Читать книгу The Rat-Pit - Patrick MacGill - Страница 6
I
Оглавление“HAVE you your brogues, Norah?”
“They’re tied round my shoulders with a string, mother.”
“And your brown penny for tea and bread in the town, Norah?”
“It’s in the corner of my weasel-skin purse, mother.”
“The tide is long on the turn, so you’d better be off, Norah.”
“I’m off and away, mother.”
Two voices were speaking inside a cabin on the coast of Donegal. The season was mid-winter; the time an hour before the dawn of a cheerless morning. Within the hovel there was neither light nor warmth; the rushlight had gone out and the turf piled on the hearth refused to burn. Outside a gale was blowing, the door, flimsy and fractured, creaked complainingly on its leathern hinges, the panes of the foot-square and only window were broken, the rags that had taken their places had been blown in during the night, and the sleet carried by the north-west wind struck heavily on the earthen floor. In the corner of the hut a woman coughed violently, expending all the breath in her body, then followed a struggle for air, for renewed life, and a battle against sickness or death went on in the darkness. There was silence for a moment, then a voice, speaking in Gaelic, could be heard again.
“Are you away, Norah?”
“I am just going, mother. I am stopping the window to keep the cold away from you.”
“God bless you, child,” came the answer. “The men are not coming in yet, are they?”
“I don’t hear their step. Now the window is all right. Are you warm?”
“Middling, Alannah. Did you take the milk for your breakfast?”
“I left some for you in the jug,” came the reply. “Will you take it now?”
“That is always the way with you, Norah,” said the woman in a querulous voice. “You never take your meals, but always leave them for somebody else. And you are getting thinner on it every day. I don’t want anything, for I am not hungry these days; and maybe it is God Himself that put the sickness on me so that I would not take away the food of them that needs it more than I do. Drink the milk, Norah, it will do you good.”
There was no answer. A pale-faced little girl lifted the latch of the door and looked timorously out into the cold and the blackness. The gale caught her and for a moment she almost choked for breath. It was still intensely dark, no colour of the day was yet in the sky. The wind whistled shrilly round the corners of the cabin and a storm-swept bird dropped to the ground in front of the child. She looked back into the gloomy interior of the cabin and for a moment thought of returning. She was very hungry, but remembered her father and brother who would presently come in from the fishing, probably, as they had come in for days, with empty boats and empty stomachs. Another fit of coughing seized the mother, and the girl went out, shutting the door carefully behind her to stay the wrath of the wind which swept violently across the floor of the house.
The sea was near. The tide, sweeping sullenly away from the shore, moaned plaintively near the land and swelled into loud discordant wrath, far out at the bar. All round the house a tremulous gray haze enveloped everything, and the child stole into its mysterious bosom and towards the sea. The sleet shot sharply across her body and at times she turned round to save her face from its stinging lash. She was so small, so frail, so tender that she might be swept away at any moment as she moved like a shadow through the greyness, keeping a keen lookout for the ghosts that peopled the mists and the lonely places. Of these phantoms she was assured. To her they were as true as her own mother, as her own self. They were around and above her. They hid in the mists, walked on the sea, roved in the fields, and she was afraid of them.
Suddenly she called to mind the story of the Lone Woman of the Mist, the ghost whom all the old people of the locality had met at some time or another in their lives. Even as she thought, an apparition took form, a lone woman stood in front of the little girl, barely ten paces away. The child crossed herself seven times and walked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fixed on the figure that barred the path. This was the only thing to be done; under the steady look of the eyes a ghost is powerless. So her mother had told her, and the girl, knowing this, never lowered her gaze; but her bare feet got suddenly warm, her heart leapt as if wanting to leave her body, and the effort to restrain the tremor of her eyelids caused her pain. The ghost spoke.
“Who is the girsha[A] that is out so early?” came the question.
“It’s me, Norah Ryan,” answered the child in a glad voice. “I thought that ye were the Lone Woman of the Mist or maybe a beanshee.”[B]
“I’m not the beanshee, I’m the beansho,”[C] the woman replied in a sharp voice. “D’ye know what that means?”
“It means that ye are the woman I’m not to have the civil word with because ye’ve committed a great sin.”
“Who said that? Was it yer mother?”
“Then it was,” said the child, “I often heard her say them words.”
“D’ye know me sin then?” enquired the woman, and without waiting for an answer she went on: “Ye don’t, of course. This is me sin, girsha; this is me sin. Look at it!”
The woman loosened the shawl which was drawn tightly around her body and disclosed a little bullet-headed child lying fast asleep in her arms. The wind caught the sleeper; one tiny hand quivered in mute protest, then the infant awoke and roared loudly. The mother kissed the wee thing hastily, fastened the shawl again and strode forward, taking long steps like a man, towards the sea. She was bare-footed; her feet made a rustling sound on the snow and two little furrows lay behind her. Norah Ryan followed and presently the older woman turned round.
“That’s me sin, girsha, that’s me sin,” she said. “That’s a sin that can never be undone. Mind that and mind it always.... Ye’ll be goin’ into the town, I suppose?” “That I am,” said the child. “Is the tide full on the run now?”
“It’s nearly out. See! the sky is clearin’ a bit; and look it! there’s some stars.”
“I don’t like the stars, good woman, for they’re always so cold lookin’.”
“Yes, they’re middlin’ like to goodly people,” said the woman. “There, we’re near the sea and the greyness is risin’ off it.”
The woman lifted her hand and pointed to the rocky shore that skirted the bay. At first sight it appeared to be completely deserted; nothing could be seen but the leaden grey sea and the sharp and jagged rocks protruding through the snow that covered the shore. The tide was nearly out; the east was clearing, but the wind still lashed furiously against the legs and faces of the woman and the girl.
“I suppose there’ll be a lot waitin’ for the tide,” said Norah Ryan. “And a cold wait it’ll be for them too, on this mornin’ of all mornin’s.”
“It’s God’s will,” said the woman with the child, “God’s will, the priest’s will, and the will of the yarn seller.” She spoke sharply and resentfully and again with long strides hurried forward to the shore.
