On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (44 page)

‘If he hadn’t,’ Cilla said, not looking at him, ‘been on the train, when you got on, then, then you’d have . . .’ Her voice trailed away, like she was watching a different story in her head; then her eyes came back to him. ‘Done what?’

He shrugged, tried to blank his mind to what in fact he had done, an act too present to comprehend, if ever he would.

They strolled on without speaking.

‘Must be jaded,’ she said. ‘And that leg needs a doctor.’

He held up a sports bag. ‘Aidan’s. Have to get it to him. Told him keep the jacket and the cap. Leather and tweed, not cool together, I heard.’

She chuckled at the echo of her own words of an hour earlier, but she seemed still lost in her thoughts. ‘The car’s just here,’ she said.

‘Big, big day!’ he said, looking to the sky.

‘Sorry about what I said, at my place, the things I was thinking, I mean.’ She paused, then smiled. ‘Didn’t mean any bad things about you. Very important you know that.’

He nodded.

‘Tony . . .’ Her inflection of his name suggested feelings about to find words. She looked at him directly, and confidently. ‘I was wondering, if there was any – ’

‘There y’are, Tony!’ Leo’s jubilant voice exploded. ‘Thought it was yourself, from across the way.’

‘I’ll wait in the car,’ Cilla said, acknowledging Leo as she left.

Leo’s face beamed. His hand gripped Tony’s and held on as all his attempts to speak failed. With a final squeeze he retreated into Paddy’s waiting friendship.

Cilla reclined against her Escort, thumbs hooked in the waistband of her jeans. Tony rested beside her. They remained silent. But all around them the chorus of twilight had begun, the frogs and owls, the ocean, the wind in the trees, a melody of air and land and sea.

Her gaze returned to his marred face. ‘Where now?’ she asked.

‘Home.’

‘Home?’ she said with surprise.

‘Dublin. Tomorrow. See about a job in media. Big maybe.’

‘I mean . . . I meant right now. You hungry? You feeling okay?’

He gave a strained smile.

‘You know, you look totally worn out. You must be in pain.’

‘Bit zapped. Sore. Be okay.’

‘I know a couch that’s free. And it’s comfortable. And guess what: my telescope, I have it set up. It’s not often a night this clear.’

‘Eyes in the sky, you called them. I remember. All those stars.’

‘I have your dad’s ring put away safe. We still on to climb, you and me, when you’re healed up? Or are you still afraid a girl might show you up?’

By now the light in his eyes had died.

She waited. ‘Yes? No? Don’t know?’ She tugged at him. ‘You okay?’

‘Don’t have to now. Climb. Odd, but that’s how . . .’

Like turf smoke in a gale, his words dissolved. He laboured away from her, around the car, to the passenger door. She dropped into the driver’s seat, smiling. He stalled again, seemed to jar. He reached for his backpack on the rear seat, but stumbled hard against the car.

‘Heyyy!’ She rushed around to him. ‘What is it? Tony! Tony! Talk to me. What is it?’ She tried to get him to release his grip on the door frame and sit down. At first he was unresponsive. Then his eyes flickered, struggled open; he winced, braced back against the car, then toppled to the side until her hands caught him and held him.

‘C’mon, we’re going to the hospital. Sit in, sit in the car. Tony, sit in.’

‘No. No. I’m okay.’ He pulled away from her, vigorously rebuffed her protests, seemed to recover, and he lumbered out onto Aranroe Hill. There he gazed up at the mountain. And in an avalanche of fuchsia his body slid down to the pavement.

And in falling he floated up, felt himself floating over old William’s train station, up over Aranroe Hill, over Claire Abbey’s warm glow, and further up until before him stood the mountain; then up over the whole western shore he soared, higher and higher into a new starlit sky, into the afterglow, and the elements turned and turned, mixing everything into one, him fusing with meadow and hill, him and fern and foxglove, man and soul merging into rock into wild rose into loch and noble clay into primordial sacredness, all one, worryless, blissful, home, hugged once more in original arms.

Fists down.

28

‘Cilla.’

No one answered in the painless room. He absorbed the silence. Echoless silence. Felt the brightness. Took in the strangeness all about him, the strange feeling inside him.

‘Anyone here? . . . Cilla?’

He tried to remember. There was no memory.

‘Cilla? . . . Anyone?’

‘Here, I’m right here.’

‘Where? Where’s here?’

‘Right here, beside you; you’re grand.’ Her words arrived before she appeared with joy in her face. ‘You’re doing grand.’

‘Where? Where’s here?’

‘Where’s here? You’re with me, that’s where; that’s all that matters. I brought you to Castlebar Hospital. Where I was brought into the world. And all that red stuff, that’s holy wine they were putting into you to make a new man out of you.’

He gave her a woozy smile, or thought he did. ‘You stayed? How long?’

‘For ever.’ She drifted to the foot of the bed, then floated off soundlessly.

‘Cilla, Cilla,’ he called faintly after her.

‘And they sewed you up, sewed up that leg of yours, and, and – ’ Her hands fought with the window blind until little by little it started travelling higher. ‘And they mended your ribs and your forehead and your back and a million other things that were broken on you.’

‘So bright. Why is it so bright?’

‘Sunrise,’ her voice said.

‘You stayed through the night?’

‘I thought you learned, time’s different here.’ Her voice was soft and sounded like it was coming from afar. ‘Y’have to make all the minutes long.’

Suddenly, her porcelain face reappeared, smiling, kissing him, ebony ringlets swaying, green eyes shining.

Without breaking from worshipping her, he ordered her stay.

