Kitabı oku: «The Whitest Flower», sayfa 6
Ellen’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle the cry. Oh, God – would it never end, this eve of All Souls?
She looked back into the cabin, identifying the sleeping forms of her family. She was, indeed, awake. And if she was awake, then this was a portent more terrible than any dream could bring. She had no doubt as to the identity of her apparition. Hadn’t she heard her own father tell how the Banshee – the supernatural death messenger – had appeared to him on the three nights before her mother died.
Ellen was seized by an icy coldness. Whose house was the Banshee visiting this night of souls? She watched the airy figure glide in from the centre of the lake towards the shoreline, her white dress unruffled by the movement, until she reached the place where Ellen had studied her own reflection in the water the day she discovered she was pregnant. Invisible claws tightened on Ellen, cutting off her breathing, constricting the movement of her heart. Then the Banshee floated over the land, the trail of her hemline caressing the stalks above the potato patches. Ellen closed the door, knowing that it went against all the tradition of the night. She would welcome the souls of the dead, but not she who came to call the living. Not the Banshee.
And still the death messenger moved inexorably towards the village. Who did she come for? Ellen racked her brain for households where there was someone old or infirm – these were the houses the Banshee usually visited. Perhaps it was Ann Paddy Andy – she’d been failing with that croupy cough since St Swithin’s Day. Or Mary an Táilliúra, the Tailor’s wife. Or Peadar Bacach, Old Lame Peter, with that stump of a leg. The long, damp winters were hard on him. It could be any of them. The death messenger, she knew, followed the old Irish families, those whose names began with ‘Mac’ or ‘O’, as if she belonged to them.
Then the knowledge hit her as if the whole weight of the world had crashed down on her. She slumped against the window, as if to block the power of the Banshee’s death-call from entering the cabin and finding her little family. The old ones said you should never look the death messenger in the face, or she would take you, sucking the soul out of your body through your eyes. But Ellen didn’t care. Rather herself than one of the children. Rather herself than Michael.
The Banshee stopped about thirty feet from the cabin. Now Ellen could see her face, beautiful and sad. She saw the tears that welled up and ran down her cheeks – lamenting the one she was about to call.
Then the wraith opened her mouth and emitted a low-pitched, throaty sound that ran through the ground and up into the walls and door of the O’Malleys’ cabin. Ellen stood shaking uncontrollably, as the sound raised in pitch and intensity.
It was the death keen, like the noise the old women made at wakes: high, and sorrowful, and lonesome. Yet it surpassed any sound that could ever be made by a human being. The keening of the Banshee found its way into the marrow of Ellen’s bones as if her whole body was soaking up the sound, it living in her.
Then, slowly and deliberately, the woman in white drew from her raiment a transparent silver brush. The brush glided effortlessly through her hair, the long strands offering no resistance. As if they required no brushing at all. Again and again, the woman stroked the long tresses, as lovingly as Cáit had stroked Ellen’s own fine tresses, and Ellen in turn had stroked Katie’s and Mary’s.
Ellen stifled another cry – she must not think of any of her children, nor Michael. She must not be part of whatever death the Banshee would foretell. Ellen tried to will herself into the mind of the apparition, forcing the harbinger of death to choose her instead of them. This she did, but with the sure, sickening knowledge that she was not the one called.
The first pale glow of dawn began to creep in over the mountains, suffusing the wraith with light. As the brightness intensified, the Banshee began to fade away, disappearing again into whatever half-world from whence she came. The keening, too, grew weaker, melting away into the sound of the rising north-easterlies.
Ellen’s whole being collapsed. No longer able to support herself, she turned, looking for her small family, afraid for them. As she sank into an unconscious heap below the window, the last act of her conscious mind was to register the two dark heads of Michael and Patrick where they lay sleeping. And the two red heads of Katie and Mary, side by side, arms and legs entangled – trying to be one again.
7
When Michael awoke a few hours later, his first act, as always, was to reach for Ellen. He was unconcerned at finding an empty space beside him, for Ellen was often the first one to be up and about. But when he heard Mary call, ‘A Mhamaí, a Mhamaí, what’s wrong?’ he leapt up from where he lay immediately.
Ellen was in a crumpled heap beneath the window, her shawl partly covering her. She was deathly pale. He shook her by the shoulders as the children gathered round, sensing that something was amiss.
