Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

      “What kind of bog is it, Andy?” said Dick. “Is there anythin’ peculiar about it. Does it shift?”

      Andy grinned a most unaccountable grin.

      “Begor, it does, surr!” he answered, quickly. “Sure, all bogs does shift!” And he grinned again.

      “Andy,” said Dick, laughing, “you have some joke in your mind. What is it?”

      “Oh, sorra wan, surr — ask the masther there.”

      As it did not need a surgical operation to get the joke intended into the head of a man — of whatever nationality — who understood Andy’s allusion, and as I did not want to explain it, I replied:

      “Oh, don’t ask me, Andy; I’m no authority on the subject,” and I looked rather angrily at him, when Dick was not looking.

      Andy hastened to put matters right; he evidently did not want to lose his day’s hire on the morrow:

      “Yer ‘an’rs, ye may take me wurrd for it. There’s a bog beyant at Knocknacar which’II intherestyez intirely; I remimber it meself a lot higher up the mountain whin I was a spalpeen, an’ it’s been crawlin’ down iver since. It’s a mighty quare shpot, intirely!”

      This settled the matter, and we arranged forthwith to start early on the following morning for Knocknacar, Andy, before he left, having a nightcap — out of a tumbler.

      We were astir fairly early in the morning, and having finished a breakfast sufficiently substantial to tide us over till dinner-time, we started on our journey. The mare was in good condition for work, the road was level and the prospect fine, and altogether we enjoyed our drive immensely. As we looked back we could see Knockcalltecrore rising on the edge of the coast away to our right, and seemingly surrounded by a network of foam-girt islands, for a breeze was blowing freshly from the southwest.

      At the foot of the mountain — or, rather, hill — there was a small, clean-looking sheebeen. Here Andy stopped and put up the mare; then he brought us up a narrow lane bounded by thick hedges of wild brier to where we could see the bog which was the object of our visit. Dick’s foot was still painful, so I had to give him an arm, as on yesterday. We crossed over two fields, from which the stones had been collected and placed in heaps. The land was evidently very rocky, for here and there — more especially in the lower part — the gray rock cropped up in places. At the top of the farthest field, Andy pointed out an isolated rock rising sharply from the grass.

      “Look there, yer ‘an’rs; whin I remimber first, that rock was as far aff from the bog as we are now from the boreen; an’ luk at it now: why, the bog is close to it, so it is.” He then turned and looked at a small heap of stones. “Murther! but there is a quare thing. Why that heap, not a year ago, was as high as the top iv that rock. Begor, it’s bein’ buried, it is!”

      Dick looked quite excited as he turned to me and said:

      “Why, Art, old fellow, here is the very thing we were talking about. This bog is an instance of the gradual changing of the locality of a bog by the filtration of its water through the clay beds resting on the bed-rock. I wonder if the people here will let me make some investigations! Andy, who owns this land?”

      “Oh, I can tell yer ‘an’r that well enough; it’s Mishter Moriarty from Knockcalltecrore. Him, surr,” turning to me, “that ye seen at Widda Kelligan’s that night in the shtorm.”

      “Does he farm it himself?”

      “No, surr — me father rints it. The ould mare was riz on this very shpot.”

      “Do you think your father will let me make some investigations here, if I get Mr. Moriarty’s permission also?”

      “Throth, an’ he will, surr — wid all the plisure in life — iv coorse,” he added, with native shrewdness, “if there’s no harrum done to his land — or, if there’s harrum done, it’s ped for.”

      “All right, Andy,” said I; “I’ll be answerable for that part of it.”

      We went straight away with Andy to see the elder Sullivan. We found him in his cabin at the foot of the hill — a hale old man of nearly eighty, with all his senses untouched, and he was all that could be agreeable. I told him who I was, and that I could afford to reimburse him if any damage should be done. Dick explained to him that, so far from doing harm, what he would do would probably prevent the spreading of the bog, and would in such case much enhance the value of his holding, and in addition give him the use of a spring on his land. Accordingly we went back to make further investigations. Dick had out his note-book in an instant, and took accurate note of everything; he measured and probed the earth, tapped the rocks with the little geological hammer which he always carried, and finally set himself down to make an accurate map of the locality, I acting as his assistant in the measurements. Andy left us for a while, but presently appeared, hot and flushed. As he approached, Dick observed:

      “Andy has been drinking the health of all his relatives. We must keep him employed here, or we may get a spill going home.”

      The object of his solicitude came and sat on a rock beside us, and looked on. Presently he came over, and said to Dick:

      “Yer ‘an’r, can I help ye in yer wurrk? Sure, if ye only want wan hand to help ye, mayhap mine id do. An’ thin his ‘an’r here might hop up to the top iv the mountain; there’s a mighty purty view there intirely, an’ he could enjoy it, though ye can’t get up wid yer lame fut.”

      “Good idea!” said Dick. “You go up on top, Art. This is very dull work, and Andy can hold the tape for me as well as you or any one else. You can tell me all about it when you come down.”

      “Do, yer ‘an’r. Tell him all ye see!” said Andy, as I prepared to ascend. “If ye go up soft be the shady parts, mayhap ye’d shtrike another bit of bog be the way.”

      I had grown so suspicious of Andy’s double entente, that I looked at him keenly, to see if there was any fresh joke on; but his face was immovably grave, and he was seemingly intent on the steel tape which he was holding.

      I proceeded up the mountain. It was a very pleasant one to climb, or rather, to ascend, for it was nearlyall covered with grass. Here and there, on the lower half, were clumps of stunted trees, all warped eastwards by the prevailing westerly wind — alders, mountain-ash, and thorn. Higher up these disappeared, but there was still a pleasant sprinkling of hedge-rows. As the verdure grew on the south side higher than on the north or west, I followed it and drew near the top. As I got closer, I heard some one singing. “By Jove,” said I to myself, “the women of this country have sweet voices!” — indeed, this was by no means the first time I had noticed the fact. I listened, and as I drew nearer to the top of the hill I took care not to make any noise which might disturb the singer. It was an odd sensation to stand in the shadow of the hill-top, on that September day, and listen to Ave Maria sung by the unknown voice of an unseen singer. I made a feeble joke all to myself:

      “My experience of the girls of the west is that of vox et proeterea nihil.”

      There was an infinity of pathos in the voice — some sweet, sad yearning, as though the earthly spirit was singing with an unearthly voice — and the idea came on me with a sense of conviction that some deep unhappiness underlay that appeal to the Mother of Sorrows. I listened, and somehow felt guilty. It almost seemed that I was profaning some shrine of womanhood, and I took myself to task severely in something of the following strain:

      “That poor girl has come to this hill-top for solitude. She thinks she is alone with Nature and Nature’s God, and pours forth her soul freely; and you, wretched, tainted man, break in on the sanctity of her solitude — of her prayer. For shame! for shame!”

      Then — men are all hypocrites — I stole guiltily forward to gain a peep at the singer who thus communed with Nature and Nature’s God, and the sanctity of whose solitude and prayer I was violating.

      A