[ɪ] [ai] [æ] [ei] [ʌ/ʊ] [e/eə:] [i:] [ɒ] [əʊ] [ɑː] [uː] [ɜː] [au]
I was parked on a high road, listening
to peewits and wind blowing round the car
when something came to life in the driving mirror,
someone
walking fast
in an overcoat
and boots, bareheaded,
big,
determined
in his sure haste along the crown of the road
so
that I felt
myself
the challenged
one.
The car door slammed.
I was suddenly out
face
to
face
with an
aggravated
man
raving
on
about
nights spent
listening
for
gun
butts
to come
cracking
on the door,
yeomen
on the rampage,
and his neighbour
among
them, hammering
home
the shape
of things.
'Round
about
here you overtook
the women,'
I said, as the thing came clear. 'Your Lough Derg Pilgrim
haunts me
every time
I
cross
this mountain
-
as
if
I
am being followed,
or following.
I'm on my road there now to do the station.'
'O
holy
Jesus Christ,
does nothing
change?'
His head jerked
sharply
side
to side
and up
like a diver
surfacing,
then
with
a look
that said,
who
is
this
cub
anyhow,
he
took
cognizance
again
of where he was: the road, the mountain top,
and the
air,
softened
by a shower
of rain,
worked
on
his anger
visibly
until:
'It is a road you travel on your own.
I who learned to read in the reek of flax
and smelled
hanged
bodies
rotting
on
their gibbets
and saw their looped slime
gleaming
from
the sacks
-
hard-mouthed
Ribbonmen
and Orange
bigots
made me
into the old
fork-tongued
turncoat
who
mucked
the byre
of
their politics.
If times were hard, I could be hard too.
I
made
the traitor
in
me sink
the
knife.
And maybe
there's
a lesson
there
for you,
whoever you are, wherever you come out of,
for though
there's something natural
in your smile
there's something
in it strikes
me
as defensive.'
'I
have
no
mettle
for the angry
role,'
I
said.
'I
come from County
Derry,
born
in earshot
of an Hibernian
hall
where
a band of Ribbonmen
played
hymns
to Mary.
By then
the brotherhood
was a
frail
procession
staggering
home
drunk
on Patrick's
Day
in collarettes and sashes fringed with green.
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Obedient
strains
like
theirs
tuned me
first
and not
that harp
of unforgiving
iron
the Fenians strung. A lot of what you wrote
I
heard and did:
this
Lough Derg station,
flax-pullings,
dances,
summer
crossroads
chat
and
the shaky
local voice of education.
All that.
And
always,
Orange
drums.
And neighbours on the roads at night with guns.'
'I know, I know, I know, I know,' he said,
'but
you have to try
to
make
sense
of what comes.
Remember
everything
and keep your head.'
'The
alders
in the hedge,'
I said,
'mushrooms,
dark-clumped
grass
where
cows
or horses dunged,
the cluck
when pith-lined
chestnut
shells
split
open
in your hand, the melt of shells corrupting,
old jampots in a drain clogged up with mud -'
But now Carleton was interrupting:
'All
this
is
like
a trout
kept
in
a spring
or maggots
sown in wounds -
another
life
that cleans
our element.
We
are earthworms
of the earth,
and all that
has
gone
through us is
what will
be our trace.'
He turned
on
his heel
when he was saying
this
and headed up the road at the same hard pace.