I didn’t even pretend, Muraed, to hear the tight-arse. If I’d answered her at all I’d have said to her: “You stuck-up wench, I didn’t vote for you or for Peadar the Pub or for the Pound crowd, I voted against that So-an’-so, Nóra Sheáinín …”
He said I was a turncoat for having spoken to Nóra Sheáinín … trying to make up to her … after vilifying her ever since I came into the graveyard … Good God Almighty, Muraed! That I spoke to Nóra Sheáinín! … What’s that, Muraed? … He called me that. The Master! He must have meant Nóra Sheáinín, Muraed. Who else! …
He called me a So-an’-so, Muraed? A So-an’-so! I’ll explode. I’ll explode! I’ll explode …
Interlude Seven. THE MOULDING OF THE CLAY
1
I am the Trump of the Graveyard. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard …
Here in the graveyard is the parchment whose obscure words are the web of mankind’s dreams; whose faded ink is mankind’s defiant struggle; whose withered leaves are the ages of mankind’s vanity …
Above ground, land, sea and sky are a fresh, ornate manuscript. Every hedge is a majestic curve. Every boreen is a streamline of colour. Every field of corn is a golden letter. Every sunlit hilltop and winding land-locked bay with its white sails is a compound sentence of beauty. Each cloud is a glorious dot of lenition1 on the purple capital letters of peak-tops. The rainbow is an apostrophe between the wonderful hemisphere of the sky and the wonderful hemisphere of the earth. For this scribe’s task is to publish the gospel of beauty on the parchment of land, sea and sky …
But already the deciduous trees on the mountain summit are a gapped sentence. The cliff on the steep seashore is a dark full stop. Out there on the horizon the half-formed letter ends in a blot of ink …
The colour is drying on the brush and the scribe’s hand feels writer’s cramp …
The graveyard demands its due … I am the Trump of the Graveyard. Let my voice be heard! It must be heard …
2
— … Who are you? … Who are you, I say? … Are you deaf or what? Or dumb … Who are you? … The devil take your rotten soul, who are you? …
— I don’t know …
— By the testimony of the blenny!2 Red-haired Tom! Why are you making strange, Tom? I’m Caitríona Pháidín …
— Caitríona Pháidín. You’re Caitríona Pháidín. Now, then. Caitríona Pháidín. Caitríona Pháidín, then …
— Yes, Caitríona Pháidín. You don’t have to make the Tale of the Yellow Calf3 about it. How are they up there?
— How are they up there? Up there. Up there indeed …
— Why can’t you answer a person who speaks to you, Red-haired Tom? How are they up there?
— Some of them well. Some of them unwell …
— A fine bringer of news you are! Who’s well and who’s unwell?
— It’s a wise man could say, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say who’s well and who’s unwell. It’s a wise man, faith …
— Since you lived in the next village, don’t you know whether our Pádraig and his wife and Jack the Scológ are well or unwell? …
— Faith then, I was in the next village, Caitríona. In the next village, sure enough. Not a word of a lie but I was in the next village, indeed …
— Have a bit of gumption, I tell you. You don’t have to be shy here, any more than you were above ground. Who’s well and who’s unwell? …
— Little Cáit and Bid Shorcha are often ill. Faith then, they could even be bad enough …
— A fine story you have! I don’t remember a time they weren’t ill, except when there were corpses to be laid out or keened. It’s high time for them to be unwell at this stage. Are they at death’s door? … Do you hear? Are Bid Shorcha and Little Cáit at death’s door? …
— Some people say they’ll pull through. Others say they won’t. It’s a wise man could say …
— And Jack the Scológ? … Jack the Scológ, I said? How is he? … Have you got rheumatism in your tongue? …
— Jack the Scológ. Jack the Scológ, now. Yes indeed, Jack the Scológ. Some say he’s unwell. Some say he’s unwell, for certain. He could be. He could indeed … But many a thing is said that hasn’t a grain of truth in it. Many a thing, faith. He’s probably not unwell at all …
— Will you not quit your tomfoolery and tell me if Jack the Scológ is confined to bed …
— I don’t know, Caitríona. I don’t know, faith. Unless I tell you a lie …
—“Unless you tell me a lie!” As if it would be your first lie! How fares Nell? … How fares the pussface Nell?
— Nell. Yes indeed. Nell, Nell indeed. Nell and Jack the Scológ. Nell Pháidín …
— Yes, yes. Nell Pháidín. I asked you how she’s faring …
— Some say she’s unwell. Some say she’s unwell, for certain …
— But is she? Or is it more of her tricks? …
— Some say she is. They do, definitely. She could be, faith. She could be, without a doubt. But many a thing is said …
— Confound your toothless gob! You must have heard if Nell is able to go in and out of the house, or if she’s confined to bed …
— Confined to bed. She could be, faith. Faith then, she could be …
— Suffering Jesus! … Listen to me, Red-haired Tom. How is our Baba who’s in America?
— Your Baba who’s in America. Baba Pháidín. She’s in America, sure enough. Baba Pháidín is in America, so she is …
— But how is she?
— I don’t know. Faith then, I don’t, Caitríona …
— It’s the devil’s own business if you didn’t hear something about her. That she was unwell, maybe …
— Some say she’s unwell. They do, for sure. She could be …
— Who says it? …
— Faith, unless I tell you a lie, Caitríona, I don’t know. I don’t indeed. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with her …
— Who’ll get her money? … Who’ll get Baba’s money?
— Baba Pháidín’s money? …
— Yes, what else? Baba’s money … Who’ll get Baba’s money? …
— The devil do I know, Caitríona …
— Did she make a will? Did our Baba make a will yet? Aren’t you damned heedless! …
— Musha, I don’t know that, Caitríona. It’s a wise man could say …
— But what do the people of our village say about it, or the people of your own village? … Did they say Pádraig will get it? Or that Nell will get it?
— Some say Nell will get it. Some say Pádraig will get it. Many a thing is said without a grain of truth in it. Many a thing, indeed. I don’t know myself which of them will get it. It’s a wise man could say …
— You wordless toothless booby! Everybody so far made some sense, till you arrived! How fares Tomás Inside? … Tomás Inside. Do you hear me?
— I do, Caitríona. I hear that, for sure. Tomás Inside. Faith then, there is such a person, so there is, for sure. Not a word of a lie but Tomás Inside exists …
— Where is he now?
— In your village, Caitríona. Where else? In your village, definitely. I thought you knew well where he was, Caitríona. He was in your village all his life, I think, or am I right?
— Warbles on your stupid grin! What I asked you is where is he now? … Where’s Tomás Inside now?
— Devil do I know, unless I tell you a lie, where he is now, Caitríona. If I knew what time of day it was, but I don’t. I don’t, indeed. He could be …
— But before you died where was he?