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  Contents

  Walter Macken

  The Beginning of the Story

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Interlude

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Walter Macken

  Brown Lord of the Mountain

  Walter Macken was born in Galway in 1915. He was a writer of short stories, novels and plays. Originally an actor, principally with the Taibhdhearc in Galway, and The Abbey Theatre, he played lead roles on Broadway in M. J. Molloy’s The King of Friday’s Men and his own play Home Is the Hero. He also acted in films, notably in Arthur Dreifuss’ adaptation of Brendan Behan’s The Quare Fellow. He is perhaps best known for his trilogy of Irish historical novels Seek the Fair Land, The Silent People and The Scorching Wind. He passed away in 1967.

  The Beginning of the Story

  I F YOU WANT to begin any story at its proper beginning you would have to go back to the time of Adam and start from there. Wiser men have done this and taken the story into recognizable times. So the story of man now has to begin at a point of time in the memory of the man who tells the tale.

  So this one begins on a stormy night in the Mountain at the wedding feast of Donn Donnshleibhe.

  Built in a scoop of the hills, the village of the Mountain on this night in September was being peeled by the west wind and scoured by the slanting rain. People whose front doors faced into the wind had sodden sacks outside their front lintels to stop the rain flooding their kitchens.

  This was the kind of night it was, but it didn’t stop them from going to the feast of the only son of the Lord of the Mountain.

  There the house was at the end of the road, built like the gowleog you would use for a catapult, a long low branch to the left where they lived, the bit in the middle where the porch was that led into the shop, and the long room on the right, with the lights blazing inside and all the window glass befogged and dripping with the breath and the sweat of the rejoicing people.

  It was hard to get in there. Many young men stood at the doorway looking into the big room. There were three oil lamps hanging from the ceiling clouded with waves of blue tobacco smoke. At the far end there was a wooden table with three tapped half-barrels of porter on it.

  The fiddler and the melodeon player were hidden behind this table. Sometimes they were silent, but when the music came the young people went to the centre of the room and they danced. There were very few sober people in this room, because it was now nearly midnight, the talk was loud, the sound of hobnailed boots on the concrete floor was harsh and in one corner drunken men were in a huddle singing come-all-ye’s, out of key, in opposition to all the other noise.

  The young Donn was backed up against the wall watching all this. He could see it all because he was very tall and powerful. He was not drunk. He might have been better off if he was. From his height he looked around him at all this and it brought him no joy. He looked at his father, a man as tall as himself, a big rangy man with thick white hair combed back over a well-shaped head. He was sitting on a high stool. He was shouting at times, singing at times, clapping people on the back at times, turning now and again to put his huge arm around the frail shoulders of Martin MacGerr, the father of the bride. This man’s hair was thin, his eyes were very blue, and they made an odd contrast, the big lusty-looking Donnshleibhe and the scholarly-looking MacGerr, a wisp of man with dreamy eyes, more bewildered by his surroundings than by the whiskey that was being forced on him by his new and unexpected relation.

  Donn moved his tongue in his mouth. It was dry. He would have to make up his mind soon. When a girl put her hand on his chest and asked him to dance, he remembered to smile down at her and shake his head. But always his eyes went back to his father. The resentment rose in him, the longer he looked at him.

  He knew the title Lord of the Mountain was derisive as it was used now, but the old man made it his own. He was a lord of his own choice, who saw no opinion but his own. His judgments were decisive and without appeal. This feast should not be here in this house of his, but down in the small cottage at the foot of the hills where MacGerr lived his life with his books and the copybooks of his scholars.

  His hands were clenched behind his back. He felt them hurting him and took them and looked at them. They were big hands and the nails had made deep indentations in the palms.

  Suddenly he pushed himself away from the wall and started to move out of the room. He had to force his way. He heard the banter over the noise and the sweat and the fumes, but it glanced off him. He wanted to get out into the air. The faces of all the young people he knew refused to come into focus. He just smiled and said ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Their shouts and encouragements were slightly obscene, but this wasn’t unusual. He broke through them, went off by the porch and stood in the rain.

  It was drenching rain. He was wearing a new navy-blue suit and a white shirt. In seconds he felt the water pouring from his hair and down his face into the collar of the shirt. He rubbed his face with his hand.

  He knew that the thought in his mind was terrible, but he didn’t see how he could do anything else.

  Abruptly he walked to the right, where the family rooms stretched and he went to the window of one room and looked in. There were lace curtains. He could see vaguely through them, but where they were parted in the centre he had a clearer view.

