This was to be Chapter Two of the Ireland book. I had to throw it out since it no longer fits in with the new structure.
Dribble O’Doole floated through roughly two city blocks before he became engaged with -- and entangled in -- the Butt Bridge on the eastern edge of Eden Quay, a wharf which merged with Beresford Place and curved to embrace the Old Custom House and its offices of government prejudice. The barristers, officers, and clerks who scurried about on their lunch hour were drawn to the bridge by the hollering and protestations being shouted above the sounds of mid-afternoon traffic. Lorries slowed to a crawl, cab drivers pulled over to peer out their windows, and construction along the block was halted by curiosity. Rumor spread swiftly and suggested that the junior senator from County Wicklow had tossed himself over after engaging in a rather distasteful public confrontation with his well-publicized mistress, however the talk was suppressed when the voice shouting over the river’s thunder became clear.
“Help me, Lord A’mighty! You good people up there, send me a line so’s I might swing about, uh?” Dribble’s words came sporadically through a vexing barrage of gasps and gulps and pants which attempted to drown him. Although the purpose of his predicament derived from his desire to be entombed by the Liffey, he felt strongly that a ride down its current would be a far more entertaining means to finish up than by merely becoming pinned against the side of a bridge column by the strength of the flowing water, and he fought accordingly for his right. “I implore ye who stand hovering about,” he bleated, “fetch me a rope rather than stare my soul to Heaven!”
Over him, not a person stirred. Additional eyes and noses arrived to point down at his position.
Not one to displease the masses, Dribble smiled as best he could and scraped his arm against the concrete of the pier to give an awkward wave to his admirers. It was not, after all, his first encounter with celebrity.
A thick rope with a knotted end the size of a dwarf’s noggin flew over the bridge rail and dropped toward Dribble with great velocity. Before time allowed him to feel appreciation, the knot hit him square in the nose and spread his face with prickly numbness. Blood fell from his nostrils and joined the course of the river while his consciousness struggled to remain active. No, thought Dribble O’Doole, I cannot succumb to sleep, not while there is still work to be done and a demise to savor!
He grasped the rope and pulled the knot under the water’s surface to wrap his legs about. Great force would need to be applied in order to get him around the pier and back into the flow, so he clenched the rope with all his body and shouted, “Ready! Swing me ‘round and send me on my way!” He clenched his eyes shut and steadied himself for the pleasure of the ride.
Strength from above traveled the length of the rope and sent him first to his right, then up. As the sound of the river receded and the weight of his water-soaked clothes drew down upon him, Dribble’s eyes opened and saw that he was flying rapidly toward the clouds. Time, the most dastardly of life’s elemental governors, once again refused him the courtesy of knowledge until it was too late; in seconds, he was over the rail and lying on his back in a pool of river and sludge. The masses crowded close around him and stared down with anxious eyes and cautiously hoped for death.
As moments passed and plotter peered up at spoilers and saviors peered down at victim, the situation passed inspection and was realized by Dribble. “No!” he cried as he struggled to bring his torso upright, “You can’t do this! I must go back!” Rather, those were the words intended, but the water soaking his lungs caused them to pass his tongue as a nonsensical flurry of hacks and haws.
One teenaged lad who had spent the previous summer working the beach of Ardmore with whistle in hand and women in mind grabbed hold of Dribble’s hips and flipped him over on his belly, ran around to grasp his ankles, then rocked the poor man up and down like a seesaw until the water poured from his lungs and soiled the fine Italian leather of a nearby barrister’s shoes. The young hero continued to lift Dribble’s feet high into the air, ignoring the pleading cries and flailing arms of his subject, until a doctor observing from the crowd grew bored with the entertainment and placed his arm over the young man’s chest, saying, “Let him be, boy. His body is rinsed.” The lifeguard dropped the legs and received handshakes and fawning from the adoring crowd, which then proceeded with its business and dissolved, satisfied.
