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Eiblin looked at him through the steamed up glass of the scullery window, he never wandered very far like the rest of her adventurous children, for some reason he was magnetically drawn to the field at the back of the farm, he found beauty and adventure there in the shadow finn, finn was a huge mist covered granite bare mountain which bent over the entire valley like its guardian, and of course that bloody tree which he played in and around every single day, rain or shine.The small lush field was never cultivated because of the tree stuck right in the middle of the small plot, the poor field as it was known was the home of an ancient Irish fairy tree, the tree was eye catching and very mystical looking without a doubt, it had large strong bronze roots that straddled a huge granite boulders trapped underneath its belly, the irish fairy tree had a curse, local folklore predicted a terrible death to anyone who even so much as cut one of its branches, and as a result the blight of the field was now centuries old.
Eiblin cursed her dead husband for leaving her and her boys all alone on this ragged stoney farm, the farm which was wedged in a bleak valley of Connemara known as an straid salach, ( the dirt road) Alone she supplemented her small income by becoming a ‘Bean an te’, Gaelic for ‘the woman of the house’ , her and her house would be a home from home each summer to groups of young Irish school children who traveled from Ulster, or the black north as it was locally referred to, a 3 week short holiday to embellish their Irish language fluency. Many families sent their children to Connemara for a 3 week scholarship to immerse themselves in a Gaelic way of life, a life remote and away from the daily oppressed catholic and British way of life that scourged the sectarian north. Native speakers were a dying race and Eiblin counted her blessings for being brought up a native speaking gaeilge family, Caoimhin was busy playing around his beloved magical tree, with a cumann in his hand (stick/bat) he was the bravest warrior Ireland ever saw, screeching Maru Maru Maru, (kill kill kill ) his battle cry could be heard fields away echoing in the valley, he ducked an weaved shouting and trusting at his invisible Sasanach (English) invaders, slapping his backside again and again to move his steed along faster into the fray.
Caoimhin was Eiblins 7th son, she knew from the start that he was different and not like her others boys, even in her womb she felt his power and peculiar strength which she didn’t understand and couldn’t explain to others.
The poor field was at the east end border of their property with their nearest neighbours land Aodh, Aodh Heir was a long standing bachelor ..... Aodh or Aodh Mor ( big Hugh) as Caoimhin called him, was different, different in every way from all the other men in the valley, men who would be born there and die there without ever leaving the valley or going to a large city never mind another country. Aodh had left the valley, he knew to his cost what the outside world was like and didn’t like it, he didn’t want any part of it any more ,the fast uncaring sasanach lifestyle was not for him, at a young age he was hired out, sent to work on a farm in alban (Scotland) by his bullying step father who wanted him out from under him and his mothers feet, one less mouth to feed and no witness to his cruel selfish ways. Hugh was a tank of a man, he looked like he was cut from the granite hills that surrounded his farm, his hands were huge without being fat, he wore heavy boots that despite having laces were never tied up, this made him shuffle his thick strong legs and large feet in a meaningful strong short gait, this gait gave his slow movements strength and presence, like a giant from some fable book.
maidin maith duit (good morning) he greeted Caoimhin in gaeilge, agus tu fein (and you too) retorted Caoimhin without a thought, Aodh mor liked that, so much suffering and persecution had gone into saving the language which was being discarded recklessly by many young people in the valley, they were too quick to discard the Celtic ways and traditions, but Caoimhin different,he was Celtic from head to toe.
Brendan Curran
