A Man in a Distant Field. Theresa Kishkan
“Put the lad down so I can see what ye’ve brought me,” Declan said, coming outside. He rubbed his eyes against the sunshine, which was heating the wet ground around the cabin. Steam rose and there was a smell of damp earth. Birds trilled in the thickets of salmonberry and gulls careened above the receding tide.
“Sir, it’s a girl, not a lad. Will that matter to you? Queenie’s boy pups have already been promised.”
The puppy sat for moment on the step and then put its tiny nose in the air, sniffing for its bearings, and, finding something worth following, it moved in a clumsy way toward the creek.
“I’ve no preference, one way or the other. This little dog will suit me fine. I’ll call her Argos and hope that she will be half as loyal to me as the original Argos was to his master, Odysseus,” he told the girl, smiling.
“Sir, I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, looking puzzled.
“Ah, I’m rambling again. It’s the book I’m looking at, ye see. It’s like a world unto itself, and when I’ve been at it for a wee time, it surrounds me and I must work for a bit to leave it off. Have ye ever had a book take ye like that?”
The girl told him no, she couldn’t read, and they had only a few books, but there were stories told by her mother that seemed so real she was sad to have them finished.
“Is it the same for all of ye, with the reading?”
The girl retrieved the puppy from its investigations of water and brought her back to where they stood. “Well, my oldest brother and my sister have gone to school more regular, like, but it’s over around the point and there’s only room in the skiff for Dad to take three, and Tom goes to keep David company. I stay home with my little brother Jack. There is a school boat, it comes to take children from all over the harbour, but my dad had an argument with the man who operates it and won’t let it come for us. And anyway, Dad doesn’t think we need the learning. He never went to school, and he says we’re needed here. My mother went to school when she was a girl in Ontario, and she tried at first to make time for lessons, but it makes my father angry.”
She stopped talking suddenly, afraid perhaps of giving a stranger too much of a family’s secret drama. Then, in a rush: “I’ve got to get back now, if you’re sure you want the pup?”
“I’m very grateful to ye for bringing her along. Thank yer mother for thinking of me.”
He watched the girl walk back through the salal, nimble as a young deer. What age would she be? Twelve or so, most like. The age of Grainne, he supposed. And yet Grainne had been able to read in two languages, her own Gaelic and English, she could recite from memory whole passages of poetry, fragments in Latin of the Aeneid, a poem they read at home. She was hungry for learning and would take a book to the byre where they kept their chickens and the occasional pig; he’d find her reading as she stirred the mash or wiped the eggs. Maire, now, that was a different tale. She could read all right and had a good brain for sums, but she’d rather be exploring the bog, searching for the nests of corn crakes in the small barley field. Bird cries were like music to her, and she recognized in them particular voices or messages. Sometimes she’d bring back an egg that hadn’t hatched and she’d carefully blow out the insides; she kept the fragile shells on the mantle. She would come to him and ... Something licked at his ankle. He’d forgotten the little dog and broke from his remembering to pick it up.
“So, Argos, we’d best find ye a bed, eh, girleen? I’ve a dry sack somewhere and we’ll put some of last year’s bracken in it to make it soft for ye. And a meal ye’ll be wanting, to be sure.”
The pup licked his face with rapid warm strikes of her tiny tongue. He took her into the cabin and put her by the stove while he sought out the sack. Then he put a crust of soda bread into a battered dish, another relic of the bush, and poured a little milk over it. He warmed it for a few minutes on the stove and put it down for the pup. Argos had only ever fed from her mother’s body and whimpered, not understanding that this was another way of being nourished.
“Ye’ll learn to eat this or ye won’t grow into anything worthy at all. Here, let’s see what we can do with ye.”
Declan crouched on the floor next to the puppy. He put his finger into the dish and then into the pup’s mouth. She sucked at the milky finger eagerly. He moved her face down to the dish, keeping his finger in her mouth. Then he eased more of the milk into her mouth until she was taking it on her own. The bread was something again. She sucked at it, unable to get it into her mouth fast enough. So she stepped into the dish with her front feet and held one end of the crust with her paw while she sucked and gnawed at the softened bread. When she had finished, she collapsed into a small black heap and fell immediately into a deep sleep. Declan moved her onto the sack and sat at his table to puzzle over the poem again.
The tide was low. Lower than he’d ever seen it. From where his cabin stood, he could see no ocean at all, no bay, just a long expanse of mud. It reminded him of Killary Harbour, a narrow finger of water leading from the cold North Atlantic to Leenane, a village near Declan’s home at Delphi. He couldn’t remember tides such as this although there must’ve been because the fisher-folk would collect carragheen, or sea moss, at very low tide to dry on the shore above. It made a pudding that was good when you got the fever, he recalled. Cousins who lived near the water would give them a bag of the moss for winter. A handful of the crisp fronds, eggs, milk, some sugar, and Eilis would add a drop or two of vanilla essence. The girls called it fish-slime because it had a texture that slipped down the throat, all right, but he was fond of it.
Calling Argos from her bed by the stove, Declan took up a gunny sack and walked down the pebbly bank to the shore. The mud was very dark. It steamed in the sunshine. He walked out gingerly but found it quite firm to the boot. Gulls were swirling in the air and landing on the mud, taking up clams or stranded fish, he supposed. You could see where the creeks ran out into the bay, their waters sidling down into channels in the mud. He wanted to gather some oysters, the namesakes of the bay. Mrs. Neil had shown him how to shuck them with a sharp knife and had told them they made an excellent stew. With Argos at his feet, he strode out into the muddy estuary, following the course of the creek that ran by his cabin. Strands of kelp and other long seaweeds lay across the mud like ropes. A few geese picked at the eelgrass and gabbled nervously to see the dog, who ignored them completely, perhaps knowing instinctively that she would be no match yet for such birds.
Further down the bay, there were stakes showing in the mud. He’d never noticed them before, but he supposed he wouldn’t see them at any time other than such a low tide. They looked like they were there to mark boundaries of some sort, and he made a mental note to ask Mrs. Neil about them. And yes, there were oysters, plenty of them. He gathered a few dozen of the biggest ones he could find. In Ireland, no one ate oysters that he knew of, though you could see them on the beaches, mussels, too. But for some reason, people believed shellfish to be an inferior kind of food altogether, despite the fact that there had been such a terrible hunger not so very long ago when people had eaten grass like cattle in the fields. In his own village, there were many abandoned cottages whose occupants had either died during the Famine or else fled to North America by the boatload. It had been an eerie thing to enter one of the ruined cabins and see the bits of crockery still about and the cold hearths that had once warmed generations of families who would have known each rock of the stony fields the way he had known the stones of his own small farm, the rocks on the shores of nearby Fin Lough. And there were Famine graves too when you knew what to look for—a single stone or cairn for entire communities buried together in a final intimacy, and some not buried at all but left in cabins with no one to offer the final ceremonies. On the roadside near Dhulough, there was a scattering of rock that his parents told him marked the grave of those who had died after being marched from Louisbourg to Delphi Lodge on orders by Captain Primrose for inspection to determine their status as paupers. Children with the thin legs of crows, women with no flesh left at all who carried infants light as fuchsia branches, men whose eyes were hollowed by hunger, all walking the rough track in the hope of food and