Liam O'Flaherty: Land

The man walked over to the ash tree after he had finished speaking. The horses had quietened over there by now. Michael continued to stare fixedly towards the east. The rattle of gunfire and the rolling crash of exploding dynamite continued. Columns of yellow flame shot into the air through billowing clouds of black smoke, as hay-ricks and turf-stacks and the thatched roofs of houses were set on fire. The fires were like fantastic flowers unfolding their beauty in the night, here and there across the moonlit land. Cattle appeared far away, darting hither and thither, with their tails in the air, over patches of ground made lurid by the flames. The shrill neighing of frightened horses came faintly on the wind.

Michael turned suddenly and walked swiftly from the bridge down the path that led to the river. He paused for a little while at the entrance to the arch. The white goat trotted forward and snorted at him.

“Behave yourself, Sheila,” the old woman said.

He came forward slowly to the wall and bowed with ceremony to the old woman.

“God save you,” he said.

“God save you kindly,” she answered him. “Did you come to warm yourself?”

She had already finished eating and washed her vessels in the river. She was drying the saucepan.

“I came to ask your blessing,” he said.

“Why would a fine young man like yourself need the blessing of a poor, homeless old woman?” she said.

“I, too, am homeless,” Michael said gently. “I have been homeless all my life.”

The old woman put away the saucepan in her box and said:

“Bend down your face close to me, treasure. Let me see does it show the sorrow that I hear in your voice.”

Michael put his hands on top of the wall and leaned towards her. She looked at his face in silence for a long time.

“Ah! Woe!” she said at length. “My sorrow is old now and yours is new. At its worst, my sorrow was little compared to yours. It came to me without warning. Yours didn’t. It’s terrible to wait for the lightning to strike.”

Michael leaned closer to her and whispered almost inaudibly:

“No sooner did I meet my love than I had to say farewell.”

The old woman touched his face in several places gently with the tips of her fingers. Then she nodded.

“I understand why you had to leave her,” she said.

“Did you see that in my face?” Michael said.

“I didn’t see it in your face, pulse of my heart,” the old woman said.

Michael stood erect and said brusquely:

“Speak out, then, and tell me what you understand.”

“Before you met her,” the old woman said gently, “you were already wedded to the dark stranger.”

Michael’s face clouded with anger.

“You have no right to say that,” he cried.

“Hush, alannah,” the old woman whispered. “Bend down close to me again and don’t be cross. I want to tell you something before I give you my blessing.”

Michael looked at her fiercely for a little while.

“Forgive me, good woman,” he said at length.

He shuddered, put one knee against the ground and then laid his arms along the top of the wall. He bowed his head over his hands.

“It’s not long since I left her,” he whispered gently. “Speak to me kindly.”

Now the bellowing of cattle became loud. The rattle of gunfire continued both to the east and to the west.

“The pain of a new wound is bitter,” the old woman said. “I still remember the pain of my own, when I said my farewell. Ah! Woe! When my man and my seven children died and my village was laid low and my kindred were scattered to the four corners of the world, I went mad with loneliness.”

She raised her lean hands above her head and shouted in a tone of frenzied anger:

“They took all I had.”

Then she put her hands before her eyes and rocked herself.

“God forgive me for shouting,” she said in a contrite whisper. “It’s sinful to be angry with the dead past.”

She put her hands on Michael’s shoulders.

“Sweet pulse of my heart,” she said tenderly, “I have no right to complain. There was one loveliness they couldn’t take from me.”

“What was that?” Michael said.

“Faith,” she said.

“Was that what you wanted to tell me?” Michael said. “Faith makes all things lovely,” she said, “sorrow as well as joy.”

“My faith is different from yours,” Michael said. “It makes me do cruel things, to myself and to others.”

“Be true to it, whatever it is,” she cried. “That is all that counts. Be true to it till death.”

The bellowing of cattle, the hoarse cries of drovers and the yelping of dogs now drowned the sound of gun-fire.

“Give me your blessing now,” Michael said to her. “It’s time for me to go.”

She put her palms flat against the crown of his head and prayed in silence.

“Go now,” she said when she had finished, “and may your faith remain strong in you.”

Michael got to his feet swiftly. He took her right hand and kissed it reverently three times. Then he hurried out from under the arch.

The white goat snorted at him and rapped the ground.

“Hush, Sheila,” the old woman whispered in a solemn tone. “We must be gentle with that man and show him great respect. He’s on his way to meet the dark stranger.”

A red heifer was the first to come over the brow of the hill. With her tail in the air, she galloped down the long slope towards the bridge. She kept turning her raised head slowly from side to side as she ran. She left a thin trail of blood that dripped from a gash made by a dog’s teeth in her left flank. An old black cow came next, trotting swiftly on widespread legs, lowing in panic, with foam about her jaws. Her slack udder swung rhythmically, to left and right, up against her flanks.

Then a great mass of bellowing cattle surged across the brow. Their hooves made thunder on the frozen road as they came charging down the slope. The smoke from their heated bodies rose in a cloud above their backs, like a pale mane unfurled by their flight. Men and dogs harried the flanks of the column. The men chanted the hoarse cry of the drover, as they lashed at the beasts with heavy sticks. The dogs yelped and snapped at the bellies of the runners.

Men on horse-back, with lighted torches held aloft, cantered through the fields that lay adjacent to the road on either side. Far to the rear, the earth was dappled with flame from north to south, abreast of the towering dark mountains.

The red heifer and the cow charged back over the bridge as the head of the column reached the western end. Bellowing madly, they hurled themselves into the mass and became engulfed. The horde then surged across. A white-faced bullock tried to leap over his mates, in order to escape from a dog’s fangs. He was carried the whole length of the bridge standing on end, his fore-legs jabbing at the air like a boxer.

They ran west through the dead forest. When they reached the rocky bluff, where the road swept sharply to the right, the horsemen forced them to go straight ahead through a wide gap in the fence. Almost at once, they began to climb over stiffly-rising ground. They slackened pace and stopped bellowing. Their hooves made hardly any sound on the thick heather. Now only the yelping of the dogs and the hoarse cries of the drovers could be heard. The riders made a wide circle about the compact mass with their lighted torches.

The ascent became more abrupt. The heather gave place to rough shore grass. There were clumps of gorse, loose boulders and patches of naked shingle. Then the circle of riders opened up in front. The cattle passed through the gap into the wide mouth of a defile. With a wild bellow, they charged forward at a gallop over the level ground. The men and dogs ran hotly in pursuit, redoubling their cries and their blows. The riders thrust their horses into the rear of the throng and set the lighted torches to the hides of the fleeing beasts.