Mr Carnovan's Little Shop of Dreams, Part 2c of 5

‘Well,’ said Michael’s father resuming the story, ‘Your grandmother arranged the musicians to her liking, with the fiddlers to her right, and the drummer to her left and the ogre sitting on the ground behind her. “Now listen carefully,” she said to the tenors. “I will sing the first verse slowly.”

‘And she sang the first verse very slowly. “But what do the words mean?” asked the second singer. He had a most peculiar accent.

‘The first singer took off his hat again and bowed low to your grandmother. “You’ll have to pardon him, Mrs Orrin. You’ll have heard of the Spanish Armada, and how after the English sunk most of that fleet, the few remaining ships sailed northward around Scotland and passed the shores of Donegal, where several of them came to grief on the rocks. Esteban was part of the crew, and he swam ashore. We found him, nearly dead, lying on the sands near Donegal harbour and took him with us. It was an act of charity, and we have never regretted it. But he has never lost his accent.”

‘Your grandmother bowed to the singers. “We are told that acts of mercy towards strangers never go unrewarded. I hope that you will find your way home, Esteban.” Esteban looked very sad and sighed so unhappily that your grandmother didn’t know what to say. There are some who never find their way home, and she feared that Esteban might be one of those. So she told him the story of Feilim and his voyage. “The song is about a man named Feilim, who sails his boat to Gola Island. The first verse means, ‘Feilim’s little boat sailed to Gola, Feilim’s little boat and Feilim in it.’ ” And then she told him what the words in the chorus mean, but she stopped there, because she didn’t think she should tell him what happened when Feilim sailed to Tory Island, those events being so close to Esteban’s own experiences off the shores of Donegal. And Esteban thanked her politely and thought it was just a merry song about a little boat. And since no one ever told him any different, he went on happily singing the song about Feilim the rest of his life. But I am running away from the story.

‘Now it took but an hour for the three tenors to master the song. From here on, we can no longer call them the three tuneless tenors, because they now had a tune—although, truth to tell, they never did learn to sing in tune. Everyone was quite happy. The three tenors were happy because the curse had been lifted, and they could continue on their way after three centuries. The ogre was happy because the three tenors could now leave and he would be able to enjoy his home by the bridge, with the only sounds those of the water flowing gently over the stones and the birds singing in the trees. The musicians were happy because they were no longer stuffed in the ogre’s pockets or into his ear. And your grandmother was happy because she enjoys teaching people the old songs.

‘The ogre reached into his knapsack and brought out three new suits of clothes for the tenors. They retired behind a bush, out of your grandmother’s sight, and changed into their new clothes. You would not have recognised them for the same men, Michael, they were so splendid in their new finery of red velvet trousers and golden waistcoats embroidered with fine silk threads and bright green boots with silver bells on their heels. And each of them had a fine new hat of soft leather with a broad brim and a fine feather on the left side sticking up high into the air.

‘The ogre cut thick pieces of ham and sliced his finest loaf of white bread. He buttered each slice of bread and made sandwiches with the ham and put them in a brown paper bag. He added some apples to the bag and gave it to the tenors. Then he shook the hand of each of the three tenors, and your grandmother shook the hand of each of the three tenors. And each of the musicians shook the hand of each of the three tenors. The last that was seen of them they were headed towards Dunfanaghy in their new clothes, but I have not heard if they ever reached it.

‘The ogre waited until the tenors had disappeared from view. And then he pulled a large table from his knapsack and spread it with a cloth so white that even your grandmother would be proud to put it on her table. He sat out silver candlesticks and fine china plates and forks and knives and spoons made of gold and crystal. And then he pulled more hams and roast chickens and chops and chicken tikla and fish and chips and pizza and beets and potatoes and turnips and cabbages and both white and brown bread and butter and marmalade and green salad and red salad and oranges and apples and bananas and peaches and cherries and figs and chocolate cakes and many different flavours of ice cream from his knapsack and sat them on the table, and he asked your grandmother and the musicians to eat. For himself, he prepared a washtub full of mashed potatoes and a barrel of cold buttermilk. And everyone sat down and ate and ate till not a scrap of food remained on the table, for it is only polite to eat all of a feast that has been spread for you. And when they had finished, the first fiddler asked your grandmother if she would not sing another song.

