The Abhartach Comes to Visit

‘Where are we going?’ Cora asked. 

‘Put your shoes on.’ Theodore dropped a pair of pristine boots at her feet. She began to shove her feet through the holes. Her mind drifted to a trip to the town which might end, if she begged enough, with a stop at the sweet shop.

‘I have an errand to run.’

The afternoon was blustery even in the sheltered rolling hills. The carriage rocked over bumps and dips in the gravely road, as they descended into the exposed valley towards the sea. Cora’s hopes were slashed. They were headed far away from town, deeper into the country where the barren expanse was only vaguely littered with lonely cottages. The wind tugged at her little bonnet that she could scarcely keep on, and lashed at her face, turning it scarlet. Yet before long, the horses slowed to a delicate trot and they pulled up in front of a little white building. The harsh journey was so short that Cora wagered they hadn’t left Kinlear. The cottage they arrived at in question was particularly quaint and looked to be defying gravity itself. She wondered how anything could stay standing here in the valley as the wind nearly blew her off the step of the carriage. A lonely plot of potatoes grew proudly in rows of raised beds, their sprouting stems weathering the gale with a remarkable courage. 

Theodore and Cora approached the door and gave it a confident rap. Flecks of the chipping red paint clung to the knuckle of his glove. He wiped his hands on the back of his overcoat and placed his hands on Cora’s shoulders. As she looked up, she saw his face strangely shift into someone she couldn’t quite recognise. The door creaked open, and a tired looking man peaked his forehead out just enough for the two of them to see the thin remaining wisps of his hair taking flight in the wind.

‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘Mr Gallagher, it’s me, Lord Blakesmere.

Mr Gallagher gave a loud sigh they could still distinguish through the roaring of storm, and threw the door fully open, nodding for them to come ahead. Theodore gave Cora a light push. She shot him a nervous glance before stepping forward. 

As the door slammed behind them, the house still screeched and wailed. Yet Cora found the cottage strangely homely. The voice of the elements thundering outside gave purpose to the walls of this little bastion. It seemed to just be one room, though it was much larger than it appeared on the outside. The stove in the centre of the back wall held a raging fire inside that roared back at the elements. A young lady nursing a child, and two boys sat on a tattered rug, bathing in the gold warmth of the fire. 

‘Drink?’ Mr Gallagher asked Theodore. Taking him in now, Cora realised he was far younger than she initially judged. The years were not kind to his head, nor his sunken eyes. Yet his thick brown beard didn’t hold a speck of grey and his rigid posture was strong and proud. Like their potatoes outside, Cora guessed a family must have a fair amount of fortitude to live out here in such a humble house. 

‘Whisky? I’ll take it’. 

Mr Gallagher poured out two glasses and pulled out his own chair, slumping into it with his hands in his pockets. The family by the fire watched the newcomers, making not a single motion. Theodore, his hands still on Cora’s shoulders guided her over to the table that lay on the opposite side of the room, sitting her on the stool beside him. 

‘You know why I am here, I presume,’ Theodore asked taking a brief sip of his whisky. Mr Gallagher nodded back, his eyes rolling around dismissively. Theodore reached for the small notebook in the breast pocket of his overcoat that remained tightly fastened around him shoulders. He gave it an awkward tug, dislodging it from its buried position but sending a pencil flying into Cora’s lap in the process. For the first time he awkwardly remembered the unusual presence of his daughter.

‘This is my daughter, Cora,’ he hastily added, hoping it wasn’t too late for formalities. Mr Gallagher made no acknowledgment, and Cora herself was lost in her own world. Her eyes were locked on the young the family. One of the little boys had a pair of battered shoes on that made her self conscious of her own. She could see the many traces of makeshift repairs on those resilient boots. The children were far skinnier than she remembered herself or her brothers to have been at that age, and their eyes seemed to be deeply imbedded in their heads, staring out hollowly at herself and her father with a look she couldn’t decipher - but guessed - was fear. It made her squirm in her seat. 

‘Now last year, as you are aware, you were short to the sum of…’

‘…I was short because you raised it.’