‘Ellen, a stór, wake up,’ he said, fear in his heart for her and the child she was carrying.
Ellen opened her eyes dazedly, struggling to focus on Michael’s face.
‘What is it, what ails you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here with the shawl over you?’
Ellen made a great effort to see the faces crowding around her – trying to pick them out one by one. When she saw they were all there, she smiled faintly at them.
‘See, she’s all right!’ said Katie.
Now Ellen could see Michael’s face. It was strained with worry and the confusion of not knowing what was wrong with his wife. Weakly she reached out one hand to him. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. A drink of water from the rock, and I’ll be fine,’ she said wanly.
Patrick was first up to fetch his mother a cup of spring water. As she sipped it, Ellen felt the cold strength of the water bring her round and fortify her. She put her hand to her stomach, afraid the fall might have done damage, but to her relief everything seemed to be all right.
‘The baby is grand – thank God – and so am I,’ she said, more strongly now. ‘Now, don’t be worrying all of you, and making an old woman of me before my time.’
‘Did you see something last night, a Mhamaí?’ It was Mary, perceptive as ever. ‘Did the wandering soul come into the house?’
‘No, of course not, Mary. I just got up a while and I must have dozed off,’ Ellen replied, smiling at her child.
Mary was far from satisfied with this response. She looked over at the table settings. Nothing had been moved since last night. Nothing had moved, yet something had come into the house, or tried to come in. It must have been a bad thing. Mary knew her mother didn’t frighten easily.
As the day went on, Ellen tried to gather herself back together. Gradually, her physical strength returned. Michael and the children were very attentive, but every time one of them approached or touched her she couldn’t help but think: Is this the one marked out by last night’s visitor? She studied them anxiously, looking for any sign – a weakness, a dizziness, the start of a fever. But nothing could she discover, no tell-tale sign, no flaw or failing that might prove fatal.
At last, unable to bear it any longer, she went to the lake, declining the children’s company when they offered to walk with her.
The late afternoon was crisp and bright, and the Mask calm and peaceful in the sunlight. Ellen wondered whether the Banshee’s visit had been nothing more than a dream. Perhaps she had dozed off by the fire and had dreamed the whole thing, and while in her sleep had been drawn to the window. But surely a dream that terrible would have awoken her, as the earlier nightmare had done?
And what was the connection between the nightmare and the apparition of the keening death messenger? Ellen set about unravelling the dream: Pakenham, she had recognized, and Sheela-na-Sheeoga. The road could be any road, but it must be leading to the sea because of the tall ship at the end of it. But why was getting to the ship so important? She and the children had been fleeing from something, but their escape had been blocked … all those ghouls trying to stop them – why weren’t they, too, trying to get away to the ship? And where was Michael?
She had been carrying the baby – a baby too small to walk. Her baby was not due until May, so the dream must be set after May, but sometime within the year …
Ellen looked around at the mountain-valley world she lived in. Nothing in this wild and beautiful place was remotely connected to the world she had inhabited in her dream. Yet it was over these waters that the death messenger had floated …
She shuddered, recalling her terrifying ordeal. She needed Michael’s comforting arms, but how could she tell him what troubled her?
Slowly it dawned on her where her thoughts were leading: the visit of the Banshee; Michael’s absence … It was Michael the night visitor was crying for, Michael’s death she was keening. Michael – her love, her dark-haired boy – was to be taken, and taken before this baby could walk. Oh, God, no – not Michael!
Ellen buried her face in her hands, her grief and tears spilling out into the silent Mask.
Michael could be taken at any time – today, tonight, tomorrow, next week, Christmas … It took all the willpower she had to resist the urge to run back to the cabin and throw herself upon Michael and weep into his strong shoulder.
‘Heaven guide me,’ she prayed. ‘I, who should be not seeking consolation but giving it. I should be his shield from whatever dark forces lie in wait. And he such a good man, not deserving of being taken so early, so soon deprived of the love of his children.’
Ellen threw back her head, facing the heavens, storming them with her prayers and grief: ‘Oh, God, who sent your only Beloved Son to die on the Cross for us, I implore You, take this cross from us now.’ Even as she said the words, she knew in her heart it was wrong to challenge the will of God. Still she could not stop herself.
