“You got home, father,” Marcus said, closing the door at his ease.
“I did, son,” Mac Alastair said. “I stayed away long enough. I had intended to stay a little longer until I got a report on what kind or work you were doing since I left. On my word I couldn’t believe that you are as big an oinseac/amadan as you are, until I looked in the book. Come here, boy, until I see what kind of derangement is on you. The day I arrived in Dublin I thought that I had left a responsible man behind me. I had that much confidence in you that I thought everything would carry on correctly no matter how long I stayed away from home. But what awful story did I hear before I was a month away but that you were on your best making a castle under ground for the ruffians from Gleann Ceo. Dammit but you must be deranged! Paying big money to a group of ignorant men, for doing nothing from morning to night except making a court for themselves under the mountain, so that they will not have to stoop, if you please, on their way in or out.”
The young man did not move from where he was standing with his back to the fire. His feet were spread a little and his two hands clasped behind his head. He didn’t show anger, or fear, or aggravation. He stayed still until his father was finished with his raging, then he spoke calmly.
“Father,” he said,” didn’t you spend a good lump of money to make a mining engineer out of me?”
“I did, and my word but you are beginning to compensate me well.”
“Patience, father. Isn’t it a bit soon to be passing miss-judgement on me before I get the chance to prove how efficient I am? Of course I am only one short month in charge yet.”
“And a nice laughing stock you have made of yourself. I believe that you think that the ruffians in Gleann Ceo are so grateful to you now that they are ready to kiss the tracks of your shoes on the ground.”
Marcus could take no more of this abusive talk about the people in Gleann Ceo and he got angry, but he had great patience and he did not allow his anger to show either in his expression or in his voice-for a little longer at least.
“What right would I have to expect gratitude from the poor miners from Gleann Ceo, when they are only getting a small portion of their rights?”
“Rights!” Mac Alastair said. “What rights would they have, in God’s name? Rights, if you please! On my conscience you are deranged for sure! Talk about rights for a crowd of ignoramuses the likes of which tenants is not to be found in Ireland. I think that it is they who have saol na mhadaidh bhain/the life of Reilly. Every family has a piece of land at a small rent; acres of mountain to keep them in turf, and to graze their cattle and sheep; a coal mine at their doorstep, with good pay to be earned every day all year long. Talking about rights for that lot. They are long enough getting more than their rights, and it is well they know that. But they didn’t fully understand how well off they were until I withdrew the mine from then for a while. I’m telling you, son, that they were a humble and grateful lot the day they were allowed in at the eye of the mine to go about their old jobs. Be assured that they were mannerly and respectful lads from that day until this.”
It was as much as Marcus could do to contain his fury. Every single word that his father was saying was wounding him like a poison sword.
“Glorious son,” MacAlastair said, as he took a long drink from his glass of punch “The big lump of money that has been wasted on me in order to give straight backs to the Gleann Ceo idlers-an ungrateful lot with nothing to complain about except me, even though they have a life-style that not too many of their type have in this country.”
“I have a question for you, father,” Marcus said. “Is it you who are giving them a life-style or is it them who are giving a life-style to you?”
His voice was trembling. Mac Alastair was stunned. He drew the spectacles down from his head and placed them before his eyes, until he looked through Marcus as he would have looked at a hangman.
“Well Dammy but it is the bold face you have to talk like that in my presence after the destruction you have done on me for a month.”
He sat up on the sofa, and Marcus thought that he looked severely obstinate
“I asked you a question father,” the son said,” and I need an answer”.
“If I close the mine as I did before, Mac Alastair said, “you will know and they will know whether they are teaching me or I am teaching them.”
“And is it for their good that you are working this mine?”
“For their good! For the good of my own pocket, something you well know. Even though they are a dull lot, they are not so stupid that they don’t realize that it is to put gold in my purse that I have them working. But if I am getting the cream be sure that they are getting bottom milk; and I promise you this, boy, that they would be very poor if the same bottom milk was not available to them.”
