THE DREAMING OF THE BONES PERSONS IN THE PLAY Three Musicians (their faces made up to resemble masks) A Young Man A Stranger (wearing a mask) A Young Girl (wearing a mask) Time-1916 The stage is any bare place in a room close to the wall. A screen, with a pattern of mountain and sky, can stand against the wall, or a curtain with a like pattern hang upon it, but the pattern must only symbolise or suggest. One Musician enters and then two others; the f rst stands singing, as in preceding plays, while the others take their places. Then all three sit down against the wall by their instruments, which are already there-a drum, a zither, and a fuse. Or they unfold a cloth as in 'At the Hawk's Well', while the instruments are carried in. [Song for the folding and unfolding of the cloth] First Musician [or all three Musicians, singing]. Why does my heart beat so? Did not a shadow pass? It passed but a moment ago. Who can have trod in the grass? What rogue is night-wandering? Have not old writers said That dizzy dreams can spring From the dry bones of the dead? And many a night it seems That all the valley fills With those fantastic dreams. They overflow the hills, So passionate is a shade, Like wine that fills to the top A gray-green cup of jade, Or maybe an agate cup. [The three Musicians are now seated by the drum, flute, and zither at the back of the stage. The First Musician speaks. The hour before dawn and the moon covered up; The little village of Abbey is covered up; The little narrow trodden way that runs From the white road to the Abbey of Corcomroe Is covered up; and all about the hills Are like a circle of agate or of jade. Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grass Birds cry, they cry their loneliness. Even the sunlight can be lonely here, Even hot noon is lonely. I hear a footfall- A young man with a lantern comes this way. He seems an Aran fisher, for he wears The flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe. He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays. [A Young Man enters, praying in Irish. Once more the birds cry in their loneliness, But now they wheel about our heads; and now They have dropped on the grey stone to the northeast. [A Stranger and a Young Girl, in the costume of a past time, come in. They wear heroic masks. Young Man [raising his lantern]. Who is there? I cannot see what you are like. Come to the light. Stranger. But what have you to fear? Young Man. And why have you come creeping through the dark? [The Girl blows out lantern. The wind has blown my lantern out. Where are you? I saw a pair of heads against the sky And lost them after; but you are in the right, I should not be afraid in County Clare; And should be, or should not be, have no choice, I have to put myself into your hands, Now that my candle's out. Stranger. You have fought in Dublin? Young Man. I was in the Post Office, and if taken I shall be put against a wall and shot. Stranger. You know some place of refuge, have some plan Or friend who will come to meet you? Young Man I am to lie At daybreak on the mountain and keep watch Until an Aran coracle puts in At Muckanish or at the rocky shore Under Finvara, but would break my neck If I went stumbling there alone in the dark. Stranger. We know the pathways that the sheep tread out, And all the hiding-places of the hills, And that they had better hiding-places once. Young Man. You'd say they had better before English robbers Cut down the trees or set them upon fire For fear their owners might find shelter there. What is that sound? Stranger. An old horse gone astray. He has been wandering on the road all night. Young Man. I took him for a man and horse. Police Are out upon the roads. In the late Rising I think there was no man of us but hated To fire at soldiers who but did their duty And were not of our race, but when a man Is born in Ireland and of Irish stock, When he takes part against us Stranger. I will put you safe, No living man shall set his eyes upon you; I will not answer for the dead. Young Man. The dead? Stranger. For certain days the stones where you must lie Have in the hour before the break of day Been haunted. Young Man. But I was not born at midnight. Stranger. Many a man that was born in the full daylight Can see them plain, will pass them on the high-road Or in the crowded market-place of the town, And never know that they have passed. Young Man. My Grandam Would have it they did penance everywhere; Some lived through their old lives again. Stranger. In a dream; And some for an old scruple must hang spitted Upon the swaying tops of lofty trees; Some are consumed in fire, some withered up By hail and sleet out of the wintry North, And some but live through their old lives again. Young Man. Well, let them dream into what shape they please And fill waste mountains with the invisible tumult Of the fantastic conscience. I have no dread; They cannot put me into gaol or shoot me; And seeing that their blood has resumed to fields That have grown red from drinking blood