Inferno

Ireland is often called the land of Saints and Scholars, which is true, but only represents a recent view of this island. Long before Christianity, with its thirst for scribes, lived a conglomerate of Vikings and Celtic's. Even the Vikings were comparative newbies. The Celtic people occupied most of Europe long before the tramp of Roman garrisons trembled the battle fields of the ancient world.

Who preceded the Celts? Surely there must have been someone?

Far back in the mists of time, when Ireland was a blanket of forest, lived a great race of demigods. They ruled over humanity as, 'Tuatha De Danann', which translates into the 'Tribe of the Goddess Danu.' They were half men, half Gods, each with powers that set them apart from the throng of humanity. These were wild, ruthless times where hardly a day went by without some form of bloodshed. They often fought among themselves because, like all powerful beings, they were not all nice guys.

Take Balor for example. He was reputed to have a magic eye in the middle of his forehead, with another at the back of his head. This was so no enemy could catch him unaware. From his magic eye, he could shoot a beam of fire which disintegrated all it touched.  I know a few of you are thinking, Lord of the Rings, but Balor existed long before these books. Why not check him out?

Anyway, Balor was fairly unbeatable, but a witch foresaw Balor being slain by his own grandson. To prevent this from ever happening, Balor locked his only daughter away in a crystal tower, to stop her getting pregnant. Any of you with older kids will know, trying to keep teenage boys away from teenage girls, is near impossible. Take into account the countryside was running wild with Irish Demigod's, and you can guess what happened. Cian, a young member of Tuatha De Danann, magiced himself into the tower. Imagine Balor's surprise when, nine months later, he was grandfather to three bouncing baby boys.

Balor did what comes naturally to a near immortal megalomaniac, he took the boys to the highest cliff in the land and flung the new born children into the crashing waves below.

'That's that,' thought Balor, but the story is far from over. One grandson, Lugh, was saved from his watery grave by Birog, who raised the child as his own son. Decades later, in what’s now County Sligo, Balor faced Birog in battle. At Birog's left hand stood, Lugh, who launched a spear with a mighty heave, skewering Balor's heart.  Balor fell, with his magic eye wide open, burning a bottomless hole into the earth, into which his body tumbled. Eventually, the hole was filled with water and, 'Lough Na Sul' or 'Lake of the Eye', was created, forever entombing Balor.

Or so they thought.

The truth of the matter is that, while Balor's body was indeed locked forever at the bottom of Lough Na Sul, his spirit is free to walk the land on one special day of the year. All hallows eve. For thousands of years, his spirit would rise with the sun, on the thirty first of October, and roam the land.  Only to be chased back to the watery depths as the last ray vanished. Balor enjoyed his days of freedom, even sometimes taking over the body of a human, so he could touch, feel, taste, and savour, the world around him.

In the year 2013, Balor's spirit was soaring above the city of Dublin. He spied a young man at a bus stop and decided his body was just the vessel he needed. Sean McCarthy was a very tired, bored, call centre worker. He was mid-yawn when Balor's spirit invaded his soul. Balor inhaled deeply, flexing the strong young body he was now wearing, as if he were trying on a new suit of armour. Balor glanced at the laptop bag the boy carried before casting it into the gutter.

The others at the bus stop were shocked into silence by the wild look in the boy’s eye. Despite the cold, the young man removed his coat and shoes, throwing them to the ground alongside his bag. Balor came from a time where men were made of hardier stuff than these soft city boys. In the morning drizzle, Balor roared like a lion, and turned his face to the heavens, giving thanks for his hours of freedom. Among the people huddled in the bus shelter was a beautiful, flame haired, woman. Balor felt the blood in his newly acquired body surge with the lust of youth. Slowly he strode toward her. She seemed shocked into a stupor as this strange boy gazed into her eyes. She didn’t move when he took a handful of her hair and sniffed it. Then, a deep growl came from his chest. It was too much for the red-haired woman. She slipped into a faint and slithered to the ground. Balor laughed, as he looked down on the girl. What feeble things these humans have become, he thought.  He strode away into the morning mist; there was time enough for women, he had much to do before sunset.

