Bríd  draws on her pipe and spits into the fire.

Her granddaughter, Bríd bheag, glares up at her as her spittle sizzles in the ashes.  Bríd bheag wears a bright red leine, cut down from something that her sister wore.  Eleven now, she will be the pretty one – as second daughters often are – and Grannie’s pet until she spots the trap.

“Ar ais, tá Aoife anseo, mná garbh féin-láithreach. Ní raibh a háilleacht ach ar dhromchla, tuig tú? Craiceann pale agus gruaig rua. Súil ghréine. Brollaigh cosúil le gnáthóga na n-aoibhinn. Agus bhí sí ag iarraidh grá a nua-fhear céile.”[1]

The holy relics the Spaniard gave her served Bríd well.  A share of them brought her Sean home safe from the wars against the Sassanacha and the Spaniard’s coin secured their tenancy at Cill Ghlas.  Unlike King Lir, Sean had three fine strong boys and two daughters before he passed away from the flux ten years ago and between them, and with the Lord Our Saviour’s help, they kept the land productive.

 Diarmaid and Seumas are strapping lads and Caít is courting an O’Dowd though the O’Dowda have long-since lost their authority in Tireragh and the surrounding county to the O’Connors.

“Mar sin, laethanta te samhraidh, deir Banríon Aoife leis na páistí, “Mo ghrátaí. Téimis go dtí an loch. Is féidir libh snámh sa uisce fuar ansin faoi scáth na gcrónna dúgha.”

“Agus leapa Fionnula, Aodh, Conn agus Fiachra leis an bpropoail, mar bhí samhradh fada tirim ann.”[2]

The Lutheran Sassanacha won the war, of course.  The Earls fled in despair to Rome.  They say they went to seek the aid of the Holy Father but no more Spaniards have been forthcoming.  Bríd’s Spaniard was her lot and those two metacarples, a clavicle and those scraps of robe of whatever unspecified martyrs are her shield, her magic.

Bríd continued her tale like a seannacha.

“Agus tá a fhios agat, léimeanna na páistí sin ar son áthas nuair a thug a máthair shíoda orthu síos go cúltacht an locha agus chonaic siad an t-uisce fionnuar, na clocha grian-screabha, na h-iasc ag luascadh. Agus d’fheara na buachaillí a n-éadaí agus thóga siad snámh, ag splancadh agus ag screadadh. Níor ghlac Fionnula ach siar, ag déanamh leagan ar an gcuasset.

“Cad atá ag cur aoibhinn, a ghrása?” d’iarr Banríon Aoife.

Ach níorbh fhéidir le Fionnula a rá cad a choinnigh í, gafa ar an mbrat. Bhí eagla uirthi ar a deartháireacha óga. B’fhéidir go dtiocfadh pike uafásach nó lomhaidh as doimhneachtaí an locha. B’fhéidir go gdragódh spréidh éigin iad.

“Ná bí buartha, a Fionnula,” ar a máthair shíoda. “Tóg laige do leine agus snámh le do deartháireacha.”

“Agus ghlac Fionnula a gúna d’óidhreach a hathar, mar a d’fhoghlaim sé í a bheith ina cailín maith, oibleach, agus chonaic Aoife conas a bheadh sí álainn agus fuair sí gráin uirthi fós níos mó.” [3]

Here in Shligigh, the O’Connor’s remain in power but squabble over land and legacies while adhering to the True Faith.  First O’Connor and now the uncle of Sir Donnagh contest the title of the dowager, Sarah O’Donnell,  which she retains her lands by rite of her marriage contract.  Wanting it both ways – tanistry and primogentiture, between Irish and English law –  the cite the law of entail to winkle the lady from her rightful possessions.

And why shouldn’t the woman keep what her father had agreed and that she earned on her back, Bríd wonders?  Why should all the power go to men?

“Ach dúirt tú go raibh an Ríoghnach iompraigh na leanaí de rí Lir,” Bríd bheag said.

“B’fhéidir go raibh. Uair amháin. Nuair a bhí siad naíonáin. B’fhéidir go raibh sí ag éirí go raibh. Nó b’ionann é agus feínne. Ar aon chaoi, agus é ag siúl isteach sa loch chun comhoibriú lena deartháireacha, thóg Ríoghnach Aoife an draíocht as a púch.”

