I
Mrs. Donohoe marked the clearness of the sky, the number and brightness
of the stars.
"There will be a share of frost to-night, Denis," she said.
Denis Donohoe, her son, adjusted a primitive bolt on the stable door,
then sniffed at the air, his broad nostrils quivering sensitively as he
raised his head.
"There is ice in the wind," he said.
"Make a start with the turf to the market to-morrow," his mother
advised. "People in town will be wanting fires now."
Denis Donohoe walked over to the dim stack of brown turf piled at the
back of the stable. It was there since the early fall, the dry earth cut
from the bog, the turf that would make bright and pleasant fires in the
open grates of Connacht for the winter months. Away from it spread the
level bogland, a sweep of country that had, they said, in the infancy of
the earth been a great oak forest, across which in later times had roved
packs of hungry wolves, and which could at this day claim the most
primitive form of industry in Western Europe. Out into this bogland in
the summer had come from their cabins the peasantry, men and women,
Denis Donohoe among them; they had dug up slices of the spongy, wet sod,
cut it into pieces rather larger than bricks, licked it into shape by
stamping upon it with their bare feet, stacked it about in little rows
to dry in the sun, one sod leaning against the other, looking in the
moonlight like a great host of wee brown fairies grouped in couples for
a midnight dance on the carpet of purple heather. Now the time had come
to convert it into such money as it would fetch.
Denis Donohoe whistled merrily that night as he piled the donkey cart,
or "creel," with the sods of turf. Long before daybreak next morning he
was about, his movements quick like one who had great business on hands.
The kitchen of the cabin was illuminated by a rushlight, the rays of
which did not go much beyond a small deal table, scrubbed white, where
he sat at his breakfast, an unusually good repast, for he had tea,
home-made bread and a boiled egg. His mother moved about the dim
kitchen, waiting on him, her bare feet almost noiseless on the black
earthen floor. He ate heartily and silently, making the Sign of the
Cross when he had finished. His mother followed him out on the dark road
to bid him good luck, standing beside the creel of turf.
"There should be a brisk demand now that the winter is upon us," she
said hopefully. "God be with you."
"God and Mary be with you, mother," Denis Donohoe made answer as he took
the donkey by the head and led him along the dark road. The little
animal drew his burden very slowly, the cart creaking and rocking
noisily over the uneven road. Now and then Denis Donohoe spoke to him
encouragingly, softly, his gaze at the same time going to the east,
searching the blank sky for a hint of the dawn to come.
But they had gone rocking and swaying along the winding road for a long
time before the day dawned. Denis Donohoe marked the spread of the
light, the slow looming up of a range of hills, the sweep of brown
patches of bog, then grey and green fields, broken by the glimmer of
blue fakes, slopes of brown furze making for them a dull frame.
"Now that we have the blessed light we won't feel the journey at all,"
Denis Donohoe said to the donkey.
The ass drew the creel of turf more briskly, shook his winkers and
swished his tail. When they struck very sharp hills Denis Donohoe got to
the back of the cart, put his hands to the shafts, and, lowering his
head, helped to push up the load, the muscles springing taut at the back
of his thick limbs as he pressed hard against the bright frosty ground.
As they came down from the hills he already felt very hungry, his
fingers tenderly fondling the slices of oaten bread he had put away in
the pocket of his grey homespun coat. But he checked the impulse to eat,
the long jaw of his swarthy face set, his strong teeth tight together
awaiting the right hour to play their eager part. If he ate all the
oaten bread now--splendid, dry, hard stuff, made of oat meal and water,
baked on a gridiron--it would leave too long a fast afterwards. Denis
Donohoe had been brought up to practise caution in these matters, to
subject his stomach to a rigorous discipline, for life on the verge of a
bog is an exacting business. Instead of obeying the impulse to eat Denis
Donohoe blew warm breaths into his purple hands, beat his arms about his
body to deaden the bitter cold, whistled, took some steps of an odd
dance along the road, and went on talking to the donkey as if he were
making pleasant conversation to a companion. The only sign of life to be
seen on earth or air was a thin line of wild duck high up in the sky,
one group making wide circles over a vivid mountain lake.
