The River and Enoch O'Reillyby Peter Murphy
"This book is majestic and squalid at the same time, as if the Bible were actually about Elvis. The rhythms and music carry you like a baby on a raft on the river, but it's the precision of the words that cinches you."--Richard Hell, author of "I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp"
"This book is majestic and squalid at the same time, as if the Bible were actually about Elvis. The rhythms and music carry you like a baby on a raft on the river, but it's the precision of the words that cinches you. Maybe best of all, it makes you think and argue, first with the author and then with everything around you."—Richard Hell "A passionate dream of a book. Dazzling, but lucid—as though Flannery O'Connor had gone back to the Ireland of her forebears to write this novel."—Peter Behrens, author of The Law of Dreams and The O'Briens "If this is a novel about 'how the young Enoch O'Reilly was possessed by the voice of the rambling man he would become,' then it's also a novel about fate and family. Murphy is sensitive to ways in which religious language fits neatly with familial ill-fatedness. . . Perhaps the thing that stops this from being a dull novel about the horrors of fate is that it is funny. Ornate, even grotesque, comic episodes are a significant part of its charm. . . Murphy moves into and out of various characters' voices with ease and grace. . . Both stories end in suicide, but both are wonderful portrayals of how we try to re-narrate ourselves and our lives, even if our new stories don't last long enough." —Spectator
"Murphy’s fiction is by turns exploratory, riveting, ponderous and insightful. . . Shall We Gather at the River is by turns lucid and nightmarish." —Sunday Times (Ireland)
"A purgatorial landscape that recalls Flann O'Brien by way of Patrick McCabe, Murphy's rural Ireland feels thrillingly unpredictable, if not downright malevolent. . . Murphy rightly eschews easy answers when it comes to explaining the tragedy and, at its best, his prose is as eerily hypnotic as the river of the book's title." —Metro
"Peter Murphy's Shall We Gather at the River is a novel in full spate, a torrent of ideas bursting its banks with every turn of the page. . . Enoch O'Reilly makes for a fascinating character, one part Old Testament prophet to two parts daemonic succubus feasting on the misery of others." —Irish Examiner
"It's hard to think of a more quintessentially Irish surname than O'Reilly. The name, with its jarring and yet oddly sonorous clash of Pentateuchal and Gaelic registers, seems to echo something fundamental about Murphy's book, which is a volatile hybrid of cultural influences. . . Enoch's true faith is, like that of the novel itself, language. . . One of the strengths of Shall We Gather at the River is the way in which its language - which is as in thrall to the poetry of the Old Testament as Enoch himself is - builds towards a cumulative lyrical effect. . . At its best, the book operates almost like a collection of linked short stories, and there are sections that stand alone as absorbing performances in their own right. The prose is both evocative and slippery, characterised by a kind of evasive bombast. There's an impressive section - a riff, really (Murphy is a heavily riff-based writer) - called 'The Why', in which the book's disembodied narrative voice speculates on what might have caused these suicides. . . There are enough moments of poignancy and lyrical force to make tuning in a worthwhile endeavour." —Sunday Business Post
"[The River and Enoch O’Reilly] is brimming over with ideas, themes, characters and esoteric information. It contains evangelical preachers, father-son relationships, psychiatry, Middle Eastern flood myths. It also takes on one of the most difficult, delicate, painful subjects of contemporary life in Ireland and elsewhere: the occurrence of suicide clusters. . . The book pays heartfelt tribute to the power of radio and recorded sound. . . [Murphy’s] fiction is strongly informed by his own sense of place – and there’s nothing romantic about it. . . The portrait of nature as malign is turned up – as the rock fraternity might put it – to 11." —Irish Times
"Weird pale kids who dress only in black and hang out in the woods all the time can sometimes turn into dark and deeply talented novelists like Peter Murphy - this second novel of his is a wild and inventive butt-kicker, but it's also strangely tender, and its language is charged, vivid, luminous." -- Kevin Barry, author of City of Bohane "Strong second novel...Murphy's language is powerful, and in particular uses wavelike repetition to good effect."--Publishers Weekly
- Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.42(w) x 7.88(h) x 0.76(d)
Read an Excerpt
The Rua it was named because of its rusty colour when it gnashed and roared in flood, pouring through the valley’s slopes to finally consummate with the sea at the mouth of Ballo Harbour.
