The Great Fury

coincidence.

Chapter One

An Leanbh goidte, Kitty whispered to her sister Maureen.

She indicated to where Oengus, a young sixteen year old in jeans and sweater, stood below them whistling at the mountain.

Both in their early eighties, they were coming carefully down the boreen from the bog, leading their donkey laden with turf that had dried out in the good weather.

Oengus was standing off the boreen on a large granite boulder directing his sheepdog to work stray sheep by means of a series of whistles. It was concentrated work and he did not notice the two women until they were almost upon him.

Lá Brea leat, they both said, almost in unison, addressing Oengus with the Gaelic for ‘good day to you’. They did not use his name nor did they use the words they had whispered earlier, ‘an Leanbh goidte’ the stolen child.

Lá brea libh, Oengus replied, wishing them good day also.

The Irish language was still native to this area. The locals spoke in the soft fast Kerry dialect. And when, as they often did, they spoke English to strangers or in the town the underlying syntax of the Gaelic would come through in a quick paced melodic accented speech.

He might have attempted conversation but they would not meet his eye.

He smiled at them but they fussed with the donkey in passing so as to hide their determination not to look him in the eye. Not into those open emerald green eyes for they believed it would bring the bad luck. Sure hadn’t Oengus’s father had to turn to sheep farming when his cattle had all gone sour and died.

Oengus watched them go on their way. And they scurried on down the boreen towards their cottage in the lee of the mountain. They were thin wiry women dressed in black with tweed shawls off their shoulders.

Kitty and Maureen were famous locally and his near neighbors. He knew of them and had heard that they once had been lively at the dances at the crossroads. But that was so long ago it was almost legend. And in an area where most of the young emigrated they had stayed and never married. They eked out a living on the smallholding that had been left to them by their father now long deceased.

It was one of those rare days on Mount Eagle Mountain. The sky was blue and the wind was mild and there hadn’t been a hint of rain all week. Oengus could see the sheep in bunches up on the mountain and he resumed his task, whistling directions to Gaire, the sheep dog.

Gaire took off, wheeling the sheep and turning them down towards the hollow and the corral where his father and their neighbor O’Shea were dousing sheep.

He needed to change position and Oengus decided to get down off the boulder. He turned and stood with his back to the mountain and paused to admire the view.

Below him and stretching to the horizon, the sea was deep blue and out far from the peninsula he could see the Great Blasket Island where it stood like a grass green and granite grey jewel in the sea, on the west most edge of Europe, where the next stop across the broad Atlantic was America.

Oengus and Gaire, doing what they were doing on the mountain they were on, could have been in any century of the past millennium but down below like matchboxes in the distance, the tour coaches and cars of the twenty-first century made their way in traffic along the road that circled the Dingle Peninsula.

Cutting into the mountain tracks Oengus continued to direct the sheep dog and moved towards the location where his father was.

The mountainside had remnants of past settlements in dry stone walls beginning and ending at random, reminders of the pre famine days of the nineteenth century when small green fields were enclosed and fertilized with seaweed brought at great effort up from the beaches and cliffs so that potatoes could be grown.

Also scattered about but not plentiful, were standing stones and remnants of stone circles that dated back to before the Bronze Age. He was careful to avoid these, as they were associated with local beliefs about fairy folk and bad luck.

At five in the evening Oengus’s dad Patrick sent him back down the mountain. Patrick together with Tom O’Shea their immediate neighbor could handle the gathered sheep and finish the dousing. In this part of the world it was normal for neighbors to help one another with peak chores on the farms, from harvests to sheep dipping. These small communities of farmers had made their living this way over centuries.

Stay! Oengus said and Gaire stayed where he might be needed with Patrick and Tom.

Gaire watched Oengus depart.

Named Gaire for the Gaelic for ‘laugh’, Gaire was a small black and white sheep dog with a bright intelligent expression and litheness of movement. His willing nature and open mouth and red tongue made it seem as if he was always smiling. Although Patrick had trained him it was accepted that he worked best with Oengus.

Gaire whimpered when Oengus went out of sight but Patrick soon had him working the sheep. Gaire was a working dog that had to earn his keep.

Oengus paused on a ridge as he neared the dwellings. He admired with a farmer’s eye, three of the O’Shea fields above their house. The house was set into a bank and was just two fields away from Oengus’s home.

