“I know that I must tell you something else and you may not like it. Sometimes I perform for him while I’m not wearing any clothes. He looks at me with such feeling. And he knows that he mustn’t touch me—he’s not allowed to.” She all but muffled her words. “Are you very shocked?”
I remember this thought crossing my mind: This girl is also the voice of the jeering dummy Blarney.
We stayed as we were, silent and close, until the fire began to sink. She raised her head and said, “I must go.”
“Why—” I said. “Why did. Us. This. Why now, why did it happen, why did this happen, today?”
In certain circumstances incoherence has its own eloquence.
She looked at me. Every man in the world, every man, woman, and child deserves to be looked at like that. Just once would be enough; I still live off the fact that it happened to me.
I walked her back toward the cottage.
At the point just before we could be seen together she stopped and kissed me again.
“You’ll know what to do,” she said. “And I won’t let you down.”
The more I thought of that bizarre afternoon, the more I began to wonder whether it had truly occurred. And—not the least of my worries—had Venetia merely told me a version of events? I reeled back to the house, my mind refracting, diffusing. In the science room at school they showed us what happens when you put your finger down on a drop of mercury; it shoots off in a number of smaller but identical blobs.
Colors from that episode leaked across my life. Over the years that followed I interpreted it—or believed I did—in so many ways. In this, I was helped by James Clare, who viewed everything as a legend. When, a long time later, still seeking meanings, I narrated the events of that afternoon to him, this is the story he told me.
The King of Munster, Brian O’Brien, was out riding one day, on a hunt in County Waterford, and he lost track of his companions. He was such a good horseman that he had outridden them all. Although he waited on hillsides and he waited in glens and he waited on the banks of the rivers and lakes, they never caught up with him.
Night would soon fall, and he thought of heading for home, but he had by now ridden a great distance, and there was no moon and in the darkness the bandits of the countryside might not recognize that he was a king.
Besides, he liked to visit his subjects and he didn’t often visit that part of his kingdom; Waterford being a law-abiding county, it needed less attention than, say, wild Clare or rebel Cork.
Up ahead of him he saw a low, wide gate across an entrance. He could see no house but the gate had such a clear and strong appearance that he put his horse to jump over its five wooden bars, and then he galloped up the driveway.
Now the King had been recently widowed, and was still a very sad man. He had put behind him the traditional Irish mourning period of a year and a day, but he hadn’t yet the heart to begin looking for a new wife. He certainly understood that he needed to; a king requires a queen to help him run his kingdom and to provide leadership and example for the women.
And this was a young king, in his mid-thirties, though of course, nobody would ever dare to ask a king’s age; a king is deemed ageless until he departs for his next kingdom.
Most important of all, he had no heirs. And he had quarrelsome brothers. So this, as you can see, was a king who needed to marry again and marry a young woman. And marry her soon—for he was a warlike man and there was much fighting among the tribes of Munster in those days. We’re talking now about the year 995 or thereabouts, Anno Domini.
As he rode up along this strange avenue, he was struck by two facts: the length of it—and he knew full well that only well-to-do people could afford to live that far in from the road—and the lavish trees and shrubs, which confirmed for him that these were substantial people who lived here, whoever they were.
And indeed he arrived at a substantial house. Not a castle, more of a manor house, a tidy-size mansion—and this told him that they were also respectful subjects and hadn’t built a castle—only the King was allowed a castle. He rode up to the front door.
A hound came out to greet him, a tall, hairy hound with a smiling face. Behind the hound came a woman of great beauty. She stood in the doorway, looked up at the King on his horse, and then greeted him. He dismounted and bowed to her, and she invited him to come in.
The King entered the grand hallway of this fine house and asked her name. She told him that her name was Ishka, that she was named for the water in the river that flowed clear and sparkling, and for the water in the lake that sat still and clear, and for the water in the sea that rolled and tumbled, and for the water that fell from the skies to make the crops grow, and soothe and cool the faces of troubled people.
As the King was about to introduce himself, she held up a hand and asked him not to tell her who he was; she said that she’d like to try to find out.
Some servants appeared, and she ordered food and drink for the King, and a basin of water, and linen towels to wash and wipe his weary face and hands. When the servants had finished ministering to the King, they guided him to a large room with a stone fireplace so wide that half the trunk of an old oak could burn on the fire.
And indeed half the trunk of an old oak was burning in the fire, crackling and spitting and throwing up lovely colors and shadows that danced down the room.
Ishka sat there, on a great couch covered with the furs of beautiful animals, and the half-light of the fire made her seem even more beautiful.
The King, feeling much better now that he had washed his face and eaten good food, sat down where she indicated, on a great chair on the other side of the fire. He was about to speak when Ishka held a finger to her lips.
She told him that he’d passed two tests so far, and that she was about to find out who he was from his reaction to some remarks she would now make. He was not to speak, but to nod his head if he agreed, and shake his head from side to side if he did not.
