Journey To Croagh Kilvarty

CW: Explicit sexual material.

In the Galway offices of genealogist Padraig MacChenney, Larry O’Dwyer gazes at the giant map spread out before him.

“This is my cue to go shopping,” jokes Larry’s wife, Marnie. “He’s all yours now, Mr. MacChenney.” She laughs and kisses Larry goodbye.

“I shall take good care of him, Mrs. O’Dwyer,” says MacChenney. “Happy shopping.”

Hard work has delivered Larry to this moment – his own research back in Canada, and the genealogist’s, here in Ireland. Now he stands in the presence of the man who has overseen that work and is giddy at the prospects of witnessing where his family had eked out a living in West Ireland’s Slieve Aughty Mountains before they left for Canada in the 1830s.

“There,” says MacChenney, pointing to a spot labelled Croagh Kilvarty. “There is where your branch of the O’Dwyers made their living, nearly two hundred years ago. It’s a poor, poor area, even to this day. I cannot imagine what the conditions might have been back then.”

Larry studies the map. “I’ll drive out there in the morning.”

“Do not expect too much,” MacChenney cautions. He has been lucky with parish records which, in this land torn by strife, have often been lost. With the O’Dwyers, he has hit upon records that sketched the family’s passage even to Quebec City in 1834. It has been a most unusual find.

“I have learned another detail that might interest you,” says the researcher. “Apparently, your own great-great-grandfather, whose name was Oren, did not make the departure with the family in 1834. In fact, Oren wasn’t born until the following year. It seems Oren’s mother and father decided to stay behind, and suddenly his father died, just before the lad was born. It appears as though his mother decided to remain until the baby was born. I have not, as yet, been able to learn the names of his parents, but I have the documents.

“Then, a most remarkable thing. With babe in arms, the mother made the grueling trip alone, to the place where the rest of the family had said they were headed. To Kings Town, in what was then your province of Upper Canada.”

The shiver Larry feels might have been from the chilly gust that barges through the open window at that moment, dismissively flicking the white lace curtains aside. Or it might be the delight of learning a previously unknown fact in his family’s story. He thanks MacChenney and collects the research.

In the morning, a brief shower surrenders under the sun’s determined force as Larry kisses Marnie a passionate goodbye, then slips into the rental car. He relishes his drive to the Slieve Aughty Mountains, to seek the plot on which his ancestors once scratched out a living. Marnie will make a final decision on that perfect piece of Celtic art.

Larry maneuvres the car along crudely asphalted roads, around hairpin curves, up steep climbs and into valleys as green as he has ever seen. He crosses ancient but solid stone bridges, through treed vales and finally up, up the craggy flank of Croagh Kilvarty, the mountain Patrick MacChenney had pointed out on the map.

More than once Larry stops to survey the empty and starkly magnificent landscape and consult the map. The splendid bleakness contrasts with the dense forest his ancestors confronted upon their arrival in their new land.

He drives past the campestral road he is seeking, backtracks, and finally spies a small worn depression in the rock that breaks the velvety green surface. A small depression in the worn rock leads up a steep embankment, evidence of a pathway, and he points the car up the incline.

The land flattens to a small plateau no more than fifty meters beyond, hidden from the main roadway by a copse of scraggly shrubs and stunted trees. Tufts of persistent gorse sprout among the rock. It is a scene of harsh beauty that transcends anything Larry has ever experienced.

The car creeps forward as Larry shifts into first. The path suddenly takes a gentler pitch up the hillside, around curves, to another plateau. Out of site of the road and judging that the path beyond is too steep and rocky to drive, he proceeds on foot.

A gentle mist swirls down the mountain and forces Larry to shiver. The view is obliterated. He stumbles. As quickly as it arrived, the mist dissipates and Larry finds himself in a farmyard, a place cleared of bush and stone. Imagine, he thinks, my family might have lived in a place just like this.

To the left sits an ancient rubble stone house, the gaps chinked with moss. Two tiny windows face the farmyard, one on each side of a low doorway. The weathered wooden door is ajar.

A crude animal shelter sits tentatively atop a nearby knoll. The misty curtain continues its retreat, revealing that farther along is another stone cottage, and beyond that another. The roofs are lengths of straw tied together, then daubed in mud.

Surely no one lives here now, he thinks, before a woman pokes her head out of the open doorway of the closest cottage. She seems startled.

“Are you a peddler?” the slight woman asks as she steps into the daylight. Her face shines with a ruddy earthiness beneath a tangle of brown hair. Little else of her is visible, her arms and body otherwise covered. “Either that, or you’re surely lost.”

“N-n-neither,” he stammers. He had no anticipation of finding any living soul in this humble place. “But closer to the second, I guess. I am sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Well, I do, indeed live here,” the woman replies, a hint of effrontery in her voice. She places her hands palms-down on her hips. Emboldened by Larry’s uncertainty, the woman steps into the yard. “And if you’re neither peddler nor lost, what is it you’d be doin’ here, then?”

