New in Town (pt 1)

 7
New in Town

    Rian was hot and sweaty by the time he reached the source of the smoke. He had gone from soaked with sea water to sticky and damp from his long walk. He hadn’t felt as though the walk was all that long, but he was warm and his heart was beating strong. He longed to get a change of clothes. He was wearing the same clothes he had on when he and Conny met Kiki, and he couldn’t rightly say how long it had been since then. He hoped his unkempt, disheveled, and perhaps stinky presentation did not offend whomever it was he saw crouched near the small cookfire which was the source of the smoke which had led him away from the sandy place.
    Rian wanted to be sure not to startle the person by the fire. Alone in the wood, an approaching stranger could be quite a disconcerting event. He had learned well from Conny that unwelcome surprises could lead to unwelcome injuries. Predators, both human and beast, tended to skirt the shadows before they pounced. Careful beings tended to lash at surprises out of a well developed sense of self preservation. Rian wanted to approach in a peaceful, respectful fashion, and dearly hoped to avoid any misunderstanding. Obviously the only choice was to sing.

    “Oh, Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight,
        With the people all working by day and by night,
        They don’t sew potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
    But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street,
        At least when asked them that’s what I was told,
        So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
        But for all that I found there I might as well be,
    Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.”

Why he chose an old Percy French song enjoyed by his great grandfather, he had no idea. It was simply the first song that came to mind. He shuffled from foot to foot, clearly not intent on approaching the fire. He refrained from eye contact, or staring. He could tell the figure by the fire had heard him. They were alert but not alarmed, and they might be coming by to investigate. He thought it best to focus on the song, and hope he was innocuous enough to warrant curiosity rather than animosity.

    “There’s beautiful girls here, but ach, nevermind,
        With beautiful shaped nature never designed,
        And lovely complections all roses and cream,
    As O’Lachlan remarked, with regard to them, sayin’
        That if from those roses you ventured to sip,
        Sure the colour’d all would all come away on your lip,
        So I’ll wait for my wild rose who’s waiting for me,
    Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea,”

Rian could hear the sticks and twigs crackling underfoot as the stranger approached him. Their movement was careful and tentative. They were in no hurry. Rian was grateful he had not made himself an obvious threat, but was slightly disappointed that he was not so harmless that this potential friend was taking the long way, and staying just out of sight.

    “You remember young Peter O’Lachlan of course,
        Well he’s over her now at the head of the force,
        I met him today, I was crossing the strand,
     And he stopped the whole street with one waive of hi hand,
        And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
        while the whole population of London looked on,
        But for all his great powers, he’s wistful like me,
    To be back where old Mourne sweeps down to the sea.”

❖    ❖    ❖

Rian, Conny, and the rest of the Doon family were Mickity Mickity Irish McIrish. Even after four generations, their brown eyes, and ebony hair were indicators of their Celtic roots. Never watered down with the blondes and reds of Viking invaders, the Doon family were Black Irish. Sometimes looked down upon by the blue eyed Danny Boy crowd, they knew that Erin was in their bones. They had been in Tír na nÓg since time immemorial, and they never felt the need to prove their Irishness to anyone.     
    Rian’s great-grandfather was the one to emigrate. It was from him that he had learned a songbook of silly, clever, and self-deprecating songs of poor bog farmers drinking, dancing, and leaving home for the bright lights beyond the Irish Sea.
"Dis song's a luv song," great-grandpa Malachy once told Rian. "We have two kinds of songs, a stór. Da songs of home, da country we lost and da ones we left behoind, we call dose our luv songs." Great-grandpa Malachy's eyes started to sparkle with delight and he finished, "De other songs are the ones about poteen, or whisky. Dose are also our luv songs!" and the old man burst into laughter.
Rian laughed obediently. He loved that joke, but one must take care when laughing at a joke like that. It was quite an antique.
The songs were as far as it went in terms of longing for the old country. Martin Malachy Doon had left for a reason, and while all old men miss their youth, great-grandpa Malachy never once entertained the thought of return.
    “When can we go back?” Rian had asked once. He couldn’t have been more than five years old, and the idea that Ireland was real, and alive, and just a plane flight away made him think that they should all return and claim what once was lost.
    “Niver, boyo. We’ll niver go back. There’s nuthin’ there for us. Me bug beedle town was niver more than a speck for shepherds to lay their bones. The Sound is home, and a paradise. There’s fish, and fowl, and acres of clams. A man can make an happy home here, and well, when he’s nae happy, the clouds do his cryin’ for him.”
    Great-grandpa Malachy was a man who was comfortable with sorrow. He wasn’t the melancholy sort. He danced, and played fiddle, and sang. He would be uproarious with joy during the holy trinity of holidays, Christmas, Halloween, and St Patrick’s Day. He enjoyed a joke, and a quiet knowing glance, and his eyes danced with mischievous glee. But from time to time, when occasions called for weeping, he was first and loudest, utterly unashamed and unselfconscious. He instilled in his many progeny that tears were the price of love, paid in full at the end of long and lovely relationships.