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201 pages

English

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The murdered body of Sorcha the prophetess is discovered following a lavish banquet at the Maguire castle in 16th-century Ireland. In the present day, a dig commences on the land, and not only is a body discovered, but a sheaf of prophecies. Who killed Sorcha? There has been a guesthouse on the Tierney land in County Fermanagh for hundreds of years. Now Tierney's Hotel is faced with a development that will block the hotel's best feature, its view of Enniskillen Castle. But the project can be stopped if there are important historical artifacts buried on the property. Enter the archaeologists. Mick's ancestor, Brigid Tierney, ran the guesthouse in the late 1500s. We see Brigid and Shane and their children at a lavish banquet at the castle, home of the ruling family, the Maguires. The wine and ale flow freely, the harpist plays, the bard recites the Maguires' heroic deeds. But one woman has a sense of foreboding. Sorcha the prophetess sees harrowing times ahead. The Tudors of England are

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Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	30 septembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781773057941
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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The Keening A Mystery of Gaelic Ireland
Anne Emery

Contents Dedication Map: Enniskillen, Fermanagh, 1595 Author’s Note Prologue Part I Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Part II Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Postscript Notes Selected Sources Cited and Consulted Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright

Dedication
In honour of my Fermanagh ancestors, whose ships cast off from Irish shores long before I was born.

Map: Enniskillen, Fermanagh, 1595

Author’s Note
A word about words: the Irish characters are, of course, speaking in the Irish language, so their parts of the story, written in English, are “translations” of the Irish. Even so, I have taken the liberty of inserting Irish-language words and phrases from time to time, to give a flavour of the richness of the language. On the other hand, I have used English-language versions of some personal names and place names, where the originals might prove difficult for the reader; for example, Owen for Eoghan and O’Hussey for Ó hEoghusa . A “hospitaller” is a person whose profession it is to provide hospitality: a guesthouse owner.
I have used quotations from various sources in my chapter epigraphs and in the text. Full credits for all quotations can be found in the notes at the end of the book. You will see other poems and recitals, which have sprung from the minds of my characters.

Prologue
1595
“A never-dry cauldron, a dwelling on a public road, and a welcome for every face.” Those were the requirements laid down in the eighth-century law text Bretha Nemed Toísech for a briugu , a hospitaller, like the ancestors of Brigid Tierney who had set up this house to welcome visitors nearly two hundred years ago. And although the formal designation of briugu or brughaidh had all but died out, the Tierneys’ five-storey stone house was still known far and wide for its hospitality, and its rooms were often filled with guests. Of course, in Ireland every householder was under a duty to provide hospitality; a person who failed in this obligation could be required to pay compensation appropriate to the rank of the person refused. But with the Tierney family, this had been their profession, a calling that had given them an elevated rank in society equal to that of the nobility, equal even to a chief poet. Only a family of great wealth could take on such a responsibility, given that guests were not charged for their lodging, food, or drink. And Brigid’s family were wealthy in lands and herds. The Tierney house overlooking the River Erne had been, and was now, open to anyone in need of hospitality. And Brigid’s cauldron — her cooking pot — was never dry. Her stores of ale and wine were never depleted, even after the excesses of last night. And her hearth was clean and warm — or would be, once the servants got it scrubbed and polished again.