A brown woolen cloak is laid across her shoulders, under which a simple gray dress hangs nearly to the ground. Her sun-browned complexion reveals a healthy familiarity with the outdoors, while her thick hair rises in strands that flick in the wind. Smudges defile her cheeks and chin. Larry imagines a barely contained fire setting her dark eyes alight, eyes that seem oversized for her regally chiseled face. He conjures the cover illustration of a gothic novel, of a wild highland lass scanning the moors for her lover. He blushes at a sudden twinge of lust.

“Sorry to impose,” he says. “I’m researching relatives, ancestors. “You wouldn’t have heard of the O’Dwyer family, I suppose.”

Is there a stitch of recognition in the woman’s face? It disappears so quickly he wonders if it had ever been there at all.

“I’ll have you know, my husband isn’t far away,” she says. He understands his presence must be alarming in this isolated spot, and he smiles in an attempt to ease her concern. He wonders about her strange dialect, cruder than anything he’d ever heard, yet undeniably Gaelic.

His speech is as strange to her and she says: “What odd sort of talk is that ye have? You’re not English, I hope? We’ll have no Englishmen here.”

“No, not English, ma’am,” Larry smiles. “Canadian. I’m from Canada.”

The woman ponders. “Canada? To be sure, I believe that’s where my husband’s family went to.”

“I am sorry to intrude. But I understand from the heritage office in Galway that my ancestors once worked this land. I came all this way to find what I could about where they came from. You have a wonderful location here.”

Larry turns and soaks in the magnificent scene over which the mist that had suddenly fallen has just as quickly retreated. A valley, miles from all hint of civilization, rocky outcroppings breaking through the verdant, stubby green. On the far hill, sheep graze. Downhill by a stream, a goat munches on sprigs of grass.

“It does not appeal to me,” she says sharply, her face stern. “The work is never-ending and there is no one to converse with except for God. And God does not seem to hear me, for I am still here.”

She softens. “I suppose you could come in. I was about to take relief from my chores and pour a cup of chicory tea. It’s not much, but you’re welcome to join me.”

Reluctant to intrude, Larry is nevertheless overcome by excitement at the prospects of viewing this humble relic of a cottage. Undoubtedly a cottage not unlike that once protecting his forebears. And, perhaps, also, to catch more of a view of his comely hostess. He breathes in the moist, sharp aroma of peat from her fire and thanks the woman for her offer, then follows her to the doorway. He stoops his six-foot frame to enter.

Inside, there is barely space to straighten. As his eyes adapt, he spies a fireplace dominating one wall, a cast iron pot suspended over smoldering embers. Their potent peaty scent fills the room. The crude stone walls are darkened by decades of smoke. There is no sink, only a large crockery dish on a worn table against a wall.

Another table stands in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor, with a couple of chairs. To the left is a doorway, covered by a cloth. The walls are naked but for implements of utility hung about. Nearby sits a spinning wheel and spread throughout are items used in food preparation. A crude broom stands in one corner. Near the doorway a peg holds a woolen cloak.

The woman stands aside as he registers the scene, then stoops to take off her muddy footwear, heavily worn brogues. In deference, he removes his own modern hiking shoes, their treads caked in mud, and steps onto the hard-packed dirt floor in his sock feet, taken by how clean it is swept.

“Tea,” the woman pronounces emphatically as she picks up two earthenware cups, then goes to the fireplace to a large metal pot suspended at the side. With the corner of her shawl she grasps the handle and tips the pot’s contents into first one, then the other cup. Returning to the table, she motions Larry to sit, then places the cups.

Despite the bright sunshine that has burned off the mist and now bathes the outdoors, little light filters into the crude hut through the two narrow windows and small doorway. The woman turns to the fire and Larry admires her slender figure silhouetted against the faint light. He watches as she stoops, takes a stick from the fire and brings the glowing ember to the table, where she lights the wick of a candle. Its gloomy light barely cuts through the darkness. It smokes and stinks.

Little is said over the steaming brew. The woman says her name is Mary Kate, then shares that her husband, Charles, is at market where he and the dog have taken some sheep. She expects him back in a day or two. She must be feeling more comfortable, to have admitted this vulnerability.

Larry sees no sign of children: no toys, no clothing. “It must be lonely up here, being on your own like this.”

“T’is indeed,” says Mary Kate with a coquettish smile. Then she scowls: “And me wit’ a husband quite incapable, it seems, of givin’ us children. So quiet, it is, a woman can hear her own t’oughts, screamin’ like a banshee across’t te mountains. T’is a lonely existence.” She pauses, composes herself, and with a finger sweeps a wisp of hair from her face. She smiles. “More tea?”

The tea has warmed Larry’s chilled body, and he nods. Mary Kate rises from her chair to draw more of the steaming potion. When she sets it down her hand brushes his.

“I really should go,” Larry says. Mary Kate frowns.

“You needn’t,” she says. “We don’t get much company up here. And now that the rest of the family has left for your Canada – yes, I am sure that is where they went – ‘tis horribly lonesome. Just Charles and meself. You could … stay a while.” Mary Kate cocks her head.

