Cúr romham, gaineamh fúm
Ceol anáil domhain na dtonnta
Cosnocht, sciorta fliuch
Be with me
Barefoot and skirt wet
Deep breaths of the waves’ music
Facing foam on sand
Scríobh mé an hadhcú seo ar thrá Zuma i gCalifornia anocht.
Bhí deilfíní is rón san fharraige is an ghrian ag dul faoi
ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh le John Henry
Mhoithigh mé m’athair mór ag insint ‘ (go ndéana Dia grásta air).
Fada ó shin bhí fear i gCeathrú na gCloch. ‘Sé an t-ainm a bhí air, Tomás Mór agus ba fhear cinéal aimhleasach é, mar a déarfá. Ní thabharfadh sé isteach i ngnoithe slua sí nó i ngnoithe Dhia nó Mhuire; bhí sé ag obair ar a bhealach féin.
Ach an uair sin, bhíthí ar siúl le gnoithe leathaigh i gCladach na Rinne Ruaidhe ar ndóigh. Ba ann a chaitheadh na créatúir oíche agus lá ag iarraidh bheith ag tiomsú leas fataí agus rudaí…
Ach an lá seo, bhí páist le bású i gCeathrú na gCloch. Ach má bhí féin, d’imigh Tomás Mór tráthnóna leathmhall siar go Cladach an Phoirt ar thóir leathaigh. Agus thiomsaigh sé ar mhodh ar bith. Bhí sé ag tiomsú leis siar i mBearna an Leathaigh go ndeachaigh sé go dtí an Staca Liath go ndearna sé obair lae le leathaigh le haghaidh an asail. Asail a bhí ann an uair sin ag imeacht ag gach uile fhear.
Ach nuair a bhí ‘ sin déanta aige, dúirt sé go siúlfadh sé leis soir go dtéadh sé go dtí Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí go bhfeicfeadh sé an bhfaigheadh sé píosa adhmaid nó rud ar bith eile ar an trá. Ach ní bhfuair, sílim. Ach ag gabháil anoir ag Fáilín an Ghairtéil dó, mhothaigh sé an páiste ag caoineadh. Agus sheas sé agus chuir sé cluas air féin agus mhoithigh sé na mná ag caint.
“Tabhair domsa é,” a d’abraíodh bean acu.
“Ní thabharfaidh,” a d’abraíodh bean eile acu, “ach tabhair domsa é.”
“Ní hea,” arsa Tomás. Labhair sé. “Ach tugaigí domsa é,” a dúirt sé.
Ó bhuel, an uair sin mhoithigh sé an-chlabhasán ach sháraigh air a dtuigbhéil ach gur thuig sé focal amháin. Dúirt bean acu leis na mná eile:
“Rug bean ar an bpáiste seo a raibh lorg an uisce coisreac ar a méara,” a dúirt sí, “agus ní thig linn tada a dhéanamh. Caithfidh muid ‘ a thabhairt don bhfear a labhair.”
Ach thug siad an páiste do Thomás. Thug Tomás an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus níor stop ‘ go dtáinig ‘ go Ceathrú na gCloch go dtí an teach ‘ a raibh an páiste tinn ann. Ach ins an am céanna, bhí an páiste os cionn cláir agus é nite acu. ‘Brón mór at mhuinir an tí agus gach aon tsórt.
Ach shiúil Tomás isteach agus an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus í, an páiste beo beathamach, ag gártháil agus ag iarraidh ‘bheith ag caint ar ndóigh. Ní raibh sé (an páiste) ach bliain. Ach ar áit na bonn nuair a shiúil Tomás isteach, d’éirigh an páiste a bhí ar an gclár ‘ amach agus d’imigh sé ina cheo agus ní fhaca éinne ag imeacht é.
Bhuel, bhí go maith ansin. Leag Tomás an páiste thuas ins an gclúid acu.
“Anois,” a dúirt Tomás. “Seo é bhúr bpáiste beo slán arís,” a dúirt sé.
