Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

  At daybreak we'd rush to get our chores done so we could read. As it turned to summer the light stayed longer and longer. We'd nap here and there between hunting and fishing and milking, leaving time for talking during the dark hours in order to save on candles. I guess there wasn't much we didn't talk about that summer. The books had fired us to dreaming and longing, one minute fighting and dying as martyrs for Irish liberty and in the next we'd travel to mystical lands beyond Ballyutogue.

  Occasionally, we'd get company from those ever migrating tinkers or other shepherds in the lower pastures. Stray fugitives on the run sought a day's respite now and again. None were the desperate sort and harboring was common. We were safe with our dogs and arms and rarely did a fugitive do anything harmful, for it would destroy an ancient custom of sanctuary. They'd always represent themselves as fighters for Irish liberty who had fallen from grace for a crime against the Crown, though God only knew what they were really wanted for. We'd feed them, let them rest the day, then move them along to the next set of safe booley houses at Crocknamaddy.

  There was a major subject of growing interest concerning matters of a sexual nature. The one thing we would miss would be the wracking harvest this particular year as both of us had ideas of advancing our knowledge with Brendt O'Malley. There was so much we didn't know, we were pondering the notion of approaching Mr. Ingram for books on the subject. Conor reckoned he would be of an open mind on the matter.

  It must have been around Midsummer's Night when he came because it was light nearly all the time and we were reading so much we spent half the day dozing at our fishing lines.

  The dogs yapped, alerting us to strangers. We took observation positions and spotted two horsemen on the horizon trailing a pair of donkeys loaded with provisions. As they came into closer view our hearts jumped with joy! Sure it was Andrew Ingram on one of the horses and we dashed out to greet him. To our utter astonishment the rider on the second horse was a lady.

  We were introduced to Miss Enid Lockhart, who was a teacher herself in the national school in Muff. Quickly concealing our amazement, we shook her hand, pretending that her being there was nothing at all. Mr. Ingram said he was looking for a few days of good fishing. Was he ever in luck!

  A booley house about a half mile from ours was in decent condition. We raced off to fix it up for him and his lady friend, which we did in short order. Then, as we helped them unpack, Mr. Ingram gave us the most magnificent surprise of our lives in the form of six more books. I will never forget them:The Confederate Chieftains, after the rising of 1641, and The History of Ireland by John Mitchel andThe History of the Irish Rebellion of 1798. There was The Life and Times of Daniel O'Connell and The Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald by Thomas Moore. The last book was really for Conor, for he trembled all over when he read the title. It was an English translation of the great Celtic epic, The Cattle Raid of Cooley, part of the Fenian tales of Finn MacCool, Queen Maeve and Cuchullain, a most pulsating drama also known as the Irish Odyssey, and the most magnificent words to have been born from Ulster.

  "Well," said Mr. Ingram, seeing great white spots from our bulging eyes, "these ought to keep the old insurrection brewing. Seems that there is a full-blooded Fenian bookstore in Philadelphia which your brother Ed has discovered. The Cattle Raid is my own present from Dublin." We were still too shocked to speak as he turned his sack over, tumbling out two notebooks and a dozen pencils. "It might be a good idea to put some thoughts down as you go along. Miss Enid will be happy to show you how to make a proper outline."

  I finally got around to thanking him but Conor remained in a euphoric stupor. He took my shotgun and said he would be back in a while, and took off over the meadow with the dogs. He returned after a time holding up a handsome-sized ring-necked pheasant. It was his special way of thanking Mr. Ingram.

  "I knew she was there," Conor said excitedly. “I spotted the nest a time back and was waiting for a special occasion."

  Miss Enid Lockhart turned out to be an extra fantastic cook, doing things the likes of which our mas had never heard. She stuffed the bird with meal made of this and that and mushrooms and snails, pouring rum, if you'd like, right on the dressing, and roasted it over a spit. We had some eggs copped from a golden eagle's nest and berries and cream and tea which was spiked with poteen that we had traded for with one of the passing tinkers. I mean they didn't even say a word about us drinking poteen.

