Mythology Abroad (26 page)

The Killargreany church was larger and more elaborately decorated than the small parish church of St. Michael’s had been. Set in a valley embraced on two sides by the glowing golden-green mountains, it had a serene solidity that made the travelers stop simply to look at it. The stone walls had long ago gone green with lichen. The shrubbery around the churchyard side had been allowed to grow wild, but it had done so artistically. Birds sang from the great yew trees clustered within the low stone walls.

Numberless generations of local men and women had attended this church and had been buried here with its rites. Large tombs, some new, some old, and some decrepit, jostled elbows with every description of memorial stone, some of which stood at drunken angles in the ground. Keith took one look at the extensive churchyard, and made straight for the church door. “I’ve got to have expert help on this one. I wonder if anyone’s here.”

The huge wooden door opened quietly on its hinges. Inside, the church was cool and dim. Diane shivered once violently, and felt all right after that. They stood for a moment to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the light.

Above them, the high, vaulted ceiling began to emerge from the gloom. It was held up by heavy beams of blackened wood. The door through which they had entered was at the rear of the right side of the building. At the front of the church, to their right, a window of jewel-colored stained glass glowed with warm blues and reds.

“How beautiful,” Diane breathed. “This place is old.”

At its foot, there was an altar, covered with an embroidered cloth and bedizened with colored dashes and dots from the window above. In the middle of the tabletop stood a gold cross with a circle set at the juncture of the crosspiece and upright.

Rows of carved wooden pews marched back toward them along the aisle. Keith stepped forward to caress the smooth polish with the palm of his hand and wondered what Holl would think of them, and why he wouldn’t enter churches. That was something which would warrant investigation when he had the time to think about it.

A table stood at their side of the church, behind the last row of pews. On it were arranged stacks of small pamphlets. One showed a line drawing of the church, and said in two languages “The History of Our Church.” There was a box with a slot in the top nearby, which read “Pay Here Please” in black letters.

“Honor system,” Keith noted, digging in his pocket for change.

The large coins falling into the box sounded like chains clanking, echoing in the quiet building. Keith was reading one of the flyers by the light from the door when he heard bustling near the altar place. A door opened, and an elderly priest in long black vestments emerged, straightening his glasses on his nose.

“Visitors, by the look of you?” the old man said, a question and a statement in one phrase. “Welcome. Ah, it’s getting late, and I’m behind in my duties. It’s no excuse, but it’s a sleepy summer day. The lights should be on by now. I’m Father Griffith.” He smiled at their surprise. “One Welsh ancestor and it’s followed me for eight generations.”

Keith introduced himself and Diane, and explained his reason for visiting. “I’m hunting down my family line. I think that this is the area where my folks came from. The Genealogy Office told me this would be the first place I should look, and then branch out into the smaller parishes around here.”

The priest shook their hands. “I’m pleased to meet you both. Do you know, we get many visitors over the year, most of them from America. And where is it you might be coming from?”

“I live outside Chicago. Diane is from Michigan.”

The priest nodded expansively. “Ah, Chicago. A great place. I’ve never been there myself, you understand, but so I’ve been told, and the films that are made there! Shocking, some of it.”

“They’re all true,” Diane said impishly.

“Doyle, Doyle,” Griffith mused, studying Keith’s face. “There’s enough of those, to be sure. What’s the names you’re looking for, then?” He took Keith’s hand drawn family tree and began to peruse it, steadying his thin-rimmed glasses with one hand. “Ah, well, you’ll not find this one here,” he pointed, and then read the small-penciled notation underneath. “I see you know that already. Good. I’m a great historian, if I am going to have to say it for myself. I’m always browsing among the stones out there, getting to know my parishioners, even the ones who are not precisely with us any more, if you understand me.”

“It looks like my three-times-great grandfather, Emerson O’Doyle, was the one who moved away from here. He was born in this parish, and married here too, I think. It looks like he went to open a practice in Arklow, and left from there to go to America,” Keith explained, pointing out the names in the family tree.