Dribble sputtered and sat upright against the bridge, wiping blood from his nose with a frayed kerchief a passerby had tossed him. The afternoon grudgingly proceeded with its activity; construction continued, traffic passed, and pedestrians trod by with purpose. No one paused to look at the old man sitting in a puddle of Liffey, his nose clogged with water and blood, his clothing wet and heavy. Still, the attention had bolstered Dribble’s spirits and, after a moment of creaking and groaning, he was on his feet and eager to try again.
He hobbled through traffic to the adjacent bridge rail, where his head bent over and watched as the river coursed toward the bay. Young Mac Malone would have to make his journey without company. He was nowhere to be seen and Dribble supposed he’d be to the port by now. He shut his eyes and his soul paused to remember his dearly departed Godson.
When his lids lifted, he was amused to see a black shoe caught on an iron rod protruding from the pier below him. It looked like a match to his own pair. A quick inspection revealed that it was indeed one formerly worn on his left foot. “’Tis alright,” Dribble chuckled to himself, “I won’t be needin’ it. However, I believe I’ll leave you be, great river. No use riding you further just to have you pin me against that next crossing. I’ll join me friend soon enough.”
A gull flying overhead released her processed lunch and several short streams rained upon Dribble’s coat sleeve, splashing his face with white drops and emitting a sound resembling wet brush slapping fresh canvas. He looked up and admired the bird, calling, “Ah, your artwork causes me to blush with jealousy, my flighted friend! If only I could soar above this grand city, through its steeples and ‘scrapers, over its parks of green and population plenty! I would eat to my heart’s content, swallow fish and rodents entire, float in the air over the peddlers and sightseers along Grafton Street, and make art on the first Englishman I laid eyes on!” He reveled in the fantasy. “Sweet Jaysis, what a time I’d have!”
Through his mind this idea churned. What a wondrous event it would be to experience! The flight of man, unassisted by technology or device, a simple launch from Dublin’s highest structure into the waiting wind, a scenic delight to rush his senses and give him a unique and splendorous view of the city he adored. The hairs on his limbs stood erect, due not to the chill of water and wind, but from the notion that it could be accomplished this very same day.
A quick survey of the skyline proved the top of the Guinness Storehouse at St. James’s Gate to be the highest point. Feasibility, however, would have to play in selecting a location, and the Storehouse’s crown was simply inaccessible without cunning or forethought, neither of which Dribble was willing to incite within himself. He thought on.
A memory ignited suddenly in him, one of running through a flock of listless pigeons and into his young Mother’s hug. They had come to picnic in the shadow of St. Patrick’s Cathedral one afternoon following Father Mudder’s services when the air was warm with spring and the sun sweat forth its joy. The sky had filled with birds and the child O’Doole watched in amazement, watched them move as one, a hundred pigeons flapping their wings in unison and turning, climbing, falling together, always together. They ascended the western tower, drifted above, then settled around its spire like a ruffled bed sheet riding the air. From that moment, Dribble’s desire to fly had been kindled, and he thought now how appropriate it would be to venture back to the birthplace of his dream and see it realized. “Dear Mother would be so very proud,” he said, eyes glistening. With that, he wiped the moisture away with the handkerchief, substituting tears with smudges of blood, and was off to find his solace.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral is a wonder in stone, having occupied its foundation for roughly fifteen hundred years, and sits grandly overlooking Patrick Street to the west and St. Patrick’s Park to the north. If the patron saint of Ireland himself could know how his name had christened so many national gems (as well as quite a few local establishments like St. Patrick’s Fluff ‘n Fold or the St. Paddy’s Market and Delicatessen across the street), he would be proud and put-off concurrently. Still, the structure is to this day the Protestant Church of Ireland’s national cathedral, which is testament enough to its endurance and might. Tourists flock to witness its greatness and birds collect to sit about its spires and release their waste onto the foreigners below.
Dribble O’Doole had skipped and run through half the city and by the time he entered St. Patrick’s Park he was nearly petered out. An elderly heart had no business being subjected to such strain and excitement and it protested by changing its beat to mimic the solo of an overzealous percussionist. His lungs burned with exhaustion and his abdominal muscles contracted sharply in protest, dragging his pace down to a limping saunter. He gasped for air through sweat and drifting pollen and several passersby wore masks of concern, however the old wanderer continued on his quest despite the pain. Each time a bird flew overhead it electrified Dribble with giddy anticipation.
