Blasket Spirit Read online

  ‘Peadar was an islander in his late forties. He had no wife. He had lost his eye as a child and with it his appeal to girls. The Blasket people thought that he was a lost cause, so it was a great surprise when he arrived back into the island one night with a wife.

  ‘From the very start the islanders thought that Niamh was strange. She looked foreign, with a dusky complexion, huge dark eyes and sleek, shiny, black hair. She kept to herself and Peadar was tight-lipped when any question was put to him about the origins of his bride. Still, whatever people thought, everyone agreed that Peadar and Niamh made a most contented couple.

  ‘They said that she had strange ways about her. She wore layers of long, shapeless skirts and shawls, always covering her arms and hands. The children used to say that she had no hands. She rarely went walking since it seemed to be difficult for her. She took small, shuffling steps and when she did go out, it was at night. Some talked cruelly behind her back about her looks and her strange habits. Kinder people suggested that it was such talk that forced the poor woman to venture forth alone and at night.

  ‘When darkness fell, and the sound of seals wailing and surf breaking filled the island, she went walking. She would walk the paths and watch the sea, but never went to the beach. In eight years, nobody ever saw her on the beach.

  ‘A few months after her arrival, Nan Cleary told the women to stop their gossiping and to be civil to the dark woman. Then, one Sunday, Nan invited her to come and pray the Rosary with the women in the National School. That was the custom while the menfolk were across on the mainland at mass. Peadar said that his wife would go and so she did. It was Niamh’s sweet singing that held the women spellbound and won them over. The thrill of her voice struck every listener to the depths of their soul. Once the women of the island had accepted her, it would be a brave man who would utter a word against her.

  ‘A year later, Peadar was the happiest man alive when she gave birth to their healthy baby boy. Peadar gave Niamh the gift of a beautiful soft wool shawl. It was woven with jade, green and turquoise wool and shimmered like the sea. From that day she was never seen without it.

  ‘Like his mother, Éanna had dark skin and deep, inkwell eyes. Like his father, he was strong and tall. The young boy grew like any island boy, except for one affliction. He was afraid of the water. He never went to the beach to run on the sand or to play hurling like the others. Of all the young boys of his age, he was the strongest at hauling turf and stones. He was the fastest, climbing steep slopes with heavy loads of seaweed to fertilise the potatoes. He was the fittest boy, rounding up sheep on the hills. When other boys were puffing and blowing, there wasn’t one quick breath from Éanna. All this was well and good, but not enough for a man making his future on the Great Blasket Island. He had to be able to fish and to man a naomhóg. Peadar understood the boy’s limitations and so he encouraged Éanna to succeed with his schooling. Perhaps with the boy’s kindness and angelic voice, he would be destined for the priesthood. Then the sea would no longer be a worry for his mother. So by the time that the boy was seven years old, he outshone every thirteen-year-old scholar in the schoolroom. Éanna, like his mother, had a most beautiful and haunting voice. When they sang together, it was said that the seals and birds came in to shore to listen.

  ‘During that year, Éanna and four other young boys were being groomed for their First Holy Communion. The whole island seemed to be preparing with them. You would have thought that the mothers themselves were making the Holy Communion with all the fuss that was going on. They were so involved because when the actual day would come, only the men would cross to Dún Chaoin with the boys for the mass.

  ‘Éanna was as excited as any of the children. Niamh, however, was anxious and distracted for weeks. Peadar was distressed, seeing her like this, and he reassured her every day. She would not be consoled until the event was over and their son had returned safely into the island. On the First Holy Communion Sunday, the men set off early in the boats. Niamh stood on the clifftop that May morning, her sea-green shawl wrapped tightly around her. She watched the boats until they became tiny black dots, swallowed by the shadows of the mainland cliffs. She remained there while the women went to and from the National School for the Rosary and while they returned to their houses and cooked the Sunday meal. She kept to herself all day.

  ‘Over on the mainland, the First Holy Communion had gone off famously. The five island children received the sacrament with the children of Dún Chaoin and Ballyferriter. After the mass, the priest spoke to all the island boys outside the church. Once each had received the priest’s blessing, the men made haste back to the slipway.

