summer, hunting with our great hounds, animals so mighty one could, by itself, take down and kill a full-racked fallow deer in the blink of an eye. Like everyone else, Donal thought me an odd child, but he rarely teased me and never abused me, and for that I was altogether grateful.
How do I describe the territories of the O’Malley clan? ’Twas water as much as land in the first place, the rivers and lakes amidst the inland fastnesses—rolling hills and bogs on the mainland, Crough Patrick where the sainted man himself ascended to its peak for his fast of forty days. And most important Clew Bay, wherein the family’s slew of islands and sandy reefs lay. The largest, Clare Island, where the castle of my childhood summers stood guarding the inlet to the bay; the small isles without—Inishturk, with its great cliffs and wild boars that roamed the windswept highlands; Inishbofin, with its tight-necked harbor and castle too; Inishark, a mere rock in the ocean; and Cahir, the holy place where none but holy men lived in stone huts. And of course there was the wide Western Sea beyond, which the O’Malleys claimed a part of as their own. Whosoever should wander into those waters were wise to know that. Fishing fleets from England, France, the Low Countries, even Spain, paid my father well for the privilege of fishing there. And ’twas to him they came when they wanted their vessels piloted safely along those treacherous shores.
Galway was the closest town of any size or import, the heart of trade for Ireland, and in those days England too. But the city fathers of Galway were a spineless lot, scared of their own shadows, and built great walls round about them to protect the citizens from the likes of us. Their laws were made to keep us out—O’Malleys, O’Flahertys, Burkes—we all were kept from doin’ our business there. The truth is, the city feared us, shat themselves with terror at the thought of their country neighbors.
A sign that hung above the gate of Galway City told it all. “From the ferocious O’Flahertys, good Lord deliver us.” Have you ever heard of anything so lame as that?
The sea was our home but the land sustained us too. In my youth the pastures were green and rich, supporting our vast herd, the farming tracts large in their bounty. There was never a man, woman, or child who wanted for food. There were great forests, dark and mysterious, where my brother Donal and I would go to scare ourselves, pretendin’ the monsters and wicked fairies who lived there were out for our blood, and we ’d battle them with our wooden swords, whose use I had learned from my father.
The O’Flahertys of Connamarra were our neighbors to the south, and our friends. The tie that bound them to the O’Malleys was the sea, for they were an old seagoing clan of great renown, great as the O’Malleys were—their fleet as mighty, their sailors as apt. And they had been so since ancient times. ’Twas written that the High King of Connaught never went out to sea or high sea without the fleets of the O’Flahertys and O’Malleys protectin’ him.
Gilleduff O’Flaherty had been our father’s friend since childhood, they playin’ together in the same wood as we had, even sailing out together once—a journey to the Barbary Coast on my grandfather’s vessel. It must’ve been memorable, for the two were thick as thieves from that time on. Brothers were never closer. ’Twas on that voyage, they liked to say, that they planned the marriage of their children to one another. Swore that if, when they married and sired a girl and a boy, they’d one day join the clans by ties of matrimony. And so while all the other clans in Ireland were raiding and murdering and pillaging their neighbors, our two families, who might have been enemies clawin’ at each others’ throats for the title of “Sea Kings,” were sharing the wealth of it instead. They were two of the wisest men I ever knew.
The times I spent on my father’s
How do I describe the territories of the O’Malley clan? ’Twas water as much as land in the first place, the rivers and lakes amidst the inland fastnesses—rolling hills and bogs on the mainland, Crough Patrick where the sainted man himself ascended to its peak for his fast of forty days. And most important Clew Bay, wherein the family’s slew of islands and sandy reefs lay. The largest, Clare Island, where the castle of my childhood summers stood guarding the inlet to the bay; the small isles without—Inishturk, with its great cliffs and wild boars that roamed the windswept highlands; Inishbofin, with its tight-necked harbor and castle too; Inishark, a mere rock in the ocean; and Cahir, the holy place where none but holy men lived in stone huts. And of course there was the wide Western Sea beyond, which the O’Malleys claimed a part of as their own. Whosoever should wander into those waters were wise to know that. Fishing fleets from England, France, the Low Countries, even Spain, paid my father well for the privilege of fishing there. And ’twas to him they came when they wanted their vessels piloted safely along those treacherous shores.
Galway was the closest town of any size or import, the heart of trade for Ireland, and in those days England too. But the city fathers of Galway were a spineless lot, scared of their own shadows, and built great walls round about them to protect the citizens from the likes of us. Their laws were made to keep us out—O’Malleys, O’Flahertys, Burkes—we all were kept from doin’ our business there. The truth is, the city feared us, shat themselves with terror at the thought of their country neighbors.
A sign that hung above the gate of Galway City told it all. “From the ferocious O’Flahertys, good Lord deliver us.” Have you ever heard of anything so lame as that?
The sea was our home but the land sustained us too. In my youth the pastures were green and rich, supporting our vast herd, the farming tracts large in their bounty. There was never a man, woman, or child who wanted for food. There were great forests, dark and mysterious, where my brother Donal and I would go to scare ourselves, pretendin’ the monsters and wicked fairies who lived there were out for our blood, and we ’d battle them with our wooden swords, whose use I had learned from my father.
The O’Flahertys of Connamarra were our neighbors to the south, and our friends. The tie that bound them to the O’Malleys was the sea, for they were an old seagoing clan of great renown, great as the O’Malleys were—their fleet as mighty, their sailors as apt. And they had been so since ancient times. ’Twas written that the High King of Connaught never went out to sea or high sea without the fleets of the O’Flahertys and O’Malleys protectin’ him.
Gilleduff O’Flaherty had been our father’s friend since childhood, they playin’ together in the same wood as we had, even sailing out together once—a journey to the Barbary Coast on my grandfather’s vessel. It must’ve been memorable, for the two were thick as thieves from that time on. Brothers were never closer. ’Twas on that voyage, they liked to say, that they planned the marriage of their children to one another. Swore that if, when they married and sired a girl and a boy, they’d one day join the clans by ties of matrimony. And so while all the other clans in Ireland were raiding and murdering and pillaging their neighbors, our two families, who might have been enemies clawin’ at each others’ throats for the title of “Sea Kings,” were sharing the wealth of it instead. They were two of the wisest men I ever knew.
The times I spent on my father’s
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