Song Of The Irish 1

I Am Of Ireland

He watched the other mice then lay down behind the reel. This trip promised to be long. His thoughts stayed on Ireland, stayed on her, and with those images and songs and sights playing in his head he drifted off thinking of lush fields and better times. He hoped he'd never awaken, but all at once he heard the other mice exclaim, "Cats!?" He gasped, waking instantly up and tensing, prepared for a slaughter. It took him a moment to realize he was no longer in Ireland but on a ship sailing as far away as possible. That in itself served to make him more miserable. He'd never wanted to leave home. It's just that he couldn't stay there. Too painful.

"I didn't see any cats," a small mouse's voice declared. He had a bit of a view from where he was. The child couldn't be more than four or five. He almost scoffed. The child was naïve, a fool, for believing any such thing. Why then was he going? Land of opportunity, streets paved with cheese, no cats… none of those promises had convinced him. So why was he going there? He knew… Because he had needed to go somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far, far from Ireland, far from his anguished memories and torturous thoughts, far from pain. But would he ever escape pain? No… and he knew that full well.

"Won't it be nice when we get to America? In America there are no cats. But back home in mother Russia…" a fat mouse declared, he supposed the boy's father. As naïve as his son was, the Irish mouse realized. The Russian sighed deeply, along with the other mice. The Irishman lay back down closing his eyes once more and trying to sleep, trying to ignore everything going on around him. But no, he wasn't that lucky.

AAT

The Russian mouse began to sing, and he couldn't help but listen to the man's story:

Our family was travelling, through the snow to Mince;

suddenly papa saw those huge paw prints.

When I heard him screaming I fainted dead away;

And I woke up an orphan. Collective gasp… "Oy vey…" Collective sigh, then… "But…"

There was a 'but?' Then the chorus broke out and the young mouse man gasped, starting. He was awake now:

But there are no cats in America, and the streets are paved with cheese.

There are no cats in America, so set your mind at ease.

AAT

The mice had all sang together. He felt like shooting up and screaming at them to shut up, that they were all fools, that nothing would be better. But then what was there if there was no hope? Perhaps hope was something he would do well to believe in, if only a little. No matter how he tried, though… Nothing. He felt nothing. Nothing but misery and anger and regret and bitterness. How could they sing of their loved ones' demise and then so suddenly and easily burst into a joyous song about America and how wonderful it would be there? Our families are dead, but we're going to America so who cares? Was he still too young to understand why? He wanted to feel disgust, but again, nothing. Curiosity, perhaps, and he wondered; why were they so alive while he was so dead? Had they not also had tragedy in their lives?

AAT

Another mouse leapt up onto an object and began to speak, saying, "You think a things were a bad in Russia? You should a see things in my country." The young Irish mouse listened once more, curiosity growing.

The times were hard in Sicily we had no provolone;

The don he was a tabby with a taste for my brother Tony.

When mama went to plead for him the don said he would see her;

We found her rosary on the ground..." Collective gasp. "Poor mama mia," the Italian mouse finished, kissing the rosary he held clutched in his hand. Again the mice all sighed sadly. And again the dreaded word. "But…"

AAT

The Irish mouse nearly sobbed. Another but? Why? Why was it that all they could think about was America? Why was it that they spared not another thought to their deceased loved ones? Perhaps they were locked in their own personal Hades as he was? But how could they be when they were singing and dancing merrily to the chorus that again rang out through the hold. Did their families mean nothing to them? At the same time he nearly scoffed at himself, for he knew their families must have meant everything to them.

Would he be like this one day, when mourning passed, able to hope again? No… No… Something told him he never would, and he wished he could know why but no answer was coming to him. Was he too young to be saved? But he couldn't be, for the Russian had become an orphan at what sounded like a very young age. Perhaps too young to fully understand the magnitude of his situation? The Italian? He had his brother still, and the rest of his family from the sounds of it. He hadn't been left alone, and he had lost his mother, so it seemed, when he was well into adulthood. So here he was, old enough to see the gravity of everything he'd lost, too young to be able to cope as he should have. Perhaps that was why hope had been stripped of him.