“All you have in the mine is families who cannot leave home; youngsters who are not allowed move away from their people; an odd man who is afraid to go among foreigners; an odd man who is only waiting to collect his passage; these and slips of young boys who should be at school yet. The rest of them are abroad where they can get good money for their labour. Up to your face I am saying this, it is shameful and very shameful the condition you have for your workers. I thought I would choke the first morning that I went into the eye of that mine. I who have seen coal mined in a score of mines in Scotland, I thought I would fall asunder with shame when I laid my eyes on the conditions my own father had for his workers. If he meanest miner in Scotland, went into that mine, on the first morning that I went in, not alone would he refuse to handle a pick, but he would give Seimin Ban and myself such a tongue lashing that we would never forget it. You have the very best and most loyal bunch of miners in the world. They are saturated in sweat slaving like draft horses from they go inside in the morning until they come out again; with no light except a blinking candle; work places so low that they have to lay on the broad of their backs a lot of the time; choking with bad air half the time; and after all that, all they get from you is one paltry shilling out of every four that you earn from their work.”
Mac Alastair’s jaw was like stone by this; and even though he was well drunk, there was neither anger nor harshness in his voice when he spoke.
“I am afraid boy, “ he said, “that it wasn’t only engineering you were learning while you were away from home. It is clear that Socialism has a grip on you, more or less. Maybe you made a few speeches out there in Hyde Park, standing on a box. But I advise you boy, if you wish to stay in this place and direct your father’s affairs, I advise you to clear the Socialism clean out of your head. If you think that I will tolerate that kind of nonsense, you are very much mistaken. I own the Gleann, son, and I will not accept either argument or advice from you, or any one else either for that matter, about my own business.”
He filled his glass to the brim from the bowl of punch. He put the poker into the fire until and poked until it was flaming high. He settled himself down on the sofa again, reddened his pipe, which had quenched for want of air. He took a good mouthful from the glass and he swallowed it slowly drop by drop, at his ease, as if he really was enjoying the drink. He settled his head comfortably on the cushions that were behind him, and looking at him you would think that he had nothing else on his mind but to enjoy the tobacco he was smoking in his pipe. Marcus reddened his own pipe and he sat down beside the fire. Marcus was between two minds: he did not know which was better for him get away from it all or stay as he was, fighting with his father on behalf of the Gleann Ceo people. He knew only too well the way his father was, and that he wasn’t ever going to change in his lifetime. He knew that there wasn’t much he could do to improve life for the miners without constant fighting between himself and his father, and without constant conflict his father would totally undermine him. The new broom would be sweeping exactly the same as the old one. On the other hand if he stayed at home and this constant conflict continued, there was a possibility that his father would disinherit him any day. Only God could see them.
His father was watching him with an expression that was difficult to read. Marcus thought that he had said all that he was going to say, that he had been given his answer and that he would be in no hurry to meddle in things that had nothing to do with him again.
“Marcus, son,” he said pleasantly, “get a glass for yourself and drink a drop of this punch in my company. It won’t do you a bit of harm, man, inside sitting by the fire on a night like this. It will give you heart, boy, and it will stop you thinking about the Gleann Ceo peasants. Do son. Get rid of that silly Socialism out of your head. They are only silly dreams of odd young men who are over educated. But you will get sense yet, I bet my word on it. Wait for the day when you will be a landlord yourself and that you own a mine. I am telling you, son, that it won’t do you any good then to present Socialism. Where is your glass?”
“I don’t feel like drinking tonight,” Marcus said. “I have a few letters to write before I go to bed.”
He stood up.
“All right son. Very well. I expect that you will be going up there in the morning before I get up. And since I was talking about that, I believe it is as well for you to continue with that passage as you wish since you are as far on with it now as you are. But if I see any more nonsense of that kind, there is nothing more certain that there will be red war between you and me. Don’t have any doubt about that, boy.”
Marcus went into the kitchen, he threw himself on a stool and he sighed from his heart.
“Nabla,” he said, “it is a horrible world.”