Half way on his journey to the country town Denis Donohoe pulled up his
little establishment. It was outside a lonely cottage exactly like his
own home. There was the same brown thatch on the roof, a garland of
verdant wild creepers drooping from a spot at the gable, the same two
small windows without any sashes in the front wall, the same narrow
rutty pathway from the road, the same sort of yellow hen cackling
heatedly, her legs quivering as she clutched the drab half door, the
same scent of decayed cabbage leaves in the air. Denis Donohoe took a
sack of hay from the top of the creel of turf, and spread some of it on
the side of the road for the donkey. While he did so a woman who wore a
white cap, a grey bodice, a thick woollen red petticoat, under which her
bare lean legs showed, came to the door, waving the yellow hen off her
perch.
"Good day to you, Mrs. Deely," Denis Donohoe said, showing his strong
teeth.
"Welcome, Denis. Won't you step in and warm yourself at the fire, for
the day is sharp, and you are early on the road?"
Denis Donohoe sat with the woman by the fire for some time, their
exchange of family gossip quiet and agreeable. The young man was,
however, uneasy, glancing about the house now and then like one who
missed something. The woman, dropping her calm eyes on him, divined his
thoughts.
"Agnes is not about," she said. "She started off for the Cappa Post
Office an hour gone, for we had tidings that a letter is there for us
from Sydney."
"A letter from her sister?"
"Yes, Mary is married there and doing well."
Denis Donohoe resumed his journey.
At the appointed spot he ravenously devoured the oaten bread, then
stretched himself on his stomach on the ground and took some draughts of
water from a roadside stream, drawing it up with a slow sucking noise,
his teeth chattering, his eyes on the bright pebbles that glittered
between some green cress at the bottom. When he had finished the donkey
also laved his thirst at the spot.
He reached the market town while it was yet morning. He led the creel of
turf through the straggling streets, where some people with the sleep in
their eyes were moving about. The only sound he made was a low word of
encouragement to the donkey.
"How much for the creel?" a man asked, standing at his shop door.
"Six shilling," Denis Donohoe replied, and waited, for it was above the
business of a decent turf-seller to praise his wares or press for a
sale.
"Good luck to you, son," said the merchant, "I hope you'll get it." He
smiled, folded his hands one over the other, and retired to his shop.
Denis Donohoe moved on, saying in an undertone to the donkey, "Gee-up,
Patsy. That old fellow is no good."
There were other inquiries, but nobody purchased. They said that money
was very scarce. Denis Donohoe said nothing; money was too remote a
thing for him to imagine how it could be ever anything else except
scarce. He grew tired of going up and down past shops where there was no
sign of business, so he drew the side streets and laneways, places where
children screamed about the road, where there was a scent of soapy
water, where women came to their doors and looked at him with eyes that
expressed a slow resentment, their arms bare above the elbows, their
hair hanging dankly about their ears, their voices, when they spoke,
monotonous, and always sounding a note of tired complaint.
On the rise of a little bridge Denis Donohoe met a red-haired woman, a
family of children skirmishing about her; there was a battle light in
her wolfish eyes, her idle hands were folded over her stomach.
"How much, gossoon?" she asked.
"Six shilling."
"Six devils!" She walked over to the creel, handling some of the sods of
turf Denis Donohoe knew she was searching a constitutionally abusive
mind for some word contemptuous of his wares. She found it at last, for
she smacked her lips. It was in the Gaelic. "_Spairteach!_" she cried--a
word that was eloquent of bad turf, stuff dug from the first layer of
the bog, a mere covering for the correct vein beneath it.
"It's good stone turf," Denis Donohoe protested, a little nettled.
The woman was joined by some people who were hanging about, anxious to
take part in bargaining which involved no personal liability. They
argued, made jokes, shouted, and finally began to bully Denis Donohoe,
the woman leading, her voice half a scream, her stomach heaving, her
eyes dancing with excitement, a yellow froth gathering at the corners
of her angry mouth, her hand gripping a sod of the turf, for the only
dissipation life now offered her was this haggling with and shouting
down of turf sellers. Denis Donohoe stood immovable beside his cart,
patient as his donkey, his swarthy face stolid under the shadow of his
broad-brimmed black hat, his intelligent eyes quietly measuring his
noisy antagonists. When the woman's anger had quite spent itself the
turf was purchased for five shillings.
Denis Donohoe carried the sods in his arms to the kitchen of the
purchaser's house. It entailed a great many journeys in and out, the
sods being piled up on his hooked left arm with a certain skill. His
route lay through a small shop, down a semi-dark hallway, across a
kitchen, the sods being stowed under a stairway where cockroaches
scampered from the thudding of the falling sods.
