Pitching black with the to and fro roll of it, the trawler nears the coast. A lick of paint in Copenhagen, a change of name to boot. The stacking of long boxes neck-high in the saloon. Stranding room only – then the dodging journey.
‘Luk der itiiz!’
The problematical flicker and a splash of oars.
‘Jeezus wept – ow da blidderin fuck doo we fit owl dis inta dat?’
And there on the beach stands the milk-breasted man with his two sons, Aed and Laegaire. Coming to this point they travelled clock-wise around the island for the luck of it. Coming to this point they discussed and argued many things. Aed, raised on blood, desired blood, and saw the boat coming. Laegaire drank of milk for the warmth of it and saw the boat coming. Lugaid Cichech, fumbling with his flaccid dugs, remained silent amidst the throb of the sea. All had been said.
There was a poet, first amongst her folk, who told the tale of the Ring of Truth: there was a squabble amongst the ranking families of the county based on the right to bugger the groom a la droit de seigneur.
This had nothing to do with the Ring of Truth. A Lord had perjured himself but continued to profess his innocence – he never did. Wring of truth.
Lugaid Cichech knew the tale of the ring and of buggery but had nothing to say about either. He had less to say about the approaching boat. He had known the time when his paps pulsed to overflow. He had seen the words of the Dear Woman of the Three Books etched in the sand:
‘Is that it, Oh God, what have I done?’
