The Mark of Henry Cox

The Mark of Henry Cox is now made silent witness to the collapse of modern European Ireland beset by endemic abuses that utilize an ethos of cover-up, silence and denial of truths. The story of Henry Cox is a metaphorical tale of survival of the inner-child into adulthood despite those consequences of sexual, physical and societal abuse. A narrative made more palpable though often proscribed in returning Diasporas of their societal impact; and the long-term effect of the reality of a continuing lives of citizens of a Republic, thus exposed.

Silence from the crowd now permeates the streets of this our once vibrant conurbation where the sound of children, at their play, echoed long into the settled Sun at end of day. The innocence of youth, now lay barren at the roadside bereft of hope, compassion and the understanding of the elders of the tribe; long since banished far beyond, the borders of your known World. We become more afraid because we are made less afraid through circumstance. The journey into life is fraught with danger and fragility of mind. The corporeal invites us from the abyss to taste the fruition of our own unique existence. The baby cries and the child is born. The heart beats slowly locked in unison far beyond those Suns of yesteryear when you and I trod the same dust piled road into righteous and long sort oblivion. The father stood coerced by silence into disbelieving the sin of those that would follow-on in tribute of the fallen; the woman lay abed in hope of truth and resurrection not yet assigned by such piety and soulful regret. The babe now borne-of-arms lay in wonderment of the winter’s fallen snow, droplets of blood would mark the singular passage between lime-pit and open seas; well beyond and out of reach of that cantankerous border of a schoolmaster’s ill-begotten mind. Images then stacked like discarded magazine, newspaper and empty tin-can; fill rightly to the top with kerosene, clothing rag, nail and dextrous hand. It began, as stories often do, with a stroll beyond Atlantic shore half way between the mists of our time and of yours.

I observed the melodrama now unfolding beyond the rutted sandstone searching as I often did beyond the clouds to the North but left unheard the murmur of your discontent and sank slowly, once again, beneath the ground. The parapet long since abandoned to thoughts of love made anxious under Cuban skies returned once more to the shores of Italy, Jesus and his resurrections. The room lay bare as we spoke of our indifference and the machinations of those once approved by fate now demanded our attention and the renewal of that fidelity once supposed. It was not to be made so inside our walls once carved of rock and etched overly; as I recall by your collective, indifference. The Sun would rise and the Moon would settle in tune to those earthly groans still visible despite the passage of time beyond our lonely and primordial dawn. We spoke of many things you and me but little of our regret for there can be no regret for things that have passed beyond the dreams of avarice, decadence and such other of corporeal desire. You were beautiful, you are beautiful and you shall remain beautiful, as beautiful, as those dreams now absorbed by realities of mind over sin.

Do you recall the passion of those youthful days or were they at best only in service to the gods in search of further delusion? A question out of servitude, maybe, a product of condition, if you prefer; either way, we are doomed to failure in any quest. It becomes self-evident when unplugged from the machine when the insidious abyss flows freely into our veins; as once did our human life-blood. The doctor then apologised the understanding of which evaded my trouble-free mind. Though dressed in hurried sneakers and whiter than white laboratory coat his oration vigilant of platitude nevertheless dealt with his mystification of your demise. I strove to enlighten him but had no effect on this awkward disciple of Hypocrites. My sisters were gone having abandoned the corpse into oblivion aeons before the actuality of this final ritual.

The mortuary attendant stood sentinel. The priest spoke of sinful obligation. The gravedigger marked his task. The flower lay torn upon the ground. The rains then fell to unite our fears.

Later, that morning; I stood ahead of the long queue as the door unlocked, was unbolted and the officious doorman made wholly redundant. The line stepped forward without hesitation then broke-off; as each participant head bowed summarily read the details on either pink or blue coloured forms before scurrying away. This crass bureaucratic attempt at softening the impact of kindred loss served only to remind me of your time now passed and allied naught in benefits of intended state comfort and thereby absolution of their crimes against your inhumanity.

The footsteps echoed along Napoleonic construct, keys turned, door upon door and wall with dextrous hands hued red and black would resound in search of renewed transgressions. Each cell contained a bible, a wooden chair, squared table and oblong bed replete with wooden pillow. Personal convenience consisted of a circular pot in which to urinate and/or defecate, a circular washing bowl and oblate water-jug; made of an unremembered metal type that required the application of beeswax, copious amounts of saliva then mixed with crushed pumice-stone in order to maintain its pristine reflections.

This monastic life made rule the sounds of silence long before the advent of any phonograph construe in soulful lamentation of his regret. I would often hear children at their play as the ice-cream seller astride his iced-boxed tricycle jingled and jangled his hand-driven bell to make aware the respondent child to his proffered goods. It was the height of an English summer the air long since wintered remained, fetid, shallow and as such ineffectual. The Sun however blazed in singular stream toward the stone flagged floor and formed a blackened, shadowy Cross on those now proven by King and country unrighteous in his name.

Addendum: The illustration is taken from a facsimile of the 1911 Census; now published on-line. Henry Cox my maternal Great-Grandfather then aged 44 could neither read nor write. The Mark of the title alludes to the ascribed signature of those made illiterate by state, church and social circumstance. The Mark depicted was made by my great-grandfather’s own hand in the county Mayo, Ireland in 1911; exactly 100 years ago. The Mark of Henry Cox has now become our story.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011