‘And your grandmother thought for a moment, and then she sang “Caoine Cill Chais,” The Lament for Kilcash, which, as you know, Michael, is a very sad song. And the fiddlers cried as they fiddled and the drummer sobbed as he beat the drum. Even the ogre shed a tear or two, although, not being human, he had no reason to share the sorrows of the people of Kilcash and what passes away never to come again. But like many sad songs, it leaves you feeling a bit happier when you’ve finished singing it. And then your grandmother sang “Trasna na dTonnta,” Over the Waves. And the fiddlers fiddled and the drummer drummed and the ogre played the tin whistle and did a little dance, because the song brought back so many memories of places he had visited when he was a young ogre and given to roaming the world.

‘And the strangest thing happened while your grandmother was singing, Michael. The three tenors had made such a racket all those years that the birds had left that valley. Not one bird remained. Even the little stream had ceased to make any noise. And all the creatures both visible and invisible that could leave had run far, far away to escape that din. Now, just as your grandmother started singing “Cill Chais”, a little sparrow that made his home in the next valley happened to be flying by.

‘As was his habit in flying over the valley with the little bridge, he flew very quickly so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the three tuneless tenors for long. But when he flew over the stream, he realised that there was no more noise. Indeed someone with a beautiful voice was singing, and fiddles and a tin whistle were being played sweetly, and a mellow drum was beating out the rhythm. The sparrow was so astonished that he stopped and circled overhead. When he saw that the three tenors were gone, he flew down to take a closer look. And the closer he got, the sweeter the music became.

‘Finally the sparrow landed on the far end of the bridge and listened carefully. It certainly didn’t sound like the three tenors, and he hopped a bit closer to take a look. He stretched himself up on his legs and peeked over the top of the bridge, and he saw the ogre and the musicians and your grandmother all seated around the table and singing. And he rose up into the air and he flew all around telling everyone that the three tenors were gone and that a queen with a silver voice was singing in the valley with the little bridge. He told all the songbirds he met. And he told all the guardian spirits he met. And he told all the winds and the trees and the flowers.

‘And all the songbirds flew off to see for themselves that the three tenors had left and to hear the queen with the silver voice who was singing in the valley with the little bridge. And all the guardian spirits took their harps and their fiddles and their drums down from the pegs where they hung on the walls of their cottages, and they ran as fast as they could through the woods to the little bridge. When the trees and the flowers complained that they could not draw closer, the winds gently blew the songs towards them so they could share in the music making by the bridge over the stream.

‘And when the songbirds arrived, they perched on the bridge over the little stream and joined in the singing. And when the guardian spirits caught their breath after running through the woods, they began plucking the strings of their harps and drawing the bows across the strings of their fiddles, and playing their drums. And even the little stream joined in, adding its babbling and its gurgling as it flowed over the pebbles and beneath the bridge.

‘And they sang all the old songs, some of which had not been heard for many years. And when they had sung all the old songs, their throats were quite dry and they could not sing any more. So the ogre pulled a big teapot from his knapsack and a lot of cups and poured everyone a cup a tea (although I think that when no one was looking, some of the guardian spirits may have poured the tea on the ground and put something stronger in those teacups, for they became very frisky later).

‘And when everyone had rested their throats and soothed them with the tea, one of the musicians said, “And could you sing a new song for us, Mrs Orrin? We have been here for many years, and we have not heard the new songs, for surely they are still after making new songs in Ireland.”

‘Your grandmother thought for a bit and then she smiled with satisfaction. “I have just the tune for you.” And she sang “Mná na h’Éirann,” The Women of Ireland, which the ogre and the musicians and the songbirds and the guardian spirits liked very much and made her repeat over and over until they had learned it, which they did very quickly. But they pretended to be having trouble getting the words and the tune right just for the pleasure of listening to your grandmother sing it again and again.