The King, amused by the instruction, but still alive with questions—Who is this woman? Does she own this place?—waited, never taking his eyes off her. Her smiling dog sat by her feet, on which she wore gold sandals. Then she spoke.
First of all she said, “When the dawn breaks I look to the east and praise the sun for rising on yet another day. Do you agree that I am right to do so?” The King nodded his head.
Ishka then said, “When the wind comes up the river and raises little feathers on the water, I think it not a good time to seek fish. Do you agree that I am right to think so?”
The King again nodded his head.
Ishka said next, “When I tell a tale, I must seek to enchant my audience and put them under a spell in which they think they are living within the tale. Is that how you believe a tale must be told?”
And again the King nodded his head.
Ishka fell silent. Then she spoke once more.
“I think that you must be a king. And I think so because you entered my house without fear, you accepted the ministrations of my servants without surprise; those were the first two tests. Then I saw that you understand the magic of each new day that dawns, you know the life of hidden things such as the fish in the river, and you believe that few matters in life are as important as a well-told tale.”
“Madam,” said the King, “I am Brian O’Brien, King of all Munster, and I must know your name and your state in life.”
She said, “I know who you are. I sent for you.”
And she told him that she was the daughter of parents who had come from the spirit world, who had placed her on the earth, had lived with her in mortal life for long enough to be sure that she would meet and marry a man of noble birth. Her parents had but recently returned to the spirit world. She had remained behind, and when no man came to claim her she used her magic to send for one, and now he had arrived.
And that is how King Brian O’Brien found a wife, and she was the mother of the greatest king that Munster ever had, Brian Boru himself.
&n
bsp; Mr. de Valera won the election by persuading the country that the sitting government was too cozy with the English. By implication he almost gave the impression that if Mr. Cosgrave was elected one more time, he’d come close to inviting Britain back in. Nonsense, of course—“blarney,” if you will—but enough mud stuck.
As for the other Blarney—the dummy didn’t get elected, but he polled arrestingly well. Normally the crazies in an election will get maybe a few hundred votes; Blarney polled a few thousand—enough to give King Kelly the shakes for a day or two. With hindsight, the message in Blarney’s vote might have been saying that none of the other candidates was very much better than a wooden doll.
On the Monday, with most of the national results still being verified, I went back to Fermoy. That was February 22, three weeks now with my father still “at large,” as Mother put it, as though he were a criminal. When I collected her on the Sunday night after Venetia had gone, Mother looked rested, but when we were alone in the car she asked me immediately, “Any news?”
The phrase meant only one thing: “Have you found your father and is he coming home?”
That’s why I went back to Fermoy next day—as I told her, the show was booked there for a week. And I lied with that remark, a lie of omission; I was also going there to see Venetia. Almost as though standing outside myself, I wanted to see what would happen next.
To reach Fermoy, I had to slow down to a crawl for the last ten miles, because the car’s tank had sunk so low and I hadn’t refilled the spare jerrican. Filling up in those days had a haphazard nature to it; garages with pumps hadn’t yet proliferated—no need to, little demand.
Humiliated by my incompetence, and further humiliated by the fact that children along the way could keep up with me as they ran alongside, I finally reached the town and got filled up.
At the count, I met bleary-eyed people. They had by now come down to seventh and eighth preferences. In the proportional-representation system the count goes on until every seat is filled without any possibility of argument. Sometimes, the candidates will hit the quota early and everybody can go home. That year, in an election so charged, and in that constituency with a personality as large as King Kelly, and an even larger one in Blarney, nobody would take any chances.
Within about fifteen minutes of my arrival, the Kelly entourage appeared. He came in first, booming and waving his cane. Some hanger-on had clearly reached him to say that his moment of glory might be here. Behind him came Sarah, willowy, ethereal, very Sarah-like. Next came Venetia; she carried Blarney as though he were her baby, and everybody cheered.
To the hall now packed with people, the returning officer began to make the announcement. Again and again he had to ask for quiet so that he could be heard.
The candidates assembled beside him on the stage—King Kelly, who was the government nominee for the seat; Mr. de Valera’s candidate, who was a prosperous and handsome farmer; my man in the leprechaun hat, wearing a placard that read, under a huge arrow pointing to his head, THIS IS THE FELLOW TO LEAD YOU; then came two more—independent—candidates; and at the end of the line stood Venetia with Blarney.
Somebody nudged me; by my side stood my father.
“Isn’t-isn’t-isn’t this great?”—and he pointed to the man with the leprechaun hat.
We stood together as the returning officer did his work. Mr. de Valera’s candidate headed the poll, by a huge majority; behind him everybody floundered. The announcements are made in descending form, the highest number of votes first. After the Dev candidate came a man from one of the two independents, and he was elected to further loud cheers. One seat left now, and to whom would it go? It went to King Kelly; the shouts of the government faction drowned out the returning officer, who waited.
To my astonishment and everybody else’s, the next highest vote went to “Blarney Kelly.” A wooden dummy had come within a thousand or so votes of winning a seat in the Irish Parliament. Laughter rocked the place. Blarney had even beaten my leprechaun, who wasn’t elected that time around. Not only that—Blarney had come very close to defeating King Kelly.