The O’Shea’s had brought in a contractor with big earth digger called a JCB and had had the fields deep ploughed using the power of the digger. He could see the caterpillar tracks and the breaks in the dry stonewalls where the digger had made its way into the fields. It had broken the crust of a century and the field had been cleared of shrub and heather and replanted with grass. The fields had been transformed and now were squares of emerald green grass just crying out for cattle to graze their luxurious growth. Oengus knew his dad would do the same if the O’Shea plan worked out but considered it early days yet.

As he stood a group of tourists came across the track. He wished them Lá Brea, and they said ‘good morning’ in a variety of languages and he recognized German and French.

They looked curiously at him seeing him as one of the local flora and fauna. One of the backpackers was an attractive teenage girl and Oengus wondered what she was like and what world she had come from.

Oengus carried on, thinking of the girl and the way she had stripped to a thin cotton top with all her weather gear draped over her backpack. He had seen the local weather in all its guises but today was exceptional. Today the weather was dressed in serenity and the view of the land and sea was wonderful in the warm scented air.

His mother had asked that he be sent down early. His uncle John was due in from America, coming over from Shannon airport. He was expected to arrive for tea and Oengus was wanted to be there. He wondered why. His parents or the neighbors never ever spoke of Uncle John. But nonetheless a letter had arrived that said he was coming and wanted to see Oengus.

Oengus approached the house from the rear lane. An older former dwelling, now used mainly for storage and as an outhouse, blocked his view of the house as he approached.

The family residence had been built some seventy years ago and adapted to incorporate electricity and indoor toilets.

The rear lane was covered in rounded stones exposed over centuries and was lined with briars and wild flowers on both sides. A stumpy wind shaped line of trees held the windward side of the older house and seemed ill at ease in the landscape.

He scattered chickens where they squawked and scratched in the cobblestone yard at the rear of the family residence. Oengus knew the hens well as it was one of his jobs to fetch in the new laid eggs before the fox got them.

He saw the car in the driveway as he came round to the front. It was a red fiat car with a Limerick registration, easily recognizable with its L for Limerick incorporated into the registration number. Oengus paused when he saw the car and surmised that it was probably a hire car out of Shannon airport. This meant that his Uncle John had arrived.

He did not hurry. He was not particularly keen to meet his long lost uncle, not remembering ever having met him before or hearing his name mentioned.

It was only when a registered letter had arrived a month ago had his uncle John became a subject of conversation. Then it was just to wonder what he wanted and how long would he stay. Oengus had moved down to the back parlour so that his room could be prepared for Uncle John.

And they’d had the front of the house newly whitewashed for the occasion. It looked fresh despite the signs of green moss around some of the iron windowpanes.

Oengus let himself in the narrow front porch that faced down the boreen to the main road. The door was unlocked and as he came in he could hear voices from the kitchen.

First he checked out the front parlour. The parlour was decorated in a chintzy style and usually the preserve of important visitors like the Parish Priest. Here they could be served in comfort out of the warm bustle of the everyday house. The room was empty.

To be invited into the kitchen was somehow more intimate. Oengus steeled himself and went in.

Uncle John was immediately recognizable as an American. Something about the clothes and the short cut hair and the broad muscular back on a fleshy body.

He was amusing himself teasing the days old chicks. Bridget, Oengus’s mother and John’s sister, would put eggs in a steel tray under the warm kitchen range where they would hatch. The tray was full of small yellow chicks piping away while John ran his finger around in the tray as if they were soft butter.

Oengus! his mother said in soft surprise. Come and meet your Uncle John. You know he’s a fireman with the New York Brigade.

John turned and his grey eyes appraised Oengus in the way of a man used to dealing with strangers. Then he shook Oengus’s hand and simultaneously clapped him on the back, face wreathed in smiles. Oengus, when I last saw you, you were just a baby. Look at you now; you’re a whole boy. What age?

Sixteen going on seventeen, Bridget interjected.

Oengus smiled, embarrassed, and met his mother’s eyes. She was regarding them with a smile of affection but perhaps a touch of anxiety?

Come, let you both sit at the table, she urged. I’ll set out the tea.

Oengus was surprised at Uncle John’s appearance. From the rear he had looked broad and powerful. But there was something gaunt about his face that made it seem older than his body.

The range against the back kitchen wall was not just an incubator for chickens. It was the permanently lit source of heat for the house with three different ovens and four hot plates. Invariably a kettle of water or a pot of tea would be on one of the hobs all the waking hours of the day.

As they sat into the table John asked, Oengus where is Patrick your father?

