In the parish of Kilmoe--which they pronounce with a soft prolonged
“moo-h,” like the murmuring call of one of their little bright-eyed,
black-coated cows--the inhabitants are wont to say that the next parish
is America.
It is an ancient and sterile and storm-beaten parish, this Kilmoe,
thrust out in expiation of some forgotten sin or other to exist beyond
the pale of human companionship. Its sons and daughters, scattered in
tiny, isolated hamlets over its barren area, hear never a stranger’s
voice--and their own speech is slow and low of tone because the real
right to make a noise there belongs to the shrieking gulls and the wild,
west wind and the towering, foam-fanged waves, which dashed themselves,
in tireless rivalry with the thunder, against its cliffs.
Slow, too, in growth and ripening are the wits of the men of Kilmoe.
They must have gray hairs before they are accounted more than boys; and
when, from sheer old age they totter into the grave, the feeling of
the parish is that they have been untimely cut off just as they were
beginning to get their brains in fair working: order. Very often these
aged men, if they dally and loiter on the way to the tomb in the hope of
becoming still wiser, are given a sharp and peremptory push forward by
starvation. It would not do for the men of Kilmoe to know too much. If
they did, they would all go somewhere else to live--and then what would
become of their landlord?
Kilmoe once had a thriving and profitable industry, whereby a larger
population than it now contains kept body and soul together in more
intimate and comfortable relations than at present exist. The outlay
involved in this industry was very small, and the returns, though not
governed by any squalid, modern law of percentages, were, on the whole,
large.
It was all very simple. Whenever a stormy, wind-swept night set in, the
men of Kilmoe tied a lighted lantern on the neck of a cow, and drove the
animal to walk along the strand underneath the sea-cliffs. This light,
rising and sinking with the movements of the cow, bore a quaint and
interesting resemblance to the undulations of an illuminated buoy or
boat, rocked on gentle waves; and strange seafaring crafts bent their
course in confidence toward it, until they were undeceived. Then the
men of Kilmoe would sally forth, riding the tumbling breakers with great
bravery and address, in their boats of withes and stretched skin, and
enter into possession of all the stranded strangers’ goods and chattels.
As for such strangers as survived the wreck, they were sometimes sold
into slavery; more often they were merely knocked on the head. Thus
Kilmoe lived much more prosperously than in these melancholy latter days
of dependence upon a precarious potato crop.
In every family devoted to industrial pursuits there is one member who
is more distinguished for attention to the business than the others, and
upon whom its chief burdens fall. This was true of the O’Mahonys, who
for many centuries controlled and carried on the lucrative occupation
above described, on their peninsula of Ivehagh. There were branches
of the sept stationed in the more inland sea-castles of Rosbrin,
Ardintenant, Leamcon and Ballydesmond on the one side, and of Dunbeacon,
Dunmanus and Muirisc on the other, who did not expend all their
energies upon this, their genuine business, but took many vacations and
indefinitely extended holiday trips, for the improvement of their
minds and the gratification of their desire to whip the neighboring
O’Driscolls, O’Sullivans, O’Heas and O’Learys out of their boots. The
record of these pleasure excursions, in which sometimes the O’Mahonys
returned with great booty and the heads of their enemies on pikes, and
some other times did not come home at all, fills all the pages of the
Psalter of Rosbrin, beside occupying a good deal of space in the Annals
of Innisfallen and of the Four Masters, and needs not be enlarged upon
here.
But it is evident that that gentleman of the family who, from choice
or sense of duty, lived in Kilmoe, must, have pursued the legitimate
O’Mahony vocation very steadily, without any frivolous interruptions or
the waste of time in visiting his neighbors. The truth is that he had no
neighbors, and nothing else under the sun with which to occupy his mind
but the affairs of the sea. This the observer will readily conclude when
he stands upon the promontory marked on the maps as Three-Castle Head,
with the whole world-dividing Atlantic at his feet, and looks over at
the group of ruined and moss-grown keeps which give the place its name.
*****
“Oh-h! Look there now, Murphy!” cried a tall and beautiful young woman,
who stood for the first time on this lofty sea-wall, viewing the somber
line of connected castles. “Sure, _here_ lived the true O’Mahony of
the Coast of White Foam! Why, man, what were we at Muirisc but poor
crab-catchers compared wid _him?_”
She spoke in a tone of awed admiration, between long breaths of
wonderment, and her big eyes of Irish gray glowed from their cover of
sweeping lashes with surprised delight. She had taken off her hat--a
black straw hat, with a dignifiedly broad brim bound in velvet, and
enriched by a plume of the same somber hue--to save it from the wind,
which blew stiffly here; and this bold sea-wind, nothing loth, frolicked
boisterously with her dark curls instead. She put her hand on her
companion’s shoulder for steadiness, and continued the rapt gaze upon
this crumbling haunt of the dead and forgotten sea-lords.
