The Rising of the Moon

(Excerpt: Basement Scene)

Flynn Connolly

Nuala had spoken to crowds this size back at the university in Scotland, in lecture halls with desks-speaking to silent students who were usually bent over scribbling notes, hoping only to get a good mark in the class. This was hardly the same thing.

At the sight of her, the women fell silent, their eyes widening.

In back some stood on tiptoe to see better, squinting and frowning. There was some polite jostling for position, but not a word, not a whisper. Just three hundred pairs of eyes, staring.

A small table had been pressed up against the blackboard on the wall. It wasn't foldable, so there it remained. Bebhinn clambered up onto it to address the crowd.

"I won't waste any time," she began, "as obviously you know why you're here. I just wanted to point out what a risk Nuala is taking by coming here to talk to you. She believes the women of Wexford are important enough to take that risk, so if the gardai do show up, it is our duty to hinder them in any way we can, to stop them from taking her. If you are not prepared to do that-to take the same risk for her that she is taking for you- then leave now and tell no one where you have been."

She paused, but no one moved, no sound broke the silence. Bebhinn was smiling proudly as she climbed down from the table. Nuala took her place.

She looked down at the upturned faces, saw the excited eyes, felt the palpable tension in the room. What expectations did they have of her, and what could she say that wouldn't disappoint them?

"Hello, Nuala!" someone called from the crowd, and a hand waved.

"Rita," Nuala said, smiling. "Good to see you again. Had no more trouble with the garda, I hope?"

"Haven't seen the bastard," Rita called back. "And I'd better not, for his sake. I had my brother check out a disk on karate from the library, and I've been practicing. Nobody's going to intimidate Rita Boyle so easily again!"

A chuckle rippled through the crowd, but there were many determined nods, too. Nuala smiled. Here was her opening.

"Men have always underestimated women's anger and our strength. And we have underestimated it, too. But can you imagine how different the world would be if we stopped underestimating ourselves? What would happen if all women everywhere learned to defend ourselves, as Rita is learning to do? If we all said. No, I will not let you bully me, I will not let you hurt me. Can you imagine a world like that? I can. I can see it. If every woman refused to be intimidated, then they could enslave us no longer. We would be free! Imagine saying to your husband, 'I've learned karate, darling. So the next time you come home drunk and try to hit me or the kids, I'll flatten you. Don't even think of trying it ever again, dear.' "

There were some nervous chuckles at that, but murmurs of "Right!" too.

"Can you imagine that?" Nuala went on. "I can. And the gardai. Yes, I know they carry weapons and they can throw people in jail. That may happen to me all too soon. But what would happen if all women said, 'You can kill me, you can imprison me, but you can't get us all. There will always be another woman to take my place. Always. So you can't win, Mr. Swaggering Garda who thinks he can attack any woman he likes. You can kill me or imprison me, but you can't impress me, and you can't frighten me. I will not be intimidated any longer. You are nothing.' "

The "Yeah!"s were louder this time, the nods more numerous. Almost imperceptibly the women inched closer to Nuala.

"Imagine a world where every woman said, I will have as many or as few children as I want, not however many the Church tells me I have to. And then, after I've raised them lovingly, taught them to be true to themselves and to fear nothing, I'll send them off on their own. And after I've done that, I want my own life back! I want to use my own talents and skills and interests for myself, not just to serve my children and grandchildren and my husband and the Church, but to do whatever the hell I want to do with my life. If I want to become a doctor, so women don't have to spread their legs for male gynecologists, then by god, I'll go to medical school and become one! And if everyone tells me I can't, I'll ignore them and study abroad, if I have to, but I will do it! I'll be a doctor, or join the Fleet and go to space, or be an engineer, or an author, or any bloody thing I choose to be. No one has the right to tell me I can't. No one.' "

"Ceart go leor!" Right enough, someone yelled, adding to the general agreement.

"Can you imagine such a world?" Nuala asked. "Can you imagine a world in which women are free? Can you? Well, can you?"

"Yes!" was the resounding reply; some fists pounded the air and smiles surrounded Nuala, but then a moment later someone in the back said, "No." Nuala didn't see the woman who spoke, but she heard the emotion in the voice, the tears choking that one word. The other women were shocked into silence, looking around to see who had spoken.

