The last candle on the Great Blasket
Life on the island had gradually become unsustainable. There was a dangerous two-mile journey across an often turbulent sea for vital supplies from the mainland, and the turf the islanders depended on for fuel was fast running out. Many had already given up the unequal struggle, and had emigrated to America.
Yet, with all its hardships, this wind-blasted island had for many years sustained a vibrant community, rich in culture, where the Irish language thrived, and which produced extraordinary talent, including writers like Peig Sayers and Tomas Ó Criomhthain.
But on this day, the belongings of the remaining islanders were all packed, wrapped in old pieces of sacking, piled up on the quay ready for the boat the next morning.
The island was as silent as the grave. The only sound was of the sea crashing against the rocks, and the crunch of islanders’ footsteps on frozen snow, as they made their way to the small church for midnight Mass.
Normally, this was a happy event, with children running ahead, shrieking with excitement at the thought of an imminent visit from Santa, people laughing and greeting each other, ready to celebrate and rejoice at the anniversary of the Christ Child’s birth. Everyone looked forward to the Christmas feast the next day, and visits to neighbours where there would be music, stories and perhaps a drink to keep out the cold.
But not this night. The priest, who had stayed on to celebrate the occasion in his beloved church for the last time, tried his best to comfort the congregation with his sermon of new beginnings, new opportunities. And they managed to sing a few hymns, although the sound of their voices echoed strangely in the nearly empty church.
Try as they might, the congregation’s hearts were not in it. Their minds were full of the sorrow that was upon them and the heartbreak of parting from their home the next day.
The church had none of the usual decorations of holly, ivy, the crib and a tall, sparkling Christmas tree that would have been brought over from the mainland the week before. The church seemed cold and sad as if it too, somehow understood it would soon be abandoned.
TIMMY O’Sullivan was 89. He had been born on the island and had lived there all his life, as had his parents before him. He had never imagined that when his time came, he would not breathe his last in his home place, and be waked in the traditional way by the neighbours he had known all his life. This knowledge weighed heavily on him. He kneeled quietly at the back of the church with his head in his hands, overwhelmed by a terrible sadness.
What had happened to the way of life they had all known for so long? How had it all slipped away unnoticed, like the low morning mist that vanished from the mountains with the coming of morning?
The Christmas traditions, like lighting the Paschal candle on Christmas Eve at home, to guide the Holy Family or any lost traveller to a place of safety and so much more. All gone now.
As the youngest in a large family, lighting the candle had always been his responsibility, and one he had eagerly looked forward to. This small task had a solemnity and an importance to it that filled him with peace. Timmy surreptitiously wiped away a tear, and struggled to concentrate on the priest’s words of comfort. Then an idea came to him, like a gift from a passing angel, for surely the angels would be watching over the people this night.
He would take a candle from the back of the church where the priest had placed them, in a box ready to take to the mainland, and he would place it in the window of his empty cabin. And he would light it, as he done so many times before.
Timmy crept quietly out of the church, and made his way to his old home. He set the candle carefully in the window, lit it and then knelt down to pray.
But not everybody who was left on the island was in the church that night.
Unbeknownst to their families, three men had slipped away from the congregation and hurried down to the quay and the small currach they shared, to retrieve some valuable lobster pots that had been forgotten, just a little way out to sea.
But that night, the sea was rough, and they had quickly got into difficulties.
Now they bitterly regretted not having told anyone what they were going to do. No no-one knew where they were, and there was no-one to help them.
A heavy swell threatened to turn the small boat over, and the night was so dark that they had no idea where the sea ended, or the land began. The men were well versed in the ways of the sea, and knew well the great danger they were in.
As they were saying what they thought must be their last prayers on this earth,. one of the men suddenly shouted and pointed excitedly toward the land, where the light from a candle flickered bravely in Timmy O’Sullivan’s little cabin on the hillside near the quay.
None of them doubted that this was an answer to their prayers, and with renewed determination, they battled the sea to follow that fragile light all the way to the safety of the shore.
As they staggered onto dry land, their neighbours were just coming out of Mass. When they spotted the drenched and shaken men, a cry went up as the whole congregation rushed toward them and followed them to Timmy’s cabin.
Timmy had put down a small fire, and as the shaken men warmed themselves, everyone crowded around them, amazed at their story of how on this holiest night of the year, Timmy O’Sullivan’s Christmas candle had saved three lives.
THIS story was a joint effort between myself and the Togher Community Centre Writers Group, with whom I had the pleasure of working last year.
The centre is a warm and welcoming place. When I arrived in the morning for our sessions, the building was full of the scent of freshly baked scones and the sound of children at play in the crèche — a great start to our writing day.
The Writers Group are a creative, inventive and compassionate bunch, full of wit and wisdom. During our time together, we worked on haiku poetry, staged a storytelling festival, and wrote numerous short stories.
The Last Candle, a fictional account of the last Christmas on the Great Blasket Island, was one of our favourites.