‘Mr Gallagher, you were short because you are not producing enough capital to sustain your place on this…’

‘…Eight pounds. That’s what I paid two year ago. Last year you raised it by six shillings. How many was I short by?’

‘Last years rent is not what I came here to discuss.’

‘Right, you came here to draw more blood.’

‘I have to raise rent to cover my own costs. You cannot blame me for the changes in the economy.’

Mr Gallagher smirked and gave nothing back. Theodore continued, ‘All that you owe is simply eight pounds and six shillings plus the six shillings missed from last year. I have chosen through goodwill not to raise the rent further despite the squeeze on my own pocket.’

‘You’re a saint.’

‘The question remains then are you capable of paying this amount?’

Mr Gallagher gave Theodore a long stare, before taking a large sip of his whisky, bearing his teeth though the burn.

‘No.’

‘No? How much do you have?’

‘Eight pounds.’

‘Well then, we must discuss the better use of the capital you have at hand.’

‘Capital at hand?’ Mr Gallagher gave a harsh, raspy laugh that cut into Cora’s ear. ‘We have nothing.’

‘You are renting five acres currently. From what I can see, your barely using one.’

‘Five acres of gravel and shite. Potatoes barely make it out of the ground alive.’

‘Then we can discuss a loan for some modern machinery to get the best out of it. I assure you I am on your side and here to support you.’

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I have twenty five years experience in the field of business, I think I am aware of how to turn increased profits.’

‘What do you not understand? The crops. Won’t. Fucking. Grow.’

Theodore’s temple started to glow red and he realised he was leaned forward with his fists clenched. He slumped back, flattened the hair on the side of his head and crossed his arms.

‘Well that’s a shame. It’s ironic really.’

‘Ironic?’

‘As in to say it doesn’t match the situation-’

‘-I know what irony means. Where is the irony in this situation?’

‘Well, I’ve travelled far and wide to many different regions, but I must say, Connemara is still the most breathtaking I have laid eyes upon. Yet none of the farmers here can find an ounce of purpose for this land. Wouldn’t you say that’s ironic?’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s ironic that crops won’t grow on infertile land, no.’

‘Yet in spite of that, people have lived here for thousands of years. Certainly you must find that ironic.’

‘No, I don’t find that ironic either.’

‘Really? And do you suppose your ancestors had no need for food? What did they live on if they could not grow?’

‘My grandfather lived on nettle soup and watercress.’

‘It’s an interesting place for a people to choose for a settlement if the only offerings were roadside herbs. I suppose they were just too enchanted with the views?’

‘You think they chose to live here?’ Mr Gallagher’s eyes narrowed. He scratched an irritation on his arm; Theodore’s smug condescension was under his skin deeper than usual.

‘To hell or to Connacht,’ Mr Gallagher said.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘That’s what your people said to mine after they pillaged and raped them. Then they took our fertile lands out east and gave it to their soldiers, while we were sent out here, to the edge of the world, to live on rocks and moss.’

‘But I had nothing to do with that personally-’

‘Your people did.’

‘There is no ‘your people’. We are not of two different races, you and I. We share this home.’

‘We are not the same. Make no mistake, we share nothing. You have horses; we have donkeys. You have cake; we have bread. You have big houses; we have small ones. You cover your children in silk,’ Mr Gallagher paused to glance at Cora. ‘We can barely cover ours in rags. We are not the same.’ 

Theodore’s mask of patience was beginning to slip.‘Yes, and we take setbacks in our stride, while you keel over in defeat.’

Mr Gallagher’s speechless gaze was frigid. Theodore knew the direction he was headed could not be sustained. He waved his arms and started over.