Now came the speeches. Dev’s man spoke straightforwardly of “a new nation for a new people, a rising ambition for a risen people; the new force in Ireland will be the Soldiers of Destiny.”
King Kelly promised to take back the power at the next election—and then said, mysteriously, “And who knows? Maybe before then.”
My father, standing beside me, said, “Uh-oh.”
The third speaker promised intensive opposition on behalf of the Irish people, and committed a delicious gaffe when he said, “No turn will be unstoned.”
As he stepped back into the line of candidates, a call began to rise: “Blarney! Blarney! Blarney! Blarney!”
Nothing in Ireland should ever surprise one; anything can happen in this country and usually does. We can’t be satirized, because in any vein of behavior we’re always well ahead of the satirists.
Venetia walked forward—and so did my father—and so did I. Not even at that moment did I anticipate what was to happen in the weeks and months ahead. She hoisted Blarney and patted his head.
“Well done, Blarney. Congratulations.”
“On what?” he said, his voice like an angry hinge.
“You did very well,” said Venetia.
Blarney looked up at her. “You think so?”
“I do.”
“You think I did very well?”
“But you did. You came fourth.”
Blarney replied, “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Come forth, come forth, and Moses, he came fifth.’”
“Blarney, you were voted into fourth place.”
“Yeh. I was. Behind three rank fools. Why is that congratulations?”
I gasped. By now the other candidates looked uncomfortable, especially King Kelly, and the audience laughed more and more.
“Would you run as a candidate again, Blarney?”
“I will. I’ll run next year.”
“But, Blarney, there won’t be an election next year. It’ll be five years before there’s another election.”
“No,” said Blarney, in a flat contradiction. “The Long Fella won’t have a big enough majority, and he’ll call another election inside the year.”
“How do you know this, Blarney?”
“He told me.”
“Mr. de Valera told you?”
“Yes.”
“When did he tell you this, Blarney?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? Where last night?”
“He was down on his knees polishing my boots and he lifted his head and he looked straight up at me, the glasses winking in the light, and he says to me, ‘D’ya know what, Blarney? I’ll have to go again next year.’”
When my father stopped laughing, he nudged me and we went outside. Again, we had a lovely sunny day, and we strolled down the street to the bridge.
“We could go home now,” I said. “I filled the tank in the car.”
“Wasn’t that great?” he said. “Fourth place.”
“Mother isn’t doing well.”
“He was nearly elected. I wonder-wonder-wonder what would have happened.”
I said, taking a deep breath, “There’s the money.”
“Ben, you should go on home.”
I said, “What are you going to do about the money?”
“I don’t-don’t-don’t know yet.”
I said, “Will you come home with me? Even for the day?”
“I’m going to stay with this girl. Ben, she’s-she’s-she’s like a great dream that goes on and on. At my age, that’s like, that’s like Heaven.”
I said, “But the farm? And everything?”
“She’s, Ben, she’s a wonder altogether.”
I said, “My instructions from Mother are to follow you until you come home.”
“She tells me these wonderful things, she transports me.”
There are moments, aren’t there, when you t
hink that the person with whom you’re conversing has gone mad—or has been mad for some time and you simply haven’t observed it?
We’d both been leaning our elbows on the parapet. He stood up straight and looked into the distance like the captain of a ship or a mariner from a legend of the sea.
“I’m where I want to be. I’m where I want to stay.”
I said, “And what about—” I struggled and came out with “Miss Kelly?”
He didn’t answer, because he had seen something. Toward us came Venetia, still holding Blarney. All my father’s systems sprang to the moment; I’d seen him like this only when a horse won a race.
Venetia reached us, and I went on alert too. There we stood, on that bridge over the Blackwater, the best salmon river in the country, as the February sun looked down on us, a lemon in the sky.
My father shook Blarney’s hand and spoke to him.
“Congratulations. A fine showing, Blarney.”
Blarney looked at me and said, “Of course you know Miss Venetia Kelly—but say, ‘How-d’you do,’ to her anyway.”
I turned to Venetia and said, “How d’you do, Miss Kelly?”
Were we all mad? Were we crazy?
She said, “I’m very well, thank you. I’m so glad you came to see the votes counted.”
Blarney interrupted, “Blazes, girl! He came to see you. Are you blind in one eye and can’t see out the other?”
And we laughed—including my father, who chortled in delight.
Venetia said, “We all want to go back to Charleville. Including my grandfather. Somebody’s waiting there to drive him somewhere.” She turned to me. “Will you come, Ben?”
Venetia turned and walked away. My father followed her—and then stopped abruptly, turned back, and addressed me.
“To-to-to answer your question—Miss Kelly will do what I want. She’ll do what I say.”
My poor father.
How much I learned in that one year—in that one day! Some things were not good; some were wonderful—and one was a lesson for the rest of my life. I’ll address it first; the others, the good, the not-good, the wonderful—they will become apparent.