Courtesy of Mister Jamison

With its top down and a wicker picnic hamper securely strapped on the boot, the vintage green Jaguar sports car moved swiftly along the narrow road. Its engine purred smoothly like its namesake, as the verdant, undulating fields, checkered with irregular low stone walls unfolded on either side like a welcoming quilt of remembrance. It was a fine day and Ireland, the land of one thousand welcomes, was once again opening its arms to enfold to its breast another of its own. Meagan O’Brian, descendant of the O’Grady’s, descendant of the ancient High Kings of Ireland and prodigal traveler returning to the land of her ancestors, hailed from the shores of America which in their time had greeted her ancestors with markedly less warmth. Although she had never been to Ireland before, Meagan truly did feel herself to be a returning prodigal as she slumped comfortably in the leather seat of the Jaguar and luxuriated in the feeling of home emanating from the pastoral tapestry surrounding her. Her husband Matthew seated at the wheel beside her looked natty in his tailored tweed jacket and cap and with she dressed in her woolen tam and scarf, Meagan fancied that they looked every bit a modern version of John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in the movie the Quiet Man, filmed in this very part of Ireland so long ago. So much history here. So much time.



Puffy clouds scudded across the sky and spread their shadows along the fields as a soft misty rain began to fall, wetting the asphalt surface of the road to a light sheen. The light changed indicating that dusk was quickly approaching. Matthew turned on the headlights. He sensed that the road was narrowing, as if it could really get any narrower in a country where roads were practically one lane, had no shoulders, and hedgerows along the sides could conceal stone walls, or abrupt drop offs. He had gotten used to driving on the wrong Left side of the road, and sitting on the wrong right side of the car without much trouble at all, but the width of the road, or lack thereof presented an unexpected challenge. Suddenly there was an incline and a sharp curve concealed within the deep shadows of an arbor of tree branches overhead. Matthew abruptly turned the steering wheel, and felt the exhilaration as the finely engineered machine held the curve flawlessly into the thickening darkness. Here the road was dry, sheltered by the woven branches. In an instant, it was there, illuminated in the yellow glow of the headlights; a dark humanlike figure standing in the middle of the road. Matthew applied the brake as his heart leaped into his throat. Meagan screamed as did the tires. Matthew swerved to miss the figure to the side where there was a negligible amount of space. Saw the front of the car strike the figure, saw the headlights go out, heard the snap and pop of branches as the car plunged into the certainly wall concealing hedge between the trees. His stomach dropped, his heart clenched as the car continued on, through the hedgerow, down into a field on the other side where it bounced and rolled to an abrupt stop in tall grass, the engine no longer running.



There was the gradual realization that they were out of the shadows and into dusky twilight again and indeed alive. There was a general gathering together of their wits, a quick inventory of life and limb and an offering of thanks to God that they were alive and unbroken. As soon as he was able, Matthew threw open the car door of the car and in a shower of broken bits of twigs and leaves ran back through the broken hedgerow and onto the road to offer aid to the person that he had obviously struck and very likely killed. Nothing. He ran from one end to the other of the tunnel of branches, calling out, expecting to see a person maimed and limping or crawling along the road. Nothing. Only a pair of skid marks abruptly ending in the gaping hole of shattered branches in the hedge where the car had plowed through. While they were relieved that no bodily harm had been done to anyone, the couple could not shake the eerie feeling they were left with that they both were certain that they had seen someone on the road, that was there and then was not. It was as if it, whatever it was, had simply vanished.



They did an inspection of the rented Jaguar and discovered while that there was no apparent major damage, there were numerous scratches and one side view mirror was hanging, broken loose from coming in contact with one of the trees. Too close for comfort. They were glad they had purchased the full coverage insurance plan from the rental agency, a company that specialized in vintage sport cars, for the discerning driver who wanted to travel light, but in style. When Matthew attempted to put the cloth top up on the car to keep out the rain, he discovered that somehow it had also been damaged and would not close completely. When he attempted to start the car, nothing. Dead. Not a click not a whir. Nothing. Matthew emerged from the car, disgusted. But immediately took his cell phone in hand to call the rental company and put into motion the roadside assistance service. The cell phone was dead. No power, no beep. Nothing. It dawned on him at that time that he had seen the headlights on the car go out as soon as it had come in contact with, seemingly came into contact with the, the apparition; he had no other word to describe what it was, on the road, and that the car engine was dead seemingly before the car had even come to rest. Now, no phone service. It was as if they were in a kind f dead zone, a thought that rather unnerved him. They walked around on spongy soil for a short distance in the fading light in an effort to see if there were any homes visible, cars, or people. But except for some tumbled down ruins of stone cottages close by, there was not even so much as a sheep, although there was abundant evidence of their having been there in the form of droppings that littered the field.



They didn’t recall passing any place of note along their route where they might walk for assistance in a reasonable amount of time, so they decided to consult their map for clues as to what might be nearby. But there was nothing evident there that might be a possibility. There was an historical highlight indicated on the map pertaining to the tumbled down ruins at their location.



