A Mad and Wonderful Thing

by Mark Mulholland

  ‘That’s a lot of stuff up there,’ I tell Bob. ‘And it looks permanent and static, doesn’t it? As if everything has its place in the world. But it is not static. Everything is moving at speeds we humans can’t really get a handle on — our heads aren’t designed to make a shape out of it. Seeing something is only the beginning of knowledge.’

  I leave the strand and walk to a stone pier. I tell Bob that it was from this village that the O’Neills left Ireland during the Flight of the Earls, abandoning Ireland to English rule. I tell him, too, that it was in this village that the English built a great stone battery to protect Ireland from the French — a thinking, I insist, that was beyond madness.

  Maybe the French would have been as bad as the English? Bob suggests. Who can know?

  Maybe he’s right. Who can know? Though I doubt it. The stone battery still stands, and we walk around it as I tell him that it was in this village, too, that the English held the great Irish republican Wolfe Tone. That makes three English follies launched against the Irish in this small village which nowadays threatens little more than quiet fishing or a weekend retreat for the undemanding.

  What was that you said about seeing something being only the beginning of knowledge? Bob asks.

  In the morning, I leave Rathmullan, walking west through green hills, and in Glenveagh park I spend a sleepy afternoon resting in the open air by a long lake that glistens and sparkles under a sky of scattered woolly-white clouds and patches of blue. I camp beneath a broad pine; and the under the light of a moon that stoops through one of Cora’s fleecy clouds, I look across rippling water that stretches away through a valley that some giant has scooped from the mountains, like a sort of impossible inland fjord. That night, I dream of Ciarán and Demeku running, hand in hand, by a blue ocean. And I watch as Ciarán lets her hand go and turns to wave to me. But when he turns again, Demeku is gone, and he is alone in an empty place.

  I rise from my camp at Glenveagh and walk west towards the coast, camping again in Gweedore before heading south through Dungloe and Glenties, camping here and there as the good weather holds, before arriving at the port at Killybegs, where I make camp by the sea. The next day, I rest and sit on the harbour wall and watch the work of the port.

  My nights, this week, are increasingly laced with dreams of Ciarán and Demeku. I have sent a message to Delaney, and he arrives to sit beside me on the harbour wall. I tell him Ciarán’s story.

  ‘She could be anywhere,’ Delaney says.

  ‘She isn’t anywhere,’ I say. ‘And she isn’t in Africa. Neary is all about control. She is somewhere he can monitor — somewhere he can act if he needs to.’

  ‘They might not make it together,’ Delaney says. ‘It doesn’t always work out.’

  ‘Not our call, Chief. We have to help.’

  ‘And why should we do that?’ he asks.

  ‘Because I am asking, and I haven’t before. And because Neary behaves like he does because we allow him to, because we make it possible. And because if we don’t do anything, that boy will go through the rest of his life lost for that girl. He is nineteen, Chief — the same age I was when I lost Cora.’

  I let that line settle on the surface for a while before I whip the hook home.

  ‘And the same age your mother was when she lost your father.’

  Delaney leaves, and I sit and watch the fishing boats come and go. He returns in the afternoon.

  ‘They’re in Scotland. And Peadar has them warned not to come back, or to make any further contact.’

  I expected this of Neary. I have a plan made, and relay it to Delaney.

  ‘Put your best man on it,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re my best man.’

  ‘Your next-best man. And make sure he doesn’t report to Neary. Pick someone in England. And give them enough money to make a good start.’

  Delaney laughs. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, Chief,’ I tell him. ‘That will do for now.’

  And Delaney rises and leaves without a goodbye.

  I leave Donegal, pushing on south. Some days, I walk fifteen miles; some days, twenty-five; other days, only ten. Another week passes as I walk through Sligo and Mayo to camp at the edge of the ocean on Achill Island. There is something about the Atlantic coast of Ireland that is right, like a sort of jigsaw piece that fits and closes a puzzle I carry around in me. I breathe here like in no other place. It is here I feel the gravity of home ground.

  I am on the road to Westport, and in the early morning I am leaving a sleeping village into a land of moss-green, purple, and brown. Birds call though the gentle air. I pass the village school, empty and silent now, but how easy it is to imagine the noise of the schoolyard: the running and chasing, the shouting, the freedom of children’s laughter. I look on the hand-drawn posters and paintings that cover the lower half of the windows. Beyond the school and the yard, I notice a handball court. It is a large concrete structure — some thirty feet wide and sixty feet long — with a high wall at the back end, two pitched side walls, and one open end. It’s a simple game, handball. As I consider the game, I remember the mornings I used to climb the wall of the tennis club with Anna, when we’d play with the added joy of knowing we shouldn’t have been there and were getting away with it. I enter the schoolyard and walk over to the court, where a small, black ball that must have been left behind in the dark of evening lies by a side wall. The pull is too great. I look back to the school and the village. The only movement belongs to crows. I remove my backpack and coat, take a few shots, and decide to give myself a game, Ireland versus England — every first and second shot alternating, country to country, and the first to seven will be the winner. After a while I am really getting into things and calling the score. It is a close game. At five–five I get, perhaps, too excited, and am now calling a commentary on every shot.

