The Moth and the Candle

The asphalt radiated heat, the warmth of the day being stored in the ground beneath her feet for use later on. The earth always knew what to expect of any day at all. It kept a balance between the darkness and the light which crept around the margins of all time. Emma stood at the parapet of the bridge and looked up at the clouds. The sign fixed to the granite above her head caught her eye. It read

‘From this bridge on February 23rd 1798 United Irishmen James Donnelly and Daniel Clarke were hanged for their part in the insurrection of that year.’
- I wonder who they were? She asked out loud.

No one answered. The waters of the Liffey sluggishly eased by without salute or acknowledgement of her question. She read and re-read the simple stone plaque. The words shifted under her gaze and began to melt like one of Dali’s painted clocks. She closed her eyes and a strange hushing sound was on the cusp of her hearing.

- I wonder, she said, I wonder if they thought it worth it, in the end...
The words were swept out of her mouth by the din that surrounded her. She could hear the clash of metal on stone and the roar of a crowd baying for blood, any blood at all, their mood as fickle and changeable as the weather. The smell of stale sweat and human and animal effluvia. The sharp tang of something else in the air which Emma could only work out when she saw the look of terror on the eyes of two men at the centre of the crowd that was suddenly in front of her. Leering shouts, almost sexual in their demand for climax, drowned out any words they might have uttered. But the men looked too frightened to speak. Both had clearly been beaten, one of them bent over and vomited onto his shoes, an oily rush streaked with blood and fragments of his teeth. He was pulled to his feet and roughly hustled over to the parapet. A rough noose was placed over his head. He shook and gibbered, falling to his knees and appearing to pray.

- None of that papist shit! A soldier in a scarlet coat snarled, stand on your feet if you want ti pray, he said as he struck the condemned man heavily with the butt of his rifle.

The prisoner staggered to his feet.

- Do you have any last words? The soldier asked, pulling the noose tight and checking the stay at the bottom of the bridge.

The prisoner looked around at the crowd. They started back at him. There was a stillness now. He looked one last time at the sky and then said

- For the sake of my country I wish we had won. She deserves better than those who rule her now.

He looked directly at Emma. She ran forward, screaming at the soldiers behind him. They pulled him over the parapet and as she reached her destination they let go. The act seemed to repeat itself. His body jerked and pulled at the road. The wet snap let the crowd know the rebel’s neck had been broken and in place of the normal cheer the crowd let out a collective sigh. Emma looked around. No one had tried to stop her. All the faces in the crowd blurred. She felt dizzy. She felt numb. She knew how James Donnelly and Daniel Clarke felt in their last few minutes. She could taste their fear in her mouth and feel her lungs pull in their final breaths. No more...no more...no more it called, the voice of time. They were no more. And in an instant of blinding light that bathed her soul neither was she.