A Son of Aran by Martin Gormally

I thinking about?’ he asked himself. ‘I have a job to do, sailing the hooker well clear of the rocky Connemara coast to ensure the safety of Eileen and myself?’ Darkening clouds in the western sky and a rising wind told him that a storm was brewing.
    â€˜It would be foolish to attempt crossing to Kilronan tonight; I will sail instead along the coast, and run for shelter into some cove if danger threatens. Eileen needs to get some sleep. It’s a long journey to Aran in this small craft and we are in no particular hurry. Kilkieran is within reach—we will head in that direction and tie up there for tonight.’
    Peadar was well acquainted with berthing the hooker in Kilkieran; he had been there in the Autumn with men from Aran, carrying turf from the mainland to the island. On previous occasions, he and Máirtín had landed catches of herring and mackerel so that they could return quickly to deep water while a shoal was running in order to take advantage of the opportunity presented. Peadar had many friends among the Kilkieran fishermen. The tide was filling fast—huge waves lashed the rocky foreshore as, deftly, he guided the hooker into the harbour and tied up along the quay wall. Tenderly taking Eileen’s hand, he lifted her ashore and set out to find food and accommodation.
    Tadhg Cloherty was glad to see them—it had been a long time since Peadar was in his house. Of course they could stay with him for the night.
    â€˜Come in from the rising wind and rain,’ he said.
    A hearty meal of bruitín was soon on the table. After Eileen had gone to sleep, they sat by the hearth fire. Tadhg inquired after Peadar’s health, asked him where he had been these past months, and what caused him to be on sea this stormy night. Without revealing the full story, Peadar told him he was on his way to Aran but thought to let the storm pass before attempting a crossing in the hooker without a helper.
    â€˜Moladh le Dia (praise to God),’ exclaimed Tadhg, ‘this is an answer to my prayer. I want in the worst way to go to Aran. I haven’t been feeling very well recently. I’m not fit to sail a boat on my own—it’s the galar chroí that afflicts me. I haven’t told anybody about it until now. If only I could get a handful of clay from my grandmother’s grave, I’m convinced it would cure me. The Concannons, my mother’s people, were known for their healing powers. My mother often told me that, during her lifetime, people came to her ancestors’ grave to get a cure for their ills—cleithín, rheumatism, failing eyesight, and animal diseases like galar na gcat , sputhán, and red water. The cure was never known to fail. If I could get to the island, I’d take some of the clay back with me. I’ll find a turf boat that will bring me home—nobody will be any wiser about the purpose of my visit.’
    â€˜Tadhg, I’ll be glad to take you with me to Aran and you can be assured I’ll not disclose your illness to anybody.’
    Between them they finished a bottle of poitín before turning in for the night.
    â€˜Are you in a great hurry to get to Aran? ’ Tadhg asked the following morning as they sat around the table to partake of a hearty breakfast of porridge and caiscín
    â€˜Why don’t you stay until the wind has blown itself out. The child could do with another night’s sleep. You wouldn’t want her to be sea sick on the way.’
    â€˜I’m grateful for your invitation, Tadhg, but I don’t want to impose on you for that length. However, on account of Eileen, I’ll accept your offer. It will give me an opportunity to say hello to some more of my friends in Kilkieran.’
    The sun was high in the sky over Camus and the Connemara hills when all three awoke. The storm had blown itself out and the sea was calm. Meeting his old friends and having convivial dialogue with them, lifted