The goodwives had mixed feelings about Jonathan Cooper. He came to town once or twice a fortnight, set up between the market and the well right underneath the big old oak, and sold what he had managed to trap, gather, or salvage whilst on his wanderings in the woods. This was no different than some of the other young men of the village, mind you; most of them second or third sons of fathers who barely had the acreage to give their firstborn enough acreage on which to scratch a living. Peter McCaffery in his long thick boots did a brisk trade in beaver and otter pelts, and Matthew Sheehan peddled fruit and nuts from a certain hidden glade that many fancied was just the Widow Mac Donagh’s untended orchards on the other side of the river.
No one, not even Mary Walsh, could find fault in his manner and bearing either. While Peter was a quiet, humorless man who refused to haggle and the young Sheehan leered and hollered from the doorway of Hanlan’s pub, Jonathan would always have a smile and greeting for everyone that passed through the square. Many a folk had stood over his blanket of assorted wares and poured out the sadnesses and successes of their lives while Jonathan Cooper nodded along with his weathered forearms wrapped ‘round his knees.
His crooked grin would break apart in laughter for every breech-born bovine, and his brow would furrow for every ailing bairn that couldn’t shake that nasty cough, even with great aunt Rose’s special tea practically pouring out the child’s ears. The children loved to hear his stories and tales of long ago and far away, and although the parents would shake their heads at the outlandish yarns, they’d always give their wee ones a knowing look when the hero triumphed due to his courage or kindness or cleverness. More often than not, folks would move on smiling a little brighter after passing Jonathan Cooper when he was in the market, no matter if they did mutter about him over the fences and hedges later on.
Brenna knew Jonathan Cooper had walked under many moons with many maidens. Callie McTavish told her of how he and Aileen Prendergast’s cousin from out by Ballyglass had whispered promises to one another in the Old Way, with blood and earth late at night on the heath. Bridget O’Shea, Winnie Callaghan, and a few others had passed tales around about his sly looks and murmurs over the flagon’s at Hanlan’s. A wink of the eye and a roll of the hips was all the took to catch the gaze of Jonathan Cooper, and that was a fact.
Brenna knew Jonathan Cooper was a rascal and a rogue. Mary Walsh had seen herself how he had bandied boasts with Bradan Campbell the blacksmith’s apprentice and left the lad with a face as red as the coals of his master's forge. Father Patrick told the whole congregation- and her mother eyeballing her the whole sermon as though to make sure she was paying special attention- that the old tales of Cú Chulainn and the Tuatha and all the rest were the wicked lies of the Devil, and that folk that infected the minds of children with such heresy and had not stepped into church since time out of mind were sure to roast in hellfire.
Brenna knew what was said about Jonathan Cooper, and she could not bring herself to mind any of it. When she walked past him in the fountain square surrounded by the squeals of delighted children, her ear turned to hear the gravelly voice he used for his ogres or her eye sought out his expression as he described how he had found the latest half-destroyed trinket he swore was part of a Norseman’s funerary hoard washed up on the pebbled shore. They had exchanged pleasantries on occasion, and when their eyes met she fancied she could see his snapping with interest like the silent thunderbolts of a distant storm.
Yet try as she might, Brenna could not manage to speak at length with Jonathan Cooper. At Hanlan’s he moved easily from one table to the next, listening with his crooked grin to someone's tale, or sharing a more ribald story than those he told the children. He stayed for a night of drinking only occasionally when he came to town, and she had never been able to do more than make him laugh with a clever joke before he moved off. She was no Winnie Callaghan to trail after him all night with laughing eyes and parted lips. If a man could not tell she fancied him- not that she really fancied him, since she barely knew him, and besides she just wanted to see how much a rascal he really was- then she was not about to make a fool of herself in front of the whole village.
If a fool she was to be, she would much rather the sight of it was between her, Jonathan Cooper, and the Lord. So Brenna kissed her father on the cheek one morning, asked him if he would like mushrooms in his stew that night, and set off into the forest to help put food on the table. She knew of a particular savory patch of penny bun out past the bridge around the mountain. She knew also that Jonathan Cooper typically came over the bridge around the mountain when he came to town, and that Jonathan Cooper rarely missed a whole moon’s worth of market days. Brenna knew many things, and listed them to herself as she walked up the road, basket in hand.
She knew the lands for leagues from her home. She knew the way over the millpond; which rocks would slip and which would stay, where the hidden shallows were. She knew every nook and cranny of the hill she and her siblings claimed long ago, and held against invasions by McTavish and Walsh, and once both at the same time. And she knew of a few secluded spots that, as far as she knew, only a few other people knew of as well, including one out past the bridge around the mountain, but there are many coincidences in life.