"I can understand that," Nuala said quickly. "After all, we've never seen freedom, so it may be difficult to imagine. But let's talk about faith for a moment. You all know about faith. We're taught to believe in its power practically from the moment we're born. Have faith in God, we're told, and He will provide. Well, what would happen if we stopped giving our faith away to some unseen entity and gave it back to ourselves instead? Have faith in yourself, and you will provide." She paused. "That's hard to imagine, too, isn't it? We're taught not to have faith in ourselves, but in God, the Church, the government, our fathers, our husbands-everyone but ourselves! That's no accident, you know. No one wants us to have faith in ourselves, because they know what that would mean. They can imagine the trouble that would cause them, so we've got to learn to imagine it too. We've got to. James Connolly once- Do you know who James Connolly was? I'm sure you remember his name from your history classes, because Connolly was one of the leaders of the 1916 Easter Uprising. He and all the other martyrs of that Uprising have been safely made into saints now, so we can be told that they did something vaguely heroic once, but that the details are no longer important. Well, James Connolly was a truly grand fellow-for all he was a man-and he said many brilliant and insightful things that no one wants you to hear today. Things like: 'No nation is conquered until it accepts defeat' and 'Timidity in the slave induces audacity in the tyrant.'

"Women were nearly conquered thousands of years ago when they accepted defeat at the hands of men with their patriarchal religion and their love of violence. I say 'nearly' conquered, because there has always been that flicker of a memory-call it genetic memory, if you like-of a time when women were free. Some of us were born with that memory, with an instinctive refusal to accept defeat. Some of us were born with it, some have to learn it. And it can be learned. You can learn to imagine freedom; you can learn to have faith in yourself and in other women. You can. All you need is the desire to. That's all. The desire grows into a need, a need to be free, a need to stop being timid. Connolly was right about so many things; he was right about the slave's timidity inducing audacity in the tyrant. Do you think your husband would bully you so much if you ceased to be timid? If you refused to be afraid of him, stopped respecting his nonexistent authority? He has no right to treat you badly, to bully or beat or rape you. None at all, the Church be damned. He has no right. No more right than the Church or the government has to enslave us. No right. All we have to do is realize that, believe it, and we can stop the tyranny. A great South African rebel of the twentieth century, Stephen Biko, said, 'The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.' If we go along with the oppressor, if we consent to being oppressed, then we will never be free. Isn't it time we stopped participating in our own enslavement? Isn't it time we reclaimed our freedom? Isn't it time?"

Nuala paused. She felt she had been going on and on, randomly. But no one was bored. The women had pushed forward by inches; the ones in front were pressed against the table, their heads tilled back as far as possible to see her. She could have touched them just by reaching out. A few of them were staring at her with a fervent look-adulation, almost-that made her uncomfortable. But there were many faces in the crowd that were frightened, too. All this talk of demanding freedom was great in the abstract, but...

"All this talk of demanding freedom is great in the abstract, isn't it?" Nuala went on. "But in real life, you may have a husband who's bigger than you are who's been beating you for years, and the gardai-well, they do carry guns, don't they? I know you want to be free; who doesn't? But you want peace, too, right? Well, unfortunately, until freedom is gained-for us all-then it will be necessary to choose between a 'peaceful' enslavement and a frightening and dangerous fight for freedom. We're not the first people to be forced to make that choice, and we won't be the last. An American rebel of the eighteenth century, Patrick Henry, understood that when he said, 'Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?' How long will you go on choosing slavery because it's 'safer'? I know that a known evil is easier than facing the unknown of revolution-but isn't the risk worth it? Isn't it necessary? Remember, it's not just yourself and your own daughters you're choosing for, it's for every woman in Ireland. We all have to stand together, because none of us can be free until we are all free."

The nods were spreading across the room. Nuala was startled to see tears in the eyes of some women. She smiled at one of them, a woman in her seventies, it appeared. The woman didn't bother to wipe away the tear that slid down her cheek.

"I know you're afraid," Nuala said to her, but she was speaking to every woman in the room. "I am, too. I don't want to be killed, and I don't want to go to prison. But I want to be free. I want to be able to teach Irish history in an Irish university without censorship, without fear. And if I ever have a daughter, I want her to be free to live her life in peace and safety, free from the fear of rape, the fear of the gardai's knock at the door. And if I have a son, I want him to be free, too. Free of the Church's brainwashing him into being a tyrant in his own home, and having sole responsibility for his family. I know some of you have fathers, husbands, or sons who aren't happy with the present system; they're good men. Like my own father. Well then, use your influence with them, their love for you to get them to join us in this fight. Because don't we all want to be free? I want to be free, so I have made the only choice I can: I choose to fight. Because I know that I cannot be enslaved if I consider death less hateful than bondage."

The white-haired woman was still crying, but she smiled at Nuala, nodding. And so were other women, even the ones who still looked frightened.