Part I

Chapter I
The boast of the Irish was hospitality, and even their enemy . . . acknowledges that they were recklessly hospitable.
— John O’Donovan, The Tribes of Ireland: A Satire by Aenghus O’Daly with Poetical Translation by James Clarence Mangan
2017
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, good sir!”
“Christ!” Mick Tierney muttered under his breath. He was standing behind the reception desk of Tierney’s Hotel, the family business in County Fermanagh, and it wasn’t morning at all, at least not here in Ireland. It was late in the afternoon. The man who had addressed him was an American clad in plaid short trousers and a large floppy hat.
“And to you, sir,” Mick responded, beaming all the sincerity he could muster at this latest clump of tourists.
“We’re later than planned,” the man said. “One of the group had to be taken off the bus and left in Drogheda.” He pronounced it Droh-GHEE-da, instead of DRAW-h’da. “Sick as a dog. Something she ate; not used to the food over here.” The food? “Hope you haven’t cancelled our reservations!”
“Not at all.”
“Okay, I’ll bring the folks in.”
The man turned and headed back outside. Mick followed him out and eyed the latest load of guests as they stumped out of their tour bus and gathered beside it in a flock. They all raised cameras, phones, and sundry other gadgets and snapped pictures of the three-storey Georgian house that was Tierney’s Hotel. It was a hot day, early July, and the afternoon sun blazed upon the western end of the building, momentarily bleaching out the stains on the white façade, the crumbling masonry at the corners, the frames on the multipaned windows that were long overdue for a coat of white paint. The Victorian addition in the back needed even more work, but the visitors couldn’t see that from here. The house faced east, overlooking Enniskillen town and the castle. The castle sat on the bank of the River Erne; in the past, it had been entirely surrounded by water-filled ditches, reinforcing its defensive position as an island fort. The tourists pivoted and trained their lenses on the castle and the river.
Mick took a deep breath and launched into his routine. “ Céad míle mallacht!” he shouted at the group. “Sure, that’s what we say in Ireland to welcome the likes of yous to the emerald isle!” As always, he marvelled at the clobber on them: garishly patterned short trousers, sandals with socks, baseball caps made of some kind of mesh with “one size fits all” plastic straps at the back of them, and something they called “fanny packs” (!) hanging below their bellies. The family jewels, he supposed. He continued with the blarney, and they beamed back at him. “Come in, come in. Don’t be standin’ out here in the blazin’ sun. If it catches you enjoying it, it’ll retreat to its usual place behind the clouds, and yous won’t see it again till your plane lifts off at Shannon.” Appreciative laughter greeted this little bon mot. He caught sight then of his pal Gerry, the driver of the bus, who was engaged in lifting the tourists’ enormous travelling cases from the luggage compartment. Enough luggage for two months, even though Mick knew they were determined to “ do Ireland” in seven days. He gave Gerry a wink and a jerk of his head, which meant, “See ye inside.”
Mick shepherded his tourists into the lobby where Sharon, the receptionist, had taken up her post and was waiting for them with a friendly smile. Mick assured them that the lovely colleen behind the desk, and all the members of his staff, would cater to their every need. “Could we have stayed in business for six hundred years if we did not?”
Gerry came in then and waited until the latest mob had shuffled away out of earshot. Gerry was a Dublin man, and he was frequently at the wheel when a slew of tourists came to Tierney’s.
Mick said to him, “How are things in the Free State, Gerry?”
“I see you’ve recovered your ability to speak, Michael,” Gerry said. “I couldn’t make out a word you were saying to that crowd. Thought you were possessed there for a minute. A fella from Cork had taken over your soul.”
“Ah sure, that’s what they expect to hear. They’re from America.”
“You didn’t see the value in educating them to the way yous speak here in the North?”
“Nah. Give the punters what they want.”
“‘A hundred thousand curses’ is how you greet them, and you say give them what they want?”
“There’s not one of them would know the difference.”
“Ah now, that’s hardly the spirit set out in that charter you’ve posted on the wall.” Gerry pointed to the poster Mick’s daughter Róisín had fastened to the wall beside the reception desk. The words had been written around three hundred years ago by a Mr. Dolan, a native of Fermanagh, who described the local nobility thus:
The inhabitants are most commonly stout, high-minded, liberal, courteous, portly, and well-coloured; their nobility much given to recreations and pastimes as hunting, hawking, riding, drinking, feasting, and banqueting with each other, admirers of harp music and playing at chess or tables, lovers of science and comical pastimes. . . . Let them be poor or rich, all persons are welcome to what they have, either by night or day; they begrudge none, of what kind he be, and heartily give their best cheer (they can afford).
“Not a word in that about cursing your visitors, Mick.”
“Ah now . . .”
“It’s going to be a long, hot summer for you if you’re annoyed with them already.”
Róisín came in then, wearing a paint-spattered white smock over her summer-weight trousers and shirt. She had two small children in tow, a girl of four and a boy a year younger. All three of them were carrying art supplies, the markers and brushes hanging out of the boy’s canvas bag at precarious angles. The wee lad, Rory, had a chubby little face, blue eyes, and black hair. His sister, Ciara, had hair of a rich red like her mother’s, and her ma’s hazel eyes as well. They both had hugs and kisses for Mick. Róisín said, “Welcome back, Gerry. You weren’t stopped at the partition, I hope.” A little jest about the fact that Ireland was still partitioned into two separate countries, despite the disappearance of the border checkpoints, and despite the peace agreement of 1998. She knew he was a lifelong republican, as, she suspected, was her dad.
“All right, to work now, lads,” she said to the childre