by Tom O'Neill
‘Phlop, horoboricle explode. Horoboricle all over Saor’s cabbage garden. Horoboricle died on me,’ he said, still only talking to Matha, very distressed.
‘What died, Saor?’
‘The horoboricle.’
‘And tell me,’ said Mac Cumhaill, ‘what did it die of, Saor?’
‘A harmless little small weenchie tiny bit of auld cake is all,’ said Saor, almost in tears. ‘Saor never meant to kill horoboricle.’
‘What kind of cake?’
‘Saor was only trying to protect myself,’ Saor said to Matha. ‘Trying to keep the little horoboricle off me, to distract him with a bit of food.’
‘And how do you know it was the cake killed him?’ asked Mac Cumhaill.
‘How did I know? Did he die yesterday when Saor fed him eggs? Or the day before that when Saor fed him turnips? No, sir. He was happy as Larry them days, no dying out of him. No, he didn’t die at all with the eggs and turnips.’
‘Saor.’ Conán, who had now joined them, intervened, ‘I thought you said you were trying to just distract him from attacking you.’
‘That’s right sir.’
‘And yesterday? And the day before that?’ demanded Goll, now standing over Saor. ‘You’ve been feeding the little demons that are attacking your own people? Not only a fool,’ shouted Goll, ‘but a traitor to his own kind!’
‘Step back Goll,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘Let only him here who has never done a foolish thing call this man a fool!’
There was silence.
It was fairly plain what had happened. Saor was a man who had made pets of everything from eagles to rats. Despite being bitten all over he had been quietly trying to see if he could persuade one of the horoboricles to be his pet. But the barley cake he fed it didn’t seem to have agreed with it.
Mac Cumhaill grabbed a couple of stale loaves and headed out to try his luck. He set the things down on the ground near a grove where he knew there were horoboricles lurking and observing. The smell of the cakes seemed to turn them into lúdramáns, forgetting all their shrewd hiding tactics. Five of them rushed down from trees into open ground to grab the bread. They squabbled and gobbled. And within a minute, where a normal person might belch, these horoboricles did exactly what Saor had said – they went ‘phlop’. They exploded, leaving a considerable mess.
Cormac commanded that up to half of every clan’s winter stores of barley be opened and everyone in the country lay down their hoes, their sticks, their hammers, their spears and go to the grinding querns and baking pans, working day and night. Everyone had to bake large griddle breads and put them out in the fields and woods near them.
There was a lot of grumbling. Sensible people were sceptical. From bitter experience they were suspicious of any command to erode their carefully counted winter food stores. ‘The King won’t be there when your children are crying of the hunger,’ said one man who became well known when he went around the country opposing the call. ‘Don’t do what the powerful want you to do. Don’t follow like sheep. They won’t be here when you are trying to live on nettles, come imbolg and spring.’
‘Well of course you won’t need so much grain for the winter if the horoboricles have your parents, your children, and yourselves eaten come Samhain,’ was the response that Conán sent his men to deliver.
So people tried the plan out very cautiously at first. Once they saw for themselves how well it worked, the baking started in earnest. There was phlopping all over the place and only when the baking got fully underway did people start to realise just how many of the horoboricles there had been, lurking in every bush and clump of long grass. For luck it did not take a half of the winter stores to bring it to an end. A single loaf brought tens of them squabbling for a bite. Strangely, good learners as they were, they never did learn how to resist the bread even if they were well able to see how it was destroying their nation. It had a lethal attraction for them. After three days, the baking died down. There were griddle breads still left untouched under bushes and next to streams. It was all over.
It wasn’t going to be a very bad winter because there had been an upsurge in the rabbit and grouse populations. Nobody had been able to hunt while the horoboricles had been hiding in grass and burrows waiting to kill hunting dogs and ferrets. It was decreed that the surplus stock of rabbits should not be touched until the lean days of winter started to bite.
In the meantime, a great scatter of people descended on Saor’s beach to take another look at the apricot. It was now providing the sweetest flesh where some of the local children had been unable to resist cutting into it. It was full of juice as if it had never been inhabited. There was a great party on the beach. Saor was the centre of attention.
