Crow's Breath

by John Kinsella

  Be lovely to go across and have a look one day, Kamu darling. We could swim in the nuddy on the far side. They giggled.

  Yes, but we’ll need to get chummy with some locals before that’ll happen!

  Give them back to me, I want to take another look, she said, reaching for the binoculars.

  Steady on! I’m still looking.

  Come on, Kamu, I had them first. She snatched at them and he pulled them away. They lightly wrestled for them, half laughing, half annoyed, before Kamu gave way and said, Well, I want to sort out our bags. I’ll leave you to them.

  *

  They made friends among the locals quickly, which surprised them. Everyone around seemed welcoming and weren’t the least boorish, as they’d found them on previous, briefer visits. Kamu and Celine were reflecting on their luck, listening to Hendrix’s ‘Purple Haze’ on the small, tinny-sounding stereo, when Kamu took up the binoculars and fixed them on the island. Hey, Celine, there’s smoke coming from the cottage.

  Let me look, let me look. She sang ‘help me, help me …’ and snatched the binoculars away. Yes, you’re right. Yes. Let’s ask Brian O’Shea if he’ll take us across in his boat. He said we only need ask. He seems to know the old fellow who stays out there – I got the feeling it might even be an uncle or cousin? He must be ancient. Can’t see a boat moored out there, though. Must be pulled up out of sight. Haven’t seen anyone coming or going since we arrived.

  *

  Brian O’Shea looked after a number of holiday properties along that stretch of coast, and made extra money showing tourists around in his small boat – an eight- or nine-foot dinghy with a puttering outboard. There was no avoiding Brian – he was never far away.

  They squeezed into Brian’s boat and set off in a slightly choppy sea. It was midmorning. What do ye think of the house? asked Brian, working the tiller, the boat low at the back and Celine high on the prow, her eyes fixed on the island.

  The House on the Rock? Wonderful, said Kamu. Simplicity and pragmatism. Best place we’ve ever lived in. He’d said ‘lived in’ as if it were theirs.

  And it looks like a Frank Lloyd Wright. It’s an inspiration, added Celine.

  Eh? asked Brian, then pointed out past Celine to a seal. That’s Nippy, the old bastard. Always after the fish.

  No! said Celine, it’s gorgeous! Look, Kamu, look.

  Yes, it’s looks like a scarred and wily ol’-timer.

  Yes, true. Got to give him that, said Brian. He’s bloody old and bloody wily, that old sea dog.

  Wish we had the binoculars with us, Kamu, I’d like to see him up close.

  Don’t like to take them out of the house, Celine – would seem wrong to remove them.

  You don’t need any by-nock-ulars to see Nippy – he’s never far away. He’s always about the coast here. It’s his place. Celine and Kamu looked at each other, wondering if they’d caught Brian’s real tone over the slap slap slap of the aluminium hull on the water and the buzzing of the outboard. Nippy swam straight towards them, stuck his head up and twitched his whiskers.

  He’s bottlin’, said Brian.

  Looks like he’s smirking, said Kamu.

  Cutest thing I’ve ever seen, said Celine. Oops, there he goes. And Nippy was gone into the chop, which seemed to be getting worse the closer they got to the island. Celine and Kamu watched for Nippy to surface again, but he was gone.

  The boat hit a wave and Celine was thrown back against Kamu, who fought to keep from being thrown back onto Brian.

  Watch it! called Brian. And they all laughed. It was okay.

  There was a small strand on the island, and Brian lifted the outboard and ran the boat gently into the sand, jumping out into the froth and hauling the boat onto the beach enough for his passengers to set out on firmer ground, only getting wet around the ankles. He hauled the lightened dinghy up a little further and secured it with a sheet anchor. Tide will be up in a while, don’t want it floating off on us, he joked. Okay, he said, just over these rocks.

  And there it was, the roof of the cottage … shack. They clamoured over water-blackened red sandstone and went to the low front door which opened before they could call out, and a wizened man with tobacco stains marking a halo on his beard barked, What do you want?

  It’s okay, Pat. It’s just me, said Brian. Brought some visitors.

  I don’t want visitors!