‘Lord, it’s little I have in this place, but what little I have is enough if I have him. I ask not that You spare us the time to grow old together, but that even You grant us a few summers more – to walk the valley, to see the dawn rise, to taste the morning dew …
‘Oh, Blessed Mother, intercede with your Son, I beg you. Protect Michael, just till the children grow. Let him wait a while here with us, and he not yet the age your beloved Son was!’
Yet deep within her she knew there was no hope. God gives life. God takes it away again. She heard again her father’s words as he tried to reconcile himself to Cáit’s early death: ‘Whom the Gods love, die young. They take them back to another place where they are more needed than here.’
But no one could possibly need Michael more than she did.
‘Death is ever a moment too soon for those who love.’ The Máistir’s voice continued to speak to her until at last she was calmed. She asked the Lord to forgive her her sin and give her the strength to do what she must do.
But how was she going to look at Michael? How could she be with him in the night, joined as one with him, concealing her awful secret, knowing that each time they loved could be their last? Somehow she must. She must make these days, however few, the fullest days of their lives. There would be times, she knew, when it would break her very heart; times when she would watch him fall asleep, then lie there warding over him in the dark, fearing lest he be stolen from her in the night. There would be times, too, when he would go with the men to the mountain, leaving her to wait and worry until his safe return.
And she must bear this burden alone. She could not tell the children – their little hearts set on doing things with him at Christmas – that they might never again see their father. She would have to be strong, to bear silently the dashed dreams and bitter tears that soon would be theirs.
She turned from the lake and walked back up to the cabin, and Michael – her darling, lost Michael – keeping all these things in her heart.
As the days shortened into Advent and Christmas, Ellen learned to put the events of All Souls behind her.
Their store of potatoes held fast, as did those of their neighbours. The valley seemed removed from the general fears that stalked the land. Ellen remembered the previous crop failures within her own lifetime. It seemed as if some failing of the harvest was inevitable – a fixed part of living here in the West.
She felt the child within her grow. Untroubled by sickness, or even tiredness, soon she began to feel the kick inside.
The Lessons continued, but now more and more Ellen taught the children in English. If they were going to leave here, then they would be badly served knowing only Irish and a smattering of English. She would see to it that her children were prepared for as many eventualities as she could foresee.
She had managed, somehow, to keep her dark secret from Michael, though it had been difficult. The first nights after All Souls, she could not bear to make love with him; could not bear to have those searching dark eyes so close to hers. So she had him turn to her, burying his head in her breasts. That way he could not see the tears well up in her eyes. Then she would pray over him as he slept – his guardian angel – until sleep claimed her as well.
After those first nights, however, despite the edicts of the Church regarding continence during pregnancy, they made deep and satisfying love that seared her soul and released the great burden of sorrow she was carrying within her.
To wake of a morning and see him there beside her, still alive, was a gift from God. Thankful for this blessing, she embraced life with a spirit and energy that brought joy to all their lives. The month leading up to Christmas, though outwardly not much different from that of previous Advents, had this year developed a spiritual intensity she had never before experienced. Day after day, Ellen lived out every moment for Michael and her small family. Mother; wife; teacher; lover; spiritual well; guardian angel.
She loved the long dark wintry nights. Michael was around the house more, the children were out less. To her the short winter days were days of rest and prayer, days of gathering spirit-strength for the miracle of Christmas; days of gathering body-strength for the work of the year ahead.
Often in the dark she would slip away to her place by the lake shore, setting her face to the frothy wind rising off the face of the Mask. She loved how its waters could be. Whipped hither and thither by the wind which came whirling and swirling in from Tourmakeady and Glenbeg before sweeping on down to the unsuspecting Lough Nafooey – the Lake of Hate.
The Mask, too, could be a lake of hate. As it was tonight, seething and spitting at her, trying to beat her away from its shore. The spray stung her face, the winter wind flailing her long mane. Ellen, swept up in the moment, let it take her. She stood, first swaying with the wind then turning and turning like a frenzied dervish spinning between two worlds, the earth elements holding her, the air elements trying to suck her into a whirlwind which would carry her over the land beyond the mountain. If her body did not soar, then her spirit did, deliriously free of mortal toils and worries.
Now she was earth mother, sky dancer, fertile ever-lover – Danu, Mother Goddess of the Celts.
