by Paul Lynch
That dream of Mam. She feels there is something her mother was trying to tell her. Yesterday she had hated her but in the dream today she is love and comfort. How a dream can leave you so unsettled.
In the hoarfrost outside everything that trembles in nature seems to hold still. A far-off bird does not fly but is held numb under a struggling sun. She rolls her blanket then stops and ties it into a cape instead. Soundpost is walking past her holding the blunderbuss and reading from his notebook. Of a sudden he trips, falls face-forward, the moment of his falling slowing, it seems, to the tempo of stillness, the minds of all expecting the gun to go off. Soundpost then upon his face and he utters a groan. He lifts his chin and stares blindly for a moment as if he cannot register what happened. Wilson stands with a comb frozen in his hair then hinges into laughter. Clackton reaches a hand to Soundpost and hauls him up. Says, you’re lucky that gun didn’t blow your brains out. Soundpost violent with his hands, dusting himself down, juts his eyes about for the notebook. Kicks at the ground that tripped him. An arid tree root like a warning finger. He turns upon her then, begins to shout. Mercy! Mercy! Get a move on, hireling.
They shout the cattle into ponderous march up the bogland slopes. The cattle keen in unison grief but then quieten when they meet the all-sky of the bog. The land near treeless and how it sends thought shooting in every direction. Shadow-clouds like enormous animals grazing the brown slopes as if the sky were trying to mirror the booley. When a cow stops to test the bog sedge Grace gives it a push. Finds herself studying the dead-time of the bog, how it seems as if great violence were struck in the long-ago, imagines a land razed by fire.
This place is like Blackmountain, she thinks. The silence and how it is held. In the far-off she sees a cabin. A drawl of peat smoke. A person outside it reduced to shape and movement. She thinks, that place could be home. That person could be Mam. She sees herself walking towards the house and stepping in, her heartbeat rising to Bran and Finbar. The songs she used to sing with them. And then she wonders how she could have forgotten. Or perhaps you didn’t. The child born by now. A girl called Cassie, or Conn, perhaps, if it was a boy.
She says, you know what, Colly? I have slid out of my life. I’ve lost who I was. I am as stupid as those cattle.
Colly says, I’ll tell you who you are, you are Tim—now get me a smoke.
He has begun to whine like an upstart pup. He says, there’s an ache in my mouth something terrible, Grace, are you listening?
Ugh.
Everybody else gets to smoke their pipe as they walk, I canny walk any further unless you ask Soundpost for plug.
I was given a pinch already.
He’ll give you more, so he will.
Mercy! Mercy! That’s what he’ll say. The way he looks at you when you ask him for something. He’d drive you demented.
If that is so, why are you always staring at him?
I’m only staring at that tombstone tooth.
You are dripping your eyes off him, you are doing it now, so you are.
The way Soundpost half smiles when she drops back and yet his eyes are frozen in their looking. Mercy! Mercy! From a leather pouch he pulls two pinches then lights his own pipe first. He says, my tobacconist in Newtownbutler imports it especially.
She tokes her pipe, does not know how to answer. Says, that’s smoother than down, so it is.
Soundpost does not smile but says, never a truer word.
He nods towards Wilson. That fella there couldn’t tell the difference.
Wilson turns and scratches his underarm. Baccy is just baccy, he says.
She is learning to mirror Wilson’s behavior—the carefree disposition, his easy laugh and lope. The way he sits on his honkers wrapping his arms about his knees. His general assurance with the animals. Already she has mastered his whistle—two fingers in the mouth, loud enough to command the dogs, though they don’t yet respond.
She also studies Clackton, walks sucking on her pipe for he does it best—the pipe easy on the lips, shouting at the cattle without moving his mouth, swinging an ash switch. She puffs into the sky a perfect smoke ring.
Colly says, I can do them as good as that.
Show me.
How the cattle never tire of their lowing and yet there is peace to be had. A gap has opened in the trembling place of herself. It is a quiet she has not heard for a long time. It is like being nowhere for a moment, each step like stepping into an absence. Like holding in the closed cup of your hands the settle of a frightened bird.