“Maith go leor,” a dúirt siad.
Ach chuaigh siad chuig an tsagart. Agus bhí sagart thall ag na hAchadh a dtugadh siad an sagart dubh air. Ach tháinig an sagart dubh anall agus chuaigh sé ag léitheoireacht os cionn an pháiste a thug Tomás Mór beo leis.
“Anois,” a dúirt an sagart, “seo é an páiste ceart. Ní raibh fágtha,” a dúirt sé, “ach píosa de chrompán giúsaigh,” a dúirt sé.
“Agus fhad agus bheas sibh beo,” a dúirt sé, “coinnigh uisce coisreac ar bhúr gcuid páistí agus,” a dúirt an sagart, “nuair a chuirfeas sibh an naíonán a chodladh ins an gcliabhán, cuirgí smearóid siar faoin bpiolúir agus ní féidir le tada a ghabháil ina ghaobhar.”
Ach ó sin amach, táthar ag cur smearóidí ó shin agus i gcónaí. Feicim féin an obair i gcónaí. Nuair a leagtar leanbh beag isteach ins an gcliabhán, cuireadar sméaróid siar faoin bpiolúir. Agus leagadar brat eile os a chionna dtugann siad an Brat Bríde air. Sin brat a chuirtear amach Oíche Fhéile Bríde agus deir’ siad go bhfuil leigheas ann. Agus ó shin amach, ní fheicim éinne ag imeacht go fánach nó go dona.
I heard my grandfather telling [this one] (make God grant him grace).
Long ago, there was a man in Ceathrú na gCloch (the stoney quarter). He was called Big Tomás (Tumaws) and he was a bit contrary, you might say. He wouldn’t get involved with the business of the fairy crowd or the God business or Mary: he was working on his own.
Back then they would be taken up with the business of gathering seaweed at Cladach na Rinne Ruaidhe (the shore at Red Point) of course. It was there the poor things would spend night and day trying to gather fertilizer for the spuds and other [crops].
But this particular day there was a child about to die in Stoney Quarter. But even so big Tomás went out in the latter half of the afternoon down to the Cladach an Phoirt (Port Beach) looking for seaweed. And he gathered it somehow or other. He was gathering it down in Bearna an Leathaigh (Seaweed Gap) until he came to Staca Liath (Grey Stack) when he had got a day’s work of seaweed for the donkey [to carry]. Donkeys was what they had with them back then when they went out, every single man.
But when he had that done, he said he’d walk back eastwards until he’s go to Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí (the foot of Yellow Crescent) until he’d see if he could get any bit of wood on the beach. But he didn’t find any, I think. But as he was coming back at Fáilín an Ghairtéil, he heard a child crying. And he stood and listened intently and he heard the women talking.
Give it to me,” one of the women would say.
“I won’t,” another woman would say, “but give it to ME.”
“No,” said Tomás. He spoke. “But give it to ME,” he said.
Oh well, then he heard fierce complaining but it was beyond him to understand their talk except for one thing he understood. One woman said to the other women:
“A woman who had the trace of holy water on her hands held this child,” said she, “and we cannot do anything [about that]. We have to give [it] to the man who spoke.”
But they gave the child to Tomás. Tomás took the child with him in his two hands and didn’t stop until he came to Stony Quarter to the house where the sick child was. But in the same time, the child was laid out and they had washed him. There was great sadness on the people of the house and all that goes with that.
But Tomás walked in and the child in his two hands and it (the living lively child) laughing and trying to talk of course. It (the child) was only a year old. But in the place where the dead one was when Tomás walked in, the child that was laid out on the board rose and went into a mist and no one saw it go.
Well, things were good then. Tomás put the child wrapped up in a blanket for them.
“Now,” said Tomás. “This is your child alive and well again,” he said.
“Fair enough,” they said.
But they went to the priest. And there was a priest over at Aughoose that they called ‘The Black Priest.’ But the black priest came over and he went reading over the head of the child that big Tomás brought [there] alive with him.
