He had the appearance of a hangman, poor Seimin thought. He had anger in his eyes. He looked like a person possessed by a demon.
“Seimin Ban,” he said, “it is well you know that the people in Gleann Ceo tried to put manners on me years ago- in the time of the ‘Land League’, as they would say themselves; but you have seen yourself that it was I who put manners on them. I left them shivering in their skins before me ever since. But I can see that they are beginning their tricks again now. I see that it is the priest and a young woman who are at the head of this work this time. I fully understand their plans now; we will make a Catholic out of this silly son of Mac Alastair’s, we will marry him off to one of our own women, and the day is ours. But by all who are dead or alive of my kind this day, I guarantee you that it will not be long before I leave them with itch in their heads. If the savages of Gleann Ceo think that this lion has lost his teeth, and that they can do what they like with the pup they are very much mistaken. This trickery is going on for three years or four years. They are having the time of their lives since that simpleton of a son of mine went among them. They thought he was a bit soft, and they began to lure him until now they have a right fool made out of him. But they won’t succeed. Go home Seimin as if nothing has happened. And be assured that you will see company in Gleann Ceo before sun down tonight.”
The bold Seimin reached home and only God knew how he felt. He was afraid that he might meet Marcus on the way, and that the end result could prove that he was only a Judas of a person himself. If he had known that this was how the meeting with Mac Alastair would go he might not have told him as much as he did. But the damage was done and it could not be undone. “God look on me!” the poor man said under his breath. He was of two minds what to do. He got the idea to go across the mountain to Ballinashee and drink a good drop, but that put Sile into his head. If he came home drunk to her he knew only too well the tongue -lashing she would have for him in front of everyone at the Droighead/Bridge. He moved slowly down the Gleann like a man who was going to the gallows.
A short while after Seimin went home it so happened that Marcus Mac Alastair and Triona Guildea were sitting on a bank on the side of the Bradshleibhe. It was a fine summer evening, and the whole world looked pleasant. The mountain around them was dotted with sheep. Most of the sheep belonged to Marcus; but Feargal and Peadar also had a good herd. The lambs were playing merrily on the hills. Some of them were bleating miserably for their mothers, and the mothers answering them playfully. Marcus had a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, and he was looking far across the hills beyond.
“Triona,” he said, ”Dun le Grein is a very pleasant spot. It is above and beyond any other place in the Gleann. ‘Do you know what I am thinking at this moment?’
“What is it, brother? Something specific, I believe.”
“It is not specific at all. Never before until this moment could I see a place suitable for me to build a new house. But definitely I have it at last, Triona. Over there is our dwelling place.”
“Build a house in Dun le Grein! Don’t you know that we would never have a day’s peace if you did that? Devil another person in Gleann Ceo would think of that but yourself.”
“Wait, wait, dear woman!” he said. “Wait until I tell you. I didn’t say that I was going to have anything to do with the fairies. Put these glasses to your eyes, sister. Look at the Dun. Isn’t it a beautiful platform? Can you see how smooth and how green it is? Do you see the ring on the top of it? Well that is the ruin of the home of who ever owned it, when he lived here. Now look at the green lawn that is over there right under the Dun. I would say that there is about four acres in that. And notice how flat it is. It is as smooth as a board.”
“It looks pleasant all right,” Triona said. “But all the same I think that it would be a lonesome place to build a house. We would be right beside the high way all right, but there would not be another house within half a mile of us.”
“They stayed a good distance away from the Dun, when they made their houses all right,” he said. “But what other houses do we need? Won’t the music of the fairies be enough for us sister, and our own affable company? What about the hens cackling, and the geese gaggling, and the ducks quacking? What about the loo of cows and the bellowing of calves at the back of the house, and the hum of the bees in the garden? Can you see it in your mind, quiet woman? A cosy little thatched house. Green ditches by the sides of it, Dun le Grein behind it, that beautiful Gleann, before our eyes, and the musical stream coming from the mountain close by. The sun smiling on it from it rises from behind Sliabh an Iarann in the morning until it sets behind the mountain at night.”