  His mother was there and some of the ladies, and Meela, his new wife, was there, in her neat blue dress with the white collar. She was right opposite him. He could see her clearly if he wanted to. He didn’t let his eyes drop below her forehead. He had found himself doing that, even when they were being married in the Chapel of Ease at the foot of the hill this morning, not looking into her eyes, just looking at her forehead where it curved out from under the jet-black hair. Nor now, nor now, because don’t mind father, don’t mind circumstances, she was the focal point of his resentment. The others would only be wounded in their pride, but it would be different with her.

  He tried to tell himself that she deserved it. She wasn’t the force that had brought the marriage into being. He could have said no, couldn’t he? If he had been courageous, he could have even shouted down the roarings of his father. He hadn’t done so, and what had been love and affection seemed stale now and brought the taste to his mouth, the dry bitter taste. His mother wouldn’t mind. She was there with her flowered blouse held by a cameo brooch, a plump woman with no lines on her face, insensitive
to suffering, insensitive to life, who loved wounded birds and helpless things. She would have something to nurse now.

  He pulled away from the window, and thought.

  He went back to the porch.

  The young men were jammed in the doorway, looking in, shouting, hurrooing. He passed by the back of them and tried the door to the shop. It was open. He went in. It was feebly lighted by candles stuck in bottles. All the oil lamps were in the big room. The place smelled of spices and food and stale spilt drink.

  He went behind the counter.

  He pulled out the drawer with the brass handle that was built under the lower shelf. He felt in here. There was money in it. He didn’t take it all, just a fistful of pound notes. He stuffed those into his trouser pocket, turned and left the place, got by the backs of the young men without being noticed and went out into the rain.

  He pulled up the collar of his jacket, and grunted ruefully at its ineffectiveness.

  Bicycles were thrown against the wall in untidy heaps. He picked the one nearest to him, freed it from its neighbour, and wheeled it out to the road.

  He stopped a little here. His eyes went back to the room where Meela sat, obediently drinking tea and eating porter cake, wondering no doubt why Donn hadn’t appeared to see her in hours. She was a blurred picture to him as he looked, then he mounted the bicycle and headed down the road from the Mountain with the heavy gale at his back.

  It was a bad road. He seemed to be flying. From here the road went down and down, winding and twisting, the dirt greasy with the rain, like riding on a river, wobbling in the ruts made by all the cartwheels.

  When he tried the brakes he found that there were no brakes.

  He was glad. It was a wild ride. He could have fallen on any yard of it for six miles, before it became reasonable where it got near to the main road into the town.

  A grand way to start the mí na meala, the month of honey, they would say. No month of honey for him. They would all know that the month of honey had been before it should have been. He had had a terrible desire to cry out in the church: Yes, yes, it is as you suspect, if we waited this could have been a christening. He heard the voice of his father roaring in his ears, while he just stood and said hypocrite, hypocrite under his breath. He was lacking in courage. Was he lacking in courage? He could have said like others said before him: Well, I wasn’t the only one. There was no law. But he hadn’t because he knew that this wasn’t true.

  He was twenty-one. He had a mind of his own.

  The water weeped from him as he cycled along the road to the big town.

  He would leave the bicycle there at the railway station.

  He tried to console himself that it was her fault, that she ought to have known. She ought to have begged him not to go through with it. He would have been for ever up there in the Mountain, like a sheaf of oats under his father’s flail. Wouldn’t she know that? He couldn’t do it. She ought to have used her intelligence.

  It wasn’t running away. He would prove this. That it wasn’t lack of courage. Just that they pushed him into a corner, all of them pushed him into a corner. What time did he get to think?

  Well, there would be plenty of time to think now.

  There was a war breaking out in Europe wasn’t there?

  That would be the place where you could prove what you were made of, provide a feeble reason to them, for his flight in the night of the storm.

  He didn’t care.

  His big jaw was tight as he saw the faint yellow of the lights of the town. He imagined the gleaming steel rails running away from it, and beyond over the sea, where he would be free, and leave them behind him, for ever and ever and ever.

  He was his own man, for ever and ever and ever.

  But while a man lives there is no for ever.

  Chapter One

  H E SAILED INTO the Bay on an April evening.

  He leaned against the wheelhouse of the Spanish trawler, not conscious now of the throb of the diesel engine under his boots. The sea was calm. When he turned his head left he could see the sun sinking beyond the islands, a great red-coloured orb reflecting itself as far as the wake of the boat. The far-away mountains were coloured blue and purple, and some of the windows of the houses that faced that way were winking redly at the dying sun.

  He felt the presence of the man beside him. It was José.

  ‘This is yours, eh?’ he asked in Spanish.

  ‘Not this, beyond,’ Donn said, pointing towards the hill that rose out of the town.

  ‘It is good to come home,’ José said. ‘Always I like to go home.’

  Donn didn’t answer.