She knew what grew beneath the boughs and roots of the woods. She knew which ink caps would dissolve before you got them back and which would make you throw up on Hanlan’s floor after your first sip, like what killed that tinker last summer. She knew where the wolves ran in the winter and just how far the bear would travel from her den in search of her cubs. And she knew that penny bun grew scattered all over the place past the bridge around the mountain, and that it would take a few hours to fill the big basket she had brought that day to make the walk worth it.
She knew how to kiss as well as she knew how to punch, and had given the bruises to prove it. She knew where to find the best slingstones and how to dress a rabbit, although she gave the hides to Sean to cure. And she knew she was almost as tall as Malcolm and quicker than everyone in town except Peter O’Brian and the Leary sisters, and more than a match for Jonathan Cooper in case he decided to do something unfriendly out past the bridge around the mountain.
Brenna had almost filled her basket twice- she had been careless, you see, and knocked it over the first time- before Jonathan Cooper walked down the road towards the bridge. His coal-black hair stuck out from under the cap on his head and dangled in front of his eyes, which were sometimes brown and sometimes green and were at this moment somewhere in between as they flicked to her and widened slightly. He stopped and ducked his head, yanking on the brim of his cap respectfully. Brenna thought she saw a hint of unease on his face before he was staring at the ground, but when he lifted his head again all she saw was his crooked grin.
“Afternoon Miss Gallagher,” said Jonathan Cooper. “Didn’t expect to be seeing anyone this far out of town.” He hitched up one broad shoulder and grasped his rucksack with both hands, which made the muscles of his bare forearms bunch up under his skin.
“Good afternoon, Jonathan Cooper,” Brenna replied with a polite smile, keeping her traitorous hand from rising to her throat. “Thought I’d gather some penny bun to put in the stew. There’s some good ones out here.” Jonathan nodded. There was a moment of silence, filled only by the breeze in the oaks above them. Jonathan Cooper shifted his feet and kicked a rock with his old and travelstained boot. In the quiet, the clatter of stone on stone sounded like Doomsday.
“Well I’d best be getting on into town, what with it getting late and all. Might be able to sell a few things before it gets dark,” said Jonathan Cooper. He glanced around the woods behind her and hitched his rucksack up again. “Are you out here all by your lonesome?”
“Jonathan Cooper,” Brenna said, lifting up her chin, “I have been running around these parts long before you ever showed your face in town. There isn’t anything out here I can’t handle on my own.” His eyes widened again as his grin slid down his cheek and he yanked on his cap.
“Uh, of course you can Brenna… pardon the disrespect, certainly didn’t mean it like that… just meant to say, or I was going to say rather, that, if you didn’t have someone here with you, and you were heading back to town now, we might walk in, ya know… together,” he said. His crooked grin perked back up, and his eyes twinkled. “Iffen you want to, of course.”
Brenna managed to keep her chin up and his expression detached, despite her stomach leaping up to her heart. She gave Jonathan Cooper a wary, warning eye, then looked down at her basket and around the glen. She stepped off the verge and bent at the waist to pluck a few more penny buns from the crook of the oak’s roots. She turned around quick as she dropped them in her basket, and could find no leer or evil look on his face.
“I suppose,” said Brenna, and she began on down the road towards the bridge. From behind her came the casually hurried sound of boots scuffing against the dirt, and then Jonathan Cooper was walking beside her.
Brenna wasn’t able to keep up a cold front for long. Jonathan Cooper began to describe what he had in his rucksack and who he thought might be willing to spend a shilling or two on which item. He made her crack a smile when he spoke of the trouble he had gathering blackberries out by Clooncundra, and when he told her of how Keiran Finn promised him two pounds for brooklime and wine to clear up Saint Fiacre’s curse she almost spilled her basket again in laughter. He had an uncanny ability to mimic the people she had known for her entire life, copying their tics and quirks flawlessly without being unduly disrespectful. Soon her own wry remarks had Jonathan Cooper laughing as well, and they had tears in their eyes and stitches in their sides for most of the walk.
Much too quickly, they were back in town, and Brenna bade Jonathan Cooper goodbye in the market while she went off to her home. She was humming and twirling as she entered the cottage, kissed her father once on each cheek, spun her mother about the kitchen, and even swept up her little brother in an uncharacteristically sisterly hug. The stew tasted delicious, and she blushed and giggled when her father said that she would have to walk out past the bridge around the mountain again. Her good mood was so infectious that they spent the rest of the night telling tales and singing songs around the hearth, and Brenna went to sleep with sore cheeks from so much smiling.
