Bryan MacMahon
TWO STORIES
EVENING IN IRELAND
The mountains were thrown higgledy piggledy into the
distance, where the sea was. The white dusty road wound around
the flank of the near valley and fell gracefully away to the one–
arched bridge below. Among the tufted oaks on the Pass the church
lurked. A cluster of thatched houses crouched about it. Bird song
had shrivelled and died. From behind the hill across the valley came
the cries of the young men hurling. The Sunday sun was falling to
the far west.
Down the road came the old priest. He was walking slowly.
He was a sandy gray man with lush eyebrows. His lips moved in
prayer as his eyes found and lost the words in the breviary. From
time to time
his
eyes wandered over the breviary and over the spec–
tacles down the long curve of the white road.
A young man came upwards from the bridge. On his back he
carried a sack. There was a hole in the sack and a turkey's head
protruded into the sunlight. The priest squeezed up his eyes and saw
the man clearly. At the same time the young man spied the priest.
He ceased his whistling and threw aside his slouch. The sack was
jerked one notch higher on
his
shoulder. He crossed to the road
margin opposite to that on which the priest was walking. The priest
and the man came closer and closer. The young man pulled the
visor of his cap down over
his
eyes and tried to sneak past. Un–
accountably the priest was on the road before him. The young man
tipped his cap with a forefinger. His lips mumbled
somethi~g.
The priest screwed his face a few times. This was designed
to wring the sun out of his features. Also to intimidate the young
man. The priest said, with a soft harshness: "Who have I?"
"Dick Lynch, Father."
