At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [124]
Yet he did appeal. And there was more to this appeal than the novelty of kilts and Gaelic. He found out the child in all who listened, and all who heard became their younger selves. MacMurrough could feel it now when he told of the Fianna of yore. How did they win their battles? Strength that was in their hands, Truth that was on their lips, Purity that was in their hearts.
Aye, there is manhood. MacMurrough closed his eyes. I am that boy on that manhood’s verge. I yearn for magnificence, and my heart heaves for a tale of courage and high deeds. My face has not set, I know not yet what I have become. Precious is life, in my limbs, in my soul. Gladly will I spill it to a noble end.
MacMurrough took a step back. He blinked in the red of the sun. This man is dangerous.
But this man had finished. The speech was done. Applause clip-clapped from the crescent enclosure. The poor unknitted their brows and shuffled their feet, muttering once more among themselves. Behind the trees a bauble glowed whose rays were tinsel. Again a warpipe droned. Boys traversed the thumping boards. A torchlit tableau was formed. From the steps to the stage the schoolmaster watched. One saw his receding hairline, that he was a touch overweight, his somewhat of a stoop. The schoolmaster might have sensed MacMurrough’s scrutiny, for his face turned to profile. The marred eye was concealed.
—A fascinating character, said Scrotes.
—Truly, agreed MacMurrough.
—In propinquity or while he orates, quite potent.
—Then how soon afterwards his words dissolve. Viewed dispassionately he becomes ridiculous.
Indeed, he presented an easy target for scoffing. His sword of rank adangle oddly, his puttees immaculately wound the wrong way round, was that a whistle he had hanging? Who hadn’t known his ilk at school? Cadets, college OTC—adore the fandangles of soldiering, equipped with every last accoutrement, all things spruce and shiny. Two left feet when it comes to parade. The type who can’t look at a gun without the thing blasting off, lethal near anything live. This man will take on the British Empire.
—Will he win? he asked Scrotes.
—He will certainly venture his life. The only doubt is the cause he will venture it in.
—Why, his country’s freedom, I should think.
—Ah, said Scrotes, but which is his country? It is scarcely the tired old hag of the songs, nor yet the beautiful woman of the prophecies.
No, thought MacMurrough, that is not his Ireland.
—See, said Scrotes, his Ireland is on the stage.
Yes, there it was in the boys, those gossamery boys who thumped the stage. The soft barbarish Gaelic chanted his love to heaven and earth. By flaming torch the garden told it. A queer music hummed it to the sea. His steadfast gaze from the wings, their glances to him. Here was his Ireland, his drama his love.
MacMurrough thought of his own boys on their benches in the summerhouse. He dared not reach to them and they sensed his reserve. Their faces quickened if the priest or his aunt came, quickened if only in trepidation. Then sullened anew when those personages had left, giving back MacMurrough’s distrust.
How did this schoolteacher do this? How did he make these boys love him so? Every glint of their eyes shot defiance to the world. Stooping stumbling fellow: he has shorn the curtains and entered the land of youth. See him reign, king of boys, master of all his desires.
And it seemed to MacMurrough that he, too, would make such love. And not a breath of a lip nor a hair of a brow should know of it. His gaze lifted to the purpling sky. May the heart be redeemed by renunciation? Are they not truly the good who, desiring evil, renounce