Soundpost calls to shore up the cattle. He points towards the lee of a heathered hill that holds some sun. A rough circling of rocks to sit on. Wilson whistling and shouting at the dogs, go bye, go bye, that’ll do. Clackton scratching furiously at himself, grumbling for all to hear that the cattle can’t feed on bog sedge. Wilson as usual bursting with talk after the morning’s march. His chatter is lighthearted until Soundpost and Clackton begin disagreeing loudly again, this time on some political matter about the Crown, talk of coming relief in the newspapers. Wilson casts them a mocking look.
Soundpost says, the shortages are none of my business.
Clackton says, you’re making them your business.
Soundpost says, I don’t see you out of pocket.
He picks up the blackened pot of water and drops it on the fire, sits on a rock and turns away from them. Clackton continues to scratch himself. He is trying to reach an arm to foreign parts of his back. When he draws up his shirt there is a rash of red as if in sleep he has been wrestled and clawed by some demon. Christ in the manger, he says. Any of you men scratchy after last night?
Wilson guffaws and points a large finger. He says, looks like somebody caught beasties on the straw.
Soundpost stares at Clackton’s back and says, I have some lotion in my bag. My mother made some up.
Clackton nods towards the fire. He says, tell your ma to get that tea on.
They eat their provisions and smoke and drink tea. Afterwards, she lies belly-warmed, her eyes closed and listening to the all. Clackton soft-snoring. Soundpost muttering into his notebook. Wilson stretched out on the bog grass with the collies pawed out beside him. The shuffling and lowing of cattle. The sound of the wind as it rubs the long necks of the grass into an infinitude of voices, the whispering at once of every person on earth.
Colly says, tell me, where do all the different winds come from—I’ve been thinking they must come from the gulf, wherever that is, the gulf of the four winds, it must be a great hole, I suppose—
Footsteps and then she blinks upon the upside down of Wilson.
He bends down and whispers. Who are you chatting to? Then he summons her to follow and they step over the hill, find seat on springing heather. He looks over his shoulder and whispers. Word is that brother of yours got himself caught.
Colly? she thinks. Then takes quick hold of her tongue.
She says, he has a wild big mouth on him, that’s for sure.
Take a look at this.
He pulls from the satchel a heavy-looking pistol.
Hee! Colly shouts.
Wilson tries to hand it to her but she recoils from the touch.
She says, what do you want with that thing?
Wilson says, it’s a flintlock horse pistol, eejit. A right man-stopper.
Colly says, let me have a go.
Wilson says, it’s not loaded, at least not now it isn’t. It belongs to a pair. If I had the other half I’d give it to you.
His eyes smirk though he watches over his shoulder again, then slides the gun into his satchel.
She says, what are you planning to do with it?
He says, the others have their guns, don’t they? Just like them Whiteboys.
Clackton empties his tin cup and stows it in the packed mule. He squints into the distance and spits. Looks like heavy rain, boys, he says.
Soundpost measures Clackton with one eye. That’s a curious pouch you got hanging around your neck, Mr. Clackton. Do you find yo
ur tobacco dries out? That material, you see, is not so desirable.
She watches how Clackton’s upper body seems to tighten. He stands with his lips pursed. Then his hands drop and he speaks. That pouch was made by my mother a long time ago. Wilson, pass over that cup.
What you need, Mr. Clackton, is something like—
She does not know why but she shoots the dregs of her cup close to Soundpost’s head. He shuts right up, stares at her, and she stares at him back, sees an island of blue lost in the sea-brown eye.
She says, did you say it is likely to rain all day, Mr. Clackton?
Clackton turns and eyes her. All day? he says. Hard to tell. Could be just a shower.
Soundpost has turned to the willing ear of Wilson, who is pulling bramble from a cow’s ankle. He waves his pouch, the leather red like dried venison. See how it’s lined with oiled silk, he says. I read about this particular make in a newspaper. It’s a Hungarian design called Kaposvar. Everybody in London has it. The oiled silk helps maintain the proper humidity. Look here, Clackton. See this—
She watches Clackton scratch at himself as if Soundpost were an annoyance, a horsefly nicking at his neck. He half shouts. Wilson, your cup.
