The Last Storyteller Read Online Free PDF Page B

once noted down some tales from a man up in Mayo, out in the wilds of Bangor Erris, who repeated the phrase, no matter what the story, “Now a woman would never say that, especially a woman who had chickens to feed.”
    They did it, those ancient storytellers, to give our minds—and their voices—a tiny respite. Mr. O’Neill (his name, he said, means “descended from champions”) followed his recurring phrases with a little pause: to fill a pipe, throw a log on the fire, or rub down fresh tobacco with the heel of his hand. And when he’d finished, we neither of us spoke until a log shifted in the fire and broke the spell. I thanked him—and my few words sounded meager.
    He stood with me outside his door. The moon had reached the west and was quitting the sky.
    “I’m glad you got here,” he said.
    All my life I have looked for leadership. I am drawn to those who lead, especially if they show a benign nature. By now I knew that I would have done anything for this man, any task he might have set me. I didn’t yet know why.
    “Mr. O’Neill, may I come to see you again?”
    The pause he took made me panicky:
Have I done something wrong?
    Then he spoke: “I think you’ll find that you have to.”
    I had no idea that night what he meant; I do now.

13
    Elma Sloane ran her hands through her hair, then slapped them to her face like placards. She moaned without stopping for breath.
    “Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God.”
    Like a taskmaster I said, “Elma!”
    “It’s-all-my-fault-it’s-all-my-fault-it’s-all-my-fault.”
    I snapped at her again: “Enough.”
    “Ben, turn the car around,” said Jimmy Bermingham, “Cashel hospital.”
    No dramatics. No histrionics. Just find a gate and make a calm, three-point turn
.
    I’ve always looked beyond the idea of illness to the place of that ailment in the sufferer’s story. For instance, my father kept falling and breaking limbs, and he had made so many missteps in his life. My beloved mother, always timid before the universe, suffered rashes on her face and hands.
    I wish I had collected stories to illustrate my theory. Was there some legend—of some king, say, an unaware man with no insight who went blind? My friend Trigger McGowan, he had a sister who criticized him every time she saw him; he married a wife of similarly abusive gifts. And slowly, over the years, Trigger went deaf—for no diagnosable reason. But he could still play the concertina like a genius.
    Here, in front of my eyes, my theories rose again. Sitting beside me, with Jimmy Bermingham trying to reach forward and stabilize him, was an old man convulsing within reach of the young girl to whom he had lost his heart.
    I drove quickly enough to hurry, slowly enough to handle the rainstorm. Elma’s weeping wasn’t as silent as she thought.
Keep the old gentleman stable. He’s still breathing. Jimmy Bermingham seems remarkably confident
.
    “His name is Dan?” he asked Elma Sloane.
    “Yes. Dan. Oh God.”
    Jimmy said, “Dan, if you can hear me, cough and keep coughing. Cough. Deep breath. Cough. Right?”
    “Do you know what you’re doing?” I said.
    “Medical student. Nine and a half years.”
    Jimmy let go for a moment to stabilize his own crouching position, and the old man’s head swung toward my jaw; spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the back of my hand. He breathed in rasps and gasps.
    How many miles to Cashel? Thirty? Twenty? I’ve walked it often enough, I ought to know
.
    “Okay, Dan, okay?” Jimmy reclaimed the head, held it straight. “Dan, cough again, right? Keep coughing. Deep breath. Cough. Right?”
    Good fortune defused our panic. In the short driveway of a farm I saw an ambulance with its doors open. The paramedics were unloading someone into the farmhouse, hurrying the wheelchair through the rain. I reeled the car off the road.
    Minutes later, we were transferring our old gentleman from the car as though he were a frail child.
    “Shouldn’t maybe somebody go with