Sean Tyrone

by Mark Ryan

  The road down the hillside was flanked by dense woodland. As the road shrank to a lane, to a path, the hedgerows grew above themselves and knotted into a tangled canopy that kept most of the grey evening light from my eyes. It was the goading of the thorns from left and right that kept me to the centre of the path.

  In the darkness I became aware of certain Things moving in the periphery of my vision. If I tried to catch one out by looking at it directly there was nothing there, but the movement continued in another place. I had the glimpsed impression that these Things were small, black and furred, with an occasional flash of yellow teeth. I set my lips to whistle, but thought better of it; I had no desire to show any vulnerability to these creatures.

  Now they made themselves heard to me:

  Jack O’Brien, son of Seán Tyrone

  You’re on your own;

  But we’ll be with you

  As you walk alone.

  Their voices were neither inside my head nor without. They had made instruments of the delicate bones and skins that formed my ears to play their intimate music.

  I walked on. It made no difference as to whether my eyes were open or shut; I could perceive their movements still, closer to me now, their music growing louder and shriller, keeping beat to the thumping of my heart:

  Jack O’Brien, son of Seán Tyrone

  Bad to the bone

  We’ll stay here with you

  As you walk alone.

  Did their fur brush my cheek or was it ancient gossamer that caressed my face? I walked faster, the thorns clawing at my sleeves, until I saw a sickly light ahead. I began to run, as best I could. Although the light grew in size, it gained little in intensity; but it was all hope had to give me.

  Jack O’Brien, son of Seán Tyrone

  His flesh and bone;

  Forever we’re with you

  As you walk alone.

  The final approach to the village was over an expanse of scorched earth that offered nothing to sustain life. The voices died away in my ears as I recovered my breath, walking the last few hundred yards to the nearest house. A crow stood regarding me. I kicked a stone in its direction; it croaked a vile imprecation and flew away. The door to the house was open. I banged twice on the flaking panels with my fist and stepped inside. There was no light but a thin voice cried out to me:

  ‘Pwy sydd ’na? Who’s that there?

  ‘Jack. Jack O’Brien.’

  ‘Rings no bells with me. Nos da.’

  ‘I’m looking for my father.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. I deny it absolutely.’

  As my eyes adjusted to the shadows I could discern a woman lying beneath a blanket on a wreck of a sofa, her matted greasy black hair trailing over the cushions. Her gauntly lined face showed the remnants of makeup and dried saliva made a slug track from the side of her mouth. The one thin, twisted hand I could see shook as she spoke:

  ‘There was no other bastard there see me do it, right? It was a dark night and I was a tipyn bach tipsy. He wasn’t any too good-looking, so I thought of myself as doing him a favour, you might say.

  ‘But then I was up the spout, wasn’t I? But like I said, I had no attachment to the bloke so I thinks nothing of giving the bastard bach over to the Council to look after, a pwy yn y byd could have blamed me?

  ‘Step forward so as I can have a look at you. See? There’s your proof. You look nothing like me. Nor him, and at least you’ve got that to be grateful for. There’s your proof. Now, nos da.’

  I took the locket from around my neck and held out the picture. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘His name is Seán O’Brien. I have his picture here. Please look.’

  The woman opened her lids reluctantly. When she saw the picture, fire came into her eyes and she clawed for the locket.

  ‘Give it here. Duw, duw. Oh I know that face, all right. But not by that name. We knew him as Seán Tyrone because his name was Seán and he came from Tyrone. Is that him?’

  I dropped the locket inside my shirt and stepped back. I could not tell whether the stench of damp and decay came from her or the furniture. Perhaps they had fused into one.

  ‘Is he still here?’ I said.

  ‘He’s here. He’s here in everything you see around you. He’ll always be here. Jack, wasn’t it? Now the bells are ringing. I have his pistol here for you.’

  Painfully the woman reached under the sofa and brought out an oily bundle which she unwrapped caressingly as she spoke.

  ‘When I was a girl younger than you yourself is now, I was told three things about a pistol. You don’t carry him until you’ve learnt to break him, clean him, oil him and put him back together. Don’t bother with all that bastard marksmanship, you won’t need it. Don’t use your pistol as a threat. If you haven’t managed that with your eyes already, you are down on the game. Even the odds. No talking, no clever remarks. Pull out your pistol and use him straightaway to have done with the bastard, then there’s no argument. He’s gone and you is walking away. Dim problem.’

  ‘Isn’t that more than three things?’

  ‘Three things is as many as I wants them to be. Now take it and go. I want nothing more to do with the man, nor any of his kind.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘As I said. Wherever you look.’

  She stared blankly at the pistol in her hand; head nodding, mouth drawing short painful breaths.

  ‘Wait, son of Seán Tyrone. I have one further use for his pistol.’