“Seven blessings on you,” Triona said. “For sure that is a very grand picture you just composed. But wait a minute. Did you think about the person who owns this plot, son of dreams?”
That shook him. He scratched his head.
“Well devil the thought I gave it,” he said “And really I do not know who owns it, either. But it doesn’t matter who owns it, I must get it some how, or I will have to take it.”
“I believe that you will take it from him as any landlord would do.”
“Maise, I wouldn’t take it,” he said. “If the day ever comes that I get possession of this Gleann, I will do things that will delight you, sister, and every other person as well. But I must see about buying that plot over there first. I won’t sleep in peace until I have it.”
“Well you can sleep in peace, you poor fellow,” she said. “Because I know the person who owns it. It is another member off the Guildea Clan. He is an old man and I am related to him. And you will get the field from him without much payment, because he hasn’t let any of his own cattle on it for years. He said that the fairies had wasted three hundred cattle on him, one after the other, in that field; and that even for all the gold in the world he would not put another beast grazing on that field. He takes the meadow from it every year all right; but after that, he prefers not to have any thing else to do with it.”
Marcus gave her a pat on the back.
“Maise long life to you gentle quiet woman!” he said. “That is the best story you told me for a long time. But what’s that coming out of Inis Colman? Put these glasses to your eyes. What is in that boat?”
“There is a man in it,” she said, “he is rowing and he has the back of his head towards me.”
Marcus put the glasses to his eyes.
“You are right,” he said. “It is my father, if he is alive. Where would he be going at all? He hasn’t left the island for a year. He did not come out since that time that he fell with the pain in his head in Ballinashee. You remember that time when the doctor said that it was a clot in his blood which caused it, and that if it happened again that he would not recover?”
“I do remember.” Triona said.
“Here he is coming ashore,” Marcus said. It is my father all right, whatever is wrong with him, he is in an awful hurry. He went into Martan’s house. He discovered that Martan was not home because he came out again by himself. He rushed into the stable. This is amazing. What is this? He came out with the red brown horse, his own horse. O my God he is in the saddle! He got into the saddle from the top of the wall. Martan’s wife is outside talking to him. Before God, where is he going? He is coming towards us trotting. Wait! The red brown horse is galloping now. He is at the crossroads now. On my soul he is coming up the Gleann.”
“Up to see the mine, I believe,” Triona said, “since the evening is good.”
“Not likely,” Marcus said, his face worried. “I didn’t tell you that he sent for Seimin Ban around two o’clock today. You would not know what is up…. he may have heard stories….Maybe he drew stories from Seimin?…But just the same I don’t believe that Seimin would be that soft.”
“Seimin Ban, is it?” Triona said. “I don’t like to discredit anyone; but at the same time I must say that I have no trust in Seimin Ban. It is easy to scare him, and if your father began to question him, you ca
n be sure that he did not hide much.”
“I’ll wring his neck, the little drake,” Marcus said, “if he had it in his heart to go to Inis Colman squealing on me.”
“Maise Marcus Mac Alastair, are you telling me that you would lay a heavy hand on poor Seimin Ban? You would need to have a drop drank in advance because you wouldn’t have an eye or a nose left with Sile.”
She laughed but Marcus did not laugh. He was looking through the glasses at the rider who was galloping up through the Gleann, and he leaving a cloud of dust behind him on the highway. A few times he went from view for a little while, in places where the road dipped. But he did not delay long for he was coming towards them, around Coradh na bhFeadog, like the March wind. They could hear the sound of the hooves clearly on the road. He was exactly a mile from the Droighead, when what happened, happened. They saw the rider bending his head and falling on his mouth and nose on the horses back. He stayed in that position for a second or two, while the horse was galloping all the time. Then he fell down on the top of his head on the highway. The horse continued a little longer, and then he stood. No sooner did Marcus see his father falling from the horse than he took to his feet down the highway as fast as he could. Triona was to his heels. The motorbike was by the roadside, and as soon as Marcus had the engine running he jumped on the saddle. He paused for a second until Triona was safely on the pillion, and then the bike took off at speed.