But there was no pain in their chorus, hardly any in their stories. He felt anger growing. Anger and misery. They didn't know what true pain was. He felt like screaming. He rose up from behind the reel that a family had sprung from at the chorus' close, mouth agape ever so slightly as he looked around. So he would show them true mourning, and he would display true pain, and he would tell them his story. The chorus would ruin it, perhaps, but maybe he could try hope. So he rose up and spoke for the first time since her death…

AAT

"Sure that's sad but sadder still…

When I was, but a lad, I lost my true love fair;

A calico, he caught us by surprise.

In a flash of teeth and fur, her tail was all he left of her;

'Neath the heather is, where me toora loora lies…

There was the expected collective sigh. No gasp, but the sigh. Now to try out hope. "But…" he began, hoping it would motivate him as it had the others. As the others burst into a chorus, though, he never joined. He felt nothing. His ears drooped once more and his forced smile fell. Silently he backed away from the crowds singing along to cover his tracks. As soon as he was away, though, he went to a wall, leaning his forehead against the cool wood and wishing death would simply take him. There was no hope, there was nothing for him anymore but a promise he had foolishly made to her, to her… his Irish Lullaby.

Tears fell silently from his eyes. Oh he prayed a storm would come and sweep him overboard. Just then, however, a voice spoke, saying, "Ex-excuse me."

AAT

He turned to this new voice curiously. A mouse that wasn't singing? A young girl, couldn't have even been a teenager. "Yes lass?" he questioned. He'd hidden any signs of tears, quickly.

"Wow, you sang so well. It was so emotional and deep and everything. I wish I could sing like that. Where did you learn?" she questioned.

He smirked, vaguely amused the child was displaying such an interest in him. He ruefully realized, though, that she had a slight crush. Poor, sweet, innocent little thing… He recognized her, the Russian mouse's daughter, as he'd assumed. But his loyalty to his dead lover would never die. He would take no one else until the day he perished. "I don't remember, t'was a long time ago lass," he answered. He inwardly chuckled wryly. A long time ago indeed. He was hardly in his twenties. Nonetheless he couldn't remember.

"Oh, I was self-taught. I've never had a teacher. I've only practiced with my family. I wish someone could give me lessons. I'm not very good," she admitted.

He liked this little mouse. She was interesting. Finally he asked, "What is yar name lass?"

"Tanya," she replied. "If you don't mind me asking, what was hers?"

AAT

His smile fell to a pained look. For a moment he seriously pondered walking away. But no, no he wouldn't bother. The other mice finished their song and he answered the girl, saying, "Nan." She looked down, slightly embarrassed. He sensed this and put a hand on her shoulder saying, "It's all right Tanya. Me name is Dylan."

"Pleased to meet you," Tanya said, brightening. She frowned ponderously. He couldn't help but smile. Rare a smile ever came to his lips these days, and he certainly hadn't laughed since the day Nan had died. Strange, then, that when she asked her next question he couldn't help but chuckle wearily. "Can you, by any chance, kind of, sort of, teach me…?"

He lightly chuckled. On seeing her crestfallen expression he declared, "I haven't chuckled far ages lass. I'll be glad ta teach ya."

"Really? I-I can pay you!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"No need Tanya. If America is anything like what the stories say, it'll be fine," he replied. "Even if not, well, money don't mean much ta me these days." She beamed excitedly, and for the first time in a long time he felt at ease, as if at least one other person understood that he was hurting badly and that nothing would ever change that. He sat down, she sat across from him, and he began to tutor her in voice.

A/N: I was torn between naming the moust Dylan, the fanon name for him as I just foun out, or Danny, so it would fit better with other scenes in future. The name of his toora-loora (Irish Lullaby) Nan was no trouble. If you look at the grave that appears as he's singing his song in the movie, the name written on the headstone is Nan. As you can see, I finally went with the fanon name.