Happy new year and many apologies for being MIA recently but life sometimes takes over.
Lots of hopefully interesting things coming up in 2016 but to kick off the new year here is a short story I wrote about 15 years ago. Collating and editing a decade or more of writing in preparation for my collection, publishing later this year, I came across this and remembered how much I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it.
The Gods of Weather (Dublin Stories)
The gods of weather are fighting it out above the city today. The contest sparked by a row over the glorious spring
weather, sponsored in a fit of generosity by Dagda the great Father whose
special interest in crops seems to have prompted him to provide the nearest
thing to a summer we've seen in five years. Albeit in April.
But on the other side we have
Manannán, undisputed king of the sea, ruler of the western wave and traditional
ruler of Dublin,
ably assisted by Anna Livia Herself, the great Liffey lover of Manannán.
"Oh, Anna, " He sighs in the wind, the seagulls driven inwards
to the city to act as a chorus to His love poems; "Oh Anna, 'tis too dry,
too still, too quiet."
Anna Livia, basking in the unaccustomed warmth and sunshine, rouses
Herself with a guilty start, and tries to look as busy as possible. Manannán calls again sadly "O! Anna, sweet Livia, Where are the wild winds of
April, the showers of sweet rain, the rainbows the ark like a virgins promise
from land to heaven? Where are the last great storms of winter, my last
crashing waves against the shore?"
Anna caresses the land as She passes, not wishing to reply, not wishing
to fight, wishing only to surrender Herself to the waiting arms of Her lover.
But She knows enough to know He'll sulk if She doesn't say something, so She
murmurs her sympathy and watches the sunlight through the trees as She croons.
The Dagda smiles down and with a flick of a lazy wrist adjusts the
clouds, little wispy summer clouds, hard to conjure out of nowhere in April,
soft clouds that adorn the pale blue sky. "come now, Manannán ," His
voice is like laughter on the wind, like ice-cream in a pink bowl. "it's
been almost ten years since they had a good summer!"
"Who?" Manannán is puzzled. The gods? the Sheep? the fish? The
ants?"
"The children," Dagda says casting an indulgent eye over
Grafton Street, his favourite street although He knows he should really have
chosen Kildare street, for the Politics or one of the Gracious Georgian Squares
for a bit of class.
What can He say? He likes Brown Thomas' and Monsoon. He
likes the young women in flighty minis and the boys in trousers that remind Him
vaguely of harem pants He saw once on holiday. He quite likes the buskers
except the ones who play Van Morrison. He wishes He'd never thought to give
"Van the Man" an interest in music - He'd thought maybe the boy would
take up the fiddle or even be a music journalist. He really hadn't meant Van Morrison.
But
the ones playing Allison Moyet were pretty good. He liked the little colourful
stalls and he really liked the smell of coffee from Bewleys, and the little
winding streets off Grafton street, they were pretty damn fine if He said so
Himself.
He frowns momentarily: that cheeky Viking upstart taking credit for
His winding
streets...but no, He smiles again and the sun reappears, the sudden cool shadow
cast over the city lifting like gossamer in a summer breeze.
He'd proven his point, and now
all was well with the world: And the spring having gone down so well with the
kids, He had big plans for the summer, long hazy days, hot afternoons,
impossibly blue skies. It had been ages, ages, since He'd pulled out all the
stops.
Manannán growled softly.
"I've told you before, it shouldn't matter what they think" He
spread His arms and the waves rose against the shore beating against the rocks
in ceaseless rebellion. He tossed His head and the rain spat against the
cobbles and assaulted the window panes in venomous sprays.
"Don't be so hard!" Dagda chides. Anna Livia stirs Herself,
jealous for Her lovers sake, quick to take offence on His behalf, "Don't
you speak to Him like that!" she hisses, undulating in her bed like a
lustful snake. And as Manannán stirs the air She raises herself to meet him,
baring Her beautiful shoulders and breasts and swelling above the tight marble
lines of Her city clothes. "Look" Manannán says proudly. "look.
I am the Sea, I am life to these little men. I am the last refuge of the first
creatures. I am the loins from which they crawled mewling and gasping,
amphibious monsters no one else would tolerate. I fed them, I bore them, but
what am I if I listen to them! I am the Sea. I am the Ocean. I am Implacable,
Unbridled, Unpredictable. I must roar out the last of my winter blues, I must
stretch myself against two continents. I miss the wind, where is my wind?"
At this the four winds hear the call of their master and in their haste
to reach His side, alarmed by the rising note of anger and frustration in His
voice, collide in mid air and the clouds swirl in confusion, Anna Livia eddies
and flows in a whirlpool of movement and the Great Dagda himself is momentarily
thrown off balance, a thing He hates. He glares at Manannán and with a click of
His fingers restores the clear sky and the sun, the city looking skyward in
surprise at the sudden spate of rain and wind, and the as-sudden restoration of
glorious unseasonable heat.
"Don't you dare!" Dagda snarls. "It's taken me three
months to plan this spring."
