Galway Bay Read online

  “And what are you called?”

  “Michael Kelly,” he said. “My father was Michael Kelly. My mother’s father was Murtaugh Mor Kelly. I come from Gallach Uí Cheallaigh.”

  “Gallagh of the Kellys,” I said, making English of the name. “I’m starting to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That you’re a Kelly.”

  We laughed, as if I’d made the cleverest remark possible. Then he took my hand, and I went silent.

  I looked around the rock and up at Barna House—the curtains were still drawn, good. I had to lean across Michael to see our cottages. Quiet. Everyone sleeping still. I let my hand rest in his. Warm.

  “You’re not . . . I mean, is this some kind of enchantment?” I asked him.

  “It is, of course,” he said. “Wait, let me fetch my fairy steed.”

  Steed! He said “steed” and “fetch,” so I answered, “Please, my gallant hero.”

  How well he moves, striding along the strand, fairly running up Gentian Hill to the horse standing on the summit. A fairy place, that. Should I stand up now and run away? What if he’s about to carry me off to a fairy rath? But I didn’t stir as he led the animal down the hill and over to me. Michael had a saddle over his shoulder and a bundle under his arm. I stood up to meet him.

  “Easy, easy now.” He patted the horse’s neck and set down his burdens. “You’re fine, Champion,” he said, and then to me, “Neither of us has ever been near water that has no limits. To see Galway Bay stretching out toward the sea like this—very exciting for both of us.”

  “A fine horse,” I said.

  “She is. And going to stand quiet and polite while I sit down beside Honora Keeley. Her name is Champion.”

  “Rua,” I said. “Red.”

  “Chestnut,” he said. “The color of your hair, all fiery in the sun. Truly, Honora Keeley, it was your lovely hair flowing around you made me think you were a mermaid. Like the one carved in the lintel of Clontuskert Abbey.”

  “A mermaid? I thought you were a merman or a seal,” I said.

  “Do you want me to be a seal? I would be a seal for you gladly.”

  “Be a man. A man with a fine horse.”

  And then I realized: a man with a horse. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Blessed St. Joseph! A gypsy, a tinker . . . A lifetime of warnings: “Don’t wander off, or the gypsies will get you!” “Those tinkers would steal the tooth out of your head and sell it back to you!”

  When the painted gypsy caravans drove through Galway City, Mam pulled me close to her. The women in the market whispered, “They beat their wives something awful.”

  “Turn your face away, Honora, don’t stare!” Mam said. “Gypsy women can give you the evil eye.”

  And now here he was, a man with a horse—a gypsy!

  “And where are the others?” Go carefully, Honora.

  “Others?” he asked. “Only Champion and me.”

  “You’re not traveling in a pack of wagons?”

  “You think I’m a gypsy?”

  I didn’t care. His eyes were the same blue as the Bay, and his mouth—smiling now.

  “I’m not a gypsy, though I believe there are decent enough people among them. A terrible thing to be wandering the roads, and I suppose a bit of thieving here and there is understandable.”

  “Understandable,” I said, “but you aren’t one?”

  “I’m not, Honora Keeley, though I am without home or hearth at the moment.”

  “At the moment?”

  “I want to tell you my story, but I don’t know where to start. Should I begin with my mother?”

  “Do,” I said. “Mothers are very important.”

  Then we laughed again. He took my other hand, and I didn’t care if he had a mother or not, if he was a gypsy or not.

  His horse lifted her head and snorted.

  “Is she laughing, too?” I asked.

  “Probably. Champion likes this story because both of us were born outside what my old schoolmaster called ‘the natural order of things.’”

  What did that mean? He’ll tell me. We settled ourselves against the warm rock. I turned so I could watch his face as he started the tale. Lovely how his lips form the words. His eyes, rimmed in a deeper blue, hold such light. What thick black hair, and that straight nose. A hero come from the sea. Michael Kelly . . . Well into his story now.

  “ . . . so Murtaugh Mor—”

  “Sorry, Michael. And who is he? I thought you were starting with your mother.”