‘And when she was finished, it was very late, far too late for her to continue on her journey to Lansby and Mr Carnovan’s Little Shop of Dreams. The moon was already showing above the trees and the stars were filling the sky with their twinkling. And so the ogre escorted your grandmother to the tallest oak tree in the valley, where he had built a small cottage in the tree for any visitor who had to stay the night, not that anyone had been able to sleep while the three tenors were around. The songbirds settled in for the night in the tree so that they could wake your grandmother with their singing as soon as the light grew in the east. And your grandmother slept beneath sheets of the finest ruby-coloured linen and blankets woven from the eider’s down. The ogre and the musicians and the guardian spirits moved off a bit, so as not to disturb your grandmother’s sleep, and built a big fire. The musicians played all the songs they could remember, and perhaps they drank a bit more than they should. But if you had spent a few centuries in an ogre’s pocket, you would be thirsty too.

‘And in the morning when your grandmother awoke, the ogre made breakfast for everyone. When everyone had finished eating and could eat no more, your grandmother said that she’d best be on the road if she wanted to make it to Lansby that day. So she said goodbye to everyone and walked over the bridge made of emeralds and sapphires and into the grove of trees at the other side. She turned around just before the path led her out of sight and waved to the ogre and the musicians and all the songbirds and the guardian spirits. And all of them waved back to her.

‘And now, Michael, it is past time for your bed. We will continue with the story tomorrow. Now, remember, you are not to open the box from Mr Carnovan’s Little Shop of Dreams for any reason. Not even if the devil comes in your sleep and promises to give you all the wealth of the Indies if you will open it for him. Thank him politely and tell him to go to hell. Will you do that for me?’

‘But I’m not supposed to say that word.’

‘You can say hell to the devil, for it is his home and it is where he belongs.’

Michael promised that he would, even though he was puzzled again by the words one could say only in certain circumstances or only if one was an adult. Why could he tell the devil to go to hell and not say the same to Mr Adams, who lived next door and was always shouting at him to stop making that infernal noise whenever Michael sang? If ever a man had the devil in him, that man Adams had. But he knew that if he told Mr Adams to go to hell, his mother and his father would get very angry and scold him.

His father closed the door almost all the way, so that only a little crack of light came into the room. Michael rolled over onto his side and pulled the covers up under his chin. He decided he would think about the mystery of words that could be said to the devil and not to human beings tomorrow. And he went to sleep.

‘Well, that was a nice story,’ said Lú. He was quite happy to note that no cat had been present at the singing by the little bridge, but of course he didn’t say so to The Murphy.

As soon as Michael fell asleep, The Murphy jumped on his bed and curled up beside him. ‘It was a decent enough story, although there were more than a few inaccuracies in it,’ he remarked to Lú, and he flicked the end of his tail twice to show his opinion of the story.

Lú smiled to himself, for he knew from that remark that the cat had noted the absence of cats at the music making by the little bridge. But in the interests of preserving domestic harmony, he asked, “And have you ever told the devil to go to hell, Mr Murphy?’

‘I have indeed, Lú, many a time.’

Now everyone knows it is unwise to mention the devil, for, if he is not busy, he comes when his name is mentioned. And he’ll often make time to come even if he is busy. As soon as The Murphy finished speaking, the devil himself appeared in the room. The very hat on Lú’s head shrunk in fright and squeezed his skull tight, and all the fur on The Murphy’s body stood straight out so that he doubled in size. Michael trembled in his sleep, for the devil is the worst nightmare that can come into your head.

But Michael remembered his father’s words, and in his dream he drew himself up to his full height and thrust out his chest and shook his fist at the devil and said, ‘Go to hell.’ Lú took heart from Michael’s example, and he stood up and shook his fist at the devil and said, ‘Go to hell.’ The Murphy stood up and arched his back and spat out ‘Go to hell.’ Then he licked his left paw and brushed it over his left ear to show that he wasn’t afraid and had nothing to fear from the devil. And the devil looked at the three of them, and he shrugged his shoulders and went back to hell.

Of course, the next morning, The Murphy bragged that he had single-handedly (or single-pawedly in his case) chased the devil away.

Continues