3.
—… Fell from a stack of corn …
—… A white-headed mare …
—… I hope the devil rides you all with your wasted waffle! Don’t you see there’s something bugging me, I don’t know if your one at home would give the holding to the eldest son? …
—… I had a slice of land up on the top of the town …
—“The daughter of Martin John More, She was as good as any man …”
—… Monsieur Churchill a dit qu’il retournerait pour libérer la France, la terre sacrée. Mon ami, the French Gaullistes and les Américains and les Anglais will occupy la France. That is promis by Messieurs Churchill et Roosevelt … That is a prophétie … Prophétie … A prophecy, je crois, en Irlandais …
—The Property, that’s what we always called the bright meadows of the Pleasant Plain. That is the correct Old Irish for it …
—Ah, come on, listen to her again! …
—It was always and ever in the prophecy that the valley would be as high as the hill. I remember the time when people were scared shitless not to doff their hats to the bailiff and to the Earl’s steward, never mind himself. More likely now people expect them to doff their hats to them. No word of a lie, I saw him the other day kowtowing to Nell Paudeen.
—The dirty yoke! The uppity sly slag! She gave him socks and chickens all for free so that he’d get her the road. There were no flies on her. She knew full well that it would be to his benefit to go hunting …
—There was another day, and I saw him kowtowing to Nell Paudeen.
—The Earl is a cultured man. Honest …
—Honest, my arse, Toejam Noreen of the smelly soles! …
—… There was an “evil omen” in the prophecy. That was the mine that killed us …
—… That Antichrist would come before the end of the world and take away a third of the people. My hunch is that we’re close to that now. And just look at the state of the world today: those on the dole gorging themselves on meat on a Friday as gluttonous as any other black heretics …
—… And before the end of the world there’d be a miller with two heels on one foot. Peter Dickey, his name. That’s what I always heard said. I was talking to the Junior Master, just after he was appointed to our school. I raised it with him. “Do you know what,” he says, “that’s just exactly the way it is with us we have it.” He told me the precise place too, if I could only remember it. Somewhere out about there, anyway. “That’s it, I’ll tell you no lie,” he says. “I know him well, and there’s not a word of a lie in it: he has two heels on the one foot. He’s a miller, and his name is Peter Dickey …”
—… And everyone would have to dip their bread in the sweat of their own brow. And, isn’t that what they do? …
—O yes, they do! Look, there’s Billy the Postman dipping himself in the Old Master’s sweat, and do you actually think that Nell Paudeen’s youngfella, who got hundreds of pounds, is dipping himself in his own sweat? And Fireside Tom dipping himself in the sweat of Caitriona and Nell Paudeen. It won’t be too long now before Nell dips into Baba’s …
—Ababoona! May she never live that long! …
—And somebody called the Airy Fairy would be flying over Ireland. And isn’t he? …
—That’s not Colm Cille’s prophecy at all, what you’re spouting …
—You liar, of course it is! That’s Colm Cille’s prophecy every bit of it …
—Forget about Colm Cille’s prophecy unless you have the right book. Only one book is the right book …
—That’s the one I have: The True Prophecies of Saint Columkille.
—Hang on a minute now. Let me get a word in. I’m a writer. The True Prophecies of Saint Columkille, that was written to make fools of us all …
—That’s a lie, you powder puff!
—Oh, it’s a lie, and a big bad black bastard of a lie! …
—I’m a writer …
—Even if you had written more than would blot out the sky, you’re still telling lies. A holy man like Colm Cille writing a book to make fools of us all! …
—Now you have it! A saintly man. You are insulting the faith. You’re a heretic. No wonder that Antichrist is ensconced smack bang in the middle of the place. Do you think that God exists at all? …
—The old man of the graveyard. Let me speak …
—Only one person now had the true prophecy of Colm Cille: John Kitty from Bally Donough …
—How handy is that! And your own cousin and all …
—Rowty in Bally Donough knows it also …
—It seems that all the prophets hightailed it off to the nettly wastes of Bally Donough, and that it’s a sacred ground now …
—At least the one and only true prophecy of Colm Cille is there, something you can’t say about the flea-infested bumpy breasts of your own place …
—Our own Willy, the guy in our town land, he’s a great prophet. I’d spend my whole life, and another one, listening to him. He talks a good deal of sense, and much of what he said has come true already …
—That’s the false prophecy of Willy Clogher Savvy.