  Now, come on, Pat, show us some hospitality. How about a strong cup of tea?

  Pat let them in and served up enamel mugs of stewed tea. The mugs were dirty and Celine tried discreetly to wipe hers with the hem of her shirt, while also marvelling at the organic structure of the cottage from inside. The stone looked like wood, and it had a whiff of the House on the Rock about it in the way it merged, came out of the landscape. A massive piece of sea-burnished oak formed a mantelpiece over a turf fire. It had strange faded lettering carved into it and Celine wondered to herself if it was Ogham script. Kamu, who had a delicate chest, wheezed with the acrid smoke that permeated every pore of the cottage. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to turf fires, he muttered to Celine, coughing violently into his hand. He was ignored.

  We’ve seen smoke coming out of the cottage, said Kamu, recovering. We’ve been intrigued. What’s the history of this place … Pat? Pat, is it?

  What of it? Pat then spoke to Brian in Irish and ignored his guests.

  Celine looked at Kamu and indicated with her little finger that maybe they should go outside. Taking the hint, Kamu said, Thanks for the tea, sir … if you don’t mind, we might talk a walk around the island. Receiving no reply, he hesitated before adding, uneasily, Won’t take long to explore, and we might come up with some flotsam and jetsam to decorate our house in the city! They giggled to break the ice, ease the tension.

  Pat and Brian kept talking in Irish, ignoring them (why did they have to go back to the old language? Celine thought … it was such a drag at school), until Pat erupted and said, So that’s where my glasses went! You people have my binoculars. They were salvaged from a wreck on this island fifty years ago. When I was onshore during the wild weather, someone came and took them. They came in the wild weather. How they landed I don’t know, but they took them. And you have them in that house – the House on the Rock. What right have you to be there? The bastards botched it, messing with it to make money. I watched them ruining it … watched them through those binoculars when I had them, before they were stolen … And the goings-on I saw through the big front window! Disgusting. And now I know they were thieves as well!

  Celine and Kamu stood stunned. Pat’s speech had switched from the deeply sing-song rhythms of West Cork to those of Trinity College, Dublin. It was disturbing. They staggered out of the cottage, gasping for fresh air. They wanted out. No swimming in the nuddy, no searching hidden spaces, no admiring the gnomic architecture of the cottage. It had become a toxic place.

  *

  Crossing back, Brian barely said a word before almost dumping them on the rocks, the dinghy buffeting against sandstone and Celine nearly slipping into the sea. As he pushed off, Brian said, You better return those by-nock-ulars. He threw gear around in the boat and muttered in Irish. As they clamoured away he called in English, This was always a wrecking place! A shaken Celine said, Where did that come from? Changeable as the weather, said Kamu.

  That was downright creepy, Kamu said as he studied the binoculars, glancing out to the island. The sea was quite rough now and he fancied he could see flurries of spray over the cottage. He went to raise the binoculars to his eyes but Celine called out, Don’t, Kamu, leave them. Don’t look at that place. I think that old man scavenged wrecks. There were a lot of deaths in this bay fifty and sixty years ago … and back over the centuries. In the seventeenth century pirates would capture ships and bring them here for wrecking. I don’t think the tradition has completely gone. This was a place of washed-up corpses. I bet he was one of those … he’s ninety if he’s a day.

  Why didn’t you mention this when we first
came here, Celine?

  It’s just stuff I read in a tourist guide, Kamu. You know how contrived you think tourist guides are … or ‘Baedekers’, as you sarcastically call them.

  Kamu sighed, put the binoculars down slowly and said, I’m going to have a shower and wash the day away. Let’s have a good meal and an early bedtime.

  That’d be nice, Celine purred. But let’s pull the bedroom curtains across tonight. I know they only look out onto the sea, but who knows, maybe that old creep sees through Nippy’s eyes. They laughed, hugged, and had a good night of it.

  *

  There was a thumping at the door early the next morning, and Kamu, rubbing his eyes and pulling a gown over his chest, opened it to a wild-eyed Brian. Give me the binoculars and I’ll take them back right now! Kamu registered that Brian pronounced the word with clarity and worldliness. Brian look dishevelled and stank of drink.

