This is an except from the first book I ever published, a kind of Irish De Vinci Code involving an Irish mythological detective (we used to jokingly call it the O’Vinci Code!).
It’s the first in a trilogy (although they’re all standalones) and I have yet to complete the second (not to mind the third) as I’ve been so full-on with the other series I’m writing.
What you need to know:
Following the strange death of his brother, retiree Diarmuid O’Suilleabhain (O’Sullivan) has adopted his nephew Demne, a strange child who was raised in Irish and who has numerous struggles with authority. After beating the child in school for speaking only in Irish, the brutal teacher An MĂĄistir (The Master) is involved in a serious accident and has to leave the profession. Diarmuid is pleased with An MĂĄistir’s replacement, but it turns out Demne’s issues with the 1960’s Irish schooling system are only just beginning.
The Excerpt: Mad Priests and Flying Stones
Within the fortnight, a woman by the name of Miss Kelly was appointed to replace An MĂĄistir and take over the schoolâs teaching duties. A strict but fair woman, it was generally felt within the community that she was a significant improvement on her predecessor. Of greater importance to Diarmuid was the fact that she was a gaelgoir from the Corca Dhuibhne Gaeltacht and took an immediate shine to the young boy who spoke the language so fluently.
When the school reopened, Diarmuid was much more relaxed about releasing his nephew back into its care. Demneâs new teacher was kind and supportive and the language barrier was no longer a problem. The full potential of a national education, it appeared, now lay out before him.
Within a week, Diarmuid discovered that his confidence in the national education system had been naively premature. Returning from the fields on a Thursday afternoon, he was astounded to find his nephew sitting stiffly at Carraig Dubh in the company of a red-faced Father Byrne. The old manâs initial reaction was one of heartfelt panic. Father Byrne, he knew, was first cousin to An MĂĄistir and must somehow have discovered Demneâs involvement in his recent hospitalisation.
Before Diarmuid had a chance to leap to his nephewâs defence, however, the parish priest leapt to his feet and released a torrent of accusations that were as perplexing as they were vitriolic. Because Father Byrne was practically frothing at the mouth, it took some time to work out what he was complaining about. Slowly it became clear â to Diarmuidâs immense relief â that the ecclesiastical outrage was not related to the assault on An MĂĄistir but to the less immediate threat of his nephewâs eternal soul.
Completing his visit with a warning of severe consequences should the issue not be addressed to his satisfaction, Father Byrne wrapped himself in a cloak of religious self-righteousness and stormed from the house.
âSafe home now, Father!â Diarmuid called in his wake, although he could not resist throwing a two-fingered salute at the back of the departing cleric.
Despite the cold, Diarmuid remained outside and smoked a cigarette as he attempted to work through the ramifications of what he had just been told. He was shivering by the time he returned inside but, realising that there was no time like the present, he drew up a stool next to the boy and looked him directly in the eye.
âSo, let me get this straight,â he said. âYou donât know who God is.â
There was a brief silence.
âI know the one hanging up on the cross in the church,â the boy admitted. âAnd Miss Kelly and Father Byrne were telling me about three other ones, but âŠâ He paused. From his demeanour, Demne seemed unsure as to whether someone was winding him up or not.
âDid yer Da never bring you to âŠâ
Diarmuid stopped abruptly. He had been about to ask whether Demneâs father had never taken him to church. On reflection, the answer to that particular question was patently obvious.
âDid yer Da ever tell you about God and Jesus and all that?â he tried instead.
The boy shook his head.
âA Dhia na bheart!â the old farmer exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and started again. âYou have to listen to what the priest tells you about the religious stuff, a bhuachaill. You have to do what he says and toe the line.â
Demneâs lips tightened and his uncle repressed a twinge of frustration. Evidently the boy had inherited the familyâs gene for stubbornness: the determined expression on Demneâs face was identical to the one he remembered on his brotherâs face as a child.
âBut Father Byrne says mad things, a Uncail.â
âSure he does, but heâs a man with influence in the community. Heâs also the Churchâs local representative and thatâs a crowd you donât want to mess with. Theyâve a lot of power since the Long Fella did a deal with them and they donât like the faithful getting ideas above their station. If you come to their attention they wonât leave off until theyâve made you submit to their view of the world, one way or the other.â
âBut itâs not true! Thatâs wrong.â
Diarmuid regarded his nephew with surprise. Clearly, he was going to have his work cut out trying to educate him in the fine tradition of moral hypocrisy.
âIt doesnât matter if itâs true or not. Itâs not about right or wrong, itâs about survival. The Church love going around telling people how they should live their lives. If you want to stay out of trouble youâve got to put up with that. Thatâs why we go to Mass on Sundays. Itâs not that I believe some big God fellaâs going to smack me across the arse with a bolt of lightning, itâs because it keeps the clergy off our backs. If going out there, bending your head at the right time and mumbling some oul shite is enough to keep them quiet then weâre all happy.â
The boy did not seem convinced.
âDemne, people get upset when others donât agree with them or donât believe in the same things they do. If you want to be part of a community you have to blend in. If youâre too different or you stick out, youâll eventually end up turning them against you. Everyone around here goes to Mass or believes in God â or at least they say they do â so you have to follow suit. Stirring the priests up will only make life more difficult.â
âDo you like priests?â
Diarmuid stared at him with genuine astonishment.
âWhatever gave you that idea?â
âYou like Father McCarthy.â
âThatâs different. Heâs not really a priest. He just thinks he is.â
âMaybe I should throw a stone at Father Byrne.â
âNo, you canât throw a feckinâ stone at Father Byrne!â
âYou didnât mind me throwing a stone at An MĂĄistir.â
âOnly because youâd already gone and done it. You canât go around lobbing rocks at people in authority. You âŠâ he hesitated momentarily. âWell, actually, you can, but you wouldnât be long getting caught.â
âIâd be clever, a Uncail. They wouldnât get me.â
âYouâd have to be very feckinâ clever not to get caught eventually, Demne. No, if you go up against the big boys youâve got to be able to pick your battles. More importantly, you have to pick your defeats â the way that you can choose the fights you want to win.â
It took another half-hour of intense argument before he finally convinced his nephew to adhere to the priestâs teachings â or, more accurately, to pretend to go along with them, keep his head down and get on with his work in school.
This reluctant concession appeared to achieve its objective, however. Within a few weeks, Demneâs troubles at school ceased. To his uncleâs surprise and immense satisfaction, Demne revealed himself to be an adept and natural scholar â although it still irked him that this had only been revealed through the use of English.