Sunrise with Sea Monster

by Neil Jordan

  I looked at him in the back seat, his face as gaunt as the stone walls that surrounded the stone fields, his beard the same limestone grey. If anything would suit his condition, I told her, it would be these fields: grey, immobile, furious and silent. As the light fell his profile seemed to glow with a light of its own; all distinction between him and the stones behind him slowly vanished. His breath rose and fell with hardly a murmur and then seemed to disappear. He was simply silent. I watched him in silence, then in a rash of sudden panic, reached out and touched his cheek. The beard quivered and the spell was broken. I drove on.

  Lisdoonvarna announced itself from the brow of a hill, a string of sad-coloured lights below us like a circus which, when we drove down, we found to be a square, each lamppost strung with coloured bulbs. I want to kiss you, Rose said suddenly. You can't, I said, not here. It's those bulbs, she said, they seem to lack the celebratory touch. Kiss him then, I said when the car had stopped, and she did. She leaned backwards in the car, planted a kiss on the cheek nearest to her. I saw his eyes flicker, but nothing else. He's stopped smiling, I said. Because I kissed him? she asked. No, I said. Something in the air . . .

  We checked into the Spa Hotel, a mildewed affair with a lounge with an odour of stale Guinness. A glass-panelled veranda looked out on the square. A smattering of small farmers sat there, two women with spinsterish spectacles, a maid dressed in widow's black. I wheeled father through to the reception.

  For the waters? the concierge asked, part sympathy and all inquisition.

  Yes, I said, they come well recommended.

  Work wonders with the joints, she said, lumbago, arthritis, what have you. But don't expect miracles.

  I don't, I said. I wanted to sign, but she was unstoppable.

  If it's miracles you want, she said, here's your man. She tapped the wall behind her.

  Who's your man? I asked her.

  Sylvester Quirk, she told me, seventh son of a seventh son. Hands that could make a dead man walk. Find him every day on the road to O'Brien's Tower on the cliffs.

  She pushed the book towards me and I signed. She kept on, about illnesses cured, bones made straight, tumours that vanished into thin air. She took two bulky keys then from a row of them next to the sign advertising the healer. She led us down a low corridor to two adjacent rooms overlooking a small back yard. You'd have trouble with the stairs, she said, and opened one room, then the next. Breakfast from eight to ten, she said, lunch at midday and your evening meal whenever you fancy. Rose thanked her and dispatched her with a glance.

  I wheeled father in, to the damp yellow walls, the single bed and the gas-jet set in the fireplace. Somewhere outside a dog barked.

  While Rose and he rested I walked around the square. The coloured lights swung gently from their posts and beneath one of them, in the greenish wash the bulbs gave to their environs, was a figure with a bicycle. Collar upturned, a cloud of cigarette smoke above him like a halo of green. I recognised the smallest of the three, Oliver. Where's your companion? I asked him, when I had crossed to his side. Don't you worry your sweet head about him, he said. Tomorrow night, high tide, the beach at Spanish Point. You'll be there. If you insist, I told him. Damn right I do, he said.

  We took him to the springs next morning, a low-roofed collection of huts over a bubbling pool. He drank the sulphurous water obediently and then I undressed him, lifted him with a male nurse into the bath of carved rock. The water bubbled round him, grey-coloured, insipid and he suffered it in his usual silence, eyes staring at me with an expression of anguished surprise. When his time was up we lifted him, wrapped him in a white towel and sat him back in his chair to dry.

  Will it work? Rose asked me when I had him clothed and wheeled him out once more.

  Who knows, I said. We made it to the square, both thinking the same thought.

  That boy, she said.

  The one at Spanish Point? I said.

  Yes, she said.

  Do you really believe, I asked her, that something will happen?

  It's not a matter of that, she said. It's something in the air.

  What? I asked her.

  Hope, she said.

