Eachtraí Buachaillí na mBó (1955)

Áralt Ó Tnúthail, composed in Toronto, Ontario

Lone Ranger (Clayton Moore) and Lightening, Promotional Photo, 1959

“Aon lá amháin an tseachtain seo caite agus mo bheirt stócaí amuigh faoin spéir ghorm, tháinig tuirse na nGort Mór orthu faoin spórt éigin a bhí ag imirt acu. Fá’n am sin tháinig triúr buachaillí eile agus beirt cailíní óga agus suas leo an cosán agus isteach sa ngáirdín laistiar den tigh.

‘Cad é atá á dhéanamh agaibh, a Sheáin?’ d’fhiafraigh an ceannaire.

‘Níl dada againne,’ d’fhreagra Seán.

‘Níl mórán againne,’ arsa Liam óg go glonnmhar marbhánta, ‘agus níl ach seachtain fágtar againne den laethanta saoire.’

‘Ba cheart dúinn imeacht as an slí,’ arsa an cailín ba shine. ‘Níl aon ní ag mo mháthair a dhéanamh ach mise do chur ar theachtaireacht suas síos an tsráid an lá uilig.’

Ba cheart dom focal a rá i dtaobh imirtheoirí an scéil ar an am seo. B’é Liam óg an duine ba shine ann agus ní raibh ach seacht mbliana caite aige. Seán, mo mhac, ní raibh sé ach cúig bliana d’aois. Bhí Roibéard, stócach eile, cúig bliana leis agus ní raibh Mícheál, mo mhac eile, ach trí bliana d’aois. Bhí Jimín, stócach eile, ina thrí bliana. An bheirt cailíní – aon agus sé mbliana thart uirthi agus an ceann eile ach dhá bhliain go leith.

‘Bhuel,’ arsa Seán, ‘mar shin an scéal. Tar liom agus suas linn go dtí Sráid Eglinton; tá trí siopaí follamha ann agus tá seans maith againn cluiche d’imirt iontu.’

‘Go maith, a Sheáin,’ do ghlaoigh na páistí uilig.

Ritheadar go meidhreach ag cadráil eatarthu ar an spórt a bhí rompu.

‘Is mise an Lone Ranger,’ ar Liam go tapaidh.

‘Agus mise Roy Rogers,’ do ghlaoigh Jimín beag.

Do chuir sin na buachaillí eile amú. ‘Bhuel,’ arsa Seán, ‘Is mise an Lightning.’

Ba mhaith le Mícheál an t-ainm sin agus do ghol sé go feargach: ‘Bhuel, tá mise im’ ropaire mór ar chapaill dubha agus tá aghaidhfidil agam agus maród gach aoinne díbh.’ Ach ní raibh ach gáire mar fhreagairt.

Suas go tapaidh agus níobh fhada go rabhadar insan siopa folamh. Suas an staighre leo agus isteach i seomra laistiar den fhoirgint. Amach as an fhuinneoig le gach ceann acu agus suas ar beann an tsiopa. D’imíodar ag féachaint síos ar an tsráid, ar na daoine a bhí ag siúl fúthu, agus gan fhios ag duine amháin acu go raibh na páistí ar bharr an fhoirgint.

‘Féach ar na daoine bochta thíos fúinn. Níl aon eolas orthu ar an mbaol uafásach atá ag teacht orthu i gceann neomait,’ arsa ceann desna hainscianaibh óga. ‘Leimfimíd síos orthu agus lámhóimíd iad go léir agus béarfaimíd an t-airgead uathu.’

Ach faraoir! Níor thit an scéal mar sin in aon chor. Chualadar máthair Sheáin ag glaoch orthu, ‘Tar anuas as sin,’ do ghlaoigh sí, ‘agus nuair do bhéarad mo láimh ort gheobhaidh tú is dual dhuit!’

