Page 186 - Chasing Danny Boy: Powerful Stories of Celtic Eros

176 Michael Wynne

him in my heart.
Our last night swimming in Lough Nasool, Ruden con-
fessed, the way someone leaving on a journey will confess, that
he secretly despised his mother’s intuitive gifts. As a student
he had often sneered at her for crossing the psychical and
political. I laughed when he told of the embarrassing times
she had, entirely unwelcome, earnestly practised her divina-
tion on him, and he had run from her table, her crystal ball,
her house, her town, and her.
Thus Ruden reminded me how, with her genuine gift
for the clairvoyant, Sorcha, his mother, had revealed to me,
things about love and death—my key in her right fist, while
she held my clenched fist enclosed in her left hand—on that
spring evening under the copper sycamore, strung with red
lights, in the garden where my mother, on the last night on
earth I ever saw my father, could be seen through a window
illuminated by a row of a hundred candle flames, confiding
something sweet, charming, and, finally, I understood, magical
to a woman in a white linen suit.

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