Up the high field dousing sheep with Tom O’Shea, Oengus replied.

Unusually the conversation was in English not Irish. Oengus assumed that his uncle’s forty years in New York has lost him his ease with his native tongue. Oengus was not bothered as most of the television, not to mention Facebook and the Internet was in English and he was relaxed and fluent although this was at times obscured by Oengus’s Kerry accent.

I saw Kitty and Maureen on the mountain, he said addressing his mother and trying to make relaxed conversation. Inside he was nervous and wondering about his uncle.

Bringing down the turf? Bridget said.

Do they still make that illegal whiskey, the poteen? John asked with a laugh.

Maybe smoke will come over from the Still tonight if they have fresh turf, Bridget added with a smile.

Good stuff? John asked.

The best you’ll find about. And they do a good local trade. They have to be careful and now the European Commission is talking about preserving the bogs they may not get turf. That said their whiskey has wonderful flavors with the tang of the turf and their fresh spring water. Patrick swears it’s the best he’s tasted, Bridget explained.

Will he be home soon? John asked.

They’ll go to Dunquin for a few pints of porter after the sheep and it’s not likely they’ll be home before midnight, Bridget explained.

And they’ll be out at six in the morning to finish with the sheep, Oengus added.

John gave a grunt.

What about the internet? John asked.

Ask Oengus, he’s the expert, Bridget said.

We have Wi-Fi but it comes and goes, Oengus said, and I have a computer in my room if you want to use it?

I have an iPhone with me. Can you give me the access codes? I just want to check my emails, John said, fishing the phone out of his pocket.

The code is written under the modem in the hall. It’s a lot of numbers, Oengus explained.

No worry, I’ll get it on my way to bed.

Nice phone, Oengus remarked.

Poor reception around here for mobile phones, Bridget said.

The Americans call them cell phones, Oengus said with a glance at his uncle.

You know your stuff boy, John said with a grin.

The internet is ok, Oengus added. You can access your mail online, Oengus offered.

I get Oengus to do it. Sometimes John, we Skype our sister Nuala in Australia, Bridget added.

She can never remember the passwords, Oengus said.

I’m the same. These days I just use my apartment number in New York. That I never forget, John said.

Apologies about Patrick not being around. It’s the good weather, Bridget said. They can’t be wasting it.

Truly said Bridget, John said agreeably.

He put his phone back in his pocket.

Bridget had the table set already and she took a salmon out of the oven. The potatoes were already boiled and drained and she put them in their pot along with the pots containing carrots and cabbage into the center of the table.

All fresh out of the garden, except the salmon which is fresh out of the sea, she said cheerfully and passed warm plates.

Did you catch it Mom? Oengus joked.

No silly, your uncle brought it along for our tea.

I couldn’t arrive with one arm as long as the other. I bought it fresh on the pier at Ventry, John said with a grin to Oengus.

They served themselves after Bridget cut the salmon. There was a silence as they settled in to the meal.

Oengus, what do you know of me? John asked.

Oengus chewed his mouthful and swallowed.

Nothing, he managed, trying to make it sound friendly.

Ha! John said, hitting the table with the flat of his fingers.

John you are not known for keeping in touch, Bridget defended.

I understand, John said softly and meeting Bridget’s worried glance.

It was John who brought you into this place, Bridget said, searching Oengus’s face for reaction as she spoke.

Oengus just stared open mouthed.

I came to tell you and to show you, John added.

I suppose it is time, Bridget conceded.

I’ll show him tomorrow. We’ll not discuss it tonight, John said.

The Blaskets? Bridget asked with an anxious frown.

We’ll go out on the boat tomorrow and I’ll not hear another word, John insisted.

Chapter Two

John had retired immediately after they finished their tea, taking a bottle of ‘Maureen’s Poteen,’ proffered by Bridget. To get me over the jet-lag, he’d explained. He’d stopped in the hall to get the codes for the Wi-Fi modem and then carried on up to bed.

John is the one to explain his visit, Oengus’s Mom had said as she cleared up, silencing the questions on the tip of Oengus’s tongue. He knew from her tone that she was upset and would say no more.

Oengus watched television until after the news at nine and then decided to get to bed in the back parlour. He was on a couch with a sleeping bag. But he had been up since six that morning and had spent a long day chasing the sheep on Mount Eagle. He felt wrecked and was asleep in moments.

John did not emerge until nine the following morning, just as Oengus came in to the kitchen from his chores around the yard. He carried in an enamel bucket almost full with chicken eggs.

