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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Chapel of Her Dreams: Chapter 11
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Extended Work
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| The Chapel of Her Dreams: Chapter 11 | |
| By Bagheera | ||
| 16 July 2006 | ||
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It's been a while since I posted a Chapter! The book is now at First Draft (27 Chapters) and THIS chapter describes what I intend to be doing in the name of "Market Research" over the coming fortnight (while I work out just HOW a Guinness tastes best .....) :) See you all in a fortnight or so! Hope you enjoy this chapter! BTW: Turlough O'Carolan was a real person, and was under the patronage of one of my ancestors, widow to the High King [or Ard Ri] of Ireland ..... Chapter Eleven Phil had brewed coffee and set out an extra cup to offer Gerry a ‘wake-up call’ when he arrived. Summer was drawing towards a leisurely close. A faint mist lay close to the riverbanks, and the warm glow resulting from the coffee was just what they all needed. Kate gave Gerald an extra large portion of the special malted grain Patsy Slattery had provided, and they strolled across to the footpath which led down to the riverbank where Gerry had moored his rowboat. Gerry eased the boat away from the bank, turning and using the oars to cross the current, allowing the river to carry them downstream. “Is it far to Templeronan?” “You’ll be seeing it over my right shoulder as we come around the next bend. It’s close enough: but on our way back, I’ll likely thank you for some help on the oars pulling upstream!” With the ease which can only come from practice, Gerry sculled into a patch of dead water on the apex of the next bend in the river, and backed his oars to bring them to a temporary standstill mid-stream. On the opposite bank stood a low, rectangular, whitewashed building at the base of a gentle slope peppered with a fairly regular pattern of small, dark dots. As they drew nearer, these resolved themselves into a variety of grave markers, both in metal and in stone. They hung for a few moments in mid-stream. Suddenly Phil shivered violently and blinked, confused, looking around as if disoriented. “What’s the matter?” asked Kate, concerned. Phil shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the remnants of a dream, or even something more tangible such as the threads of a spider’s web clinging to his hair. “Did you not hear the music? Or was it just my imagination?” he asked. Two pair of eyes stared back at him: Kate with evident anxiety, Gerry with a glance which more nearly resembled caution or reserve. “ ‘Did the bugles play the Last Post and Chorus?’ ” chanted Phil, softly, and completed the couplet: “ ‘Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?’ ” Kate recognised the lyrics of a folk song on a collection Phil had bought at a Folk Festival the previous year, a song about the futility and horror of war. In spite of herself, and the warm summer weather, she shivered. “I didn’t hear anything, Phil: and as far as I can tell, Gerry heard nothing, either!” Gerry nodded his confirmation of this. Without comment, he laid into the oars again and began heading for the opposite bank, close to the building which Phil assumed had to be a chapel of sorts. “It seemed so real!” muttered Phil. “Just like being at the concert again .........” This time it was Kate’s turn to shiver. She turned and explained to Gerry: “It was only about a week or two after we saw the singer/songwriter who performed this song when we heard he’d been killed in a plane crash.” Gerry nodded. “Isn’t it curious, the number of musical giants who’ve been taken from us far too soon by accidents in recent years?” he said. It was almost as if he were thinking out loud rather than making conversation. “It all started with Buddy Holly, I suppose: or even Glenn Miller – though they never found a body, and some people still don’t believe he died .... ” “Jim Croce” “The Big Bopper” “Jim Reeves” “John Lennon” Phil flushed. It had been completely accidental: his reference to Lennon’s assassination alongside the documented accidental deaths of other musical legends was definitely out of place, but it was too late now to recall his words. “ ’Tis indeed curious, that we should come to talk of the deaths of musicians just now” commented Gerry, as he plied the final few strokes needed to edge alongside a small jetty. “For it happens there’s a tale to be told of a musician buried right here, who was famous the length and breadth of Ireland though he never travelled very far from here during his lifetime.” “We’d love to hear it, Gerry!” said Kate, glancing briefly at Phil to enlist his agreement. Gerry secured the painter to a convenient ring before replying. “If we take a short