Blasket Spirit Page 4

  ‘At least that’s one tradition these wealthy Kilkenny farmers haven’t thrown out the window along with everything else,’ Donncha teased.

  Startled by the loud talk and sudden bursts of laughter, the sheep huddled against the far side of the pen.

  That evening, after the sun had gone down, the stories continued at Sue’s fireside. Donncha had gone back out to the mainland and his place had been taken by a quiet, gentle, weather-beaten man called Séamus.

  The shearing took four days. The wool was gathered and stored in the dry clochán in front of Páidí Dunleavy’s. On the final afternoon, Sue and I were roped in to help. We herded the sheep down the cliff to the slipway where Páid manoeuvred the small boat so that Séamus and Páidí could catch each animal, haul it into the boat and tie its legs together. When the cargo of twelve sheep was finally aboard, they set off for Beiginis, where the grazing was rich and they could be fattened for a couple of weeks before their final journey across the Blasket Sound and into Dingle, to be sold as organic Blasket lamb to upmarket restaurants.

  As the day passed, the flock got smaller on the slipway. I made several pots of tea and took turns blocking the flock’s escape route back up the cliff. The task of lifting each animal was arduous and physically exhausting. As the little boat returned from Beiginis, another ewe would be unceremoniously upended, and her legs tied as she bleated pitifully. ‘Why do you have to tie their legs together?’ I asked.

  ‘Because they’d jump overboard,’ Páidí explained.

  ‘Sure, they huddle in the middle of the boat, terrified the whole way over,’ Páid argued. ‘When did you ever hear of a ewe diving in for a swim?’ The two men stood up in the boat debating the question.

  Séamus with his sheepdogs at the slipway.

  After a time, Séamus, the quietest of the three, spoke. ‘It’s to stop them putting their hooves through the canvas and sinking the currach.’ There was silence for a time.

  ‘Sure we have solid floors wit’ years, we’re not shifting them in currachs any more,’ Páid said.

  The rhythm of the work was interrupted as we all silently contemplated the bound ewe on the solid floor of the boat.

  Then Páidí spoke. ‘I suppose some of the old ways don’t make sense any more.’

  With that, we watched Páidí untie the ewe that cowered in the bottom of the boat.

  At dusk, I sat with Séamus and the sheepdogs on the rocks watching the last boat of unbound sheep crossing to Beiginis. As I watched, I felt guilty.

  ‘With one question I’ve just destroyed an age-old, vibrant Blasket tradition.’

  Séamus continued to look out to sea as he nodded, then turned to me smiling, ‘Sure, with a cup of tea from an island house, didn’t you revive another?’

  Manslaughter

  The stories told at Sue’s fireside filled my imagination and became my salvation. The obsessive replaying of memories in all their forensic detail lessened as I walked the island living these new tales. Much of the folklore related to the fishermen and seals of the islands. The story of Muiris and the seal is one such Blasket legend.

  A fisherman on the Great Blasket Island, Muiris was renowned as far away as Dingle for the heavy catches he netted. When hauls were meagre for everyone else, Muiris’s nets were always guaranteed to be full. Some said it was because he had been born on the Feast Day of Saints Peter and Paul. Others said that it was the old seal that had followed his boat constantly since the night his father had drowned which brought him luck. Whatever the reason, islanders said it was lucky to run your hand along the bow of Muiris’s boat: that hand would be promised plenty. It was said that a Dingle woman who had no children ran her hands along the boat and, nine months later, she was cradling a son in her arms. Muiris himself knew the secret of his laden nets, but he also knew that to speak about that secret would break the spell forever.

  Muiris had been a rival, along with his friend Tomás, for the affections of a young island girl called Úna. Eighteen years old, with long auburn hair to her waist, she had sparkling eyes of liquid sea blue. Muiris and Tomás approached her father, seeking her hand in marriage, within days of each other. Úna, who had strong views of her own, favoured Muiris. The wedding took place in Ballyferriter and then Úna moved into the neat little house of Muiris and his widowed mother on the Great Blasket Island. The couple were as happy as larks and the two women got on famously.

