The Troubles of Terrance Clearwater

I recall hearing a long time ago, I dare say I've forgotten the fellow's name at the very moment, "into each life some rain must fall." No phrase is more suitable than this for the following tale of a life steeped in sorrow, and drenched in downpours of misfortune. Terrance Clearwater the son of Ryan Clearwater and his wife Mrs. Neve Clearwater, was a man tossed, and justled to and fro by the squalls and gales of a most turbulent life. We all know the tales of his troubles, which sadly set in quite unexpectedly from the day he was born.

I've heard this tale of tempest and torment from more than a few old crones in the seaside town of Dingle in the county of Kerry, which I've found most agreeable to visit during the summer months when afflicted by my own, completely manageable I might add, malaise of melancholy, which I would liken to more of a thick fog which brings ships to a stand still than any treacherous storm the likes of which Mr. Clearwater endured in his tragic time upon this earth. I shall relay the most recent retelling of this story told to me by Mrs. Abigail O'Connor, God rest her soul, two summers ago in that very same seaside village where Mr. Clearwater most unfortunately was born and spent his wretched years.

Mrs. O'Connor, a rather frail and bent old woman, was well known by the locals to spin yarns, recite the old folklore, and visit the ancient shrines of Ireland's old Gods. This by no means should be held against her, nor in anyway detract from the voracity of the retelling, as I said before I've heard this tale many times from a host of reputable sources, of Mr. Clearwater's life. Now, I sat before Mrs. O'Connor's hearth, which despite it being a rather warm mid-August night was a blaze with peat, waiting politely for a piping cup of tea. Dimly lit as this sultry shack was, I could just barely make out a grimalkin, curled up and asleep on a pile of wool blankets near Mr.s O'Connors wicker chair. From her ragged, rough appearance, at least what I was able to discern in the darkness, this poor creature was nearly as old as Mrs. O'Connor. Some may say, of course, not I for I've always found myself to be a practical individual, older, much older than Mrs. O'Connor. Whether she was alive at all was debatable for she lifted neither head nor eye-lid when Mrs. O'Connor, bent and stooped as she was, shuffled across the stone floor of her shack, stretched out her arms and, with both hands trembling from the years, handed me my long awaited cup filled with a steaming brew. Taking the wicker chair by both arm rests, she eased down into a seated position, her old frame relaxing and straightening. Mrs. O'Connors head firstly moved from a downward position to upright, then backwards slightly, finally leveling out directly with my own line of sight. This display, while not imposing in itself, was followed by a gaze, trance like, piercing and most unexpected. I dared not move, no matter how minuscule, for I had been gripped by that most primal instinct inherent to most prey animals, to freeze. I had scarcely taken a sip from my cup, and now holding it half-way from the saucer, which I held in my left hand, to my mouth, was implored to remain in that exact position.

I shall now relate the story of Mr. Terrance Clearwater, though it be paraphrased, as told to me in that sweltering shack near the cliffs of Dingle by the old crone Mrs O'Connor. In, or around, the year 1870, in Dingle, lived a Miss Neve Murphy, a beautiful girl of 20 years. She was the daughter of Captain Murphy, of which a more noble and daring sea captain ever existed in the history of all of Ireland. Though the goods that good captain brought through perilous seas were much sought after through the county of Kerry, nothing and no-one was more treasured and lusted after than his exquisite Neve. Now, it's well understood among seafaring men, the captain's daughter is off-limits. It would be safer to jump from the side of a vessel underway in squall, at night, and swim to a lee shore than to court the captain's daughter. But, as anyone who has ever truly loved knows the prospect of a painful end is no deterrent to the flame. For a young sailor, under the commendable command of that good captain, whether or not that flame and yearning came from lust or love was not yet determined, though he was utterly captivated by the girl. That young sailors name, (there are some variations in his first name among the stories I've heard before) was Ryan Clearwater.

When a haul of cargo was brought to port, young mister Ryan was granted shore leave by the good captain. Unlike his comrades, he did not dither away his time nor pay at the tavern courting barmaids, whose songs were that of the sirens, ready and willing to dash your hopes of love, and hard earned pay, upon the rocks, sending you penniless back to lonely and frigid bunk of a lodging house. No, Ryan departed the ship and made haste to the arms of Miss Neve and they spent many a night on top the cliffs of Kerry County.

