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The
girl
from
Bantry
Bay
dreamed
,
specifically
,
of
a
city
where
a
girl
would
be
able
to
earn
enough
to
bring
her
family
over
to
the
New
World
.
Many
of
the
Irish
coming
in
to
America
thought
of
themselves
as
Catholics
,
even
if
they
knew
nothing
of
the
catechism
,
even
if
all
they
knew
of
religion
was
the
Bean
Sidhe
,
the
banshee
,
who
came
to
wail
at
the
walls
of
a
house
where
death
soon
would
be
,
and
Saint
Bride
,
who
was
once
Bridget
of
the
two
sisters
(
each
of
the
three
was
a
Brigid
,
each
was
the
same
woman
)
,
and
tales
of
Finn
,
of
Oisín
,
of
Conan
the
Bald
—
even
of
the
leprechauns
,
the
little
people
(
and
was
that
not
the
biggest
joke
of
the
Irish
,
for
the
leprechauns
in
their
day
were
the
tallest
of
the
mound
folk
)
…
All
this
and
more
Mr
.
Ibis
told
them
in
the
kitchen
that
night
.
His
shadow
on
thewall
was
stretched
and
bird
-
like
,
and
as
the
whiskey
flowed
Shadow
imagined
it
the
head
of
a
huge
waterfowl
,
beak
long
and
curved
,
and
it
was
somewhere
in
the
middle
of
the
second
glass
that
Mad
Sweeney
himself
began
to
throw
both
details
and
irrelevancies
into
Ibis
’
s
narrative
(
"
…
such
a
girl
she
was
,
with
breasts
cream
-
colored
and
spackled
with
freckles
,
with
the
tips
of
them
the
rich
reddish
pink
of
the
sunrise
on
a
day
when
it
’
ll
be
bucketing
down
before
noon
but
glorious
again
by
supper
…
"
)
and
then
Sweeney
was
trying
,
with
both
hands
,
to
explain
the
history
of
the
gods
in
Ireland
,
wave
after
wave
of
them
as
they
came
in
from
Gaul
and
from
Spain
and
from
every
damn
place
,
each
wave
of
them
transforming
the
last
gods
into
trolls
and
fairies
and
every
damn
creature
until
Holy
Mother
Church
herself
arrived
and
every
god
in
Ireland
was
transformed
into
a
fairy
or
a
saint
or
a
dead
king
without
so
much
as
a
by
-
your
-
leave
…
Mr
.
Ibis
polished
his
gold
-
rimmed
spectacles
and
explained
—
enunciating
even
more
clearly
and
precisely
than
usual
,
so
Shadow
knew
he
was
drunk
(
his
words
and
the
sweat
that
beaded
on
his
forehead
in
that
chilly
house
were
the
only
indications
of
this
)
—
with
forefinger
wagging
,
explained
that
he
was
an
artist
and
that
his
tales
should
not
be
seen
as
literal
constructs
but
as
imaginative
re
-
creations
,
truer
than
the
truth
,
and
Mad
Sweeney
said
,
"
I
’
ll
show
you
an
imaginative
re
-
creation
,
my
fist
imaginatively
re
-
creating
your
fucken
face
for
starters
,
"
and
Mr
.
Jacquel
bared
his
teeth
and
growled
at
Sweeney
,
the
growl
of
a
huge
dog
who
’
s
not
looking
for
a
fight
but
can
always
finish
one
by
ripping
out
your
throat
,
and
Sweeney
took
the
message
and
sat
down
and
poured
himself
another
glass
of
whiskey
.
"
Have
you
remembered
how
I
do
my
little
coin
trick
?
"
he
asked
Shadow
with
a
grin
.
"
I
have
not
.
"
"
If
you
can
guess
how
I
did
it
,
"
said
Mad
Sweeney
,
his
lips
purple
,
his
blue
eyes
beclouded
,
"
I
’
ll
tell
you
if
you
get
warm
.
"
"
It
’
s
not
a
palm
is
it
?
"
asked
Shadow
.
"
It
is
not
.
"
"
Is
it
a
gadget
of
some
kind
?
Something
up
your
sleeve
or
elsewhere
that
shoots
the
coins
up
for
you
to
catch
?
Or
a
coin
on
a
wire
that
swings
in
front
of
and
behind
your
hand
?
"
