Restless Old Men

A beautiful, moonlit open sky, works well over the dark Kilkeary fields; stillness and quiet adding to the atmosphere, where ancient ghosts ramble freely along long-lost pathways. In the distance, the black familiar outline of ancient hills still shadow their valley during daylight, but kisses the landscape, which surrounds it on nights like this. Kilmore, Dolla, The ‘mines and Ballinaclough alight with a silver reflection, it draws my attention, but I journey on still to Lisbunny, to Nenagh.

It’s there where I’ll meet old friends, past foes, reflect on memories, maybe stay a while, although it depends on who’s there to greet me. It has been said that in life you can choose your friends, however, it’s also a case that enemies have no problem whom it is they select either. And most enemies last forever.

One comrade, whose company I look forward to and I do hope is there, is Jack. You could miss Jack easily, though I long for his companionship occasionally, and I must admit to admiring his strong rhetoric. It’s from him where I’ve grasped how the educated seem to speak a different tongue, while in his company I find it easy to rid myself of my own unimportance.

He likes to disappear, to past glories and victories, to relive former triumphs, to lead his bloody charge yet again, one last time; To Knigh, Cloughprior, and back through Ardcroney to Cloughjordan, where he’d fallen out with several settlers in years gone by. Always one to restart an argument is Jack. The bold Jack!

I never mind the wait for him though, when I can always find something to pass the time. Sure what’s time to an oul’ fool like me-self with nothing but age on me hands, … except drift quietly in the shadows, and silently observe the young, their fun and games, and what they get up to these days. Or casually mingle amongst different generations in bars, taverns, parties, weddings, funerals, indoors, outdoors, a figure in the shade gliding with the throng, unseen, unheard, the wonder at the corner of ones eye, the rustle of branches on a calm spring day, the sudden chill down your spine.

I’ve witnessed with jealousy the youth grow up. Games of passion with

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youthful zeal, lost in back-alleys, or lusting in hidden orchards; groups disperse to leave maybe two immature couples; one with one in a fallen-down shed. Every noise, hushed whisper, howling wind, shuffle of tiny steps, a plastic bag moving in a darkened trail, in a lonely derelict barn. It might have been me. Watching!

Waiting for the acquaintance of Jack can sometimes make me feel bored. Bored and wanting: a want to sneak up on people, to watch their every move. Good people, bad, it doesn’t matter to my conscience, but then again I’m not sure I even have one.

I’m good at it though; few have noticed me standing over their shoulders, creeping around the next turn, the one you just passed, peering through windows, the distant reflection hiding in your mirror.

A dimly lit bedroom with a merry complexion! An adult, happy with tonight’s sup; lying drunk, alone, staring at their dreams! A creaking door, a curious feeling; is somebody present? Turn towards the deepest night … open your eyes! It might be me! A cold draught rubs your back. What’s that? Who’s there?

Were you ever lost as a child? Were you all alone, or did you have an imaginary friend? A secret friend! A childhood friend! A lost childhood! The innocence of children helps dispel the deathly sensation I have to endure in this hollow existence. They bring a smile momentarily, but then they grow up … and are gone.

Nearly 200 years I must be now. I’m still counting the days since I thought I tasted peacefulness among dying nettles, wet soil and winter air in the verge of a boreen during Black ‘47. Withered to the bone, my fresh skin was that of a corpse. Sallow! Wrinkled! Lifeless! Pain had ripped through me, piercing my body on the cold, damp roadside with every movement. Each cough which shook me cut my throat in torture; what little strength my blood had left filled my lungs, my mouth, my nostrils, the muddied ditch alongside, attracting black hungry rats to feed.

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Death was slow to come to me and the agony still lingers on in my thoughts. If that’s what you can call them! They fill my being with dread to remember and it leaves behind an anger; a hatred towards happiness. There’s no happiness in a graveyard forgotten, especially if it’s the shallow covering in an unmarked piece of land waiting for that blessing which might free me from this purgatory. And then there’s Jack, the rebel, his sins against the church were many; his deeds were noble, his beliefs were true; before he was laid to rest in a rich-mans tomb. Cursed to haunt the country he once protected. He bares that hatred too.

I’ve seen others, like me, spectres that roam through streets once walked and lived in, all still familiar in our memories. Staring at the living with a loathe craving; a raven perched high upon an autumn branch. Dead leaves flutter in the breeze, a soft voice glides pass your ear, rubbing an icy presence against your nervous face, whispering, watching; detesting the happiness the youth now enjoy.

In my wake I’ve left young men ashen-faced, features faded, life rushed, and quickly ebbed away; a grey aging overnight. Women, girls, lasses; all have screamed to madness at my presence in the dark of night. Petrified of me … of course! And now you, your own shadow creeps up on you; a terrifying experience a-waits to endure an anxious death, and now you.

I watched the living gather together on All Saints Eve, children, grown-ups, wearing masks of demons, of pagans. I’ve watched them through the flickering flames of a pyre built to the sky; climbing to the heavens. Having fun! The anger built up inside and I was tempted to reach out, to pull another soul to my realm, to my lost cemetery, my cursed world of forgotten spirits.

I journey to Lisbunny, to Nenagh. I wonder where Jack is. Will I be alone again? Should I watch the youth having fun through the streets … in their warm houses … their restful bedrooms? The air turns chilled as I glide past with my damning eyes searching for a victim, to satisfy my anger and my hatred on their non-existent, innocent lives. To unleash my terror on

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the selfish living! What was that? A noise, a chilled gust of air; a nervous tickle along your backbone; Can you feel those eyes? Staring! Closer! … Do you feel you’re not alone? – END

By Charlie McGee01st November 2007

© Michael ‘Charlie’ McGee – 01 November 2007

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