The shade of the clustered trees receded and Dribble found himself gazing up at the cathedral, his jaw heavy, his mouth forming a crevice of reverence. His ears picked up a faint melody sung by a choir of angels while the stress on his body evaporated and allowed his engineering to settle back to its normal pace of duty.
Calm and refreshment came not from the vision of the steeple alone, but also from the sight of a young mother playing with her toddling son upon the church lawn. The boy stumbled over the grass, chasing a small group of foraging pigeons too fat to fly, while his protector sat on the rim of a low fountain and watched with a delicate smile gracing her lips. The look draping her face was one of appreciation and serenity, and Dribble’s soul wept with the knowledge that she would always recall this moment, a mirrored image of his own experience so many dreams ago. Tears pronounced his joy and fell in homage to Momma O’Doole, gone so many years yet very much alive in this place.
Energy renewed, Dribble snorted the emotion from his nose and allowed his feet to leap forward and carry him to church.
Light did not penetrate well past the towering, arched doors which introduced the sanctuary. Dribble stepped cautiously in and allowed his eyes a moment to adjust, then noticed several well-attired hangers-on milling about around the transepts, probable parishioners from the eleven o’clock Holy Eucharist service. To his left, a group of tourists clustered about the cathedral shop, examining the variety of literature and music and postcards offered for sale, all looking rather uncomfortable in their curtly-hemmed shorts and dusky dress shoes. Every member of the group was stealing glances down the length of the church, impatiently attempting to move the parishioners out of the room with their glaring eyes so they might roam free and examine the relics and architecture and pose for snapshots and still get back to the boulevard in time to catch the next bus.
Familiarity rushed Dribble’s senses, for, although he had not been inside the cathedral in several years, he had been raised a member of its congregation and spent many a Sunday service eagerly awaiting its end and attempting to amuse himself by imagining his adventures had this house been his own and he a noble swashbuckler. He knew the entrance to the stairwell leading up Minot’s Tower was directly across the hall from his current position, obscured by a double set of wooden doors, aged and cumbersome, and further obscured by a heavy velvet tapestry hanging over the passage. It was widely believed that no one outside the clergy had been up the tower, but on several occasions Dribble had spied a clergyman passing through the doorway and had confirmed the presence of steps leading to the great spire riding atop the turret where rapture now awaited.
Dribble found himself holding his breath timidly as he crept across the seemingly-endless hall and stood before the tapestry. He grasped an edge and rubbed its softness between his fingers as though admiring its quality, then expeditiously hid himself behind it, all the time failing to notice old Father Mudder, aged four score and three years, standing not ten paces away and staring straight at him, busily wracking his brain in search of his former pupil’s name.
The doors were there behind the hanging cloth, silently guarding the stairwell until their rusted iron hinges were labored by Dribble’s hand and made to open. Echoes of metal scraping metal cut sharply through the quiet and reverberated throughout the cavernous cathedral. Dribble winced at the sound. As soon as enough entrance had been cleared to allow passage, he poked his head in and looked up into a stone staircase.
“The path to Heaven!” he whispered.
As the tapestry parted behind him to reveal Father Mudder’s smiling face, Dribble stepped into the staircase and gently shut the door behind him. The joints lifting the doors once more moaned with corroded protest, and Dribble’s worn ears were not made aware of the good priest’s frail voice calling, “Drabby! Drabby O’Toole!”
By this time, the muscles in Dribble’s legs had been soothed of their cramps and were further rejuvenated with spirit which led them to prance sprightly up the square spiral of stairs. The salty whiskers on his lip and chin parted to reveal his boyish grin, now suffering from decomposition and neglect, yet earnest nonetheless. With every flight of steps he bounded, his body refused to tire. On the contrary, it became stronger, more sure of itself with the idea of what awaited. Imagination is the greatest motivator, as evidenced by the exhaustive work performed by a single miner of precious gold or by a zookeeper fleeing the jaws of an escaped lion, and the illusion of flight which soared through Dribble’s mind gave him a tiger’s confidence and the strength of a raging elephant. Physical exertion had never felt so liberating.