  “I am. Here, sit closer so the wind doesn’t carry the sound of my words away over Galway Bay to the green hills of Clare.”

  “I’m fine. I can hear. Start again.”

  “My mother’s father, Murtaugh Mor Kelly, was a huge, big man, and few in Gallagh or indeed in any townland around Ballinasloe would challenge Murtaugh Mor Kelly. Even Colonel Blakeney, the landlord, spoke to him with a certain respect. ‘Martin,’ he called him, trying to put English on him, though he was ‘Murty’ to everyone else.

  “Now, Kellys had been ruling East Galway for a thousand years when Blakeney’s ancestors rode in with Cromwell, burning and pillaging.”

  “And destroying the abbeys and torturing the poor nuns,” I said.

  “Strange you should think of that, because abbeys come into it! Amazing that you should mention abbeys!”

  “Amazing,” I said. More laughter. I moved closer to him, both of us warmed by the sun now.

  “The men in my mother’s family have been smiths for generations. You’ve heard the stories of Goibniu?”

  “My granny tells them. Goibniu made weapons for the heroes of old and welcomed the valiant into the other world with a great feast in the time before Saint Patrick came to Ireland.”

  “He did so,” Michael said. “And even after Saint Patrick, smiths like Goibniu pounded gold into thin sheets to shape chalice cups for monks, croziers for bishops and abbots, and make great neck torcs, brooches, and pins for the chieftains. The kind of knowledge learned from forging iron and gold makes smiths silent, cautious men who hold tightly to their secrets. And that was my grandfather.

  “But my mother was easy with the silence. Though not by nature a closemouthed woman, she was happy enough, she told me, to spend her days cooking and minding my grandda, because marriage had passed her by. No one cared to ask for the hand of Murty Mor’s daughter. A quiet man frightens people, especially if he’s well-muscled—”

  “Like yourself?” I said before I could stop myself. I felt his arm against my side—well-muscled, certainly.

  “I’m only puny compared to him,” Michael said. “He was a giant who lifted rods of iron with ease and could hammer out a horseshoe with a few strokes. It would take a very brave man to walk into that dark forge to ask Murty Mor Kelly for his daughter. And none had.”

  “But one did,” I said, “because here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  Silence—thickening between us.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Have you heard of Gallagh Castle?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t,” I said.

  “Good. Then I can tell you. Imagine a huge stone fort built on a high hill with terraced slopes so the crowds who come to watch the Kellys race their horses on the Course will have soft seats. The castle’s a ruin now, but when dusk falls, ghosts appear, and with them the good people, who you know are fond of fast horses.”

  “That I do know,” I said. “My granny is a great woman for the fairies.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Something else we have in common.” We smiled. “A Kelly on his ancestral land has no fear of fairies,” he said. “As a boy, when I rode my imaginary horse over the Course, I heard the noise of that other crowd rooting me over the final jump—up and over—and a soft landing on green grass.”

  “Good to touch down easy,” I said.

  “Right you are, Honora.” He squeezed my hand. “So, you have Gallagh Castle and the racecourse fixed in your head?”

  “I do, Michael.”

  “Now, as I said, the whole place was thought to be fairy country and none in the neighborhood would plow or plant the hillside. Even the Blakeneys stopped trying to force their tenants to till those fields. Nor would horses graze there. Oh, they might lean down for a few mouthfuls of the sweet green grass, but then their heads would come up, their ears would twitch, and off they would trot to the fence by the road to stand there until they were taken away. And the Blakeneys’ cows, animals with little intelligence compared to horses, would not graze on these fields either.”

  “Everyone knows horses are superior,” I said, though Champion was the first one I’d ever been this close to. “Look how Champion stands here listening.”

  “And she’s heard the story before,” he said. “Now, the most famous of the Kellys of Gallagh was William Boy O’Kelly.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “When what?”

  “When did he live?”

