Reborn as the proprietors of this charmed castle where we emerge dawn to throngs of subjects beating drums loud festive gowns fruit and vegetable gifts from peasants gold and silver from the pheasants and how life is grand for us this month calling our names King and Queen this and that throughout the land of Oriel it be heard and preserved like the moment of this glorious reign hearts full festive and loud is the movement of skies over kingdom of Louth all the time thinking Jesus what the fuck are we like and the sheep couldn’t give a shite could they out there we could see them over the throngs thinking what a cupla dicks have them slaughtered the beasts and feasts were glorious affairs of grand things in minds over and across isles divided by time and when said cried Muck said look a fire overhead flame lighting our sky ruin looked our way could it twin this unity apart of the Lord’s thunder it did swallow in praise folk knelt under bruised heaven on battered earth
I was followed to the bar by John Carroll. He wanted to show me something in private.
‘The rest of them won’t understand, Paul. Everyone thinks I’m a nutjob and they’re not far wrong, but you have to see this photo album.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Check it out! I think this photo album tells the future.’
He took a little photo book out of his pocket, the kind of thing you’d have picked up for next to nothing on Clanbrassil St. He opened it and showed me a picture of him standing next to a tree somewhere looking as glum as he always did.
‘You see that tree?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ve never been there before.’
‘You’ve never been there?’
‘Never.’
‘And what?’
‘Well, it states categorically in this image that I have been there at some point in the business of time.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s out near Carlingford.’
‘How do you know?’
‘This is a famous tree. Everyone knows of it. It’s where Cuchullain* sharpened his blades before a fight and took his wenches for an old fuck, you know.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘What am I doing there? That’s what I’m asking. I’ve never been there before.’
‘Maybe you forgot.’
‘No, I’ve never been there before.’
‘And what?’
‘Well, I think this photo album is updating itself with pictures of things that have yet to happen. Pictures from the future, you know.’
‘What makes you think this picture is from the future?’
‘Well, I was just thinking of going out there to see that tree next week. So it makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah, I know it does. There’s a few others in here. Let me show you.’
While I waited for the drinks to arrive, standing at the bar, he showed me some other photos of holidays he hadn’t taken, wearing sun-tans he’d never come by, snaps of Christmas dinners that never took place, sitting next to people he hadn’t met yet. The final one he showed me was a wedding portrait, featuring himself and a quite pretty young woman on the day of their marriage. I was a little shocked by this one, to be certain of it.
‘You’re a bit young-looking in this one, aren’t you, John?’
--------------------------------------------------
*Heard tell of Cuchullain? Like an ancient Irish Robocop, he thumped through numerous legends, defending the rights of himself in a manner brutal and unforgiving. Of particular interest to the folks of Dundalk he was because the region was home to many of the myths relating his escapades, and home also to his place of residence. Cuchullain’s Castle sat upon a large mound, Castletown Mount, at the highest point in Dundalk town. The Fort of Thorns, they chose to call it way back when. The castle crowned the town in fact, almost looking over it with a watchful eye. You could get a great view of the region from up there, stretching from Cox’s Demesne right out to Muirhevna in the distance. You could follow the Castletown River as it swam along Seatown, out to Dundalk Bay, snaking its shape around the Cooley Peninsula.
Nobody would dare say if Cuchullain’s Castle was actually Cuchullain’s or not. He was after all a mythological figure. There’s not a video of him to be seen on the internet. Check for yourself the next time you’re fucking around with that thing. Emer’s father named her after Cuchullain’s great love – just the sort of literary piss he would often take, even if that meant spraying it all over his own doorstep. The family lived near the castle actually, in Headford, right underneath it, and beside our schools also. The first day I saw Emer, there was a big commotion up at the castle. They’d found a dead body. I remember seeing her blithely walking down Mount Ave through the swarm of people and cars, brandishing a set of nunchaku, her blonde helmet bobbling up and down in the wind, cheeks red with the freeze, green school uniform grimy from clambering through fields and over fences I guessed. I took note of the event, as you will now note surely, but can only describe it inadequately, being as I am lukewarm to this role of narrator, which, as I have already expressed elsewhere, is a role I have nothing but disrespect for. In the movies, you could see her for yourself. You wouldn’t need my blather to make it all happen. Anyway, she caught my attention, she sure did. I figured her for a warrior princess out of a fantasy book. I loved all that shit back then. But what a change has occurred since that memory of her – believe it, if you’re going to believe anything pouring from this gob.