like mine, They would not if they could betray. Stranger. This pathway Runs to the ruined Abbey of Corcomroe; The Abbey passed, we are soon among the stone And shall be at the ridge before the cocks Of Aughanish or Bailevelehan Or grey Aughtmana shake their wings and cry. [They go round the stage once. First Musician [speaking]. They've passed the shallow well and the flat stone Fouled by the drinking cattle, the narrow lane Where mourners for five centuries have carried Noble or peasant to his burial; An owl is crying out above their heads. [Singing] Why should the heart take fright? What sets it beating so? The bitter sweetness of the night Has made it but a lonely thing. Red bird of March, begin to crow! - Up with the neck and clap the wing, Red cock, and crow! [They go round the stage once. The First Musician speaks. And now they have climbed through the long grassy field And passed the ragged thorn-trees and the gap In the ancient hedge; and the tomb-nested owl At the foot's level beats with a vague wing. [Singing] My head is in a cloud; I'd let the whole world go; My rascal heart is proud Remembering and remembering. Red bird of March, begin to crow! Up with the neck and clap the wing, Red cock, and crow! [They go round the stage once. The First Musician speaks. They are among the stones above the ash, Above the briar and thorn and the scarce grass; Hidden amid the shadow far below them The cat-headed bird is crying out. [Singing] The dreaming bones cry out Because the night winds blow And heaven's a cloudy blot. Calamity can have its fling. Red bird of March, begin to crow! Up with the neck and clap the wing, Red cock, and crow! Stranger. We're almost at the summit and can rest. The road is a faint shadow there; and there The Abbey lies amid its broken tombs. In the old days we should have heard a bell Calling the monks before day broke to pray; And when the day had broken on the ridge, The crowing of its cocks. Young Man. Is there no house Famous for sanctity or architectural beauty In Clare or Kerry, or in all wide Connacht, The enemy has not unroofed? Stranger. Close to the altar Broken by wind and frost and worn by time Donough O'Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin. He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of women, But he rebelled against the King of Thomond And died in his youth. Young Man. And why should he rebel? The King of Thomond was his rightful master. It was men like Donough who made Ireland weak- My curse on all that troop, and when I die I'll leave my body, if I have any choice, Far from his ivy-sod and his owl. Have those Who, if your tale is true, work out a penance Upon the mountain-top where I am to hide, Come from the Abbey graveyard? Young Girl. They have not that luck, But are more lonely; those that are buried there Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebels Some momentary impulse made them rebels, Or the commandment of some petty king Who hated Thomond. Being but common sinners, No callers-in of the alien from oversee, They and their enemies of Thomond's party Mix in a brief dream-battle above their bones; Or make one drove; or drift in amity; Or in the hurry of the heavenly round Forget their earthly names. These are alone, Being accursed. Young Man. But if what seems is true And there are more upon the other side Than on this side of death, many a ghost Must meet them face to face and pass the word Even upon this grey and desolate hill. Young Girl. Until this hour no ghost or living man Has spoken, though seven centuries have run Since they, weary of life and of men's eyes, Flung down their bones in some forgotten place, Being accursed. Young man. I have heard that there are souls Who, having sinned after a monstrous fashion, Take on them, being dead, a monstrous image To drive the living, should they meet its face, Crazy, and be a terror to the dead. Young Girl. But these Were comely even in their middle life And carry, now that they are dead, the image Of their first youth, for it was in that youth Their sin began. Young Man. I have heard of angry ghosts Who wander in a wilful solitude. Young Girl. These have no thought but love; nor any joy But that upon the instant when their penance Draws to its height, and when two hearts are wrung Nearest to breaking, if hearts of shadows break, His eyes can mix with hers; nor any pang That is so bitter as that double glance, Being accursed. l Young Man. But what is this strange penance- That when their eyes have met can wring them most? Young Girl. Though eyes can meet, their lips can never meet. Young Man. And yet it seems they wander side by side. But doubtless you would say that when lips meet And have not living nerves, it is no meeting. Young Girl. Although they have no blood, or living nerves, Who once lay warm and live the live-long night In one another's arms, and know their part In life, being now but of the people of dreams, Is a dream's part; although they are but shadows, Hovering between a thorn-tree and a stone, Who