Four tall windows gracing the top of the stairwell diffused the afternoon light and splashed it against the frigid grey walls. As Dribble O’Doole approached, he thought how heavenly a light it was, cool and even, warm with invitation and welcome. How very appropriate to find such illumination beckoning him, he thought. He looked down at his hand and saw that it glowed, and the nearer he came to the windows, the more his own body scintillated. Moisture in his eyes diffused the light, and the fair fellow would not have been startled to see angels with trumpets beckoning from above.
“I’m coming!” he called up. “Oh, right as rocks, I’m bound for glory!” With giddiness he shuffled forward. “Just you wait! This old man will soon be there to find his peace!”
On he climbed, until he was past the great windows and could find no more steps upon which to prance. They ended at a line of footholds carved into stone, eight depressions leading up the wall to a small trapdoor of solid oak. He carefully mounted the wall and hoisted his body up, taking great care in finding sure footings and reliable handholds. The pain of arthritis shot through his knuckles and into his arms and caused his palms to sweat and his hands to tremble, but a man driven by vigor is a man not easily subdued, and he was soon able to reach up and give a push on the door.
Which was, of course, locked.
He saw it then, the black iron plate holding the latch. A keyhole stared down at him through its small yet intimidating eye, the kind not seen in many years which required the type of long, heavy iron key often found in the museum displays at the prisons of Kilmainham Gaol. To make matters worse, a bead of daylight shone through the keyhole and seared Dribble’s eye with taunt and contempt. Not one to be so easily dissuaded, especially after a lifetime of travel, Dribble struggled to maintain his hold in the rock as his right hand slid to his trousers and delicately removed his belt. As he did so, he made the mistake of looking down the tower and realized that one slip of the hand had potential to send him tumbling down the stairwell or, worse, over the steps and into the empty abyss running down the center of the spiral until the floor of rock halted his fall some forty meters below.
“Lord,” said Dribble as sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, “I assume you are present, or at the least in the vicinity, as the building I cling to now is your house and I your humble guest. I ask you to grant me the favor of safety as I dangle from this here wall.”
He considered his request, then added, “Not because I fear for my own well being, but rather because I’ve just remembered my debt of thirty-eight pounds to a righteous gentleman, Rinky Rourke, and you and I both know it would be shameful to exit this life with outstanding debts. Eh?”
The belt slithered easily from its confining loops and the trousers sank three inches before catching on Dribble’s hipbone. Slowly, he raised the strap over his head and inserted the stiff metal clasp of the buckle into the keyhole and moved it about in short, cautious patterns. Again he addressed his company.
“Lord,” he said. “’Tis I again, your faithful and humble servant. I say faithful with clear knowledge of my absence from your home these past forty years, however that certainly don’t mean my loyalty has strayed. It simply implies that I’ve had other appointments in need of attention.”
He continued, “What I’d like to say here is that it may appear as though my skill with a buckle and lock is good and practiced, however I feel a need to defend meself with truth. Indeed, I learned the trick one night in the company of Constable Dewey, a respectable and Godly man who retired early that winter’s evening due to his very generous intake of the spirits, both holy and medicinal, and poor I was left to amuse myself behind the bars in his home. I cannot admit to remembering how the evening progressed, but I do recall being a free man by dawn of the following day. I also cannot profess my memory to say I have utilized the novelty since, but it seems to me my action now presents itself as the work of a professional, and I know it appears that way to you as well.” The metal of the buckle scraped the latch plate, causing his ears to cringe, and the hand holding a majority of his weight was shaking under the strain. Dribble’s patience began to fade. “To cut the wind from my speech, Lord, I’d like the support of your blessing to help me through.”
He added, “Dear, sweet Lord God of all people.”
Then, “Amen.”