"When Rita Boyle was attacked last week," Nuala went on, "I didn't have time to stop and consider the political ramifications of my interference in the matter. A man-an armed man-was assaulting an unarmed woman. So I shot him. It was all over in an instant, but I'll be honest with you: It felt good." She smiled, and they smiled with her. "It felt good-no, actually it felt great to be saying by pulling that trigger, 'No more. I will not allow you to harm this woman. I don't give a damn who or what you are. You are just a man, and I do not fear or respect you. No more. From now on, no matter the consequences to myself, I choose the fight. I will be free.' "

"Yes. Yes!" It was not a shout, but the word rippled through the room, repeated by hundreds of women; it echoed and hung in the air.

Nuala smiled again. "I read an account once of a woman named Diana Norman who, in the late twentieth century, was speaking at a feminist conference-yes, they actually had those in Ireland back then-about the role of Constance Markievicz in the 1916 Uprising. Countess Markievicz-she was called that, if you remember, because she married a Polish count, but she was : quite Irish herself-was one of the leaders of the Uprising. One of the leaders, mind you, and herself a woman! She carried a gun and she commanded a squad of soldiers, men who obeyed her orders. Imagine! Anyway, Diana Norman said of this, 'Anyone with a gun is frightening, but for men a woman with her finger 'round the trigger of a gun has a terrifying Freudian significance.' " Nuala smiled again. "Do you see? They're afraid of us! Men are afraid of us. Why do you suppose they try so hard to keep us enslaved? Because they realize our power, even if we don't. They-"

The front door suddenly burst open, hitting a few of the women nearby, and Heather rushed in as far as she could.

"Gardai! Two vans headed this way!"

Someone cried out and the crowd immediately began to churn, but Nuala yelled and got their attention. "Stop! Listen!" They turned back, terror on their faces. "Let Heather through, quickly!"

In moments a narrow path was cleared, women bumping back into each other. Heather hurried forward. Nuala continued.

"If they don't see me, then you're just here for a Ladies Auxiliary meeting; that's not illegal. So remain calm. Remember, they are just men. They have no real authority-"

"Nuala, come on!" Heather grabbed her hand and pulled her off the table. Bebhinn immediately took her place.

"Clear a path to the back door for them," she called out, "and block the front door, but leave it open. We are doing nothing secret here. This is the weekly meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary of the St. Columbanus Society. Why don't we conclude this meeting by singing a hymn?"

Nuala and Heather eased their way through the crowd, who were moving aside for them, jostling each other to make room. They were all frightened, but many of them smiled.

"Good luck, Nuala!"

"We won't let the bastards through!"

"We'll choose the fight!"

The voices came from all sides. As Nuala and Heather ran out into the alley, three hundred voices joined in on "Onward Christian Soldiers." The singing was loud, defiant, frightened, and joyous all at once.

"lgraine!" Heather shouted as she and Nuala headed for Fiona and the truck. lgraine heard somehow over the singing, and raced after them.

Fiona had seen them, and the engine was already running. Nuala and Heather piled in. A few tense moments later, lgraine reached the truck. Nuala and Heather grabbed her and pulled her in. She almost fell out again as Fiona took off, but then they got the door closed. Heather climbed into the back, watching behind them.

A squad car turned down the opposite end of the alley. Nuala just caught a glimpse of it as Fiona careened around the corner and sped off, then rounded another corner, scattering pedestrians from a crosswalk.

The squad car appeared again, a half block behind. Fiona floored the truck's accelerator, jumped the truck onto the sidewalk to avoid traffic, and screeched around the nearest corner, then the next and the next. By the time they roared trough the open doors of the half-empty warehouse, they could still hear the siren, but it was several blocks back.

After piling out of the truck, not saying a word, Fiona and Nuala ran for the waiting van, while lgraine and Heather raced back to the warehouse doors and hit the switches that would close them, then headed for the van. One of the warehouse doors stopped, half open. Cursing in Irish, lgraine turned back, then Heather ran after her. Together they grabbed the door and pulled. At first it wouldn't budge. The siren was getting closer. Finally the door jerked, came unstuck, and began to move. lgraine and Heather hurried it along, pushing as hard as they could.

"Come on!" Fiona yelled. The siren was almost on them.

Heather and lgraine ran for the van again. The squad car sped past the almost-closed door behind them, its siren screaming, and kept going.

Fiona took off before lgraine and Heather were seated, knocking them into each other. Nuala pulled the van door closed behind them.

At the other end of the block-long warehouse, Fiona slowed and eased the van nonchalantly out onto the street. The other three women huddled in the back, keeping their heads down. The squad car was nowhere to be seen; its siren was growing fainter by the moment.

Keeping carefully to the speed limit, Fiona followed the planned escape route. They beat the new roadblocks by listening to the gardai on Heather's stolen radio and made it safely out of Wexford. They were five miles out of town and on their way north to Wicklow before Nuala took a deep breath.