On the first day of November in the year of ’84, that enduring river turned on the town of Murn. You will remember it if you were there: clouds gathered overhead like great black cattle, the sun dimmed and the air was charged with augury, a sense of the imminent, the never-heard-tell-of close at hand.
The things of nature sensed it first. Rats could be seen ferrying their young further up the incline of the bank. Horses were skittish, dogs chewed their leashes. No birdsong could be heard – even the wizened, weird old herons had disappeared. Spiders climbed the branches of the trees to spin new webs, cocooning the leaves with silver gauze. And down the banks a boy gathering insects in a jar stared mesmerised as worms emerged winding from the soil.
The rain began. Spots of water smacked off the paths and then the downfall quickly thickened to a deluge that within an hour flooded the gutters and left the roads slick and gleaming. All day long rainfall flogged the grass and stones and beat down the sycamores and stripped the cones from the stands of pines. The current picked up speed and the river swelled to the lip of its banks and churned muck turned it claret. And now the siege was on.
The hard men and the horseshoe-throwing boys smoked and spat and kept watch on the river’s rise from the doorway of the saddlery, making wagers on when the swell might gain the quay. Two more days of steady downpour it took, and then that renegade Rua breached its embankments and almost at once the promenade was a lake that rose and kept on rising until landmarks were submerged. One entire oak, old and rotten but still a mighty oak, was pulled from its moorings and upended completely, and then drifted off like a toppled god. There were landslides on the railway track, all services suspended. The handball alley filled with dirty sluicewater, rubbish floating on the surface like bits of shipwreck. Local radio issued flood damage updates on the hour. Everywhere was besieged and soaked as that bloated old river conquered the valley slopes and threatened the town’s worried heart.
Nearly a week of this before the rain eased off and the sky began to clear. On the morning of November seventh, the first full day of pale sunlight following six long days of gloom, the body of Iggy Ellis, a twenty-six-year-old security guard with an address at New Larkin Park, was found washed up some three miles downstream. Some said he’d been seen in Hyland’s the night before, throwing shorts down his neck as if to douse a fire.
Two days after that, the centre-forward for the under-twenty-one hurling team, Owen Cody, was recovered by a dredging crew clearing silt from the river’s bed – some said he’d stormed out of a training session after a row with the trainer Tommy Lennon.
That Sunday night, twenty-five-year-old single farmer Isaac Miller got up from the breakfast table, filled his pockets with stones, went for a walk and did not return. Then the remains of an unidentified male were found floating in a still pond under the railway bridge at the end of the promenade. And on November twelfth the body of fifth-year student Nicky Wickham was recovered at Marlhole Point.
The number of those drowned or reported missing continued to rise as the flood ran its course. Townsfolk were called down to the morgue to identify bodies, some relieved when they couldn’t verify the deceased, others when they could. Television and radio crews appeared and reporters thrust out microphones and questioned locals about this drowning epidemic. The locals clammed up or stammered if you please to be left alone.
By now the floodwaters had begun to draw back within the river’s banks. Waterfront residents readied themselves for the dismantling of floodgates and sandbag dams as plumbers and electricians poked through debris. The riverfront was a jumble of furniture, ruined books, skips filled with sodden bits and pieces. Restoration of quayside properties would run to many thousands, the wireless said. But the world beyond Murn continued on: reports of nuclear power protests and the latest on the miners’ strikes, fallout from the Brighton Hotel bombings, famine in Ethiopia, four more years of Ronald Reagan.
On the morning of Sunday November eighteenth, eighteen days after the rain began, the parish priest Father John Callaghan approached his pulpit in St Cecilia’s church. His face that day was gaunt, and his eyes were clouded as they searched and beseeched the faces of the congregation. He spoke into the microphone and the church resounded with a single word.
They sat in rows, the survivors, the plodding on, heads bowed and hands clasped between their knees, both embarrassed by the priest and for him, because they had no answer to the question. The only one who knew was God, and no one would presume to speak for Him.
The priest invoked the Great Flood in the Bible and wondered if their earth so offended the sight of Our Lord that He would smite them with another deluge, and that the river would steal away so many.
He voiced disbelief that the town of Murn could have affronted God so grievously that He would renege on His promise – rainbows our reminder – to never again destroy the world with water. Next time, He had promised, it would be with fire.