Her hair, sodden with lake-spray, streaked down her face. Slowly she drew both hands through the tangled curls, first combing it with her fingers, then pressing it to her, matting the soaked hair to her neck, shoulders and breasts, feeling its chill sensuality reach for her.
Calmer now, but still breathless, she felt regenerated, at one with the source of wind and rain, mountain and lake, sky and earth. World and otherworld.
Her hands continued their downward journey – seeking assurance that her body was still there, still with her – passing over the swell of her belly to her thighs. Yes, her baby was there, safe within her. And, in this moment, she, Ellen Rua O’Malley was the source of all things. Even life itself.
The wind lifted. The Mask quelled its fury and stillness came on her. Then the shock of her abandonment to the elements struck Ellen Rua. Now filled with remorse at giving way to her sin, she fell to her knees, her hand diving to her pocket, frantically searching out her rosary beads – and forgiveness.
From where he watched behind the hawthorn bush, Roberteen Bawn was terrified at the transformation he saw in his neighbour, Ellen Rua.
Hurriedly he crossed himself and muttered a frantic prayer: ‘God between us and all harm, Holy Mother of God between us and all harm.’
Then he tore away into the safety of the deep winter’s night.
8
The two acres of land farmed by the O’Malleys were held on a year-to-year basis. They were ‘tenants at will’ of Pakenham, with no security of tenure. There purely at the will – or whim – of the landlord.
It was Pakenham’s practice, before Christmas each year, to issue a notice-to-quit to each of his tenants. The tenant would then be called to account for his stewardship before the landlord or his agent. Provided there were no arrears, the tenant would be granted another year’s tenure – at an increased rent. For those unfortunate enough to have fallen into arrears for one reason or another, there was only one outcome: eviction. Most tenants had no choice but to accept the conditions imposed on them by the landlord.
Michael was called to attend Tourmakeady Lodge for a review of his tenantship on 8 December, the feast day of the Immaculate Conception.
A month had passed since the death messenger had manifested herself near their cabin, and yet no one had been taken. This was most unusual. Tradition had it that the Banshee called a night or two before the death would occur. Her visit was a signal for friends and relatives to gather and make their peace with the person whose death was foretold, and then pray over the departing soul. Ellen had never heard tell of an occasion where the death messenger had come and no one had died. The further the days stretched away, the more Ellen’s relief grew. Nevertheless, she was always watchful, always on guard.
This trip to Tourmakeady Lodge was Michael’s first journey of any length since Samhain. Despite her condition, she resolved to leave the children with Biddy and accompany him, just in case his time would come while he was away from her.
Ellen and Michael walked up the long approach to Tourmakeady Lodge. The verges of the driveway were lined with rhododendron bushes, which must have been a sight in full bloom.
This was Ellen’s first visit and she found it hard to understand how so many areas of good land could have been turned over to useless growth like flowers and shrubs, when it could have been used to grow food for the hungry. How could there be such plenty for one man in the midst of want and scarcity for so many? And why couldn’t she and Michael own their pitifully small two-acre patch? God knows, Pakenham didn’t need it, and with all the rent down the years they had paid its value many times over. It was wrong, so wrong.
They paused by the gates of a beautiful walled garden. Along its sides, thorny creepers grew; along its pathways were neatly trimmed bushes. Everything was laid out in perfect symmetry. Just like the lazy beds, only here there were no rows of potatoes – no need for that at Tourmakeady Lodge! These were the rose gardens, Pakenham’s pride and joy.
‘They say Pakenham has a score of men working here – a dozen for the rose gardens alone.’ Ellen shook her head in disbelief.
‘Aye, and if he does itself he’ll have no luck for it,’ Michael responded. ‘One fine day these fine rose bushes will make a bed of thorns for him.’
‘’Tis said he guards it as if ’twere the Crown Jewels themselves within.’
‘Just as well he does!’ Michael laughed. ‘It wouldn’t take me and Martin Tom Bawn long to make a fine potato patch out of it.’
The image of Pakenham’s rose gardens being replaced with lazy beds full of lumpers appealed to Ellen, and she laughed with him.
Bridget Lynch, pretty as a picture, opened the tradesmen’s entrance to Ellen and Michael. Ellen was taken by the young girl’s beauty and the radiance of her smile.
