Donn Byrne Books
Tabita Knezevic
As he sat there in the withdrawing-room of Patrick Lynch's inn, all thelife, all the spirit of Galway was evident to him. He could sense thedeep shadows of the room, and the May sunshine coming into it throughthe open windows, yellow as yellow wine. And to his nostrils came thesalt Atlantic breeze, sweeping eastward from the islands of Aran.There scents on the wind he could pick out one by one, the odour of thetarred ships riding at anchor in Galway Bay, the smell of the dulse, orIrish seaweed, with its pungent iodine flavour, and there was thepathetic lonely virginal scent of the little flowers that grow in theclefts of sea rocks, and of the honey-like heather and the tang of thepeat-smoke from the cottages, nostalgic as an ancient song.
Outside there was bustle and movement. He could hear the ring of hislittle mare's hoof on the rain-washed cobble-stones, so impatient shewas to be on her way past the purple Connemara mountains to the Countyof Clare. Spring was coming in with the Atlantic breezes, and bird andbeast knew it, and man and woman, too. There came to him the sound ofthe voices without, an occasional tag of Spanish from some sailor ofBarcelona, a peasant's soft liquid Erse, the voluble English of thelandlord and his people as they supervised the packing of his boxes onthe led ponies. The nervousness as the harp in its great leather casewas being lashed into position.
"Let you look out, now, Shamus Hennessy, let you look out and youputting the harp o' my heart on the beast's meagre back, for 'tis howI'd rather have every rib in my body broken nor a string of greatRaftery's harp gone wrong."
All the unrest of spring was on him, and he was thinking long for themoment when Hilaria would enter the room and tell him all was ready,and then walking beside her, her hand holding his privately, he wouldgo down the stairs of Patrick Lynch's inn. She would lead him to thelittle mare's side and put the reins into his hands, and then, findingstirrup-iron himself, he would swing into the saddle as well as any manwho had two eyes. And Hilaria would mount her sleek Spanish mule, andthe Scots boy with the long legs and the hair cut like a Florentinepage's would take hold of the lead reins of the packhorses. A piper ofthe town, some old man with loud silver-keyed pipes, would play afarewell in his honour, and the soft Connaught people would wish himluck. "God send you happy days, blind Raftery, and great songs to singin them!"
And they would go then, Hilaria and he, on the long road that rambledsouthward to the seaport of Cork, over the heather-covered braes. Thesun would rise on their left hand, and the warmth of it would come onthem, soft as honey. Great drowsy Shannon would go with them part oftheir way, and listening one could hear the leap of the trout and theplunge of the otter, and the soft crooning of the river as its edgetouched some little beach of rounded stones. And the mountains ofConnemara on the right-hand side, one could feel their great goldenentities. And all the scents of the flowers would come to him; thehoneyed heather; the honest perfume of the humble flowers of the field,crimson-edged daisy and varnished buttercup; the modest violet with itsfragrance like a soft note of the harp; and the high fine scent of thebog-flower. And on nights the moon would be up and they would ride on,the river singing beside them and the wind stirring the grasses, untilone felt that accompanying them on the march were a host of the littlepeople of the hills, the minute Irish fairies and the shy, light-footedleprechawns, called up by the soft magic of the moon.
And they would come to an open beach on the sea-shore, where the greenAtlantic came in on golden chiming sands. And there he would go inswimming, his only athletic accomplishment now he was blind. He wouldpush off fearlessly into the great Atlantic, his powerful arms andshoulders sending him through the water like a salmon, keeping a courseby the wind on his cheek, and turning intuitively inshore when he knewhe was far enough out. And when he came to the shallows the Scotsgillie would plunge in to guide him over the beach. When he was in thewater his eyes were little lack to him. It was only on shore he had tobe guided.
And at nightfall they would come to a village where a great house was,Norman noble's or Irish chief's, and at either was a great welcome putbefore him. And great respect, for a phrase of Raftery's might go downto one's grandchildren, and bring them pride. Or they might turn intosome abbey of monks, and the father prior receive them with thehospitality of a viceroy, and when compline had been sung, Rafterywould recite for the white-robed brethren some great poem of his, like"By the Green Woods of Truagh," marking the rhythm on the harp-strings.And the prior, who had been reared in courtly places, and he woulddiscuss the great world until the small hours, while Hilaria slept. Orthey might stay at a farm-house for the night, and the quiet peasantrywould bring forward their children.
They parted, for now came the soft tread of Hilaria on the stairs. Thedoor opened, and the gentle lavender perfume of her came to Rafterywhere he sat. Her silken skirts rustled. She was like a flower cominginto the room, some slight velvet flower.
"O Raftery, there is an old piper of the hills without, and he isplaying 'Bundle and Go.' He is a very old man, and he says he has hishealth and his pipes, but there is only one trouble on him, that hewill never see great Raftery any more. Don't give him gold or silver,my heart."
He had chosen a lonely part of the quay because of the great pulling onhis heart, and he had no fancy to be talking to children or the idlersof the town. A queer figure he seemed there, so virile, so brooding,his great shoulders and bronzed face and hair riddled with grey,although as yet he had not come to forty years. His face was not likethe faces of most blind men, pathetically open, child-like, andresigned, but was bitten by furrows, harsh even. His hands weremuscular and beautiful. His eyes were shrouded by the lids like theeyes of a hawk. The only thing pathetic about him were his clothes,the neat brogues that were not properly cleaned, the knee-breeches withthe garters not properly fastened, the fine linen with the wine-splotchon the bosom, and the velvet coat from which some silver buttons weremissing, for from his face one could see how such little things wouldirk him. But Raftery's servant was an old soldier, and averse to workas old soldiers are, and a little inclined to be silently contemptuoustoward the blind poet.
"It is a song," he said, "woman of Spain, of how sick my whole heart isof this crapulous trading town, and of the great dignifiedconversations one can hold with high mountains, and of the coldness andthe cleanness of lake water, and of the melodies birds sing in thetwilight and at the breaking of the day."
"I know you are of Spain by your accent, and I know you are a smallwoman by the point from which your voice comes. By your voice, too, Iknow you are a lady. But who you are, whether or not you are comely,and what name is on you, I do not know."
"I am leaving it now, woman of Spain," he answered her. "I am leavingit now as soon as I can collect my few things and pay my reckoning, forall my songs are sung, and though the people are not tired of them, yetI am, and no new songs come in a market-place. By the sea-shore andthe mountains and the little mountain lakes the songs are, shy as shybirds."
She was close to him now. He had an impression she was standing justbelow him, her face turned up to him like a flower on its stalk. Hewas vibrating within like one of the strings of his own harp, like oneof the blue bass strings of his own harp.
"Our home is gone. The trading men of Dublin tricked it from ourpeople, and one of my brothers is a cornet with King Louis of Franceand the other is a monk in Portugal. And I am a blind singer of theConnaught hills. But who are you, woman of Spain, to ask me thesequestions?"
They trod their way through the people of the quays, the tall mountainypeople who took short quick steps, moving lightly as cats, the sailorsrolling as to a heaving deck, the townspeople with their long hurriedstride. The little brown donkeys pulled up for them, and the blackshaggy ponies of the hills, and the great rough horses the countrymenrode. Delicately they made their way to the door of the inn.
"Let you come in here, Patrick Raftery, my fine poet, let you come inhere. There is new sand on the floor here and a piper of AchillIsland, and a great new drink I have thought up for you, champagne wineof France, and brandy of France, and they mixed together."
In no country of the world has there been such mixture of races asIreland has seen. Out of Africa had come the black men of Par-Thelonand abode there until the sickness of the lungs had blotted them fromthe face of the green land. And the ancient Britons had come, KingArthur's peons, the short squat men who dug underground as in Wales andCornwall for tin and gold and coal. The Firbolgs, the men with thebags, we call them in our scant guerrilla history. After them followedthe people of Dana, whose origin and whose history and whose end no manknows. And for many centuries there hovered over Ireland sevensinister veils of magic, so that even great Csar would not attempt itsconquest. The hardy red Danes swept Ireland, so Dublin became a Danishcity, and all there is left of their invasion are the names of theplaces: Leixlip, and Wexford, and Waterford, and the story of the lostformula of the heather ale, and the heads of red golden hair the womenhave that put shame on the Venetian ladies, so rich, so wonderful thatcolour is.
And after them came the Normans, that race which nothing could kill,huge men on huge horses, with mace and battleaxe, and they abode there,becoming more Irish than the Irish, ipses, say historians, ipseshiberniis hiberniores. And against them came from the North ofScotland the raiding Highland clans, under Edward de Bruce, greatRobert's brother. Great claymores swung by their sides, in their deepleather belts were thrust short battleaxes, and there were short keenknives in stockings and under their armpits. The tune their pipesskirled was "Cogadh No Sith!"
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