  I convinced myself to believe her. We winched him into the back seat once more and drove. The road seemed to lead us with a sense of inevitability, the low stone walls, the bent blackthorns, the fields of limestone now interspersed with green. We had asked no directions, but somehow I knew that I would know the spot when I found it. The sun came through the clouds and raked a low silver light which obscured the corners. But I turned one corner and there it was.

  A withered tree with coins hammered into the bark, medals strung from them, faded pictures of the Virgin and in place of leaves, a mass of ribbons tied up and down the dead branches. They shivered in the morning breeze. Two walls led from the tree to a rough stone grotto. The walls were lined with crutches, blackthorn sticks, old orthopaedic boots, a crushed and rotten wooden wheelchair. A woman in black sat in a chair at the grotto entrance knitting.

  I drew the car to a halt by the tree. There was the sense of death about the place. Do you feel it? Rose, I asked. She said nothing, drew in her breath. The woman in black raised one arm and beckoned. I'm afraid, Rose, I said. Of what? she asked. Her lips were tight with a suppressed excitement. The woman beckoned again. I'm afraid it might be true, I told her. You can't be, she said. The woman beckoned a third time. I opened the door, walked out.

  The ribbons fluttered in the breeze and there was a soft tinkle. I saw a silver bell, hanging from one of the dead branches. I walked forwards on the limestone slabs that led to the grotto and overturned a wooden crutch. It clattered off the stone. I bent to pick it up and the woman smiled, quite toothless.

  You'll want the boy, she said. I nodded. For yourself? she asked. My father, I said and she smiled again. Her needles clattered softly all the time. Bring him up then, she said. I waited for her to say something else but she returned to her needles as if I had vanished from her world. I walked backwards then, one step at a time. I looked from her to Rose in the car. Rose gestured with her hand.

  I opened the door and sat beside her. Do you think this is wise? I asked.

  Nothing is or has been wise, she said.

  Is that a yes? I asked.

  The woman gestured once more. There was an authority there which I could only obey. Come with me Rose, I said. She nodded. I got out and opened her door, then opened his. She took one arm of the wheelchair, I took the other and together we eased him backwards until the rubber wheels bumped on the limestone slabs. I took his weight then, turned him and began to move towards the grotto, but felt Rose's hand on my shoulder.

  Wait one minute, she whispered. She looked down at her hands, placed one finger and thumb over her wedding ring and drew it off. She reached up to the tree where a blue ribbon fluttered, and tied a knot round the ring.

  What will that do? I asked her.

  It's a sign, she said. If I could undo the past I would.

  What bit would you change? I asked.

  Whatever bit would help him, she said.

  I looked at the ring, swinging idly against the grey sky. When the past overtakes the present, I wondered, what tense does it form? Then I turned and pushed him towards the grotto. The woman was back at her needles, unconcerned with us now that it had been decided. The long skein of some garment hung between her knees, below which was a copper bowl, coins and crumpled notes sitting in it. How much? I asked her. Whatever the gentleman thinks, she said. I pulled the roll I had been given by Soames from my pocket and peeled off ten notes. God be with you, sir, she said, her head still bent down, showing us the combed and glittering plane of her scalp.

  I pushed him towards the stone entrance, shaped like a rough horseshoe. I could hear the regular dripping of water from inside, together with the low murmur of an adolescent voice. There was a slight incline, where his wheelchair took on its own momentum and pulled me suddenly inside. There was darkness then, the smell of fune
real damp and stagnant water. I could feel Rose's arm at my elbow. Then gradually the gloom lifted, as my eyes grew accustomed to it. I could see a boy, sitting on a rock by a pool of water, a woman bent before him, her blouse pulled up to reveal her curved back. The boy, dressed in a suit like a diminutive cattle-salesman, dipped a thin white hand in the water and passed it over her back repeatedly, as he murmured to himself. The words were unrecognisable, came out of his lips with a whispered tension, like a murmur of pain. Then he pulled her blouse down and raised two dull eyes in our direction.

