At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [126]
—Help these boys build a nation their own. Ransack the histories for clues to their past. Plunder the literatures for words they can speak. And should you encounter an ancient tribe whose customs, however dimly, cast light on their hearts, tell them that tale; and you shall name the unspeakable names of your kind, and in that naming, in each such telling, they will falter a step to the light.
—For only with pride may a man prosper. With pride, all things follow. Without he have pride he is a shadowy skulk whose season is night. And now behold, the pageant is ending. The boys have fallen upon the stage and the splendor falls with the dying day. Soon there will be fireworks and the young must be led to their duty. You must go from this lofty place and tread again the trampled grass.
To his surprise MacMurrough found they had left the garden and climbed to Scrotes’s turret room. It was full the night and the pale moon that through the window shone had sketched an embrasure on the floor, sketched it half-way up the opposing wall. In this moonshaft they stood, Scrotes and he, and no shadow of theirs disturbed the dust that floated in the light behind.
Far, far below MacMurrough heard the crowd’s applause. He would never speak with Scrotes again, this he knew, and he turned to him. Was I truly your friend? he asked. I believe I loved you. But I forget, you know.
—You were. You did. You do.
So spake Scrotes, and having spoke he smole a smile and home to raven regions lonely stole.
Leaving MacMurrough among the muttering poor. He made his way to the summerhouse where his boys were waiting.
“Are we ready?”
Yes, sir, they were. But there was a hemming and hawing and a shifting in their faces. MacMurrough took a breath.
“Look, that fellow Pearse, the gentleman I mean, has put up a good show. Let’s see what we can do, will we? Not to better him. See if we can’t somehow salute him.” Not a flicker of spirit. Was this nerves? “Is Mr. Mack with us?”
Two heels clicked behind. “At your service, your honor.”
“You might march the boys out. Couple of turns round the lawn then up the steps to the stage. We’ll give them what they want, this evening at least, which is A Nation Once Again.” Doyle. Where was Doyle? And others were missing too, the big drum brigade. “What’s happened with Doyle? Pigott. Fahy. Are we to have no drums?”
“Oh now, I’m sure now,” said Mr. Mack, “they won’t be keeping us a minute longer than strictly.”
The friend looked up. “He was called out by the father.”
“Whatever for?”
“Now now, quiet, Jim. Mr. MacMurrough is talking. I’m certain they won’t keep us a moment, your honor. Though, truth be told, young Doyle is no great shakes at the marching. With the game of a leg and all.”
The door opened. The priest strode the floor. Behind him, Fahy and Pigott. Between them, Doyle.
“What can you imagine is the meaning of this?” MacMurrough demanded. The two louts smirked, wearing the satisfied gloats of their master’s bidding. “Mister Taylor, can you explain yourself?”
“Mister MacMurrough, your aunt awaits you. I advise you speak with her immediately lest something be said you may after regret.”
“Nevertheless, I really must protest—”
“Then you will protest to your aunt who has vouchsafed your good conduct.” His two eyes cocked independently. “I believe I need say no more.”
MacMurrough felt a crumple inside. He saw the friend on his feet, only his father restraining him. He saw the turned faces in the benches. The priest cracked his smile. He addressed the boys.
“The devil, we know, is omnipresent. As omnipresent as Our Lord and his seeing angels. Yet I had not expected to meet him in my own band of Irish boys. Look at the sorry cut of him, men.”
Doyler’s head drooped in subjection. There was blood on his nose and his chin. His shirt was ripped where they must have torn his badge away. His nipple was exposed, a pathetic emblem.
“No God, no sin, no hell, no heaven, the black devil of socialism, hoof and horn, is among us. Do we want him?”
The silence