“Now,” said the priest, “this is the right child. Nothing was left,” he said , “but a bit of a stump of a fir tree,” he said.
“And as long as you all live,” he said, “keep holy water on your children and,” said the priest, “when you put the infant to sleep in his crib, put a cold ember under the pillow and nothing can go near him.”
But from then on, they’ve been putting embers [there] from then and for all times. I myself always see the work. When a baby is being put in his crib, they’d put a cold ember back under his pillow. And they’d put a cloak over him, that they call Brigid’s cloak. That’s the cloak they put out on the Night of Brigid’s Festival ahus they say there’s a cure in it. And from them on, I see no one going missing or in harm’s way.
ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh
le John Henry
Bhí, fad ó shin, bhí dílleachta beag thiar ‘ an Tír Thiar, thaobh thiar de Bhaol an Mhuirthead. Bhí sí istigh ag a máthair mór. Agus, ar ndóigh, an áit a bhfuil dílleachta mar sin, nuair a bhéas sé (an dílleachta bocht ) fásta suas, bíonn cineál sclábhaíocht bheag oibre le déanamh aige thar dhuine eile.
Ach bhí an dílleachta bocht seo, bhíodh sí saigheadaithe amach gach uile lá le ba, ag faire ba síos ar an dumnaigh, dumnaigh a dtugann siad Dumhaigh Eilí air. Ach bhíodh sí síos ar an dumhaigh gach uile lá ag faire ar na mbó.
Ach an lá seo, bhí sí thíos ‘ tháinig buachaill óg chuici. Agus bhuel, bhí an cailín, b’fhéidir go raibh sí ceithre bliana déag nó cúig bliana déag d’aois. Ach bhí an buachaill óg ag caint léi giota maith. Ach d’imigh sé ar deireadh. Ach, by gearrachaí, nuair a tháinig sí abhaile san oíche chuig a máthair mhór ( tá ‘fhios ‘at, bhí a máthair agus a athair curtha, ba dílleachta a bhí inti) d’fhiafraigh an mháthair mhór di:
“Cén sórt gábh a bhí tú inniu?” a deir sí. “Tá tú ag amharc an-mhíshuaite,” a deir sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom.”
“Ní raibh mé i ngábh ar bith,” a deir sí.
” Má…bhuel, bhí rud éigin ort. B’fhéidir gur iomarca siúil nó routeáil a rinne tú,” a dúirt an máthair mhór léi.
“Ní hea,” a deir sí.
‘Lá arna mhárach cuireadh leis na ba arís í síos go Dumhaigh Eilí. Ach nuair a bhí sí thíos, an créatúir, tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus bhí sé ag caint léi.
“Bhuel,” a deir sé léi. “An gcíorfá mo chloigeann dom?” a dúirt sé.
“Cíorfaidh,” a dúirt sí.
Ní raibh aon chiall aici. Bhí ráca ina phóca aige agus chíor sí a chloigeann. Agus bhí sé ansin ag caint léi scathamh. Agus d’imigh sé. Ach nuair a tháinig sí abhaile…
“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin as bealach leat,” a dúirt sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom ar chor ar bith. Tá drochdhath ort. Céard ‘tá ort ar chor ar bith?”
“Níl rud ar bith orm,” a dúirt an gearrachaile. “Ní aithním tada. Ní fheicimse. Ní mhoithím rud ar bith,” a deir sí.
“Bhuel, bíonn tú ag déanamh an- routeáil,” a dúirt sí, “nó ag déanamh an-súgradh thíos ar an dumhaigh nó an mbíonn éinne agat?”
“Ní bhíonn,” a deir sí.
Ach ba é cic an scéil é, chuaigh sí síos an triú lá leis na ba agus tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus shuigh sé lena taobh.
“Bhuel,” a deir sé. ” Breathnaigh ‘mo choigeann,” a deir sé. “Agus cuir mo ghruaig dá chéile agus shtáil mo ghruaig dom,” a deir sé.