  Miss Enid Lockhart was a very pretty lady in a manner of speaking, if you like fragile Protestant types. She seemed just as open-minded as Mr. Ingram, because it was she who suggested that poteen would go well if we had any. Otherwise we'd have never taken the jug out in front of them. Anyhow, the way they were acting, it wasn't hard to fancy they were in a marrying mood.

  I think Conor and I were most proud of the fact there was an unspoken bond between us all. Unmarried couples just didn't roam around the mountains together, even Protestants. If such a thing became known it would stir the sanctimonious ire of every preacher on Inishowen. The fact that they trusted us without even instructing us to that trust made us feel very close and I guess we both knew that Mr. Ingram had a special place in his heart for his two papists. He fired his pipe and gazed over the meadow, which was filling up with the low violet and purple colors of a softening sun, and we all groaned our contentment.

  "Who plays the flute?" Miss Lockhart asked.

  "I do. I learned it from my daddy, Fergus, who is the poet of our village."

  "Would you?"

  It was ever so still with but a wee breeze stirring the heather and naught but the sound of my flute mixed with occasional harmony from the animals and the dogs racing around wrestling and tumbling. I was sincerely impressed with the sounds I was making because they never sounded this grand before. When I was done Conor sang an old shepherd's air as peaceful and lovely as the land around us.

  "That was just beautiful," she said, "both of you."

  "I've always theorized," Mr. Ingram said, "that when we do get to heaven we'll find it a rather decent place. Our earthly wants and woes will be lifted forever. However, one must consider that, with all the billions of souls there, the administration of the place must be staggering."

  "Sure I never thought of that," I said.

  "For example, transporting the souls in and out of purgatory. Someone must register them all and keep track of them just to see if they are qualified to stay. I'm certain that everyone will be assigned to a job of sorts, one he or she likes, but the organization of the place has to be tremendous. After one is there for six or seven centuries all the contentment might get a little dull."

  Obviously we hadn't heard this assessment of heaven from Father Lynch and had supposed that everything would be done up there by magic. Mr. Ingram's dissertation on the logistics of running heaven was certainly a revelation.

  "To get to my point," he said, "it seems that we have to have moments of turmoil to contrast to moments of peace in order to truly understand and appreciate that peace. What we have captured this moment in this meadow is an instant of peace. Right here and now, this is paradise, do you agree?"

  "Aye, it's paradise," Conor said.

  "What we have confused is the belief that heaven and paradise are the same. So long as we are capable of moments of paradise here, we ought to cherish them, because we may not find paradise in heaven."

  "Bravo," Miss Lockhart said.

  "You're right," I said, "heaven can't be any better than this."

  After that I played the flute again and we all sang some Scottish songs led by Mr. Ingram.

  *

  Conor stopped at stream edge and flipped a rock into the still pool on the opposite side. "You'll be finding good roach fishing there, especially now that it's clouding up."

  Mr. Ingram rubbed his hands together, a man yet in paradise. "I'll show you how to fish, lad, the way a Scotsman does it."

  "Well, have your go," Conor answered. "I've seen strange luck that defies reason at times."

&nbs
p; "You'll mind your words later when you look into my creel."

  "Well, try to get enough for one decent meal for the lot of us," he said. "I'll be getting on to my chores now. I'll see you later, sir."

  "Conor!" he said sharply.

  "Aye?”

  "Don't you think we'd better have a talk?"

  Conor sighed and nodded. "I guess so." He sidled down on the bank, letting his feet hang in the water. "My daddy told you where we were, didn't he?"

  "He did," Mr. Ingram said, sitting alongside and preparing his fishing rod.

  "What did he say to you?"

  "A lot of things. Essentially that you're a farmer."

