Shannon: A Novel of Ireland by Frank Delaney

Author:Frank Delaney [Delaney, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks
Published: 2010-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

With the house of the yellow door behind him and his visit there undetected, Robert breathed again. By now, the shy advance of dawn had fully spread its light. The path rambled between the river and a small country road, toward which Robert cast an eye every hundred yards or so. He walked on, wary but not anxious. All around him the vegetation provided deep cover, should he need to avoid a repeat of last night's fright.

Less troubled by hunger than he had expected, he kept up a good pace for almost two hours. Rising ahead, he could see a new and deeper forest. As he entered its arch of trees, a noise rang out, a metallic ching! at the core of a thud! Walking forward, peering into the trees, Robert caught the flash of a blade.

He knew he had to get through the wood to continue his journey. Should I call out? As he slowed down and began to ease his way through the trees, he at last saw the ax and the man swinging it. Should I press ahead and ignore the woodcutter? The man had by now made a deep white-yellow wedge low down in the bole of a tree.

The forester saw Robert, lowered the ax, and waved a hand. Then he leaned back, wiping his brow with a shirtsleeve; on closer view Robert guessed the man to be about his own age, certainly no more than mid-thirties.

As Robert approached, the forester said conversationally, “ ‘Tis like a fight. The youngest ones is the hardest to knock down.”

Robert said, “Why take it down if it's young?”

“Ah, the beetle. You've to get it fast. There's this four here, but I think I have ‘em all.”

By now Robert's translation skills had grown, and he knew the forester meant that he had so far identified four infested trees in this section of the wood.

The forester said, “We shouldn't be growing pine anyway; my father was right, and his father before him. What's wrong with ash? There's nothing wrong with ash. Or beech, come to that.”

“Is this your job?”

“It is, Father.”

There! Again! With no discernible identification, Robert had been recognized as a priest.

He smiled. “How did you know?”

The forester said, “Ah, there's a cut to a man. You'll always know a priest. He's taught to be careful, he kinda walks like his shoes are always polished. Would you like a bite of a sangwidge, Father?”

In a clearing, a horse grazed, unhitched from a cart that stood nearby, its shafts tipped to rest in the earth. Other implements, including a long two-handled saw, projected into the air from the cart's upended rear. The forester found a satchel on the cart, sat down against the wheel, and opened the lunch bag. Taking out two massive sandwiches wrapped in newspaper, he handed one to Robert.

“There y are, Father, get yourself outside that,” the forester said, and bit into his own portion, sending out a little yellow cloud of dried egg.

Robert bit less powerfully— and loved the taste.

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