Ruins of Famine Cottages.

The Great Irish Famine: 1845 and 1852. Was period of starvation and disease brought about by blight ravaged potato crops, and exacerbated by various political, social and economic factors. With a third of the population in Ireland entirely dependent on the potato for food, the impact and human cost of the famine permanently changed the island's demographic, political and cultural landscape and left an indelible imprint on the people’s folk memory. The resulting death and mass immigration reduced the population of Ireland by 20 to 25 percent. Approximately one million of the population died and a million more emigrated from Ireland's shores, many to the United States.



Matthew added that he recalled reading that the famine had hit the western part of Ireland, where they were now traveling, the hardest and that sick people were often buried just as they were about to die in an effort to prevent disease from spreading. That thought gave them both a chill, along with the fact that the rain continued and darkness was fast approaching.



They resigned themselves to the fact that they were going to have to spend the night where they were, and decided to make the best of it. They were on vacation after all, things would be much clearer in the morning. It was in that spirit that Meagan, partly to shake the chill and partly to warm up a bit under the steady fall of rain, began to sing. The rousing song “There’s Whiskey in The Jar” was one they had enjoyed singing along with in O’Donoghue’s Pub in Dublin. Now here in the rain in an open field when it came time for the chorus, they sang in unison with gusto just as they had before.



“Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da

Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o

there’s whiskey in the jar”!



Full of elation with the fact that he had not struck anyone with the car, and caught up in the spirit of the moment, Matthew chimed in with an improvised refrain, “There’s Whiskey in the car”! And with that they sprang to the Picnic hamper, strapped to the boot of the Jaguar, and Matthew upon unfastening the latch and lifting the wicker lid produced the bottle of Jamison Whiskey, the pride of Ireland that they had procured as a souvenir of their tour of the famous distillery. The rain had steadily increased in intensity, so in order to enjoy the drink in comfort they sought refuge in the Jaguar, only to find that the damaged convertible top no longer adequately provided coverage from the now driving rain. After a brief discussion of strategy, the decided to run for cover among the confines of one of the ruined cottages. Although the sod roofs of the ancient structures had long before rotted away, there was still a corner of stones still relatively in tacked, and this sheltered by the boughs of a giant copper beech tree which had grown up among the ruins over many years.



With the glow of the whiskey warming them from within and a tartan plaid woolen blanket and some rain gear procured from the boot of the Jaguar, were relatively cozy in the confines of their makeshift shelter. Matthew had put together a meager, yet satisfying repast from the remains of their food stuffs in the picnic hamper, a good chunk of farmhouse cheddar cheese and the better portion of a loaf of heavy Irish soda bread. These he with a flourish of a crisp cloth napkin and said, “Your banquet is served my Lady.” Meagan laughed and couldn’t help but feel as if she were stuck in a Mave Binchy novel. But in truth, she couldn’t think of a better place to be stuck. These rustic comforts, the mist, as well as the steady patter of the rain upon the leaves and grass, made for a romantic setting. With the night closing in, they felt all warm and good snuggled up together under the blanket.



The remains of the hearthstones of a fire place that had once warmed the former occupants of the cottage were faintly visible in the moonlight. The sight of it caused her to wonder what sort of life those who had lived here might have shared together before the famine ravaged their life and land. These thoughts brought to mind the strains of another old Irish song, and the words took on an ethereal quality as she softly sang them in the gathering darkness.

I wander o'er green hills through dreamy valleys



And find a peace no other land could know.

I hear the birds make music fit for angels

And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.

And then into a humble shack I wander --

My dear old home -- and tenderly behold

The folks I love around the turf fire gathered.

On bended knees, their rosary is told.



Suddenly their mood was changed. The night began to feel heavy and oppressive somehow, and they were gripped by a suffocating feeling of dread and foreboding. In the moonlight, they became aware that the mist lying close to the ground had begun to swirl and gather. It roiled and spun itself together and rose up into two columns that transformed before their eyes into apparitions first ghostly transparent and ragged and then into more solid in forms. The two figures seemed to hover in place momentarily then eerily moved close to Matthew and Meagan who stared transfixed, clung to one another in petrified fear as there at last there stood before them two fully formed and discernable figures, a man and woman of gaunt and wasted appearance.



Slowly the cottage itself began to form out of ethereal nothingness as well;8 stone walls and floor, thatched roof and wooden beams enclosing them. They could not tell whether it was the effects whiskey, or whether they had slipped into a kind of shared dream like state due to becoming sleepy; none the less everything they were experiencing seemed very tangible, very present in the here and now. The pathetic looking couple seemingly with no awareness of Matthew and Meagan began to play out a macabre vignette. The guttering flames of a peat fire burning on the hearth lit the scene, and cast their dancing shadows eerily on the stone walls.