So began an orgy of the senses. With Balor spirit inside of him, Sean was beyond human. What he wanted he took. He ate and drank like twenty men. He wandered the city, trying to understand all that was new. Balor was sure a plague of madness had gripped the land. Countless people wandered about, talking loudly to no one at all. Some nodded, and shook, with strings hanging from their ears. It was all truly strange. That was when he saw the sign depicting a man smiling happily, but it was the words that drove Balor into a rage. The banner read, Google Eye, will Rule the World.

Shoeless and coatless, Balor burst into Car-phone Warehouse on O'Connell St.

"Bring Google before me, so we can do battle," Balor declared to the man behind the counter, in a commanding tone, over the heads of people in the queue. The sales assistant glanced quickly at him before continuing to explain, to a blue-haired granny, how to make calls on her new phone.

"I command you to bring me, Google of the Magic Eye!" Balor bellowed.

The sales assistant was taken aback with the fury of the strange guy and called into the back room.

"Simon can you deal with a customer?"

From the back came a balding, bored looking, manager. The sales assistant nodded at Balor and said, "Nut job," just loud enough for the people at the front of the queue to hear. Simon looked to heaven and gave a bored sigh.

"Are you Google?" demanded Balor.

"No, I’m Simon. Can I help you, sir?" the manager replied, snootily shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Bring me, Google of the eye," Balor commanded, not wishing to entertain any lackeys, when battle was all that he dreamed of. It was then that Simon understood what this guy was talking about.

"You're on about, Google Glasses, mate. These are them," he said, pointing to the things sitting astride his nose.

Balor was confused, and pointed at the glasses, "This is the magic eye?"

"You could call them that. They possess the power of the internet," Simon said.

"Internet?" repeated Balor.

"Yea, buddy. Internet, you know, the thing that controls the whole frecking world," snapped Simon, having enough of this weird young fella. Simon was getting a feeling this must be a prank by the guys across the road in Harvey Norman, so he grabbed the weirdo by the elbow to chuck him out on the street.

"LIAR! I’m the one true keeper of the eye," Balor roared, shrugging free from the managers grip. He felt the magic eye begin to open, inside his mind. On the body he hijacked, steam began to rise, and heat rolled across the boy’s skin as Balor's rage increased.

"Listen buddy, just get out of the shop, right now, before I call the cops," the manager said, backing towards the counter. Every vein was standing out on the boy’s neck, like taunt rope pulled tight beneath the skin. He had gone an alarming shade of red, and the manager would later tell authorities, “the kid was glowing.”

"CALL YOUR ARMY, GOOGLE, AND ALL SHALL DIE THIS DAY!" Balor roared.

Flames erupted through the boy’s skin, where Balor's warrior marks had once been. Inside the hijacked body, Balor's magic eye opened, and a fountain of flame shot forth. Customers and staff ran for their lives, as Balor went nuclear. It took only seconds, but what happened next would be burned into every witnesses’ mind, forever. A colossal fireball formed around the half-naked man, and then it shot skyward, demolishing Carphone Warehouse in the process.

Left lying in the middle of the ruined shop, was the young man. His jeans were smouldering, his shirt burned clean off him, and he was sound asleep. His entire torso was a web of complicated tattoos, all of them were hot to the touch. It took the ambulance team several hours to wake the lad, and when they did, he insisted the last thing he remembered was waiting for the 46A.   

Minnie

Minnie

Minnie was a Yorkshire terrier. She was the smallest of four puppies, despite this she had been the first to open her eyes, the first to fall out of the basket while exploring and the first to be taken from her mommy. Minnie cried when she was taken away by the blond girl and her parents but soon she loved her new family. It was the blond girl who gave her the name Minnie.

 

The puppy grew to like her name. Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, rang from morning to night. Minnie’s special friend was Ann-Marie, the blond girl. All that summer they played in the garden, walking along the beach and playing fetch. People don’t seem to be able to hear or smell the world like dogs can. Minnie loved the tang of the ocean wafting in the wind, she could smell the diesel fumes from the train station all the way across the town, the delicious oder coming from the bacon factory made her lick her lips when it drifted over the hedge. Sounds were just as wonderful, she could hear the tv in the house next door and the bell that chimed from the church was so loud it made her cry the first time she heard it.