  Tomás, on the other hand, was anything but happy, and could not let go of his bitterness and jealousy, which festered like an infected sore. One calm evening, as the boats were gliding through the sea back home to the island, Tomás had only a few mackerel to show for his full day’s fishing. In contrast, Muiris’s boat was low in the water, such was the weight of his catch. Tomás was consumed with resentment. He thought of Úna, and his knuckles clenched white on the oars.

  It was just as Tomás was approaching the head of An Fear Marbh that he caught sight of the old seal gliding back through the waves, having left Muiris at the Great Blasket Island. In an instant the young man took his revenge. As the old seal passed by, he brought down the oar on its head with all the anger and hate he could muster, cracking open the creature’s skull. It rolled over in the water, limp and dead. Tomás towed the seal back to the island where he stowed it out of sight, below the slipway.

  It was late and dark when he returned to the hiding place and hauled the shiny black body back to his cottage. He rolled it into the turf shed and covered it with sods. He would make use of every ounce of meat, blubber and skin. In cold and frosty weather, it would hold well.

  The next day the boats went out again. Muiris waited in vain for the sleek black head to bob up beside him. He fished all day and, for the first time in ten years, came home with an empty boat. The village was wild with talk. ‘The seal has deserted Muiris and so has his luck.’

  ‘Nothing will go right for him now, Lord bless the lad!’

  Muiris felt as bereft as when his father had died all those years before. He went out in the boat the next day and the one after that, waiting, watching and scanning the tide desperately for the seal. On the third day, the weather broke and the wind scuffed white peaks across the water. The other men worked at hauling turf and mending nets, instead of putting out to sea. But Muiris had other plans. Too late, Úna discovered those plans: Muiris was already pushing the boat out into the waves. She pleaded with him not to go. He ignored her and shouted that he had to find the seal.

  All day Úna stood on the cliffs above the seal cove, waiting for Muiris to return. She stared at the waves crashing against the rocky head of An Fear Marbh, praying to the Virgin to send him home safely. When darkness fell, her mother-in-law continued the vigil with her. She understood the pain of waiting. For ten years she had watched for her own husband to return from the sea and now she would have to watch for her son. The two women never moved until dawn, when neighbours came to take them home. The search of the shoreline began because it was still too rough for a boat to risk venturing out. All day the islanders watched, waited and searched. There was no trace of Muiris or his boat.

  As darkness fell, a storm raged over the island. The waves dashed themselves against the rocks, shattering into plumes of spray. Doors and windows were shuttered against the wind and the driving rain. The whole village lay awake listening to the voices of a hundred seals wailing and crying in the darkness. Their howling reverberated throughout the village: nothing like it has been heard on the island before or since.

  In his cottage Tomás and his two sisters, Máire and Cáit, sat up beside the fire for comfort. The wind blew smoke back down the chimney until it eventually put out the fire. The wailing of the seals was relentless. Tomás was uneasy. Beads of sweat shone on his upper lip. He began pacing incessantly between the window and the hearth.

  ‘For the love of God, Tomás, will you sit down and stop yer fidgeting!’

  ‘Can’t ye hear that?’ he snapped.

  ‘’Tis only the seals. Sure they’re
unsettled by the storm too.’

  Tomás was not consoled. He was terrified. The wails sent shivers of fear through him. He grabbed the chamberpot, sprinkling stale urine at the window, the door and the hearth and then in the corners of the house, for protection.

  ‘Can’t ye hear them getting closer?’ The sisters continued to try to soothe him, but his growing panic was making them uneasy too. He was right. It did sound as if the wailing was getting nearer. Soon, a long, deep-throated wail rose from just outside the house. Tomás squatted at the hearth, his head in his hands, his body convulsed in terror. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, protect me.’

  ‘Tomás, what is it? What have you done?’ cried Cáit.