‘Is our wickedness so great? Is mankind beyond redemption?’ the priest demanded. ‘I say that we are not. If we are to be saved, however, we must petition Him. We must raise our voices in prayer and let our virtue shine to the heavens, that He might see our goodness and spare us this affliction. The cursed folk of Egypt once marked their doors with blood so that the spirit of death might pass and spare their firstborn sons. We will not mark our doors with blood. We will confront darkness with light. We must put candles in the windows of our hearts, lit by the fire of the Holy Ghost.’
At this point he came down to stand among the congregation, and even now, without the benefit of amplification, his every syllable was heard.
‘I do not know whether this flood is God’s will or Satan’s,’ he said. ‘My name is not Noah and this church is no ship all covered in pitch. But we can make it our ark. We can shelter here from the flood’s wrath and take refuge in prayer and hymn and wait until the first bird returns with the leaf held in her beak.’
With this he swept back up the aisle and regained the pulpit and stooped so close over the microphone you could hear his every breath.
‘Until that day,’ he said, ‘when a new rainbow lights up the sky, we must be vigilant. Because we know neither the day nor the hour, nor whom the river will next take.’
And now he turned away from the congregation. The front rows all sat with faces ashen, aware that many friends and relatives of those lost were present, still raw with grief. Even the bovine old boys at the back of the church smelling of pub and wet dog, their overcoats fuming as they leaned against the radiators – even these old duffers shuffled with discomfort.
The priest’s words were answered by the river. That week she returned three more bodies. On Monday November nineteenth a man’s remains were spotted snagged in weeds by the slipway, so old and decayed the medical examiner could not estimate a time of death – he might have been a decade in the water, maybe longer. Then a young woman’s body was recovered at the mouth of Ballo Harbour on November twentieth. Then Billy Litt, yard man at Carbury’s Abattoir, found November twenty-first.
And then it stopped.
Three days, five days, a week without further fatalities, and the town of Murn held its breath. Within ten days of the last reported disappearance, all but two of the bodies had been recovered. News reports took on an air of finality. Over a period of fourteen days, nine souls, most of them aged between eighteen and twenty-seven, were taken by the river. Some of the papers put the toll as high as twelve, some as low as eight, but they were mistaken.
No one had an explanation. No local wanted to discuss it. If mentioned at all, it was obliquely, furtively, because it resisted all logic. Officials talked of inquiries, sociologists spoke of in-depth studies, but when the death count halted and it became clear that there was nothing more to say, the television crews and reporters and professors packed up and moved on.
The end of November brought bitter winds that petrified the fields. The Rua froze solid for the first time in twenty-eight years, gleaming like a hockey rink under the sodium streetlights. Children sported and skated upon the river’s banks, oblivious to the secrets sealed beneath. Folk stopped indoors and built fires and ran hairdryers over pipes and the talk was of water shortages and a near-religious longing for a thaw.
On the feast of St Francis Xavier, quayside residents and hotel guests were woken by gunshot reports and a local man was seen on the slipway, shotgun stock braced against his shoulder, discharging rounds into the Rua. But no matter how many shells he pumped into the ice, he could not kill the river. The squad car arrived and Sergeant Davin appealed to the man to put down the gun. The man fled, and the ice began to crack.
Slowly things returned to normal, or what passed for normal. Christmas was a painful affair for many households, but it came and went, and soon a new year had begun.
And so the deep wound the river carved began to heal in time as the events of that winter receded in the common memory. The nightmare faded, became assimilated into lore, an old fable or a fairytale curse, the details growing ever murkier. Only the river knew, and the river wasn’t telling.
This is all years ago now, of course. The young probably know little of it while their elders prefer to let the matter lie. But it’s never far from certain minds, certain souls who hear the river and remember that early winter, like a recurring dream of a time outside of time, a month on no calendar at all.
Sometimes the river’s current sings soothingly in their dreams, babbling its lullaby. It says it knows where the bodies are buried, but will keep their secret, all their secrets, the whole town’s secrets, the river air malarial with secrecy. Thou shalt not kill, the river whispers, is only the fifth commandment. Compared to certain ends, death is a mercy.
And in their dreams the townsfolk do not speak. Because they do not wish to rouse the river.
Meet the Author
PETER MURPHY, a writer and journalist, has written for Rolling Stone, the Sunday Business Post, and others. He has written liner notes for albums and anthologies, including for the remastered edition of the Anthology of American Folk Music, which features the Blind Willie Johnson recording of the song “John the Revelator.”
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