My Sunday Best 08

On excarnation.

Then sometimes, there is a rend in the fabric of my day, and a pine marten appears on the kitchen table. It mewled and snarled while we checked it over. Then, it raised its small head and we locked eyes.

Oh, tiny tree cat, what can you teach me?

Weighing no more than a bar of soap, a pine marten kit is a wonder. Its ancestors were almost hunted to extinction in Ireland for their silky-smooth pelts. The destruction of our ancient woodlands left them homeless. But here, in the west, cat crainn (tree cat) clung on for dear life and recent figures celebrate its resurgence.  

The Golden One

My Croatian friend showed me a coin with a pine marten etched on its surface. The Golden One, he said. Once, the fur of a marten was currency. In Ireland in the 16^th Century, it was second only to fish skin.

I could not get near the little creature. It hissed and spat, primed to fight back. Then, I used a skewer to stroke the fur between its ear and it stilled. You are unbaked, I said, removing the skewer and thinking of its mother in the woodland, keening.  

In the afternoon, we attempted release. No, it said. Not like this. The kit nosed its way beneath the towel, craving darkness. We put it back in the box and waited for night to fall.

Raised by a She-wolf

That day, I too became vespertine. I followed my children into the caves of Kesh, crawling on all fours until the darkness was so deep, we could taste it: like sopping blackberries, milk on the turn, like metal, a coin on the tongue. The High King of Tara was raised here by a she-wolf, I said. We forced our bodies to be still and imagine that, like the pine marten, the wolves came back.

Keshcorran Mountain is a warren of caves that kept us occupied for hours. At one stage, we turned our torch on the glistening limestone walls and saw the webs of a hundred spiders strung out.

I thought of the bodies brought there for excarnation before burial and wondered at myself squeezing through the innards of a mountain for fun – have I come full circle? Do I visit these places to put a bit of weight back on my bones? Gone are the days of denying my flesh; it speaks, I listen; it sings, I join the choir.

There is a well-worn path to the Caves of Kesh; I am not the only one.

Elusive Familiar

The warrior Queen Maeve, who once ruled over this province, wore a pine marten around her shoulders. Part pet, part scarf, she kept the creature close. I was not brave enough to wrap ours around my neck, but I did lie down beside it for a while. You are the best-kept secret of the woodland, I whispered. It watched me with scorching eyes; it gave nothing away.

On the edge of dark, we carried the pine marten to a stand of hazel and wedged the box among its branches. When I opened the door, it did not rush to freedom. I left, scanning the trees, knowing I may never see one of its kind again. Goodbye, tiny tree cat, I said.

Sister pine marten, you remind me that the future of my species depends on the future of yours, depends on the future of forests, depends on the future of wolves, depends on the future of delicate, devalued ecosystems. Sister cat crainn, you teach me how to turn feral, climb into caves and eat darkness. Sister, tree cat, you are a marvel.

Elusive familiar: there is no reason
why we need meet. Will we

have so much as been here at all?
I too have never seen my own face.

From The Pine Marten, David Wheatley

May the spirit of cat crainn infuse your Sunday with wild, feline imaginings.