for a few weeks in the house on the sea road, maintaining a veneer of civility for his mother’s sake. When she died, the charade had abruptly ended. Rejecting his father’s offer to stay on in Ireland, Cormac had returned to his studies an orphan, and Joseph Maguire, who had presumably gone back to Chile, returned to being dead.
The second resurrection had been as unexpected as the first. Cormac slipped a letter from his pocket, a small pale blue envelope that had arrived through his mail slot in Dublin more than three years ago. The return address had meant nothing then: J. Maguire, Glencolumbkille Post Office, County Donegal. The handwriting was small and compact, the old-fashioned Gaelic script taught in National Schools when the country was new. He occasionally received similar letters from amateur archaeologists, and expected this dispatch to contain an earnest account of a previously undocumented ringfort or souterrain. His expectation was immediately dashed at the salutation. “My dear Cormac,” it began:
I hope you might forgive me for addressing you in such familiar fashion, since we have never met. My name is Julia Maguire; I am your great-aunt, and I am writing today to convey what I hope may be welcome information.
I am an old woman, and you and your father are the only family I have left. Recently, I wrote to your father to let him know that upon my death, the house at Ardcrinn and all its contents will belong to him. He replied promptly, saying that he intended to return to Donegal before the end of March. He has not said whether it will be a brief visit, or whether he plans to stay. Given my current state of health, I can’t be certain that I will be drawing breath when he arrives, and have told him so. I am not at allsentimental about dying; I have lived longer than most reasonable people might wish. I have taken writing this letter to you as my last imperative.
I know you have not seen your father for many years, and I cannot tell you what possessed him to leave Ireland, nor how he chose the path that he has taken. For all I know, you may have no wish to see him ever again. No one would blame you, I daresay. I can only tell you that there has always been a streak of the Wild Geese in Joseph since he was a boy, and no denying it. But one important thing I have learned in living so long is that anger does not diminish love; it has been my experience that the two may live together, side by side, for a very long time.
It’s a great pity that we’ve never had a chance to meet. I have followed your accomplishments from afar all these years with great interest, and I should like to have known you better. We’ll say no more about that. But I didn’t want to make my exit from this world without leaving a small passage open to you. As you well know from your work, the door to the past and the door to the future are often one and the same.
I realize these words may have little effect, coming as they do from a stranger, but they are things that wanted saying, nonetheless. If you should decide to visit Donegal, just ask at the post office in Glencolumbkille and they will direct you to this house. That’s all for now, dear Cormac. I wish you well.
The letter was signed, “Highest regards, Julia Maguire.” The signature was larger and steadier than the rest of the script, as if accomplished in a last burst of strength. The pages had laid on his desk for several days as he tried to work out how to respond. But as it turned out, writing the letter and seeing it posted were quite literally the last things his great-aunt Julia had done.
Gazing at the motionless figure in the bed, Cormac felt the past spilling over him, a torrent of images and sensations that felt as if it might overwhelm and drown him: he saw a solitary boy walking along the sea road, repelling all disapproving or pitying looks with his invisible shield; he saw the row of syringes lined up on a metal tray, and the worn chaise where his
The second resurrection had been as unexpected as the first. Cormac slipped a letter from his pocket, a small pale blue envelope that had arrived through his mail slot in Dublin more than three years ago. The return address had meant nothing then: J. Maguire, Glencolumbkille Post Office, County Donegal. The handwriting was small and compact, the old-fashioned Gaelic script taught in National Schools when the country was new. He occasionally received similar letters from amateur archaeologists, and expected this dispatch to contain an earnest account of a previously undocumented ringfort or souterrain. His expectation was immediately dashed at the salutation. “My dear Cormac,” it began:
I hope you might forgive me for addressing you in such familiar fashion, since we have never met. My name is Julia Maguire; I am your great-aunt, and I am writing today to convey what I hope may be welcome information.
I am an old woman, and you and your father are the only family I have left. Recently, I wrote to your father to let him know that upon my death, the house at Ardcrinn and all its contents will belong to him. He replied promptly, saying that he intended to return to Donegal before the end of March. He has not said whether it will be a brief visit, or whether he plans to stay. Given my current state of health, I can’t be certain that I will be drawing breath when he arrives, and have told him so. I am not at allsentimental about dying; I have lived longer than most reasonable people might wish. I have taken writing this letter to you as my last imperative.
I know you have not seen your father for many years, and I cannot tell you what possessed him to leave Ireland, nor how he chose the path that he has taken. For all I know, you may have no wish to see him ever again. No one would blame you, I daresay. I can only tell you that there has always been a streak of the Wild Geese in Joseph since he was a boy, and no denying it. But one important thing I have learned in living so long is that anger does not diminish love; it has been my experience that the two may live together, side by side, for a very long time.
It’s a great pity that we’ve never had a chance to meet. I have followed your accomplishments from afar all these years with great interest, and I should like to have known you better. We’ll say no more about that. But I didn’t want to make my exit from this world without leaving a small passage open to you. As you well know from your work, the door to the past and the door to the future are often one and the same.
I realize these words may have little effect, coming as they do from a stranger, but they are things that wanted saying, nonetheless. If you should decide to visit Donegal, just ask at the post office in Glencolumbkille and they will direct you to this house. That’s all for now, dear Cormac. I wish you well.
The letter was signed, “Highest regards, Julia Maguire.” The signature was larger and steadier than the rest of the script, as if accomplished in a last burst of strength. The pages had laid on his desk for several days as he tried to work out how to respond. But as it turned out, writing the letter and seeing it posted were quite literally the last things his great-aunt Julia had done.
Gazing at the motionless figure in the bed, Cormac felt the past spilling over him, a torrent of images and sensations that felt as if it might overwhelm and drown him: he saw a solitary boy walking along the sea road, repelling all disapproving or pitying looks with his invisible shield; he saw the row of syringes lined up on a metal tray, and the worn chaise where his
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