  José had a home, on the Atlantic coast, in a small village mainly consisting of a row of houses going down to the harbour, with its mass of rocking masts, a littered garage, two bars with the odd smell in them, a few shops and all the time in the world. José had a wife, and she was Irish, and three small children. His wife had been so pleased to see Donn, to talk English, but it was frustrating too because he did not know the place she came from and so could not tell her about such a one or such a one. She was disappointed in him.

  ‘You see your father, your mother?’ José asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Donn.

  ‘A long time since you see them, no?’ he asked.

  Donn thought. He remembered the wild bicycle ride down the wet road, sitting in the train waiting for it to move; the absurd feeling that any minute his father would come running along the platform shouting: Hey you! Come back you!

  ‘It must be about sixteen years,’ he said.

  José tsk-tsk-tsked.

  ‘This is too long,’ he said. ‘ Life is short, no?’

  ‘Sometimes life is long,’ said Donn.

  A bell tinkled below. Manuel shoved his big head out of the wheelhouse and shouted something at José. José said: ‘Yes, yes, Manuel!’ and went back.

  ‘So we bring you home, Señor Don Don!’ Manuel shouted.

  Donn laughed. He had a hard job getting them used to his name, Donn with two n’s. It was an impossible task for them so they settled for Don Don, and tacked on a Señor for good measure.

  ‘And made me work hard for my passage,’ said Donn.

  Manuel laughed.

  ‘A big fellow like you,’ he said. ‘If we do not work you then your joints rust up like idle iron.’

  Donn laughed. His Spanish was not good. Bog Spanish like they used to say bog Latin when they were at school. But he gave them great occasions for laughter with his pronunciations.

  ‘Soon now,’ said Manuel, ‘you will be in front of a fire in your father’s house and you will kiss your Momma and Poppa.’

  Donn thought of kissing Poppa. He had to laugh.

  ‘Yes, yes, Manuel,’ he said. They were nice simple people. If they had character complications he didn’t know of them. They had very good manners and families were important to them. They could hardly be expected to understand his.

  ‘Soon, soon,’ said Manuel, going back to his task.

  The engine had slowed. They were gliding past the island with the lighthouse on it, already beginning to flash its beam at the hills and the island-broken horizon. He felt the muscles of his stomach tightening. He wondered why in the name of God he was coming home. Only partly home, he decided then. He could go to the town, and after that he didn’t have to go any farther if he didn’t want to.

  Why? What instinct was it? He had been sitting in the warm sun on the many-housand-year-old bricks at Ostia when the thought had come into his head. Here in this town dug out of the past, with its houses, temples, long, long chariot roads, it suddenly seemed to him looking at it that the life span of a man was very short. He was imagining this nobleman’s house with its stately halls peopled by ladies and children and servants in light whispering robes, and there at the end of the hall was a small room with a toilet built over what had been a drain, and the toilet seat was made of shaped marble. So little difference to modern life. Men and women wh
o had lived that long ago, and to them at that time life was important too, and there seemed no end to it, that it would go on for ever. Now they were dust and their marble toilet seat remained.

  As he went back to Rome, he felt the call of the hills and this place that had been his home. It was like no other place in the world for that reason, and the thought had come to him: It is time to go home. He argued against it, fervently, but he kept being pushed.

  It took him until March to make his way out of Italy, across France and down into Spain. But he was a seasoned traveller by now, and he found this trawler that would call at the port for supplies in the middle of their long fishing expedition.

  He was almost disappointed because he would never have bought a ticket with home as its destination. He just played the cards and they fell out this way, and now he was nearly home.

  The boat was turned in towards the dock.

  He left the deck and went below to the cramped quarters. There was nobody there, so he put the last of his things into the big duffle bag. He looked around. He had to keep bending. They had photographs tacked up, of wives and children, all smiling in the sunshine, the dark-haired black-eyed smiling girls who were the novias of young Juan and Gonzalo. Looking at them made Donn feel very old and very experienced and very sad.

  He went up on deck again.

  He went to the raised prow of the ship and stood near the winch. He saw the feeble lights of the dock fighting against the afterglow. He could feel the boat yaw a bit as they met the stream of the river. But she righted herself powerfully and edged in towards the pier where men were waiting to catch the ropes that were coiled by José and Gonzalo. They heaved, the men ran to the bollards, the side of the ship nudged and then snuggled against the iron-bound wooden baulks, and she came to rest.

  This was the part Donn didn’t like, saying good-bye to the men of the trawler. He reflected that this was always a trouble when you had wandered as far as he had. In wars it was separation by death, or feebly waving hands from stretchers. People were the raw meat of the world, feeding it. His inclination was to swarm up the ladder and run down the pier. But he couldn’t. They came around him. All of them had to look up at him.