The Well of the Saints

Martin Doul and Mary Doul grope in on left and pass over to stones on right where they sit.

Mary Doul

What place are we now, Martin Doul?

Martin Doul

Passing the gap.

Mary Doul

Raising her head. The length of that! Well, the sun’s getting warm this day if it’s late autumn itself.

Martin Doul

Putting out his hands in sun. What way wouldn’t it be warm and it getting high up in the south? You were that length plaiting your yellow hair you have the morning lost on us, and the people are after passing to the fair of Clash.

Mary Doul

It isn’t going to the fair, the time they do be driving their cattle and they with a litter of pigs maybe squealing in their carts, they’d give us a thing at all. She sits down. It’s well you know that, but you must be talking.

Martin Doul

Sitting down beside her and beginning to shred rushes she gives him. If I didn’t talk I’d be destroyed in a short while listening to the clack you do be making, for you’ve a queer cracked voice, the Lord have mercy on you, if it’s fine to look on you are itself.

Mary Doul

seeing man⁠—it’s scores would have had me and welcome⁠—for the seeing is a queer lot, and you’d never know the thing they’d do.

A moment’s pause.

Martin Doul

Listening. There’s someone coming on the road.

Mary Doul

Let you put the pith away out of their sight, or they’ll be picking it out with the spying eyes they have, and saying it’s rich we are, and not sparing us a thing at all.

They bundle away the rushes. Timmy the smith comes in on left.

Martin Doul

With a begging voice. Leave a bit of silver for blind Martin, your honour. Leave a bit of silver, or a penny copper itself, and we’ll be praying the Lord to bless you and you going the way.

Timmy

Stopping before them. And you letting on a while back you knew my step!

He sits down.

Martin Doul

With his natural voice. I know it when Molly Byrne’s walking in front, or when she’s two perches, maybe, lagging behind; but it’s few times I’ve heard you walking up the like of that, as if you’d met a thing wasn’t right and you coming on the road.

Timmy

Hot and breathless, wiping his face. You’ve good ears, God bless you, if you’re a liar itself; for I’m after walking up in great haste from hearing wonders in the fair.

Martin Doul

Rather contemptuously. You’re always hearing queer wonderful things, and the lot of them nothing at all; but I’m thinking, this time, it’s a strange thing surely you’d be

Martin Doul

Ecstatically. Oh, glory be to God, I see now surely.⁠ ⁠… I see the walls of the church, and the green bits of ferns in them, and yourself, holy father, and the great width of the sky.

He runs out half-foolish with joy, and comes past Mary Doul as she scrambles to her feet, drawing a little away from her as he goes by.

Timmy

To the others. He doesn’t know her at all.

The Saint comes out behind Martin Doul, and leads Mary Doul into the church. Martin Doul comes on to the People. The men are between him and the Girls; he verifies his position with his stick.

Martin Doul

Crying out joyfully. That’s Timmy, I know Timmy by the black of his head.⁠ ⁠… That’s Mat Simon, I know Mat by the length of his legs.⁠ ⁠… That should be Patch Ruadh, with the gamey eyes in him, and the fiery hair. He sees Molly Byrne on Mary Doul’s seat, and his voice changes completely. Oh, it was no lie they told me, Mary Doul. Oh, glory to God and the seven saints I didn’t die and not see you at all. The blessing of God on the water, and the feet carried it round through the land. The blessing of God on this day, and them that brought me the Saint, for it’s grand hair you have she lowers her head a little confused, and soft skin, and eyes would make the saints, if they were dark awhile and seeing again, fall down out of the sky. He goes nearer to her. Hold up your head, Mary, the way I’ll see it’s richer I am than the great kings of the east. Hold up your head, I’m saying, for it’s soon you’ll be seeing me, and I not a bad one at all.

Mary Doul

I’m thinking it’s a poor thing when the Lord God gives you sight and puts the like of that man in your way.

Martin Doul

It’s on your two knees you should be thanking the Lord God you’re not looking on yourself, for if it was yourself you seen you’d be running round in a short while like the old screeching madwoman is running round in the glen.

Mary Doul

Beginning to realize herself. If I’m not so fine as some of them said, I have my hair, and big eyes, and my white skin.

Martin Doul

Breaking out into a passionate cry. Your hair, and your big eyes, is it?⁠ ⁠… I’m telling you there isn’t a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the world isn’t finer than the dirty twist on your head. There isn’t two eyes in any starving sow isn’t finer than the eyes you were calling blue like the sea.

Mary Doul

Interrupting him. It’s the devil cured you this day with your talking of sows; it’s the devil cured you this day, I’m saying, and drove you crazy with lies.

Martin Doul

Isn’t it yourself is after playing lies on me, ten years, in the day and in the night; but what is that to you now the Lord God has given eyes to me, the way I see you an old wizendy hag, was never fit to rear a child to me itself.

Mary Doul

Mary Doul, blind again, gropes her way in on left, and sits as before. She has a few rushes with her. It is an early spring day.

Mary Doul

Mournfully. Ah, God help me⁠ ⁠… God help me; the blackness wasn’t so black at all the other time as it is this time, and it’s destroyed I’ll be now, and hard set to get my living working alone, when it’s few are passing and the winds are cold. She begins shredding rushes. I’m thinking short days will be long days to me from this time, and I sitting here, not seeing a blink, or hearing a word, and no thought in my mind but long prayers that Martin Doul’ll get his reward in a short while for the villainy of his heart. It’s great jokes the people’ll be making now, I’m thinking, and they pass me by, pointing their fingers maybe, and asking what place is himself, the way it’s no quiet or decency I’ll have from this day till I’m an old woman with long white hair and it twisting from my brow. She fumbles with her hair, and then seems to hear something. Listens for a moment. There’s a queer, slouching step coming on the road.⁠ ⁠… God help me, he’s coming surely.

She stays perfectly quiet. Martin Doul gropes in on right, blind also.

Martin Doul

Gloomily.⁠—The devil mend Mary Doul for putting lies on me, and letting on she was grand. The devil mend the old Saint for letting me see it was lies. He sits down near her.