  The woman raised herself stiffly, apologetically, as if embarrassed to be seen like this, and edged past us, her head and torso bent to one side. I stood there, waiting for the boy to acknowledge us, then looked at his unresponsive eyes and realised he was blind. Then I heard a voice from outside.

  Go to him, he knows what ails you, she said, to the rhythm of her clacking needles.

  The boy sat still, his head cocked to one side, listening to the wheels approach. He stretched out one hand, which came to rest neatly on father's head. The thin fingers traced the mane of hair down to the forehead, then over his nose and lips, as if drawing his profile with an invisible pen. I saw father's eyes flicker, then the lids fall slowly over them as if into a sleep. Bring him closer, the boy said, in a voice that was rural and matter of fact. I obeyed, pushing the chair to the edge of the pool. The boy's hand took up his chin again and traced the same line down his chest. The fingers began opening the buttons of his shirt, with an extraordinary rapidity. The other hand reached down to the pool, came up cupped with water which he dabbed over the white hairs of father's sunken chest. Then the hand reached up to his head again and pushed it downwards, like a pliant doll, so his forehead touched his knees. One hand pulled up his jacket and shirt, exposing the white knuckles of his spine, while the other dipped once more in the pool, raising to let the water run in rivulets down the exposed skin. The murmuring began then, as if he had found what he wanted, his thin lips quivering with the half-words that escaped them. I turned and could see Rose, framed in the light by the ragged horseshoe of the entrance. The boy dipped, rubbed and murmured, so many times that the process became hypnotic, I lost count. Then the murmuring stopped; there was just the repetitive dripping water. The boy righted father's clothing and stood. He edged his way around the wheelchair, reached two hands down to my father's fallen chin and whipped it upwards. There was a crack of twisting bone as father's huge frame sat up, like an obedient doll. Don't worry, the boy whispered, it can't hurt him. He took his place back by the stone, rocking slightly backwards and forwards, his sightless eyes now somewhere else.

  I drew father backwards up the small incline, then wheeled him out to face the light. What do you think? I asked Rose, and she threw her eyes down to the woman, saying nothing. What do you think, father? I asked as I reached the tree. He was as removed as ever, more so, if that were possible, his blue-veined lids covering his eyes. I reached up to the wizened tree and untied the ring from the ribbon where Rose had left it. Here, I told her, he would have wanted you to keep it.

  We drove back through the barren landscape, fields of dead rock on either side. We were both quiet, as there seemed little to say. The rumble of the car, the occasional squawk of a passing crow served to accentuate the silence. As the road unravelled towards me I could imagine that silence stretching as far as the eye could see, over the moonscape of the Burren and beyond, over the quiet ocean to my left, the mackerel skies above us that embraced the whole island. We were in the country of silence, I realised, and any speech only serves to remind us of it. I looked at Rose beside me and her face seemed older than I'd ever known it. I looked at him in the rearview mirror, as quiet as a rock, his chin settled on his chest, his eyes still closed. I could see a car behind him in the mirror, keeping a steady distance of a hundred yards or so, and knew we were being followed. When I reached Lisdoonvarna and wheeled around the square with its necklace of coloured bulbs the car drew to a halt on the other side. I parked opposite the Spa Hotel and looked at the wide-brimmed hats of the figures inside it. I saw a cloud of cigarette smoke obscuring the windscreen and recognised the G-men from the Castle.

  Who are they? Rose asked as we moved him towards the hotel doors.

  Who are who? I replied.

  I saw you looking. The exchange of glances. Tell me.

  I said nothing as we moved through the foyer, but inside the rooms she asked again.

  We're here for something else, she said. Tell me what it is.

  I looked at the square in the fading light outside and saw the car move off.

  That business with the letters, I said.

  What about it?

  So I told her. As she listened she seemed to fall into a silence even deeper than my father's.

  So it could never have worked, she said.

  Why not?

  Because you came down here for quite a different reason.

