| Cré na Cille | Churchyard Clay |
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| Cré na Cille | Churchyard Clay (excerpt) |
| Ní mé an ar Áit an Phuint nó na Cúig
Déag atá mé curtha? D’imigh an diabhal
orthu dhá mba in Áit na Leathghine a
chaithfidís mé, th’éis ar chuir mé
d’fhainiceachaí orthu! Maidin an lae ar
bhásaigh mé ghlaoigh mé aníos ón
gcisteanach ar Phádraig: ‘Achuiní agam ort
a Phádraig a leanbh,’ adeirimse. ‘Cuir ar Áit
an Phuint mé. Ar Áit Phuint. Tá cuid
againn curtha ar Áit na Leathghine, ach má
tá fhéin … ’ Dúirt mé leo an chónra a bfhearr tigh Thaidhg a fháil. Cónra mhaith dharaí í ar chaoi ar bith . . . Tá brat na scaball orm. Agus an bhráithlín bharróige. Bhí siad sin faoi réir agam fhéin . . . Tá spota ar an scaoilteoig seo. Is geall le práib shúí é. Ní hea. Lorg méire. Bean mo mhic go siúráilte. Is cosúil len a cuid pruislíocht é. Má chonnaic Neil é! Is dóigh go raibh sí ann. Ní bheadh dar fia dhá mbeadh aon neart agamsa air . . . Is mí-stuama a ghearr Cáit bheag na gairéadaigh. Dúirt mé ariamh fhéin nár cheart aon deor len ól a thabhairt di féin ná do Bhid Shorcha nó go mbeadh an corp dealaithe den tsráid. Chuir mé fainic ar Phádraig dhá mbeadh ól déanta acu gan ligean dóibh na gairéadaigh a ghearradh. Ach ní féidir Cáit Bheag a choinneál ó choirp. Ba é a buac chuile lá ariamh marbhán a bheith in áit ar bith ar an dá bhaile. Dhá mbeadh na seacht sraith ar an iomaire d’fhanfaidís ar an iomaire, ach í ag fáil bonn coirp . . . |
Now I wonder is it in the pound plot or in the fifteen shilling plot they have
me buried. They went to the devil entirely if it’s in the ten shilling place they
threw me after all the warnings I gave them. The morning of the day I died I
called Padraig up from the kitchen. ‘Will you do me a favour, Padraig, astore,’*
says I. ‘Bury me in the pound plot. The pound plot. Some of us are laid in
the ten shilling part, but if they are itself . . . ’ I told them to get the best coffin there was in Tadhg’s shop. It’s a fine oak coffin in any case … The brown habit is on me. And the winding sheet … I had these ready myself … There’s a spot on this sheet. It’s like a plaster of soot. No, it isn’t. The mark of a finger. My son’s wife for sure. It’s like her handiwork. If Nell saw it! I suppose she was there. By gor, she wouldn’t be there if I could help it … Kateen did a clumsy job of the binding strips. I always said neither herself or Bid Sorcha should get a drop of drink until the corpse would be left the street. I warned Padraig not to let them cut the binding strips if they had drink taken. But you couldn’t keep that Kateen away from a corpse. She was never happy unless there was a corpse somewhere in the neighbourhood. The place could be on fire for all she cared once she got the smell of a corpse . . . |
| Note: Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s experimental novel Cré na Cille (1949) is the undisputed masterpiece of twentiethcentury
Irish prose. It consists almost entirely of dialogue, a continuous babble of simultaneous conversations
between dozens of corpses in a graveyard in Connemara. The dead continue their above-ground feuds and
obsessions in this strange setting, and even maintain the brutal snobbery of tiny class distinctions, in which status
is measured by their being buried in plots costing ten shillings, fifteen shillings or a pound, the possession of a
headstone, and the number of mourners at their funeral. Caitríona Phaudeen, the central character, is driven by hatred of her sister Nell, who in the distant past had married the man Caitríona loved. This bitter experience turned her into a savage-tongued virago whose loathing rippled out to include most of the living and the dead. The novel can be read as an exercise in social satire, but is much more than that; it is written in language of astonishing vitality, range and power, and is a work of sustained comic genius. |
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máirtin ó cadhain |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Ian Brady Louise Donaldson Eibhlín Ní Allúráin, Maitin Ó Néill The Editorial Panel |
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