Far, far away, a long time ago, in a hut made of potatoes overlooking the shelly Sligeach, lived a bitter sentimental woman with her 23 children and drunken husband. The last of the litter, an ethereal runt who survived only because he began eating the walls, was named not by dad, who was long past being able to name anything, nor by mom, who only called him tuilli cac, but by a pleasant gathering of … well …
Sometime before he was named or numbered, when the sky was lightly leaping through a pack of clouds and the sun was chomping on a distant rainbow, Táin Bó Cúailnge felt herself desiring a child. Lithe as love she was, and just as wily. She gathered her friends, Old Yellow Lecan and Druimm Snechta, and said, We cannot breed the way humans do, which is good, because who would want a man anyway? And the three cackled lightly, to the detriment of a few nearby stars and roses. Which is bad, because it means when we want a shiny cutsie baby to play catch with, or to pitch through an eclipse to see it shatter, we don’t have one.
We have the dindshenchas, said Druimm Snechta. And Old Yellow Lecan said, Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui.
It’s true. But the dindshenchas only assume human form and only pretend to explode. If they don’t feel like screaming, they don’t, because they’re not really scared of us. They’re only good in certain moods and times and rhythms and lights and feels and wants and airs. Plus … and here she paused to allow the darkness to take form and wrap itself around her … we cannot send the dindshenchas back to earth stuffed with the magic to upset and the silliness to confuse.
And so Táin Bó Cúailnge’s true intent became obvious, which delighted her companions. They ordered a flock of flaming meteors and took off their bright fashions and danced until their little feet sizzled with naughtiness.
And who would have guessed that on their earthbabe hunt they flitted up Sligeach disguised as snails? And who could have known that they found a babe so undecided between life and death that they almost thought it was their own?
They returned with the wraith-boy to their wimsy kingdom. Táin Bó Cúailnge stood on Venus and Druimm Snechta on Jupiter and Old Yellow Lecan on Pluto, and they tossed the human faster than light between themselves. They threw him hard through galactic eclipses and he exploded the way an earthboy should. I haven’t had so much fun in moonbeans, said Táin Bó Cúailnge. He’s better than the dindshenchas, he screams, said Druimm Snechta. Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui, said Old Yellow Lecan.
But when the time came that the boy started growing hair where there was once only smoothness, that his voice started clambering down the ladder of sin, Táin Bó Cúailnge said, He is becoming a man. And they sang the Ugh Ugh Song and got to work. They replaced his soul with Lebor Gabála Érenn, his heart with Tir na nOg, his genitals with Lebor na Nuachongbála and his brain with Oidheadh Clainne Lir. They filled his veins with monkeypiss and gave him three extra toes as a joke. St. William he was named, and the number 0 he was given, and he was sent back to the rational planet, escorted by Hy Many, Ballymote, and Fermoy, to make sure he didn’t escape. He landed on June 13 1865 in the home of John and Susan, where he was fed properly and exposed to the blue and mannered order of the world.
Now I would like to ask you something, biped. I want you to judge between the heavens and the earth. Who could have done more to form a poet than the faeries? Wherefore, when I look on earth for swooning sounds, does it bring forth only clunks? I will tell you what I will do to poets who think rocks make good poems: I’ll fill them with rocks and send them to neveretherland for pixies to dance on. I will command the world to praise them for a second and forget them forever. For the people of earth look for animation, but—only tedium; for inspiration, but—journalism.
St. William’s life was chaotic, his art metered. His life was messy, his art pure. His life looked to the future, his art the past. His life was silly, his art serious. His body was owned by the earth, his soul by the cackling creatures who named him. After his mortal death on January 28 1939, a few strange wailers slunk to Sligo , singing,
Earth to earth and dust to dust
The beauty the beauty the beauty of it all.
Birth to birth and lust to lust
The beauty the booty the duty of it all.
Yea Yo Yeah Ya Yui.
After his mortal death, the faeries died and Romance swooned before her lover cold. Ireland
After his mortal death, the Council of I deliberated the question of elevation—who could elevate this saint since he never really descended?—and finally concluded on April 27 1953 that, while he couldn’t be elevated, he could be left where he was, bouncing on the soft heather of the milky heights. Let us honor the saint today with our souls and flesh.
