Seumas O’Kelly – Michael and Mary

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Mary had spent many days gathering wool from the whins on the headland. They were the bits of wool shed by the sheep before the shearing. When she had got a fleece that fitted the basket she took it down to the canal and washed it- When she had done washing it was a soft, white, silky fleece. She put it back in the brown sally basket, pressing it down with her long, delicate fingers. She had risen to go away, holding the basket against her waist, when her eyes followed the narrow neck of water that wound through the bog.

She could not follow the neck of yellow water very far. The light of day was failing. A haze hung over the great Bog of Allen that spread out level on all sides of her. The boat loomed out of the haze on the narrow neck of the canal water. It looked, at first, a long way off, and it seemed to come in a cloud. The soft rose light that mounted the sky caught the boat and burnished it like dull gold. It came leisurely, drawn by the one horse, looking like a Golden Barque in the twilight. Mary put her brown head a little to one side as she watched the easy motion of the boat. The horse drew himself along deliberately, the patient head going up and down with every heavy step. A crane rose from the bog, flapping two lazy wings across the wake of the boat, and, reaching its long neck before it, got lost in the haze.
The figure that swayed by the big arm of the tiller on The Golden Barque was vague and shapeless at first, but Mary felt her eyes following the slow movements of the body. Mary thought it was very beautiful to sway every now and then by the arm of the tiller, steering a Golden Barque through the twilight.
Then she realised suddenly that the boat was much nearer than she had thought. She could see the figures of the men plainly, especially the slim figure by the tiller. She could trace the rope that slackened and stretched taut as it reached from the boat to the horse. Once it splashed the water, and there was a little sprout of silver. She noted the whip looped under the arm of the driver. Presently she could count every heavy step of the horse, and was struck by the great size of the shaggy fetlocks. But always her eyes went back to the figure by the tiller.
She moved back a little way to see The Golden Barque pass. It came from a strange, far-off world, and having traversed the bog went away into another unknown world. A red-faced man was sitting drowsily on the prow. Mary smiled and nodded to him, but he made no sign. He did not see her; perhaps he was asleep. The driver who walked beside the horse had his head stooped and his eyes on the ground. He did not look up as he passed. Mary saw his lips moving, and heard him mutter to himself; perhaps he was praying. He was a shrunken, misshaped little figure and kept step with the brute in the journey over the bog. But Mary felt the gaze of the man by the tiller upon her. She raised her eyes.
The light was uncertain and his peaked cap threw a shadow over his face. But the figure was lithe and youthful. He smiled as she looked up, for she caught a gleam of his teeth. Then the boat had passed. Mary did not smile in return. She had taken a step back and remained there quietly. Once he looked back and awkwardly touched his cap, but she made no sign.
When the boat had gone by some way she sat down on the bank, her basket of wool beside her, looking at The Golden Barque until it went into the gloom. She stayed there for some time, thinking long in the great silence of the bog. When at last she rose, the canal was clear and cold beneath her. She looked into it. A pale new moon was shining down in the water.
Mary often stood at the door of the cabin on the headland watching the boats that crawled like black snails over the narrow streak of water through the bog. But they were not all like black snails now. There was a Golden Barque among them. Whenever she saw it she smiled, her eyes on the figure that stood by the shaft of the tiller.
One evening she was walking by the canal when The Golden Barque passed. The light was very clear and searching. It showed every plank, battered and tarstained, on the rough hulk, but for all that it lost none of its magic for Mary. The little shrunken driver, head down, the lips moving, walked beside the horse. She heard his low mutters as he passed. The red-faced man was stooping over the side of the boat, swinging out a vessel tied to a rope, to haul up some water. He was singing a ballad in a monotonous voice. A tall, dark, spare man was standing by the funnel, looking vacantly ahead. Then Mary’s eyes travelled to the tiller.
Mary stepped back with some embarrassment when she saw the face. She backed into a hawthorn that grew all alone on the canal bank. It was covered with bloom. A shower of the white petals fell about her when she stirred the branches. They clung about her hair like a wreath. He raised his cap and smiled. Mary did not know the face was so eager, so boyish. She smiled a little nervously at last. His face lit up, and he touched his cap again.
The red-faced man stood by the open hatchway going into the hold, the vessel of water in his hand. He looked at Mary and then at the figure beside the tiller.
«Eh, Michael?» the red-faced man said quizzically. The youth turned back to the boat, and Mary felt the blush spreading over her face.
«Michael!».
Mary repeated the name a little softly to herself. The gods had delivered up one of their great secrets.
She watched The Golden Barque until the two square slits in the stern that served as port holes looked like two little Japanese eyes. Then she heard a horn blowing. It was the horn they blew to apprise lock-keepers of the approach of a boat. But the nearest lock was a mile off. Besides, it was a long, low sound the horn made, not the short, sharp, commanding blast they blew for lock-keepers. Mary listened to the low sound of the horn, smiling to herself. Afterwards the horn always blew like that whenever The Golden Barque was passing the solitary hawthorn.
Mary thought it was very wonderful that The Golden Barque should be in the lock one day that she was travelling with her basket to the market in the distant village. She stood a little hesitantly by the lock. Michael looked at her, a welcome in his eyes.
«Going to Bohermeen?» the red-faced man asked.
«Ay, to Bohermeen», Mary answered.
«We could take you to the next lock», he said, «it will shorten the journey. Step in».
Mary hesitated, as he held out a big hand to help her to the boat. He saw the hesitation and turned to Michael.
«Now, Michael», he said.
Michael came to the side of the boat, and held out his hand. Mary took it and stepped on board. The red-faced man laughed a little. She noticed that the dark man who stood by the crooked funnel never took his eyes from the stretch of water before him. The driver was already urging the horse to his start on the bank. The brute was gathering his strength for the pull, the muscles standing out on his haunches. They glided out of the lock.
It was half a mile from one lock to another. Michael had bidden her stand beside him at the tiller. Once she looked up at him and she thought the face shy but very eager, the most eager face that ever came across the bog from the great world.
Afterwards, whenever Mary had the time, she would make a cross-cut through the bog to the lock. She would step in and make the mile journey with Michael on The Golden Barque. Once, when they were journeying together, Michael slipped something into her hand. It was a quaint trinket, and shone like gold.
«From a strange sailor I got it», Michael said.
Another day that they were on the barque, the blinding sheets of rain that often swept over the bog came upon them. The red-faced man and the dark man went into the hold. Mary looked about her, laughing. But Michael held out his great waterproof for her. She slipped into it and he folded it about her. The rain pelted them, but they stood together, Michael holding the big coat folded about her. She laughed a little nervously.
«You will be wet», she said.
Michael did not answer. She saw the eager face coming down close to hers. She leaned against him a little and felt the great strength of his arms about her. They went sailing away together in The Golden Barque through all the shining seas of the gods.
«Michael», Mary said once, «is it not lovely?».
«The wide ocean is lovely», Michael said. «I always think of the wide ocean going over the bog».
«The wide ocean!» Mary said with awe. She had never seen the wide ocean. Then the rain passed. When the two men came up out of the hold Mary and Michael were standing together by the tiller.
Mary did not go down to the lock after that for some time. She was working in the reclaimed ground on the headland. Once the horn blew late in the night. It blew for a long time, very softly and lowly. Mary sat up in bed listening to it, her lips parted, the memory of Michael on The Golden Barque before her. She heard the sound dying away in the distance. Then she lay back on her pillow, saying she would go down to him when The Golden Barque was on the return journey.
The figure that stood by the tiller on the return was not Michael’s. When Mary came to the lock the red-faced man was telling out the rope, and where Michael always stood by the tiller there was the short strange figure of a man with a pinched, pock-marked face.
When the red-faced man wound the rope round the stump at the lock, bringing the boat to a stand-still, he turned to Mary.
«Michael is gone voyaging», he said.
«Gone voyaging?», Mary repeated.
«Ay», the man answered. «He would be always talking to the foreign sailors in the dock where the canal ends. His eyes would be upon the big masts of the ships. I always said he would go».
Mary stood there while The Golden Barque was in the lock. It looked like a toy ship packed in a wooden box.
«A three-master he went in», the red-faced man said, as they made ready for the start. «I saw her standing out for the sea last night. Michael is under the spread of big canvas. He had the blood in him for the wide ocean, the wild blood of the rover». And the red-faced man, who was the Boss of the boat, let his eyes wander up the narrow neck of water before him.
Mary watched The Golden Barque moving away, the grotesque figure standing by the tiller. She stayed there until a pale moon was shining below her, turning over a little trinket in her fingers. At last she dropped it into the water.
It made a little splash, and the vision of the crescent was broken.

