The Pointing Man (Part One)
This all then is as true as I’m Irish. Which I am.
Judge for yourself. And, as it’s Irish, there’s blood and tragedy and burning in it, and the mystery of that island, the little dog of Europe.
So.
There stood the house as old as time. And in the very middle of that house –– the very middle, mind –– one of those towers from the time before time, from time immortal and built by the giants. Sure, it was that old, and with the rest of that huge house wrapped around it, a great brocade cloak, hugging that tower for all to keep each other safe. And so atop it, over that great house there he stands, the Pointing Man, right up there, above the cornices and the pediments and such like, pointing as if he knew the right and wrong of it and guarding the whole thing.
Once upon a time, they told me, he was carrying, on his highest turret there, his lordship's coat of arms and the like which has fallen away. So he’s left by himself high and pointing. Who’d he be? St. Peter and Paul, St. Ignatius Loyola with the armour on him, or back and back and one of those giants themselves masquerading as a saint. But then might it not just be that one night of moil and thunder suddenly in the howling storm there he was, not a part of anything but himself.
Which ever way you look at it, there’s now The Pointing Man, the sign of the strength of that tower within, with its mighty walls fifteen foot thick if they’re half an inch. A blessing to it he was and a blessing he is. And –– this is it –– a curse to those that meddle.
Well –– so –– now, while other places were destroyed and burnt to the ground in the Bad Times from Cromwell to the very present, the house stood there, protected inside and out with The Pointing Man a mighty defense against the perils of the moment.
There’s a story, not mine either, was that in the ‘17 –– or was it the ‘21? –– they came –– and that would be the IRA –– they were along to set the place alight.
It was a cloudy night and black as Satan’s hole. There they were with their cans of petrol and their matches all but struck, when didn’t the clouds part and the moon, a full moon at that, shone right on The Pointing Man and wasn’t he right there and pointing right at them –– right –– at –– them? He was. And they were off and no one ever saw so much as a shadow of them or their like about there again. But, and take note here, they say that the one of them choked that very night on a bit of gristle in his stew and was dead of it in ten dreadful minutes. And the other two were taken by the Black and Tans and we all know to what ends that’d bring them.
But that’s not it. Sure, that’s not my little tale.
Here it is, little but close. It’s near to us. It’s in today’s Ireland of computers and helicopters and glossy, glassy buildings. But Oh Ireland! Oh Erin! Oh Dail Eireann! Under it all aren’t you still alive with the power and the mystery and the eternal sorrows.
Right then.
Judge for yourself. And, as it’s Irish, there’s blood and tragedy and burning in it, and the mystery of that island, the little dog of Europe.
So.
There stood the house as old as time. And in the very middle of that house –– the very middle, mind –– one of those towers from the time before time, from time immortal and built by the giants. Sure, it was that old, and with the rest of that huge house wrapped around it, a great brocade cloak, hugging that tower for all to keep each other safe. And so atop it, over that great house there he stands, the Pointing Man, right up there, above the cornices and the pediments and such like, pointing as if he knew the right and wrong of it and guarding the whole thing.
Once upon a time, they told me, he was carrying, on his highest turret there, his lordship's coat of arms and the like which has fallen away. So he’s left by himself high and pointing. Who’d he be? St. Peter and Paul, St. Ignatius Loyola with the armour on him, or back and back and one of those giants themselves masquerading as a saint. But then might it not just be that one night of moil and thunder suddenly in the howling storm there he was, not a part of anything but himself.
Which ever way you look at it, there’s now The Pointing Man, the sign of the strength of that tower within, with its mighty walls fifteen foot thick if they’re half an inch. A blessing to it he was and a blessing he is. And –– this is it –– a curse to those that meddle.
Well –– so –– now, while other places were destroyed and burnt to the ground in the Bad Times from Cromwell to the very present, the house stood there, protected inside and out with The Pointing Man a mighty defense against the perils of the moment.
There’s a story, not mine either, was that in the ‘17 –– or was it the ‘21? –– they came –– and that would be the IRA –– they were along to set the place alight.
It was a cloudy night and black as Satan’s hole. There they were with their cans of petrol and their matches all but struck, when didn’t the clouds part and the moon, a full moon at that, shone right on The Pointing Man and wasn’t he right there and pointing right at them –– right –– at –– them? He was. And they were off and no one ever saw so much as a shadow of them or their like about there again. But, and take note here, they say that the one of them choked that very night on a bit of gristle in his stew and was dead of it in ten dreadful minutes. And the other two were taken by the Black and Tans and we all know to what ends that’d bring them.
But that’s not it. Sure, that’s not my little tale.
Here it is, little but close. It’s near to us. It’s in today’s Ireland of computers and helicopters and glossy, glassy buildings. But Oh Ireland! Oh Erin! Oh Dail Eireann! Under it all aren’t you still alive with the power and the mystery and the eternal sorrows.
Right then.
posted by Romayne Dawnay at 2:24 PM
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