Fágáil/Leaving
by Gabrielle Mhic an Fhailigh (Runner-up)
Réamhrá
Croíbhriste, bhí a fhios aici go raibh sé in am di na sléibhte a fhágáil. Chonacthas daoine ag teacht is ag imeacht chuile lá, ach ag imeacht anois a bhí an chuid is mó acu, níorbh fhéidir é a shéanadh. Níos ciúine a bhí an bhóithrín anois ná riamh.
Nóta faoin áit.
Tá an scéal seo suite i seanteach san Uillinn Thiar, an tSraith Salach i dtuaisceart Chonamara, thart ar daichead míle siar ó chathair na Gaillimhe. Is ceantar beag in aice le Mám Éan é, a bhfuil sléibhte ar gach taobh de le radharc ar Loch Eidhneach. Tarlaíonn sé ar trí lá daonáirimh i measc eachtraí móra stair na tíre – an Drochshaol, athshocrú 41 teaghlach go Ráth Chairn sna 1930í agus an phaindéim dhomhanda is déanaí.
Joanna, An Uillinn Thiar, 1851
Ní mhúsclóidh rud ar bith thú mura gcodlaíonn tú. B’shin an chéad smaoineamh a bhí ag Joanna an mhaidin sin ag breacadh an lae. Thuig sí na contúirtí a bhain leis na sléibhte a fhágáil, ach an raibh an dara rogha aici?
Chuaigh Eamonn chun an bhaile an tseachtain roimhe agus bhí sé scanraithe nuair a tháinig sé abhaile. Ba dhomhan difriúil ar fad é. Bhí na daoine tinn, ní hamháin leis an ocras ach le rud eicínt i bhfad Éireann níos nimhní.
Bhí an teach chomh ciúin le huaigh. Bhíodh gaire agus sonas timpeall an tí tráth, ach anois ní raibh le clos ach corrchuach chapall ar an mbóthar. Ní raibh capall ag aon dá muintir anois. Ach ní raibh caint ar bith air sin.
Bhí an t-ádh ar Eamonn obair a fháil ar na bóithre in aice leis an Líonán, ach bhí deireadh tagtha leis sin, mar a bhí le gach rud eile. Bhíodar dóchasach faoin todhchaí, ach de réir a chéile, agus an gliondar i súile na bpáistí á thachtú, agus an dóchas á ídiú leis, múchadh a gcuid dóchais féin.
Bhí longa ag dul anonn fós, cinnte, ach bhí an bás i ndán do go leor thóg an tsiúlóid orthu féin. D’imigh a deirfiúir Máire trasna na dtonnta tamall ó shin ach ní raibh tuairim aici ar éirigh léi an domhan nua a bhaint amach.
Ba é fanacht siar an t-aon rogha a bhí aici anois. Gach maidin, rith na smaointe céanna léi – fanacht, imeacht, na contúirtí, an sonas.
Bualadh cnag ar an doras agus baineadh geit aisti. Ní fhéadfadh gurb é an tiarna talún a bhí ann. Íocadh an cíos le hobair na talún agus maisiú agus níochán mar a thuig sí féin.
Ar oscailt an dorais di, bhí fear seasta in éide fhir íoca ag an doras. Bhí Seán Pheadair, buachaill áitiúil, fanta ag an ngeata.
“Maam, I’m here to ask you to account for all those in the residence, on behalf of His Royal Highness,” a dúirt sé, gan tuiscint ná tuairim dá laghad nach dtuigfí é.
Léim Seán Pheadar agus rith sé aníos an cosán.
“Tá sé anseo sibh a chomhaireamh,” a mhínigh sé. “Ná bíodh faitíos ort.”
Ach bhí.
Lig sí an bheirt isteach agus shuigh ag bord na cistine. Thóg an Sasanach a pheann amach agus chuir sé a cheisteanna le Seán Pheadar á n-aistriú.
“Ainm?”
“Joanna Joyce.”
“Cé mhéad atá ina gcónaí anseo?”
Agus leis sin, tháinig na deora le Joanna. Ag smaoineamh fúthu siúd nárbh fhéidir a chomhaireamh anois, ag déanamh iontais faoin gcaoi ar fhan sí chomh fada seo í féin. An mbeadh Eamonn fós ina bheatha dá bhfágfaidís le Máire? Ní thiocfadh sé abhaile anois riamh. Bhí na páistí imithe ar shlí na fírinne. Is dócha go raibh sé thar am aici féin fágáil.