The clasp caught, the buckle turned, and the door was free of its hindrance. Dribble pushed with all his remaining might against the heavy oak and sent it swinging through the air. A rain of sunshine fell down upon him, blinding his eyes, and when they had adjusted he was greeted with a vision of Heaven, a penetrating blue sky interspersed with crisply-white, robust clouds, the likes of which were commonly found only in children’s storybooks. At once he pulled his tired body up and over the wall to find himself crouched atop the tower, wedged in the discomfort of the V-shaped weld between the structure’s crest and the base of its spire. Standing upright was not an option here, there was no easy footing to be found and Dribble had to lean against the sharp slope of the steeple and brace his feet awkwardly against the jutting lip of the tower’s cusp in order to remain erect.
One thing, however, had been apparent from the moment he stepped onto the roof.
There were birds here.
They did not flee when he arrived, nor were they bothered by his presence. They seemed to welcome him by not reacting at all. Pigeons cooed, sparrows nested, and crows stood at attention, searching the lawn below for fallen morsels. Perhaps they thought any man with a mind to stand atop the cathedral’s tower had a right to do so. Perhaps they were distracted by the view, the scent of a serene breeze coming in off the bay, or by the natural heart-swelling of being in a place filled with such calm and majesty. Or maybe they, too, felt the warmth now cascading over and through Dribble’s body, a spirit of sobriety encouraged by the scene before him as he stood atop his city and saw it for the first time.
“My God,” the words ejected from him, “it’s as though Vincent Van painted it solely for mine own eyes.”
The birds softly cooed their approval.
Mac Malone’s leadership entered his mind and doused him with reality. Right, right, no time to dillydally! Work to be done, goal to accomplish, a dream to be realized! Dribble was overcome with anticipation. His plan had brought him this far, yet he now found himself ensconced in the more unfocused and casual portion of his assignment. How to do it, how to do it, let’s see….
He tore his sight from the view and looked behind him to find a wall of solid stone comprising the northern quadrant of the spire. A spiked shadow falling over the wall led him to notice one of the four crowned merlons which lay atop each corner of the tower like a guard’s perch protecting an ancient castle. What fun it would be to gain another two meters of altitude before launching himself into the sky! He blessed the artist who had designed St. Patrick’s in the gothic style and set about his work quickly.
Clenching his belt in both hands, he steadied himself on the tower’s ledge and threw his arms up at the merlon. The belt was flung into the air over his head, but failed to catch on the jutting edge pointing to the sky. Another attempt produced failure. With the third throw, the belt sailed neatly over the top and Dribble tightened his grip on each end of the belt and found the leverage he needed to climb. Weary muscles in his arms flexed sorely under the stress of his weight as he began to clamber up the short wall.
Below him, the furrowed face of Father Mudder appeared at the open trapdoor and reacted suddenly when he saw Dribble hanging off the side of the tower. “Drabby! Hold on, man!” he shouted.
The outburst shattered the precious serenity and sent every bird flying. The sky was instantly black with activity and such commotion startled the remaining strength from Dribble’s limbs. He fell back to the ledge and his feet touched the stone briefly before slipping over, leaving his hoary and abused body hanging precariously over open air with only a weakening cardboard belt to keep him safe.
Father Mudder had been quite the athlete while at university, having achieved minor celebrity due to his speed on the track combined with his runner’s physique and his boyishly-handsome face. Time, the most unyielding thief, had gradually peeled his strength and looks away like the skin of a grape, leaving him, distanced sixty-odd years from his most recent track meet, looking and feeling like a hardened green raisin. His arms and legs recalled their distant past none too fondly as he forced them to lift him up the sheer wall of footholds, and they screamed at him to relent as he slowly, slowly, slowly struggled through the doorway and onto the roof. Once he was cradled in the safety of the wedge between tower and spire, his limbs revolted by cramping every which way, leaving the priest to pant and sweat and ache on his back, helpless to save the man who dangled over him against the tear-inducing blue of the heavens. “Hold on, lad!” he croaked. “Do not relieve your grip!”
“I shall not, Father!” Dribble spat back. “I’d much rather fly than fall from this here tower!” The sweat escaping his palms sullied his grip and he lost an inch of height while his hands trembled and tired and berated him for placing them in such a silly predicament.