Agus rinne an créatúir sin, ar ndóigh. Bhí sí díchéillí an uair sin. Tháinig sí abhaile an oíche sin agus na ba léi.
“Bhuel,” a deir an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin ort,” a dúirt sí.
Bhí an gearrchaile ag cailleadh agus ag éirí míshuait agus í bán go maith faoina haghaidh.
“Bhuel,” a deir sí. ” A ghranny,” a deir sí. “Tá fear óg ag tíocht chugham le trí lá,” a dúirt sí.
Agus d’inis an bhean óg di gach aon tsórt.
“Feicim anois,” a deir an mháthair mhór. “Bhuel, anois,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór. “Nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach, nuair a thiocfas sé chugat, abair leis an fear,” a dúirt sí, “go bhfuil gamhain tinn ag do mháthair mhór ins an teach agus ‘cén leigheas atá air lena choinneál beo.”
“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.
Bhí go maith is ní raibh go dona. An ceathrú lá, chuaigh an cailín óg síos. Bhí sí ina gearrachaile óg ar ndóigh idir cúig bliana d’aois agus sé bliana d’aois. Chuaigh sí síos leis na ba agus tháinig an fear óg chuici agus shuigh sé ag a taobh. Agus sular dhúirt sé tada, dúirt an bhean óg go raibh gamhain óg ag a mháthair mhór agus go raibh sé go dona, slackáilte go maith agus go raibh sé ‘mórán an bás air.
“Bhuel anois,” a deir an fear óg. “Leis an ngamhain a choinneáil beo, abair le do mháthair mhór nuair a gheobhas tú abhaile anocht, abair léi mún bréan, cacanna cearc, scian na coise duibhe agus an tseanúir a dhó agus a shuathadh fud a chéile agus a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain agus gnóthóidh sé.”
“Maith go leor,” a dúirt an bhean óg.
Ach scathamh ina dhiaidh d’imigh an buachaill óg uaithi agus tháinig an bhean óg abhaile.
“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi, “an dtáinig an fear óg inniu chugat?”
“Tháinig,” a dúirt an cáilín.
“Bhuel,” a deir sí, “ar dhúirt tú an chaint sin leis?”
“Dúras,” a dúirt an cailín óg.
“Bhuel, cén leigheas a thug sé duit ar an ngamhain?” a dúirt sí.
“Bhuel, dúirt sé leat cacanna cearc a dhéanamh suas, mún bréan agus uisce coisreac, scian na coise duibhe a mheascadh ann agus é sin a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain.”
“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.
Ní dhearna an chailleach… Bhí pota múin bhréin istigh aici le haghaidh tuaradh bréidín. Ba shin an leigheas a bhí ‘ fad ó shin le haghaidh bréidín. Ach rinne sí suas cacanna cearc, an mún bréan, an tseanúir a dhó agus a mheascadh fud a chéile agus an t-uisce coisreac agus chuir sí i mbuidéal dó é.”
“Anois,” a dúirt sí leis an mnaoi óg, “nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach leis na ba, nuair a thiocas an fear óg seo chugat, ar áit na bonn a suífidh sé agat, croith braon de seo air go bhfeicfidh tú céard a dhéanfaidh sé.”
Thug an bhean óg an buidéal ina póca léi agus an búiléiste sin déanta suas ann. Ach nuair a shuigh an buachaill óg ag a taobh mar i gcónaí, ní dhearna sí ach an buidéal a tharraingt amach as a póca agus a chroitheadh ar an mbuachaill óg. D’éirigh sé in aon bhall tine amháin agus d’imigh sé leis ar fud na farraige móire.
Tháinig an bhean óg abhaile agus d’inis sí an scéal don mháthair mhór.
“Anois,” a dúirt sí, “tá do leigheas déanta. Beidh tú i do chailín mhaith go fóill.”
Sin é mo scéal.
Long ago there was a little orphan girl, out in the western land, beyond Belmullet. She lived with her grandmother. And of course where there’s an orphan like that, as she grows up there some kind of odd job skivvy work for her more than any other child would get.