Maria, An Uillinn Thiar, 1936
Múscailte ag cnagadh ar dhoras an tí, léim Maria as a leaba. Chuir sí mallacht ar an té a bhí i mbun chnagtha agus ghuí sí nach ndúiseodh Patsaí leis an torann.
Is ar éigean a raibh an ghrian ag éirí agus ba bheag faichille a léirigh an duine ag an doras go raibh an teach ag crith leis an torann.
Léim sí as an leaba agus chuir sí gúna uirthi féin (an t-aon cheann a bhí aici) faoi dheifir. Bhí a fhios aici go ndúiseodh Patsaí go luath, agus léi go músclódh gach duine eile.
Shocraigh sí í féin agus bhrostaigh go dtí an doras chomh sciobtha agus ab fhéidir léi. Bhí na caora ag méileach taobh amuigh agus rith sé léi go raibh seans maith ann gur éirigh Mícheál níos luaithe fós len iad a bhogadh ón gcnoc anuas. Bhí na huain á mbreith go tiubh is go tréan agus leis an mbeatha sin tháinig freagracht.
“I’m here to ask you to account for those in residence, Ma’am,” a dúirt fear uasal i mBéarla na Banríona.
“Oh yes, of course, come in,”
“Name?”
“Maria Joyce”
“Man of the house?”
“Mícheál Joyce.”
“Ah yes,” a dúirt an fear uasal, “you’re earmarked for the relocation scheme to Co. Meath I see. And how are the preparations going?”
Níor mhaith le Maria smaoineamh faoi. Bhí gach rud ag titim amach go tapa agus níorbh fhéidir léi na deiseanna a bhain le bogadh go dtí an taobh eile den tír a shéanadh. Fiche acra de thalamh maith arbh fhéidir bia a chothú, seachas na carraigeacha ar a raibh sí féin agus a muintir ina gcónaí leis na cianta agus na glúnta. Dá rachaidís, bheadh saol eile ar fad i ndán do Patsy, Eamonn agus Joanna.
Ag teacht ar ais chuig an bhfear ina shuí ag bord na cistine, d’fhreagair sí sa chaoi is fearr arbh fhéidir léi. “We are still preparing, but we are very grateful of it.”
Ba thuras fada é go Ráth Chairn, ach seasc gurb é an bealach is fearr arbh fhéidir leo saol níos fearr dóibh féin a chruthú.
“How many people are living here at present?”
Tharraing sí anáil dhomhain. Ghoill an cheist seo a croí. An uair dheireanach a raibh fear an daonáirimh anseo, bhí Mamaí anseo freisin. Bhí sé ar intinn aici dul go Ráth Chairn leo. Ach choimeád an tinneas a bhí uirthi anseo ar fad iad.
Anois, bhíodar ar tí fágála – na sléibhte agus an phian ar fad a fhágáil ina ndiaidh.
Frankie, An Uillinn Thiar, 2022
Mhúscail crónán Bhea Frankie. Bhí sí te teolaí ina leaba ach bhí a fhios aici go mbuailfeadh an fuacht í chomh luath is a d’éireodh sí.
Bhí amadóir an chórais teasa briste ach b’fhiú píosa fuachta é don tearmann a bhí faighte aici sna sléibhte a dúirt sí léi féin.
Nuair a d’fhág Maria, cheap Frankie go dtitfeadh a domhan as a chéile, ach anois, ar fáth éigin, bhí a fhios aici go mbeadh gach rud ina cheart.
Bhí an phaindéim crua ar an bpobal ach níor thug sí an chuid is mó de faoi deara agus iad slán sábháilte sna sléibhte.
Thit a caidreamh le Maria as a chéile i ngan fhios di – na hoícheanta as baile lena tuismitheoirí, deireadh seachtainí lena deirfiúr i Ráth Chairn. Bhí an chuma ar an scéal go raibh gach rud mar a bhí.
B’aoibhinn le Frankie am a chaitheamh i dteannta le Bea agus na sicíní. D’fheil an obair ón mbaile di, ach bhí a fhios aici nach dtabharfadh Maria cead di fanacht i dteach a muintire go deo.
Thosaigh an mhaidin seo mar a thosaigh chuile mhaidin. Dúisithe ag na héin agus ag Bea, rinne sí cupán caifé agus lean sí uirthi go dtí an seomra gréine le tús a chur leis an lá oibre.