“You don’t know why they left, then?” Griffith asked, looking at him over the tops of his glasses.

“No,” Keith said. “We’ve only got a few letters and things that were saved. None of them say why.”

“You can make up great stories and all, but it’s usually a fundamental thing which drives a family to leave the land of their birth. I think I know the reason for this one. The name stuck in my mind, which is why I remember it. It’s this way.” Griffith beckoned them around to the aisle and along the wall. He stopped before a white, engraved stone only a few inches square.

“Pray for the soul of Padraig Thomas O’Doyle, Died April 5, 1855, aged sixty-three days,” Keith read. “Beloved son of Emerson and h …” His voice stopped on the reference to the dead child’s mother.

Diane finished for him. “… His wife Grainhe Butler O’Doyle.”

“How sad, to have survived the Famine, and lose his first little son like that,” Father Griffith said sympathetically. He nodded when Keith held up his camera, giving silent permission to take a picture of the cenotaph. “If it’s a happier note you’d be wanting, I can show you where his uncle is buried: Eamon. He lived to be seventy-eight.”

In spite of himself, Keith laughed. “I’d be happier if you could tell me where to find the living half of the family, Eamon’s children—or great-great grandchildren now. My folks would like to get to know them. Do you know many Doyles?”

“Ah, yes, I know everyone. In a small place like this, we all know the ins and outs of each other’s business. I’ve got to look up me records. It occurs to me that I might know someone who’s come down from the family of Eamon O’Doyle, second son of Fionn,” Griffith recalled suddenly, one finger in the air to mark a mental place. “And you might think of putting up a notice on the board with your name and address. That may stir memories I lack.”

He guided Keith back to the pamphlet table, and gave him a sheet of paper, and then disappeared into the rear of the church. While Keith was printing his message, the priest arrived with an armload of big, leather-bound books. “These are the current birth and baptismal records, along with the marriage and death registers for this parish. The old ones go to the Central Archives when they’re written to the last page. My clerk will as likely have my ears for pulling them out of her office, but as you’ve come all this way I’m not wanting to stand on ceremony.”

“Thank you, Father!” Keith began to thumb through the pages. Here and there he spotted the name Doyle. Furiously, he jotted down names and dates and the names of babies’ parents. “I should have given myself a lot more than one week for this job.”

“Well, you’ll be wanting to come back, then,” the priest said hospitably, and dropped a fingertip on Keith’s notice. “Just scratch down there the place you’re staying while you’re in Ireland. You’ll excuse me now, as it’s nearly time for evening prayers. You might think of staying yourself, if you have the time. And good afternoon, Mrs. Murphy. How are you this fine day? Not a drop of rain or a wisp of cloud.” The priest moved away to place a hand on the arm of a very old woman walking slowly into the aisle of the church. Squinting through filmy blue eyes, she smiled up at the black-coated clergyman, who helped her to a pew. After he tacked up his notice, Keith waved a silent farewell to the priest. Father Griffith nodded companionably to him, never breaking off his conversation with the old woman.

“That’s a great piece of luck,” Diane said, as they wandered around the churchyard. “There were their names, right there, together, even carved in stone. Hmm!” She stretched out her arms in the sunshine and turned up her face to be warmed. “What a nice place to be buried, if you have to be dead. It’s really lovely here.”

***

C
HAPTER TWENTY-SIX

They walked back to the car. Keith was jubilantly buoyant with the success of his visit. Holl listened to the narrative intently.

“So what will you do with the birth records you copied down?”

“Mr. Dukes suggested that I look in the phone books, and send letters explaining what I’m doing. A lot of the people might consider a phone call to be intruding, so I should just approach them politely from a distance.”

“That sounds sensible,” Holl agreed.