Wilson has that sly smile again. He reaches out a ruddy hand for Soundpost’s pouch. Let me touch, let me touch.
Mercy, you with your filthy hands. If you want one I’ll get you the address when we get to Newtownbutler.
She has heard mention of it before by Soundpost, three or four times. Newtownbutler. This must be where they are going, she thinks. She is afraid to ask what kind of place it is. It sounds like a great town, the way Soundpost goes on, though Colly says it is probably some hole of a place. Soundpost’s brother the eminent doctor. How he will become the town solicitor, he has said. His cousins own half the businesses on Main Street. And then there is the young woman he has mentioned. Some Mary Black or was it White whom he plans to marry soon as his studies are complete and the farm sufficient. She has pictured the young woman with her hair nice and dark and ringed with curls. The certain way she sits, her legs crossed, her ankles in fancy stockings, and she is smiling coyly at Soundpost, leaning towards him in a lace dress—no, white taffeta—her sleeves are lace, smiling softly, soft gloves that travel to the wrist and young men asking you to dance and the dancing and the way they smell and whisper to you and the smell of them you inhale before you pull away—
Wilson stands up and shouts. Right, boys, pissing contest. I’ll bet you from here I can put out the fire.
She watches him unbutton his breeches and does not know where to look, Wilson pulling it with his hand—his cock, Colly says, and don’t you dare look. She turns abruptly, studies a rock and its lichen.
Wilson leans back and sighs himself into an arching yellow piss that reaches the edge of the fire.
Clackton says, you couldn’t strike a daisy with that thing.
Wilson leans back and stands shaking his organ with vigor. He stares at Clackton. Go on, you, then.
Clackton stands with his almost smile but says nothing.
Wilson turns to her. Your turn, Tim. That man is hung like a newborn. Couldn’t even piss his own pants.
Soundpost sits muttering into his notebook and refuses to look up.
Colly says, I could piss on his boots from here.
She grunts her voice down at Wilson. Would you ever quit. I only had a piss five minutes ago.
Clackton’s throat throbs as he swallows from his flask.
Bunch of small-cocks, he says.
A slump of hill rises in absolute peace with itself. The wind seems to blow from all quarters and yet so little stirs but for the sounds of their passing. The mule’s burden that squeaks in rhythm to its walk. The hide-slap and hoof-thud of cattle. The soaring horns. She watches Wilson hang a pipe from his mouth. He is humming a tune to himself, fingering with his right hand an invisible melodeon. Past the brow of the slope the track leads down towards a shallow river that cuts through it at a cross. Clackton leading the booley near to the water when of a sudden she senses some alarm unspoken and her tongue moves to shout but already the cattle have splintered. A sudden surge and then hoof-thunder in every direction and the men yell and follow and she hears Soundpost issue some curse. He follows downhill after the others with his body strangely loose as he runs and she follows breathless, sees Wilson and Clackton unruffled and calmly shouting, Wilson with his whoas and shooting whistles, the dogs circling the cattle. Away! Away! Clackton stumbling through the bog to encircle two cows. Hoot! Hoot! Hoot, would ye, ye bastards.
With unthinking feet she finds herself coming head-on upon three cattle, her arms outstretched, hears herself roaring at them. Eye to eye they meet and she sees into their eyes and what is held there, the basic fear of such animals, and she feels her mastery over them. How easy it would have been for the animals to trample you, she thinks, stamp your head into the bog. And yet you ran at them without fear. She waves her arms and soothes them, marshals them back to the group. She looks to see what it was spooked the cattle, some sound perhaps the rest of us didn’t hear, or the sight of a bird perhaps, for cattle too have their superstitions.
Soundpost’s cheeks are scoured with agitation. He stares pop-eyed at the cattle and pulls at his hair. It has taken twenty minutes to induce the animals into a group and now they must be left rest a good half hour to calm down, according to Clackton. In the maelstrom, Soundpost has lost his nibbed pen and his hat, wants everyone to know. He is blaming Clackton for this also, though how could it be his fault? she thinks. Clackton has enough to do leading the booley without keeping watch of what’s in a man’s pocket.