The next morning, while they were fetching water from the well, Callie McTavish told Brenna that Jonathan Cooper had spent all night at Hanlan’s in his usual manner, but his eyes eschewed the scandalously low bodice of Winnie Callaghan in favor of the front door. Callie McTavish said that Jonathan Cooper had eventually shambled off early to the boarding house, his head hung low, looking over his shoulder the entire time. Brenna just smiled and hoisted her pails.
Once the chores were done, Brenna went shopping in the market, beaming as bright as the sun. Every fishwife and farmer had a smile for her, and she saved a farthing or two with Mister O'Houlihan and Mister O’Brian, who were just happy to hear her laughter bursting from her throat. Jonathan Cooper was set up in his usual spot on the edge of the market, and Brenna caught his gaze with hers more than once as she wove through the stalls.
Her basket full, Brenna walked towards the old oak tree. Jonathan Cooper was entertaining the Fitzpatrick boys and Elaine Murphy’s brood while their folks went about the market. She sat down on the edge of the fountain and listened to the tale of clever shepard and the greedy king. She too jeered at the greedy king when he demanded the shepard turn over his entire flock, joined in with the bahing bairns to keep the greedy king awake for a week, and cheered along with the children when the clever shepard tricked the greedy king into giving him the crown. When the story was over, she was mobbed by sheep and evil kings, and told that Jonathan told the best stories, and wouldn’t he please tell the one about Fionn MacCool? Before long, Elaine Murphy and Sybil Fitzpatrick were sitting besides Brenna, their baskets and bundles at their feet, whispering and laughing to one another while Jonathan’s face got redder.
Finally, the mothers dragged their children back home to get on with supper, leaving Brenna alone under the old oak tree with Jonathan Cooper. His face was still red from the sly looks and giggling, but Brenna’s dazzling grin quickly put him at ease, and soon they both sat behind his blanket filled with herbs and trinkets, discussing which versions of the legends they knew best, and how he thought of his own stories on his long, lonely trips between towns. When Brenna got up to carry her basket home, Jonathan Cooper bid her farewell with a wistful smile that turned jubilant when she asked him if he would be telling different sorts of tales at Hanlan’s tonight, as she was thinking of going, but only if the company was good. As she walked back home, Missus McTavish gave her a knowing smile and a shake of her head as she packed up her stall, but Brenna was too lost in writing her own stories to notice.
It was quite late before she got to Hanlan’s, but the look on Jonathan Cooper’s face when she walked in made the hours spent brushing both hair and dress worth it. She had worked for months gathering dying herbs for Peter Tierney in exchange the fine verdant cloth that was the rich color of hazel leaves under a summer sky. Her fingers still stung from the many weeks sewing by candlelight, especially the damn goldenrod braid that ran along the top. She had intended to save it for the Mayday festival, but she had finished it just the other night and needed to see how it fell and hung anyway.
Hanlan’s was packed that night, and by the time she walked in Jonathan Cooper was sitting at the fireside table with what seemed like half the village. He was listening to Colin McGrath loudly tell for the hundredth time about the white elk that he swore he almost brought down near Ballinaglea, and jumped in with a jest as Colin took a swig. Shawn Kennedy smiled and said something as he gave up his seat to Brenna, but she couldn’t catch it while Jonathan Cooper launched into an animated telling of Cú Chulainn and the playing field of Emain Macha. Colin McGrath tried to finish his story once King Conchobar put a stop to the brawl, but the others shushed him so Jonathan Cooper could continue with the tale of Culann’s hound and how Cú Chulainn got his name. He stalked the floor and growled and howled, throwing himself into the telling with a fervor none had ever seen from him before. Eventually the only sound that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and Jonathan Cooper’s voice, filled with guilt and regret as Cú Chulainn pledged to protect the smith’s house until a new hound could be reared.
There was a moment of silence, and Colin McGrath opened his mouth once again, but to everyone’s relief Jonathan Cooper began to tell of Queen Medb and her insatiable appetites. Soon Hanlan’s was filled with laughter as he wove his way amongst the tables, choosing patrons to represent each man as they attempted to satisfy the lusty Queen. A few of the drunker or more good-natured seven even got up to mime their collective efforts to please her. He was so clever and ridiculous as Medb that even those that at first looked furious to have their manhoods mocked were roaring with laughter when Jonathan Cooper chose old Jarlath Slattery as Fergus mac Róich and worked ‘herself’ into hysterics over his virility.