 

 When the air grew cooler Minnie first saw Ann-Marie in her school uniform. Minnie, Ann-Marie and her mother walked to school on that first day, Minnie was so excited. Soon boys and girls gathered all dressed the same way. Ann-Marie vanished from sight but Minnie could smell her little friend and pick out her lovely laugh among the noises of the school yard. Minnie did not want to leave but she was dragged away from the gate by her collar. Minnie grew to hate seeing Ann-Marie appearing in that school uniform.

 

 One day the woman of the house left the gate open. Minnie dashed into the world outside the garden deciding to try to find Ann-Marie in the place with all the other boys and girls. She wandered along paths that she was familiar with, sniffing at interesting things along the way without anyone dragging her by the collar.

 

 Just as she neared the school she was yanked up by the skin of her neck. The man’s hands were very rough, and the little puppy yelped as she was tossed into a wire cage. The light went out with a huge bang. All around were the whimpers of other dogs, Minnie tried to break free but the wire cut into her nose and paws painfully. When the door opened again Minnie could see the other puppies in cages just like her. The man who was taking them out smelled like cigarettes and beer, Minnie knew he was a bad man, dogs can tell you know. All the cages were thrown into a shed that was cold and damp. Yet again the light went out and her weeks of torture began.

 

 Minnnie was never let out of the cage, at first she needed to pee real bad but she held it. She was a good dog and did not want to make a mess inside but the man never came to let her out. In the end she had to go, that was weeks ago. She had been sleeping covered in wee and poo ever since. The nasty man came and shouted if the dogs made too much noise. Once and a while he would throw handfuls of food into the cage but never much. She was hungry, cold and very frightened. The day the man came to the shed and picked up Minnie’s cage she wagged her tail thinking she was going back to Ann-Marie. The smelly man dropped the cage on the ground making her yelp. He turned a hose on her until she was soaking but at least she did not smell like poo anymore. The man left Minnie in the yard while he brought out more dogs and turned the hose on them. Later he loaded all the shivering puppies into the van and slammed the door.

 

 At last the door opened on a wonderful sight; everywhere were people selling things and there were smells of cooking that made Minnie’s tummy rumble. Through the day people came and looked at the dogs in the cages. Some took dog’s away but Minnie only wanted to get back to Ann-Marie, no one else would do. When the nasty man opened her cage lifting her out she sank her sharp puppy teeth into his finger causing him to scream in pain dropping Minnie to the ground. Minnie ran as fast as she could with the nasty man chasing after her.

 

 She ran around people and under horses, between cars and making them go ‘BEEP’. She kept on running until the nasty man was far away. When the sun went down Minnie sniffed the air, everything here smelled strange except the very faint smell of the sea. Minnie followed the scent as it grew stronger by the hour.

 

 The sun was high in the sky the next day when Minnie heard the church bell. Sometimes she walked through fields sometimes on roads with stinky cars zooming by but always following the oder of home. The bell sounded again, this time closer, Minnie ran towards it. Soon all the smells and sounds of home began to emerge. The yummy bacon factory and then the stinging smell of the train station. Minnie ran along streets she knew searching for Ann Marie just wanting to be home and safe.

 

 

 The School bell made her jump with fright but when all the gray uniformed children rushed out into the playground Minnie knew she had found Ann Marie. With her little puppy ears cocked she searched for her little girl. Her tiny tail whirled with happiness when she heard Ann-Marie’s laugh in the distance. With a bark of delight Minnie dashed across the road towards the children.

 

 Tyres squealed but the car was far too close to stop. Minnie’s side tingle as she was thrown high in the air landing with a jarring thud in the middle of the road. She tried to get to her feet but her legs would not work. Her heart thundered with happiness as the Ann-Marie appeared above her. Worry invaded her delight as she recognised tears running down the girl’s cheeks. Ann-Marie was saying ‘Minnie’ over and over, rubbing her head. Minnie stretched out a paw to the little girl and licked the fingers that cradled her head.

 

 Soon teachers and other grownups gathered but Ann-Marie would not let anyone touch the little dog. As they rushed to the vet in a teacher’s car, Minnie gazed lovingly at the girl. She was so tired but so very happy. She needed to have a little sleep. They raced into the vet’s office; Minnie thought she would close her eyes just for one minute, just a little nap and then she would be fine. Minnie drifted into a happy dream filled with blond haired girls and lamb chops. Through the fog of dreams she heard the vet say, “She is a tough little puppy, with a little luck she will make it.” In her dream Minnie knew she had made it already.

