Blasket Spirit (12 page)

‘The first ten days were the hardest. My wrists, ankles, face and neck were covered in red lumps from mosquitoes and ants, and my hands were destroyed with blisters. It was tough going: some of the terrain was so rough and hard to dig. By the end of that fortnight, our lumps and blisters were callused over, and we smelt of nothing remotely human, so our cover was complete. Maybe that’s why they always left us for an extra two weeks. They couldn’t have us going soft again.’

Laura held us spellbound at this stage.

‘It was in the fourth week that it happened. I was focused on my planting as usual. The itching had eased and so there was nothing to distract me. I felt like I was the only person on the planet. I had just finished planting a whole box of spruce trees. I straightened up, feeling quite delighted with myself, when I heard a rustling of leaves on my right. I turned to see how Tom, my planting buddy, was doing but there was no sign of him. What I did see, only yards from me, at this side of a fallen rotting tree, was a tiny brown bear nosing around in the leaves. The only time I had ever seen anything so adorable was when I visited toyshops at Christmas. You know that huge, soft, cuddly teddy you have just got to hug. Well, there he was, tossing leaves in the air with his nose. However, the urge to hug this one disappeared just as soon as I felt it. Where there’s Baby Bear, you can bet your grandmother, Mammy Bear and Daddy Bear are close behind. In slow motion, I began to back away. He looked up and, without hesitation, he came bounding over to me. He looked playful enough, but with every bound, he emitted a loud bawling sound. I waved my arms at him, taking a few dummy runs in his direction, hoping to scare him without making any noise. It didn’t work. He continued clambering over the branches in my direction, all the while wailing his head off. I grabbed my backpack and turned around to get out of there as fast as I could. Then, from out of nowhere, a ten-foot-tall fur coat was pawing the air, two yards in front of me. I was looking straight into these huge jaws and teeth. The roar she gave nearly blew my head off. I thought of nothing but getting to hell out of there. Can you imagine, standing there, all five feet of me, threatening a ten-foot bear? Try fooling her that you’re bigger than her. What a joke! I didn’t scream with the intention of scaring her. I tried to scream to get help, but not a squeak came out of my mouth. Stretching up on my tippy toes wasn’t an option. I was not going to be the jelly in a Mammy and Baby Bear sandwich, and so I took off. Uphill, downhill? Upwind, downwind? I didn’t have a clue. I just ran. I got my voice back because I was screaming nearly as loud as the bear was roaring behind me. I clambered over tree trunks, slid down ditches, tearing every shred of clothing. The roaring was in my ears the whole way back to camp. When I got there, I was still screeching. It was only then that I looked behind me. There was no sign of the bear.

‘Tom and two others came stumbling into the camp to see if anyone was hurt. The foreman was sitting against a tree reading. I couldn’t speak at first, then I went for him, bald-headed. “Why didn’t you come out to help me?”

‘“I heard no distress whistle. Did any of you?” He didn’t even look up.

‘“Didn’t you hear me roaring and shouting for Christ’s sake?”

‘“You never blew your whistle, now did you, honey? You know the procedure. Lost or attacked, blow your whistle. They’re the rules. I work by the rules. If I was to follow every roar of you city folk in the forest, I would never sit down.”

‘It seemed to have been a common occurrence for planters to crack up after a few weeks in the forest. Those who cracked up often screamed, except for Steve that is; he was the one who just stopped speaking.

‘After that, I was the noisiest planter in the group. Any bear within a roar of me was forewarned. I sang aloud to every one of the trees that I planted. As I walked from place to place, I sang and my pots and pans jangled noisily from my backpack.

‘One day each month, we got a $200 advance and the chopper suddenly appeared from over the mountains and we were lifted into the nearest hillbilly town. We never knew in advance, so it was a total shock to the system. A long hot shower, clean clothes, a pizza, a few beers and off again.

‘In the long run, the hillbillies proved to be more dangerous than the bears. These outback towns are inhabited by loggers and oil pipeline men. They’re macho, drunken and sex-starved, I tell you. Most bars have signs that read “No tree planters.”

‘Inside, usually beside the dartboard, they have another scoreboard, for the number of tree-planters who have been beaten up. The irony of it! I survived a month in the wilderness with bears and bugs, and then returned to so-called civilisation, only to be beaten up by a logger.

‘My mom said, “Tell them you’re doing a good thing, dear.” I hadn’t the heart to tell her it was
they
who thought they were doing the good thing.’

By the time Laura had finished her story, Peig’s fire had burned down and only one candle flickered. The girls went to bed while they still had some light. I pulled on my boots and rainjacket and headed back out into the storm. The rain had stopped momentarily, but a clouded black sky still hid the moonlight. Thunder rolled in the northern sky. Then there was silence as I counted the seconds before the sky suddenly crackled and flashed. The whole sky to the north lit up. For a few moments, the ruins of the crumbling Blasket village below me flashed a steel grey. The thunder and lightning continued. Fascinated, I set off up the north path behind Peig’s house towards the cliffs for a better look. The torch was weak and, between lightning flashes, I just managed to make out my footsteps. At the brow of the hill, the thunder rolled again. I counted, waiting in the darkness. Suddenly, with a jagged burning tear, the heavens shattered. A ripple of angry fire split the clouds, piercing the belly of the Sleeping Giant. The shock electrified the whole island, bathing the dead man in an eerie blue light before the sky was plunged into darkness once more. I shut my eyes tight, yet I could see him. The man of death was back, hauling his great bulk from the water to tower above the sky. Panic-stricken, I cowered on my hands and knees. In the storm, my terrors returned. A madwoman severing the limbs off her husband. The dead man, rising for revenge. A giant bear pawing the sky. Claws ripping my belly open as a wolf howls in my throat. The stench of blood and death on my skin. I retched helplessly as I clung to the wet grass.

