Scéaltaí Ridirí na mBó (1954)

Áralt Ó Tnúthail, composed in Toronto, Ontario

“Is minic a téann sruth beatha an duine ar an gclé aige, go mór mór ar tráthnóna fada Dé Domhnaigh. Ba mhaith liom an tráthnóna sin. Is é an seó mór sa tseachtain. Cuir i gcás an Domhnach seo thart. Bhíos im’ luí ar leaba bog na gaoithe (mar a deirtear), mo phíopa im’ bhéal agus leabhar breá i láimh agam. Ní raibh dada amuigh. Bhí an ghrian ag taithneamh, tá’s agat, agus ná’s agat, agus ní raibh crónáin na mórbheach dá chloisint, ní nach ionadh, mar a bhí sí i lár an gheimhridh, ach bhí sí chomh suaimhneasach áthasach agus bhí seol binnis ar an radió.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Thit an tigh orm. Do bhí roparaithe de shaghas éigin insan seomra agus cad a bhí uathu ach mise a mharú.

‘Dad,’ arsan duine ba ceann orthu, ‘Is droch-olc an fear thú agus níl malairt againne ach tusa do scríos amach.’

‘Tá an focal deireanach agamsa,’ arsa mise agus phreabas suas agus greim do thógailt ar an roithleagán. Thosnaigh an cogadh i gceart.

‘Dad, is éigin duit piléar do chuir ionam nuair atáim marbh, agus titfead síos,’ arsa Micheál.

Do lámhach mé é agus thit sé síos.

‘Mise,’ a ghlaoigh an captaen. Dheineas agus thit sé freisin.

Ní raibh Seán ró-fhada ar an urlár nuair a ghlaoigh an duine marbh amach, ‘Tóg do bhrógáin as mo shlí. An bhfuil poll do chuir i mbarr mo cheann atá uait?’ Suaimhneas ar feadh tamaill. D’oscail Mícheál súil amháin agus d’fhéach sé ar a bhráthair. Dhún sé í agus suas leis ar a lámha agus a ghlúine agus d’imigh sé ar lorg Sheáin. Síos leis ar taobh an thaoisigh.

‘Táim caillte,’ arsa Seán os íseal.

‘Agus mise,’ adeir Mícheál go brónach. ‘Táimid maraithe leis an ghadaí mhór fhada.’

‘S ea,’ dúirt an taoiseach, ‘ach anois táim caite leis an troid agus a bheith in a mharbh. Tar agus imir sinn leis na gluaisteáin agus an loraí.’”

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“It’s often that the stream of a person’s life goes astray, for the most part on a long Sunday afternoon. I would like that afternoon. It is the great fun of the week. Take for example this past Sunday. I was laying on the soft bed of the wind (as they say) [a hammock], my pipe in my mouth and a great book I had in my hand. There was nothing outside. The sun was shining, you know, and don’t you know, and the hum of the big bees couldn’t be heard, isn’t it a wonderful thing, as it was in the middle of winter, but it was so tranquil and pleasant as if there was a sweet broadcast on the radio.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The house fell on me. Robbers of some sort were in the room and what did they want but to kill me.

‘Dad,’ said the lead man, ‘You’re an evil man and we have no choice but to wipe you out.’

‘I have the last word,’ I said and I leapt up and grabbed the little whirling one. The war properly started.

‘Dad, you need to shoot a bullet in me when I’m dead, and I’ll fall down,’ said Mícheál.

I fired it and he fell down.

‘Me,’ called the captain. I did and he also fell.

Seán wasn’t long on the floor when the dead person called out, ‘Take your shoes out of my way. Do you want to put a hole in the top of my head?’ Peace for a while. Mícheál opened one eye and he looked at his brother. He closed it and up he got on his hands and knees and then went looking for Seán. Down he laid beside the chieftain.

‘I’m dead,’ said Seán quietly.

‘And me,’ said Mícheál sadly. ‘We are killed by the great big thief.’

‘Yes,’ said the chieftain, ‘But now I’m bored with the fight and being dead. Come and we will play with the cars and truck.’”

Adapted from: Ó Tnúthail, Áralt. 1954. “Scéaltaí Ridirí na mBó.” Teangadóir. 2.1. Cló Chluain Tairbh: Toronto.

For citation, please use: Ó Tnúthail, Áralt. 1954. “Scéaltaí Ridirí na mBó.” Ó Dubhghaill, Dónall. 2024. Na Gaeil san Áit Ró-Fhuar. Gaeltacht an Oileáin Úir: www.gaeilge.ca