The Clonycavan Man Nick Siviter
Finnley hates the priest who is fucking his wife. He reviles the way his dark habits ride upon his towering and bony shoulders to his wife and describes in sickened detail the sunken hawkish look of the priest which churns his stomach. Finnley loves his wife, who is fucking the priest. He loves her for the skill of her hands, woven into woolen garments that are soft like a goose’s down, and the way those clothes accent the healthy curve of her figure. He often flatters his wife with praise of her skin, which is smooth, pale, and delicate like the contouring feathers of a swan’s belly. Finnley adores the forest which he is now hiking through. He often writes short amateurish verses extolling the forest’s lush greens, its swirling footpaths and bright clearings. He describes the invigoration he feels when the earthy aroma of mossy boulders fills his head and the nectar of the morning dew glosses his feet. Because Finnley loves his wife he is traversing the forest, carrying a ponderous burden, a large shoulder-slung package. And because he loves the forest he traverses it steadily, and because his pace is steady he nears his destination: a forgotten, overgrown mausoleum. Twenty-seven years ago Finnley built a small cottage by hand in the new village of Crathie. The village had grown around a rotten little monastery, which still squats atop a wide hillock. Outside the village the sweeping grass is pierced by an eruption of brilliant white stone. The fang of stone is pearly, as if freshly washed, and when the sun shines it’s brilliance becomes blinding. When a storm gathers it bites into the dark, juicy meat of clouds. The trees of the forest block any view of the fang, but Finnley is familiar with the forests, and is rarely lost. Twenty-five years ago while buying a new set of stockings, Finnley had met Cliodhna and she had shone in the light of day. During the nights, in the soupy warmth of peat-fueled fire, the light flickered over her freckles and the smoke clung to their sweat. In the mornings he walked in God’s forest with the healthy stride of a young man, and in the early light found the mausoleum sitting low to the ground.
Avery Eckert 5