Colly says, I’m sick of his moaning—a buck eejit is what he is, knows nothing about cattle and if I find that pen let me tell you what I’ll do with it.
Soundpost is combing the heather on hands and knees when Wilson picks up his hat and brings it to him. Soundpost stands and dusts his hat. I must offer an apology to you all, he says. The shame of language that came out of my mouth. But you should have led them over the river, Clackton, one by one. I don’t know what you did down there. I knew I should have brought horses for this. And where is this rain you spoke of?
Wilson stands holding Soundpost in a squint. He leans across to her. Horses? What in the fuck’s he on about?
Clackton nods at Soundpost. Quit your shouting unless you want to spook the animals again. Wilson, keep those dogs quiet. There are to be no whistles or calls.
A sky of old cloth and the sun stained upon it. After such spookery it is slow work keeping the cattle in file. With the dogs they walk wide patterns around the cattle that no longer walk as one mind. When a cow steps deep into a rut it takes Soundpost pulling on a rope and the other three to heave it out. Even Wilson has grown quiet. He is slicked with black bog water from boots to the hip.
Then Clackton shouts the booley to a halt, stands scratching at his neck. Soundpost stomping past her with loose arms. She walks forward with Wilson until they see what it is. The narrow road formed by cart track and footfall has come to a complete halt in the sedge. How strange, she thinks. The way a road for no reason goes no farther. She squints at the far-off but there is nothing but bogland, it seems, low dun hills and perhaps some distant green, it is hard to tell.
Soundpost half shouts at Clackton. I thought you knew where we were going.
Clackton says, this road we were on was supposed to meet the main road to Pettigo. I know it in my own head.
Where are we, then?
We’re near to Pettigo, I guess.
How near?
I don’t know. A few mile.
Mercy. Just keep going on, then, in the general direction.
The general direction of what?
Of where the road was supposed to be going.
But the road is not going anywhere, Mr. Soundpost. It appears we were on the wrong road all along.
Mercy! Mercy!
I suppose we’ll have to keep going over the bog the way we we
re.
Mother of all patience. That’s what I said.
What you said is—
Mercy! Mercy! Just leave it.
There was supposed to be a booley hut in the valley outside Pettigo but there is no valley and no hope of that now. Soundpost muttering to himself about all this dawdling. She looks at the sky and sees how the day has been dragged to its darkness. The colors of the bog shading into alliance.
Clackton says, what would you think, Mr. Soundpost, about sleeping here in the open? We’ll take turns staying awake to watch over the animals.
She studies Soundpost’s face. He mutters and stamps his foot. She wonders if a face can get any redder. The mule, a reader of thought, stamps at the ground and brays loudly.
Colly says, see how it starts with the whinny of a horse and then becomes the hee-haw of a donkey?
He begins to hee-haw back and in the same breath makes whinny noises, keeps on doing it until she puts her fist to her head and shouts, stop. Wilson gives her a strange look. Who are you talking to? he says.
Soundpost is still staring at Clackton. He says, let us have some sense and make towards those trees. He is pointing to a stand of distant firs that hold already the darkness. We’re at the mercy of the cold and wind out here. The cattle will wander.
Wilson says, that’s the cleverest thing anybody said all day.
Clackton turns and shakes his head. Those trees are three mile off by my reckoning. It will be pure dark before we get there. Anyhow, there’s a rill nearby. Listen.
Hee-haw, Colly says.
In final light they make camp, each of them abraded to silence. Their shadows flung in off-shapes by the fluttering wind-smoked lamps. Look, Colly says. Those clouds are like the crumbling rib cage of some long-ago giant. But she cannot be bothered to look. Wilson is hatcheting at bog wood. Clackton’s face flashing out of the dark as he works the fire striker. It is like a face seen in a dream, she thinks, a face of the dead being remembered. She wonders how it is in sleep you can see someone long forgotten. Sometimes she thinks this way about her father. How she never knew him to remember and yet in dreaming there are shadows you can reach. She finds herself staring in wonder at Clackton, the flashing of his face again, and if a man like this might have been her father.