Chonaic sí carr nár aithin sí ag tiomáint suas an bóithrín. Stop sé ag an teach béal dorais (bhí páirc idir na tithe), agus rinne sé a bhealach suas an cnoc chuici. Pháirceáil an bhean go contúirteach ar thaobh an bhóthair agus d’oscail sí ag geata ag bun an ghairdín.
Bhuail cnag aerach an doras agus d’éirigh Frankie. Bhí veist hi-vis agus mála ag an mbean os a comhair. Thaispeáin sí a cárta aitheantais.
“I’m here on behalf of the Central Statistics Office, I’ve got your forms here to be filled out on the third of April – are you usually resident here?”
“I am.”
“We have forms available as Gaeilge if you would like?”
“Not this time, thank you,” ghabh Frankie a leithscéal, agus náire uirthi nach raibh sé ar a cumas na foireameacha a líonadh i dteanga dúchais na tíre.
“Perfect, so I’ll be back to you about a week after the third of April. Here are my details if you won’t be about. ” Leis sin, thug an t- áiritheoir a cárta aitheanais maraon leis an bhfoirm ghlas do Frankie.
“Míle buíochas,” a dúirt Frankie agus thóg sí na foirmeacha uaithi le meangadh gáire bréagach ar a haghaidh.
Shuigh sí leis an bhfoirm, lena seoladh agus a hainm ar an gclúdach agus mhothaigh sí ar nós caimiléire. Ba í an chéad cheist ná “Cén uair a tógadh an teach nó árasán?”. Stop agus d’fhan sí nóiméad. Bhí an teach ar nós arracht Frankenstein, le seomraí nua curtha leis agus an ceann is nua ná an eomra gréine ina raibh sí, a tógadh thart ar caoga bliain roimhe. Ba le sin-seanmháthair Mharia an teach agus mhair sí ann i rith an drochshaoil. Comhartha ómóis dá crógacht. Chuir gach glúin ina diaidh a rian féin air.
Agus í ag caitheamh súl ar an bhfoirm, tháinig sí chuig na ceisteanna faoin teideal “Daoine”. Ní fhéadfadh sí é a líonadh isteach aisti féin, gan aon scéal ó Mharia.
Shocraigh sí téacs a sheoladh chuici le fiosrú céard a cheap Maria faoi. Phioc sí suas an fón agus chonaic teachtaireacht.
Maria: Beidh mé ag bogadh siar go hUillinn. Is fuath liom é seo a dhéanamh, ach an féidir leat a bheith imithe sula dtagaim ar ais?
Introduction
Broken by her aching heart, she knew it was time to leave the mountains. The pattern of people coming and going, mainly going at this stage, there was no denying it took its toll. The road was getting quieter each passing day.
A note about the place.
This story is set in an old farmhouse in Illion West, Recess in Northern Connemara, about forty miles from Galway city. It’s a small area beside Maam Éan, surrounded by mountains overlooking Lough Inagh. It takes place on census day during three distinct periods in Irish and local history – the Great Famine, the resettlement of 41 families from Connemara to Ráth Chairn in the 1930s and the most recent Covid-19 pandemic.
Joanna, An Uillinn Thiar, 1851
Nothing can wake you if you don’t sleep. This was Joanna’s first thought as the sun rose that April morning. She knew the risks leaving posed but what was her other option?
Eamonn had gone to town once and came home shook. It was like a different world. People were sick, not just from the hunger but something else, just as deadly.
The silence in the house was deafening. Where there had once been laughter and joy, they now only heard the odd whinny from a passing horse. No one around here owned a horse any more. But that wasn’t talked about.
Eamonn had been lucky to get work on the roads near Leenane, but that had dried up now, like everything else. The future had been so bright but as the lights in her children’s eyes went out, so did their own.
There were still boats, but the walk to them would kill you. Her sister Máire had set out on the journey to America, but she didn’t know if she had even made it.
The only other option was to wait it out. Every morning she went through the same conversation in her head – to stay, or go, the risks, the joys.
A knock on the door startled her. It wasn’t the rent. That was paid in work in the field and mending and washing.
A man, in a debt collector’s cloak stood on the front step. A local boy, Seán Pheadar, was waiting at the gate.
“Good morning, I’m here to ask you to account for all those in the residence, on behalf of His Royal Highness,” he said. Joanna could not understand a word.
Seán Pheadar leaped to his feet and walked up the path.
“He’s here to count you,” he explained as Gaeilge. “Don’t be scared.”