walk from here, I will show you his resting place. The tale of Mary McDermott, and her patronage of the blind Harper, Turlough O’Carolan, is one which would stir the most callous of hearts ........... ” “Mary McDermott was the wife of Owen O’Rourke McDermott. He died when she was still quite young: she decided that she would continue to administer Moylurg in his name, as they had no children.” “At that time, almost three hundred years ago, there was a severe outbreak of plague throughout the land. The Kingdom of Tara – of which Moylurg was but a part – was severely affected. Of those who were infected, four out of every five died. Many of those who survived were left permanently disfigured or lame, to such an extent that they wished themselves dead: some even took their own lives, unable to live with their handicaps.” “When Turlough was taken ill, he was a young man working on the estate – but at that time, he had not shown any aptitude for or interest in the study of music. He fainted and collapsed one day while at the main house. Mary McDermott, showing her true Christian compassion, showed no hesitation in having him carried to her private rooms, where she immediately had her own physician attend and examine him.” “When the plague was diagnosed, she ordered everyone except the physician, and the servant who had carried Turlough to the room to leave at once, so that infection would not be spread. For the same reason, she also remained in the cottage.” “For three weeks they lived thus: meals were brought by staff and left them outside the door to be collected.” “When the fever broke and Turlough no longer burned all over his blistered body, the physician removed the dressings and bandages from the worst wounds on his face and his upper arms.” “The wounds on his arms had healed over perfectly: but it was immediately evident when the dressings were removed from his face that the disease had left him blind.” “Turlough was a young man, accustomed to using his hands to earn his living: what was there left for him to do, now he had lost his sight? For a full turn of the moon he was cast into a mood of the blackest despair, raging against his fate and the fickleness of fortune which had robbed him of the means to make a living. He was also terrified of the thought that his mistress might turn him out of the house to beg or starve” “But this was not in Mary McDermott’s nature, and she resolved to bring him out of his dark misery. She began to read for him daily, or played on the lute and the recorder as the mood took her.” “Turlough responded immediately to her attempts to cheer him, and particularly enjoyed the music she played . Soon he was humming along to the melodies, even extemporising harmonies.” “One day, he asked her to allow him to hold the instrument she was playing, and show him where he should place his hands if he were to try to play on it.” “That day she had been playing on a small lap harp. She stood behind him, placing his hands on the sound post and the strings, and Turlough immediately felt an affinity for the instrument. Without further prompting or instruction, he plucked several perfect chords on its strings: Mary sensed that he had a true talent which should be nurtured and developed.” “To his amazement and delight, Turlough discovered that his blindness was no hindrance in studying the harp. His senses of touch and hearing became far more finely tuned than those of a sighted person, until he became so much at one with his chosen instrument that he was scarcely aware of the loss of his eyes. Mary McDermott lost no time in commissioning Turlough a fine instrument of his own. Soon he was composing original melodies on it, and writing pæans of lyrical praise commemorating the deeds of Tara’s heroes, both living and dead.” “Turlough’s reputation spread rapidly and soon reached the ears of Conor, who was King of Connaught at that time. He had heard tales of Mary McDermott’s patronage of a blind harper and decided to see for himself. He arrived unannounced, late one evening, asking for a night’s sanctuary as if he were a common pilgrim heading for the shrine at Knock.” “He was greeted courteously and offered a simple meal in the kitchen, as the hour of the main evening meal was past. A servant escorted him to the dormitory reserved for travellers and they passed a door which was slightly ajar. Beautiful music and a powerful, emotional singing voice welled out of it, and Conor had to stop and listen.” “His guide paused and nodded, indicating that they might linger and listen for a while. Slipping through the door without needing to open it further Conor stood, silent and amazed, in shadow at the back of the concert room. Turlough was engrossed in his music, as usual, and appeared unaware of the newcomers in the audience.” “As the ballad he was singing came to a final cadence Turlough segued a