“ ‘My concubine, your beloved, sends a greeting to you with her love and this garland of blue flowers which she has woven with her two hands in hell.’
“The man, looking on these flowers, felt his heart move within him like water.
“ ‘Bring her to me,’ said he to the demon.
“ ‘I will not do so,’ replied the Misery.
“And, suddenly, the man leaped on the Spectre. He locked his arms about that cold neck, and clung furiously with his knees.
“ ‘Then I will go to her with you,’ said he.
“And together they went headlong down the pit, and as they fell they battled frightfully in the dark pitch.”
XVII
Mac Cann was asleep, but when Finaun’s voice ceased he awakened and stretched himself with a loud yawn.
“I didn’t hear a word of that story,” said he.
“I heard it,” said Eileen Ni Cooley; “it was a good story.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Do you know what it was about, Mary?”
“I do not, for I was thinking about other things at the time.”
Finaun took her hand.
“There was no need for any of you to know what that story was about, excepting you only,” and he looked very kindly at Eileen Ni Cooley.
“I listened to it,” said she; “and it was a good story. I know what it was about, but I would not know how to tell what it was about.”
“It must have been the queer yarn,” said Patsy regretfully; “I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep.”
“I was awake for you,” said Caeltia.
“What’s the use of that?” said Patsy testily.
It was still raining.
The day was far advanced and evening was spinning her dull webs athwart the sky. Already in the broken house the light had diminished to a brown gloom, and their faces looked watchful and pale to each other as they crouched on the earthen floor. Silence was again seizing on them, and each person’s eyes were focusing on some object or point on the wall or the floor as their thoughts began to hold them.
Mac Cann roused himself.
“We are here for the night; that rain won’t stop as long as there’s a drop left in its can.”
Mary bestirred herself also.
“I’ll slip down to the cart and bring back whatever food is in it. I left everything covered and I don’t think they’ll be too wet.”
“Do that,” said her father.
“There’s a big bottle rolled up in a sack,” he continued; “it’s in a bucket at the front of the cart by the right shaft, and there’s a little sup of whisky in the big bottle.”
“I’ll bring that too.”
“You’re a good girl,” said he.
“What will I do with the ass this night?” said Mary.
“Hit him a kick,” said her father.
XVIII
The ass stood quietly where he had been left.
Rain was pouring from him as though he were the father of rivers and supplied the world with running water. It dashed off his flanks; it leaped down his tail; it foamed over his forehead to his nose, and hit the ground from there with a thump.
“I’m very wet,” said the ass to himself, “and I wish I wasn’t.”
His eyes were fixed on a brown stone that had a knob on its back. Every drop of rain that hit the stone jumped twice and then spattered to the ground. After a moment he spoke to himself again:
“I don’t care whether it stops raining or not, for I can’t be any wetter than I am, however it goes.”
Having said this, he dismissed the weather and settled himself to think. He hung his head slightly and fixed his eyes afar off, and he stared distantly like that without seeing anything while he gathered and revolved his thoughts.
The first thing he thought about was carrots.
He thought of their shape, their colour, and the way they looked in a bucket. Some would have the thick end stuck up, and some would have the other end stuck up, and there were always bits of clay sticking to one end or the other. Some would be lying on their sides as though they had slipped quietly to sleep, and some would be standing in a slanting way as though they were leaning their backs against a wall and couldn’t make up their minds what to do next. But, however they looked in the bucket, they all tasted alike, and they all tasted well. They are a companionable food; they make a pleasant, crunching noise when they are bitten, and so, when one is eating carrots, one can listen to the sound of one’s eating and make a story from it.
Thistles make a swishing noise when they are bitten; they have their taste.
Grass does not make any noise at all; it slips dumbly to the sepulchre, and makes no sign.
Bread makes no sound when it is eaten by an ass; it has an interesting taste, and it clings about one’s teeth for a long time.
Apples have a good smell and a joyful crunch, but the taste of sugar lasts longer in the mouth, and can be remembered for longer than anything else; it has a short, sharp crunch that is like a curse, and instantly it blesses you with the taste of it.
Hay can be eaten in great mouthfuls. It has a chip and a crack at the first bite, and then it says no more. It sticks out of one’s mouth like whiskers, and you can watch it with your eye while it moves to and fro according as your mouth moves. It is a friendly food, and very good for the hungry.
Oats are not a food; they are a great blessing; they are a debauch; they make you proud, so that you want to kick the front out of a cart, and climb a tree, and bite a cow, and chase chickens.
Mary
