fifth time, Brian O’Malley, suspicious though he was of superstition, saw it as an omen. He could not get off the island, it occurred to him, until this drama with the girl had reached some kind of conclusion. The thought of the children, running free, forgetting their noun declensions, or of his two small fields that would be wanting attention by now, evaporated when he touched the bone hairpin in his breast pocket.
He took to walking, that morning, back and forth across the edge of the bay that made up the harbour. Fishermen watched him, with curiosity, though they themselves had been, andwere capable of being again, as entranced as he. The storm was gathering strength. Curraghs were pulled up on shore. Brian continued his wandering, angrily, everything about him blown by wind. He applied Platonic, and finally, in despair, Cartesian modes of reasoning. He even prayed a little, said a few Aves for deliverance. The rain began. He stood utterly still under the downpour with his head bowed and his fists clenched. There was nothing for it. He was a ruined man. He would have to find some way to marry her.
The low rainclouds blowing in from the sea were obliterating the cliffs of his own landscape. He was soaked through and filled with a sharpness of sensation that made him want to see everything far away in a clear light – not just these stones glistening with rain and shifting under his boots but his own cottage surrounded by its three lakes, the land extending away from it a mile towards the cliffs. The little hedge school and the vast estate of Puffin Court. The gentle uplift of Doonfort, the track to his door. All this he wanted on a clear map, now, knowing that if he were able to arrange her presence there his geography would be changed forever.
Suddenly and inexplicably he remembered his mother and the game she had played with him when he was a boy – a guessing game of question and response centring on the objects in their cabin. “What way are you?” they would ask each other until the accumulated answers brought the solution to the puzzle. Once, when he had been the fire and trying to confuse his mother, he had felt language grow and blossom in his mouth like flowers. “What way are you, Brian?” she had asked, and at the age of eleven he had said, “I am hot and difficult and lie under an open roof. I send my thoughts to the sky. I consume myself but am forever being rebuilt by others. Without me you would starve and freeze and your stories would remain untold.”
Those words came back to him now. He had never, he knew, written or spoken better since.
By the time Brian reached her cabin with the saddened priest in tow it was late in the afternoon. The weather all around the rocks of Rathlin and the coast of Antrim was in chaos.
The girl’s mother let them in with a sigh.
“He’s after marrying her,” the priest rasped into the woman’s ear. “It’s as I predicted,” he added without enthusiasm.
Brian walked to where Mary sat, her face turned towards the grey, rain-streaked window.
He would make her speak.
He touched her shoulder. She looked at him, startled. “I’ve come,” he said, “because I am certain that you must be my wife. It will be good so. We will have children and I will be kind to you.”
She turned again to the window, but she had heard him. He perceived that her eyes followed an individual raindrop down the left-hand pane of glass, then rose again to begin the journey with another. Her forearms jerked slightly as if they were being pulled by invisible strings. Brian crouched beside her so that his face was level with her hair.
“I will not disturb the place you think you’ve gone to,” he said softly. “I will not force you back.”
Because of the storm he could hear the surf pounding angrily, though the cabin was nearly a quarter of a mile from the shore. For reasons he did not fully understand he told her that the same sea washed the shore near the place where he
He took to walking, that morning, back and forth across the edge of the bay that made up the harbour. Fishermen watched him, with curiosity, though they themselves had been, andwere capable of being again, as entranced as he. The storm was gathering strength. Curraghs were pulled up on shore. Brian continued his wandering, angrily, everything about him blown by wind. He applied Platonic, and finally, in despair, Cartesian modes of reasoning. He even prayed a little, said a few Aves for deliverance. The rain began. He stood utterly still under the downpour with his head bowed and his fists clenched. There was nothing for it. He was a ruined man. He would have to find some way to marry her.
The low rainclouds blowing in from the sea were obliterating the cliffs of his own landscape. He was soaked through and filled with a sharpness of sensation that made him want to see everything far away in a clear light – not just these stones glistening with rain and shifting under his boots but his own cottage surrounded by its three lakes, the land extending away from it a mile towards the cliffs. The little hedge school and the vast estate of Puffin Court. The gentle uplift of Doonfort, the track to his door. All this he wanted on a clear map, now, knowing that if he were able to arrange her presence there his geography would be changed forever.
Suddenly and inexplicably he remembered his mother and the game she had played with him when he was a boy – a guessing game of question and response centring on the objects in their cabin. “What way are you?” they would ask each other until the accumulated answers brought the solution to the puzzle. Once, when he had been the fire and trying to confuse his mother, he had felt language grow and blossom in his mouth like flowers. “What way are you, Brian?” she had asked, and at the age of eleven he had said, “I am hot and difficult and lie under an open roof. I send my thoughts to the sky. I consume myself but am forever being rebuilt by others. Without me you would starve and freeze and your stories would remain untold.”
Those words came back to him now. He had never, he knew, written or spoken better since.
By the time Brian reached her cabin with the saddened priest in tow it was late in the afternoon. The weather all around the rocks of Rathlin and the coast of Antrim was in chaos.
The girl’s mother let them in with a sigh.
“He’s after marrying her,” the priest rasped into the woman’s ear. “It’s as I predicted,” he added without enthusiasm.
Brian walked to where Mary sat, her face turned towards the grey, rain-streaked window.
He would make her speak.
He touched her shoulder. She looked at him, startled. “I’ve come,” he said, “because I am certain that you must be my wife. It will be good so. We will have children and I will be kind to you.”
She turned again to the window, but she had heard him. He perceived that her eyes followed an individual raindrop down the left-hand pane of glass, then rose again to begin the journey with another. Her forearms jerked slightly as if they were being pulled by invisible strings. Brian crouched beside her so that his face was level with her hair.
“I will not disturb the place you think you’ve gone to,” he said softly. “I will not force you back.”
Because of the storm he could hear the surf pounding angrily, though the cabin was nearly a quarter of a mile from the shore. For reasons he did not fully understand he told her that the same sea washed the shore near the place where he
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