The Well of the Saints

tire to be hearing, if it was only the pig she’d be calling, or crying out in the long grass, maybe, after her hens. Speaking pensively. It should be a fine, soft, rounded woman, I’m thinking, would have a voice the like of that. Mary Doul Sharply again, scandalized. Let you not be minding if it’s flat or rounded she is; for she’s a flighty, foolish woman, you’ll hear when you’re off a long way, and she making a great noise and laughing at the well. Martin Doul Isn’t laughing a nice thing the time a woman’s young? Mary Doul Bitterly. A nice thing is it? A nice thing to hear a woman making a loud braying laugh the like of that? Ah, she’s a great one for drawing the men, and you’ll hear Timmy himself, the time he does be sitting in his forge, getting mighty fussy if she’ll come walking from Grianan, the way you’ll hear his breath going, and he wringing his hands. Martin Doul Slightly piqued. I’ve heard him say a power of times it’s nothing at all she is when you see her at the side of you, and yet I never heard any man’s breath getting uneasy the time he’d be looking on yourself. Mary Doul I’m not the like of the girls do be running round on the roads, swinging their legs, and they with their necks out looking on the men.⁠ ⁠… Ah, there’s a power of villainy walking the world, Martin Doul, among them that do be gadding around with their gaping eyes, and their sweet words, and they with no sense in them at all. Martin Doul Sadly. It’s the truth, maybe, and yet I’m told it’s a grand thing to see a young girl walking the road. Mary Doul You’d be as bad as the rest of them if you had your sight, and I did well, surely, not to marry a seeing man⁠—it’s scores would have had me and welcome⁠—for the seeing is a queer lot, and you’d never know the thing they’d do. A moment’s pause. Martin Doul Listening. There’s someone coming on the road. Mary Doul Let you put the pith away out of their sight, or they’ll be picking it out with the spying eyes they have, and saying it’s rich we are, and not sparing us a thing at all. They bundle away the rushes. Timmy the smith comes in on left. Martin Doul With a begging voice. Leave a bit of silver for blind Martin, your honour. Leave a bit of silver, or a penny copper itself, and we’ll be praying the Lord to bless you and you going the way. Timmy Stopping before them. And you letting on a while back you knew my step! He sits down. Martin Doul With his natural voice. I know it when Molly Byrne’s walking in front, or when she’s two perches, maybe, lagging behind; but it’s few times I’ve heard you walking up the like of that, as if you’d met a thing wasn’t right and you coming on the road. Timmy Hot and breathless, wiping his face. You’ve good ears, God bless you, if you’re a liar itself; for I’m after walking up in great haste from hearing wonders in the fair. Martin Doul Rather contemptuously. You’re always hearing queer wonderful things, and the lot of them nothing at all; but I’m thinking, this time, it’s a strange thing surely you’d be walking up before the turn of day, and not waiting below to look on them lepping, or dancing, or playing shows on the green of Clash. Timmy Huffed. I was coming to tell you it’s in this place there’d be a bigger wonder done in a short while Martin Doul stops working than was ever done on the green of Clash, or the width of Leinster itself; but you’re thinking, maybe, you’re too cute a little fellow to be minding me at all. Martin Doul Amused, but incredulous. There’ll be wonders in this place, is it? Timmy Here at the crossing of the roads. Martin Doul I never heard tell of anything to happen in this place since the night they killed the old fellow going home with his gold, the Lord have mercy on him, and threw down his corpse into the bog. Let them not be doing the like of that this night, for it’s ourselves have a right to the crossing roads, and we don’t want any of your bad tricks, or your wonders either, for it’s wonder enough we are ourselves. Timmy If I’d a mind I’d be telling you of a real wonder this day, and the way you’ll be having a great joy, maybe, you’re not thinking on at all. Martin Doul Interested. Are they putting up a still behind in the rocks? It’d be a grand thing if I’d sup handy the way I wouldn’t be destroying myself groping up across the bogs in the rain falling. Timmy Still moodily. It’s not a still they’re bringing, or the like of it either. Mary Doul Persuasively, to Timmy. Maybe they’re hanging a thief, above at the bit of a tree. I’m told it’s a great sight to see a man hanging by his neck; but what joy would that be to ourselves, and we not seeing it at all? Timmy More pleasantly. They’re hanging no one this day, Mary Doul, and yet, with the help of God, you’ll see a power hanged before you die. Mary Doul Well you’ve queer humbugging talk.⁠ ⁠… What way would I see a power hanged, and I a dark woman since the seventh year of my age? Timmy Did ever you hear tell of a place across a bit of the sea, where there is an island, and the grave of the four beautiful saints? Mary Doul I’ve heard people have walked round from the west and they speaking of that. Timmy Impressively. There’s a green ferny well, I’m told, behind of that place, and if you