“Easy love,” Triona said, ”one accident is enough.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Marcus said, “Hold on tight.”
A crowd was gathering quickly around the man who was lying, but the two on the bike were there before them. The rider’s head was lying in a pool of blood. His neck was broken in two pieces. He was a shocking sight. Men women and children gathered and not a word was spoken. The strongest one among them was shaking at the awful death the man who owned Gleann Ceo had received. Even the priest was silent. No one had ever seen such a solemn face on the Greasai Rua. Seimin Ban was present and he was twitching his moustache. The poor man was going out of his mind because he thought that this awful accident was his fault. But every one else was so shocked that they passed no heed of his worry or ravings.
The body was put into a cart, which had a crib on it, and the men walked with it to the cemetery above the island. A lot of talking was done in Gleann Ceo that night.
A week later, there was a crowd drinking in the Greasai Rua’s house as usual. Big Conor Guildea was there and he was as pleasant as ever. The Feargal and Peadar were also there. Feargal was about nineteen years old at this time, and he was a fine fellow. He was handsome, well built for his age, and he was almost as big as his grandfather. Every one was interested in Feargal. Peadar was outgoing as usual. He was seventeen years old, and he was two years in the mine drawing coal from Feargal; Feargal was as good as any man with his pick. As well as doing his work in the mine, Peadar was also herding sheep for Marcus, and he was earning four shillings a week for that work. Both Big Conor and the old woman were drawing their pensions every week; and between all of it they hasn’t a poor day. They had three milk cows, and they had a middling herd of sheep on the mountain. Conor Mor’s family were well off again.
Of course they were talking about the accident, which had happened the previous week.
“Did anyone at all see the new landlord in the past few days?” Conor Mor asked.
“He hasn’t been seen here since the day his father was killed,” the Greasai Rua said. “The longer he stays away the better pleased Seimin Ban here will be, because I believe the bold man is expecting to be shown the road as soon as Marcus returns.”
“I would say that Seimin has a troubled mind all right,” Conor Mor said; but just the same I don’t believe that Marcus will sack him from the mine. He is not that sort of a man.”
“Well whether he sacks him or not,” the Greasai Rua said, “to be sure he will not have much trust in him ever again; and another thing, Seimin will not be able to look straight at him for many the long day.”
“It was a silly thing he did without doubt,” Conor Mor said. “He knew Mac Alastair well enough, and even a child would not do what he did.”
“I would say that he told Mac Alastair plenty that day,” the Greasai said. “Old Nabla was telling me that the appearance of Mac Alastair scared him that day, when he was leaving the house. Seimin Ban’s daughter Nansai was already scared and she went into hiding. She thought he was gone mad. Nabla was too afraid to talk to him. He was travelling through the house, with that white face on him, fury in his eyes, and he was shaking from top to toe. He gulped about a pint of whiskey before he left the house, and he wrote a letter to the solicitor in Druim Duilliur, asking him to come to the island the next morning, so that he could make a new Will.”
“There would have been terrible trouble at the priest’s house that day if he had reached it.” Conor Mor said.
“The man was beyond himself,” the Greasai said. “He was out of his mind, the man who drank a pint of whiskey and who galloped up the Gleann, with a loaded gun in his pocket. I am telling you that it would have been a red evening at the Droighead. But God is strong, Conor, and he proved that to Mac Alastair on this occasion!”
“Was he dead before he fell?” Conor asked.
“That is what the doctor said at the carriage at any rate. A blood clot burst in his brain.”
“A! A blood vessel, nonsense!” the Greasai’s wife said. “They can say anything they like; but the world knows that it was the hand of God that knocked him to the ground.”