Fr Tom & the Space War.

The weeks after Father Tom returned from the concert in Dublin passed with relative normality. Parish life has a rhythm of its own. First communion days filled the church with girls resplendent in white dresses, and boys being strangled by new shoes and over-tightened ties, while rows of proud parents looked on. Father Tom was kept busy, calling to elderly parishioners, doing his rounds of the hospital, as well as marking the bookends of life with christenings and funerals.

The one constant in the life of a priest, is Sunday Mass. The church bell chimed on the button of eight and ten, every Sunday morning. Mass gave the whole community a chance to get together. Best clothes were given an airing, teenagers eyed each other over folded hands, contemplating sins they wished to commit. Father Tom loved Mass, it was the heartbeat of the church. He gazed down from the altar on his collected friends, each with their own particular ways. Some of them you could set your watch by, always the same time, always the same seat, and nearly always the same clothes.

Tony Ryan was one such parishioner, one of the most habitual of all Tom’s congregation. He arrived at nine-thirty, every week, perched stiffly on his high-nelly bike. He locked his bike to the rail, just outside by the main gate. Hands would be shaken, as he made his way up the centre aisle of the church, and greetings exchanged. Tony always sat on the outside of the front right hand pew. He was nothing, if not a creature of habit. Tony was a bachelor farmer, he took over his parents’ place many years ago. He had been raised on a diet of tradition and regulation, leaving him with a cast iron view on what was right, or wrong.

One particular Sunday, Father Tom had begun blessing his gathered flock, when the main door squeaked open. A hefty man strolled down the centre aisle, with the cocky assurance of a turkey that survived Christmas. Behind him, waddled an equally hefty wife, and two rotund children. Normally, people who arrived late for Mass have the good grace to slip quietly into a back bench, but not this family. Father Tom began saying, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son,” but had to pause there. The family, who had so brazenly marched to the front of the church, stopped beside the second row from the front, which had space for three. The whole family pushed in until they all were seated, and the rest of the row were wedged in like sardines in a can. Once the hubbub died down, Father Tom continued with his blessing, but he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He had to remind himself that he was in the house of God, and should not judge. The priest in him was co-operating, but the man felt like giving this rude family a good telling off.

Soon, the comforting ritual of Mass soothed his ire, and Father Tom got into his stride. The sermon went down very well, even getting a muffled laugh or two. Father Tom believed the best way to reach a man’s heart, was through a smile on his lips. At the end of the service, Father Tom stood at the back of the church to chat and shake hands with the congregation as they left. A tradition found mostly in Protestant churches, but he felt it was a worthwhile crossover. When the late arriving family appeared at the door, Father Tom extended his hand to the man with a warm smile.

"Thank you for coming, I don’t believe we’ve met."

The man extended his hand and gripped Tom's firmly, "Michael O'Brien, Father...?"

"Father Tom. Did you enjoy the service?" Tom asked, his hand still being pumped vigorously.

"Twas fine Father. This is Mary, the missus, and the kids, Pat and Betty." Father Tom shook each of the ladies’ hands, giving the whole O'Brien family one of his famous, full-bearded smiles.

"You're all very welcome. I hope you will be coming to visit us often," said Father Tom.

"You’ll be seeing us every week, Father. We’ve just moved to the area. I work with the Revenue Department, transferred down from head office, in Dublin, don’t you know. They needed help down here, in the sticks," said Mr O'Brien, sticking his hands in his pockets, making his portly figure even more pronounced.

The hackles on Father Tom’s neck bristled once more. A tax man, and a pompous one, at that.

"Well, aren't we the lucky bunch," said Father Tom, with just a trace of sarcasm. Just then, another mass-goer interceded, needing a word with Father Tom about a remembrance mass. A couple of minutes later, Father Tom heard raised voices near the gate, and excused himself to find out what the commotion was about. A loose knot of people were gathering; sometimes a discussion over football could get a little heated, but never anything major. You needed a few pints in these lads to lubricate up the punching arms. Father Tom made his way over to the gate, and watched the unfurling argument over the heads of the crowd. It seemed Mr O'Brien was making impressions wherever he went. The fat family were standing around a brand new Land Rover, parked right outside the main gate. The problem appeared to be the fact they were blocking Tony Ryan from getting his bike.

