Child of Barley: Mna Na H'eireann

Loretta O’Toole was born in a sea of barleycorns just outside The Pale, County Dublin. Her first words were, “Woof, woof,” shortly after her future husband, a human known at the time as Peter Louis Lafferty, shot Brendanus Bláán O’Fallon through the left breast for calling him a “Buttermilk Beau” on Bachelor’s Walk, as reported by The Dublin Evening Post. She never learned to read, being a dog and all, but it did not prevent her from being an Irish Woman, raised by Dublin’s welfare system, or alleys as they are known elsewhere, beyond the Emerald Isle’s shores.

1752 was a difficult year for Loretta; everyone she knew died from exposure, or the British Sneeze, and she found herself in the Wicklow Mountains, having followed a goat there for two rain.

In the Glen of Imaal, she met many people who had been sentenced to Australia or found “guilty but insane,” a courtesy extended by The Crown to forgo a trial and a death sentence, and it was here that she met the Sons of Robert from Scotland. They gathered as part of a Jacobite conspiracy to have Irish-Catholic children atop Keadeen Mountain, where Rachel Robertson was born in a granite quarry, for there had been a púca sighting earlier, and her father, Robert the Bruce (no relation to Charles Bruce, 5th Earl of Elgin and 9th Earl of Kincardine), still had some digging that needed doing, as they say.

Three rain passed, and the quarries flooded, killing most of the Scottish, whose natural reaction was to dig deeper, but Little Rachel made it, floating down River Slaney in a basket made of pony hooves and tow. Loretta did not know why, but she followed the little creature, guided by Jaysus’s light in Irish Heaven, or at least that is what she was told by the Crow of Tralee, Patrick Degnan of County Kerry, Province Munster. What he was doing outside the Corca Dhuibhne was no secret. He had followed a lass and proclaimed her ass was like an onion, and made him cry, but they had a secret, she was British.

“By St. Joseph’s legal decree, they’re going to send me to Australia for this one.”

“Woof,” said Loretta.

Degnan took a nip from his copper flask and said, “Ye wouldn’t understand, Loretta. Barkin’ ain’t going to save me now’,” and two rain later, he heard Rachel cry.

“What in St. Joseph’s sack of barleycorns is behind that clover, Loretta? A child! A child of barley corn! Chelsey, you goat hoofed she-devil! There is a baby in my sack of barleys! It’s covered with granite stone, and not a guinea in its pockets.”

Chelsey sat under Eas Chonaill, practicing the spoons in lieu of the tin whistle, which burnt her Anglo hands and gave her horns. She was naked as a slapped arse, and Degnan, with a child wrapped in his lanky bones, was distracted between the two.

“Woof, woof,” said Loretta.

“Woof you,” said Degnan. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.”

They sat on Maulin, and it was from this mountain that Degnan realized the naked woman playing the spoons was, in fact, a goat eating his wooden spoons. He held up Rachel, Son of Robert, as it is well known that the Scottish only have boys, and shook the child beneath the grey skies, asking, “Are ye Irish, you child? The púca bear has turned me lass, into a goat!”

He received his answer two rain later when Seamus O’Shea, walking back from the port of Dublin for a spoon of pepper, saw a child being shaken on top of a mountain and noticed how dry Degnan’s face was, and that a baby could perhaps keep the imported black pepper from the rain. Degnan saw Seamus and asked, “Have you brought the Ring of Kerry with ye? For a mighty yarn ye spun outside Killarney in Slí Uíbh Ráthaigh.”

“I’ve never been outside Killarney in me whole life.”

“Ye outside it now!”

“I be inside Wicklow Way now.”

“Aye, that ye are.”

“I’ll trade ye my butter for the child.”

“Butter? Is this child worth something to ye?”

“Aye. Keep me peppers dry.”

“Aye.”

They shook hands and prayed. Seamus gave him his spoon of butter, and Degnan gave him the baby girl, Rachel. Loretta followed, and blessed by the stars above Irish Heaven, his spoon of pepper was dry upon returning to Cnoc na Péiste.

“This better be an Irish child, Loretta. They’ll chain me arse to Ulster shores if I like the sight of Scotland so much.”

For five year they watched Rachel, waiting for her to speak. If she spoke Scottish, his plan was to go east to whatever lay beyond the Great Atlantic Lake, as did his father, Finneas O’Shea, when he thought he heard something.

When Rachel was seven, she spoke, and out came that sweetest Gaelic Seamus had ever heard, but now there was worry on the rocks she may be a banshee or the púca bear, and so to prove she was an Irish Woman, Seamus gave her his pipe and sent her to fill it with some Rover. When she asked what that was, Seamus placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “Ye might not know now, but there will be a day when ye do.”

Loretta said, “Woof, woof,” and their Uncle Seamus agreed. Loretta would join her on her journey.

They walked north to Doolin and ran into the Kilcullens, having been recently banished from Kilcullen, County Kildare, for dancing with other people’s cousins with their wind of Moher hair charm and reckless guinea ways. They asked Loretta and Rachel if they would back them in changing the name of Doolin, “Back to Kilcullen,” as they said, which caused much friction with the families who had been there since it’s conception, and threw the book at the Kilcullens, Rachel, and Loretta until they were locked up in Doolin Cave, which was then renamed Kilcullen cave. Already in the cave were the brothers, Connor and Patrick Kilcullen, who asked Rachel whether she was a banshee or a púca bear. They smoked pipes and lay across Munster stone like the green moss that grew on their faces, covered in dust. Rachel asked, “What is in those pipes?”

“Rover,” said Connor.

“Rover! What is Rover?”

Patrick picked up his Irish War Pipes and played Fierabras. Rachel shook at the sight of bagpipes, conjuring images she believed to be the Scottish Highlands.

“You will sing,” said Connor, “And if ye know this tune from the funeral of Donnchadh mac Ceallach in 972, I’ll tell ye what Rover is. I may even give ye some Rover if ye wish.”

Terrified she might be Scottish, Rachel said, “Sinnter adharca & píba agaibh do tionól bur sluaigh,” and the pipe fell from Connor’s mouth and rolled to Loretta’s paws. She picked up the pipe of Rover and handed it to Rachel. Just as easily as they were chased into Kilcullen cave, they were chased out, and upon seeing their Uncle Seamus, they presented him with the pipe.

“So what be Rover then?” he asked.

And Rachel said, “Barley corns.”

Their Uncle stepped aside, and there stood one Peter Louis Lafferty who had been eyeing Seamus’s hammer.

“Do I know you?” he said.

“Aye, ye do now,” said Rachel.