(Taken from “The Golden Barque”, Dublin 1919)

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Seumas OKelly
(Loughrea, County Galway 1881 - 1918). Playwright, novelist, story writer and journalist, O'Kelly was educated at the local school (St. Brendan's College), began his career as a journalist with the Skibbereen newspaper, The Southern Star, then moved to the Leinster Leader in Naas, where he remained as Editor until he went to work for his friend Arthur Griffith’s "Nationality", organ of Sinn Féin founded by Griffith himself in 1906. His brother was arrested during the Easter Rising and Seumas returned to the "Leinster Leader" for a brief stint. There is a plaque in his honour outside the Leader's offices which reads 'Seumas O'Kelly - a gentle revolutionary'. He died prematurely, in November 1918, of a cerebral hemorrhage following a raid at the paper’s headquarters at Harcourt St by British troops anti-Sinn Féin who were celebrating the end of the First World War. In his short life he had an intense literary production, mostly published posthumously, and wrote for several newspapers, including The Saturday Evening Post and The Sunday Freeman of Dublin. He wrote numerous short stories, novels and plays. His short story, The Weaver’s Grave, is among the most acclaimed of Irish short stories. A radio version of this, adapted and produced by Mícheál Ó hAodha, won the coveted Prix Italia for Radio Drama in 1961.