The Master, now seated in his old place in the back seat, said nothing. He seemed to have retreated inside himself to think. As they headed back to the Keane home, Keith tried several times to start cheerful conversations. After the Master ignored his questions and remarks, he decided wisely to leave the leader alone with his thoughts.

“I’m still soggy,” Keith said. “We’re not far away from the guest house, but why don’t we stop and have a drink or something, and warm up? Then we can go back and change for dinner.” On the backdrop of the still-gray sky, Keith had noticed a glow of white light over the treetops which might mean a pub or a farmhouse in the distance. He was hoping for a pub.

Following the glow, Keith wound upward through the two-lane roads, and arrived in front of a white-walled building that announced itself proudly as The Skylark, which was The Highest Pub in Ireland.

Keith coaxed the reluctant Master into the pub’s lounge.

“There are many of your folk in this place,” the Master said, “Are you not concerned that they vill see us?”

The American peered around the corner. “It’s pretty dark in there. Look, there’s a fireplace with no other lights around it. We’ll go and dry out a little, and then if you think it’s safe, we can have a drink. If not, we’ll just go before there’s any trouble.”

“That sounds prudent,” Holl said. He pushed the door open and stood by as the others passed inside.

“Ach,” said the Master. “You are behaving like vun of the Big Folk. Too bold!”

Rather than being oppressed by the dimness of its lights, the Skylark was made cozy and inviting. A coal and peat fire glowed red in the ornamental iron firebox and touched lights in the complicated patterns of the enameled tiles with which the hearth and wall were lined. Overstuffed chairs and sofas sat under the curtained windows, which were shut tight against the cool evening wind. There were knickknacks on the walls, some of them unidentifiable even in full light. With Keith between them and the customers at the rectangular bar, the Little Folk made their way toward the old-fashioned settees near the fireplace.

“Oh, that’s better,” Diane said, shaking out the legs of her jeans. “I wish I could wring out my shoes. They’ll squish for a week.”

Keith watched the bartender inside the bar moving back and forth between customers in the light of the single orange lamp behind the bottles. He was a burly young man with curly, dark hair and a beak of a nose between straight, dark brows. He set down glasses, and exchanged quiet jokes as he cleared away empties. Conversations between the locals, though animated, were in low tones.

“How about it?” Keith suggested.

He walked over and casually took a seat at the darkest corner of the bar, far removed from the next customer. Diane sat down next to him, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. In a moment, Holl joined them, sitting on Keith’s other side. He was followed by a reluctant Elf Master, who wedged himself between a post and the wall.

“You are unreasonably bold,” he told Holl sternly.

“They think I’m a child, Master,” Holl replied reasonably. “They’ll give me a fruit soda.”

“Welcome,” the server said, coming over and giving the bar in front of them a wipe with his towel.

“Hi,” Keith said. “It’s a wet night.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” the man said. Keith could see that he was quite young, not too far from his own age. “I was planning to swim home tonight. I brought me water wings.” Diane laughed, and the young man smiled at her. “Americans, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Over here for the holidays?”

“Sort of,” Keith said, wondering where to begin. “Well, I’m researching my family tree. I was here for a combination tour and college course for credit. We both go to Midwestern University in Illinois.”

“Do you?” the young man said, pausing in his polishing. “I’m at Trinity College in Dublin. I’m happy to meet fellow students.”

“We were there,” Diane said. “I went to look at the Book of Kells.”

“What are you studying?” Keith asked him.

“I’m reading history,” the young man said with a wide grin on his face, “but I’m learning Mandarin Chinese on the side.”

“Go on,” Diane said, sensing a joke, “drop the other shoe. Why?”

“Well, me mam’s expecting her fourth, you see,” he told them seriously, “and they say that one out of every four babies born in the world is Chinese. I want to be able to understand him when he starts to talk.”

“So why don’t you move next door to a Chinese family?” Keith asked, joining in the game. “That way, if they get one of the other three, you can just swap babies with them.”

