Why the Water Turns White II

An old tomcat, with tail raised, prowls from a bush beside the road and nuzzles his leg.  Finally breaking his gaze and the tension that was pressing dangerously dissipates and flows away.  Down the way on the same side of the road two women chat at the door of another cottage that is now a chocolatier.  “Who’s your man there?  Hasn’t moved from that spot for near an hour now.”  The one nods toward the figure fixed in front of O’Connell’s Pub.  The other looks at her curiously with eyebrows raised.  “Could be any tourist Siofra.  These tourist our liable to do anything.  Standing before a pub for an hour isn’t the strangest I’ve heard.  Maybe he’s made friends with Niall.  Please God, Niall could use a friend” Siofra the chocolatier is a small, squat woman with an arched back, wide expressive eyes, and mousy characteristics.  Always flittering about nervously her voice is that of a Clare women born and bred talking more in song than words.  She, an Irish woman with her ear to the ground, is one half of the town news source.  The other is Mary the shopkeeper, whose shop lies directly across the road from the chocolatier, giving the two ladies prime vantage points to catch all the town happenings.  The slightest oddity, and one is across to the other before the door swings slowly shut behind them.  “I would say the same Mary, but I glimpsed Old man O’Connell there at the door with him not long ago.”  A smug, smirk alerts Mary that she has missed something.  Siofra has won another point in their never ending duel of nosiness.  Mary angry with herself, but quickly forgetting at the introduction of this little nugget of intrigue leans her head forward slightly and strains her eyes staring after the man planted in front of the pub.  Her hair has been dyed platinum blonde as if she is set on retaining her youth long after it has evaded her.  A thick coat of make-up gives her an almost plastic looking face, her nose and cheeks bones are sharp and aquiline giving an impression of harshness, but the excessive make-up serves to soften her features helping her carry a look that is almost clownish. 

Mary breaks her gaze with a smile and whispers as if there is some great secret between them, “Could he be one of O’Connell’s boys?”  The two take several steps forward and peer inquisitively over.  “It just might be”, Siofra’s voice is high and shrill with excitement.  Something rises between them, an almost frantic air of delight and anticipation, something to be occupied with, this will be ammunition for days and maybe even weeks, they will stand and pick over every possible propensity for this son of O’Connell’s being here, in this town of Fanore, on this warm summer day, and why was he standing there outside the pub for such a significant period of time.  There are so many possibilities, so many avenues to explore.  Mary puts a hand to her mouth, “It must be the younger… you remember what happened to the older brother don’t you.  There were only two weren’t there… and maybe a girl.  Yes, a girl but I can’t remember her name.”  The man turns his head and they both jump back to the curb.  They glance all around as if their attention is set on everything but this man who may have witnessed their gaze. “I wonder if he caught us looking”, Siofra sighs heavily in relief as he sets off the other way and they continue murmuring in suspiciously silent tones. 

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At that very same moment, of John’s discovery of unwanted attention from two very interested town women.  O’Connell is mounting an old spiral staircase and opening a door to an untouched, dust covered attic.  As the door is opened a room is revealed.  The air is stale and musty and stacks of yellowing paper fill the floor leaving only narrow spaces, through which the old man walks to an ornately carved desk.  At one time the desk would have been a valuable item, but now stowed away here in this moist deserted place it has become warped and deformed.  The walls of the room are covered floor to arched ceiling with bookshelves, and each bookshelf is filled by the spines of books that have been left unprotected in this dank, dark space.  Unopened and unread they call out to him dolefully.  O’Connell’s fingers tremble slightly as he picks his way through to the desk, he moves carefully, precisely, slowly, as if he is holding himself back from something. 

Arriving at the desk he turns full around surveying this room as if studying a face that he can’t quite place, but he feels he knows.   His eyes seem to eat up every detail, every nook and cranny, hungrily, almost as if he is feasting on the sight of it all again.  His view arriving back at the desk, he falls into the old desk chair, which creaks desperately, caught under his considerable girth.  He brushes the dust from a small square off the desk then rubs his hands gently and blows the remaining particles away.  He lets his elbows rest in the small square and plants his chin on his hands.  His eyes fix longingly on the lone window which sits on the wall before the desk.  As he looks out a single tear emerges at the edge of his eye and streams slowly down his cheek till it meets lip and disappears.  Outside the window green fields weave into patchwork quilt stitched by rock walls and beyond the point of the finger the royal blue of ocean and above the expanse of sky cut in strange shapes by clouds, and it’s as if all the colours are made brighter in contrast.  For the green of the grass is almost supernaturally green against the blue of sea and sky, and the blues burn so brightly against each other, in the presence of the shy Irish sun, that one would almost need to raise a hand to ward off their brilliance.

At the very tip of the finger of land, the lighthouse sits forlornly waiting for the night.  Waiting for the ships that no longer need her light, waiting for the storms and gales and waves, waiting endlessly there for her end, till she crumbles and is carried away by the sea.  She makes a mournful figure, but O’Connell’s eyes have moved away from her form and now follow two figures.  They are quite some distance and he can’t make them out, but in his mind he sees two wee boys there walking up the road and out to the beach, to collect clams and mussels, to chase after crabs, and watch the fishermen come in to shore, to race each other leaving long trails of prints in the sand, collecting shells to bring home.  He reaches up to windows edge and grasps two small conch-like shells and now his eyes flow and his hands, holding shells, curl into fists and bang against desk hysterically.  His wracking sobs echo around the room and suddenly the tired chair gives way and collapses to the floor.  His head clatters against rock and he lays limply.  Raising himself slowly, he stands very still for a moment, and then he is thrashing, ripping, tearing, turning shelves, fighting against some unknown demon unable to capture and conquer his unrelenting foe.

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