  Steady on, man. I don’t think we can do that. They go with the house. We’d have to speak to the owner. You know we’re only renting. I’ll post him a letter on Monday – he’s not on phone or email. Likes his privacy. But surely you know him?

  Never spoken with him and don’t want to. You better write immediately. Sooner the better! If you’re using this house for inspee-ray-shun, you’re sailin’ down a dead end. Brian stared hard and sarcastically at Kamu, then touched his flat cap in mock deference, and walked back up the long drive to the road. The sea was flat and silent in the varicoloured morning light, and shimmered with the frisson of their conversation.

  *

  I’ll write the damned letter, Celine. I’m on to it, I said. They were arguing and had been all day. It was late afternoon and the sun was illuminating the island. Though they hadn’t touched the binoculars again, they had been a constant source of conversation and disagreement. Celine thought Kamu was rambling and making less sense than when he’d been an addict (just briefly, Kamu had had a bit of an amphetamine habit, but that was in the early days of their practice, when he’d found it difficult to keep up with the influx of work). He was saying things like, I think we need to look at the buildings we do in a very different way. Not just take on influences from this place, but look at them through binoculars, so to speak. Build them at a distance and then look at them up close.

  You’re speaking garbage, Kamu. What’s ‘at a distance’ mean? What the fuck is wrong with you? Celine rarely swore.

  This went on and on and on, until Celine walked over to the binoculars intending to smash them on the tile floor but instead lifted them to her eyes. Hey, Kamu, I can see Nippy! He’s staring straight at me with those big … wicked eyes! He’s cruising just off the island. And I can see the cottage door open and there’s Pat and … Jesus Mary! … You won’t believe this …

  What is it, darl? The cottage door? You can’t see the cottage door from here … it’s on the far side. Impossible!

  Take a look!

  Kamu snatched the binoculars from his wife and twirled the focus wheel. I can’t see anything, darl, what did you see? Just a flat sea and the cottage, dead quiet.

  No! She took them back and looked and yelled, Disgusting! Can’t you see what that old varmint is doing? He’s playing with himself and winking at me!

  Who, Nippy the seal? said Kamu, witheringly.

  Christ, Kamu! The old man, Kamu, the old man is masturbating and grinning at me. It’s horrible … it’s sick and horrible.

  Kamu snatched the binoculars back in a way that said no more to-ing and fro-ing. No! He’s not there, and even if he were, the glasses aren’t strong enough to pick up a wink! He raised them to his eyes again. Nothing. You’re stirring me, that’s what you’re doing. Or fucking hallucinating!

  Don’t swear at me, Kamu!

  You swore! You’re sounding like a … screaming banshee! A screaming banshee!

  I want to take the stinking binoculars back to the island now! she yelled. Now now now! like a petulant child. She even stamped her foot. I want to take them back and tell him, that Pat, what I think. He doesn’t frighten me.

  I’ll find Brian, said Kamu.

  *

  Brian would not go himself, but gave Kamu a quick lesson on handling the dinghy. It was a long, cloudless evening with a full moon. The sea was a millpond. Brian asked a hundred euro for use of the boat, which actually made Kamu feel better about it. You’re doing the right thing, said Brian. No point getting on the wrong side of old Pat.

  After messing with the ripcord, flooding the motor and almost capsizing the boat, Celin and Kamu got it going and puttered towards the island. Nippy kept them company, diving under the boat and appearing ahead, whipping up a phosphorescent sheen in the water.

  Weather changes fast out on the south-west peninsulas, with the Celtic Sea backed by the Atlantic and the force of all water changing the coastline in days rather than aeons. The storm was sudden and sent waves over the cottage. Brian, watching from the rocks, saw the dinghy struggling against the waves. But as the rain swirled, he lost sight of Kamu and Celine struggling to stay upright, the dinghy vanishing between wild peaks. Brian smiled, shook his head, ducking into the storm, headed away from the cliffs.

  No bodies were recovered.