—It’s not a false prophecy. It’s the true and unadulterated prophecy of Colm Cille, the last one he ever made. But Willy often said that only one-third of it would come true, because Colm Cille left the other two-thirds to be unfulfilled …
—You’re a liar! Colm Cille was a holy man …
—Oh, don’t be in any way surprised if you see the Antichrist coming any day now!
—God save you all and your Colm Cille! We have the prophecy of the Dog Hound Gurrier in our place …
—And we have Conan’s prophecy in our place …
—And we have the prophecy of the Son of the Sea Pirate’s Stuffed Hole in our place …
—I heard Jaundiced Charlie’s prophecy from a guy from Kin Teer …
—We knew all about Bung Knot’s prophesy from a lad around our joint. He’s in America now …
—Moaning Malachy’s prophecy was very common around our way. The guy who knew it married in Lough Side. He used to say that Malachy was a holy man. He was living in the Joyce Country.
—My mother’s brother knew Duggan’s prophecy. “Duggan’s Rule” he called it …
—There’s an oldfella in our place still who remembers Dean Swift’s prophecy …
—… That there’d be “a road on every track and English in every shack.” And that’s the way it is. Nora Johnny from Gort Ribbuck has tons of English and every road into Nell Paudeen’s place has a few bridges on it …
—… And that the “Romans” would marry heretics. And didn’t your one over there, didn’t some of her family marry an Italian, a Jew, and a black! …
—Let everyone talk for himself, now! It won’t be long before the Antichrist comes. Imagine, marrying a heretic … Do they believe in God at all? …
—My son, no more than your own, believes in God, even though he might have married an Italian …
—… And to turn the old man three times on the bed …
—Sorry to say, love, but sometimes they didn’t turn me at all. If they had, my poor buttocks wouldn’t be as infected as they are …
—… That Galway would win the All-Ireland in 1941 …
—In 1941, is it? Maybe you mean some other year? …
—No, I don’t. No, that’s not it. Why so? 1941. What else? Are you really set against the prophecy?
—This is “The War of the Two Foreigners.” It was prophesied: “On the sixteenth year, Ireland will be red with blood …” And didn’t that come true this year? There was fighting in Dublin and on the Pleasant Plain at Easter …
—Cop on to yourself, you eejit. That was thirty years ago, or about that …
—What do you mean, thirty years ago? The fighting was at Easter, and I died around Lady Day …
—Cop on, you eejit. You’d think you came here this year …
—But he’s right about the sixteenth year …
—Ah, come on, you’re the son of Paddy Larry, have some of sense. Colm Cille never said anything like that …
—Well, if he didn’t, Ginger Brian said it: He has Ginger Brian’s prophecy. And I’ll tell you what else my uncle said:
“On the sixteenth year after thirty, Ireland will be bloody with guns,
And on the seventeenth the women will ask ‘where have all the fine men gone?’”
The women of Bally Donough, Gort Ribbuck, Clogher Savvy, Glen Booley, Derry Lough, and Shanakill are all asking that already. How will it be in another few years when there won’t be even one man left?
I remember my uncle telling me that according to Ginger Brian’s prophecy, a woman and her daughter would be standing on the bridge at Derry Lough and they’d spot a man coming towards them. He’d be a black, but that didn’t really bother them at all. Then they’d go for him like a dog and give him a job. The man himself would be scared shitless. But then they’d start hassling one another, saying that he belonged to them. The man would get away by the skin of his teeth because of all the messing. I’m telling you, that’s when the men will be scarce!
—That’s hardly a surprise while they’re marrying Italians, and Jews, and blacks.
