AT THE TIME OF THE HUNTER'S MOON

AT THE TIME OF THE HUNTER'S MOON

By Veronica Breen Hogle

I can always tell when it’s the time of the hunter's moon in October. Days before it appears in the pearly sky, Gran and I go down to the village of Graiguenamanagh for extra provisions and paraffin oil for the lamps. As our cart creaks back up the Wood Road to our little farmhouse, we take turns clicking our tongues and shouting words of encouragement to our beloved Bertha, her old legs straining under the weight. I’m ten years old and I feel important taking the reins, keeping Bertha to the grassy side of the road. I feel the wind billowing my coat out behind me. Gran is tired and takes a doze. When we arrive at the house, Uncle Eric unloads the sacks and bags and takes Bertha back to her grazing field by the Barrow River.

The next few days, Gran airs the beds, dusts, and polishes the brass lamp and makes apple dumblings. As she bakes in iron pots over the open fire, she sings off-key in a high voice. She is jubilant at this time of the year because her sons Louie and Des are coming down from Dublin to team up with Uncle Eric for the shootin.’ Soon pheasants, grouse and rabbits will hang on nails on the backs of doors, be stacked on the kitchen table, simmer in pots, and steam up the windows. For weeks to come, feathers and fur will be found in strange places all around the house. It’s 1949, and Ireland has been declared a Republic. There’s a bleakness and scarcity around, and people are hopeful for a good yield from the shootin’.

“We’ve two rogue bantams!” says Uncle Eric coming into the kitchen with four small eggs in his cap.
“Where did ya find ‘em?” Gran asks, her eyes shining.
“Under the barley stack abroad in Healy’s field! I left ‘em two!”
“In Healy’s field! Ah, grand, Er, I’ll be able to use ‘em for the rice puddin’.”
“It’s strange that they’re layin’ out - they’re rogue bantams now!”

Uncle Eric looks worried and makes a porthole with the fleshy side of his fist on the steamed-up kitchen window. He squints and sees the meadowlarks darting over the fields that were amber with barley in the summer.

“Ah, sure, bantams just do what they feel like,” Gran says. “They’re too small ta make any kind of a meal. They’re not good layers either. And they’re temperamental as can be!” We shouldn’t a bothered with ‘em a ‘tall!” trying to console him.

“Ah, well yes, but I mane ta say, somethin’s makin’ ‘em lay out!”

Uncle Eric got the bantams for me and I named them Polly and Dolly. They were smashers. Two little queens with cloaks of thick ermine draping mahogany feather skirts that shimmered in the light. Their wing cuffs and the sides of the tail feathers were trimmed with matching ermine and rose crowns quivered on the tops of their regal heads. They took turns showing the long ornate feathers arching their tails. And with breasts extended, and one leg suspended in mid air, they posed as if to say, Did I hear you say I’m a smasher? ...

“Well, Vonnie,” Gran said looking at the clock, “There’s still time ta boil the ham an’ make the rice puddin’ so it’ll be ready for the lads when they come down from Dublin tamorra!”

She plants herself in her chair at the open fire, turning the wheel of the fan. Her long thick hair has been brushed and is spread like a silver cloak down her back. Swaying from side-to-side, she sings in her high-pitched voice, ”The pale moon was risin’ above the green mountains; the sun was declinin’ beneath the blue sea..."

“That singin’ would chase off any strange man or beast that came near the house!” Uncle Eric says his blue eyes dancing. Gran laughs and her voice gets higher. “When I strayed with me love be da pure crystal fountain that stands in da beautiful Vale a Tralee!”

“An the hens ‘ill stop laying too if you keep up that high pitchin’!” he teases her.

“The cool shades a evenin’ their mantles were spreadin’, an’ Mary all smilin’ was listenin’ ta me...”

“Ah that’s it now! that’s it! I mane ta say. That’s why the rogue bantams are layin’ out abroad in the field. Your singin’ has terrified the bantams ta the point that they’ll want ta leave home all together!” She stops the fan, her gray eyes serious.

“Do you think that might be it, Er? Your father used ta say that I could fill in for the Banshee herself!” The two of them laugh and Uncle Eric leaves for the farmhouse where he plays cards late into the night for a ha’penny a game. She sways with the fan and sings two verses of ‘Down by the Sally Garden,’ as the ham simmers and fills the house with a faint smoky aroma.

“It’s time to put the hens ta bed!” she says. Gran is used to living skin to skin with nature. Out in the henhouse she talks to the hens. She counts them several times, circling her hand lightly over each one, her voice rhythmic. The hens cluck back, the same sound over and over, answering her roll call, before tucking their heads under their wings. The rogue bantams are there, side by side, giving an odd cluck to the chorus.

“We want the bantams ta lay at home,” she whispers to me. “The bantams are like prima donnas. We have ta cater ta them, ta inveigle ‘em home.“
“Are you sure it’s not your singin’ Gran?’ I whisper.
“Not a ‘tall. The woods would be silent if only the best singin' birds sang. Uncle Eric was trying ta get me goat!”

I wasn’t so sure. Because when Gran hit the high notes, the windows rattle, and the keys dance on the hook on the dresser, especially when she belts out ‘The Fields of Athenry,’ the small town in Galway where grandfather came from.

Back in the kitchen Gran banks the fire. Her eyes scan the kitchen and rest on the rice pudding made wheat-colored by the bantam's eggs. She smiles to herself and takes off her apron, satisfied that everything is ready and all is in order.

"Vonnie, you take the clock, and I’ll take the candle and we’ll go up ta bed. Please God it 'ill be a good shootin' season for the lads comin' down from Dublin." She quenches the lamp, her face soft and lovely in the light of the full hunter's moon beaming in through the window. ###

This story was published in Ireland’s Own Magazine, Wexford, Ireland in October, 2006.

Story ID:	3137
Written by:	Veronica Breen Hogle (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Irish Cultural Events
Story type:	Family History
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Graiguenamanagh Co. Kilkenny Ireland
Year:	1949
Person:	Mrs. Earls and Eric