Spurred by the prod of peril, Father Mudder began to wriggle. He wriggled his way toward Dribble’s position, inch by frustrating inch, as costly moments raced past. His legs resisted with jolts of pain, yet they wriggled for him. His arms campaigned for mutiny, yet they wriggled to and fro. He reached the base of the merlon and leaned his torso over the tower’s edge. His hand swiped at Dribble’s dangling ankle and seized it, drawing it back toward the safety of foundation with great care. A blossoming crowd on the lawn below erupted with cheers and jeers.
“’Atta boy, Father!” they called.
“Reel him in gentle-like!” they yelled.
“Let the old buffoon finish his business!” they cried.
Soon the priest had pulled his subject back over the edge and Dribble let go his grasp on the belt. He slid to his knees and squatted beside his salvation. Two pair of lungs heaved in unison, wheezing like a handsaw carving through a great oak.
Dribble O’Doole turned to face Father Mudder. “I am obliged to you, you lovely man! I cannot say that anyone has ever worked so hard for my well being, except perhaps my good Mother, rest her soul these many moons past. You, sir, shall have a place in my heart for as long as it continues its rhythm!” A pigeon flapped close and settled upon the tower’s lip. “Which reminds me,” Dribble continued, “I must finish my duty here!” He rose to his feet and poised himself on the stone border between matter and mission.
Father Mudder’s eyes bulged in disbelief and he lurched into action again, taking hold of Dribble’s trouser cuff and wailing, “Drat it all, Drabby O’Toole, what demons have taken hold of your sanity? Step down from your foolishness at once and return your mind to solid ground!”
Dribble smiled down at the worn man clutching his feet and said, “I assure you, Father, I have every one of my senses firmly intact. It is a dream I chase and a dream I intend to fulfill. Now, if you’ll pardon me, the formidability of flight awaits my person.” He returned his attention to the space before him and prepared to launch.
“But man cannot fly!”
“Possibly,” countered Dribble.
“You’ll surely die!”
“Probably,” Dribble nodded.
“Tell me then, my son…why?”
Dribble swiveled his head back and said matter-of-factly, “Because, Father, Mac said…” He halted his tongue and thought about what he was about to say. Mac said. Mac said what? Mac had found him on the bridge and encouraged him to join his venture into the River Liffey. Boredom had impelled Dribble to follow.
One point swam through Dribble in support of the Father’s argument: he was not bored anymore.
In fact, he felt quite good.
Rejuvenated. Energized. Alive. He was all of these. He was active and he was passionate.
He was a child again, running over the lawn of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, chasing plump pigeons and taking his Mother’s presence for granted.
He was a dreamer, a young man inebriated with ambition and desire and goals to achieve.
He was a bird, and he was flying. Soaring. As free as any man ever was.
He looked down at the savior wrapped around his ankles and graced his face with a smile so pure that most men perish never having known it or the peace it brings.
Dribble stepped down from the ledge and helped Father Mudder to his feet. They stood against the incline of the spire, their feet propped against the cusp of the tower’s edge, and shared the view.
“It truly is a sight,” he said finally.
“’Aye, that it is,” said Father Mudder.
Calm overwhelmed them. Both men sighed the cares from their senses and allowed themselves to be a part of it.
“Will you do me one favor, son?” Father Mudder asked.
“Surely, as best I can.”
“Will you allow me to look over my congregation on Sunday and find your face?”
“To be sure, Father,” said Dribble. “I owe you that.”
Fathers Connell and Downy were there, climbing onto the roof and taking Father Mudder’s hand to guide him down. Once they had managed, Dribble peered about for one last view and noticed that the birds had returned. All was just as it had been when he first arrived.
A crow flew over and released his bowels onto Dribble’s shoulder. Dribble grinned heartily, craned his neck to the bird, and said, “I’ll thank you for your encouragement, friend, and wish you a very pleasant evening! May your wings carry you to adventure and jubilation, and may you find such splendor the likes of which it has taken me a lifetime to discover!” He gave a confident wave before descending through the Minot Tower’s trapdoor to be received by the Father awaiting his return.
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