‘Ach, a Mhamaí! Táimid ag imirt go maith,’ do ghol Seán go brónach. ‘Níl dada le déanamh againne sa mbaile.’

‘Tar anuas mar a dheirimse,’ do ghlaoigh a Mham go feargach, ‘nó beidh an tslat agat i gceann tamaill.’

Tháinig siad go léir síos go trom cosantach.

‘Anois, a Sheáin, imigh agus Mícheál leat go dtí an tigh agus beir ar do leabhraibh móra scéaltaí agus tosnaigí ar léamh. Ba cheart duit rud éigin mar sin d’fhoghlaim ná na cleasaí bhaolaí a bhfuil agat.’

Chuaigh an Lightning agus na hainscianna eile isteach sa tigh, ghlanadar a láimhe agus thóg siad síos na leabhair, agus thosnaigh siad ar léamh.

B’shin deireadh an scéil ar imruathar na hainscian dubha ar Bhaile Eabhrac.”

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“One day this past week and my two young men out under the blue sky, they became tired of the game they had been playing. At that time, three other boys and two young girls came up the path and into the garden behind the house.

‘What is it that you have to do, Seán?’ asked the leader.

‘We’ve nothing,’ answered Seán.

‘We don’t have much,’ said young Liam, disgusted and spiritless, ‘and there aren’t left but a week of our holidays.’

‘We should go out of the way,’ said the eldest girl. ‘My mother has nothing to do but to send me on errands up and down the street the whole day.’

I should say a word concerning the players of the story at this time. Young Liam was the eldest person there and he hadn’t lived but seven years. Seán, my son, was not but five years of age. Roibéard, another young man, was also five years old and Mícheál, my other son, wasn’t but three years of age. Jimín, another youth, was in his third year. The two girls - one was six years old and the other one but two and a half years.

‘Well,’ said Seán, ‘as that’s the story. Come with me and up with us to Eglinton Street; there are three empty shops there and we have a good chance to play a game in them.’

‘Alright, Seán,’ called all the children.

They ran merrily, chatting among themselves about the amusement that was ahead of them.

‘I’m the Lone Ranger,’ said Liam quickly.

‘And I’m Roy Rogers,’ called little Jimín.

That redirected the other boys. ‘Well,’ said Seán, ‘I’m Lightning.’

Mícheál would have liked that name and he wept angrily: ‘Well, I’m a robber of black horses and I have a mask and I will kill each one of you.’ But there wasn’t but a laugh as an answer.

Onwards quickly and it wasn’t long until they were in the empty shop. Up the stairs with them and into the room at the back of the building. Out of the window with each one of them and up onto the roof of the shop. They went looking down on the streets, on the people that were walking under them, and not one of them knowing that there were children on the top of the building.

‘Look at the poor people down below us. They don’t have a clue about the awful danger that is coming on them in a minute,’ said one of the young wild ones. ‘We will jump down on them and we will shoot them all and we will take their money from them.’

But alas! The story didn’t pan out like that at all. They heard Seán’s mother calling them, ‘Come down from there,’ she called, ‘and when I get my hands on you, you will get what you deserve!’

‘But, Mummy! We are playing well,’ wept Seán sadly. ‘We have nothing to do at home.’

‘Come down as I say,’ called his mum angrily, ‘or you will have the switch in a minute.’

They all came down heavy-footedly.

‘Now, Seán, go and take Mícheál with you to the house and get your big books of stories and start reading. You should learn something like that than the dangerous tricks you have.’

Lightning and the other wild ones went into the house, they washed their hands and they took down the books, and they started reading.

That was the end of the story about the attack of the dark-haired wild ones on York.”

Adapted from: Ó Tnúthail, Áralt. 1955. “Eachtraí Buachaillí na mBó.” Teangadóir. 3.2 (1955). Cló Chluain Tairbh: Toronto.

For citation, please use: Ó Tnúthail, Áralt. 1955. “Eachtraí Buachaillí na mBó.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca