The Troubles (5 page)

CHAPTER 9: Is e ’n T-ionnsachadh go an T-ionnsachadh boidheach. (The learning in youth is the pretty learning)

     Kiera Flanagan…Ena has now a look of a giddy girl in rapture as she listens enthralled as I finish my explanation of the boy that has been staking moments of fantasy into me.  “I swear it, Ena.  That look in his eyes was not one of anger nor one of fear but he appeared to be confused and pleading for me to explain how he came to be in that place at that time as though he was just a supporting character to the scene playing out around us.’’

     Ena’s eyes glimmer with a risqué understanding of sorts but she still has to playfully have a go at me. “Right Kiera, he was how far away from ya?”

     “Well ‘bout twenty yards, I ‘spose.” Now she is really taking me for a piss.

     “And he spoke to ya?’’

     “No, but God, he must have felt it too, like there was tight elastic bands binding us, which to this day I haven’t felt them break, though I haven’t a clue who or where he might be.’'

     She takes my hand and gracefully motions for me to sit beside her on the wet peat grass that line the western slope of the river Lagan. She now has an intense deliberate tone to her voice and I listen to my best mate openly as she toys with a camera. As of late, she has been photographing the underground happenings of the city, her explanation being simply that someday the world will want to know what has transpired in Ireland, even if we are the scorn of many and cast aside by all. Her camera has caught her distinct personal perspective of her surroundings and I am proud of her documentation.

     “Cha robh dithis riamh a ‘ fadadh twine mach do las eatarra.’’

     My edification in Irish Gaelic happened but a few years earlier when I stayed until late in the evening in secondary school and informally studied with the newly transferred history teacher, Mr. Lanary Sloan, though my tongue is not as fluent as Ena’s grasp of the dialect.

     “What’s that mean Ena?” I ask impatiently.

    “Two never kindled a fire but it lit between ‘em,” she says with a dramatic flourish, bringing her cold fingertips up to cup my chin. We allow comfortable silence to percolate between us as we both walk towards the Belfast Lough, which is Belfast’s direct inlet to the Irish Sea. We have explored, played, contemplated our existence, tragically and gaily and even courted young men along every path of the 53.5 miles of ‘Abhainn an Lagain. Today the relaxed company of my best friend is such a comfort to me that I lose my thoughts in my mind’s loud narration. 

      I had been perhaps, nine or ten, and my body had felt weightless with vibrant energy, my tiny limbs forged like a fledgling fawn. Ena, at the time, was bigger than I, and we had not a one-sided power dynamic within our insurable bond but one of natural equality. I had been looking for a fish to catch in the blue-green murky depths of our river, even though mother had been too kind to explain to us that morning that fish had all but became extinct as a result of overfishing. I remember gathering our pristine black and white uniforms onto our upper thighs and putting our white socks and black boots into a neat pile onto the fresh smelling grassy sloped bank. I had begun walking gingerly through the tangled marshes finding smooth rocks as their spiny counterparts bit sharply into my feet. I stared with all my might into the five-foot deep abyss of the bottomless depths in front of me while Ena had absently splashed the cool water behind me, sprays of frigid droplets pummeling my white cotton shirt causing the material to stick against my back ribs.

     At the time, I was given a frayed book of Celtic lore from my history teacher, Lanary Sloan, in which a legend had caught my eye over the other fables in the book. The tale had been written about an important salmon of knowledge and even though I was revolted by the idea of eating raw fish, intrigue propelled me to discover if I caught and consumed fintan mac bochra, the bloody salmon, would I really continue to live as an immortal? As the story unfolded in my naive mind, I had excitedly learned I could take on the fish’s preternatural wisdom and the ability to solve all adult quarrels. According to the pagan legend an ordinary salmon had eaten nine hazelnuts, which fell into (Tobar Segais) the well of wisdom from nine hazel trees that surrounded the well and with his consumption, the salmon had gained all the world’s knowledge. The legend decrees that the first person to eat of the salmon’s flesh would in turn gain this knowledge.

    A poet, Finn Eces, spent seven long years fishing for the salmon and finally one day she caught the Fintan fish, giving the fish to Fionn, a servant and son of Cumhall, though with strict instructions not to eat it. Fionn cooked the salmon for his master, turning it over and over, but when Fionn touched the fish with his thumb to see if it was cooked, he burnt his finger on a drop of hot cooking fish fat. Fionn sucked on his burned finger to ease the pain. Little did Fionn know that all Fintin’s wisdom had been concentrated into that one drop of fish fat? When he brought the cooked meal to Finn Eces, his master saw that the boy’s eyes shone with a previously unseen wisdom. Finn Eces angrily interrogated Fionn if he had eaten any of the salmon. Answering no, the boy explained what had happened. Finn Eces realized that Fionn had received the wisdom of the salmon and in a generous gesture gave him the rest of the fish to eat, knowing that the deed was done. Fionn ate the salmon and in so doing gained all the world’s light. Throughout the rest of his life, Fionn would draw upon this enlightenment merely by biting his thumb. The deep knowledge and wisdom gained from Fintan, the Salmon of Knowledge, allowed Fionn to become the leader of the Fianna, the famed heroes of Irish myth.

     Ena had given a childish, gargantuan yelp of glee as her hands darted between my legs. “I’ve got it, there’s a fish right under that rock!” In my excitement, I had lost my precarious footing and falling back my arms wailing like a windmill, had landed right on Ena, who fell forward into the river.  In nothing flat, I was on top of the hapless girl, smothering her with my dead weight increased by the sodden spun yarn of my uniform. Without anything to grab onto, we were both frantically clawing the rough boulders of the shore with little avail as they were displaced in an unequal fashion with huge plots of deep water next to elevated stones. As my friend struggled, she pulled me further down into the icy, dark water and because I was the smaller of the two, this quickly transformed our silly dalliance into something lethally dangerous. It was fortunate that I managed to gain my footing and with adrenaline encompassing all my miniscule atoms, I had twisted 180 degrees to assess how I would pull Ena out. Taking in a gaping breath of cool air deep into my smarting abdomen, I had plunged myself forward and down in her direction and in what seemed like the longest moment felt her frigid fingers grasping mine. Her pretty face was stony as she emerged with an expression of serious duress, no longer healthily tanned, but blanched and bloodless. There was a waxen terror stuck in her eyes, yet her lips chattered and her fingers held a fearsome strength as I continued to still grip her. ‘’Jesus Christ,” the child croaked out her very first curse as we both began to hysterically sob drenched in the middle of the River Lagan. Now years later, I amusingly surmise that our hunt for the salmon of knowledge produced the opposite effect than that of acquiring wisdom.

     We both did not disclose our harrowing near drowning to not one of our classmates nor our parents as it was yet another secret; this one the pillar of the abject foolishness of our youth.

CHAPTER 10: Ge mills am fion, tha e searbh ri dhiol. (The wine is sweet. The paying bitter)

     Alastar Taggart...Rain is pelting my cheeks, cooling me to a numb, immobilized state as we wait in an underpass just a few hundred feet from the train station. The familiar aroma of earth, young grass and moist dankness is a stark contrast with the town’s foul vapor, the result of farming and recent lazy irrigation. Rain for me has a restorative nature and I usually embrace God’s baptism with reverence, as we are an island of continual cycles in the shadow of grey constellations. To not see the vitality of the perpetual evolutionary momentum is to be blind.

     We are now rudderless and exposed in this town, Newry, at the entry to the Gap of the North, which is almost on the border of the Republic of Ireland. The irony is that Lanary and I have journeyed only forty-five kilometers, with only one hundred and ten left, before having this unwanted detour. I had expected that this evening we would have been in East Dublin at Lanary’s nephew’s small flat.

     A child’s voice pitches through the pounding rhythm of the downpour. His accent thick and sweet from the isolation of country life. “Ca as duit?” he asks of us. Before I am able to respond and tell the small rain soaked boy we are from Belfast, he pelts us with another query. “Cen t-ainm at a ort?’’

     “Well lad, ya are a little forward aren’t ya.’’ Lanary directs that penetrating schoolteacher’s gaze designed to intimidate, to the young boy, who along with some meager groceries is walking his ancient looking, ill-fitting bicycle, a couple sizes too big.

     “Me name is Alastar and this old bloke behind me is Lanary,” I tell the keen, wet behind the ears, child. I kneel down slightly, allowing my intimidating height to diminish as not to appear a threat. ‘’What’s yer name laddy?’’

     “Mise is ainm dom Finn!” The lad appears to not have any outward hesitations regarding strangers and he grins a sweet, charming, tooth full smile as now we have exchanged formalities. ‘’Well faite Mr. Alastar and Mr. Lanary! Dia dhuit ar maiden!’’

     “Morning greetings to ya as well, Finn. Might ya have knowledge of the whereabouts of a pub?”

     Lanary has quite an affinity for all the polite vices as he likes tobacco and fancies a good whiskey when he needs time to ponder his next move. Finn’s grin now has a quality to it that appears as though we are amusing to him and shockingly in practiced English he begins directing us to the Railway Bar, a mere block away, at 79-81 Monaghan Street. We march our trio quickly through the drench of the lingering downpour to the sign that tells us our eager guide was stating the truth and with his task completed, the boy chirps pleasantly, “Go dte tu alan.’’

     “Safe to home now, Finn.’’ I turn toward him and wave my pale pruned hand gratefully as he nimbly jumps on the rickety bicycle and with little abandon; he splashes directly through tub-sized puddles as he disappears from the horizon in a joyous montage. 

     Lanary pushes the heavy doors of the pub wide and they buck and groan with an unoiled screech. As our ragged twosome enters the stale dank air of the Railway Bar, I immediately wish to turn around to the freshly cleaned cobblestones outside. The pub is not unique in its décor (or for what decor is usually lacking in such establishments) as the few chest height windows, which brace the front of the small sixteen by twenty foot room, are discolored with erroneous permanent stains. There are two rectangular tables placed in front of these windows and immediately to our left six barstools, most of which are missing a peg, though the patrons seem to have become accustomed to their wobbly seats. Behind them the back bar shelves display cracked glasses and tarnished amber bottles of Bushmill’s whiskey, the lighter Jameson whiskey and Lockes Blend for the hardened type and in the center, proudly standing like a flag pole is the one tap, I imagine, of a local Guinness lager. Even though the hour is not past noon there is a scattering of patrons surprising male and female all seemingly in different stages of impairment.             

     The only distinct item that truly catches my eye is Ireland’s coat of arms, which is emblazoned on a cobalt blue cloth (which is referred to as St. Patrick’s blue, a name derived to the many shades of blue on our isle). Directly in the emblems center sits a gold harp with the silver strings bright and gleaming, seeming as if to draw and contain all the meager light in the clouded room. The passion I feel for our land’s history, cultivated by my travelling companion, Lanary’s strict tutelage, awakened in that moment and I felt inspired to give reverence to all that our small but mighty nation has fought for beginning in 1922, when we were recognized as a free state to the present time. Even as it might feel, as though we are still in a hostile campaign for our freedom and rights, which as demonstrated, can only be determined separate, from the corruption of British rule.

      Lanary and I sit down at a dimly lit table and with impressive service he receives a mighty shot of his beloved whiskey while I take my rucksack and stealthily as to avoid detection, begin to eat the ham and cracked wheat sandwich I had packed in the wee hours in preparation for our long rail journey. I am not an independently prosperous man and very quickly, am feeling anxious about missing more workdays and now the unexpected extension of our journey fills me with an alarming dread that I have not brought more than ten Irish Pounds which will clearly not suffice, as we have come across a delay. As Lanary continues to fill his gullet with hard liquor repetitively, I begin to doubt he will have enough money to compensate for my lacking. His face begins to contort and perspire like a piqued lush from his amber elixir and I make deliberate contact with his deep set, glossed eyes. “Did ya bring your lunch box?’’ I ask in a hushed tone.

     “Nay. I’ll be right from this fine poison.’’

     “Ya sure ‘bout that?” I dubiously question my clerical mentor.                “Well now, how should then we get to Dublin?’’ I am intentionally avoiding the mention Cathal Goulding, as we both know that to miss our appointment would be an irritation to our new Marxist enforcer of the Sinn Feinn Workers Party of Dublin. For to antagonize Mr. Goulding is to create suspicion amongst the ranks and that is a state that should put the fear of God into Lanary and I (for my family).