WINTER ' FOURTEEN
Come Back Out
by Michael McGlade
“Me and Pangur Bán, my cat, ‘tis a like task we are at,” said Da.
[CHARACTER DESCRIPTION] Arms solid as hewn granite; face creased like well-worn cowhide; eyes of faded
denim; grey hair, 62-years-old, 5’6”; farmer.
Da shifted the pickaxe shaft between his hands and stuck sparks off the curved spike when it punctured
the stony surface and he rocked the embedded spike to break up the surface and then moved along a few
inches and repeated and continued and repeated until the line of the shore was etched in the earth.
[EXPLANATORY ASIDE] A shore is a drainage system used in agricultural land to remove surface liquid from
waterlogged fields. It consists of a bedded system of interconnected pipes laid in a stone-filled trench beneath the surface
which collects water and channels it into a dry well, soakaway, stream, flume, bottomless pit, alternative dimension, etc.
“Messe agus Pangur Bán,” said Da. “Cechtar nathar fria shaindán.” The pickaxe struck the ground. “Bíth
a menmasam fri seilgg.” The pickaxe pulsed with a drumlike rhythm. “Mu menma céin im shaincheirdd.”
[PERSONAL NOTE] I’m Cathal, I’ve recently graduated from Trinity College Dublin, and my final summer of
freedom before I begin a teaching career has been allocated by my Da into this daily ritual of digging this feckin shore by
hand. Day of digging: number one. Time: nine AM. Temperature: hot as the surface of the sun. Countenance: forehead
glistening like igneous rock.
I hadn’t been home in six months and during this time the ancestral family home had been demolished
and a new home built on the same location. The rubble from the old house had been used to backfill the
area and during the excavation process of this shore I expected to encounter various-sized chunks of masonry,
splinters of doorframe and floor tiles to be revealed and to complicate and lengthen the timeframe allocated
to this task.
“Me and Pangur Bán, my cat, ‘tis a like task we are at…” said Da.
He would often recite this poem when we worked the fields. His father had recited it to him when they
worked together. He wanted me to finish and he watched me and waited.
“Hunting-mice-is-his-delight, hunting-words-I-sit-all-night,” I said in a rushed jumble like I was nine-yearsThe Linnet's Wings