  “Oh, long before Cromwell, but a few centuries after the first Kellys came down from the North. Their leader was called Maine Mor. His son Ceallaigh gave his name to our family line. Ceallaigh means ‘contention,’ and true to the name, the Kellys fought. Against the invaders, but also, if the truth be told, among ourselves. Contention. Brothers killing brothers for the title of Taoiseach, Chieftain. Now, you won’t hold that against me?” Michael asked.

  “My ancestor Queen Maeve knew a thing or two about contention,” I said.

  “Maeve’s your ancestor? Why, her stronghold’s not far from us.”

  “We Keeleys are the descendants of her son Conmac—Conn-na-Mara, Conn-of-the-sea.”

  “So you and I were connected,” he said, “even before . . .”

  I could only nod. H
e leaned closer, still holding my hand.

  “Sorry to get between you and your story, Michael. Go on.”

  He cleared his throat. “So. This chieftain William Boy led the clan during a sliver of peace, the Normans settled and Cromwell not yet arrived. He decided to have a party, the greatest party ever given or heard about in the entire island of Ireland. He invited all the chieftains and princes for many miles around. They came with their wives and children, their warriors and servants, their poets and priests, to Gallagh Castle for this great Christmas feast. In those days, families within the clan owed allegiance to the chieftain, and each one coming to Gallagh had a particular duty. Take the Naughtons—they carried the Kellys’ French wine from the port to the castle, an important responsibility,” he said.

  “And have you a great fondness for drink?” I asked.

  “I can take it or I can leave it alone,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “So. Go on. I suppose the guests brought horses?”

  “They did. Splendid horses—some glossy black, others pure white. One’s coat was the color of a newly ripened chestnut. Lovely for horses, or women,” he said, and brushed the crown of my head with his one finger, soft and swift, yet I felt his touch through my whole body. “A good heavy fall of red brown hair you have—like Champion’s tail.”

  “Champion’s tail!”

  “Couldn’t begin to compare with the thick, lovely mass of your hair, Honora Keeley. Your eyes . . . so clear. Green with flecks of gold and . . .” He stretched his hand toward my face, then dropped his arm back down to his side.

  I swallowed. “Go back to the party, Michael,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse.

  “Oh, right.”

  “So . . .”

  “So the feasting began. They roasted whole sheep in huge fireplaces. And all the guests thanked the cooks kindly.”

  “Good manners,” I said.

  “Right,” Michael said. “And if someone wasn’t mannerly? That person’s slice of meat was cut from the far end of the animal, the cold shoulder. William Boy’s guests were enjoying themselves so much that he hadn’t the heart to send them away when Christmastime passed. They stayed on, and the feasting and the racing and the dancing and the storytelling and the music went on for three seasons, until the first of August—Lughnasa—when the harvest called them home. The openhearted generosity of William Boy O’Kelly is remembered to this day, for even now, when someone wants to warmly welcome you, they extend the Fáilte Uí Cheallaigh, the Welcome of the O’Kellys.” He stroked my hand. “A very warm welcome indeed.” He let go.

  “Your mother, Michael,” I said.

  “She comes into it now. Years after the party, when our enemies took the land, the Blakeneys pulled down Gallagh Castle and changed our town’s name to Castle Blakeney. Still the Kellys remembered and told the old stories.

  “And one morning before dawn on Bealtaine, my mother set out to climb the hill to Gallagh Castle. In our part of the world we believe that on Bealtaine, the first day of May, the dew on the grass has great power.”

  “We believe that, too, Michael.”

  “Do girls wash their faces in it to improve their complexions? Not that you would need concern yourself about that.”

  “It is said, Michael Kelly, that roll in the dew that day and your body will glow with great beauty,” I said.

  “Roll?” he asked. “I suppose no clothes would be worn?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, Michael Kelly.”

  “Ah,” he said. Then he jumped up and turned away from me.

  I stood. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I’m not. Not at all. But Champion needs a drink of water, and so do I.”

  “Of course,” I said. “There’s sweet water in the stream near Saint Enda’s well.”

  Michael took Champion’s reins, and we three walked toward the gap that led into the woods.

  We passed Barna House—curtains still closed. But the sun’s full up. Miss Lynch will be awake soon and looking out her window. We stepped into the clearing around the well.

  “Now, your mother on Bealtaine?” I asked after Champion drank from the Tobar Geal and Michael leaned down for a quick swallow of water.

  “My mother had terrible trouble with her feet: corns and bunions and swelling ankles and hammertoes, a disaster altogether. A wise old woman told her if she walked up to the ruins of Gallagh Castle at dawn on May Day, the dew would cure her.

  “So, up she went to climb the slopes of the course while darkness held the town quiet. At first light she saw the castle. She started up the hill but then stopped. She heard music . . . the sound of pipes. Could they be fairy pipes?”

  Michael paused. Champion lifted her head as if to hear better. The oak trees shaded us. Michael walked over and sat on the stone wall surrounding St. Enda’s well. He patted the space beside him. I settled myself next to Michael. We smiled at each other. He continued his story.

  “Now, all her life my mother enjoyed hearing about the good people and all their doings. She’d marked the raths and fairy trees, abided by all the good people’s requirements from a child. She found the same comfort in respecting their rituals that she did in performing the patterns and prayers at wells like this one—all a way to put shape on the wild randomness of life, she told me. But to really hear fairy music . . . This was something she had never expected.

  “The music pulled her forward. If following that tune meant leaving her father and the forge and the whole surroundings of Gallach Uí Cheallaigh to live the rest of her life in some fairy rath, well, so be it. . . . And then she saw him. A piper, surely, but rather raggle-taggle for a fairy and much bigger than the good people are said to be. He sat on the big rock near the arched entrance to the ruined castle, sending his music up to the dawn. And that was my father.”

  “Your father,” I said.

  “He was playing the sun up out of the shadows, and when it shone full on their faces, he greeted her. ‘I’m Michael Kelly,’ he said, ‘from Callow Lake,’ which was ten miles south, a marshy lake where William Boy’s son had settled. ‘I’m a piper, as you see,’ he said. ‘I intended to come here and play a sad lament for the Kellys of old. But I hear joyful tunes in this air, reels and jigs. Powerful how the memories of a great party linger.’ And my mother agreed, ‘It was a powerful party.’ So . . .”

  “So, they married, didn’t they, your mother and your father?”

  “You want me to rush to the end of the story?”

  “I only want to know that one thing.”

  “They married.”

  “Good,” I said. “Go on.”

  “My father had over five hundred tunes, jigs and reels, laments and marches, music for dancing, for mourning, for war, and for peace. For generations his family were pipers to the O’Kellys of Callow, supported by them. But now with the land lost and times hard, my father traveled the roads, playing where he could. Every place he went he learned a tune or two, sometimes from a tin whistle player or a singer who sounded the notes for him. In the winter, he’d come back to Callow Lake, where Edmond O’Kelly, William Boy’s descendant, kept a small cottage for him. He’d entertain Edmond with the stories of his journey. He collected bits on the history and genealogy of the Kellys from the various branches of the family, which interested Edmond. ‘And is there a wife in that snug cottage in Callow?’ my mother asked him. ‘There was,’ he told her, ‘a fine woman who gave me a son before she died.’ ‘And you didn’t marry again?’ my mother asked him. ‘I wouldn’t afflict the life of a piper’s wife on another woman, not when I have to travel so far to play for so little. The snug cottage’s gone now, and my son, Patrick, hires out to whatever farmer will have him.’”

  “So, you have a brother, Michael,” I said.

  “I do—twelve years older than me. Very accomplished altogether.”

  Patches of sun splashed the ground around us now—morning going, the Keeleys getting up. But I couldn’t leave, not with Michael’s father about to confront his grandfather.

  “My mother and Michael Kelly, the piper, walked into the forge, just enough light to see Murtaugh Mor Kelly, bent over the fire. He straightened up, all sweat and grime and strength, the hammer clenched in his fists. Rigid with silence. My father stood his ground, didn’t turn away as those who’d wanted my mother’s hand before had done, but stated his proposal. ‘You’re courting the forge,’ my grandfather said to him, ‘looking for a soft spot to land in your old age.’