  She raised the pistol to her mouth and, with both thumbs on the trigger and her eyes on mine, she fired. The flash of flame and the whiplash crack of the explosion deafened and blinded me for a moment and then I saw her face hanging before me, wreathed in coiling tendrils of smoke. Although her eyes were turning up in their sockets and she swayed upon her legs, she held the heavy pistol out to me. Then she melted to the floor, her head cushioned in an expanding pool of black blood. I felt the warmth of the pistol entering my fingers. Where would I put it? Should I leave it there or take it with me? Where should I report this?

  I tucked the pistol into my belt and tried the light switch. As I had expected, there was no result. A cigarette lighter lay on an upturned box beside a candle stump jammed into the neck of a half-bottle of cheap vodka. I lit the candle and held the flame to the woman’s lips. There was no breath in her body, if there ever had been. I returned the bottle to the upturned box and slipped the lighter into my pocket. There was nothing in this room to tell me anything about this woman who had known my father and I could not bring myself to search her reeking clothes. So I left the candle to stand vigil in that damp, dark, stinking tomb and left the house, pulling the door behind me.

  On the street the evening light had gone. I could see no moon in the sky, but here and there objects seemed to glow with their own pale luminosity. I felt I should talk to someone in authority about the woman but none of the windows in the street were lit. I considered crying out, but was reluctant to hear my own voice echoing in that barren and deserted place. A few hundred yards or so away stood a chapel. I followed the iron fence of the graveyard to the gateway – the gate itself had been removed.

  The stones in the graveyard had been pulled from the earth and lay haphazardly among the graves, most of which had been looted or desecrated in some way. The Irish names jostled with the Welsh in the ruins. Here had lain Margaret Whelan, beloved wife of Patrick, her name picked out in lead on her ruined monument above the names of the six children who had died on an annual basis from her eighteenth year until she eventually followed them to this place. Of Patrick Whelan, there was no further mention.

  Approaching the chapel I observed that the door had gone the way of the gate. I stood in the porch and stared into the darkness. There was nothing; nothing but the same smell of damp and decay that had permeated the woman’s house. I breathed shallowly to avoid inhaling the foul odour of corruption that hung with still menace inside those walls. There was no authority here.

 
Turning away from the chapel, I thought I saw something move among the stones. Was it one of my hillside companions? If so, I felt no fear. They had failed to harm me then and now I had the weight of the pistol at my belt. I called out:

  ‘Who’s there? Come out. I want to ask you something.’

  There was silence, but I was aware of an electric presence, a sensation of breath held back, limbs coiled in preparation for flight or attack.

  ‘Come out. Let me see you. All I want is to ask you a question or two. I’m alone and unarmed. Please. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’

  Whoever was there suppressed a chuckle and I saw a dark shape move to the cover of a derelict monument.

  ‘Listen. There’s been an accident. I need to tell someone about it… I have to inform the authorities. Help me.’

  That chuckle again. I could not tell if it was man, woman or child. My temper began to rise, but I tried to keep it from my voice. I walked towards the angel.

  ‘Come out. You have nothing to be afraid of.’

  I thought I heard a rustle of dead leaves, and held my breath to listen. Suddenly I heard the chuckle close behind me, almost at my ear, and I spun round. There was nothing there, but I had a new horror to confront.

  The pistol was in my hand.

  I stared at it, mouth slack. I held it there in front of me, searching for some kind of explanation but there was none. It had been in my belt and now, through no agency of my own, it was in my hand. My impulse was to throw the murderous object as far from me as possible, but my body was oblivious to the urgings of my spirit and the weight of the pistol dropped my arm to my side. I walked unsteadily back to the street and leaned against the gatepost.

  The Reverend John Receives a Visitor

  The Reverend complained and so

  Without a single word Tyrone

  Drowned him in the font

  And under a dung pile he buried him.

  The Ballad of Seán Tyrone

  The Reverend John Wesley John took to the pulpit and, as was his habit, spent some time in contemplation of the assembly before delivering his address. His purpose here was twofold; firstly he well understood the theatrical nature of his calling and, like an actor of the old school, expected and demanded the full attention of his audience before making his speech. Any cough or scraping of feet was punished by the lash of his stare and instantly silenced. Secondly, he wished to define those penitents who met his eye openly and without guilt from those whose attention was held by any insignificant object they could fix upon. These sinners would be the targets in whom his arrows of righteous accusation would be fastened.

  There was a young woman seated four rows back who showed a preoccupation with the neck of the gentleman seated in front. One of her eyes was bruised and swollen; the minister knew her name and who she was. He licked his lips and gripped the sides of the pulpit.

  ‘First, it is with sadness that we must note the passing of one of our number. A man I know was well liked and even respected by some of you in spite of his obvious failings. The coroner has returned a verdict of death by misadventure. Misadventure, my friends. There is a way which seemeth right to a man but thereof are the ways of death. We are all acquainted with the evidence presented at the hearing and cannot help but be reminded of Onan, who spilled his seed on the ground and the thing which he did displeased the Lord, wherefore he slew him.’

