Part 16 (2/2)

And by the waterfall, Colman's son, haggard, spent, frost-bitten Sweeney, Ronan of Drumgesh's victim, is sleeping at the foot of a tree.

At last Sweeney arrived where Moling lived, the place that is known as St Mullins. Just then, Moling was addressing himself to Kevin's psalter and reading from it to his students. Sweeney presented himself at the brink of the well and began to eat watercress.

You are more than welcome here, Sweeney, said Moling, for you are fated to live and die here. You shall leave the history of your adventures with us and receive a Christian burial in a churchyard. Therefore, said Moling, no matter how far you range over Ireland, day by day, I bind you to return to me every evening so that I may record your story.

All during the next year the madman kept coming back to Moling. One day he would go to Inishbofin in west Connacht, another day to lovely a.s.saroe. Some days he would view the clean lines of Slemish, some days he would be s.h.i.+vering on the Mournes. But wherever he went, every night he would be back for vespers at St Mullins.

Moling ordered his cook to leave aside some of each day's milking for Sweeney's supper. This cook's name was Muirghil and she was married to a swineherd of Moling's called Mongan. Anyhow, Sweeney's supper was like this: she would sink her heel to the ankle in the nearest cow-dung and fill the hole to the brim with new milk. Then Sweeney would sneak into the deserted corner of the milking yard and lap it up.

One night there was a row between Muirghil and another woman, in the course of which the woman said: If you do not prefer your husband, it is a pity you cannot take up with some other man than the looney you have been meeting all year.

The herd's sister was within earshot and listening, but she said nothing until the next morning. Then when she saw Muirghil going to leave the milk in the cow-dung beside the hedge where Sweeney roosted, she came in to her brother and said: Are you a man at all? Your wife's in the hedge yonder with another man.

Jealousy shook him like a brainstorm. He got up in a sudden fury, seized a spear from a rack in the house, and made for the madman. Sweeney was down swilling the milk out of the cow-dung with his side exposed towards the herd, who let go at him with the spear. It went into Sweeney at the nipple of his left breast, went through him, and broke his back.

There is another story. Some say the herd had hidden a deer's horn at the spot where Sweeney drank from the cow-dung and that Sweeney fell and killed himself on the point of it.

Immediately, Moling and his community came along to where Sweeney lay and Sweeney repented and made his confession to Moling. He received Christ's body and thanked G.o.d for having received it and after that was anointed by the clerics.

There was a time when I preferred the turtle-dove's soft jubilation as it flitted round a pool to the murmur of conversation.

There was a time when I preferred the blackbird singing on the hill and the stag loud against the storm to the clinking tongue of this bell.

There was a time when I preferred the mountain grouse crying at dawn to the voice and closeness of a beautiful woman.

There was a time when I preferred wolf-packs yelping and howling to the sheepish voice of a cleric bleating out plainsong.

You are welcome to pledge healths and carouse in your drinking dens; I will dip and steal water from a well with my open palm.

You are welcome to that cloistered hush of your students' conversation; I will study the pure chant of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

You are welcome to your salt meat and fresh meat in feasting-houses; I will live content elsewhere on tufts of green watercress.

The herd's sharp spear has finished me, pa.s.sed clean through my body.

Ah Christ, who disposes all things, why was I not killed at Moira?

Then Sweeney's death-swoon came over him and Moling, attended by his clerics, rose up and each of them placed a stone on Sweeney's grave.

The Names of the Hare (from the Middle English)

The man the hare has met

will never be the better for it except he lay down on the land what he carries in his hand be it staff or be it bow and bless him with his elbow and come out with this litany with devotion and sincerity to speak the praises of the hare.

Then the man will better fare.

'The hare, call him scotart, big-fellow, bouchart, the O'Hare, the jumper, the rascal, the racer.

Beat-the-pad, white-face, funk-the-ditch, s.h.i.+t-a.s.s.

The wimount, the messer, the skidaddler, the nibbler, the ill-met, the slabber.

The quick-scut, the dew-flirt, the gra.s.s-biter, the goibert, the home-late, the do-the-dirt.

The starer, the wood-cat, the purblind, the furze cat, the skulker, the bleary-eyed, the wall-eyed, the glance-aside and also the hedge-springer.

The stubble-stag, the long lugs, the stook-deer, the frisky legs, the wild one, the skipper, the hug-the-ground, the lurker, the race-the-wind, the skiver, the s.h.a.g-the-hare, the hedge-squatter, the dew-hammer, the dew-hopper, the sit-tight, the gra.s.s-bounder, the jig-foot, the earth-sitter, the light-foot, the fern-sitter, the kail-stag, the herb-cropper.

The creep-along, the sitter-still, the pintail, the ring-the-hill, the sudden start, the shake-the-heart, the belly-white, the lambs-in-flight.

The gobs.h.i.+te, the gum-sucker, the scare-the-man, the faith-breaker, the snuff-the-ground, the baldy skull (his chief name is scoundrel).

The stag sprouting a suede horn, the creature living in the corn, the creature bearing all men's scorn, the creature no one dares to name.'

When you have got all this said then the hare's strength has been laid.

Then you might go faring forth east and west and south and north, wherever you incline to go but only if you're skilful too.

And now, Sir Hare, good-day to you.

G.o.d guide you to a how-d'ye-do with me: come to me dead in either onion broth or bread.

(1981).

from STATION ISLAND (1984)

The Underground

There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,

You in your going-away coat speeding ahead And me, me then like a fleet G.o.d gaining Upon you before you turned to a reed Or some new white flower j.a.pped with crimson As the coat flapped wild and b.u.t.ton after b.u.t.ton Sprang off and fell in a trail Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.

Honeymooning, mooning around, late for the Proms, Our echoes die in that corridor and now I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones Retracing the path back, lifting the b.u.t.tons To end up in a draughty lamplit station After the trains have gone, the wet track Bared and tensed as I am, all attention For your step following and d.a.m.ned if I look back.

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