  ‘I killed the seal, I killed Muiris’s seal and hid it in the turf.’ The sisters now looked mortally afraid. Another wail rose from just outside, followed quickly by knocking on the door of the house. Tomás jumped in fright.

  ‘You’ve got to open it, Tomás,’ urged Máire. He shook his head, weeping.

  Máire lifted the latch and opened the door. As she did, the lamplight reflected off the glistening coats of six female seals. From their huge black eyes rivers of brine spilled down their faces. They stared past the sisters, holding Tomás in their gaze, all the while forming a path in the darkness to the turf shed. Tomás was compelled to follow them.

  The islanders who witnessed what followed said it was the strangest sight that ever was seen on the island. A funeral procession of six wailing seals lumbering down Bóthar na Marbh, followed by Tómas dragging a dead seal. The seals made slow progress through the village, their desolate cries wrenching the hearts of all who heard them. Tomás followed them right down onto the White Strand, where the sand was a writhing mass of seals. As the procession of six seals advanced, the herd parted before them, then regrouped, absorbing them into its midst. The keening of the seals lasted right through the night, until it seemed that the very heart of the island was engulfed in grief.

  Just before dawn, the lament suddenly stopped: the ensuing eerie silence was as chilling as the wailing. As the whiteness of dawn seeped over the horizon, the islanders lined the clifftop ready to resume the search for Muiris. Layers of darkness evaporated, exposing an extraordinary sight below them: over two hundred black, grey and dappled seals formed a great circular mass on the beach, all straining towards the centre of the herd.

  Gradually, the approaching weak rays of sunlight moved over the sand and the seals. As if on cue, six older cows turned away and glided into the incoming tide. Breaking ranks, the others followed, rippling into the waves, silently.

  A huge circular area of dark, churned sand remained. In the centre lay two motionless shapes. The islanders too stayed immobile for a time until one individual took the lead and began to edge his way down the cliff. Suddenly, everyone began to slide and scamper down the cliff and run across the beach. On the wet sand lay two human corpses: the drowned remains of young Muiris and, beside him, the drowned remains of his father Seán, his skull cracked open from a blow to the head.

  Úna and her mother-in-law had the corpses of their husbands carried up to their house, where they were laid out on the kitchen table on a white cloth, as was the old custom. Above the corpses, the corners of a white sheet were tied to the rafters, forming a canopy, and on each of the corners of the table burned a candle. The two widows sat up keening the corpses for two nights. As the island waked Muiris, dead for three days and Seán, dead for ten years, six seals patrolled offshore day and night. Only after the bodies of the men were taken out to the mainland for burial did the seals finally disappear.

  Tomás was never seen again after the funerals of Muiris and Seán. Some said he went to America; some said he went to Dingle; others said that only the seals knew his fate.

  The Normandy Landing

  Sue was busy baking. Two trays of hot, golden scones cooled on a wire tray. My mouth had begun watering within twenty yards of her door, as I smelled them on the way back from my morning swim.

  ‘Well, make the tea and put one of them out of their misery,’ Sue said as she looked up from the mixing bowl. I put the kettle on the stove and told her that there was no sign of the men and that the boat was gone.

  ‘It’s gone about four hours at this stage. The lads were knocking at the door looking for a cup of tea at six o’clock this morning.’

  I felt quite lonely. I would miss their company, their stories and their old sheepdog. ‘The ferries are back on today,’ Sue continued. ‘The forecast is good for the week. Unless Seán is bringing in fresh baking from Dingle, the hordes will all be descending on me for a cup of tea.’

  Feeling aggrieved at the unexpected departure of the men, the significance of what Sue was talking about was lost on me. Today had begun like every other day, with a freezing swim on the White Strand, watched by the Beverley Sisters, followed by a walk along the strand. The only difference between today and previous days was the weather, an azure blue sea with a gleaming jade Beiginis, the air still and warm. Already, the stone wall around Sue’s little courtyard was heating up from the sun’s rays. I sat there, enjoying my tea and hot scone as Sue got on with her preparations. Once the baking was finished, she lifted her spinning wheel onto the low wall and hung a large, wooden shop sign on two rusty nails on the gable wall. Sugar and milk were placed on an upturned box in the centre of the courtyard and the Weaver’s Shop and Cafe was open for business.