—Since they heard about that, nearly every man was taking off to England. I’d say now that it won’t be long before we get “the Autumn of watery women,” as my uncle calls it. The women of Gort Ribbuck won’t be able to get anyone to look after them, nor the women of Bally Donough, or Clogher Savvy. Wasn’t that the reason I vanished myself to England: the women would have torn me limb from limb …
I’d be like Billy the Postman …
—Hey, son of Paddy Larry, yourself and your uncle have slandered the women of Ireland …
—Doesn’t the Old Master make exactly the same point! …
—Hey, son of Paddy Larry, yourself and your uncle have insulted the faith. Dirty heretics …
—Everyone says that the best and the brightest of men are leaving the country. That’s because I think that the Antichrist is about to appear and the end of the world is drawing nigh, and if the way down to Hell is near here there’d be no end of blackguards from the Fancy City, and Dublin, and England, of course, crawling around here. I’d be very afraid for our sisters …
—Shut your mouth, you grabber of Paddy Larry’s!
—Shut your mouth, you grabber! …
—I think it won’t be too long now before we see England being cast into the pits of Hell, all the way. Hitler …
—Caitriona Paudeen’s prophecy says that her daughter-in-law will be here at the birth of her next child …
—God save us all! Ababoona! …
—I would lend credence to prophecies myself. I wouldn’t desire that there would be any ambiguity about this. I do not necessarily believe in any one particular prophecy, but it seems at least in the realm of possibility that some people do indeed possess that gift. There are certain gifts which the material sciences know nothing thereof, gifts which cannot be demonstrated by experiment. The poet is not unlike unto the prophet, if all be told. The Romans had the appellation vates for the poet; somebody who saw visions and experienced epiphanies. I referenced this in my monograph “The Guide to Knowledge” and also in my collection of poetry The Yellow Stars …
—May the devil bugger you! You never did any good, never made a penny of money aboveground, only farting windy waffle …
—Shut your mouth, you little prick. How could you come to anything aboveground when your parents never put a bit of spunk in you. They’d leave you inside watching the sparks and talking crap, while they were outside working like slaves …
—It was foretold in the prophecy that the foreigners would come ashore at Kin Teer and they’d make their way to the east …
—’Twould be raining men then for the women of Gort Ribbuck, and Bally Donough, and Clogher Savvy …
—You’re insulting the faith …
—Their great General will make his way down to the bridge at Derry Lough to give his horse a drink. An Irishman will fire a shot at him, and the horse will be killed …
—And there isn’t a rib of that great General that won’t be out searching for another horse. Come here to me, if he saw a big fine colt, do you think he’d steal it? …
—This is “The War of the Two Foreigners.” I was down at the shallow hole footing turf when Patsy Johnny comes my way. “Hey, did you hear the latest news?” he said.
“Not a bit of it,” I said.
“The Kaiser attacked the poor Belgies yesterday,” he said.
“You’d really have pity on them,” I said. “Do you think that this is ‘The War of the Two Foreigners’?” I said.
—Cop yourself on, you nitwit. That war is over ages ago …
—… The Old Master said only the other day that this must be the War of the End of the World, as the women have got so fickle …
—Fireside Tom said exactly the same thing. “Do you know how it is,” he said, “it’s the end of the world, as the people have lost all decency. Look at my little shack and the roof dripping with leaks …”
—When that insurance man started off, every house he went into, he said it was the War that was prophesied to come:
“If you never did it before,” he said, “this is the time to take out a little bit of insurance on yourself. They’ll never kill the people who have insurance as they’d have to pay out far too much at the end of the War. All you have to do is to carry your insurance papers around with you at all times, and to show them if …”
—I know! The chancer robbed me! …
—Just the tricks of the trade …
—Caitriona herself said the other day that it must be the War of the Continents. “The Connemara marble is all used up,” she said, “and it was prophesied that when all the Connemara marble was gone, it would be the end of the world.”
—Ababoona! Connemara marble! Connemara marble! Connemara marble! I’m going to burst! …
4.