Twelve years had passed since, as a child of eight, Kate O’Mahony had
screamed out in despair after the departing _Hen Hawk_. That vessel had
never cleft the waters of Dunmanus since, and the fleeting years had
converted the memory of its master, into a kind of heroic legendary
myth, over which the elders brooded fondly, but which the youngsters
thought of as something scarcely less remote than the Firbolgs, or the
builders of the “Danes’ forts” on the furze-crowned hills about.
But these same years, though they turned the absent into shadows, had
made of Kate a very lovely and complete reality. It would be small
praise to speak of her as the most beautiful girl on the peninsula,
since there is no other section of Ireland so little favored in that
respect, to begin with, and for the additional reason that whatever
maidenly comeliness there is existent there is habitually shrouded from
view by close-drawn shawls and enveloping hoods, even on the hottest of
summer noon-days. For all the stray traveller sees of young and pretty
faces in Ivehagh, he might as well be in the heart of the vailed (sp.)
Orient.
And even with Kate, potential Lady of Muirisc though she was, this
fashion of a hat was novel. It seemed only yesterday since she had
emerged from the chrysalis of girlhood--girlhood with a shawl over its
head, and Heaven only knows what abysses of ignorant shyness and stupid
distrust inside that head. And, alas! it seemed but a swiftly on-coming
to-morrow before this new freedom was to be lost again, and the hat
exchanged forever for a nun’s vail.
If Kate had known natural history better, she might have likened her lot
to that of the May-fly, which spends two years underground in its larva
state hard at work preparing to be a fly, and then, when it at last
emerges, lives only for an hour, even if it that long escapes the bill
of the swallow or the rude jaws of the trout. No such simile drawn
from stonyhearted Nature’s tragedies helped her to philosophy. She had,
perhaps, a better refuge in the health and enthusiasm of her own youth.
In the company of her ancient servitor, Murphy, she was spending the
pleasant April days in visiting the various ruins of The O’Mahony’s
on Ivehagh. Many of these she viewed now for the first time, and the
delight of this overpowered and kept down in her mind the reflection
that perhaps she was seeing them all for the last time as well.
“But how, in the name of glory, did they get up and down to their boats,
Murphy?” she asked, at last, strolling further out toward the edge to
catch the full sweep of the cliff front, which rises abruptly from the
beach below, sheer and straight, clear three hundred feet.
“There’s never a nearer landing-place, thin, than where we left our
boat, a half-mile beyant here,” said Murphy. “Faith, miss, ’tis the
belafe they went up and down be the aid of the little people. ’T
is well known that, on windy nights, there do be grand carrin’s-on
hereabouts. Sure, in the lake forninst us it was that Kian O’Mahony saw
the enchanted woman with the shape on her of a horse, and died of the
sight. Manny’s the time me own father related to me that same.”
“Oh, true; that _would_ be the lake of the legend,” said Kate. “Let us
go down to it, Murphy. I’ll dip me hand for wance in water that’s been
really bewitched.”
The girl ran lightly down the rolling side of the hill, and across the
rock-strewn hollows and mounds which stretched toward the castellated
cliff. The base of the third and most inland tower was washed by a
placid fresh-water pond, covering an area of several acres, and heavily
fringed at one end with rushes. As she drew near a heron suddenly rose
from the reeds, hung awkwardly for a moment with its long legs dangling
in the air, and then began a slow, heavy flight seaward. On the moment
Kate saw another even more unexpected sight--the figure of a man on
the edge of the lake, with a gun raised to his shoulder, its barrel
following the heron’s clumsy course. Involuntarily she uttered a little
warning shout to the bird, then stood still, confused and blushing.
Stiff-jointed old Murphy was far behind.
The stranger had heard her, if the heron had not. He lowered his weapon,
and for a moment gazed wonderingly across the water at this unlooked-for
apparition. Then, with his gun under his arm, he turned and walked
briskly toward her. Kate cast a searching glance backward for Murphy
in vain, and her intuitive movement to draw a shawl over her head was
equally fruitless. The old man was still somewhere behind the rocks, and
she had only this citified hat and even that not on her head. She could
see that the advancing sportsman was young and a stranger.
He came up close to where she stood, and lifted his cap for an instant
in an off-hand way. Viewed thus nearly, he was very young, with a
bright, fresh-colored face and the bearing and clothes of a gentleman,
“I’m glad you stopped me, now that I think of it,” he said, with an easy
readiness of speech. “One has no business to shoot that kind of bird;
but I’d been tying about here for hours, waiting for something better to
turn up, till I was in a mood to bang at anything that came along.”
He offered this explanation with a nonchalant half-smile, as if
confident ol its prompt acceptance. Then his face took on a more serious
look, as he glanced a second time at her own flushed countenance.
“I hope I haven’t been trespassing,” he added, under the influence of
this revised impression.
Kate was, in truth, frowning at him, and there were no means by which
he could guess that it was the effect of nervous timidity rather than
vexation.