  ‘A tight match here in the Westport Arena,’ I call, ‘between the English champion and the young Irish challenger. The crowd are on their feet and cheering every shot. It could go any way.’

  It goes to six–six. I am sweating and breathing hard.

  ‘Hold on to your hats, this thing has gone right down to the wire. Who can hold his nerve now? Who can take glory? Will it be the resolute Englishman or the brilliant young Irishman?’

  I serve and call the play.

  ‘Tension now in the Westport Arena as the Englishman pushes his opponent into the side wall with some brilliant play. But the Irishman recovers. Fantastic. The Englishman drives the ball to the side again. Surely this time he won’t get there? But he does! He does! I don’t believe it. And the crowd go wild. What a match! The Englishman now drives the ball hard down the middle. Is this it? No, the Irishman recovers again and stays in there. He just won’t give up. Again the resolute Englishman tries, but this time the return pushes him to the side. He gets there, but only just. The court is open. The Irishman smashes the ball down the open side. The Englishman can’t make it. Or can he? No, he can’t. He can’t. Victory to the young challenger! Victory for Ireland! And the crowd are on their feet. The noise is incredible.’

  I go for my coat and backpack. Two boys step out from behind the court wall.

  ‘A great victory for Ireland,’ the first boy says to me, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Yes,’ the second boy says, stretching to look past me into the empty court. ‘Especially against the English. They’re very resolute.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ says the first.

  ‘Brilliant,’ says the second.

  ‘I don’t think we have ever seen anything like it,’ the first boy says, his arms falling and his body beginning to shake. ‘Not here, anyway. Not in the Westport Arena.’

  In the late evening, I pick the car up in Westport — the car the Chief has provided — and drive to Dundalk. In the morning, I make the calls. Delaney’s man has D
emeku and her mother by a phone box in Glasgow train station. The man has given them instructions and cash, and then he has left. Father Brian has taken Ciarán to Dublin Port, given him the money from Delaney, and told him to wait by a certain public phone. And Father Brian, too, has gone. It is better that both men don’t know any more — then, no matter what, they cannot tell. And it is only now that I choose a location for Ciarán and Demeku to meet. I choose the furthest point from trouble that I can think of.

  I make the first call to Dublin. I tell Ciarán to take the early ferry to England and then to travel south to Bournemouth, and to be at the town hall at midnight. I ask him for something to tell Demeku, to calm her, to convince her to go.

  There is silence as he thinks.

  I wait.

  ‘A wanza tree, he says. ‘We spoke about getting married under a wanza tree, like the one in her home village. Tell her, we will dance soon under a wanza tree.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t worry, Ciarán — he won’t be coming after you.’

  ‘Why are doing this, Johnny?’ he asks.

  ‘Because I have to,’ I tell him.

  I make a call to Glasgow, telling Demeku to travel south to Bournemouth, and to be at the town hall at midnight. I tell her that they will dance soon beneath a wanza tree.

  I make a third call.

  It is still early morning, and the phone rings for some time before it is answered.

  ‘What?’ a gruff voice snaps into my ear.

  ‘Hello, Pigeon.’

  ‘What the fuck? Who is this?’

  ‘At midday today, Neary, I’m coming to knock on that silly front door of yours. And then I’m going to piss in your fountain.’ I put the phone down.

  I drive to the forest, five miles from where I will shoot from, and I dig a deep grave.

  At ten o’clock, I am in position, and the gun is set. I am ready.

  At a quarter to twelve, Neary opens his front door wide and steps onto his front porch, just I knew he would. Bravado, from men like Neary, is predictable. I watch through the scope as he stands with his arms folded, and with a face of contempt and challenge glaring out through the stone pillars to the country lane that leads to the farm. I also see the two men in a Toyota Corolla that’s parked off the main road, and the other two men in a Mitsubishi Pajero that sits in his backyard. I settle on the gun. I find the porch in the crosshairs and move slowly onto the target. I proceed through my routine. Safety off. Deep breath. Let half out. Hold. Crosshair. Crosshair. I squeeze the trigger.

  I leave the car on a quiet street and I take a bus to Dublin. And from there I take a train back to Westport to resume my walk.

  The following morning, I make the last call.

  It is early again, but this time the phone is quickly lifted.

  ‘Hello, Pigeon.’

  ‘You fucking bastard. You fucking, fucking bastard. You shot my football. It’s gone. It’s totally fucking gone.’

  ‘You will not go after the boy,’ I tell him. ‘Or the girl. Or the mother. Or next time …’

  ‘You fucking, fucking, fucking, fu …’

  I put the phone down.

  You did good to bury that gun, Bob says to me, later in the day. Is that the end of it?

  ‘That’s the end of it, Bob.’

  Well, that itself, Johnny, he says. Well, that itself.

