Spailpín in the Modern

A swan gilded the water of that crescent morning. In folklore, her song is supposed to warn someone of a sudden death. The morning I was planning to join the backpacking club, the swan looked a picture of effortlessness in the slow-moving river—as if she could be found in no other setting. Her grace in water was my stagnancy on earth. Through the excursion to a place called Reeks ridge in County Kerry, I hoped I would regain some lost sense of belonging.

The bus was waiting at Gaol Cross, a spot of road near the University College Cork’s main hall. In the early light, the hall resembled a white-blue fortress in the long fluid shape of a sunken battleship. Through one of its arches, I followed the paved road down the hill to a still-floating section of the River Lee. At that spot, trees grew dense on either side of the river. They had leaves growing up them like tiny imprints of hands stamped on paper. Vines came to bridge the gap the water had detained from the mutiny of foliage. It was from the river I saw Gaol Cross and quickened my pace to catch the backpackers.

The boys were lined up at the back of the bus, where they were piling gear. They wore North Face labels stitched in their clothing, and I told myself it was not their staring eyes, but their gear, which formed a specialized cult in spotting the lesser, out-of-place brand. Inside the bus, one of the boys stood in the front aisle. “Please raise your hand if you have been on a hike with the club before?” he said. “You cannot attend if you have not gone on any previous hikes.” The bus was quiet. I remained silent still. It was my last plea, which turned me out to the swan.

I kicked a rock across the bridge, and stopped when I saw her in the water. A slow and necessary death had been pulsing a long time to wake me to the newness. It was a state-of-mind not a physical territory that I had been looking to transform me. The swan resembled, through my small understanding as an outsider, what it meant to be in Ireland—in search of one’s past. The place I was standing was not a place but an imagination. It did not preside in some small sphere of any country, but in the instinctive desire to keep such a setting inside oneself.