  I could say nothing so she said nothing in reply. The three of us sat there in absolute stillness as the daylight paled and the coloured bulbs came up in the square outside.

  I have to go now, Rose, I said.

  Go on, she said. But take him with you.

  Why? I asked her.

  I can't stand it any more, she said.

  So I drove with him to Spanish Point. The sky grew slowly into a magenta pall above us. The fields of stone gave way gradually to clutches of grass and then the sea came into view, stretching to the horizon under a full moon. The town when I reached it was as Soames had described it, a one-street promenade above a lengthy beach with a nuns' hostel perched on the north end, high above the water. I drove slowly down the road above the beach until the town was lost from view. I quietened the engine and eased him out of his perch in the back seat, bumped him down a series of broken steps onto the hard sand.

  Another beach, father, I said, but his eyes had fallen into their old silence, full of fury and surprise. And another sea, I said. The Atlantic this time. The wheels sank in the soft sand so I moved him out to the water's edge where his chair bumped over the hard ridges. Can you imagine what our lines would catch here.

  His head shuddered with barely perceptible jerks as I walked, as if he was nodding in reply. Maybe tonight, I told him, will have its moments. Maybe these are the hours towards which all the other hours pointed. Then I saw three figures down at the sea's edge, half hidden by an escarpment of rock and suddenly wished Rose was with me. Who will care for you, I asked him, when I'm gone?

  They were clustered round a small boat: Oliver, the small one, Festy, the tall one, and the brooding Red.

  What's with the old geezer? Red said when I drew near.

  My father, I said, he's taking the waters.

  What waters?

  The waters in the sulphur springs, behind the Spa Hotel.

  If there's any bother, he's on his own, he said.

  We stood then, watching the fading line of the horizon. I settled him there, facing the sea and saw his eyes were open. The same cornflower blue, rimmed with reddened lids, they searched the ocean with the intensity of those around us. He shivered then, and I wondered for a moment was it the cold, or the awakening from the long sleep. Could that boy's magic work? I thought, then banished the thought as quickly.

  Look, someone said.

  Where? I asked.

  What did you say? said Festy.

  You said look, I said.

  No I didn't, he spat back.

  Then I looked down and saw my father's gaze riveted to a spot on the horizon.

  The old geezer said it, Red muttered.

  He couldn't. He can't speak.

  Shut up and look, said Oliver. Over there.

  There was a churning in the water, as if some leviathan was rising.

  A dolphin, the same voice said.

  That's no fiickin' dolphin, Festy shouted. It's your man—I stared at father's face. The eyes riveted to the spot, the same utter rigour.

  Who said dolphin
? I asked.

  Would you shut up about your dolphins, Festy muttered.

  Look at that creature—

  I could see the waters foaming, as if under great pressure from below. The turret came up first, then the sleek black hull, the waters falling away from it like skin off a bone.

  I looked from him to the emerging monster and back again. His lips quivered, as if on the threshold of speech.

  It's a submarine, father, I said. Say it. A submarine.

  The lips trembled, but no sound came out.

  I am imagining things, I thought, making the dumb speak. I turned back to the sea and watched the monster make its full entrance. It rose slowly to the surface, the only turbulence in an otherwise quiet sea. I saw the turret open and a blond-haired figure emerge. I recognised Hans. He waved, over an acre of ocean. I waved back. You poor fucker, I thought. I have made you pay. He was shouting something. Irish, he said, Irish—and I couldn't distinguish the rest.

  That's him? asked Red.

  Yes, I said.

  That's Rhett? You're sure?

  Hans. I said. His name's Hans.

  Come on, he said, pushing the boat towards the water.

  I can't leave him here.

  He'll be fine. And you'll do what you came here to do—As the two brothers rowed I watched his diminishing figure in the wheelchair, immobile by the water's edge, eyes staring at me almost pleading, as if I was leaving him for ever. What if the tide comes in? I shouted, in a sudden panic.