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Blessings and Burdens The Eyles moved to Ireland in mid-December 1947, their origin unknown. Some folk even called them gypsies, but neither that, nor the local gossip concerning the family’s “strangeness,” mattered to Binn McCarty. She’d heard there was talk of a son, and received the news with great curiosity and joy. Her only sibling was a sister seven years her senior. A turbulent teenager was of no use to Binn whatever. The Eyles’s boy was reported to be about Binn’s age. She was longing for the company and companionship of a good, hearty lad, one who would appreciate her tomboy ways. For once, Binn would have an ally instead of disapproving eyes always on her and the constant question: “Why can’t ya act like a good little lass?” Binn had suffered through more than one Christmas of rushing to the look neath the fir tree only to find that St. Nicholas once again must have mistaken her for another girl named Binn; one who treasured rag dolls rather than building logs and trains as this Binn did. Binn’s family was not the rich sort, far from it. Castlebar, a rural community in County Mayo, offered little in the way of luxurious living. It was a town embraced by the brackish sea at its tip, and lush, green fields at its tail. Cathal McCarty, Binn’s da, made decent wages through knowing how to cut turf, as any seasoned man of Eire did, and also having the uncanny ability to repair almost anything mechanical. This enabled him to support his family well enough. When the Eyles arrived it was said that they came from money, but a black-hearted English father who deserted his wife and son had squandered the fortune. Binn’s da made it a point to abruptly end the questionable conversion at the dinner table one evening, saying he would not allow the local “hens’ chatter” in his house. The McCartys were Catholic, but Cathal was certain of powers that could not be explained away by the Church’s teaching. Perhaps it was all the time he spent in the murky bogs that allowed his imagination to run wild with stories of fey and the like; at least that’s what Binn’s mother concluded as she briskly cleared away the dishes that night, informing her chiding spouse that she was not a hen, but indeed a good Christian, unlike her pagan husband. Being nine years old, and in desperate need of a friend who truly understood her, Binn didn’t care if the Eyles’s boy walked on a dirt floor or a Persian carpet. She just wanted to make his acquaintance, and commence with all the fun they could have tramping about the countryside. Binn could still recall clear as the bells at St. Dermot’s the very first day she met young Mr. Eyles. It was only a few days before Christmas, and Binn’s Yuletide excitement afforded her the courage to make the visit—alone. The last rays of chilled sunlight were being swiftly swallowed by a dusky gray which brushed the land with the pointed fingers of winter. Binn paused a moment on the step, taking note of an unfamiliar silver tube nailed to one side of the door post. Peculiar block symbols were imbedded on the object that was only a few inches in diameter, easy to miss for most. But Binn was the most inquisitive of creatures. She was running her fingers along the smooth surface when a tall, gaunt woman on the verge of nervous exhaustion suddenly opened the door, catching the little girl off guard. Quickly collecting herself, Binn extended her hand, taking hold of Mrs. Eyles’s slender wrist, and shaking it with confidence. Binn’s words rode the air in puffs of white. “Hallo, Mrs. Eyles?” “Y-e-s...” the woman concurred suspiciously. “I’m Binn McCarty from ‘round the way and I was hopin’ to see yer son.” She received no words in reply, only the queerest glance from the woman. Binn thought it was because of her trousers and short-cropped hair. Girls her age wore dresses, even if they had no shoes, and hair long enough to fall past their shoulders. Binn’s curls, black as pitch, were cut close to her head. Dark eyes and ivory skin were her sole feminine qualities. Her attire and manner were all boy.
“Ah, I’ve brought this.” She extricated from her satchel a loaf of raisin bread hastily wrapped in wax paper. She had pilfered the offering from her mother’s cupboard. “It’s from me mam.” She blushed, knowing that her mother would not be so welcoming to the odd newcomers, but wanting Mrs. Eyles to believe otherwise. “And I’ve got some grand stones here to show yer boy. I collected them from the Céide Fields.” “Céide Fields?” The woman politely accepted the bread. “Yes, they are the most beautiful fields in all of Ireland! Well, not that I’ve seen all the fields in Ireland—yet. But they have to be the oldest to be sure, over five thousand years they are!” “That’s just a drop in the bucket,” the woman said in her tired way. Binn regarded Mrs. Eyles, expecting further explanation. After a slight pause, the girl resumed her mostly one-sided conversation with the unusual woman. “Yer not from Ireland, I know. But me and the family would like to welcome ya. After all, it is Christmastime.” Binn beamed like the candles on a fir tree. “Please thank your mother for me.” Mrs. Eyles stepped away from the door, her foreign accent becoming more apparent, even through her parceled words. “And thank you for calling on my son, but, we do not celebrate...” The woman placed a shaking hand over her dry lips, as if shoving back the explosive words that were on the way, and replacing them with more acceptable ones. “I’m sorry. I mean my son; he is not one to go out romping through fields.” Binn retained the smile, even though the woman slightly unnerved her. “Oh, we don’t have to go today then,” she offered in her breezy way. “It’s gettin’ on tea time, and I wouldn’t mind stayin’ inside.” “No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, and not any time soon.” Before she could shut the door, a young boy materialized from behind his mother’s skirt. “Who is it, mama?” Binn held her breath as the lad looked first to his mother, then settled his great, green eyes on her. The colors of the gloaming spilled from a sky in the throws of transition, and rested on his blond head, giving him an ethereal form. He was rather slight for a boy of ten, his fair skin almost translucent. Tiny veins, like blue lines on a map, rested just below the surface of his forehead. Through the years Binn would come to know this certain look about him. It always signified he was deep in thought. It was one of the things she would treasure about him. “Oh, it’s you. Finally!” His pale face shone. “Ya know me?” Binn exclaimed in confusion. “Ya look more like an angel than anyone I would know.” She took him in with her dark eyes as she searched her memory. The boy laughed, replying, “And you look like someone with a heavy load.” “What?” Binn stared then, remembered the bag of stones. “Oh, it’s not too terrible, and I thought I could share with ya.” He beamed. “Alright then, mama?” “I think it best we go inside now, Malachy.” “Please, mama, don’t send her away. Not after all this time. I need to see what she has brought me.” “Yes. You are right.” Mrs. Eyles gave in with a sigh. “Come in, child.” She moved her hand to usher Binn into their home. “I’ll make some tea.” The children jumped with delight. “I don’t think yer mam likes me much,” Binn whispered to the boy as he gently took her arm. “Don’t let her frighten you,” he whispered back, taking note of the canopy of color that surrounded his new homeland. “Mama sometimes forgets we all have our blessings and burdens.”
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