More of Chapter One

Continuation from yesterday's posting...

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He had been dumped in that wet icy ditch on his back and lain there until his clothing was soaked through and solid with ice. One unseeing eye open and tinted by blood; the other swollen shut. Well-preserved. Refrigerated, even. This made it difficult to set an exact time of death, but when the powers that be claimed it was somewhere between midnight and four of the previous morning, they were ridiculed as beyond belief. For he was last seen being jostled out of McCleary’s in his far-too-usual condition just after last orders, two nights before. And he had not returned to his hovel off Nailors, since. 

The rumors of his final condition were verified thanks to a reticent undertaker's wife whispering them in quick, horrified breath, making it even more obvious to one and all that he had not relinquished his grip on life easily. It was decided his torturers had their fun with him for at least a full twenty-four hours, which became truth incarnate when that reticent undertaker gently but insistently suggested a closed casket, to the widow. 

"Considering the devastation visited upon him," he'd gently said, "well...there's only so much one can do, you know, and really, Mrs. Kinsella, it would be best to remember him as he was." 

Mrs. Haggerty, her immediate neighbor, was at her side when the new widow began to wail, "My poor Eamonn." Over and over as word leapt from house to home with the speed of telepathy. 

I overheard this, being in the room with my older brother, Eamonn, the dead man's namesake. Standing quietly as my elder sister, Mairead, silently wept. I was but ten years of age and could make no sense of his words. I only knew that perished was not a proper way to describe the annihilation of a human being. 

Of course, to the shock of no one, this information increased the dead man's stature greatly in the eyes of most. Within the hour, many a man was dropping by the wake, wives and wains in tow, to bring a touch of food and drink, and to offer kind remembrances of Eamonn Kinsella's bleak eyes and long face. A visage that brought to mind tortured poets and sad balladeers. They wistfully spoke of how he could sing so well as to make the angels weep. Elegant tunes of Ireland's ruined past and her dead future. Others gave gentle smiles as they told stories about the stories he could weave. Melodious tales spun by him of fairies living in Oak glens that once spread forever across the land. And of gods who roamed her once glorious green fields and forests. And exciting events wrapped around Grianán Aileach, the ancient ring fort but six miles and a hundred worlds away from town. All brought to life in such beauty and perfection you'd have thought he lived through each and every one. Though none of which they could recall well enough to repeat, or so they swore. 

Still, it would have been nice to hear something of them, for he had never shared them with us. But when I said as much, not once did any of them believe me. 

"Oh, you poor wee lad, you just don't remember," was the usual response, followed by wink and nod to whoever was seated next to them. And since neither Eamonn the younger nor Mairead said a word to the contrary, and my other siblings were staying with our aunt, my obvious stupidity was also carved into stone. 

After all, he had a true Irish heart in his use of words, and in another time under much better circumstances, he could have given the likes of James Joyce and Sean O’Casey a challenge as the nation’s bard. So without question, he would have shared his gifts with one and all. Usually followed by a dozen God rest hims, a toast to his memory, and promises left and right that his widow and wains would be looked after. 

It would try the patience of a saint, the nonsense they spewed, but on and on it went. 

The only part of this catastrophe that afforded me some pleasure was when a few less-pious souls had the audacity to suggest that a man so well-spoken yet so ill-educated must have actually lived through some of his ancient tales, and was merely relating memories of lives past. 

Word of that blasphemy spread faster than fire. That is a communist notion! A belief of Protestants! No good Catholic would ever entertain such an idea, nor would a good Irishman. And so forth and so on. And by the following Sunday, the churches were ringing loud with magnificent huffing and puffing from more than one priest at this vile nonsense. Our own Father Demian was most especially loud at the horror of the very idea. 

Which actually made me wonder if he had lived previously, for how else could so much anger and grace could have been poured into one man in fewer than thirty-six years? Of course, I knew not to say this aloud; that would have been seen as a stain the memory of our latest martyr. 

But it wasn't as if he were the only man filled with anger, in Derry. That was the one honest emotion those like him were allowed to hold. And if his missus was seen at market with a fresh bruise over one eye or across one cheek? Or was out in the cold night air walking her wains around till her lord and master had sworn himself into weary, drunken sleep? Well, her nails had left scratches deep on more than just his back, and her quickness with an iron skillet aimed for his head had not gone unnoticed. Oh, she could be her own form of holy terror, Mrs. Kinsella. 

Thus his trek to sainthood began as the truth of his violent existence vanished like a ghost into the salacious gossip of his final condition. 

His funeral was well-attended and partially paid for through the intersession of Father Demian, who’d so often visited the man’s home in times of distress. The rest wad handled by the widow's one sister, Maria McNamarra -- who had rushed over from Houston. Texas. She had left Derry before I was born but maintained steady contact. It was she who'd sent me that five-pound note. She took the family over, saw that everything was as well-arranged as possible in our sad little hovel, and kept the younger ones at her room in the City Hotel to give them peace from the nonstop clamor of adults in the house.