“’Tis not my land,” she managed to say at last, and looked back again
for Murphy.
“No--I didn’t think it was anybody’s land,” he remarked, essaying
another propitiatory smile. “They told me at Goleen that I could shoot
as much as I liked. They didn’t tell me, though, that there was nothing
to shoot.”
The young man clearly expected conversation; and Kate, stealing further
flash-studies of his face, began to be conscious that his manner and
talk were not specialty different from those of any nice girl of her own
age. She tried to think of something amiable to say.
“’Tis not the sayson for annything worth shooting,” she said, and
then wondered if it was an impertinent remark.
“I know that,” he replied. “But I’ve nothing else to do, just at the
moment, and you can keep yourself walking better if you’ve got a gun,
and then, of course, in a strange country there’s always the chance that
something curious _may_ turn up to shoot. Fact is, I didn’t care so
much after all whether I shot anything or not. You see, castles are new
things to me--we don’t grow ’em where I came from--and it’s fun to me
to mouse around among the stones and walls and so on. But this is the
wildest and lonesomest thing I’ve run up against yet. I give you my
word, I’d been lying here so long, watching those mildewed old towers
there and wondering what kind of folks built ’em and lived in ’em,
that when I saw you galloping down the rocks here--upon my word, I
half thought it was all a fairy story. You know the poor people really
believe in that sort of thing, here. Several of them have told me so.”
Kate actually felt herself smiling upon the young man. “I’m afraid you
can’t always believe them,” she said. “Some of them have deludthering
ways with strangers--not that they mane anny harm by it, poor souls!”
“But a young man down below here, to-day,” continued the other--“mind
you, a _young-man_--told me solemnly that almost every night he heard
with his own ears the shindy kicked up by the ghosts on the hill back
of his house, you know, inside one of those ringed Danes’ forts, as they
call ’em. He swore to it, honest Injun.”
The girl started in spite of herself, stirred vaguely by the sound of
this curious phrase with which the young man had finished his remarks.
But nothing definite took shape in her thoughts concerning it> and she
answered him freely enough:
“Ah, well, I’ll not say he intinded desate. They’re a poetic people,
sir, living here alone among the ruins of what was wance a grand
country, and now is what you see it, and they imagine visions to
thimselves. ’Tis in the air, here. Sure, you yourself”--she smiled
again as she spoke--“credited me with being a fairy. Of course,” she
added, hastily, “you had in mind the legend of the lake, here.”
“How do you mean--legend?” asked the young man, in frank ignorance.
“Sure, here in these very waters is a woman, with the shape of a horse,
who appears to people, and when they see her, they--they die, that’s
all.”
“Well, that’s a good deal, I should think,” he responded, lightly. “No,
I hadn’t heard of that before; and, besides, you--why, you came down
the hill, there, skipping like a lamb on the mountains, not a bit like a
horse.”
The while Kate turned his comparison over in her mind to judge whether
she liked it or not, the young man shifted his gun to his shoulder, as
if to indicate that the talk had lasted long enough. Then she swiftly
blamed herself for having left this signal to him.
“I’ll not be keeping you,” she said, hurriedly.
“Oh, bless you--not at all!” he protested. “Only I was afraid I was
keeping _you_. You see, time hangs pretty heavy on my hands just now,
and I’m tickled to death to have anybody to talk to. Of course, I like
to go around looking at the castles here, because the chances are that
some of my people some time or other helped build ’em. I know my
father was born somewhere in this part of County Cork.”
Kate sniffed at him.
“Manny thousands of people have been born here,” she said, with
dignity, “but it doesn’t follow that they had annything to do with these
castles.” The young man attached less importance to the point.
“Oh, of course not,” he said, carelessly. “All I go by is the
probability that, way back somewhere, all of us O’Mahonys were related
to one another. But for that matter, so were all the Irish who--”
“And are _you_ an O’Mahony, thin?”
Kate was looking at him with shining eyes--and he saw now that she was
much taller and more beautiful than he had thought before.
“That’s my name,” he said, simply.
“An O’Mahony of County Cork?”
“Well--personally I’m an O’Mahony of Houghton County, Michigan, but my
father was from around here, somewhere.”
“Do you hear that, Murphy?” she said, instinctively turning to the
faithful companion of all her out-of-door life. But there was no Murphy
in sight.
Kate stared blankly about her for an instant, before she remembered that
Murphy had never rejoined her at the lakeside. And now she thought she
could hear some vague sound of calling in the distance, rising above the
continuous crash of the breakers down below.
“Oh, something has happened to him!” she cried, and started running
wildly back again. The young man followed close enough to keep her in
sight, and at a distance of some three hundred yards came up to her,
as she knelt beside the figure of an old peasant seated with his back
against a rock.
Something had happened to Murphy. His ankle had turned on a stone, and
he could not walk a step.