Turning the Stones Read Online Free
journey down to London with Eliza, the driver set off so precipitously from one of the inns – I think it was the Cock in Stoney Stratford – that a woman fell from the roof of the coach. I remember glimpsing a cinnamon petticoat spilled on the cobbles. There ensued an altercation between the coachman and the woman’s husband, the coachman shouting that it was not his fault the passenger had not secured herself, and since she was not dead he had nothing to answer and must get on. The other outsiders threw down the couple’s luggage and a bundle, which turned out to be a small child. With a crack of the lash and a hi-ho, we set off, abandoning the injured family in the yard.
I have learned my lesson in that regard. Here I cling securely to my perch, not daring to get down even to stretch my legsbetween stages. In any case, now that we are in full night, there are watchmen stationed at the yards of the inns. They are well rewarded, I have read, for apprehending suspects of felonies. And so I imprison myself on the roof of the Demon , afraid most of the time even to catch the eye of my fellow passengers. Above, black clouds sail across a black sky. Below, the wheels thunder.
To whom do I make these observations?
It is to you: my mysterious, nameless mother.
Of course it is you to whom my story is addressed. It is you whom I desire to convince of my truthfulness.
I have nothing at all of you save for the knowledge that you gave birth to me. But this stark fact, that I am connected to you by an unbreakable bond of blood, is the only prop I have in my hour of need. How strange and rare and potent those words: my mother . The thought of you at this bleakest of times makes my soul feel less forsaken, even though you are dead.
Because I am sure you must be dead – you are, aren’t you?
Well, I will not let that be an obstacle. You seem very real to me now. Often unseeable things seem real to me. I have always been prey to torrents of sense impressions. It is as though none of my doors is ever quite closed. Is that a tendency I inherited from you? Perhaps you might have thought, too, as I do, that there is more to the world than meets the eye. I will even go so far as to say that the human mind might have a capacity for communication that has not yet been entirely revealed to us. That possibility excites me. It brings me to wonder if you could even actually hear menow or read my thoughts, in a manner of speaking, from some other plane of existence.
Well. You see I go too far with these notions. I will admit that I am fanciful.
It is such a comfort to talk to you.
I beseech you with all my heart to listen to me – for if not you, who else?
The Cursing Stones, Connemara
April, 1766
A soft day it was today, wasn’t it, with the sun shining in and out behind the rain and a little gathering of clouds late in the afternoon. I waited until twilight came on and then my two feet brought me to the place of the stones. I suppose, Nora, you might have seen me from your high perch, going about my mission.
Few things can be more terrible than the words ‘The devil bless you’, but say them I did as I stood before the cursing stones. I made nine circuits around them, walking against the direction of the sun. At the end of each circuit I called out, ‘Your souls be damned for what you have done!’ I felt myself tremble in the core of my body and a blast of wind arrived that made me wonder if someone from the other side had come to see what I was up to. But they would have known I had a right to be there. I told the wind to go back and so it went.
Each stone I petted like the head of a darling babe and then I whispered in its ear the penalty that must be paid by those people. Hard though it was, I turned the stones leftwards. Lookit, those stones there are not much larger than a child’s ball but it is a business to move them. They make you work at it. There is a reluctance, Nora, on theirpart. But if it were easy the
I have learned my lesson in that regard. Here I cling securely to my perch, not daring to get down even to stretch my legsbetween stages. In any case, now that we are in full night, there are watchmen stationed at the yards of the inns. They are well rewarded, I have read, for apprehending suspects of felonies. And so I imprison myself on the roof of the Demon , afraid most of the time even to catch the eye of my fellow passengers. Above, black clouds sail across a black sky. Below, the wheels thunder.
To whom do I make these observations?
It is to you: my mysterious, nameless mother.
Of course it is you to whom my story is addressed. It is you whom I desire to convince of my truthfulness.
I have nothing at all of you save for the knowledge that you gave birth to me. But this stark fact, that I am connected to you by an unbreakable bond of blood, is the only prop I have in my hour of need. How strange and rare and potent those words: my mother . The thought of you at this bleakest of times makes my soul feel less forsaken, even though you are dead.
Because I am sure you must be dead – you are, aren’t you?
Well, I will not let that be an obstacle. You seem very real to me now. Often unseeable things seem real to me. I have always been prey to torrents of sense impressions. It is as though none of my doors is ever quite closed. Is that a tendency I inherited from you? Perhaps you might have thought, too, as I do, that there is more to the world than meets the eye. I will even go so far as to say that the human mind might have a capacity for communication that has not yet been entirely revealed to us. That possibility excites me. It brings me to wonder if you could even actually hear menow or read my thoughts, in a manner of speaking, from some other plane of existence.
Well. You see I go too far with these notions. I will admit that I am fanciful.
It is such a comfort to talk to you.
I beseech you with all my heart to listen to me – for if not you, who else?
The Cursing Stones, Connemara
April, 1766
A soft day it was today, wasn’t it, with the sun shining in and out behind the rain and a little gathering of clouds late in the afternoon. I waited until twilight came on and then my two feet brought me to the place of the stones. I suppose, Nora, you might have seen me from your high perch, going about my mission.
Few things can be more terrible than the words ‘The devil bless you’, but say them I did as I stood before the cursing stones. I made nine circuits around them, walking against the direction of the sun. At the end of each circuit I called out, ‘Your souls be damned for what you have done!’ I felt myself tremble in the core of my body and a blast of wind arrived that made me wonder if someone from the other side had come to see what I was up to. But they would have known I had a right to be there. I told the wind to go back and so it went.
Each stone I petted like the head of a darling babe and then I whispered in its ear the penalty that must be paid by those people. Hard though it was, I turned the stones leftwards. Lookit, those stones there are not much larger than a child’s ball but it is a business to move them. They make you work at it. There is a reluctance, Nora, on theirpart. But if it were easy the
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