  ‘Peadar and three other men took to the oars in one boat. Éanna and his two young friends sat up in the bow. They were full of high spirits. When they were a good mile out to sea, they were suddenly surrounded by seals. The three men swore that in all their days fishing, they had never seen so many seals. The boys squealed with delight, barking and yelping at the shiny bald heads. Éanna lost his fear of the water, leaning over to touch the seals with the others. The seals were fearless and nuzzled the hands of the boys. Peadar became mad with fright, roaring at the seals and lashing out with the oar at them. He screamed at Éanna to sit down. The other men were as captivated as the boys were, and with all the excitement and commotion, Peadar’s appeals were ignored. The boys whooped with joy. It was during all this confusion that Éanna leaned too far overboard, stroking two sleek seals. After each contact they drifted farther out of the boy’s reach. Nobody could explain how it happened that Éanna slid into the water so easily after the two seals. Without the slightest splash, the lips of the water closed over the young boy and the seals. It all seemed to have happened before anyone could react.

  ‘Peadar screamed for the boy, making the boat rock dangerously as he stumbled from side to side, searching desperately. The men scanned the waters, but Éanna never resurfaced. As quickly as the seals had appeared, they disappeared into the green waters. For hours the men searched the area but found no trace of Éanna.

  ‘Before the boats had come close to the island, the women knew that something terrible had happened. The crying of the boys and the frantic wailing of Peadar filled the Blasket Sound. It was a hard job the men had to do to prevent Peadar from jumping in after his son, on the journey back to the Blasket. When the boats landed, the awful truth was broken to the women. The neighbours ran ahead to be with Niamh; her heart would wrench in two with the news. The door was wide open but the cottage was empty. The islanders searched her usual haunts but there was no sign of her. Once Peadar realised that his wife was missing, he raced as fast as the wind straight down onto the White Strand. Nobody could keep up with him. When the people reached the cliff overlooking the strand, they saw Peadar crumpled to his knees in the shallow ripples. He clutched the jade and turquoise shawl to his chest. No one would ever forget the heartbreaking wailing of the man screaming to the waves.’

  Laura said nothing for a while when I had finished. Then she sighed and said, ‘What happened to Peadar?’

  ‘Well, he never spoke about the loss of his wife and child. In the months that followed, he kept to himself, taking on the strange habits of his wife. He walked the cliffs here by the Seal Cove at night, listening to the singing of the seals. He lived like that for three years and then he died one winter’s night, out on the cliffs alone.’

  We sat on the grass, watching a brilliant orange orb sink into the horizon beyond An Téaracht. Seventy or eighty metres below us, the full tide surged onto the gravel. The scalloped lace ripples glowed with orange light. Slowly the seal cow began to nudge the pup towards the frothy bubbles. He seemed reluctant at first. He stopped as the first wave flooded around him and drained back through the gravel. The next wave came quickly, floating him for an instant. He looked to his mother for reassurance. She was by his side, urging him along with her. As the third wave broke, she dipped her head and slid beneath it. The pup hesitated, was upended and then dived after his mo
ther. The sleek heads of mother and son reappeared beyond the breakers.

  ‘Good luck, you guys!’ Laura called after them. I could say nothing, fearing that my voice would fail me. We watched until the seals had disappeared and the last droplet of molten sun had dissolved into the sea. In the dusk, my tears fell silently. Laura was on her feet already. ‘You’re not supposed to cry at your own story, you big softie. Come on. Éanna has just earned you dinner.’

  A Day in the Weaver’s

  Friday was the quietest day on the Great Blasket Island during the summertime. Out on the mainland, it was changeover day. Tourists were busy loading cars and setting off on long journeys home while others were excitedly heading to the Dingle Peninsula to take their places. The beaches were quieter while the roads were busier. From the sanctuary of the sea, the Great Blasket Island gave a shrug of relief, watching the chain of colourful matchbox cars glint in the sunshine as it snaked around Slea Head. During the Friday swop-over, only one ferry operated between Dún Chaoin and the Great Blasket Island.

