Blasket Spirit (6 page)

‘’Tis only the seals. Sure they’re unsettled by the storm too.’

Tomás was not consoled. He was terrified. The wails sent shivers of fear through him. He grabbed the chamberpot, sprinkling stale urine at the window, the door and the hearth and then in the corners of the house, for protection.

‘Can’t ye hear them getting closer?’ The sisters continued to try to soothe him, but his growing panic was making them uneasy too. He was right. It
did
sound as if the wailing was getting nearer. Soon, a long, deep-throated wail rose from just outside the house. Tomás squatted at the hearth, his head in his hands, his body convulsed in terror. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, protect me.’

‘Tomás, what is it? What have you done?’ cried Cáit.

‘I killed the seal, I killed Muiris’s seal and hid it in the turf.’ The sisters now looked mortally afraid. Another wail rose from just outside, followed quickly by knocking on the door of the house. Tomás jumped in fright.

‘You’ve got to open it, Tomás,’ urged Máire. He shook his head, weeping.

Máire lifted the latch and opened the door. As she did, the lamplight reflected off the glistening coats of six female seals. From their huge black eyes rivers of brine spilled down their faces. They stared past the sisters, holding Tomás in their gaze, all the while forming a path in the darkness to the turf shed. Tomás was compelled to follow them.

The islanders who witnessed what followed said it was the strangest sight that ever was seen on the island. A funeral procession of six wailing seals lumbering down Bóthar na Marbh, followed by Tómas dragging a dead seal. The seals made slow progress through the village, their desolate cries wrenching the hearts of all who heard them. Tomás followed them right down onto the White Strand, where the sand was a writhing mass of seals. As the procession of six seals advanced, the herd parted before them, then regrouped, absorbing them into its midst. The keening of the seals lasted right through the night, until it seemed that the very heart of the island was engulfed in grief.

Just before dawn, the lament suddenly stopped: the ensuing eerie silence was as chilling as the wailing. As the whiteness of dawn seeped over the horizon, the islanders lined the clifftop ready to resume the search for Muiris. Layers of darkness evaporated, exposing an extraordinary sight below them: over two hundred black, grey and dappled seals formed a great circular mass on the beach, all straining towards the centre of the herd.

Gradually, the approaching weak rays of sunlight moved over the sand and the seals. As if on cue, six older cows turned away and glided into the incoming tide. Breaking ranks, the others followed, rippling into the waves, silently.

A huge circular area of dark, churned sand remained. In the centre lay two motionless shapes. The islanders too stayed immobile for a time until one individual took the lead and began to edge his way down the cliff. Suddenly, everyone began to slide and scamper down the cliff and run across the beach. On the wet sand lay two human corpses: the drowned remains of young Muiris and, beside him, the drowned remains of his father Seán, his skull cracked open from a blow to the head.

Úna and her mother-in-law had the corpses of their husbands carried up to their house, where they were laid out on the kitchen table on a white cloth, as was the old custom. Above the corpses, the corners of a white sheet were tied to the rafters, forming a canopy, and on each of the corners of the table burned a candle. The two widows sat up keening the corpses for two nights. As the island waked Muiris, dead for three days and Seán, dead for ten years, six seals patrolled offshore day and night. Only after the bodies of the men were taken out to the mainland for burial did the seals finally disappear.

Tomás was never seen again after the funerals of Muiris and Seán. Some said he went to America; some said he went to Dingle; others said that only the seals knew his fate.

S
ue was busy baking. Two trays of hot, golden scones cooled on a wire tray. My mouth had begun watering within twenty yards of her door, as I smelled them on the way back from my morning swim.

‘Well, make the tea and put one of them out of their misery,’ Sue said as she looked up from the mixing bowl. I put the kettle on the stove and told her that there was no sign of the men and that the boat was gone.

‘It’s gone about four hours at this stage. The lads were knocking at the door looking for a cup of tea at six o’clock this morning.’

I felt quite lonely. I would miss their company, their stories and their old sheepdog. ‘The ferries are back on today,’ Sue continued. ‘The forecast is good for the week. Unless Seán is bringing in fresh baking from Dingle, the hordes will all be descending on me for a cup of tea.’

Feeling aggrieved at the unexpected departure of the men, the significance of what Sue was talking about was lost on me. Today had begun like every other day, with a freezing swim on the White Strand, watched by the Beverley Sisters, followed by a walk along the strand. The only difference between today and previous days was the weather, an azure blue sea with a gleaming jade Beiginis, the air still and warm. Already, the stone wall around Sue’s little courtyard was heating up from the sun’s rays. I sat there, enjoying my tea and hot scone as Sue got on with her preparations. Once the baking was finished, she lifted her spinning wheel onto the low wall and hung a large, wooden shop sign on two rusty nails on the gable wall. Sugar and milk were placed on an upturned box in the centre of the courtyard and the Weaver’s Shop and Cafe was open for business.

I strolled back up to my hut and resumed my daily routine. I shook out my sleeping bag, swept the sand and remains of Mr Robin’s breakfast out the door, got water from the well, put the porridge on the stove. I gathered up the carrot and potato peelings from the previous evening and shared them out at the entrances to the busiest rabbit holes.

Once the porridge was ready, I settled myself onto my sheepskin fleece on the chair in the sunshine. Sue had given me a cup of sugar. I marvelled as it melted over the porridge, forming a sweet clear liquid between the porridge and the inside of the bowl. So entranced was I by the sheer luxury of this morning’s breakfast that I didn’t see the ferries setting off from Dún Chaoin.