Bridget leaned towards the visitors and gave the customary Gaelic greeting, but not too loudly. Pakenham would have her flogged if he heard her speaking ‘that bog language of the papists’, as he called it. It was expressly forbidden to speak Irish in the house or grounds of Tourmakeady Lodge. Ellen, sensing the risk the girl took, laid a hand on Bridget’s arm and whispered, ‘Dia’s Muire dhuit.’
Bridget took in the woman before her. So this was Ellen Rua O’Malley, the woman whose beauty was spoken of in the four corners of Connacht. It felt strange to be so close to the red-haired woman. It was as if some energy, some spirit-force enveloped her. Yet Bridget was not afraid of it. This woman was not dangerous or evil, like some of the old ones back in the mountains. No, Ellen Rua’s spirit was good – and Bridget Lynch liked it.
A whiff of a breeze brushed a strand of Ellen’s hair across Bridget’s cheek. She felt it fall against her skin – strongly textured, yet fine; the essence of the woman herself. And in the eyes of the red-haired woman, Bridget Lynch saw not only her own reflection, but also the wildness of the green mountain fields, the wide blue of the sky, and the dark brooding of the Mask. Ellen Rua had more than beauty. She was of the land, of history – she was of Ireland. She would never be a landlord’s tallywoman. That would be a betrayal not only of body but of soul and country. So Bridget did not fear for Ellen Rua O’Malley. Sir Richard Pakenham would be no match for her. Of that, Bridget Lynch was sure.
The moment between the two women was broken by the arrival of an irate Mrs Bottomley.
‘Girl, are you whispering about the place in that foreign tongue again?’ she accused Bridget – ignoring Ellen and Michael, as if they weren’t there. ‘His Lordship will have something to say to you about that.’
Ellen noticed the sadness come into the girl’s eyes at the mention of Pakenham.
‘Have the peasants cleaned their feet, girl?’ Mrs Bottomley harried Bridget, still ignoring them. ‘Bring them in, bring them in – the kitchen, mind, no further. And stay with them,’ she instructed Bridget, without any hint of subtlety.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’
The housekeeper heard herself being addressed. It was with some surprise she registered that it was the tall red-haired woman. Mrs Bottomley turned, displaying obvious distaste that a peasant should have the audacity to speak to her.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ Ellen repeated in as polite but as firm a Queen’s English as Mrs Bottomley would have wished to hear in His Lordship’s lodge. ‘Peasants we may be, but thieves we are not.’
A reply to this insolence was on the tip of Mrs Bottomley’s tongue, but something in the manner of the woman affirmed the truth of what she had said. The housekeeper, lost for a response, executed an about-turn and shouted to an as yet invisible figure, ‘Mr Beecham! Mr Beecham! The peasants – those people from Maamtrasna are here.’
Bridget, meanwhile, could scarce contain her glee at the routing of Mrs Bottomley by Ellen – something she wouldn’t have deemed possible had she not witnessed it with her own eyes. What a story she would have for them back in Partry next time she was home.
She hurried to conceal her merriment as Beecham strode into the kitchen.
‘Well now, and what do we have here?’ the agent asked. ‘Ah, a delegation of the tenantry! What have you to say, O’Malley?’ Beecham ignored Ellen and directed the question at Michael.
‘His Lordship requested my attendance,’ Michael said quietly.
‘Yes, O’Malley, precisely – your attendance. Albeit a day of religion in the papist Church, it is not a day of family worship here,’ Beecham said, looking askance at Ellen. ‘Can you not conduct your own business, like a man, without bringing your wife to plead for you?’
‘I plead for nothing, Mr Beecham,’ Michael said staring down Pakenham’s middleman. ‘And we have other business in Castlebar.’
‘Pah, what business in Castlebar for the likes of you two?’ snorted Beecham. ‘Business my foot! I know the business you’re about: going to “buy the Christmas” – is that what you peasants call it? I knew it! I’ve told His Lordship time and again, the rent is set too low for you scheming beggars. His Lordship is far too generous, while you filthy idlers spend your time lazing about your lazy beds and begetting children.’