But she was.
Both men came in and sat in the kitchen. The English-looking man took out his pen and asked his questions, Seán Pheadar duly translating.
“Name?”
“Joanna Joyce.”
“How many live here?”
With that, Joanna began to wail. Thinking about all those she could not now count, wondering if she had been crazy to stay this long. If they had left with Máire, would Eamonn still be alive? He was never coming home now. The children were gone. It was now her turn to leave.
Maria, An Uillinn Thiar, 1936
Startled by a banging on the house’s only door, Maria jumped out of bed cursing the noisemaker and praying Patsy wouldn’t wake.
The sun was barely up and whoever it was seemed to care little for the fact the house was shaking with the noise.
She jumped out of bed and threw on her dress (the only one she had). She knew it was only a matter of time before Patsy woke, and with her, so would the others.
She fixed herself and went to the door as quickly as she could. The sheep were baaing outside and she guessed Mícheál had been up early to move them. The lambs were arriving every day and with the new life, came so much responsibility.
“I’m here to ask you to account for those in residence, Ma’am,” a well-dressed man said in the Queen’s English.
“Oh yes, of course, come in,”
“Name?”
“Maria Joyce”
“Man of the house?”
“Mícheál Joyce.”
“Ah yes,” the noble man exclaimed, “you’re earmarked for the relocation scheme to Co. Meath I see. And how are the preparations going?”
Maria didn’t like thinking about it. Everything was happening so quickly but it was hard to deny the opportunities the east held - twenty acres of land that they could actually cultivate, instead of the rocky commonage they’d been living off for generations. If they did go, Patsy, Eamonn and Joanna would have the life they deserved.
Bringing her attention back to the man sitting at her table, she answered, as best she could. “We are still preparing, but we are very grateful of it.”
Ráth Chairn was a long way away, but it might be the best chance they had to make a real go of it.
“How many people are living here at present?”
She took a breath. This question hurt. The last time the census man came, Mamaí had been here too. She had wanted to come to Ráth Chairn with them. But her sickness had kept them here.
Now they were about to leave it all behind, leave the mountains and the pain.
Frankie, An Uillinn Thiar, 2022
The sound of Bea’s purring woke Frankie. She was cosy in her bed but she knew once she emerged she would be hit by the cold.
The timer on the central heating was broken but the chill was a small price to pay for her mountain retreat.
When Maria left, Frankie felt as if her world would collapse. Now, somehow, she now felt everything was going to be ok.
The pandemic had been tough on the community but being tucked away in their mountain retreat meant she didn’t even notice.
Her relationship with Maria had crumbled without her knowing - her more frequent nights away with her parents, her weekends with her sister in Ráth Chairn. These all seemed normal.
Frankie loved her time alone with Bea and the chickens. Working from home suited her, but Maria wouldn’t let her stay in her family’s cottage forever.
This morning was like all the others. She had been woken by the birds and Bea, made her coffee and retreated to the sunroom to begin her work.
She saw an unfamiliar car drive up the bóithrín. It stopped next door (a field away) and then made its way up the hill to her. The woman parked precariously on the road and opened the front gate.
A jolly knock on the sunroom door, and Frankie rose to her feet. The woman approaching wore a high-vis jacket and carried a satchel. She presented her ID card.
“I’m here on behalf of the Central Statistics Office, I’ve got your forms here to be filled out on the third of April – are you usually resident here?”
“I am.”
“We have forms available as Gaeilge if you would like?”
“Not this time, thank you,” apologised Frankie, embarrassed she couldn’t answer in what should have been her native language.
“Perfect, so I’ll be back to you about a week after the third of April. Here are my details if you won’t be about,” the enumerator passed her official card along with the green booklet to Frankie.
“Míle buíochas,” Frankie smiled and took the form from the lady.
As she sat with it, her current address and name emblazoning the front page, she felt like a fraud. Household Question 1 read “When was your house, flat or apartment first built?” – the question made her pause. The house was like Frankenstein’s monster now, with rooms added on and the sunroom as the latest addition about 50 years ago. It had been Maria’s great grandmother’s house where she lived during the famine, a tribute to her strength and survival. Each generation since had added their own stamp.
As she leafed through the pages she came to the Person questions. It pained her. Could she really fill this in as a lone single person, without input from Maria.
She would text her and see what she wanted her to do. She picked up her phone and saw a message.
Maria: I’m moving back to Illion. I hate to do this, but can you be gone before I get back?