  To whom we belong

  I AM IN THE BLEAK LAND OF CONNEMARA. HERE, THE EARTH IS THIN AND poor. The place has a wide air and an empty colour. At a crossroads, I remove my boots and socks, and rest on a stone wall. A gentle breeze soothes the heels and toes. An old woman approaches from the south on a broken road. She is walking slowly, pushing a black bicycle, and is dressed in a long, black frock and a black top. A black shawl is draped over her shoulders, and a black scarf covers her head. She stops when she reaches me, and lifts her face. I look into eyes that, despite her weathered age, are the bright green of a sunny harbour.

  ‘Do I know your face?’ she asks.

  ‘Unlikely,’ I reply. ‘I’m a stranger in a strange land.’

  ‘There are none of us strangers,’ she says, and then asks, ‘Cé leis tú?’

  I only know the meaning of her question because it is something Cora used in her attempts to teach me Irish. And I think it an odd thing in itself that I remember it at all — I have a brain that has been specifically engineered to repel the learning of Irish. But this phrase I know. It means, ‘To whom do you belong?’ How do I answer that?

  I look to her. ‘I don’t know if I belong to anybody. I’m a bit of a free spirit.’

  She laughs. ‘We all belong to someone, or something.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘As sure as the Earth turns.’

  To whom do I belong? Oliver, Kathleen, & Co? I am from them, but I do not belong to them. Do I? And Dundalk? The same. And Ireland? What about Delaney and the IRA and the war? I am a part of that, and yet not a part of it at all. And yet, is that me? And Aisling? Do I belong to anyone or anything?

  She watches my perplexity with all the patience in the world held in her green eyes. ‘Rest your busy head,’ she tells me. ‘The pure truths spring from the heart.’

  And with that, my truth is released like a great blockage giving way and cleared. ‘Cora Flannery,’ I tell her, and she raises an old hand and touches the side of my face. She laughs again as she walks away, pushing the bicycle.

  Sirens

  IN THE SEVENTH WEEK, I REACH CLARE AND GO TO MULLAGHMORE. I crawl over the broken limestone, and examine the fissures and crags. Extraordinary wildflowers are growing there. I look around me.

  ‘I have thought that there are messages here,’ I say to Bob.

  And what messages would they be?

  ‘One is beauty: that beauty can be found in barren places. The other message is the futility of action if it is measured against time.’

  What does that mean, son?

  ‘Well, man has lived in the Burren for thousands of years, and when stone-age farmers settled there, they found it forested and with earth underfoot. These settlers cut down the trees and put cattle out to graze. It was the felling of trees and the grazing of cattle that tore away the land and left the barren rock of today. And if we look at that rock, we see that it is hundreds of millions of years old; we see that it was created under a sea, but not this sea.’

  And I point to the coast.

  ‘We can see that the island used to be in the southern hemisphere, in two pieces, and over time it was crushed into one island, and has moved north to where we are today. And we know that our island has not finished its journey. Little by little, it continues to move farther north. We are on the way to the cold north, Bob. And do you know what is there at the cold north, under all that ice? Nothing: just a cold sea. We’re on the way to nowhere. And our time on this rock is but a small time, a small time on a rock that changes from two pieces in two continents, to one island, to be under warm seas, to volcanic mountains, to ice, to forest, to a barren mountain — an island rock that is on its way to nowhere. So what tribal claims we make, ultimately, don’t make sense.’

  Be-god, Bob says. This is some place all right, when it can say all that.

  There is a hullabaloo when I arrive on Station Road. My arrival has caught Bella by surprise, and she is emotional in her welcome. Mick and Marcella, too, are warm in their greeting, and when we all eat together I am forced to detail the accident, the convalescence, and the walk. It is the middle of the seventh week, and I am tired. I sleep in my old bed for two days, which is a total joy, and on the third afternoon there is a knock on my door. I open it, and Éamon is standing there, with a backpack in one hand and a pair of walking boots in the other.

  ‘Thought you might need company for a few days,’ he says, ‘j
ust to make sure you don’t slacken off.’

  I laugh as I hug my friend, and that evening the five of us go to Brogans Hotel and drink beer. The next day we are on the road south from Ennis and I have to encourage Éamon to slow down, so keen is he to attack the walking. We walk for long hours that first day, the journey easy with my friend alongside, and we only rest up when we find a lodging house as we approach the Shannon estuary. The next morning, we cross the river from Killimer on a small ferry — like the one I took at Strangford — and Éamon and I spend the following days walking the coast of Kerry, travelling south and staying in Listowel, Tralee, Dingle, Killorgen, Glenbeigh, and Cahirciveen, before finishing our week in Portmagee. We stay in a farm guesthouse on the edge of the village, and the next morning the landlord takes us on a boat trip to the Skelligs, a crop of rocky islands ten miles out in the ocean. The sea is calm as we leave port, but the ocean swell tosses the boat around as we near the islands. We both hold to the side of the boat.

  Our landlord-skipper tells us that the island has a stony, monastic settlement that was founded in the sixth century and that, though remote and difficult to reach, it was raided by the Vikings.

  ‘No matter how well you hide, it’s very hard to get left alone in this country,’ I say. ‘Some bastard always shows up.’

  The skipper ignores me, but Éamon flicks his head back and laughs.