Ellen could feel Michael clench his fists as Beecham continued: ‘Well, my Christmas beauties, listen now, and listen well – the rent is to be raised one-twentieth for every child in a house above two children. This will put a halt to your lechery, and overpopulating His Lordship’s land. It’s time there was an end to the incessant subdividing when these offspring grow up, leaving the land never developed – only with potatoes, potatoes, and more damned potatoes.’
Ellen and Michael listened aghast as the agent outlined the scheme he had hatched with Pakenham.
‘Furthermore,’ Beecham went on, ‘any arrears in rent – any arrears at all, so-called Famine or not – will result in immediate eviction from both dwelling-place and land. There will be no abatements of rent, despite rumours to the contrary being put about by O’Connell and his agitators. Is that quite clear?’
‘It is clear that these new rents are unjust and an affront to God for the families he has blessed with children,’ Michael began, anger clouding his face. ‘It is clear that the potato crop has already failed many people. An increase in rents, facing into a year of shortage, can only drive more of the people to hunger and to the roadside. Is that what His Lordship wants?’
‘Yes, that is exactly what His Lordship wants!’ barked Pakenham. The landlord had entered the room unnoticed. Now he strode across the room to join Beecham, displeasure written all over his face.
‘What is all this noise? I won’t have the tenantry raising their voices in my household. Oh, it’s you, O’Malley!’ Pakenham said, feigning surprise. ‘And the pretty red-crested mountain thrush, too.’ He paused and looked quizzically at Beecham. ‘Is there to be a céilí here at the Lodge?’ he asked mockingly. Then he rounded on Michael and Ellen: ‘Does the law of the Lord not provide for each man to do what he wills with that which is his? And does the Lord not command the servant to increase the profit of his master or be banished forever from his master’s sight? Is this not writ in the Holy Books – even of your own papish Church?’
He spoke like a preacher, Ellen thought, laying out their sins before them.
‘It is! It is! It is!’ the landlord answered his own question, clapping the fist of one hand into the open palm of the other.
Then he turned on Bridget, who had obviously been as unsettled as they were by his surprise entrance. Ellen was aware of a slight flush on the girl’s cheeks, and the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands.
‘Don’t fidget, girl! Make yourself useful for once,’ Pakenham said gruffly. ‘Go bring my port for when I’ve finished here.’
At this, Ellen noticed that the slight flush on Bridget’s face had darkened, becoming a ridge of deep scarlet along each of the girl’s cheekbones. She felt sorry for the young servant; Pakenham had obviously set out to demean her in front of them.
‘Your Lordship,’ said Michael, ‘we Máilleachs pay our just dues on time, as we have done since my father’s day.’
Ellen could see that he was measuring out the words, holding himself back.
‘We have used the land well, reclaiming even the marshy land by the lakeshore – to Your Lordship’s profit.’
Michael stopped there and Ellen breathed a sigh of relief. He had said it well.
‘Show me the book, Beecham!’ Pakenham thrust an imperious hand out towards his agent.
Beecham passed over the well-worn rent book, and Pakenham ran his finger down the quill-crafted entries.
‘Let me see … Yes, O’Malley, Michael. Wife and three children. Maamtrasna. That’s you, isn’t it?’ Pakenham never looked up, never waited for an answer. ‘Yes, well everything appears to be in order here, O’Malley.’
The landlord closed the book, ambled to the window, looked out, and then returned across the room to stand directly in front of Ellen and Michael.
‘You know, O’Malley,’ he said conversationally, ‘I’ll wager my garden of roses that the marshland which you speak of is not the only land on my property reclaimed by you. What say you to that?’
Pakenham pushed his face closer to Michael’s.
Michael, unflinching, stared the landlord straight in the eye. How could Pakenham have known about the lazy beds on top of the mountain? He had his spies about, to be sure, those that would sell out their fellow Irishmen for a shilling. But Michael was certain Pakenham couldn’t have known, was only baiting him. He said nothing.
‘You see, Beecham? He doesn’t answer – I was right! I know these peasant dogs and the way they think. Declare a portion of improved land, pay the extra rent for a quiet life and then rob me blind. Thinking, “Sure, Pakenham will never know, and him beyond in London enjoying hisself,”’ Pakenham mimicked the local accent. ‘And you – silent woman’ – he turned on Ellen – ‘You sing, but you can’t speak – is that it?’ he taunted. ‘Speak up, woman! What should I do about fraudsters and tricksters who use my land without fair payment?’