Larry blanches and tries to cast aside a yearning for this humble woman. He is light-headed and looks into Mary Kate’s face, an outdoorswoman, familiar with the sun, the rain and wind. Despite her skin’s weathered coarseness, she is remarkably beautiful, doll-like in her features. In the dim light he detects a faint smile. Mary Kate reaches and touches his thigh.

As the two stand, Larry knocks over his chair. He steps forward, draws her close. He has never been unfaithful to Marnie, yet that life seems far away.

Through Mary Kate’s rough shawl is the feel of the work-hardened muscles of her back and shoulders. She takes his hand and escorts him toward the sackcloth that drapes across the interior doorway. She hooks the cloth at the side, guides him through the doorway and steps into the other room. He sees a small bed.

Mary Kate draws him to the edge of the bed and pulls him down toward her. They embrace. Larry guides her shawl down her shoulders, gently raises her arms and tugs at her dress. She lets the dress slip over her head. She is naked, immodest. He touches her exquisite breasts. She stands and pulls him up, helps him undress.

As they stand in the gloom, Mary Kate’s hands find and caress every part of him, caresses that fill his body with intense waves of desire. He slides his hands down her back to her buttocks and lifts her up to greet him. He hardens, presses against her body and begins to push inside her. Mary Kate groans softly and convulses. She lowers her mouth to his chest and touches her tongue lightly to each nipple.

They slip down to the bed, their bodies melding as one upon its coarse cover. He releases himself inside of her. There is no sense of guilt, no fear that consequence should punish him. Who will know?

Afterwards, they lie on the bed in embrace. He is not outdoors to witness the long shadows race across the valley. He does not see how the sun sets behind Croagh Kilvarty and tinges the upper reaches of the hill behind the cottage with a golden glow.

“I have to go,” he says. He smiles mischievously and says: “Is that what they mean by ‘a hundred thousand welcomes’?” She puzzles, seemingly unaware of the iconic Irish greeting. Silently, she watches him dress.

Her gaze turns and it seems she no longer sees him. In her indifference, shame takes hold of him. He slips, silent, out the room and hurries outside. The summer sky remains an unimaginably vivid blue.

As he heads down the darkening path to the car, he glances back to see the mist return. In the rising cool, it curls upwards, sideways, obliterating the view as though it had never been there. A chill overcomes him. The mist nips at his heels.

***

At the hotel, Marnie is chuffed by Larry’s attentiveness.

“What have I done to deserve this?” she asks.

Larry replies: “I love you. That’s all.”

In the morning, he returns to MacChenney.

“On the mountain where you said my family once lived,” Larry says, “I came upon a remarkable little cottage, off in the wilds all by itself.”

“There are thousands of abandoned cottages spread throughout Ireland,” says MacChenney.

“No, no. It wasn’t a ruin. The cottage I found is lived in. Today. There was a woman there and she said her husband had gone off to market.”

MacChenney seems puzzled. “Inhabited. How odd. On Croagh Kilvarty? I’ve known of no one living amongst that God-forsaken pile of rock in years. Are you sure you weren’t disoriented? Those mountain mists can rise in a moment. It’s been said by more than one visitor it’s like going back in time. It’s where the faeries do their work.” He grins. Larry is silent.

“No matter, Mr. O’Dwyer,” continues MacChenney. “I have come across further information that will be of interest to you. Remember I told you about your great-great grandfather, Oren O’Dwyer? How he was born in 1835 and was taken by his mother to Canada?”

“Yes,” Larry nods.

“It appears as though the birth was quite a surprise to the parents who had been unable to conceive. The father felt the child was not his own. When your ancestor learned his wife was pregnant, the poor grief-stricken fellow threw himself off a cliff, high up on Croagh Kilvarty, above the family cottage. The widow gave birth to her baby, all by herself, and named him Oren.

“The community was outraged when word got ‘round. The baby’s mother feared for her safety. She admitted to the dastardly deed, blamed it on a strange man who’d shown up one day. She fled with the child.

“Thus began her incredible journey,” continues MacChenney. “She bundled up the lad and began walking to Galway City. She somehow obtained passage on a ship bound for Quebec, where she worked as a housemaid until she earned enough to join the rest of the family in Upper Canada. All she had to go on to find them was that the family had told her they were headed for Kings Town.”

“Kingston,” Larry says. “What an amazing story. My family’s going to be dumbfounded when I tell them. So great-great grandfather Oren was a little bundle of surprise?” He laughs. “Ah, the family secrets. This will enliven our discussions.”

“She was a remarkable woman. You should be very proud of your ancestor.”

Larry nods. “Oh, by the way, Mr. MacChenney. You didn’t tell me. What were the first names of my great-great grandfather’s parents?”

“Oh, sorry Mr. O’Dwyer. I almost forgot. Your great-great-great grandmother was named Mary. No, wait. Mary Kate, it was. Her husband was Charles.”