After some time, Mac Cumhaill came over to Saor and gave him a bag. ‘Take that home with you and mind it well.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see when you get home and, remember, mind it well.’
Saor was a good man to stick to instructions. But he wanted to know as soon as possible what the small moving ball was and so he left that beach without saying another word to anyone other than himself. No more damson juice for him. No more slaps on the back from people praising him while still mocking him. Head swinging, he took a straight line out through the bushes at the speed of a scalded cat, chatting away to himself, ‘Saor tired now, go on home out of this, windy auld day, too many people, Saor better off at home, weather might turn, not right time for dancing around at the sea, Saor tear on home now as fast as he can, Saor not open bag yet, poor little thing inside, or big thing maybe, warm thing though, grand little thing surely, Saor hurry on home.’
Matha was worried that in his excitement Saor might fall over the cliff, bundle and all. So he followed him. They made the short steep journey to Saor’s little kingdom rather quickly, thorns adding to Saor’s existing scratches. He put some sticks across the entrance to stop whatever it was from escaping. Then he opened his bag.
Inside was a brindle pup. Even though it was still a ball of baby fat, from the markings it was unmistakably the son of Bran, Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s most famous hunting dog. He was the finest pup from a litter Conán’s great hunting dog Shina had produced with Bran as the father. There had never nor has ever been a happier person in all Éirinn than Saor was that day. As Matha stood to leave, Saor stopped stroking the dog. He reached into the magpie nest at the entrance to his cave and took out the shard of bowl, which he held tight in his fist. Clearly he had no intention of parting with it. He held out his other hand and Matha reached into his tunic to give Saor the piece he had been carrying around. Saor put both into the happy magpie’s collection, his reward to the canny little warrior crow for having saved him from the mob of bigger cousins some days before. He said, ‘Matha won’t be needing these, people need Matha now.’
Matha headed back to Mac Cumhaill’s fortress where Dreoilín was waiting for him. The old druid started talking like Matha had never heard him talk before. There was an outpouring about ancient times and peculiar happenings. When Matha eventually retired to the cabin that was reserved for him forevermore, he slept well. He woke with his restlessness still not returned.
‘Though I have learned a lot in my seven years,’ said Matha to Dreoilín, ‘I feel there is still a lot I don’t know. I will give as much time to learning as you can spare for teaching me.’
‘Seven years?’ spat Dreoilín. ‘That is the blink of a horse’s eye. You know nothing. The first lesson is humility. Are you ready for that?’
Matha was ready. So humbly began the making of Matha whose name was invoked in reverence and in fear by generations of people to follow.
As for Saor, Matha occasionally called on him in his later travels. The dog turned into a big well fed pet, never trained to hunt because Saor didn’t like to even think about that kind of bloody carry on. One thing was for sure, though. There were few people who ever thought to tease or make fun of Saor from then on. The huge muscular dog developed a sense for a
sneering tone and quickly persuaded people to show respect to Saor. He and Saor were inseparable to the sad day they both died, many years later. Most likely, in the other world, the dog is still there taking as much care of Saor as Saor takes of him.
Chapter 10
THE RATCRAP KISS
Dark found it brighter outside the rath than it had been previous nights. It was getting to dawn. He hurried up the fields. Back to the deserted house.
He stopped in the front garden, confused. The door was wide open. He called the dogs. They came out wagging their tails, unperturbed. There could not be any visitor in the house. Maybe he had left it open. Though he never made mistakes like that.
Dark took a long time in the shower letting the heat of the water soak into him. He gathered some things in an overnight bag. Then he sat in the lazyboy by the Aga watching telemarketing on RTÉ1 and hoping to doze. But he was too anxious.
Not long after first light, Joey opened the front door. He was carrying a large pot of stuff for the dogs. He lifted the lid. It looked like mashed potatoes, lumps of sausage, gravy, and things that looked very like Maltesers. Dark showed him where the bin of dog food was but he said, ‘Them shop dog nuts no good. Same shite every meal. No person could stand it.’ His voice went a little bit high and again Dark had a flash of worry about leaving him in charge. Maybe he should phone Brian later to check that Joey was not also supplementing the calves’ diets.
