a notch and began to treat him as an American cousin, a tourist almost. And as with any such visitor, they wished him to see the sights; they were as natural aristocrats to a houseguest.
For his first excursion, Molly took out the bicycles.
“Robert, we're going for a spin. I bet as a young lad you had a bike.”
He had asked them to stop calling him Father. They agreed, yet they warned him that everywhere he went in Ireland he would be recognized as having the stamp of a priest on him. Joe added, “We'd recognize a priest naked. I mean— if you saw a giraffe up the fields, you'd know it was a giraffe.”
Robert mounted the bicycle and pedaled a few yards to find his balance. Then, with Molly leading, they wobbled into the wider countryside.
The narrow road barely allowed them to ride abreast. With the sun in their eyes and the breeze on their faces, they entered flat unbounded lands of brown and cream. This was the open bogland of North Kerry, where random piles of peat bricks stood in the fields like rough old tribal monuments.
After a couple of miles, Molly turned her front wheel toward the mouth of a lane. In the distance, across the bogs, a man labored alone, a lanky man with hair white as a seagull.
“Ask this fella questions,” said Molly. “He loves big words.”
“Hah, Molly!” the man called out. “You'd a different boy with you the last time I saw you.”
Molly laughed at the tease. “Matt, this is our young Yank.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, dragging out the note to convey wonder andappreciation. “The man that's walking up the river. Our insipid voyager.” Matt held out a lanky hand, and Robert came forward to shake it. “Well, I hope you can swim, Father.”
Robert took no note that Matt seemed to know all about him.
“Matt, tell Father what you're doing here in the bog.”
“I'm digging for the carcass of a dragon, Father.”
Robert widened his eyes, and Matt surged at the encouragement.
“Yeh. There was an old dragon over there in the mouth of the river. But one of the saints ran him outa there so he came over here to live— where there's no saints.” He winked at Molly.
She said, “Ah, Matt, tell him your real job.”
“Footing turf.” He picked up a brick of the dark brown peat. “Did you ever see turf, Father? This is a sod of turf for the fire. It'll burn like a bush.”
He handed the brick to Robert, who turned it over, sniffed it, and scrutinized the shades of color, from the black of jet to the brown of tobacco, the wisps of white like facial hair, the dry texture.
Matt watched Robert feel the crumbly brick. “D'you know how old that is, Father?” He answered his own question. “Millions o’ years there in your hand. Half a maternity.”
He took back the brick and began to break it open, bending its soft back, showing the crumbs of fiber.
“There's the bones of old forests in this, Father,” he said, his voice passionate, “and there's heather in it, and God knows what else. I mean, there's bodies reserved in bogs like this— you know, the way a saint's body would be reserved.”
Molly said, “Matt, did you ever hear of a family called Shannon anywhere round here?”
“The only Shannon I ever heard tell of is herself over there. Flowing along like the moon. And she's a true river, I mean, she gets to the sea. ‘Tis the least a river might do.” He looked at Robert. “Are you tracing?”
Molly said, “He is. The Shannon family.”
“What'll you do, Father, if you find out they were sheep stealers? That'd be no kinda pedagogue for a man to have.”
“Ah, Matt,” said Molly, “they went to America a long time ago.”
“No, not a long time, not at all a long time. This turf, now— that'shere since time immoral. If you compare it, Father, your family only left last week. But sure, we all know, comparisons are odorous.”
As they walked away, wheeling their bicycles to the road, Molly whispered, “He's from Lisselton. Joe says the people in
For his first excursion, Molly took out the bicycles.
“Robert, we're going for a spin. I bet as a young lad you had a bike.”
He had asked them to stop calling him Father. They agreed, yet they warned him that everywhere he went in Ireland he would be recognized as having the stamp of a priest on him. Joe added, “We'd recognize a priest naked. I mean— if you saw a giraffe up the fields, you'd know it was a giraffe.”
Robert mounted the bicycle and pedaled a few yards to find his balance. Then, with Molly leading, they wobbled into the wider countryside.
The narrow road barely allowed them to ride abreast. With the sun in their eyes and the breeze on their faces, they entered flat unbounded lands of brown and cream. This was the open bogland of North Kerry, where random piles of peat bricks stood in the fields like rough old tribal monuments.
After a couple of miles, Molly turned her front wheel toward the mouth of a lane. In the distance, across the bogs, a man labored alone, a lanky man with hair white as a seagull.
“Ask this fella questions,” said Molly. “He loves big words.”
“Hah, Molly!” the man called out. “You'd a different boy with you the last time I saw you.”
Molly laughed at the tease. “Matt, this is our young Yank.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, dragging out the note to convey wonder andappreciation. “The man that's walking up the river. Our insipid voyager.” Matt held out a lanky hand, and Robert came forward to shake it. “Well, I hope you can swim, Father.”
Robert took no note that Matt seemed to know all about him.
“Matt, tell Father what you're doing here in the bog.”
“I'm digging for the carcass of a dragon, Father.”
Robert widened his eyes, and Matt surged at the encouragement.
“Yeh. There was an old dragon over there in the mouth of the river. But one of the saints ran him outa there so he came over here to live— where there's no saints.” He winked at Molly.
She said, “Ah, Matt, tell him your real job.”
“Footing turf.” He picked up a brick of the dark brown peat. “Did you ever see turf, Father? This is a sod of turf for the fire. It'll burn like a bush.”
He handed the brick to Robert, who turned it over, sniffed it, and scrutinized the shades of color, from the black of jet to the brown of tobacco, the wisps of white like facial hair, the dry texture.
Matt watched Robert feel the crumbly brick. “D'you know how old that is, Father?” He answered his own question. “Millions o’ years there in your hand. Half a maternity.”
He took back the brick and began to break it open, bending its soft back, showing the crumbs of fiber.
“There's the bones of old forests in this, Father,” he said, his voice passionate, “and there's heather in it, and God knows what else. I mean, there's bodies reserved in bogs like this— you know, the way a saint's body would be reserved.”
Molly said, “Matt, did you ever hear of a family called Shannon anywhere round here?”
“The only Shannon I ever heard tell of is herself over there. Flowing along like the moon. And she's a true river, I mean, she gets to the sea. ‘Tis the least a river might do.” He looked at Robert. “Are you tracing?”
Molly said, “He is. The Shannon family.”
“What'll you do, Father, if you find out they were sheep stealers? That'd be no kinda pedagogue for a man to have.”
“Ah, Matt,” said Molly, “they went to America a long time ago.”
“No, not a long time, not at all a long time. This turf, now— that'shere since time immoral. If you compare it, Father, your family only left last week. But sure, we all know, comparisons are odorous.”
As they walked away, wheeling their bicycles to the road, Molly whispered, “He's from Lisselton. Joe says the people in
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