short series of chords until he found a different key, and launched into one of his latest compositions. It was a ballad commemorating the prowess, skill and bravery of Conor scoring the winning goal in a challenge hurling match against a team of Fairy Folk. It was a humorous song, full of laughing rills of melody and swift repartee. Long before the end, most of the audience were clapping rhythmically and joining in the refrain every time it returned. With a final flourish, Turlough rose and bowed to his audience, but appeared to stare with his sightless eyes exactly at Conor at the back of the hall and gave an extra deep bow in his direction before allowing his guide to lead him from the room.” “The following morning Conor made his identity known to Mary McDermott, and thanked her for her hospitality. He took the opportunity to compliment her on her astute decision to support and protect Turlough O’Carolan. Without placing what might have been considered undue pressure on her, he made it clear that if she should ever feel herself in need of the protection of a strong arm, even consider marrying once more, he would be honoured to be considered.” “Though flattered by the unexpected attention of her sovereign lord, Mary McDermott was more than capable of continuing to rule Moylurg unassisted: she had, after all, assisted her husband Henry Baccach with his duties for many years. She never re-married, however. She chose to devote her time and skills to caring for her protégé, Turlough O’Carolan.” “Neither of them could have known it, but when blind Master Harper Turlough O’Carolan died at almost seventy years of age – quite a creditable achievement, at that time! – he was also to be remembered as the last of Ireland’s Bards to be employed by a royal patron – or, in this case, patroness!” They had strolled along the base of the hillock as Gerry told the tale, and begun to climb the gentle gradient. As he concluded the story Gerry pointed with a gnarled walking stick. “We’ll be heading off that way now, and I can show you Turlough O’Carolan’s final resting place.” “After three hundred years, is it still possible to identify a headstone or memorial?” “You’d be surprised, Kate. If you use quality stone and hire a master stonemason, the inscription will remain legible. And you can be certain that the grave of a heroic figure such as Turlough O’Carolan would be well-tended and kept over the years!” Gerry paused at the top of the hill, next to a stone which was considerably bigger than those close by. It was also marked by a discreet row of ornamental metal railings no more than six inches in height. This was clearly a much later addition, probably no more than fifty years old. It had the effect of adding an extra dimension of honour and respect to the physical remains, long turned to dust, of the heroic personage buried there. Crouching to scrutinise the lettering chiselled on the headstone, Phil could make out the name Turlough O’Carolan without difficulty. The lettering was larger and more deeply cut and was at the top of the stone. The rest of the text, however, was in an unfamiliar language which he assumed had to be Gaelic. Gerry was right, though: despite three centuries passage of time, it was still clear and legible. “I can give you the nub o’ what’s written on the headstone” offered Gerry “ ... as I’ve taken my turn at tending the grave, same as most people in the village. But if you need an exact translation ..?” Phil was quick to assure him that this would not be necessary. Gerry nodded, and obliged with an approximation of the eulogy carved on the headstone. “Turlough O’Carolan: blinded, you saw more clearly than most. God speed you, Harp Master May you ever play your airs for the Heavenly Host” Phil suddenly felt Kate lean against him, as if she were in danger of losing her balance. He was just in time to support her with one hand under each elbow as she sank to her knees on the grass. He followed automatically, ending on his knees facing her. “Kate! What’s the matter?” “I just .... felt a bit faint. The heat, perhaps; I don’t know.” Phil placed his hand on the ground to support himself as he prepared to help Kate back to her feet. A curious expression crossed his face. “Can you hear the music this time?” Kate was about to shake her head, but automatically grasped his elbow more securely. She frowned. “Just for a moment, I thought I heard something ......... ” “Describe what you thought you heard.” suggested Gerry. “It sounded like someone playing a guitar” Phil began. ”No! It was more like a piano: honky-tonk style, I think it’s called!” Kate countered. Gerry looked from one to the other. “Have either of you ever heard anyone play a harp?” he asked “Because if you haven’t I can understand why you can’t agree whether it was a guitar or a piano!”
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