  Had the girl suppressed a small bleat of distress just then? He paused for a moment and then continued, frustrated at her lack of reaction.

  ‘It is hardly surprising that this man was the proprietor of one of those houses where the loathsome germ of iniquity multiplies and corrupts. You know whereof I speak but I will not profane this place of worship with its abhorrent name. It is also without surprise that this house of evil is now host to the infernal practice of fornication. Yes, their names are known to all of you here, but not only do you permit this abominable liaison to pass unchallenged in your midst but there are some before me today who continue to frequent that cesspit of drunkenness and debauchery in spite of its infernal associations. And they come here today cap in hand begging forgiveness but will surely return to their sinful ways tomorrow.’

  He looked around and was gratified to see that several pairs of eyes now failed to meet his.

  ‘Who hath woe? Who hath contentions? Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath red eyes?’

  The young woman allowed a tress of golden hair to fall over her blackened eye. Yes, his words were definitely penetrating that demure shield now.

  ‘They that tarry long at the wine. Drink biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder but you will say “they have stricken me and I was not sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not: when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.” Drunkenness and fornication are listed high among the sins of the flesh. They who would do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God but shall be cast into the eternal flame by His vengeful hand.’

  Again, that suppressed whimper from the fourth row.

  ‘So what is to be done? How may these sinners redeem themselves? The answer, my friends, is to be found like all others in the Holy Scripture. Walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit, for they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit do mind the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace. We shall now sing “Nearer, my God, to Thee”.’

  That afternoon Reverend J.W. John had several calls to make in the village; he delivered comfort to the sick, solace to the bereaved and exhortations to the wicked. It was evening before the minister returned to the chapel where he was surprised to find the door standing open and a young man swinging his legs from the sacramental table.

  ‘Good evening, Father.’

  ‘I’m not your father. If you must address me by any title, it should be Reverend. What are you doing here? And get down from that table. It is where we take the sacrament.’

  ‘I’m just fine right here.’

  ‘Do you respect nothing, young man? I know you are not of our Church but we worship the same God. Do you remember nothing you were taught?’

  ‘When I was a boy the Mass was in Latin so that passed over my poor, ill-educated head. The sermon was in English but I was too worried about getting frostbite in my feet and fingers to be paying the priest any mind. We could have done with a few fires of damnation just to warm the place up a bit.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Now I’ve heard about the lesson you gave here this morning. Don’t you know better than to be upsetting people like that, you old shitehawk? I think it’s time you were given a lesson yourself.’

  ‘This is a house of worship and I its ordained minister. You will leave immediately.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you’ve learnt your lesson.’

  The wrath of righteous anger surged in the Reverend John’s breast as he strode through the chapel. The young man sprang down and gripped the minister by the throat, span him round and held him pinioned to the table.

  ‘That’s a fine font you have there. Now if I remember rightly its purpose is for the washing away of sin. How about we give it a go?’

  He transferred his grip to his victim’s collar and dragged him to the font. The young man held the minister’s head under the water for a while before pulling him up, gasping and retching.

  ‘Now I’d like to hear you sing. A nice little hymn, perhaps. Maybe one you sang this morning.’

  ‘Please…’

  ‘Sing!’

  ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee… e’en though it be a cross that raiseth me…’

  Water filled his nose and throat as his head was forced beneath the water again. He could feel his legs growing limp and consciousness begin to fade. Then there was blinding light and burning air but he could breathe

  ‘Sing. Come on. Put some life into it.’

  ‘Still all my song shall be nearer, my
God, to Thee… nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee.’

  Under the water again. This time Reverend John had no inclination to fight against the darkness. Perhaps if he relaxed and welcomed the water into his lungs he would find peace. Peace in the welcoming arms of the Lord our Saviour. After all, this is what had been promised. This is what he rightly deserved.

  When the first horror of doubt assailed him, it was too late to fight his way back.

  Seán Tyrone tossed the body over his shoulder and left the chapel. There was no one about so he was able to cross Old Bridge Road and enter Drewlys Farm unobserved. In a corner of the field lay a hillock of dung, steaming in the cold night air. A spade stuck up from the pile. Tyrone threw down his burden and began to shovel the stinking ordure over the corpse; in a short while it was covered completely and the heap restored to order. He went back to the chapel and washed his hands in the font before returning to the Deryn Du.

  The Moon

  Now the moon shines bright over Aberuffern

  The crows hop and skip to avoid its light

  But there’s no escape as they caw and cackle

  As the moon lights each black beast

  Of Aberuffern

  Now the moon shines yellow over Aberuffern

  Creatures scuttle and snarl to avoid its light

  But there’s no way out as they bite each other

  As the moon lights each black beast

  Of Aberuffern

  The Fragile Nature of Innocence

  I lay with her one blissful night,

  For me the first and sweetest time;

  Until day dawned, by candlelight

  I sweated out a lovesick rhyme.