Women were moving about the kitchen, talking incessantly, fumbling about
tables, always appearing to search for something that had been lost, one
crooning over a cradle that she rocked before the fire. The smell of
cooking, the sound of something fatty hissing on a pan, brought a sense
of faintness to Denis Donohoe, for he was ravenously hungry again.
He stumbled awkwardly in and out of the place with his armfuls of brown
sods The women moved with reluctance out of his way. Once a servant girl
raised the most melancholy pair of wide brown eyes he had ever seen,
saying to him, "It always goes through me to hear the turf falling in
the stair-hole. It reminds me of the day I heard the clay falling on me
father's coffin, God be with him and forgive him, for he died in the
horrors."
By the time Denis Donohoe had delivered the cartload of turf the little
donkey had eaten all the hay in the sack. In the small shop Denis
purchased some bacon, flour and tea, so that he had only some coppers to
bring home with him. After some hesitation he handed back one penny for
some biscuits, and these he ate as soon as he set out on the return
journey.
The little donkey went over the road through the hills on the way back
with spirit, for donkeys are good homers. Denis Donohoe sat up on the
front of the cart, his legs dangling down beside the shaft. The donkey
trotted down the slopes gayly, the harness rattling, the cart swaying,
jolting, making an amazing noise.
The donkey cocked his ears, flecked his tail, even indulged in one or
two buck-jumps, as he rattled down the hilly roads. Denis Donohoe once
or twice leaned out over the shaft, and brought his open hand down on
the haunch of the donkey, but it was more a caress than a whack.
The light began to fade, the landscape to grow more obscure. Suddenly
Denis Donohoe broke into song. They were going over a level stretch of
ground. The donkey walked quietly. The quivering voice rang out over the
darkening landscape, gaining in quality and in steadiness, a clear light
voice, the notes coming with the instinctive intonation, the perfect
order of the born folk singer. It was some old Gaelic song, a refrain
that had been preserved like the trunks of the primeval oaks in the
bogs, such a refrain as might claim kinship with the Dresden _Amen_,
sung by generations of German peasants until at last it reached the ears
of Richard Wagner, giving birth to a classic. As he sang Denis Donohoe
raised his swarthy face, his profile sharp against the pale sky, his
eyes, half in rapture like all folk singers, ranging over the hills, his
long throat palpitating, swelling and slackening like the throat of a
bird quivering in song. Then a light from the sash-less windows of Mrs.
Deely's cabin shone faintly and silence again brooded over the place.
When he reached the cabin Denis Donohoe dismounted and walked into the
kitchen, his eyes bright, his steps so eager that he became conscious of
it and pulled up at once.
Mrs. Deely was sitting by the fire, her knitting needles busy. Denis
Donohoe sat down beside her. While they were speaking a young girl came
from the only room in the house, and, crossing the kitchen, stood beside
the open fireplace.
"Agnes had great news from Australia from Mary," Mrs. Deely said. "She
enclosed the price of the passage from this place to Sydney."
"I will be making the voyage the end of this month," the girl herself
added.
There was an awkward silence, during which Mrs. Deely carefully piloted
one of her needles through an intricate turn in the heel of the sock.
"Well, I wish you luck, Agnes," Denis Donohoe said at last, and then
gave a queer odd little laugh, a little laugh that made Mrs. Deely
regard him quickly and seriously. She noticed that he had his eyes fixed
on the ground.
"It will be a great change from this place," the girl said, fingering
something on the mantelpiece. "Mary says Sydney is a wonderful big
city."
Denis Donohoe slowly lifted his eyes, taking in the shape of the girl
from the bare feet to the bright ribbon that was tied in her hair. What
he saw was a slim girl, her limbs showing faintly in the folds of a
cheap, thin skirt, a loose, small shawl resting on the shoulders, her
bosom heaving gently where the shawl did not meet, her profile delicate
and faint in the light of the fire, her eyes, suddenly turned upon him,
being the eyes of a girl conscious of his eyes, her low breath the sweet
breath of a girl stepping into her womanhood.
"Well, God prosper you, Agnes Deely," Denis Donohoe said after some
time, and rose from his seat.
The two women came out on the road to see him off. He did not dally,
jumped on to the front of the cart and rattled away.
Overhead the sky was winter clear, the stars merry, eternal, the whole
heaven brilliant in its silent, stupendous song, its perpetual
_Magnificat_; but Denis Donohoe made the rest of the journey in a black
silence, gloom in the rigid figure, the stooping shoulders, the dangling
legs; and the hills seemed to draw their grim shadows around his tragic
ride to the lonely light in his mother's cabin on the verge of the dead
brown bog.