  ‘How would you like a day minding the shop?’ Sue asked as she popped her head through my door one Thursday evening. ‘It should be quiet tomorrow, so I’m going out to the mainland for next month’s supplies. I’ll show you where I leave the key and you can help yourself to tea, scones and whatever you like.’

  Without waiting for a response, she continued with the arrangements and explained the schedule for the following day. I did not know how to say no. That had always been a problem for me. It was different, however, with Sue’s request; she was asking something perfectly reasonable of me, something any normal person could do and something she was entitled to ask. After all, she had given me huge support since my arrival on the island whether she was aware of it or not.

  Three things terrified me. Firstly, the prospect of meeting so many people. The familiar company of Laura and Sigrid was one thing, but a shop full of strangers was another matter entirely. Secondly, the thought that I would be in a situation that I could not get away from. What if I panicked? Thirdly, there was my lack of any mathematical sense.

  I knew that it was time to move out into the world again. Here was a challenge I would have to meet. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a great accountant, Sue,’ I answered smiling, although my stomach was churning with anxiety.

  ‘Don’t worry, everything is priced clearly. I’ll show you. Before I realised it, we were walking down the path to her yellow door. ‘If anyone wants tea and a scone, charge one-twenty. There’s change in the box.’

  A shaft of evening sunlight filtered dancing dust particles inside her door. My friendly robin pecked at the floor within the beam of light. As we stepped inside, he hopped indifferently past my foot, foraging for abandoned crumbs. The room was filled with the golden warmth of baking scones.

  I knelt and nudged a currant towards him.

  ‘You’ve met then!’ Sue smiled.

  ‘Yes, every dawn. I think I must be first on his rounds.’

  ‘Is he still at that? He used to waken Ray Stagles every morning too.’

  ‘He’s fairly bedraggled-looking today, isn’t he?’

  ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars, my friend. What have you been fighting about?’

  The robin cocked his head as if considering his answer, then hopped out of the spotlight in under a wooden chair, which was laden with woollen shawls, to continue his quest for food.

  ‘Now, the price is on everything: shawls, scarves, hats, tablemats, rugs, everything.’ As I looked around, I could not see a free inch of wall space. Rugs, woven wall hangings and scarves hung all over. Chairs, countertop, windowsills, even the leaking gas fridge was piled high with garments. The kitchen table was lost under Páid’s woodcraft. Maps of the island and postcards covered the tiny table inside the door and every shape and style of woollen hat hung from shelves, nails and cupboard knobs. A narrow path wove its way through the mountains of wool to the back wall, where Sue had just enough room to stand in front of the old gas cooker. ‘Tea and coffee are here, over the cooker. I keep two kettles on the go. Sugar and jam in here,’ she said, indicating shelves hidden behind a red velvet curtain. Everything that could be was secured in jars, while other items hung from the ceiling, out of the reach of greedy mice. ‘Milk and butter are in the fridge.’ I wondered at the best line of approach to the fridge door, which was concealed by the loom and three giant towers of wool.

  ‘There’s a notebook here where I record each item I sell. Don’t worry if you don’t sell anything. Most people just come in for a rest, a good look around and a chat.’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope I manage to sell something for you. Remind me about the dyes again. I’ll have to be able to tell people where the natural colours come from.’

  ‘Right but, again, don’t worry if you can’t remember them. The wall hanging nailed to the timber over there has most of the dyes in it. This rich tan is from onion skins. The green below it is from nettles. The gold colour comes from grey lichen – you know the one I was collecting off the rocks the other day?’

  ‘Yes. So that means the gold in this hat comes from lichen.’ I thought I was getting the hang of it.

  ‘No, that actually came from another onion dye. These rusts and reddish colours come from heather, and these blends of greens are from mosses.’

  I was lost. Each colour seemed to have an endless number of shades. ‘But how can the rock lichen give so many different colours? That one is gold and this one is almost red.’