—… Take it easy now, Coley! A bit of patience …
—Let me finish my story, please, my good sir:
“I laid an egg! I laid an egg! Hot and fresh on the dung heap.”
—That’s fine, Coley. Despite the fact that it is devoid of art, I surmise that there is a deep interior meaning lurking within. It is always thus, in stories of that genre. You will be aware of what Fraser said in The Golden Bough … O, my deepest apologies, Coley. I mis-remembered that you were unable to read … Now, Coley, give me a chance to speak … Ah, come on, Coley, allow me to speak! I am a writer …
—… Honest, Dotie. Maureen failed. If she had been like me or my daughter she wouldn’t have failed. But she took after the Paudeens and the Lydons. The nuns in the convent weren’t able to put the tiniest jot of learning into her head. You’d hardly believe it, Dotie, but she started calling her teachers bitches and whores! … Honest Injun, Dotie, they couldn’t clean the filthy talk out of her mouth. How could it be otherwise, she’s listening to that kind of talk since she was born, in the same house as Caitriona Paudeen …
—Ababoona! Noreen …
—Pretend you don’t hear her at all, Dotie darling. Isn’t it obvious now that “a heavy hand was laid upon her at birth,” as Blinks put it in The Hot Kiss? … You’re right on the button there, Dotie. He’s a cousin of Maureen’s. It’s no surprise at all that he is going to be a priest. He was surrounded by a great deal of culture since he was a boy. The priest would call around to the house every half chance he had. There were also fowlers and hunters from the Fancy City, from Dublin and from England around. Nell is, of course, his grandmother, and he was always with her. Nell is a cultured woman …
—Oh! … Oh …
—His mother, Blotchy Brian’s daughter, was in America, and she bumped into a lot of cultured people there. America is a great place for culture, Dotie. The grandfather, Blotchy Brian, would hop over there from time to time, and even though you�
�d never think it, Brian is actually quite a cultured man in his own way … He’s like that too, Dotie, but he had enough culture anyway not to marry Caitriona Paudeen. Honest …
—Oh! … Oh! … You infested foul mouth of fleas! …
—Pretend you don’t hear her at all, Nora …
—Yep, Dotie … Isn’t it amazing the differences between two families nonetheless! … My son’s son in Gort Ribbuck is another cousin of Maureen’s: the youngfella that the Old Master is always talking about. He managed to become a petty officer on a ship, Dotie. Isn’t that fantastic for him! Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore, Batavia, Honolulu, San Francisco … Sun. Oranges. Blue seas …
—But it’s getting very dangerous at sea, now since the war began …
—“The hero never evades the daring of danger,” as Frix said in Two Men and the Powder Puff. The sailor’s life is a happy, happy one, Dotie. Wearing beautiful romantic clothes, every woman’s dream come true …
—I told you already, Nora, that I’m a bit of a landlubber …
—Romance, Dotie. Romance … I gave him the key to my heart, Dotie. Honest! But don’t whisper a word about that. You understand, Dotie dearest, you are my friend. Caitriona would only love to savour a bit of gossip. As she has no culture at all herself, she’d not quite get that kind of thing …
—Pretend you don’t hear her at all, Nora …
—Yep, Dotie. I gave him the key to my heart. He was like a priceless urn into which the breath of life was blown. She was the sparkling star reflected in the wild pools of his eyes. His hair was black silk … But his lips, Dotie. His lips … They were on fire … On fire, Dotie. They had been warmed by the kiss of the vine …
And the stories he told me about foreign countries, and about harbour towns in strange places. About stormy seas and the white foam blowing in blond blasts to the tips of our topsails. About inlets of virgin sand in the embrace of bosky elfin woods. About scary scrubby mountains snuffed with snow. About meadows of solar warmth on the borders of deep dark woods … About strange birds, weird fish, and untamed beasts. About tribes whose money consists of stones, and other tribes who go to war in order to capture their brides …
The Dirty Dust Page 21