  "I've been so happy at the forge and with my books. Why must I be made to feel guilty over it? And why in God's name should I be threatened that I'm going to lose both?"

  "Don't you know the answer, Conor?"

  "What did you say to my father, Mr. Ingram?"

  "I told him that because a man is a farmer is no reason to shut out the light and beauty one can find through books. A farmer has the same right to enrich his mind as anyone."

  "Did you meet my brother Liam?"

  "I made it a point."

  "He's a good lad, Liam. All he wants is the farm and to be a follower of my father. My daddy knows what Liam wants and he knows what I want He could make us both happy by doing the obvious."

  "Does he know?"

  "Maybe he pretends not to. Why, Mr. Ingram?"

  The teacher shook his head. "He considers books and ideas as a threat that will lure you away from Ballyutogue. He's terrified of you wrapping yourself up in the cause for Irish freedom. To him it's a path to misery and death, nor does he want the Larkin dynasty to end. They've been strong men, one after the other, the kind of leaders Liam can never be."

  "But can't I do that as a blacksmith?"

  "No. He places infinite value on the land and, with the Irish peasant, it goes deeper than the breath of life. Conor, every parent I've ever spoken to has told me he loves all his children exactly the same. Most parents actually believe that. It's not true. Your father loves you more than the others. As you know, people leaving Ireland is the tragedy of Irish life. Seeing you with books, with a trade, he becomes desperate because passing the land is the only way he knows of closing the circle of his life."

  "Mr. Ingram, I love my daddy but . . . but …”

  The teacher's arm went about Conor's shoulder knowingly. "In most places most parents come to realize that their children are going to find their own way. They may not like the idea but in time they make peace with it."

  "But my daddy never will, is that what you're saying?"

  "He can't do it any more than he can give up breathing."

  "What am I supposed to do?" Conor asked shakily.

  "Well, you and I are both of Celtic stock. We know that our kind can go on for a hundred years without talking to one another. Eventually you're going to have to face him and make your decision clear."

  "I can't, Mr. Ingram, I can't do that."

  All right, lad, Andrew Ingram thought, go and keep it stuffed inside you for days and years. Sometime the breaking point must come and, when it does, it will be a day of terrible sorrow.

  *

  "Conor."

  "Aye?"

  "You sleeping?"

  "Not since you just woke me up to ask."

  "I made up my mind what I'm going to do with it."

  "With what?"

  "The notebook Mr. Ingram gave me. I'm going to write my version of the history of Ireland."

  "That's grand. Go to sleep."

  "What are you going to do with yours?"

  "I've not made up my mind."

  "Ah, you're lying to me, man. I saw you writing in it. What are you writing?"

  Conor didn't answer so I asked him again.

  "Poems," he said finally.

  "Can I read them?"

  "Maybe later. And don't you go poking around behind my back or I'll give you a bash in the melt. Now go to sleep with you, will you?"

  "Conor."

  "Aye."

  "She's nice."

  "Who?"

  "Miss Enid Lockhart."

  "Sure that's true enough," Conor agreed.

  "Did you ever consider what it would be like to be a priest?" I asked.

  "Jaysus, Seamus, Jaysus."

  "My ma is always making sly suggestions at me. I think that's why she decided to let me go to the national school. After all, she says, what am I going to do with my life? Colm is getting the farm. And here am I knowing how to read and write 'just like a priest." She says I would be the most important person in the village, nae, the entire parish, maybe the only person who can read and write. And, if I become a bishop it would be like having my own earldom. All I have to do is tell everybody what to do and they obey. After all, she says, what's the good of all the education?"

  "My ma is going to make a priest out of Dary," Conor said.

  "Oh, really. Won't your daddy be fierce?"

  "He's got nothing to say about that wane."

  "How can you tell?"

  "By the way she's got Dary tied to her. He's two years old and he's already imitating her on her knees. He could pray before he could talk."

  "I know what you mean," I said. “I liked to got my head broken for just yelling at Dary once."