  *

  During that storm, as with all others, Pat was safely hunkered down in the cottage, its watertight doors sealed like a ship’s, its organic forms speaking with the substance of the tiny island. When calm followed the next morning, he went out onto the strand and recovered the washed-up binoculars for Brian to pick up later and return to the House on the Rock.

  Yet he couldn’t resist, just for old times’ sake … raising them to his bright eyes and looking out across to the house whose design was like an offspring to his cottage. But he looked through the wrong side of the binoculars, making everything minuscule though still perfect in its own distant way. Even in fine weather these can be treacherous waters … it’s a lot further away than people like to think.

  Lowering the binoculars, he turned for the cottage, glancing back over his shoulder at the shallows and calling in Irish, Something good always comes out of the wreckage, doesn’t it, Nippy?

  THE THIN VEIL

  They come on the eve of All Saints’, trying to break in.

  They picked up the house for a song. It looked out over the bay from the edge of the village. Built in the 1950s, it had been done up, and winter would be snug behind the double glazing, with the efficient central heating set just right. By the time they had fully moved in, it was late October; the summer crowds had well and truly vanished, and the village became more as it was at heart: close-knit, authentic and anchored firmly in its history, in its slate and schist and sandstone, in its copper-depleted coastal mountains. Stone circles, wedge tombs, and the tools of Bronze Age miners defined its selfimage, its public image, and were entwined through its spirit. The sea, with its Gaeltacht island just offshore, breathed the weight of the Atlantic and resistance, a holding-out against the forces of dispossession. Selkies reached out of the sea for lonely men, and the Others swapped feeble children for strong ones. People built houses near the famine pits, and the rich poured their materiality into the cauldron of myth in summer, taking as much away with them as they felt they could extract. In truth, they took nothing and left little.

  The newcomers were foreigners, of a sort. Half the young people of the village had gone to Australia for the mines, so a family from ‘down there’ coming to live ‘here’ instead was a talking point. They expected dialogue. Though the husband was something of a recluse, the wife was gregarious, and her three children keen to be part of everything. They instantly wanted costumes for the Halloween dress-up at school, wanted to spend Halloween evening down in the village with the other families. Not quite confident enough to trick-or-treat in a strange neighbourhood, especially since that wasn’t done back home in their coastal town in Australia, they were nonetheless sure they’d be ready by next Halloween. Their father was working on a ship in a bottle – literally, it was a hobby he was fana
tical about, a welcome relief from his career as a web designer, a career he shared with his wife and which allowed them to live anywhere a broadband connection could be established.

  I’m heading downtown now, love. Steady, kids. Calm down. Say goodbye to Dad. Oh, sorry, love, they meant to say goodbye – out the door before I could stop them.

  No problem. Lock it behind you. I’ll be busy, I don’t want to be disturbed.

  Look, I’ve left a bag of sweets and chocolates on the table for the trick-or-treaters when they come by. I imagine they’ll start soon.

  I won’t be answering the door, I’m busy.

  I thought as much, but if you change your mind …

  I won’t.

  I know, I know. Well, enjoy your own company.

  *

  Tonight he was going to insert the small vessel into the bottle and raise its sails by gently drawing on threads. It was a fine art. He generally had a steady hand, despite a tendency to anxiety.

  As a child he’d made hundreds of model aeroplanes. Boats were a thing of his middle life. The planes were constructed from kits – pressing plastic parts out of their frames, gluing it all together with a sickening, addictive solvent glue. But his personal touch was the painting with Humbrol colours. At ten he was a master, entering his works of art in hobby fair competitions, always winning his age section. He researched the historical painting, the camouflage, the livery, and even personalised particular planes, compiling whole squadrons. Obsessive.

  Before starting work, he placed the bag of sweets in the cupboard, and set all his materials out on the kitchen table, which he’d covered with a plastic cloth to prevent damage. His wife didn’t need to remind him to do this – he was a naturally neat and orderly person. The messiness of his children’s rooms gave him hives. Once it was set up to his satisfaction, he began the painstaking, delicate act of construction. Tonight it was a three-masted schooner of the Onedin Line. His hand was machine-like in its control, its ability to lift the thread of a sail into place, to fix it here … and here.