‘Time enough for that,’ she said. ‘You’ll be getting out of here soon. But you’ll not be able to be on your own for a good long while. The head fella told me not to let you. Said you’ll need a guardian angel and he picked me. Because you have to get better some place proper. Where I live is best, he said. Anywhere else wouldn’t be right, make you worse – ’

His smile seemed to stop her; he summoned her closer.

She stayed away. Until her tears burst and she leaned over and held him.

He felt the touch of her lips, instant by instant, felt a kiss salty and light and tingling, deep and oceany and new, a kiss of heart and soul, earthy and soft and warm, felt it grow lighter, turn spiritual, a kiss elemental and endless.

Very sleepy now, he thought, and thought he whispered the words as his grip on her tightened; then he hugged her even closer, or felt he did, drew her into his spirit, into all he had once been, all he had salvaged, into all he had set free. And he felt her fuse into him, every atom and essence of her, and he saw her spill moon and stars all across the heavens.

‘Sleep now.’

‘See you in a little while.’

‘Little while.’

- THE END -

Translations from Gaeilge (the Irish language)

These words and phrases from the story are mostly greetings, pleasantries, and endearments, along with a few common terms. It isn’t necessary to know any of them to follow the story.

A bhuachaill:
My boy (addressing).

A ghrá mo croí:
Love of my heart.

A mhuirnín:
My sweetheart.

A stór:
My love.

Amadán:
Idiot.

Banshee:
Old spirit woman who haunts.

Boreen:
A small road.

Bucko:
A troublemaking boy or man.

Caointe:
Lament, wailing.

Caoine:
Gentle, gentleness.

Céili:
Irish music and dance session.

Ciúnas, cuairtheoir:
Quiet, here’s a visitor.

Craic:
Fun, merrymaking.

Culchie:
A country person.

Currach:
Large sea canoe made from skins on a timber frame.

Dia dhuit:
God be with you (a greeting or blessing).

Dia is Mhuire duit:
God and Blessed Mary be with you (greeting).

Divil:
Devil (fondly).

Eejit:
Idiot, sometimes said light-heartedly.

Feis ceoil:
Music festival.

Gaeilge:
The native Irish language.

Garsún:
Young boy.

Gobdaw:
Foolish person.

Is fearr ná bac léi:
It is better not to bother with her.

Jackeen:
A Dubliner.

Maidin breá:
Good morning.

Mo chairde (dílis):
My friends (loyal).

Mo chuisle (mo chroi):
My darling; my treasure (‘beat of my heart’).

Ó cailín caoine dearg:
Gentle red-haired girl (addressing).

Ráiméis:
Rubbish.

Sliotar:
A small ball used in the Irish sport of hurling.

Sláinte go gach ceann acu ar oiche seo faoi shonas:
Health to you all on this happy night.

Slán leat:
Goodbye.

Author Special Request

Now that you have finished reading, will you please take a few minutes and post a short review of this book.

It doesn’t have to be elaborate or stuffy; all you need do is go to Amazon.com or GoodReads.com and say what you liked or found meaningful or intriguing.

It’s that simple.

As an independent author I rely on readers like you, who appreciate literary fiction, to let like-minded readers know about this book.

Simply go to my book page on Amazon: OntheEdgeoftheLoch

Sincere thanks for doing that.

I value your interest in my work, and your feedback.

JÉC

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Interview with Joseph Éamon Cummins

For more interviews and resources see:
JosephEamonCummins.com

Why did you write
On the Edge of the Loch
?

Sometimes a story, or an article or piece of music, demands to be written. It bangs the walls and won’t stop. That’s what this book did.

What is the significance of the title?

In Gaeilge, Ireland’s native language, the word ‘loch’ means lake. And when someone is ‘on the edge’, it usually spells danger. So it is with the two main protagonists; they’ve been on the edge of disaster for way too long. As the story begins they’re strangers, they meet by accident, in circumstances that could lead to new lives, but life is seldom that simple. And here it certainly isn’t.

Is the story entirely fictional?

No story is fabricated entirely. What a writer creates originates in ‘events’ that happen within the mind and outside. These actual and mental events are the seed of all art. An abstract painting, for example, is born of real experience. The sequential events in
On the Edge of the Loch
are not factual; neither are the characters. But then true and factual are not the same. A well-told story is always ‘true’, as the old Irish storytellers would claim, and as did Ernest Hemingway.

Are you saying that actual events sparked the story?

One event. In a remote train station, I noticed an attractive woman who seemed to be waiting for someone to arrive. Over the next week I revisited the station many times to photograph it. I was an avid photographer then, always searching for the perfect shot, the best light. Each time I went to the station, the woman was there – still just waiting.

On the day I was leaving she smiled at me. I smiled back. Our eyes held in a sort of silent conversation, just for moments. Then she gestured like she was about to talk to me, but suddenly her head dropped, she turned away.

I left on that train, never saw her again. I sensed that she was waiting for a dream that would never show up. But what if, I thought. What if that dream could come true. And what if that changed her whole life, and other lives. I built the story from that idea.

Tony’s singularity and complexity make him seem like a real person. Is he based on someone you might have known?

He’s a composite character, with traits borrowed from real experience.

Unlike in popular fiction, there are no traditional hero types in your story. What
’
s your thinking on this?

The hero has a place in folklore and in certain fiction genres. The story I’m telling here is about ‘real’ people, how low they can sink, how high they can rise. Each of the main characters is flawed, yet each might be capable of greatness, which they don’t see until circumstances turn dramatic.