41
" She sensed older presences as she walked. She knew by a cold stirring that here they had made their fires, and here their cattle had grazed, and here they ate periwinkles and oysters from the shell, and they had this burning salt on their lips, and felt this old rain, and made their cries of love and war, and roamed in hordes; their little kingdoms here were settled, and disassembled; by night, in our valley, the wolves had bayed. "
― Kevin Barry , Night Boat to Tangier
47
" A July evening, after a tar-melter of a day, and Broad Street was quiet and muffled with summer, the entire town was dozy with summer, and even as the summer peaked so it began to fade. Dogs didn’t know what had hit them. They walked around with their tongues hanging out and their eyes rolling and they lapped forlornly at the drains. The old were anxious, too: they twitched the curtains to look up the hills, and flapped themselves with copies of the RTE Guide to make a parlour breeze. Later, after dark, the bars would be giddy with lager drinkers, but it was early yet, and Broad Street was bare and peaceful in the blue evening. "
― Kevin Barry , There are Little Kingdoms
59
" There is a show tonight in the Highwood, John. There will be all sorts of people to play music there. We must go tonight to the Highwood, john. we'll breathe in the music and the cold-starred air.
*
And Cornelius has taken down the moon - hasn't he? - with gleam-of-eye and giddying snout and his touch on the wheel is delicate as the spring, here a soft tip, there a glanced tap for each swerve of the road as it runs the country and turns.
Oh this is the knack of it - John can see clearly now - the carefree life, and he envies him the spring.
And before we know it, John? The summer proper will be in on top of us and the woods will be whispering.
Fuck the whispering woods, Cornelius. Just get me to my fucking island.
But he is snagged again; he turns helplessly.
How'd you mean, about the woods?
Cornelius beams -
There are things we can't describe, he says.
Go on?
What we see around us is only at the ten per cent level, John.
Of?
The reality.
And what's the leftover?
Unseen.
How'd you mean?
Well, he says. The way sometimes you'd walk across a field and a sense of elation would come over you. Are you with me?
Okay...
You're half risen from the skin. the feet are not touching the stones. The little heart is about to hop out of your chest from the sheer fucken joy. And the strange thing about it?
Go on.
That patch of happiness could be floating around the field for the last ten years. Or for the last three hundred and fifty years. Out of love that was had there or a child that was playing or an old friend that was found again after a long time lost. Whatever it was, it caused a great happy feeling and it was left there in the field. You're after walking into it. And for half a minute you're lifted and soaring but then you're out the far side again and back into your own poor stride and woes.
You'd find a sadness just the same?
Or an evil, John. Or a blackness. Or terror, John, or fucken terror, because there's plenty of terror in the world. Always was and has been.
A soft whisper -
I mean take a look out the window.
A sweep of the arm for the greys and sea-greens of the moonful hills, the pale night as they pass by -
I mean why'd you think I've the fucken foot down, John? "
― Kevin Barry , Beatlebone
60
" The van stops on the coast road.
Ho-ho, Cornelius says.
Cornelius? Please. Let's just get to the fucking island.
Patience a small while.
Cornelius kills the engine. He climbs from the van. The wind comes harder now from the sea. He gestures for John to follow; he does. They walk the scalp of a hill together, descending.
You're not to be afraid, John.
They approach a great fall-away to the sea; far below, it flashes its green teeth, the ever-welcoming sea.
Right, Cornelius says.
He steps up to the edge; the fall is sheer - it's a great distance to fall and to a certain ending there.
Come on, John.
He steps with Cornelius to the edge of the sheer fall; the wind pulses hard against them.
Lean into it, Cornelius says. Like so.
He does and he is held there.
Fucking hell. . .
Be fierce, John.
The wind comes hard and Cornelius leans in closer again to its great force; he is held there.
Cornelius?
Now, John.
John tips his toes up close to the edge and closer again to the sheer fall and closer.
Cornelius?
Go on.
He leans over the edge and the wind holds him perfectly there.
Do you see, John?
Maybe.
Do you see the trick of it, John?
I think so.
No fear. "
― Kevin Barry , Beatlebone