“That’s a grand idea,” agreed the young man, just keeping a straight face while the others laughed. “The truth is that I’m learning Chinese to be a translator. It’d be a grand job. I have three other languages as well.”

“That’s great,” Keith said. “I know a little Spanish, but that’s all.”

“And what’s her name?” the lad asked with a wink, and presented Diane with a guileless mien. “Just in fun, miss.”

Diane gave him her best image of outrage, and then cracked up helplessly into laughter at the youth’s wide-eyed innocence. “I know.”

“What may I bring you?”

“Two pints,” Diane ordered for herself and Keith. “Is it still called a pint here?”

“More than ever,” the young man said. “You ought to have a Guinness. It’s good for you.”

“Sure,” Diane said, looking at Keith for his approval. He nodded, eyes shining. “Hmm. Must be good stuff.”

“Oh, it is, it is, miss,” the bartender assured her. He reached for two pint mugs and set them under the pumps.

Diane gestured toward the two Little Folk. The young man glanced at them and back at her. “And I think they’ll have.…”

The bartender stopped her short, and turned to Holl and the Master. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said deferentially. “Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?”

The two Little Folk looked at each other. Some thought seemed to pass between them, and the Master nodded. As one, they removed their hats and set them on the bar. “A Guinness,” Holl said, tousling his hair furiously with both hands and fluffing it out. “Thank the powers, maybe now it’ll dry.”

“The same, please,” the Master said, watching the young man curiously. The bartender gave them a wink and stepped over to the pumps. Carefully, he drew half a glass of Guinness into each pint mug and put them on the back of the bar to settle. The mocha froth slowly began to separate into chocolate beer below and cream foam above. The Master nodded approvingly.

“It takes time to pour one properly,” said the young man. “But it’s worth it for the taste.” Holl pushed a few pound notes across to him, but he pushed it back, with a shake of his head. “Oh, no, it’d be unlucky to take your money from you. My compliments to you, sir. It’s on the house.”

“Thank you kindly,” Holl said in surprise.

Keith watched this performance with a kind of outraged concern. He looked hastily around the bar to see if anyone had observed them. It was impossible now to disguise the fact that two of the customers in the Skylark had ears almost five inches long that ended in points on the top. Strangely, the Little Folk didn’t seem to be worried. Keith wished that he could feel the same way. He was so used to protecting his small friends and drawing the attention of others away from them, to keep them from being carried off to be used for strange experiments or museum exhibits. He had no idea that it might be all right to expose the truth in some places, but apparently they did. No one at all had turned their way. Maybe it was more of the aversion spell that Holl had used in the airport, and now that Keith looked back, in the town around Midwestern University. Their own sort of protective coloration, he acknowledged.

The Guinness was topped off and, in a few minutes, set before them. Keith picked his up and offered a silent toast to his friends. He tasted it, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. It was rich and tasty, with a sort of astringency that in a poorer drink would be bitterness. Diane handed the young man a banknote, and picked up her mug.

“This is better than we got in Scotland,” Keith said, sipping carefully through the foam. Diane tasted hers, with an expression of pleased concentration on her face. She nodded.

“Ah, it doesn’t travel well,” the server said. “You have to come to Ireland to have real Guinness. The brewery is not far from here, just down the road a bit. They say that it’s the best when you can see the smoke from the chimneys from where you’re drinking it.”

“Can you see it from here?” Keith asked. The young man nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Have one yourself.”

“Not at present, but my thanks to you,” the server said, taking the banknote and turning to the cash drawer. “I have to give it all my attention when I drink—in appreciation, you understand—and that’s bad for business.”

Keith was relieved to be just sitting still for a moment, and not staring at anything through fog. With one hand on the handle of his glass, he watched the goings-on in the pub. A giggling couple came in at the door and made for the fireplace. The girl unwound a scarf from her hair while the man came up to the rail to order from the bartender. He returned to her, sipping the top off an overfull glass, and disappeared into the red-tinged shadows next to the hearth. Other customers looked at their watches, and flicked money onto the bar top, calling farewells. The server picked up the change and bade them return soon.