While the storm raged, terror and shock jolted through my body. Gradually, I became aware of myself, lying soaking wet on the ground. I had let fear win once more. I had made it through the sea arch that morning, yet already I had lost myself to fear again. Anger suddenly overwhelmed me. For too long, my days and nights had been spent living the nightmares of a dead man. At last I understood that the horror was not mine and I wanted it no longer. I cursed the bastard in the blackness and hurled every rock I could find over the cliffs towards the Sleeping Giant. I battled against the darkness until I had no energy left to move.

Eventually the storm burned out and the eastern sky began to dilute the darkness to a powdery opaqueness. Exhausted, I stumbled back down from the cliffs into the silent obscurity of an old charcoal drawing of the village. The hostel was closed and sleeping. The silhouettes of two donkeys sheltered, motionless, against the gable wall. I slipped silently inside the hut before the island awoke.

F
or the next three nights, electrical storms danced over the Blasket Islands. Seemingly oblivious to them, the Sleeping Giant rested peacefully once more. The ferries disappeared over to shelter in Dingle and so the Great Blasket Island was left in peace too. Each night, despite the thunder and lightning, I slept deeply. Each day, I avoided company and remained close to the hut, still feeling drained and shaken. On the fourth night the skies cleared and a huge full moon sailed above the last few fleeting clouds.

During that night, groaning and wailing awoke me. I had never heard anything like it before. The strangest chorus filled the air. I followed the sound in the direction of the beach, climbed down and watched, unseen, from the moon shadows of the rocks. The full moon had drawn over fifty seals from the sea. Each wave offered another glistening body to the milky light until they became one live, shimmering mass on the White Strand. Their yelps and barks carried on the night air. I saw the huge bulk of a bull seal patrolling offshore, while three seal cows surfed on the silver breakers. The bull watched until a younger female emerged from around the rocky headland. She hesitated, sensing the attention of the male, who was stretching his snout into the night sky. She responded by throwing back her head, showering sparkling droplets of water into the air.

Simultaneously they dived, arching black backs into the moonlight as they slid underwater. They re-emerged just a few yards apart. Then the female approached, trailing in her wake a shimmering veil of phosphorescence. In a sudden burst of spray, the male was beside her, sinking his muzzle into her neck as they merged into the darkness of the sea. Spiralling back through the surface, their necks were locked together while their tails interlaced, thrashing the water in a rhythmic frenzy. Suspended in streams of moonlight, they mated, their duet reverberating on the rocks and echoing through the ruins.

When they drifted apart, the female hauled herself out of the waves, rolling onto the sand, full and sated. She folded into the moon chorus that continued on the beach, and was gone. Exhilarated, I climbed quietly back through the shadows to the clifftop and returned to bed.

Next morning the presence of the seals charmed the island. They lay on the far end of the White Strand, bathing their dappled-marble and oil-black bodies in the sunshine. Laura and Sigrid watched from inside the half-door. The three visitors staying in the hostel moved around quietly, speaking in hushed tones, as they established distant vantage points.

The Harvard student set up her tripod amongst the ruins, watching patiently for a stretch, a gaping yawn or a flick of flippers.

A young Tipperary couple went to the far cliff. The girl sat fascinated, sketching the basking colony. The boy lay on his front, watching her with an equal degree of wonder.

In my sheltered cove at the village end of the beach, I waded gently into the water. I cupped my hands and poured the water over my upturned face. It streamed cold and glistening down my hair and body. I traced the undulating surface of the water back and forth with my palms as I gazed at the seals in the distance. The memory of the moonlight dance was palpable in the water as I slid silently beneath.

From the water, I could see Sue, back up on the island, standing motionless outside her yellow door. She looked in the direction of the seals. The only movement was the dance of the red wool scarf in her busy hands.

The whole island focused on the beach, mesmerised by the majesty of the sea creatures.

Suddenly, three male figures hurled themselves into the picture, flinging their backpacks onto the sand as they jostled and shouted. Then a squat, bald man amongst them swaggered down the beach towards the colony. He didn’t stop, he didn’t pause. He advanced towards the seals. Shocked, the whole island held its breath. We could not call out. We could not warn them. The man was yards away. Still the seals did not move. Suddenly, the spell was broken. A violent shudder electrified the body of seals until they became a pulsating mass.

Three seals broke loose and rippled into the surf. A surge of dark bodies spilled after them. The water seethed with life, then, just as quickly, melted the sleek creatures to nothing. The sea glimmered, quiet and empty. We watched in stunned silence.

The bald man stood at the water’s edge, legs apart and hands on his hips. Suddenly, he roared at the top of his voice, beating his breast, then turned, flexing his muscles for a friend’s camera. The harsh shouts and laughter of the men rasped on the morning air. As the sunshine and ferries returned, the island had lost its peace once more.

The Blasket village on the east side of the island, with the White Strand below
.

I
fled like the seals as, yet again, the ferries ploughed incessantly through the Blasket Sound. Each morning, I escaped to the solitude at the end of the island. There I bird-watched, sketched and daydreamed. I ambled back as evening approached, and watched the changing shadows as the pink light seeped through the clouds, staining the sea to the west of the Great Blasket.

A few evenings after the night of the seals, I met Laura coming around the northern headland. ‘Was my curry that bad? We haven’t seen you for days,’ she called.

‘No, it was delicious. I stupidly went for a walk in the storm afterwards, and got soaked. Even lost my torch. Ended up with a right chill.’ She looked at me dubiously. ‘Honestly, I stayed in the bunk for three days.’

‘Gee, you do some crazy things.’ She was gathering bunches of dry heather, from which she said that she intended to make a sweeping brush for the cafe. ‘Only thing, I can’t find is a branch as a broom handle,’ she sighed.