“Cosúil le do dhraíocht, a sheanmháthair?” Bríd bheag asked.

“Cosnaíonn mo dhraíocht sinn, a ghrá. Cosnóidh siad thú agus do dheirfiúr…agus do dheartháireacha. Ní. Bhí draíocht dhorcha ag Ríoghnach Aoife.”[4]

Bríd never married. She kept what was hers.   With Sean beside her and with the conniving forgetfulness of those who knew and feared her, she passed herself off as a widow.  She had her charms and she had her relics.  There was no priest keeping track and taking interest in a woman caring for an ailing father and a young son amidst the chaos. 

Of course, she had suitors for she had a bit of land: younger sons happy enough to get their junk between her legs and their hands on her turf and cattle.  Sean saw them off whenever she tired of them.  For a woman her age, they were fun to toy with and win at their Daides’ frustration. Now, on the cusp of sixty years, even her land will not entice a man between her thighs.

“Agus nuair a dhreap Fionnula isteach sa uisce fionn na locha bhí torann conradh ann!”[5]

 Bríd bheag knew the story well enough though each rendition brought new questions, an earnest puzzling for relevance and meaning.

“D’éirigh léi! Chas sí na ceathrar acu i gceathrar ealaí áille le sciatháin bán sneachta agus suile gheimhle. “Cad a rinne tú!” a dúirt Fionnula. Mar cé go raibh sí ina heala, níor chaill sí cumas an labhartha.”[6]

Perhaps there will be no trap.  How long can a crone like Bríd thole these snell Atlantic gales?  But the decline from toothlessness to nothingness can be slow and long.

Her granddaughter’s companionship keeps the child inby the smoky peats, warm and cosy and grimy with soot.  She does not play as the other lassies played, thirled, at Caít’s insistence, to her Grannie’s service.  The youngest boy, Sean Og, runs far and wide when he isn’t labouring in the rigs.  The English favour grain over cattle and rents in silver, a habit taken up by the Irish landholders and the Anglo-Irish interlopers.  Grain demands more labour than cattle, less time for young men to practice graceful arts and martial craft.

“Agus dúirt an Bhanríon Aoife, “Tá mallacht curtha ort. Beidh tú ag maireachtáil mar shuileach ar feadh na naoi céad bliain. Ar feadh trí chéad bliain beidh tú ag maireachtáil anseo ar Loch Derravaragh agus ar feadh trí chéad bliain eile beidh tú ag maireachtáil ar Mhuir Mhoile.”

 “Agus tar éis sin?” asked Bríd bheag.

“Tar éis sin beidh tú ag maireachtáil ag Inis Glóra.”

“Agus tá sé deas ag Inis Glóra, nach bhfuil?” asked Bríd bheag. “Tá go leor le hithe acu agus tá an aimsir go maith.”

“Tá go leor le hithe acu agus tá an aimsir go maith,” said Bríd. “Ach tá siad an-sean. Ar feadh trí chéad bliain tá Fionnula agus a trí deartháireacha ag déanamh gníomh ar chósta Inis Glóra. Lá amháin, chuala Fiachra freagra a nguinne na cloigíní ó theach beag cloiche cois an chósta. Taisteal ar an gconradh gaibhnach, chuaigh Fiachra chun a deartháireacha seanda a chur ar an eolas. “Tar isteach,” ar sé. “Tar isteach agus éist.” “Agus faoina gcuid éisteachta, d’athraigh a gcorp agus bhí triúr seandaoine agus bean amháin aosta. Níos sine ná mé, a m’ainm. Samhlaigh. Naoi céad bliain.”[7]

The grain. The cattle. The plough and the dirt.  The lawyers scribbling sassines and indentures, enfeofments and fines.

“Ar shlí éigin, in ainneoin a aoise, throid na haoiseanna agus dhoirt siad amach ar an gcósta, sásta a bheith mar dhaoine arís cé go raibh siad tanaí, laige agus crónanta. Chuir Fionnula a deartháirí faoin a corp, buíoch as go raibh sí tar éis iad a fheiceáil trína gcrónán fada. Agus ansin a fuair Naomh Caomhog iad, déanach mar is gnách, agus bhaist sé iad.”

“Nach raibh siad bhaistithe roimhe seo?” asked Bríd bheag

“Rugadh siad naoi céad bliain roimh bhriathar ár dTiarna agus ár Slánuightheora a tháinig go hÉirinn.”