Manannan gives a mocking little mince. "Ooooooh, three whole
months! I've only been at this game a few hundred thousand years, myself. I
suppose you think they'll be grateful do you? think they'll be planning a feast
like the old days? Oooh, dear Dagda, thank you for the decent weather and could
you keep it dry for the bank holiday? At least I still get the occasional
offering, Old Boy and do you know why? because I don't pander to them, me. They
respect me."
Dagda turns his dark eyes upon the defiant Manannán, the indomitable
Sea-lord, who stares into those dark stars without a trace of fear or awe. Anna
Livia thrills with excitement....a storm, a storm...perhaps even some
lightening. Already the rain begins to fall softly at first then in great
teardrops splashing dark against the pastels and tans of the fashion conscious.
It takes all of the Father's concentration to hold the spring together: the
rain and cold howling in the outer darkness, banished but resentful, probing
for a weak moment so they can roar back into town, take over once more, play
with the citizens as they were used to do. Hold off, threaten, hold off,
threaten, wait for it, wait for it, she's got a new hairdo, he's not wearing a
jacket, wait for it, NOW! rain at will!
Dagda swears in annoyance and throws a small blast of anger at the
Sea-Lord. "Now look what you made me do, " he grumbles, "It'll
take all afternoon to round them up again. You've ruined today."
Manannán roars in pure anger, dwarfing the Dagda's kindly grumbling or
the bitter spite of the rain and cold, summoning up the memories of great
storms, hurricanes, tidal waves, continental shift, shark-fins at night,
icebergs scraping against iron, lifeboats floating forlornly. "I am Manannán Mac Lir, King of the Sea. I will not cease to roar so that they may
have a picnic on my beaches!"
The winds regroup and spin in harmony around His head, a halo of wiry
sprites, cheeks puffing and huffing with the desire to blow and wail. The fish
settle nervously on the sea bottom, the sharks of the Atlantic take a sharp
left away from the west coast, the three headed mutant fish colony of the Irish sea dance their mad dance of glee, too stupid and
too crazed to know when to hide.
The sky grows dark. The winds rise. The city holds its breath, staring
at the sky anxiously, willing the weather to stay good, just few more days, o
don't break now, don't let us down!
And the sweet sound of the Mother Danaan soothes the air, her voice like
honey pouring from a silver spoon. "be quiet" she sighs, and raises
her head from its slumbers. Her hair spread like red-gold across the Dublin Mountains,
her profile raised to the stars, noble in its matronly beauty. She smiles and
the sun forces its way through the gathering storm, shining its rainbow across
her brow, His love for Her in every hue. She winks at Him, her oldest friend
and admirer and then looks reproachfully at the quarreling Gods.
"I was having a nap"
Dagda looks sheepishly at His feet and Manannán almost bites off his own
tongue in His haste to excuse Himself. His wife Fand smiles up at Danaan,
enjoying Her husband's moment of embarrassment.
"Hush, now" Danaan says,
languid and redolent. "Dagda, I agree with you. The children deserve a
little good weather. but Manannán must do as He pleases at sea. He has always
ruled the sea."
Her voice caresses the city like the smell of chips at dusk, when you're
hungry and tired from the play of long summer day, like the memory of
childhood, like the feel of warm sand between your toes. The rain dies down,
fades in the face of Her wish, and the Sun makes His triumphant return to the
loud applause of the citizens. "I hear, " She smiles at the Sealord,
"I hear there is room for a storm out in the Atlantic.
I did enjoy that storm you did there last November. I always think they look so
much better out there, out in the open. I can really appreciate the subtleties
of your craft when I can see the whole storm on the big screen, you know?"
Manannán brightens perceptibly.
"We-ell," He says diffidently "I might as well get a bit of
practice in, I suppose" He turns his chariot and raises His whip but
pauses to ask somewhat suspiciously "You will be watching now, won't
you?"
Danaan smiles their special secret smile...."Of course I will."
and Manannán races happily across the waves. "Humpph" Dagda settles
himself again, to look at the city. "I suppose I had better try to get
this sorted....a whole day ruined though. Pity." Danaan leans gently
across His shoulder and looks at the little city, now slightly bedraggled, the
puddles gleaming like jewels in the smug rays of the reinstated afternoon Sun.
"No, I think it looks nice. You should do another sunset, last
night's was beautiful." The Dagda grinned involuntarily. "I wondered
if you'd noticed!" He exclaims. "It was quite some job getting that
orange-red shade at this time of year, I can tell you. And the Shaded Violets
and Indigoes took hours to perfect!"
"Lovely" Danaan says hastily, "Well, one just like it
then!"
"Oh, yes, okay," She looks at the great shoulders of Her
kindly husband, His earnest good nature showing in every line as He poured over
the city streets, trying to catch at the perfect shade of afternoon to suit its
mood. His beloved Dublin,
his Crossing at the Ford, His Baile Atha Cliath. She smiled at Him, the
helpless affection of ten thousand years.
"Here" she says plucking it from her perfect brow and handing
to Him. "You can have my rainbow."
copyright Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 2001
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