Fresh eggs with your bacon for breakfast John? Bridget asked cheerfully.

Sure. Morning all, how are you Oengus? Ready for our little trip?

First breakfast, tea or instant coffee? Bridget said.

Instant, John said.

Tea, Oengus added. And just some eggs Mom.

Small talk got them through breakfast.

At this time of the year the ferry to the Blaskets starts from Dunquin every hour from eleven, Bridget informed them and she put a straw basket covered with a dishcloth on the table.

I’ve packed some sandwiches and a flask of boiled water and tea bags and instant coffee, she said.

I’ll go get my backpack off the wardrobe upstairs, Oengus offered, not wanting to be seen dead or alive carrying a packed lunch in a straw shopping basket.

Good, John said, I’d like to walk to Dunquin. I’ve had enough of planes and cars.

You better get moving so, for you’ll need an hour, Bridget advised.

We go over the shoulder on Mount Eagle. It can be a stiff walk in places, but its not long by car, Oengus added. He had been looking forward to a drive in the fancy red car.

I’ve walked it many the times, John said. And if it’s OK I’d like to walk it one more time. Just to feel my roots. I’ve been a long time gone.

Bridget gave him a sharp look. There was something in his tone, nostalgia or sadness or something else she couldn’t quite get.

If we go now we can take it easy and we’ll do it in an hour, Oengus reassured John.

They set off, turning up the boreen at the back of the farm and followed the line of a dyke uphill climbing steeply over grass and then rocky ground.

Behind them they had fine views over Ventry and Dingle harbor and as they continued westward they started to see the southerly outlines of the Blasket Islands followed by Great Blasket itself.

What was a normal walk for Oengus became difficult for John and he had to pause frequently and admire the scenery. Oengus realized he needed to slow his pace and that despite being a New York Fireman his uncle John was not as fit as he could be.

After cresting another ridge they entered a wide valley. They crossed a watercourse on stepping-stones and followed a path that undulated between stonewalled fields.

They followed the path through low gorse and it bent right around the rocky shoulder of Mount Eagle. This place was littered with small round stone buildings known as Clochans in various stages of collapse.

The English call these Clochans ‘beehive huts.’ They were made in pre-Christian times, Oengus explained.

I know well son. They are all over this area. But I will show you one on the Blaskets that is in a stone circle and I promise it will blow your mind, John said enigmatically.

Oengus remembered that John was a native of the area and did not need explanations. He smiled and led on.

From here on the pathway descended steeply down to the main road. The entrance road to Dunquin was steep and they came in off the main road and wound down to the crossroads and headed for the pier.

There was a cluster of people, mainly tourists waiting on the pier for the ferry to Great Blasket Island.

Oengus held back and let John order the tickets in his American accent.

O’Sullivan, the boat operator, noticed that Oengus was with the American but said nothing. He knew well that Oengus’s people had once lived on the Blaskets. But the island had been abandoned in the nineteen fifties. He wondered if Oengus’s people still owned land there. It was then the penny dropped; he’d got a fix on John.

The yank had to be Sean, John in English. The long lost elder brother of Bridget. Sean who had run off to America and got a job as a fireman. They’d called him the ‘Dunquin Devil,’ for Sean had been wild back in his day.

Do you have a time of the last return? O’Sullivan asked.

We’ll overnight, first ferry back in the morning, John said.

There’s no hotel on the Island, only a cafe.

The weather is good and we’re camping on the old family place, John countered.

Tusa Sean? O’Sullivan asked in Gaelic - ‘are you John?’

You haven’t changed O’Sullivan, John replied in English, adding, When did you start in the ferry business?

When the fishing went bad, O’Sullivan said, smiling and pleased he’d recognized an old comrade of his youth.

Great days, salmon fishing in a Curragh, John remarked.

Great days, O’Sullivan agreed and handed him the tickets. We sail in a minute, good luck with your trip.

As he ticketed the queue of tourists O’Sullivan was thinking, I’ll have a story for the pub tonight. The stolen child seen going back to the Blaskets with his uncle the ‘Devil of Dunquin.’

Of course they all knew about him as John. For he’d been in the papers, one of the heroes of nine eleven. His photo had been splashed in the Kerryman over the by-line ‘Local hero fireman saves lives in New York catastrophe.’

Nothing for about forty years and then he’d popped up famous. But quiet about it and O’Sullivan could respect John for that. They knew about Oengus too but no one talked of him for