Amidst the hooting and hollering following his performance, Jonathan Cooper grinned his crooked grin appreciatively, took a bow, and proposed a toast to the mighty Fergus. Brenna felt as though the room melted away as he returned to his seat, his eyes, now bright green, flashing as they met hers. She congratulated him on so fine a telling, but said that she had heard the story of Medb and Fergus a bit differently. As her voice sunk low in the telling, the others at the table began to cough and turn red, then elbow each other and loudly announced to no one that their mugs needed refilling. Jonathan Cooper edged his way around the table, and they sat next to each other in front of the fire telling each other stories of maidens taken by the daoine sídhe and passionate, forbidden love for hours, their flagons slowly going flat, untouched.
The moon was full and huge behind the trees when Hanlan kicked them out of the common room. The air held the pregnant promise of a new day that comes after midnight, but neither Brenna nor Jonathan Cooper were ready to lay down their heads. She took him down her paths through the woods, her feet falling where they had for years whilst his caught on roots or stones occasionally. She slid her hand into his to guide him, and they walked close and slow so that she could catch his body against hers when he tripped. She led him through the brush dappled with moonlight to the hill that seemed a mountain fortress to her as a child, but now was a rise that gave an excellent and private view of the starry sky. They lay next to each other on the sward atop the hill, and pointed out the constellations that figured into the tales they had told.
Eventually Brenna lifted herself up to look at him. “Jonathan Cooper, you’ve told more stories today than I think I’ve heard in my entire life. But I’ve yet to hear the story I’ve wondered about since I’ve met you. Tell me your story, the story of Jonathan Cooper.”
The sleepy, contented smile on his face vanished, and he sighed as one does when waking from a pleasant dream. He shook his head, chuckled ruefully, and said, “I’ll tell you that story if you wish, but I do not think that it is a story you’ll truly wish to hear,”
“If I tell you my story, you will find out I am just a man, with no magic about me but what I can conjure up with my mind and my words. I can make pictures in your head and take you to other worlds, but it is as fleeting as the breeze. I cannot move mountains or speak the language of the moon.
“I am no faerie prince nor Cú Chulainn come again. I have most likely failed as many quests as I have fulfilled. I may fall prey to disease or despair, and I have done things I regret, and may do more. I am but a man who itches when walking the path laid out before him by another, whether it is train of thought or life ahead, who would rather claw his way through bog and fen and the fury of Manannan mac Lir than live the same life as everyone else.”
Jonathan took a deep breath and looked away into the trees. Brenna saw the moonlight shining on his face and sliding down his cheek. His chest began to rise and fall in rhythm with the swaying of the leaves.
“Come with me, girl. I swear to never make you walk where you wish not to go, nor stay with me any longer than you desire. I cannot swear I will never hurt you, but I can swear I will strive to repay any debt I incur threefold. Come be wild and explore the world with me, my dear. Let us trust no one’s word about the world but our own, see as many things as we can before anyone else, and do the things these people only dare to dream.”
Brenna didn’t speak at first. She could barely think. The entire time she had known him, Jonathan Cooper had maintained a collected demeanor, never losing his temper or shedding a tear, even when he was in his cups. To see him now, with his soul laid bare before her, felt so strange that at first she could not completely comprehend what he was saying. He laid there with his hand out towards her, looking for all the world as though he was expecting to be struck down like Culann’s hound. She felt her face grow hot and tight, and he looked away and pulled away his hand, beginning to rise. She caught it and pulled him down to the ground.
“You daft man. Do you think me some empty-headed tart, to think that the handsome stranger who comes to town is Angus mac Og made flesh? I’ve heard the tales and seen you dally with other girls, and while I’m no Winnie Callaghan I’ve tumbled my fair share as well. I too have made mistakes, and fie on your if you think me such a hypocrite to expect perfection when I am not perfect myself.
“I know enough about you to seek out your company, and do it publicly, without a care to what others might think. I know you’re kind to children and animals, confident without being boastful, and you move me to all sorts of places with your words. I know you don’t lead a common life, Jonathan Cooper, and that you are but a man, and that is why I sought you out. Now are you going to kiss me or not?”
The goodwives had mixed feelings about Brenna and Jonathan Cooper. Although some at first spoke disdainfully about girls that ran off with wild men, Brenna’s mother would have a quiet word about the virtues of not speaking ill of others lest other speak ill of them and their various sins that everyone knew about but were too polite to mention. Anyone in their cups enough to sneer loudly about what might be happening to Brenna in whatever far-off town she was in would quickly find her three brothers leaning their elbows on his table and grinning wolfish grins, asking him to please elaborate on his theories.
But no one, not even Mary Walsh, could deny that the wandering life agreed with Brenna. When she returned on market days, sometimes with Jonathan Cooper and sometimes without, she always wore a wide smile and bore a boisterous laugh. The children loved when they both came to town, for they both sat behind the blanket beneath the old oak tree and told their tales, and none could walk away without their own smile and their own dreams of what may be.
-D.M.D.M 1-24-2016