Of course, as such things go, under the Irish firmament, whilst gripping Miss Neve firmly, young Mister Ryan did rightly and asked for Miss Neve's hand in marriage to which she agreed. There be no controversy in this particular part of the tale as Mister Ryan had saved up a considerable fortune of gold coins which he swore up and down he had come by honestly, and had made all the arrangements with that good captain before hand, and after assurances to Captain Murphy his daughter's virtue was intact and she was not with child, he agreed. Furthermore, Mister Ryan had that very day, after making much advances in post as a seaman, been promoted and transferred to Boatswain's Mate of a ship, not in competition or rivalry with the good captain's ship, commanded by a Captain O'leary who was also well known in Kerry county as an honorable and good captain, though his part in this tale will play no further significance.

On the day Mr. Ryan Clearwater and Miss Neve Murphy were to be betrothed, the whole county assembled at the place chosen by Miss Murphy, the ruins of Kilmalkedar church. Even in those times this site lay in ruins but received many a pilgram, so it was regarded as still being hallowed ground, though some who still pay their respects to the old Gods would differ. Nevertheless, the site was agreed upon and with all parties in attendance the local priest wed the two young lovers and a large canvas tent was erected nearby which held the reception party. The time came for toasts and many men, young and old gave their best speeches with grim and gay faces alike. The most notable, and, with hindsight, ominous speech, came from a small man, about middle age, with curly red hair and a wily way about him. Being of small stature, he hopped upon a table to give his well wishes to the happy couple. Much to the surprise of those sitting round the table I might add. "Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Clearwater," he said with a booming voice that betrayed his stature, "I wish many years of health and wealth upon ye! And," he paused while looking about the shocked and amused reception goers... "Always remember that what is given can be taken, and what is taken cannot be given!" He then raised up his glass, drank it down in one gulp, and gently placed the glass upside down next to a wide eyed Mrs. Kelly and her young son. No sooner had he jumped up on the table, delivered his speech, than he jumped down. The top of his curly red head bounced up and down as he made his brisk exit, barely visible to the newly weds amongst the numerous seated guests. On his way out, at least if old Farmer O'Brian is to be believed, this wily man pulled out a red cap from his jacket pocket and pulled it down over his head, and into the same pocket he pulled his cap from, he stuffed a heaping handful of decadent chocolates from the buffet table. Given the gaiety of the occasion, many clapped cheerfully, most likely not being close enough to hear what was said, while others who did hear looked on in confusion. At any rate, others stood up and delivered their speeches in turn and the incident was soon forgotten, no doubt attributable to the freely flowing and fine libations provided in generous amounts. The night proceeded as planned and the couple departed in a splendid and appropriately adorned carriage to their new residence, where the marriage was consummated.

Now, nine months had passed in Kerry County. Curiously, and most unfortunately, in that nine months time, no rain at all fell on the fields, shacks, or shores of that most decent place. It was the talk of every inn and tavern, every trading post and post office. What God or Gods could be angry, and what was done to offer offense that would warrant such a calamitous punishment. Such speculation was not just reserved for the priests and old crones. Though they offered the most appealing explanations and remedies. None of which had any effect. But, no prayer or pagan ritual would call the rain to fall on the heads of any man, woman, child or chattels in Kerry County.

Finally, there in the Clearwater residence, all signs indicated that today was the day Mrs. Neve Clearwater was to give birth. A midwife was called in to assist with the birthing, as Neve and Ryan's mothers had long since passed, God rest their souls. A doctor was also called for, but after examination he determined the birth would be a simple one, and the doctor retired to the Tavern in Dingle wherein he took lodging for the night. This doctor, being a married and honorable man, retired early to his quarters. He made certain to lock the door and place a chair against the knob, lest some late night vistor come seeking to steal away his marital virtue, or his sack of coins. As for Mrs. Clearwater, her labour proved arduous and lasted well into the night. The worried Mr. Clearwater, after consultation with the midwife, dressed himself, made ready his horse, and rode for the town of Dingle with great haste to fetch the sleeping doctor.

Luck was not on Mr. Clearwater's side, for just past midnight a great tempest besieged the county of Kerry. Rolling in from the sea, it forced upon the shore great waves that, though thought to be in safe harbor, tossed the ships therein about. Making landfall, this mighty torrent of wind and rain lashed everyone and everything, including Mr Ryan Clearwater and his horse. Fighting a fierce headwind, he arrived at the Tavern. He and the Tavern owner then went to the doctors quarters. The thunder and lighting were so frequent and loud, the sleeping doctor was not roused by the pounding from Mr. Clearwater's fists. It was decided, and given Mrs. Clearwater's dire situation, the best course of action was to force the door open.

