Seanchaidhe
By Olivia Lieby
The walls pull close, but the ceiling arches high above, and the strike of my boots on the stone tiles echoes. There is murmuring around; snippets of conversation from the gift shop, from the café, and from the alcoves that open into exhibits are just barely audible. The words are unintelligible, and the sound is hardly noticeable on its own; having grown up in a busy city, the ambient hum of people is as familiar to me as breathing.
Further down the hall, there are stronger voices. Someone, somewhere, is singing in harmony with the crashing of waves – it must be a recording, because even standing outside of the building I am too far from the shore to hear the ocean. Still, the song is beautiful and lilting and tugs at my curiosity. Out of another alcove in the hall, a low voice rumbles a steady dictation, and a pen scratches out each syllable. Stronger still, I hear an old woman’s voice beckon me toward her with echoes of a familiar comfort.
I follow the voice to one of the exhibit alcoves further down the hall, past a topographic diorama of a map of the Blasket Islands, and a chicken-wire sculpture of three men rowing a curragh. The alcove is plain, just flat white walls encasing a cramped wooden interior, and my eyes strain to adjust to the odd lighting.
The moment I step inside, the world goes quiet. The murmur of voices in the hallways vanishes, and I am suddenly very alone. There is a portal on the floor in front of me, glowing golden at the mouth of a narrow space lined with enclosed wooden seats. Like pews in a church, the thought strikes me, and instantly the solemn weight of this place feels heavier.
I step lighter, my boots suddenly feeling too loud, too heavy, too intrusive in this hallowed space. The portal pulses and flickers, alive with the old woman’s powerful voice. She’s telling a story; I am drawn in by the gentle rise and fall of her tone, the quick snap of her words, the long draw of emphasis. I can almost see her in the crackling fire that wreaths the portal and her voice – an old woman in a rocking chair with a warm blanket thrown over her lap, grey-white hair cropped neatly around her head. There are people listening to her, huddled by the fire she holds the seat of honor beside, sitting at her feet, in chairs around her, standing and hovering nearby just to hear her speak. I find myself sinking into one of the pews built into this shrine.
Gaeilge slips from her tongue and washes over me like a nearly-forgotten memory, echoing with sea-salt and rain-damp grass and clean fresh air carried in on the wind that ripples the gorse flowers. I know this language, even if I do not speak it. It is written into my bones. It hums in my soul. It fills me with a deep, aching longing that I don’t have the words to name.
Somewhere in the past, an old woman tells me a story.
Somewhere in the now, I listen.