‘Look… My ancestors have lived here for a few centuries by now. This land is my home more than any other place in the world now. I’m fascinated by it; I always have been. As I said, its beauty is unmatched. One such place, I don’t know if you’ve ever been, is twelve miles east of Clifden. Derryclare Lough. The evening sky there meets the lake as though it were dancing on the edge of a looking glass and it mirrors itself into eternity. And the silhouette of the pines against the crimson horizon… Truly one of His greatest artworks. It is not just the beauty here, but also the history, the culture…’ Theodore paused as he calculated. ‘The mythology… I make an effort to educate myself about the people’s spoken history. One such story of your folklore always captured me. Tír na nÓg. The land of the youth.’ His voiced grew slow and quiet, and became impassioned in a manner than Cora was unfamiliar with. ‘In this otherworldly place, man does not age. The springs of beauty, health and joy never run dry. One can forget about all their worries, as real life takes a backseat. The woman are beautiful, bloom is on every bough, and the air is heavy with the sweetness of orchards. At times in my life, I have become obsessed with such a paradise. I have wanted to forgo all that I have and find the land of eternal youth. But man is doomed to mortality. Problems cannot be forgotten, in our world. We must take life head on, draw our sword against it, keep our head held high and defend our honour. For ourselves-’ Theodore glanced at Mr Gallagher’s children. ‘-And for our family. It is hard at times, yes. But I think there is beauty in that.’ As Theodore’s speech drew to a close, he couldn’t deny himself a smirk of self satisfaction, and raised his eyebrows to Mr Gallagher in anticipation. Gallagher himself stared back in near bewilderment. He gather some uncharacteristic restraint, before taking a deep drink, finishing off his glass. He leaned forward, nearly across the table, and glared right at Theodore. ‘You talk to me of paradise? You are an insult. Look at my family and then look me in the eyes and tell me again I’m living in a fairy land.’ Theodore tried to resist the urge to sink back in his seat. He glanced across the room with obedient guilt, but he could not make Mr Gallagher’s eye again. ‘Go ahead. Look at my boys’ cheeks. Look at their pale bones. Did you even notice one of them is missing from the last time you visited? You, in your big houses, have no clue. You lock yourselves away and gorge yourselves while we rot and wither away with nothing.’ He spat these last words out with venom. ‘You take our faith. You take our language. You take our food. You will not take my dignity.’ The storm seemed to stop as he finished. The silence was suffocating. Theodore couldn’t muster a word. Mr Gallagher took a deep breath and itched his arm, before starting once again. ‘I have a story from my ancestors for you now. The Abhartach. A spiteful, horrible beast of a man that lorded over the parish from his castle, sucking the blood of the land for his own pleasure. They tried to kill him themselves yet every time they would bury him, the creature would crawl back out of his hole the next day ready to suck fresh blood. They waited and waited for help but none came. And the little beast thought he could suck the land dry.’ Mr Gallagher’s cold gaze chained to Theodore’s eyes, his voice drawing low. He spoke slowly, every word as sharp as shards of glass. ‘But eventually, as they always will, the saints came to their rescue. And they showed the people of the parish the way. So together they cut down an ash tree and sharpened it into a sword. The waited for the old man. All night. At the crack of dawn, when he finally reared his ugly head, they slashed him to bits and ran his heart through with the ashen sword. He dropped to his knees, keeled over and died with a pitiful wail. They buried him upside down under a brambly ditch, a burial too kind for such a miserable, pathetic brute.’ Mr Gallagher spat on the floor while a dreadful silence engulfed the cottage once more. Cora tried to pretend she didn’t exist, but she couldn’t escape the watchful gaze of the family across the room. She timidly met their eyes and found in them a revelation. It was not fear they held. It was hate. 

She looked to her father for support, but he still sat silenced for sometime. Finally, he mustered a response of sorts. ‘For now, I will take time to reconsider your outstanding debts. In the meantime, I suggest you find some sort of payment in kind if you truly cannot account for this year.’ Mr Gallagher stared back in silence as if to say ‘are we done here?’ Theodore nodded to himself before standing up slowly and taking the arm of Cora. 

‘I thank you for the whisky. Good day.’ He gave a respectful nod to Mr Gallagher and turned to the family. He tried to offer a parting salutation but couldn’t meet their eyes. They just stared. Mr Gallagher opened the door and motioned for their exit, slamming it behind the two as they marched back to the carriage. The tempest was once again in full swing.

On the carriage journey home, Cora watched her father, whose pursed lips let not a single word escape the whole ride. She thought of those sunken, piercing eyes of the children, and how their gaze seemed to cling to her, crawling over her skin like a spider. They occupied her father’s mind too. What have those eyes seen? He wondered.

And what will they see next?