“It’s time, sir,” [Mr Connell] pronounced in a determined voice, nodding briefly towards me before turning his head to the west, where the sun was hovering just above the horizon.
“Of course, Mr Connell,” Quin said, straightening up and inclining his head towards the older man. “Please.” He extended his hand in invitation for him to proceed.
Mr Connell gave Quin a curt bow, before turning resolutely towards the waiting pile of fuel as the other tenants flocked onto the lawn, gathering around him in anticipation. Quin and I followed at a distance, watching the proceedings from the edge of the crowd.
Mr Connell positioned himself next to the bonfire, holding the burning brand at arm’s length while waiting for the noise of the spectators to subside to his satisfaction. Once a level of silence had descended, he closed his eyes and raised his free hand to the heavens.
“Altú a thabhairt do Dhia ar son beannachtaí an fhómhair,” he intoned in a strong and clear voice that carried easily across the small park.
“Thanks be to God for the blessings of the harvest,” I translated to Quin in a whisper as the onlookers echoed the sentiment in murmured voices while Mr Connell opened his eyes.
“Is lá machnaimh agus cuimhnimh é,” he continued, looking intently at the crowd, which had fallen silent once more. “Agus muid ag machnamh ar an saol, cuimhnímid ar ár gcairde ionúine atá ar shlí na fírinne.”
“It's a day for reflection and remembrance. As we reflect on life, we remember our dear departed friends.”
He paused briefly, holding a gaze here and there as the other tenants stared solemnly back at him, the burning brand flickering impatiently in his hand, eager to set the waiting pyre alight.
“Go mbeirimíd beo ar an am seo arís,” he said suddenly in a loud voice. “Níl dada cinnte ar an saol seo ach an bás!”
“May we be alive at this same time again next year,” I translated quietly as Mr Connell lowered the flame to the waiting kindling. “The only certain thing in this life is death!”
The onlookers held their breaths while they waited for the fire to take, giving a collective sigh as the first tongues of flame spread across the pile of turf and wood. I looked to the west, where the sun had just dipped below the horizon, coinciding perfectly with Mr Connell’s well-timed performance.
“He’s something of a showman,” Quin mused softly as he followed my gaze, echoing my own thoughts.
“So it seems,” I agreed with a smile.
“It was impressive,” Quin admitted as we turned away from the growing bonfire and made our leisurely way back to the porch and the tables laden with food, which were rapidly disappearing from view under the onslaught of hungry revellers.
“I can’t say I’ve seen anything quite like it before,” Quin continued as we patiently waited for a gap to appear in the crowd. “Everything in England seems to be so much more…”
“Civilised?” I suggested in amusement.
“Utilitarian, I was going to say,” Quin amended with a chuckle. “The Irish do seem to have a flair for the dramatic…even the landscape is captivating, beckoning the observer with untold secrets.” He looked into the distance in some wonder, at the gentle hills that could just be made out in the dying light. He turned back towards me with a wry smile. “Or perhaps I’m simply mesmerised by the alien language that rolls so elegantly off native tongues, when those who can’t understand it struggle to speak even a single word.”
Thank you so much for hosting the blog tour for Under the Emerald Sky. We really appreciate all that you do.
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Mary Anne
The Coffee Pot Book Club
It was my pleasure.
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