Maisie Belle Moon

An Inquiry 15 April 1979

Mercier Press,

I have long been the beneficiary of the deceased estate of my mother, Arlene Moore, who was fatally mauled by a rabid stray. This does not trouble me anymore amidst our current social predicament.

Anyhow, we never had the fondness a mother and daughter ought to. I barely knew her. That much I regret. And maybe it was this distance that birthed my curiosity, that beckoned me to find the letters I now implore you to contemplate.

While they are self-proclaimed ‘scribblings of a madman’, I fear (and hope) they pertain closely to the current state of Ireland. I know this is an inconvenient time to find truth in mysticism, but I daresay prophecy is within these letters.

It would give me great comfort to have them published for my grandchildren before my own passing, which I foresee occurring before these Troubles end.

Perhaps publishing them will overrule the present necessity to speak only empty words; this man of the past was obviously enraptured in the Bible that divides us even now.

We are trapped, I know, by peace. We are separated from freedom, I understand, as sectarianism separates us from a unified Ireland.

But when it’s all said and done, maybe these scribblings can say more than our restricted state of nothingness. After all: surely the Third Coming is at hand?

Regards, Maud Byrne.

Letter I: The Garden of Eden 14 February 1915

Beloved Nora Moore,

These words may never reach you. Nor do I intend them to. The mere prospect of you reading this suffices.

These words are only meant for this leather-bound, battered notebook, scarcely more than the scribblings of a madman.

I had a dream (after those Home Rule crises) of a New World. It does not pertain to reality, I know, but I feel I was chosen to receive it: a prophecy.

I suppose that isn’t as impressive as choosing to change the real world, not to you anyway. You were always more of a ‘do now, think later’ sort. Maybe that was my downfall in trying to romance you. Or maybe you just wanted to avenge your father’s potatoes.

I know you will never love me, but perhaps the idealised visage that I conceal your indifference with will immortalise this dream in your fictional mind. You were with me in some way, I know it.

I won’t keep you long (I won’t keep you at all):

The Garden was not an Irish green, no,
T’was brindled brown; roses bloodied bushes (Though the Frenchmen bestowed on us rainbows) And lions guarded even the rushes.

The Garden was not an Irish green, though God bewept mouldy potato skin schlock

And wrapped His arms round Union Jacks below Each time I asked to plant my own shamrock.

The Garden was not an Irish green, see, And you, love, content with poison apples, Content with rants and raids and rebellion, Cross round your neck (no time for a chapel).

When we were banished; before we could win,
The beast was still waiting, craving your skin –
That bloody dog woke me up before I could do anything heroic, of course; the

dream remains a scribbling.

Yours always, Seamus.

Letter II: Noah’s Ark 1 May 1916

Dearest (damned) Nora Moore,

The garden from last February is well and truly gone.

I’ve taken opiates to get back, to make it mine again, and to ward that beast away from you (not that I doubt your ability to defend yourself even in the unconscious realm).

No matter. Another dream has taken me; apocalyptic, severe, desperate. It seems fitting with all the fuss that was happening last month.

I am sorry for your loss. Truly. Your husband was brave. I seldom drink without celebrating his life, and the joy he brought to you and your daughter.

I am glad you were far away when it happened. I am glad I could see you again in this dream, before it took you:

A terrible beauty was born that day
When we were building that gopherwood arc; And the earth was violent, corrupt, astray – Behold! The world was reborn from the dark!

Begot from God, those waters destroyed them, In the wake of their fury were they damned; And we, my love, had nobility come:
A safe covenant with the Union Jack.

All in whose nostrils was the breath of life
Did perish. Floating on the surface still,
Daubed clean with rising moss – a dead man’s wife, Revolution-inspired: her voice quite shrill.
That beast was feasting in the whirlpool gyre
Those bodies under rainbows: hunger afire –

The dog vomited everywhere before the world could recover; the scribbling is becoming but a dream.

Yours, Seamus.

Letter III: Revelations 12 November 1919

Arlene, angel,

Your mother wouldn’t understand anymore. Her voice grew too shrill from politics (though I admit she remains the muse of my dreams, you deserve to know about your metaphysical birth).

Your innocence, love, is a flower turning in my heart, the rainbow above the arc, the antidote of the earth.

I am losing myself in this maddening gyre (between my hatred and desire). But I need you to hear, see, smell, feel, my dream, as I have:

Clothed with the Sun; Moon under feet; twelve stars Crowned your head; a virgin filled with God-seed. Gunfire swept stars from the sky down to scar
That war-torn earth, when you started to bleed.

Seven heads; ten horns; seven crowns it wore,
The beast stood in front to eat your babe whole, But your babe slouched towards the earth’s torn core To be born; that corrupted, hopeful soul.

That babe broke away from the Union Jack, Gorillas and angels combat in Heaven –
And that beast spewed a lough, to sweep you back Towards its slow thighs; swallowed, severed.

Limerick strikes left you on shrouded land Surely the Second Coming is at hand?

I haven’t seen the dog in a few weeks; dreams unto words unto madness!

Seamus.

Letter IV: (A Response) 1 September 1925

Seamus,

These words will never reach you. Even if I intend them to.

I remember when they told me you were dead. After reading the letters – these scribblings of a madman – I am glad.

You are everything I despise: you defiled my daughter with your lustrous words, you defiled the Bible and you defiled Ireland by living in it.

Your words and your name will die in this leather-bound book.

How fortunate I must be to have an Irish copy of the Mein Kamph: an autobiographical enterprise declaring how the Aryan- spiritual-elite have access to a damned vision of the future!

It brings me infinite solace that the two authors of these works have no chance of prevailing, or bringing about a Second Coming.

A wretched stray (it looks just like the mutt you used to have) has been sitting outside my house for days now. I don’t know what it’s waiting for.

Nora Moore.