have heaped up night on winged night; although No shade however harried and consumed Would change his own calamity for theirs, Their manner of life were blessed could their lips A moment meet; but when he has bent his head Close to her head, or hand would slip in hand, The memory of their crime flows up between And drives them apart. Young Man. The memory of a crime- He took her from a husband's house, it may be, But does the penance for a passionate sin Last for so many centuries? Young Girl. No, no; The man she chose, the man she was chosen by, Cared little and cares little from whose house They fled towards dawn amid the flights of arrows, Or that it was husband's and a king's; And how, if that were all, could she lack friends, On crowded roads or on the unpeopled hill? Helen herself had opened wide the door Where night by night she dreams herself awake And gathers to her breast a dreaming man. Young Man. What crime can stay so in the memory? What crime can keep apart the lips of lovers Wandering and alone? Young Girl. Her king and lover Was overthrown in battle by her husband, And for her sake and for his own, being blind And bitter and bitterly in love, he brought A foreign army from across the sea. Young Man. You speak of Diarmuid and Dervorgilla Who brought the Norman in? Young Girl. Yes, yes, I spoke Of that most miserable, most accursed pair Who sold their country into slavery; and yet They were not wholly miserable and accursed If somebody of their race at last would say, 'I have forgiven them'. Y oung Man. O, never, never Shall Diarmuid and Dervorgilla be forgiven. young Girl. If some one of their race forgave at last Lip would be pressed on lip. young Man. O, never, never Shall Diarmuid and Dervorgilla be forgiven. You have told your story well, so well indeed I could not help but fall into the mood And for a while believe that it was true, Or half believe; but better push on now. The horizon to the east is growing bright. [They go round stage once. The Musicians play. So here we're on the summit. I can see The Aran Islands, Connemara Hills, The Galway in the breaking light; there too The enemy has toppled roof and gable, And torn the panelling from ancient rooms; What generations of old men had known Like their own hands, and children wondered at, Has boiled a trooper's porridge. That town had lain, But for the pair that you would have me pardon, Amid its gables and its battlements Like any old admired Italian town; For though we have neither coal, nor iron ore, To make us wealthy and corrupt the air, Our country, if that crime were uncommitted, Had been most beautiful. Why do you dance? Why do you gaze, and with so passionate eyes, One on the other; and then turn away, Covering your eyes, and weave it in a dance? Who are you? what are you? you are not natural. Young Girl. Seven hundred years our lips have never met. Young Man. Why do you look so strangely at one another, So strangely and so sweetly? Young Girl. Seven hundred years. Young Man. So strangely and so sweetly. All the ruin, All, all their handiwork is blown away As though the mountain air had blown it away Because their eyes have met. They cannot hear, Being folded up and hidden in their dance. The dance is changing now. They have dropped their eyes, They have covered up their eyes as though their hearts Had suddenly been broken-never, never Shall Diarmuid and Dervorgilla be forgiven. They have drifted in the dance from rock to rock. They have raised their hands as though to snatch the sleep That lingers always in the abyss of the sky Though they can never reach it. A cloud floats up And covers all the mountain-head in a moment; And now it lifts and they are swept away. [The Stranger and the Young Cirl go out. I had almost yielded and forgiven it all- Terrible the temptation and the place! [The Musicians begin unfolding and folding a black cloth. The First Musician comes forward to the front of the stage, at the centre. He holds the cloth before him. The other two come one on either side and unfold it. They afterwards fold it up in the same way. While it is unfolded, the Young Man leaves the stage. [Songs for the unfolding and folding of the cloth] The Musicians [singing]. I At the grey round of the hill Music of a lost kingdom Runs, runs and is suddenly still. The winds out of Clare-Galway Carry it: suddenly it is still. I have heard in the night air A wandering airy music; And moidered in that snare A man is lost of a sudden, In that sweet wandering snare. What finger first began Music of a lost kingdom? They dream that laughed in the sun. l Dry bones that dream are bitter, They dream and darken our sun. Those crazy fingers play A wandering airy music; Our luck is withered away, And wheat in the wheat-ear withered, And the wind blows it away. II My heart ran wild when it heard The curlew cry before dawn And the eddying cat-headed bird; But now the night is gone. I have heard from far below The strong March birds a-crow. Stretch neck and clap the wing, Red cocks, and crow! THE END