By sean mcnulty
Munter took a drink from the coffee that was sitting before him. A hot flash of black lightning ripped through his body. Aghhhh, he cried out in pain. The young girl sitting across from him giggled. Her mother scolded her for laughing at the scalded man. Munter was in the lounge part of the Enterprise train on its way from Dublin to Belfast. It was normally a busy lounge, but today it was not too busy. There was just himself, the woman and her daughter, and a man asleep rolled up in a ball with an open can of Heineken in front of him. As the train approached the outskirts of Dundalk, Munter looked out at the looming Cooley Mountains, now looking like a dark slug of hills in drizzle-grey. The most visually prominent of the Cooley Mountains was the hill of Anna Verna, falling over the Ravensdale village, and personified by a long radio mast at its peak that pierced the sky. The young girl was looking out at the mountains too.
What’s that? she asked her mother, pointing to the mast at the top of Anna Verna.
That mountain was stabbed in a fight with God, her mother answered.
The skies heaved. And rain. The train cut melodiously through the downpour.