“What happened, pet?”
“He did nothing to me,” he said, “but it grieves my heart the way he talks about the people of Gleann Ceo. I am ashamed to go among them, Nabla, when I know the opinion our crowd has of them for such a long time. I am of two minds whether to leave or not to leave. It would give me great relief to release the waves of anger within me towards him-to let him know what I think without holding back-to get rid of the hatred I have for my own crowd, since they first arrived in this country, like an acid spring that would burn him to the marrow.”
“You are upset, pet,” Nabla said. “I will make a drop of tea for the three of us. The kettle is singing. Pull in the little table beside the fire, Nansai.”
“If I go, Nabla, I believe he will disinherit me. I don’t think that it would be very wise because I would not be able to do anything for the people of Gleann Ceo if I go,”
“Put up with him, love, for a while for the sake of the people of Gleann Ceo.”
“I’ll take your advice, Nabla; I will put up with him for the sake of the people of Gleann Ceo.”
ON THE MOUNTAINTOP/BHRADSHLEIBHE
The spring slipped away and the sun and soft showers of the summer came over Gleann Ceo. The mountains dried, and the roads brightened, and it was easy to get a ford on the river Eas. The trees improved and flowers in the fields; and the hawthorn was adorned brighter than snow on any night. The bees were humming around the flowers, and the birds were singing in the branches, and the sheep were bleating sweetly in the heat of the day. You could find an odd old man sitting comfortably on a ditch listening to the lapping of the little streams, and the sound of the young people in the meadows. You could come upon an old woman standing in the shade gazing out from under her hand at Loch Eala, which reflected Sliabh an Iarann like a big mirror.
One day when the sun was high in the sky Marcus Mac Alastair decided to travel the Bradshleibhe by himself. It was as a lovely evening. There was the gentle breeze on top of the mountain but none in the Gleann. This was the first time ever for Marcus to be on the mountaintop ever, and he was enjoying the lonely little places there, the narrow hollows, the wide open spaces, and hillocks. He went as far as the wild heather mounds. He ran excitedly through bunches of rushes and he was taken by surprise when a hare jumped out from under his feet and ran off over the hill. On the mountainside and on the little green lands below the sheep and their lambs were grazing away peacefully.
At last Marcus reached a little narrow plot in the middle of the mountain beyond which lay greenest patch that he had ever seen with a little river running through it. This flat was called Min an Eallaigh, and there was no patch on the mountain that could compare with it. Marcus lay down on the patch and began to observe the sheep and the lambs that were grazing silently by the stream. He wasn’t long there until he heard a tune coming towards him that took his mind off the sheep and made him forget his dreaming. He raised his head and he saw a barefoot girl and she was barefoot. It was Triona Guildea, the girl he had met on Christmas night in Ballinashee. He hadn’t seen her since. He remembered that he meant to visit her grandmother, but he had forgotten all about it. He decided to let her go by this time with out addressing her. He lowered his head in the heather so that she would not see him until she was beside him.
Triona arrived at the green patch at her ease, and she sat on the bank of the stream watching the sheep and lambs grazing. She dipped her feet into the water and she began to sing softly a verse of; Bean an Fhir Rua/The wife of the red haired man. Marcus waited until she was finished singing, then he got to his feet and he went towards her with a smile on his face.
“Triona Guildea,” he said, “I had intended to leave with out meeting you but you drew me to you with that song.”
You would barely notice the hop he had given her. She began to laugh when she saw who was coming towards her. He threw himself on the green grass on the other side of the stream opposite her.
“I will keep the stream between us, daughter,” he said; “just in case. If it was to cast a spell on me that you came out here singing that song, Bean an Fhir Rua, you have wasted your time.”
“It is not right for you to be mocking a girl with no crime, who came out the mountain to visit St. Ailbe’s Well.”
“God bless my soul,” he said, “the goddess of the stream returning to the magic well in the hollow of the mountain.”