But there was no time for any hesitation now. The Red’s truck was bouncing up the lane. The dogs were disconcertingly happy about being left in Joey’s company.
The Red drove even more like a lunatic than usual, scratching the big lorry off branches as he tore around the bends with the suspended cabin bouncing like the head of a bobble-head doll. They were at the hospital before eight. This time he drove right into the hospital grounds and carefully parked the truck outside the main door, across three spaces reserved for the consultants.
As they made their way to ICU a surprised porter said to them, ‘There’s no visiting at this time of the day, boys.’
Dark attempted to explain. But the porter wanted them out. He was only following the regulations.
‘Alright there, officer?’ said The Red, a tense note in his voice that made Dark nervous. ‘Don’t worry about us now, and we won’t be a bother in the world. Not a bother, boss. Come on, Art.’
The man stared down at The Red as if he was trying to think of something to say. Then he rubbed his sleepy eyes and walked away.
When they got to the ICU the doctor with the long hair, Leah Cannon, stood up. It looked like she’d been sitting there next to Dark’s mam for a while, holding her hand. She nodded to them and left. Dark’s mother didn’t stand. ‘He’s gone into a coma now,’ she said softly. ‘At least the pain is stopped.’
Dark looked at the ghost in the bed with his mouth open and the long silent intermissions between breaths as if he was having to decide each time whether to go again.
Now it was more important than ever to get to Connie with the stuff. Not because Dark had any faith that it would work. But because it was something else to do before he too finally inhaled the heavy hushed air of premature mourning.
In all this time, Dark hadn’t worked out any of the details. First, how would he get near Connie with staff coming and going and, more particularly, with his mother glued to the bedside. Secondly what on earth was he to do with the foul concoction? He had thought maybe Connie would know. But there was not much point in asking him anything now.
The Red answered the first part. A completely different person than had just spoken so rudely to the porter now took his mother’s hand and said, ‘Helen, come with me. I’m taking you down to the canteen for coffee and some breakfast.’
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘You have to!’ he said. ‘Come!’
Too exhausted to argue, she stood up and went out the door with the miniature man. He turned and nodded to Dark as he went. Dark couldn’t begin to guess what The Red knew or thought he knew.
But there was no time for thinking anything. Dark got back into doing mode. He rushed to shut the door. He went under the tent and put his hand on Connie’s, which was hanging out the side. He said, ‘Con, uncle, I have no idea in the world what I should be thinking anymore. I’ve lost it completely. But I swore to myself that I would complete your mission. All a McLean has is his word. I don’t see any point in just rubbing it on your chest or somewhere. And I can’t bring myself to put the stuff into your mouth in case I poison you outright. So here’s what I’m going to do.’
Dark reached into the inner pocket of the parka jacket. He found the After Eight tin and pulled it out. He opened it and with the built up gas that was released he had to swallow back a heave. It smelt infinitely worse than what he remembered putting in. He put his hand in it. There was no time for anything else. He took a big scoop in his cupped hand. The texture seemed smoother and the colour browner now. He couldn’t fathom it. He remembered the open door at home. He hesitated. Had the materials reacted or had somebody interfered? But this was the only chance there was.
‘This way, you can inhale it through mouth and nose. Come on now. Keep breathing,’ he said.
And that was how Arthur McLean came to smear rat-crap into the hair around the lips of his dying uncle. A cold wave came over his body as he saw himself do it.
Dark heard the door of the room open just as he was putting the lid back on the After Eights tin.
‘Jesus Christ what do you think you’re at in there?’ said the elderly ward sister. ‘Come out from under that tent this minute. Who are you and what are you at?’
‘I’m his nephew,’ said Dark, trying to think and putting his filthy hand in his pocket as he came out of the oxygen tent. ‘I just wanted to ... give him a kiss.’
‘Oh dear,’ her tone changed. ‘God love you. Well, I won’t tell anyone. But don’t go in again. You can’t risk bringing an infection in on the poor man. God knows, he’s already in trouble enough.’
‘Okay, sister,’ said Dark.