  I strolled back up to my hut and resumed my daily routine. I shook out my sleeping bag, swept the sand and remains of Mr Robin’s breakfast out the door, got water from the well, put the porridge on the stove. I gathered up the carrot and potato peelings from the previous evening and shared them out at the entrances to the busiest rabbit holes.

  Once the porridge was ready, I settled myself onto my sheepskin fleece on the chair in the sunshine. Sue had given me a cup of sugar. I marvelled as it melted over the porridge, forming a sweet clear liquid between the porridge and the inside of the bowl. So entranced was I by the sheer luxury of this morning’s breakfast that I didn’t see the ferries setting off from Dún Chaoin.

  The red ferry was almost in to the island. The blue followed. Both were laden with tourists and towed dinghies. Cameras and binoculars were trained up into the ruined village. Suddenly I felt self-conscious and retreated inside to eat my food. From the tiny window I could see the first heads appearing over the top of the cliff. A blaze of coloured shorts and Day-Glo jackets scattered between the ruins. Many struggled up the hill at a snail’s pace, stopping to rest on walls or just to straighten up. Seán and Laura stood out from the tourists. They bolted across the low path like two goats, despite the weight of their supplies for the hostel.

  Sitting outside Ray Stagle’s cowshed in the sunshine.

  Dinghy-load after dinghy-load of day-trippers landed and came over the top of the cliff. They began their exploration of the village. They fanned out and combed every stone and ruin searching for the ideal photograph or memento. As they advanced, another group followed. There were probably fifty in the first wave.

  I expected someone to shout suddenly ‘I’ve found it,’ and all would run to see, or perhaps ‘I’ve found her,’ and I would be discovered.

  I could hear voices approach along the path. They sounded young and they sounded Spanish. A group of about fifteen teenagers ambled along the path below the hut. A mobile phone rang and the boy who answered began arguing loudly. As they passed up the hill outside my hut, I could see their legs. I willed them to keep moving. Suddenly, two boys ran up the bank to my door. One boy stepped inside as the other put his head in under the lintel. They looked around and shouted down to their friends in Spanish, presumably reporting their discovery and then they ducked back out again. They never said a word to me, never acknowledged my presence. More legs stopped and more heads bent down to have a look in. My heart began to pound.

  Two huge American women flopped down on the bank beside the well. ‘Look, Gloria, there’s water in the tap. You think
it’s safe to drink it?’ Even from a distance, her voice was loud and grating.

  ‘Don’t, honey. That water is coming straight out of the ground. It ain’t even purified.’ They opted for a can of Coke out of their backpack instead. I wondered how the islanders had survived for thousands of years on pure spring water, deprived of fluoride and chlorine. As Gloria and her friend broadcast to the island details of their latest detox programme, a young boy pressed his face to my tiny window. ‘Look, Dad, there’s a woman in here.’ He continued to stare at me until ‘Dad’ came to confirm his find. I pretended not to notice them and continued to stare at my book.

  ‘Is this a museum?’ The man was in my house before I could stop him. He picked up one of my drawings.

  ‘No, this is private. Sorry.’ I grabbed my drawing from him and he looked at me, annoyed.

  ‘Well, you should have “private” on the door then.’

  When he left, I closed the door and pulled the bolt across. Between the door and the lintel there was at least a one-inch gap of daylight. For every ten tourists who passed, one would present a huge eye to the chink and rattle the door. I was sure someone would push it in. I felt under siege, claustrophobic. Suddenly, there was a bright flash as a camera whirred against the glass of the tiny window. A wave of nausea surged through me from the pit of my stomach. I pushed two corners of the dishcloth between the stones above the window and let the cloth fall like a curtain. I grabbed the old blanket and put it in its windbreak position across the door.