“You said it,” Conor Mor said. “You said it all in a few words.”
“Well he is lying in Droim Duilliur now,” the Greasai Rua said, “and the mine is there after him, and Inis Colman, and Gleann Ceo. .It was as well for him to be a just man while he was in it. Marcus has the lot now although the father was in a great hurry to change the Will. Instead of the solicitor coming to make a new Will that morning it is odd that he was coming instead to execute it. It is not what you think that happens.”
“Do you think that Marcus will let us buy our little holdings now?” Conor Mor asked.
“It is difficult to say,” the Greasai said. “No one knows what conditions are in the Will. I would say myself that Marcus would be in favour of the people having their rights; but who knows what restraints are in the Will? Because you can be sure that the same Will is going to be contrary.”
“I agree with you,” Conor Mor said. “But whether Marcus is a landlord or not, you can be sure that every person will be better off with him. We will have Home Rule, Greasai, as it should be. No one doubts that for a minute. Here boys walk with me home, in God’s name. We have had a big night drinking.”
He got to his feet sluggishly, and he used his stick on the middle of the floor.
“Maise it is seldom that you come to visit us.” Mathew’s wife said, “sit there until I make another drop of tea that will help you along the highway. Two mouthfuls Conor. The kettle is singing.”
He went to the door as if he had just heard a funny story.
“Don’t be talking about tea, woman,” he said, “at this time of the night! May God give you a good night.”
AN APRIL EVENING
The Sun was warm this particular April evening, and the blackbird and thrush were singing merrily in the branches. There was heat coming in the ground, and Conor Mor’s family as well as all the people of Gleann Ceo were busy preparing their fields. Conor Mor was sitting on a stool at the end of the kitchen, and he was splitting potatoes for seed. His wife Grainne Mor was as busy as two women happily doing things about the house. She was trying to get the afternoon tea ready for the ones who were outside working.
“God love my poor boys,” she said, “you must be starved with the hunger. It is little they have in return out digging all day after they have done a hard days work inside in the mine.”
“What about the poor girls?” Conor Mor asked. “Aren’t they also outside as well as ev
eryone else.”
“Maise they are the creatures,” she said. “But the poor boys they are too hard on themselves. I believe that you could drink a good mug of tea yourself, old man. I know that you never refuse it.”
“Maise refuse it I never have done,” Conor said, “ I think it would be a bit late now for me to begin refusing tea. Plenty of tea will be drank when we are under the sod. We will drink our fill of it as long as God gives us life and health.”
Over in the plot above the house Una and Triona were sticking potatoes in ridges. Triona was on top of the ridge and she was making the holes in the sod with a stibhin/a special little stick, Una was in the furrow and she was carrying the splits in her apron bag. When Triona made the hole in the sod Una dropped the split into it. It was tedious tiresome work, and because physical strength was not needed it was always the women and the boys in Gleann Ceo who did it. Feargal and Peadar were in the same plot with them, and they were working with their spades making ridges.
The two girls came to the top of the ridge and they lay back on the ditch to rest themselves.
“Be damned to my hunkers,” Una said. “My back in broken in two halves. May God forbid that I spend my life slaving on the land like this.”
Triona looked at her as a mother might look on her own child. She was only about fifteen years of age, but Triona thought as she looked down at her that she was a fine girl for her age, the most beautiful girl in Gleann Ceo. Every eye that fell on her curly tresses, falling over her shoulders and around her face, delayed with satisfaction. The roguish glint in her sparkling blue eyes charmed every heart. It would do you good to hear her laugh.
As I said, Triona looked at her as a mother would look at her own child – a look of both affection and worry.
“Maise, on my Soul, sister,” she said, “worse could happen to you.”
“I believe it could,” Una said; “ after all I would do anything reasonable before I would spend my life slaving in Gleann Ceo. It is beastly.
West, in the Foggy Valley Page 9