But this poor orphan was sent out to mind the cows every day down on the sand dunes, the dunes they call Elly Dunes. And she used to be down on the dunes every single day minding the cows.
But this particular day she was down there and along came a young boy towards her. And well, the girl was maybe she was fourteen or fifteen years old. But the young lad was talking to her a fair bit. But he left in the end. But by dad when she came home that night to her grandmother (you know her father and mother were in their graves and she was an orphan) her grandmother asked her:
“What come over you today?” says she. “You’re looking very upset,” says she. “I don’t like the look of you.”
“Nothing came over me at all,” says she.
“If…well, somethings up with you. Maybe you walked too much or you took a long route ,” said the grandmother to her.
“No,” says she.
The next day she was put out with the cows again down to Elly Dunes. But when she was down there, the poor creature, the young boy came to her again and he was talking with her.
“Well,” says he to her. “Would you comb my hair for me?” he said.
“I will comb it,” she said.
She had no sense. He had a comb in his pocket and she combed his hair. And he was there talking to her a while. And then he left. But when she got home…
“Well,” said her grandmother to her. “Something is not right with you,” she said. “I don’t like the look of you at all. You have a bad color. What’s up with you at all?”
“There’s nothing up with me at all,” said the young girl. “I don’t feel a thing. I can’t see anything . I don’t feel anything [different],” says she.
“Well, you’re doing the rounds,” she said, “or playing too much down on the dunes or do you have someone with you there?”
“No,” says she.
But the kick of the tale is that she went down on the third day with the cows and the young boy came to her again and sat down beside her.
“Well,” says he. “Look at my head,” says he. “And untangle put my hair and put a style on it for me,” says he.
And the poor creature did that of course. She was without sense back time. She came home that night and the cows with her.
“Well,” says the grandmother to her. “Something is up with you,” she said.
The young girl was failing and getting upset and her face was fairly pale.
“Well,” says she. ” Granny,” says she. “There’s a young man who’s been coming to see me for three days now,” she said.
And the young woman told her everything that had happened.
“I see now,” says the grandmother. “Well now,” said the granny. “When you go down there tomorrow, when he comes to you, say to the man,” she said, “that there’s a sick calf that your granny has at home and what cure is there for it to keep it alive.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
All was grand and nothing wrong. On the fourth day the young girl went down. She was a young girl, of course, between fourteen and fifteen years old. She went down with the cows and the young man came to her and sat down beside her. But before he said anything the young woman said that her granny had a sick calf and that is was poorly and listless and near death.
“Well now,” says the young man. “To keep the calf alive tell your granny, when you get home tonight, tell her to get stale urine, hen dung, a black-shafted knife and an old palm leaf and to boil them together and to shake the mixture on the calf and it will work.”
“Fair enough,” said the young woman.
But a while after that the young boy left her and the young woman came home.
“Well,” said the granny to her, “did the young man come to you today?”
“He did,” said the girl.
“Well,” says, “did you have that talk with him?”
“I did,” said the young girl.
“Well, what cure did he give you for the calf?” she said.
“Well, he said you were to make up [a mixture of] hen dung, stale urine and holy water and to stir in with a black-shafted knife and to shake it all on the calf.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
The old woman didn’t have to do anything [for the first one]. She had a pot of stale urine in the house for bleaching tweed. That was the way they had long ago for treating tweed. But she got the hen dung, the stale urine and the old palm branch and boiled them and the holy water and she put it in a bottle for him.”
“Now,” she said to the young lady, “when you go down tomorrow with the cows, when the young man comes to you, at the foot of where he sits shake a drop of this on him till you see what he will do.”
The young woman took the bottle with that potion made up inside it with her in her pocket. But when the young boy sat down at her side as always, she just took out the bottle from her pocket and shook it on the young boy.He rose in a single ball of fire and went off with himself into the big sea.
The young woman came home and told the story to her grandmother.
“Now,” she said, “your cure is done. You’ll be a fine girl yet.”
That’s my story.