  ‘Depending on the season, iodine and algae occur in varying amounts in the sea. Lichens are filter feeders, so, as the composition of the water changes, the lichen changes. The different phases of the moon and the tides will affect it too. That means that, with home dyes, it’s impossible to match colours exactly. If I have weed or lichen left over and I boil it a few days later, the colour can be different from the first batch. It can have dried out and lost its potency or I might have boiled it for a longer or shorter time, changing the colour that way.’

  I had visions of a four-seasons’ jumper: four batches of island wool, each dyed from rock lichen picked during each of the different seasons. Then I saw the colour that I wanted as winter. ‘How do you get this deep purple?’ I asked.

  ‘Commercial dye, I’m afraid. It’s nearly impossible to get purple naturally. That’s why purple was the colour of kings in the past, the most elusive and, therefore, the most expensive colour.’

  I put back the purple shawl, feeling disappointed.

  ‘If you saw this red colour being made on the island in the past, you knew that a young woman was emigrating. Your red petticoat was like your rite of passage, I suppose.’

  I had one last look around before the evening light disappeared. Sue started the fire with an empty milk carton and flour bag. ‘Don’t forget to remind people to take their litter back home to the mainland. The island is a plastic-free zone, so don’t take any.’

  ‘Right, now you’d better get your red petticoat ready for the morning.’ I gave her my shopping list: matches, candles, bananas, apples, brown rice, vegetables, beans and batteries.

  ‘I’ll knock on your door before I leave and thanks very much; I couldn’t go unless I had someone to look after the shop.’

  ‘Thank me when I’ve sold something. Goodnight.’

  The next morning, things happened so fast: as soon as I waved Sue off on the ferry, I lit the gas under two kettles, put the spinning wheel out on the wall and attempted to hang the weathered, wooden signs for the weaver’s shop outside on the gable. The few rusty nails, jutting from the wall at odd angles, failed to hold the heavy battered boards, which read ‘Fáilte Isteach’, ‘Craft Shop’ and ‘Visitors Welcome’. In the hands of any geometrically minded person, the rusty chains dangling from each sign would have matched the rusty nails on the wall. I was not that person. As soon as I had one side up, the other would fall down. As the kettle screeched, I dashed inside, momentarily abandoning the task. The scones looked delicious
, so I decided that it would be time for breakfast, once the sign was up. I lit a nightlight under some lavender oil, then re-emerged into the glare of the sunshine.

  The spinning wheel looked spectacular, standing high on the stone wall, cutting brilliant blue slices of sky. I turned back to my battered sign, reaching up on my tiptoes, when a man’s voice startled me. ‘Let me help you with that.’ A tall figure stretched above me, hooking the two chains easily into place. ‘Which one is next?’ he asked in a strong Scottish accent. Awkwardly I handed him ‘Fáilte Isteach’ just as two great, sweating American women collapsed in a heap onto one of the benches. Behind them, a steady procession was making slow progress up from the landing slip. I had not noticed the ferry’s arrival. My heart started racing. A wave of nausea surged through me. I didn’t think I could do it.

  ‘Can we have two Cokes with ice, dear?’ one of the large ladies asked, before I had even thanked the man who had hung the signs.

  ‘I have only tea and coffee. For Coke, you’ll have to go up to the cafe. This is the weaver’s shop.’ I pointed in the direction of the cafe; up the hill towards the Dáil and across the rabbit path. They looked at me in horror.

  ‘I think we have walked quite enough, Dorothy, don’t you? We’ll take two coffees,’ she panted.

  At this stage, there were three French girls inside, trying on hats. A young boy emerged with a map and handed me a fiver. As I made to go inside to get his change, a man shouted over the wall, ‘Can you tell me which house is Tomás Ó Croimhthain’s please?’

  I indicated the ruin, set back to the left of Páidí Dunleavy’s cottage, smiled and headed for the door once more.

  ‘So where did Muiris Ó Súilleabháin live?’ he asked. I went out through the gap in the wall, pointing out the ruin at the back of Sue’s, still holding the fiver. I had no sooner shown him that house than he asked for the King’s house.