A bandy-legged figure in a leather coat and woolly scarf emerged from a darkened corner on the other side of the lounge and waddled silently toward the door. Lit only by the fireplace and the orange lamp, the bearded face under the flat cap bore a slight resemblance to the Elf Master. Of course, half the men over forty in this part of the world did. That didn’t make him any different from most of the other gaffers in the bar. What made Keith take notice was when the bearded man opened the door to leave. He seemed to be no more than eyelevel to the doorknob. Keith blinked. It was probably a trick of the light. Keith caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes glancing his way, lit by the swinging lanterns outside. He turned back to the bar, shaking his head.

“I think we just saw one of your relatives,” he said in a voice pitched only for Holl and the Master to hear.

“This is no time for one of your jokes, Keith Doyle,” Holl said in a frosty voice.

“I mean it,” Keith persisted. “I’m not betting my Uncle Arthur’s hotel towel collection on it, but I really think so.”

Holl lowered his glass, with eyes narrowed. “I thought you said your family broke no laws.”

Keith assumed an expression of wounded innocence. “I did. He’s in the textile business. He gets one of each as samples.”

Holl looked over his shoulder. “Then where is the man you saw?”

“He’s gone now,” Keith said, glancing back too. The outer door had swung shut. “Really, he could have been your cousin.”

The Master said nothing, and drank his Guinness gloomily. Frivolous references to his loss thickened the shell around the small leader. He ignored Keith and Holl stolidly.

“We ought to think about finding a place where we might be able to have dinner,” Diane said, and did a double take. “God, I’m starting to talk like the locals, with the eightfold sentences. I’m getting hungry.”

“Me, too,” Keith said, referring to his watch. “It’s just about the time they start serving. We’re dry now. I think I could face the car seats again. Come on.” Diane smiled at the bartender, and the four of them stood up.

Amid merry calls of farewell, Keith assured the publican they would stop by again soon. “We’ll get back here at least once before we go home,” he promised. The door swung shut behind them. The moon overhead was not far from full, and Keith felt alive and full of good spirits, both figurative and literal.

He jingled his car keys, and started across the car park to the blue compact, followed by Diane and the two Little Folk. It was full dark, and the sky overhead was clear and spangled with stars. As they passed under the shadow of the brick arch, a voice issued from the darkness, smooth and warm like melted caramel. It asked a question in an unintelligible lingo. The Master’s head went up. He stopped, and replied tentatively in the same language. A small figure darted from behind the wall and waylaid the Master, pulling him to one side. Keith jumped forward to defend his teacher, but the Master held up a hand.

It was the small man in the cap. He slapped out a barrage of words, his nose within inches of the Master’s, who replied to him slowly in the same tongue, without a trace of the Deutsch accent with which he spoke English. Keith hovered nearby, getting more and more excited.

“Listen!” he hissed to Diane. “Listen!”

“I think they know each other,” she murmured. “Is that your little man?”

“Yup.”

The small man turned his head to glance at the Master’s companions. The two Big Folk he dismissed immediately, and ignored thereafter, but Holl he studied. He asked another question, a short one, and Holl, clearly fascinated, approached more closely to answer. The stranger clasped his forearm and drew him forward, looking him carefully up and down. Keith was burning with curiosity.

The stranger made a final exclamation, and guided the two Little Folk under the archway toward the road. Keith, with Diane holding on to his arm, started to follow them. Holl heard the crunch of gravel behind him and looked over his shoulder.

“Go home,” he ordered. “Don’t follow us.”

“But, Holl, I want to know who he is, and where …”

“Go home, Keith Doyle,” Holl repeated seriously. “This is not Gillington Library. You might wind up with your teeth pulled, not only your fillings. We will be safe, and we’ll find our own way back.”