The woman, now lying on a wretched pallet on the floor was coughing and writhing about obviously in the troughs of some terrible illness, her eyes vacant and starring, and her visage drawn and pale. The man with a look of time worn weariness and care on his face now leaned in the doorway of the room, a bundle in his hand wrapped in what looked to be a ragged gray handkerchief. When he spoke his voice sounded as ragged as the dirty piece of cloth he carried.



“Look darlin’, I brought you somethin’ .”



“What is it”, the woman asked in a raspy voice, which held the air of the grave in it.



The man approached the woman, opened the handkerchief to reveal a hunk of moldy cheese and a dried out crust of bread, and holding closer for her to see said, “I know there’s not much, but tis’ all I could find today.”



“Take it away”, the woman said. “Give to the wee ones”.



“Ya know the wee ones are all gone now. I brought this fer you. You must have it to keep you strength”.



“Oh what’s the use”, the woman asked through coughing and wheezing “I’m done for this world”.



“Then you should eat it for strength in the next one.”



“No, no take it away”, she gasped, “Tis’ nothing after this”.



“Don’t be talkin’ like that now”, he chided, “You mustn’t lose faith. Now, eat this now I beg ya”, he said holding the crust to her dried, cracked lips, “I went through a lotta’ trouble to get it for ye.”



“No, no, I’ll not eat it. Give it to Johnny”.



“I can’t. Johnny’s gone now love.”



“My Johnny is gone?! Dead now too is he?!”



“No, no he’s not dead, he’s not. He’s gone off down the road to find a better way for himself. He figured it was best with all…”



“Oh he’s gone then I know”, she said dissolving into tears, “ Gone forever he is. Off to America I suppose like the others. He was talkin’ wild like that.”



“Shush, shush now”, the man said embracing her quivering frame, “Don’t go a frettin’ yourself like that. You must keep the faith. We’ll see him again he promised we will. Now, I need you to eat what I brought ya, so you’ll keep your strength. Tis’ just you ad me now. Just you an me. I can’t lose you too. I can’t make it without ye.”



But she wept all the more. “My babes are all gone. My babes are all gone ”.



“Sush, shush now. Don’t cry now my love. Don’t cry. Remember the songs we used to sing?” and holding her and rocking her wasted frame, he began to sing.



“There whenever you need me.

There whenever you call.

There whenever your heart is aching

The distance between my heart and yours is always the shortest of all”.



As his singing lapsed in to their native tongue of Gallic, the scene faded as quickly as it had manifested itself, with just a wisp of scent from the peat fire lingering on the air. Then it too was gone.



Dawn. Sunlight slanting through morning mist, birds twittering. They awoke and emerged from under the woolen blanket, still clinging to one another. Wanting to wring as much out of the experience they had shared together as possible. Wanting to own it, to poses it. What they had experienced they knew to be sacred, something which bore no explanation, but had left them with the understanding that the real things that matter, life, love laughter and song, last. Forever. Matthew picked up the empty whiskey bottle and stood looking at it for a moment and said. “It’s no wonder that they refer to this stuff as spirits. For all the amazing, spellbinding wonder that last night was, I just can’t help but think that it was all courtesy of Mister Jamison”. And with that he threw the bottle far out into the field, it arched glinting in the sunlight for a moment, then dropped down behind a stone wall with a faint tinkling of demise. For her part, Meagan had a knowing about her that caused her to understand that what they had experienced went far beyond any effect that the whiskey may have induced. Although it was unsettling, she sensed deep within that the encounter they'd had on the road was that of the spirit of the Great Famine itself.



They were standing about in the early morning light contemplating their predicament and formulating ideas as to what their next move should be, when a sound imposed itself upon them. A whir. A hum. To their utter amazement, as if anything could indeed amaze them any further, the Jaguar had started by itself, headlights on, engine purring.

The drive back to Dublin was for the most part a quiet, contemplative one.



The people at the car rental agency were quite cordial and assuring. With the insurance report being filed all was well and they were soon on their way again with another rental car. As they emerged from O’Donoghues’s pub where they had eaten a hearty dinner, they encountered a woman seated on the sidewalk directly in their path. She was huddled up against a post in an effort to get out of the steadily falling rain. She looked older than her years. Her face was care worn and wrinkled. Her skin was browned and weathered, and her clothes were dirty and ragged. Although She begged them in both English and her native Gallic, they were able to discern what she was saying. She was pleading for money for herself and her children. It had been a long time since they had had anything to eat. Immediately Matthew and Meagan both began digging in pockets and purse, pooling all of the loose coins they had accumulated since the start of their trip, and some bills thrown in for good measure. The woman’s face lit up with joy at the money pouring into her hands. Meagan then removed her woolen hat and scarf and graciously presented them to the woman. When Matthew removed his good tweed jacket and draped it over the woman’s trembling frame, she was overcome with emotion. She cried and thanked them profusely, taking their hands in hers and kissing them. “Don’t thank us ma’m”, said Matthew with a wink and a tip of his cap, “these gifts are courtesy of Mister Jamison”.