gowns like ladies-in-waiting before entering the presence of the King. There is a soft lonely ring to the blackbird’s song in the groves. The children’s eyes widen as they handle the toys tumbling from the treasure-chest of the virgin year. The torch that rejuvenates all hope glows in the cheek of the pubescent youth. Foxgloves plucked from the meadows of eternity bloom in the modest cheeks of the maiden. Whitethorn blossom foams in the tender countenance of the mother. The children play hide-and-seek in the haggard, their laughter ringing like chimes of joy, the pitches of their voices rising and falling as if trying to draw Jacob’s Ladder back down from Heaven. And the intimate whisper of courtship escapes from the seclusion of the boreen like a gentle breeze wafting over beds of cowslips in the land of youth …
But the old man’s trembling is chronic now. The young man’s bones are seizing up. The smear of grey washes over the gold in the woman’s hair. Cataract, like snake slime, is quenching the child’s eyesight. Gaiety and gambolling give way to grumbling and groaning. Weakness is driving out strength. Despair is overcoming love. The grave-cloth is being stitched to the cradle-cloth, and the grave to the cradle. Life is paying its dues to death …
I am the Trump of the Graveyard. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard! …
2
—… Hey! What’s that? Who are you? Are you my son’s wife? Wasn’t I right when I said she’d be here on her next childbirth …
—Seáinín Liam is what they used to call me in the last place, indeed—unless I have to be christened again here. The heart …
—Seáinín Liam. Ababúna! They’re burying you in the wrong grave, Seáinín. This is Caitríona Pháidín’s grave …
—Arrah, isn’t that always the way in this cemetery, Caitríona my dear? But I can’t speak to a living soul. I have more to worry me. The heart …
—What sort of funeral did I have, Seáinín Liam?
—Funeral? The heart, Caitríona! The heart! I had just been to collect the pension. Devil a thing I felt. I drank a drop of tea. Down I went to the Common Field to fetch a creel of potatoes. When I was easing it off me inside the house, the strap handle slipped and the creel came down lopsided. I gave my side a little wrench. There wasn’t a puff of breath left in me …
—What sort of funeral did I have, I’m asking you?
—The heart, God help us! The heart is a serious matter, Caitríona. A weak heart …
—To hell with your heart! You’ll have to give up that nonsense here …
—Bedamn but the heart’s a poor thing, Caitríona. We were building a new stable for the colt we bought after Christmas. We had it finished except for the roof. I wasn’t able to give the young fellow much help, but little and all as it was he’ll miss me. I wouldn’t mind but the weather was great for a long time now …
—Weather! Time! Those are two things that won’t worry you here, Seáinín. You were a dimwit all your life. Tell me this much! Why don’t you pay attention to me? Did I have a big funeral?
—A fine big funeral!
—A big funeral, you say, Seáinín …
—A fine big funeral. The heart …
—May the devil and all his demons take that same heart of yours, if it’s such a treasure! Do you hear me? You’ll have to quit that blathering. They won’t listen to that sort of talk here, I’m telling you. How much altar-money was collected at my funeral?
—A fine big funeral …
—I know, but how much altar-money? …
—A fine big collection …
—How much, I ask you? You always were a dimwit. How much altar-money?
—Don’t I know that! But that’s not what I’m asking you. Wasn’t I above ground myself then? But how much was collected at my own funeral, Caitríona Pháidín’s funeral. Altar-money. Seventeen pounds, sixteen pounds, fourteen pounds? …
—Ten pounds, twelve shillings.
—Ten pounds! Ten pounds! Now, Seáinín, are you sure it was ten pounds, not eleven pounds or twelve pounds, or …
—Ten pounds, Caitríona! Ten pounds! A fine big collection, indeed. No word of a lie to say it was a fine big collection. Everybody said so. I was talking to your sister Nell: “Caitríona had a fine big collection,” she said. “I thought she wouldn’t come within two or three pounds of it, or four indeed.” The heart …
—Blast and damn your heart! Now Seáinín, stop that nonsense for God’s sake! … The Mountain crowd weren’t there?
—She said that, faith: “I thought she wouldn’t come within two or three …”
—The Mountain crowd! They didn’t hear about it. Pádraig was going to send them word: “Arrah,” says Nell. “Why would you be dragging the creatures down, walking all that distance.” That’s what she said. The heart. A weak heart …
—I wish to God your heart was a lump of poison stuck in the pit of Nell’s stomach! The Glen of the Pasture people weren’t there? …
—Not a sight of them.
—The Wood of the Lake people?
—That cousin of Siúán the Shop in Wood of the Lake was being brought to the church the same day … I wouldn’t mind but the weather was great for a long time now, while we were working on the stable …
—Sweet-talking Stiofán wasn’t there, of course? …
—A colt we bought after Christmas …
—For the love of God, Seáinín, don’t let the whole graveyard know you’re so stupid! … Was Sweet-talking Stiofán there?
Graveyard Clay- Cré Na Cille Page 10
