Crannog / No - Crannóg

Crannóg No 7 winter 2004
There are lots of implements on the wall. Scalpels and
scissors and those kinds of things. It reminds me of the
butcher’s back home in Dunteely.
They use the scalpel to put me back together again. The
doctor takes my hands out of the box and fits them to
my arms. Then he adds on my shoulders. He goes on
like this until he gets to the bits that look like Angel
Delight. The pieces are pinkie and quivering and there
are bits of grey all the way through them. I’m very
anxious now. All shivery and sick. I hope they aren’t
going to eat them or anything.
“This is going to take a long time,” one of the doctors
says. And everyone nods their heads.
While they are fitting the angel delight together I think
about this speech in Hamlet. I know about it because I
was in the play last year. Hamlet said that despite being
clever people were just made of dusty Angel Delight.
When I am put back together again the boxes are
tossed away. They put them in a rubbish bin under the
trolley. And I am wheeled out into the bright light.
The stars start talking to me. They want me to join
them up in the sky. The doctors say my knee will take a
long, long time to heal (there are no guarantees) and
I’ve given my head a bang. It’s the bang to my head
that’s making my words come out strange. They put me
in a ward with ICU on it and tuck me up in bed.
“In a few days,” the stars say, “you will come and join
us.”
“I want to go now,” I say
“You can’t go now.”
“Why?”
“We have to wait for the Angel Delight to set,” the stars
say.
“Why is a box of Angel Delight so important?”
“Use your brain.”
“I am using my brain.”
“Of course you can’t. Not yet,” the stars say.
Which is when the rest of my family have little chats
around my bed.
“Mammy, why’s Arnie talking about Angel Delight?”
“He’s sick darling.”
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