Now, Ryan Clearwater was a large man, neither door nor deadbolt gave him much trouble, and the chair broke to pieces with a crash. This commotion was indeed enough to wake the sleeping doctor who rose from his deep, unnatural sleep with pistol in hand. Thankfully for Mr Ryan Clearwater, the Tavern owner had neglected the roof over his tavern and a hole had formed, unbeknownst, which made itself known on that very night, and from which a trickle of water had come down upon that sleeping doctors revolver ruining his powder and his shot, which surely would have pierced the heart of Ryan had it not been for the completeness of its saturation. Half asleep the doctor demanded, “what’s the meaning of this!” Briefly relaying the dire situation, the doctor readied himself and they rode off towards the Clearwater residence, still under the full might of that unholy tempest.

What happened next is not up for debate, as many witnesses swore their testimony before the county magistrate, including that most virtuous doctor. Upon arrival, Mr Ryan Clearwater and the doctor found the door wide open and swinging violently in the wind. Neither Mrs Clearwater nor the midwife were found inside. No sooner had they discovered this, that great storm, surely sent by whatever God or Gods rule the sea, ceased. The last boomings of thunder rolled across the hills and out to sea. I ghastly silence fell over the land. The clouds began to break and the first rays of the morning sun began to shine through. Faintly, and not far away, unmistakable cries of a newborn babe were heard. “over there!” shouted Mr Ryan Clearwater. Both men mounted and made off like mad in the direction of those helpless cries, slowing or stopping every 30 yards or so to listen and better ascertain its direction until, at last, they arrived at the Tower of Eask near the sea. “Up there, atop the tower!” Ryan shouted. The virtuous doctor looked up at the stone structure, intended as we all know to guide ships into Dingle Harbor, in horror. He wondered how and why anyone could or would scale up, in a storm at that, with a newborn babe in tow. The cries were heard quite clearly now, and now more urgently. Mr. Ryan Clearwater wasted no time setting his hands to stone and climbing that imposing tower of neatly stacked rock. He yelled down to the doctor, “Go, fetch the carpenter and bring the largest later he has!” No time was wasted in the task, the carpenter along with the ladder, and no small number of towns folk arrived at the tower and clearly saw Mr Ryan Clearwater perched on top with his new born babe cradled in his arms. The ladder proved to be of sufficient hieght and Ryan descended. Knowing this was Mrs. Clearwater's child, the town constable who was also in attendance, inquired into her whereabouts. He climbed the ladder, she was not on top of the tower. And, in fact noone in the county Kerry, nor any surrounding county ever saw Neve or the Midwife again. Atop that tower, the constable did find however, which he also swore to, a small red cap, without a drop of water on it, and upon closer examination, several wiry red hairs which did not belong to Neve, the Midwife nor the new born Terrance.

At this point in Mrs Abigail O’Connors story, there was a long pause, which I attributed, for a moment, to a device she employed for dramatic effect, as one might call it. The pause, lasted a bit too long for anyone’s sensibilities, so I inquired, “Yes, Mrs. O’Connor… and what happened next?” Silence was the only answer. Well, noticing the peat in the hearth was now only producing a flame suffice to emit but a dim flicker upon the area immediately surrounding it, I threw on a healthy heap of peat, certainly enough to raise the temperature of the shack enough for an old woman with poor circulation, as she had routinely informed me throughout the night. The renewed flame cast a new light upon the shack, and upon Mrs. O'Connor, who I now observed to be slumped in her wicker chair in a most peaceful repose. That old grimalkin that lay sleeping by her side was now nowhere to be seen. I had not noticed its departure as I was fully engrossed in the tale, which as stated before I have heard many times, and of which I’m sure you have heard many times as well, so I feel no need to continue where she left off. I digress, at this very moment, I heard the distinct and unmistakable tinkling of rain falling on the tin roof of that old shack, and, very soon after, a gentle summer storm rolled in bringing with it rain and the smell of earth and grass coming to life from its bounty. I sat back down in my chair and finished my tea which was now as cold as Mrs. O’Connor. I slept not that night, and in the morning, the rain and thunderings and lightnings ended, and reported her passing to the local authorities. I made my way up to the cliffs of Kerry County and sat in the company of Eask Tower. My gaze now fixed on the white capped waves breaking one after another in an endless and unceasing succession on the rocks.