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Authors: Niall Williams
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madness. For only they knew
that the telling of stories could rob the world of life and make time vanish. And so, though the story might be yet in its
vast middle, an hour before sunrise the lamp was always turned down, the listeners sent away, and the curtains of the caravan
drawn.
Such was their way. Although they did not follow the calendar, the gypsies knew the customs of their year. And on the morning
they fished the Foleys from the Shannon River they were on their way to the last races
of
October held on the sands of the Atlantic. They had already been to the horse fairs that marked the end of grass and were
leading a new pony. On that shoreline in the dawn there were thirty or so men, women, and small children gathered as the brothers
were pulled ashore. They spoke their own language in quick, guttural phrases and cut the fishing lines with knives in their
belts. The men had black curls and smoky eyes and wore tattered shirts of once bright colour now open to the rain. The fingers
of their hands were aged by the endlessness of the earth they had travelled, the muddied rutted roads, trackless bog, and
rock-strewn fields. Their women stood behind them with arms crossed. They were strangely beautiful in everything but their
teeth, and made
of
their gaping, blackish smiles a sensual virtue, painting their lips in vivid reds and opening them wide in a way that suggested
they could swallow the world. They wore jewels and chains and bangles and brooches that were not seen yet in that part of
the country. They had combs of tortoiseshell in their hair and wore skirts over their skirts that filled out the lower half
of
their figures with bounty and made their movements slow and swaying as if walking in another time. The children were like
the ghosts of children. They appeared in brown-and-grey rags, thin and wan and dirty, their grave doomed eyes like pools of
ink in which no expression could be read save that of mistrust, for death had moved recently among them. Their long arms hung
limply. The rain ran down their faces.
The brothers were unhooked. They lay on the mud banks and looked at the faces peering down at them. The rain fell into theirmouths, tasting of blood. In the breaking light the storm rumbled and retreated begrudgingly. Then a large woman with a green
shawl stepped forward and told the men to take the boys to shelter.
In three caravans they were laid on cot beds and undressed. The twins were kept together. Though they were living, they imagined
they might be dreaming and did not protest when the gypsy women took off their clothes and laid them naked on coarse blankets
that smelled of hazel and hawthorn. The Foleys’ senses were sharpened by the nearness of death. They came back to air like
fish flapping in the bottom of a boat. They caught the deep and heady perfumes of the women in their nostrils, felt their
heads swirl, and fell asleep once more.
While the four brothers slept, the women watched them to see the shape of their dreams and the men gathered and spoke excitedly
of the catch the river had yielded. The gypsies read the adventures of every day for the secret code of the world and knew
that the fish-men had come to them not by chance, but by design. For here was the answer to the question they had asked the
universe.
For, you see, the gypsies had had sixteen horses. From one of the diminished northern tribes who had travelled to the fairs
from Donegal for the last time, they had bought a white pony that was wild and fast. This they had watched and roped and lunged
and groomed and fed the berries of the year and the stolen hay of those farms they passed. In the evenings by fires of fresh
ash that cracked and spat, they had told each other stories of its future. They told the legends of the races not yet run
but which had flashed before them all with the startling clarity of episodes of clairvoyance. They envisioned how Mario, their
champion
that the telling of stories could rob the world of life and make time vanish. And so, though the story might be yet in its
vast middle, an hour before sunrise the lamp was always turned down, the listeners sent away, and the curtains of the caravan
drawn.
Such was their way. Although they did not follow the calendar, the gypsies knew the customs of their year. And on the morning
they fished the Foleys from the Shannon River they were on their way to the last races
of
October held on the sands of the Atlantic. They had already been to the horse fairs that marked the end of grass and were
leading a new pony. On that shoreline in the dawn there were thirty or so men, women, and small children gathered as the brothers
were pulled ashore. They spoke their own language in quick, guttural phrases and cut the fishing lines with knives in their
belts. The men had black curls and smoky eyes and wore tattered shirts of once bright colour now open to the rain. The fingers
of their hands were aged by the endlessness of the earth they had travelled, the muddied rutted roads, trackless bog, and
rock-strewn fields. Their women stood behind them with arms crossed. They were strangely beautiful in everything but their
teeth, and made
of
their gaping, blackish smiles a sensual virtue, painting their lips in vivid reds and opening them wide in a way that suggested
they could swallow the world. They wore jewels and chains and bangles and brooches that were not seen yet in that part of
the country. They had combs of tortoiseshell in their hair and wore skirts over their skirts that filled out the lower half
of
their figures with bounty and made their movements slow and swaying as if walking in another time. The children were like
the ghosts of children. They appeared in brown-and-grey rags, thin and wan and dirty, their grave doomed eyes like pools of
ink in which no expression could be read save that of mistrust, for death had moved recently among them. Their long arms hung
limply. The rain ran down their faces.
The brothers were unhooked. They lay on the mud banks and looked at the faces peering down at them. The rain fell into theirmouths, tasting of blood. In the breaking light the storm rumbled and retreated begrudgingly. Then a large woman with a green
shawl stepped forward and told the men to take the boys to shelter.
In three caravans they were laid on cot beds and undressed. The twins were kept together. Though they were living, they imagined
they might be dreaming and did not protest when the gypsy women took off their clothes and laid them naked on coarse blankets
that smelled of hazel and hawthorn. The Foleys’ senses were sharpened by the nearness of death. They came back to air like
fish flapping in the bottom of a boat. They caught the deep and heady perfumes of the women in their nostrils, felt their
heads swirl, and fell asleep once more.
While the four brothers slept, the women watched them to see the shape of their dreams and the men gathered and spoke excitedly
of the catch the river had yielded. The gypsies read the adventures of every day for the secret code of the world and knew
that the fish-men had come to them not by chance, but by design. For here was the answer to the question they had asked the
universe.
For, you see, the gypsies had had sixteen horses. From one of the diminished northern tribes who had travelled to the fairs
from Donegal for the last time, they had bought a white pony that was wild and fast. This they had watched and roped and lunged
and groomed and fed the berries of the year and the stolen hay of those farms they passed. In the evenings by fires of fresh
ash that cracked and spat, they had told each other stories of its future. They told the legends of the races not yet run
but which had flashed before them all with the startling clarity of episodes of clairvoyance. They envisioned how Mario, their
champion
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