But above the ground there is the light and lively lissom lap of air. The full tide is begotten with gusto in the pulse of the shore. The grass of the meadow is like unto that which had a vessel of fresh milk poured upon it. Every bush and clump and field is like a royal serving girl gently practising her curtsey before she came into the presence of the King. The bird gives voice to his soft melancholy music in the garden. The eyes of the children are magicked by the toys that fall out of the wondrous garden of innocence. The torch of the revival of hope appears in the cheeks of the courageous young. The foxgloves which could be picked in the meadows of eternity light up in the shy cheeks of the young girls. The singular flower of the bright bush blooms in the gentle face of the mother. The youngsters with their ringing laughter are playing hide and go seek in the barnyards, while their high-pitched joy seeks to reach the summit of Jacob’s ladder and return by it from Paradise. And the muttering murmur of lovers seeps out from the corners of the backroads like the waiflike whinnying of the wind through flower beds of cowslips in the land of youth.
But the shake of the old man is taking its toll. The young man’s bones are stiffening. The grey wisps are blending with the gold in the hair of the woman. A paleness like of serpent’s slime is invading the clarity of the child’s eye. Questions and querulousness nibble at joy and the carefree spirit. Weakness is beginning to banish strength. Despair is overwhelming love. The shroud is being woven by the baby blanket, and the grave is being prepared instead of the cradle. Life is paying its dues to death …
I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken unto my voice! You must hearken to what I have to say …
2.
— … Hoora! Who is that? Who are you? Are you my son’s wife? Didn’t I tell you she’d be here at her next birth? …
— John Willy, no less — unless they have to christen me again in this dive — that’s what they called me in the place I came from. The heart …
— John Willy. Oh my God. They’re putting you down in the wrong grave, Johnny. This is Caitriona Paudeen’s grave …
— Isn’t that how it is in this graveyard, my dear Caitriona. But, I can’t talk to the living. There’s something at me. My heart …
— What kind of funeral did I have, John Willy?
— Funeral? The heart, Caitriona! The heart! I was going to get the pension. I didn’t hear a whisper. I drank a sup of tea. I toddled down to the Common Field to get a basket of potatoes. When I was letting them down when I got home the strap ripped and it came down arseways. It gave me a jolt in my side. I was left completely breathless …
— What kind of funeral did I have, is what I’m asking?
— The heart, may God help us! The heart was weak, Caitriona. I had a dodgy heart …
— Fuck you and your heart! You have to forget about that shite here …
— I know but the heart is a poor thing Caitriona. We were making a new pen for the colt that we bought just after Christmas. We were nearly finished except for the last bit. I myself wasn’t able to give that much help to the youngfella, but nonetheless, he’d appreciate it. You wouldn’t give a damn, only the weather was great for the last while …
— Weather! Last while! They’re two things you won’t have to worry about here, John Willy. You were always a bit of a lazy layabout. Tell me this much! Why are you not taking a blind bit of notice of me? Did I have a big funeral? …
— A fine big funeral!
— A fine big funeral, John Willy, did you say? …
— A fine big funeral. The heart …
— Listen, get stuffed and forget your heart unless it was going to do you some good. Do you hear me? You have to give up that old guff. Nobody will listen to that kind of crap here. How was my altar?
— A fine big funeral …
— I know that, but what about the altar? …
— A fine big altar …
— What altar, I’m asking. Don’t be such a dour puss all the time. What altar?
— Peter the Publican had a big altar, and Huckster Joan, and Maggie Frances, and Kitty …
Don’t I know it! And that’s what I’m asking you. Wasn’t I aboveground myself that time? But what altar did I have, me, Caitriona Paudeen? Altar! Seventeen pounds, or sixteen pounds, or fourteen pounds? …
— Ten pounds twelve.
— Ten pounds! Ten pounds! Now Johnny, are you certain it was ten pounds, not eleven pounds, or twelve pounds, or …
— Ten pounds, Caitriona! Ten pounds! A fine big altar, by God. Not a word of a lie, it was a fine big altar. Everyone said it was. I was talking to your sister Nelclass="underline" “Caitriona had a fine big altar,” she says. “I never thought she’d come as much as two or three pounds close to it, or four either.” The heart …
— Bugger and blast your heart! Give it over, Johnny, for chrissake! … Were the Hillbillies there? …
— I’m telling you, that’s what she said: “I never thought she’d come as much as two or three …”
— The Hillbillies weren’t there?
— The Hillbillies! They heard nothing about it. Paddy was to tell them about it: “Ara,” Nell says, “why would you be dragging them making them walk all the way down here, the poor creatures.” I swear that’s what she said. The heart. A dicey heart …
— Isn’t it a terrible pity that your heart wasn’t a poison lump stuck in Nell’s gob! Were the Glen Booley crowd there? …
— Not as much as a toe of them.
— The people from Derry Lough?
— Huckster Joan’s cousin was being brought to the church the other day … You wouldn’t mind only we have that weather now for quite a while, and we were working away on the pen …
— Chalky Steven wasn’t there, then? …
— We bought a foal after Christmas …
— May God be good to you, Johnny, but don’t let the people buried here think you haven’t a smidgen of sense more than that! … Was Chalky Steven there or not?
— Not a bit of him, but Paddy said he was talking to him on the fair day, and he said to him: “Most certainly, Paddy Lydon,” he said, “I would have burst my gut to go to the funeral. I wouldn’t let it be said …”
—“‘That I didn’t go to Caitriona Paudeen’s funeral, even if I had to crawl there on my two knees. But I never heard a hint of it until the night she was buried. A foal with …’”
Chalky Steven, he’s a total crap artist! … What was my coffin like?
— Ten pounds, Caitriona. A fine big altar.
— Are you gabbling on about the coffin or the altar? Why don’t you just listen! … What price was my coffin? A coffin of …
— The very best coffin from Tim’s place, three half-barrels of stout, and poteen flowing. Twice as much booze as was needed. Nell said that to him, but there was no talking to him, he had to have the three half-barrels. We were swimming in the stuff. Even if I was the oldfella there, I drank twelve mugs of it that night, not to mention the amount I had the night you were brought to the church, and the day of the funeral. To tell you the whole truth, Caitriona, despite all the respect and affection I have for you, there’s no way I would have drunk all that much if I knew that the heart was a bit dicey …