‘Merciful hour,’ she said, sniffing the air. ‘What is that smell?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dark. ‘I think they were spreading manure on the lawns when we were coming in. I’ll just shut the window here.’
The ward sister bustled off and in a minute Dark’s mother and The Red were back. ‘Well that was the fastest date an elegant man ever had,’ said The Red. ‘If I was a more sensitive hunk I’d think your mammy isn’t all that fond of me, Arturo.’
‘Sorry Bartholemew, I had to get back,’ said Dark’s mam. ‘Lord what is that smell? Arthur, did you bring something in on your boots?’
‘Will you call that woman back here and ask her where the hell my breakfast is?’ They all turned to see where the voice had come from. Connie’s wilted neck was trying to lift his skull off the pillow.
None of them said anything. Dark couldn’t. Neither could his mother. Dark had not the courage to believe what he was seeing. It had to be a death gasp.
But Connie spoke again, ‘Mother of the divine, what is that unmerciful smell?’
They kept looking at him and there was no sign of the head dropping back.
The Red gave Dark a heavy slap on the back, and addressed Connie, ‘Where the hell have you been, chief?’
Connie’s face darkened. ‘At the bottom of the sea,’ he said slowly. And then, seeing the nervous effect of his words, he gave a sound that had the makings of a laugh and added, ‘And let me report to you my friends, it’s a bit damp there.’
The Red let out a bellow of laughter. ‘I’ll leave it with you then, fool,’ he said to Dark. ‘Give me a holler when you want a cattle rig to bring that there buffalo home.’
Dark went to the bathroom to scrub his hands. He did it slowly, thinking that if this was a hallucination he wanted it to be over when he came back out.
The ward sister heard the commotion and came back.
‘Lovely lady,’ Connie
said, ‘I would be forever indebted to you if you could bring me a jug of that porridge I can smell down the corridor.’
She turned and soon came back with others – the two other nurses from the desk, a porter and the doctor. Cannon. She also brought a bowl of porridge. The staff stood just inside the door for some seconds not saying anything. Then the sister gave the bowl to Dark’s mother along with a teaspoon. She blessed herself and left the room. Another nurse whispered to the doctor, ‘I think the poor dear has soiled himself. I should discreetly give him a little wash before we let the food in.’
‘No...’ said the doctor, who was still staring. ‘No thanks, Mags. Just leave them for now.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to say what you were doing when the nurse saw you in the tent earlier?’ she asked, staring at Dark. She stepped back a little as she looked at him. ‘What kind of kiss exactly was it that you gave this man?’
She looked back at Connie. She had noticed the black marks above and below his lips. Dark suddenly remembered her Congo research. He couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking about him.
Dark’s mam took over. She took Leah Cannon by the arm and led her over to the bed.
‘Connie?’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you were aware of Doctor Cannon before. If anyone has kept you with us, it’s her. She’s been attending to you even when she’s off duty.’
The staff left the room to allow Dark’s mam get on with spooning the porridge into Connie.
By late afternoon Dark was starting to allow himself to think that the recovery was going to hold. And that he wasn’t going to need to put any more of the paste on to keep it going. Gaunt though he was, Connie was already back to talking loud and trying to laugh.
Then suddenly he went quiet. Dark looked at him, alarmed. He was staring straight in front of him and his face was not moving. After some long seconds his lips moved again and he spoke quietly. He had been collecting words. He had never been good with saying serious things. Dark had forgotten the awkward pauses that preceded them. Dark was not good at hearing serious speeches either, so, when Connie cleared his throat, Dark slid towards the bathroom. But Connie called them, Dark and Helen, to come to him. They stood close at either side of his bed. He lifted his hands for them to take a hold of one each and said uncomfortably, ‘While my voice was stopped up, there was something I kept wishing I could live to say. It pained me more than anything that I might go without saying it. So, I will say it now whether it embarrasses you or not. That man who left us four years ago was loved by each of us in different ways. Ways in which none of us will ever love anyone else. But my own heart started to mend the day the two of you came up to Kill. So. There you have it. And now I want us to mind each other well from here on.’
