09 - Just Beyond the Pale

Even though Christmas marked the year’s end, winter was far from over. Even in these, the shortest (and coldest) days of the year, Chelsea and her family tried making the best of it. Snow fell for four straight days. The pipes at Kilkenny Primary School froze and burst.

Korrit and Chelsea spent their snow days indoors trying to keep warm. Because of this, they constantly fought. Mrs. Cahill decided it was time to get the girls out of the house, so she called her sister.

“Hello, Meg?”

“Hey, Liz. What are you up to?”

“Surviving the snowstorms and two girls here in Country Kerry.”

“It’s been raining here in Dalkey, but there hasn’t been any snow.”

“Could I visit with Chelsea and Korrit for the weekend?”

”You’re always welcome here.”

After that, the only thing left to do was getting ready. That was easier done than said.

“Korrit and Chelsea, would you like to take a trip to Aunt Meg’s?”

“Now?” asked Korrit.

“Right now.”

The girls were off their spots on the couch and upstairs in a flash. They quickly returned downstairs with stuffed daypacks.

“We’re ready!” announced Korrit.

“Let me take a quick inventory.”

“We’ve got everything,” Chelsea reassured her mother, “I double-checked.”

“What’s with all these reading books? You’ll have plenty to do at your Aunt’s house.”

“Just in case.”

After the triple check, Mrs. Cahill packed everything into the SUV, including Korrit and Chelsea.

“I get the front seat!” said Korrit.

Chelsea shrugged, “I prefer the back seat anyway. I have all this room and I can finish my assignment for reading class.”

Chelsea opened James Joyce’s The Dubliners, ignoring Korrit altogether. She anticipated a good read. Meanwhile, Korrit entertained her mother and simultaneously controlled the radio and ice cooler.

“Mom, have you read The Dubliners?” asked Chelsea.

“A long, long time ago.”

“What is it about?”

“I seem to remember something about everyday people living in Dublin.”

“Ah,” said Chelsea thoughtfully as she returned to her book.

The big, green SUV turned from the city streets of Kilkenny onto the entrance to the turnpike. Unlike the freeways found in most countries, the turnpikes were toll roads. Mrs. Cahill paid the attendant at the booth and up went the gate.

Unlike the bumpy county roads the Cahills took on trips to the Donaldson’s farm, the turnpike was well kept and straight as an arrow. Chelsea had no problem reading under these conditions and Korrit had no problem tuning the radio as stations faded in and out. As they neared Dublin city, all radio stations came in loud and clear as Mrs. Cahill exited the turnpike and headed the car north through the city. After passing Dublin, the city streets gave way to the rough country roads leading north.

“This is the worst part of the trip,” said Chelsea.

“I’ll drive as carefully as I can,” reassured mother, “but we won’t be on the togher road for long.”

The few togher roads that remained in Ireland were a far cry from the original togher roads. When carriages couldn’t pass through the mossy swamps, men felled trees and buried them in the bog. The travelers used extra timber to lay the road’s foundation.”

“Hold on,” said Mrs. Cahill.

The SUV rumbled over the timbers that were laid side-by-side like narrow train rails. It was only a short part of the journey, but everyone was relieved when the green SUV turned onto a county road. Old gray cathedrals and townland homes replaced old gray trees and bright green hills.

The road led upward to the townland and the Pyle’s farmhouse. It was stately with five windows sitting over four windows. The front door sat directly in the center. Mrs. Cahill parked behind the station wagon in the circular drive. Everyone unloaded their things and went inside.

“Thank the Lord you made it safely,” said Aunt Meg.

“The ride was fine until the end. It was all bumpy. The togher roads, you know.”

“I couldn’t read my book,” grumbled Chelsea, “I wish they were smooth like the turnpikes.”

“They can’t do that. Togher roads are an important part of Irish history.”

“I know, Ireland was once swamps.”

“More than that, without toghers, the people who lived in the swampy mainland were protected from Viking invasion.”

“The Vikings still invaded,” stated Korrit.

“They weren’t able to invade the mainland. They settled mostly on the coasts,” replied Aunt Meg.

“They were called Norsemen,” added Uncle Danny, “because they came from the North in small Viking raiding parties. They began in Shetland, just off the coast of Scotland. Then, they advanced further south until they attacked most of the United Kingdom, including Wales, England, and Ireland, too.”

Uncle Danny grabbed the small throwing axes mounted over the mantel and gripped it gently in his hand.

“These Viking raiders are as much a part of Ireland as the native Celts. Eventually, Vikings built settlements in coastal towns like Dublin, Wexford, Waterford and Cork. Monks escaped to the swamps. Meanwhile, Vikings and other barbarians attacked Europe and changed the face of culture. Classic buildings, art, and even books were destroyed. That’s why it was called the Dark Ages.”

“Be thankful for the monks,” said Aunt Meg, “because they lit the Dark Ages with the monks and the bards.”

“I like modern poets like Keats, Yeats, and Swift,” said Korrit, “I just don’t get the bards.”

“Bards were poets and court scribes during the Dark Ages, keeping records for kings and tribal chieftains. The bards also composed songs known as ballads in praise of the chieftain and his clan.”

“Wasn’t William Shakespeare a bard?” asked Chelsea.

“Yes and no,” said Aunt Meg, “He was called ‘the Bard of Avon’ but he was just a famous English playwright. The bard tradition faded with the end of the Dark Ages.

Back then, Ireland was divided into several kingdoms. When the King of Leinster was exiled to Normandy, in modern-day France. The ex-King sought help from the Normans, who invaded Leinster on his behalf. After victory in Leinster, the Normans invaded surrounding Irish kingdoms. By the end of the Norman invasions, the chieftain reclaimed his throne, Vikings were being banished, and England controlled Ireland.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” said Uncle Danny, “many Normans remained in Ireland after the invasion. The native Irish didn’t like this, so they pushed them to the east coast between Dalkey to Dublin.”

“That’s right here!” exclaimed Chelsea.

“There are still places where you can see the moats and mounds the Normans used to protect their farms from Irish cattle thieves. The Irish nicknamed the Norman settlement ‘The Pale’, which means boundary. Anything ‘Beyond the Pale’ has come to mean ‘unacceptable’ or ‘out of bounds’.”

“Do you think there are still any Normans around here?”

Mr. Pyle nodded. Then, he put a thumb upon his own chest.

“My distant relatives are Normans.”

Chelsea gasped.

“It could be worse,” said Uncle Danny, “we could have Vikings around here.”

“Wait a second,” said Korrit with a pause.

“Yes, dear?”

“The Donaldsons come from Viking roots.”

Uncle Danny’s eyes shifted nervously as he peered around the room.

“Oh, stop it!” said Aunt Meg.

“Luckily, this is a clan of loveable Vikings.”

“If you don’t watch it, I’ll put you across the Pale.”

“I hope it’s not before I eat dinner.”

“You’d dare to eat Viking grub?”

“I suppose I’d be okay this one time,” he joked.

Everyone settled around the dining room table as Aunt Meg served fish stew and grilled tomatoes for dinner. However, she failed to fill Uncle Danny’s plate. He frowned at Mrs. Pyle.

“I was only kidding.”

“Yes, my dear, but when you’re beyond The Pale, it looks like I get the last laugh.”

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