 “Ach conas a bhí ama ann roimh bhriathar Chríost?”

“Bhí am ann.”

“Agus shábháil an clog eaglaise Fionnula agus a deartháirí.”

“Ná,” said Bríd. “Fuair siad bás go luath ina dhiaidh sin. Ach fuair siad bás bhaistithe mar sin caithfimid a shíleadh go ndeachaigh siad chuig na flaithis.”[8]

Bríd bheag gazed into the glowing peat as her grandmother drew on her pipe again.

“An raibh aoibhinn acu mar na lacha, an gceapann tú?”[9] asked Bríd bheag.

[1] “So, this Aoife, a coarse self-centred woman.  Her beauty was only skin-deep, you understand?  Pale skin and red hair.  Green eyes. Tits like fairy mounds. And she wanted her new husband’s love.”

[2] “So one hot summer day, Queen Aoife says to the children, “My darlings.  Let us go to the lough. You can swim in the cool waters there beneath the shade of the oak trees.””

“And Fionnula, Aodh, Conn and Fiachra jumped for joy at the proposal for it had been a long dry summer.”

[3] “And you know, those wee ones jumped for joy when their step-mother led them down to the lakeshore and they saw the cool water, the sun-dappled pebbles, the darting fish.  And the boys stripped off their clothes and dived, splashing and shrieking.  Only Fionnula held back, hesitatnt on the shore.”

“What ails you, my love?” Queen Aoife asked.

But Fionnula could not say what held her, frozen on the bank.  She was seized by a fear for her young brothers.  Perhaps some terrible pike or worm would rise up from the lakes depths.  Perhaps some sprite would drag them under.

“Don’t be afraid, Fionnula,” her step-mother said.  “Take off your leine and swim with your brothers.”

“And Fionnula took off her dress for her father had taught her to be a good, obedient girl, and Aoife saw how beautiful she was going to be and hated her still more.”

[4] “But you said the Queen loved the children of King Lir,” Bríd bheag said.

“Perhaps she did. Once.  When they were babies.  Perhaps she only thought she did.  Or it was a pretence.  Anyway, as Fionnula waded out to join her brothers in the lough, Queen Aoife took the charm out of her pouch.”

“Like your charms, Grannie?” Bríd bheag asked.

“My charms protect us, my love.  They will protect you and your brothers…and your sister.  No.  Queen Aoife’s was a dark charm.”

[5] “And as Fionnula dived into the cool water of the lough there was a thunderclap!”

[6] “She did!  She turned the four of them into four beauiful swams with snow white feathers and gimlet eyes. “What have you done!” Fionnula said.  For although she was a swan she had not lost the power of speech.”

[7] “And Queen Aoife said, “I’ve cursed you.  You will live as swans for nine hundred years.  For three hundred years you will live here on Loch Derravaragh and for three hundred years you will live on the Sea of Moyle.”

“And after that?” Bríd bheag asked.

“After that you will live by Inish Glora.”

“And it’s nice by Inish Glora, isn’t it?”  Bríd bheag asked. “They have lots to eat and the weather’s fine.”

“They have lots to eat and the weather is fine,” Bríd said. “But they are very old.  For three hundred years they grace the shores of Inish Glora, Fionnula and her three brothers.  One day, Fiachra hears the tolling of a bell from a small stone house by the shore.  Charmed by the strange sound, Fiachra hurries to tell his ancient siblings. “Come,” he said.  “Come and listen.”

“And as they listened their bodies changed and they were three old men and one old woman.  Older than I am, my darling.  Imagine. Nine hundred years.”

[8] “Somehow, despite their age, the ancients swam and scrambled out onto the shore, happy to be human once again though they were thin and frail and wrinkled.  Fionnula clasped her brothers to her, grateful that she had seen them through their long ordeal.  And that was where Saint Caomhog found them, late as usual, and baptised them.”

“Were they not baptised before?” asked Bríd bheag

“They were born nine hundred years before the word of our Lord and Saviour came to Ireland.”

“But how was there a time before the word of Christ?”

“There was a time.”

“And the church bell saved Fionnula and her brothers.”

“No,” Bríd said. “They died soon after.  But they died baptised so we must suppose they went to heavan.”

[9] “Were they happy as swans, do you think?”