No More Learning

She is of the faery people.

THE CHILD.

I am Brig's daughter.
I sent my messengers for milk and fire,
And then I heard one call to me and came.

[_They all except MAIRE BRUIN gather about the priest
for protection. MAIRE BRUIN stays on the settle in a
stupor of terror. THE CHILD takes primroses from the
great bowl and begins to strew them between herself and
the priest and about MAIRE BRUIN. During the following
dialogue SHAWN BRUIN goes more than once to the brink
of the primroses, but shrinks back to the others
timidly. _

FATHER HART.

I will confront this mighty spirit alone.

[_They cling to him and hold him back. _

THE CHILD [_while she strews the primroses_].

No one whose heart is heavy with human tears
Can cross these little cressets of the wood.

FATHER HART.

Be not afraid, the Father is with us,
And all the nine angelic hierarchies,
The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,
The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,
And He who died and rose on the third day,
And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.
[_THE CHILD ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels
upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about
her neck. _]

Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.

THE CHILD.

You shall go with me, newly-married bride,
And gaze upon a merrier multitude;
White-armed Nuala and Aengus of the birds,
And Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
Who is the ruler of the western host,
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.

FATHER HART.

Daughter, I call you unto home and love!

THE CHILD.

Stay, and come with me, newly-married bride,
For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest:
Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn,
And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs,
And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue,
Watching the white stars war upon your hopes.

FATHER HART.

Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven.

THE CHILD.

But I can lead you, newly-married bride,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue,
And where kind tongues bring no captivity,
For we are only true to the far lights
We follow singing, over valley and hill.

FATHER HART.

By the dear name of the One crucified,
I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me.

THE CHILD.