  "Ma doesn't let anyone look at him sideways. He even sleeps with them." Conor propped on an elbow. "I'd never make a priest. I'm going to enjoy fucking too much."

  "There must be something good about fucking if it's so sinful," I agreed. "I was kind of hoping maybe we'd get to fuck Brendt O'Malley this year at the wrack."

  "You'd be foolhardy to do that," Conor said.

  "How come?"

  "She's always confessing."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'll remember that," I said, salvaging my manly intentions. "It's probably not that great anyhow. I never heard of anybody who enjoyed it after they got married. Well, certainly not after the first baby."

  "My ma and daddy always did," Conor said.

  "You're putting me on."

  "Nae, it's true."

  "How did you know?"

  "Well, even with the door shut in the loft, there's cracks to look through. They always laughed a lot when they were doing it, and kissing and saying the dumbest kind of words."

  "Surely!"

  "Aye, they did. And they used to do it three and four times a week."

  "Honest to God!"

  "Aye. I could always tell at supper when they were getting in the mood. My daddy would hang around the fire slapping Ma's behind and pinching her and she'd giggle. Sure enough . . ."

  "Wow!" I said. “It's certainly not like that at my house. I could hear Ma and Daddy from the byre and it was nothing like that, I can tell you. Daddy would make awful grunting noises, you know, like some of the farm animals, and Ma would complain about some aches and tell him to get it over with. I don't recall them ever having fun at it. Conor, did Tomas and Finola enjoy it through all the babies and everything?"

  "Well, they haven't since Dary was born. You remember when I had to fetch Dr. Cruikshank."

  "Do I ever remember that," I said. "All the women waiting around the cottage muttering that Finola was going to get away. I was so scared."

  "I think something happened to her insides," Conor said, "because they don't do it any more. But once, before Dary was born, they were sending the same kind of secret messages to each other like Mr. Ingram and Miss Lockhart."

  "Do you think they're doing it!" I said, astonished.

  "Are you daft? Look at them."

  That was too much for me to comprehend. . . fucking without sin. "Maybe Protestants are permitted to enjoy it for some reason we don't know."

  "Everyone is," Conor said.

  *

  The summer fled too fast and oat hearts died as the days' sunlight grew less and less. The time to go was on us. We had fattened the cattle and brought a dozen calves into the world
without loss, and the sheep were bulging with wool like the great white clouds that passed above.

  Liam was sent up with the cart and horses to fetch us. We stored our arms, took up our nets from the stream, broke camp and killed the fire, coming down from Slieve Main near to tears.

  I had finished my notebook on Irish history and intended to give it to Mr. Ingram as a present. On our last night, Conor let me read one of his poems.

  THE MAGIC MEADOW

  I go high to a magic meadow

  When it’s light the full day round,

  And I set me down in a fairy rath,

  And wait for the banshee's sound.

  The voice of Wolfe Tone from his cell

  I hear quite clearly now,

  Calling up all his sons and daughters

  From the hearth and the byre and the plow,

  And I gaze o'er the magic meadow,

  Where the gorse is growing thick,

  And there's nae a body there to see.

  Is it all a fairy trick?

  I come down from the magic meadow

  When it's brown and the harvest’s soon,

  But the voice of Tone won't leave me alone

  For a rising by the moon.

  Conor Larkin, 1887, age 14

  When we crossed the River Crana we took a last look back to that place where the world beyond opened and beckoned and where full cycle of our own Irish tragedy became known to us. It was also a place where time stood still in that moment we came to know as paradise.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The seasons came and passed, one after another. Nothing much changed except the deepening weariness of our people trudging that endless treadmill of struggle and futility. The step became slower and the prayer more fervent for the final sleep to overtake them. There was an ever growing number of "American wakes," as sons and daughters emigrated and relatives and neighbors gathered to mourn them as they mourned the dead, for once they left Ireland they left forever.