The red ferry was almost in to the island. The blue followed. Both were laden with tourists and towed dinghies. Cameras and binoculars were trained up into the ruined village. Suddenly I felt self-conscious and retreated inside to eat my food. From the tiny window I could see the first heads appearing over the top of the cliff. A blaze of coloured shorts and Day-Glo jackets scattered between the ruins. Many struggled up the hill at a snail’s pace, stopping to rest on walls or just to straighten up. Seán and Laura stood out from the tourists. They bolted across the low path like two goats, despite the weight of their supplies for the hostel.

Sitting outside Ray Stagle’s cowshed in the sunshine
.

Dinghy-load after dinghy-load of day-trippers landed and came over the top of the cliff. They began their exploration of the village. They fanned out and combed every stone and ruin searching for the ideal photograph or memento. As they advanced, another group followed. There were probably fifty in the first wave.

I expected someone to shout suddenly ‘I’ve found it,’ and all would run to see, or perhaps ‘I’ve found her,’ and I would be discovered.

I could hear voices approach along the path. They sounded young and they sounded Spanish. A group of about fifteen teenagers ambled along the path below the hut. A mobile phone rang and the boy who answered began arguing loudly. As they passed up the hill outside my hut, I could see their legs. I willed them to keep moving. Suddenly, two boys ran up the bank to my door. One boy stepped inside as the other put his head in under the lintel. They looked around and shouted down to their friends in Spanish, presumably reporting their discovery and then they ducked back out again. They never said a word to me, never acknowledged my presence. More legs stopped and more heads bent down to have a look in. My heart began to pound.

Two huge American women flopped down on the bank beside the well. ‘Look, Gloria, there’s water in the tap. You think it’s safe to drink it?’ Even from a distance, her voice was loud and grating.

‘Don’t, honey. That water is coming straight out of the ground. It ain’t even purified.’ They opted for a can of Coke out of their backpack instead. I wondered how the islanders had survived for thousands of years on pure spring water, deprived of fluoride and chlorine. As Gloria and her friend broadcast to the island details of their latest detox programme, a young boy pressed his face to my tiny window. ‘Look, Dad, there’s a woman in here.’ He continued to stare at me until ‘Dad’ came to confirm his find. I pretended not to notice them and continued to stare at my book.

‘Is this a museum?’ The man was in my house before I could stop him. He picked up one of my drawings.

‘No, this is private. Sorry.’ I grabbed my drawing from him and he looked at me, annoyed.

‘Well, you should have “private” on the door then.’

When he left, I closed the door and pulled the bolt across. Between the door and the lintel there was at least a one-inch gap of daylight. For every ten tourists who passed, one would present a huge eye to the chink and rattle the door. I was sure someone would push it in. I felt under siege, claustrophobic. Suddenly, there was a bright flash as a camera whirred against the glass of the tiny window. A wave of nausea surged through me from the pit of my stomach. I pushed two corners of the dishcloth between the stones above the window and let the cloth fall like a curtain. I grabbed the old blanket and put it in its windbreak position across the door.

Gasping for breath, I sat on the bunk shaking. My chest tightened. The old feelings of fear and helplessness were back. They seemed to take control of me again, but for the first time there was some part of me that was aware of them and disengaged from their assault. I clung on, focusing all my attention on the blanket. I did not black out. It was at that point that I realised how much I had healed since my encounter with the two little girls. They had plunged their hands inside a hellish bleeding wound and had found me. They had pulled me out and restored me to safety. I looked at my trembling hands and legs and resolved that I was not going back there again, ever.

Such irony – there I was witnessing the first calm, sunny day on that beautiful island in almost two weeks, and I was barricaded in my hut for almost three hours. In a huge bid to regain control, I began to look at my options. It was too late to head to the back of the island. Sitting outside was also impossible. People would stop and want to talk to me. I filled a bottle of water from the saucepan, wrapped Sue’s three-day-old scone in a sheet of writing paper and placed the water, the scone and a book in my backpack. I watched through the crack in the door for a break in the line of sightseers and then hurried out, pulling my towel off my makeshift clothes line as I went. Without a sideways glance, I set off. By then, I could have found my way blindfolded to the beach, dodging effortlessly every rabbit hole and nettle. A group of middle-aged English walkers marched up the path, armed with walking poles, sturdy boots and gaiters, compasses and laminated maps around their necks. Each one also carried an enormous backpack. Two of the female walkers scanned me disapprovingly as I sped by. I heard the word ‘hippie’ being uttered as I passed. Then it occurred to me that I had not looked in a mirror in over two weeks. What did they see? Bare feet and bare legs under a torn jungle shirt, and tangled long hair that had not been exposed to anything but sea water, wind and salt since my arrival. I headed straight for the beach, confirming all their suspicions.

The beach was packed with tourists. People sat side by side on the sand, not acknowledging each other’s existence. It reminded me of being on the tube in London, where people manage to create their own self-contained bubble inches from another person’s face. In the most crowded place on the island, the beach, I found the most privacy. Nobody would invade my space here, pick up my journal, or take photos of me as if I was a museum piece. I sat back against the warm rock, forcing deep, calm breaths into my lungs. My feet were coated with hot, white sand. I opened the book on my lap and watched the activity from under the sanctuary of my hat. The Great Blasket Island seemed like a different place. Gone were the rain, the cold sand and the Beverley Sisters. In their stead were a South Pacific island, sparkling blue sea and dazzling white sand. A group of children fought valiantly against the incoming tide as it dissolved their sandcastle walls. Some American university students sat and lay around their tutor farther along the beach. Gradually, they peeled away from their tutorial, tempted by the allure of a yellow frisbee. Couples of various nationalities strolled along the tideline. An assortment of white male stomachs ballooned from the sand at intervals. Families and couples crowded the beach, all observing invisible boundaries that shielded them from their neighbours. The father and son who had barged in on me earlier came and sat against the rocks a few feet from me. I looked over. Both of them failed to acknowledge my presence now.