“It is not a magic well at all, sir,” she said, “but the blessed well of St. Ailbhe and I am not returning, but going to it. I came this way to see the boys’ sheep, and there they are.”
He looked around at the sheep and then he saw her nut -brown hair tied with a ribbon between the shoulders of the girl above him. He jumped across the stream and gave her his hands to get up.
“I believe I have a little baby fairy this time,” he said. “Walk on, sister, until I see you doing your trip to St. Ailbhe. Do you mind if I am present?”
“Are you mocking me again sir?” Triona said. “I’m sure you don’t believe in St. Ailbe’s Well?”
“It is difficult for me to say whether I believe in it or not,” Marcus said, “when I never heard anything about it until now. Off you go.”
They moved off step for step, across the mountain -top, in the evening sun.
“Who was Ailbhe?” Marcus asked.
“He was a holy saint,” the girl said. “He lived in the time of St. Patrick, and he lived alone on this mountain, away from the whole world. He died here, and he is buried here.”
When they reached the holy well, the priest from Gleann Ceo was there before them. He was standing motionlessly by the saint’s grave. He did not notice them approaching until they were right beside him, and that they gave him a fright. He was a small tidily made man, in or about fifty years old. His expression was pensive and he had the innocence of a child in his eyes. His soft hair was grey under the rim of his beret. Marcus did not know him except for the fact that they saluted each other, and that they had spoken a few words on the two or three occasions when they met by accident in Eoin an Droighead’s house. He would wave his hand at Marcus when he rode by on his motor-bike, and Marcus would touch his own beret in respect. And that was as far as the acquaintance had gone until now.
“Father,” Marcus said, “this divine girl has forced me out here with her against my will. She is trying to make a Catholic out of me, herself and her praying at St. Ailbhe’s Well.”
Father O Ruairc laughed a
hearty laugh.
“Is it possible Triona, sister,” he said, “that you are beginning to cast the heavy magic spells on this young fellow?”
“Take no notice of him, Father,” the girl said. “He is doing his best to mock me since I met him back there in Min an Eallaigh. I believe he will continue to mock me now when I do my round.”
“I won’t mock, or even joke at you, Triona Guildea,” Marcus said with a sincere voice. I only regret that I do not have enough faith to pray to Ailbhe in this lonely grave that he has blessed.”
The priest looked at him with surprise; but he didn’t say a word. The girl knelt down on the slab that was laid over the saint’s bones, and she took out her rosary beads. Marcus watched her praying; kissing the slab; walking around the old tombstone; walking down to the small well of spring water, and drinking three fistfuls from it. He thought to himself that it was lucky for her to have such a grip on the old religion of the Irish.
“I was thinking Mr. Mac Alastair,” the priest said, “before you two arrived, that Ailbhe chose the nicest spot on this mountain to live and to pursue his theological studies. Look at this grassy field, and the high peak there behind it, sheltering it from the harsh north winds, and east winds. Many the good sunny day he spent here, facing the sun, meditating and praying in that little cabin there, or tending his little
plot, or just looking out at that country before us.”
“And God be praised,” Marcus said, “what a sight to behold.”
“You could say that,” Father O’Ruairc said. “Look at that hill covered with grass to the very top. Look at the lakes lying peacefully between stately woods. Look at Ceis Chorainn na bhFiann/Keshcarrigan, to the west. Look at the raised mound yonder where the evil eye was plucked from the Balor Beimneach, and there in the centre you will see the lake formed by the evil eye when it hit the ground. Farther on you can see Cruachan Chonnacht. Do you see the Corrsliabh, and Sliabh Dha Ean, and Cnoc na Riaghadh/Knocknarea? Out there is Cuan Cill Ala/ Killala bay, to the west at the horizon, the coast where the French dropped anchor that autumn day when they came with hope that failed for the Seanbhean Bhocht. Over there Sliabh Gamh, do you see the little flag, which adorns it? And only for the thick fog over Mayo, you would be able to see Cruach Patrick itself”
West, in the Foggy Valley Page 6