"What did you think you were doing parking that yoke there? How am I supposed to get at my bike?" demanded Tony.

Mr O'Brien went quite red in the face, clearly not accustomed to being spoken to in such a forthright way.

"I think you’ll find I have every right to park my car in a designated car parking space." The air of superiority in the man’s tone, made even Father Tom wince. Perhaps, this was one mass where the lack of alcohol was not going to deter a bit of argie-bargie.

"Move that thing, this instant," fumed Tony, kicking at the car’s wheel for emphasis.

"You have plenty of room to get to your bike. In future, use a proper bike rack, not the church railing," snorted Mr O'Brien, ushering his family down the street towards the nearest restaurant. The locals watched the departing newcomers with open mouthed wonder. A few of the youngsters helped lift Tony's bike over the luxury four wheel drive. Before riding away, Tony gave an annoyed kick to the new alloy wheel of Mr O'Brien's jeep.

***

The following week, Tony Ryan arrived even earlier for Mass than normal, with two road cones secured to the carrier of his bike. Tony locked his bike to the rail as he always had, then marked off the parking bay with the road cones. The crowd attending this particular ten o’clock mass seemed much larger than normal, to Father Tom. He even noted that many of the people who attended the early mass, were also at this one. Tony sat ramrod straight at the front right of the church, his ears glowing red with temper. Just before the bell chimed, the O'Briens waddled up the middle of the church, sitting in the same pew they had occupied the week before. Throughout the mass, the warring men exchanged sideways scowls, and tension rippled through the crowd. Father Tom had no sooner said, "Go in peace" than the stampede began. The only ones not seeming to rush, were the O'Briens, and Tony Ryan. 

Dozens of people clustered around the gate. As Tony approached, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Father Tom followed directly behind the farmer, eager to see what was making them all so giddy. Once again, Tony’s high-nelly was pinned to the rail by the huge car. The traffic cones he had placed around the bike before mass, were flung across the road, into the ditch. Tony Ryan turned and searched the crowd for Mr O'Brien, who was still standing inside the church door, a good safe distance away.

"You ignorant fat shite!" roared Tony Ryan.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," countered Mr O'Brien.

"I'll talk to you any way I want," yelled Ryan. "Move that car, or you'll be sorry."

"I will not," said O'Brien, defiantly.

"YOU WILL," said Ryan.

"I WILL NOT," said O'Brien, again.

Tony's fists clenched and he moved forwards. Father Tom had seen enough, and stepped into Tony’s path. Father Tom wasn’t worried about the older man getting hurt, he was as hard as nails, but Father Tom couldn’t condone violence.

"Now Tony, remember, this is God's house."

"I'm sorry, Father, but he has it coming."

"He might, Tony," said Father Tom, eyeing the scurrying form of Mr O'Brien, as he escaped through the far gate, "but this is not the way."

Father Tom felt Tony’s rock hard shoulders slump in his grip, and the fight drain slowly from his body. Tony eventually turned back towards the gate, and tried to get his bike free. This time, the space was far too tight, and Tony was forced to leave the bike where it was, and walk home. Father Tom caught up with Tony a short distance down the road, and gave him a lift in his little car. 

"Sorry about that, Father, I let you down, back there. I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop you down some fertilizer for the flower beds next week to make amends."

"That would be great, Tony. The roses are looking a bit sorry for themselves. Don't mind that big galoot, O'Brien. The likes of him come and go," Father Tom said to the little farmer, as he got out of the car.

"I expect you’re right, Father, thanks for the lift," said the aging farmer, as he sadly walked into his farmyard.

***

If mass the following week were a concert, it would have been a sell-out. The only seats left without a bum in them, were the front right hand corner, and four spaces in the second pew on the left. Late as always, the O'Briens took the left hand seats, just as mass began. A murmur ran through the crowd, expecting the fireworks to begin soon. Father Tom walked up to the podium and gave his opening blessing. He couldn’t help looking to the empty seat on the front right, again and again, during mass. It was the first time he could remember Tony being absent, in all the years he had served this parish. Father Tom was worried about Tony. It wasn’t right that he was being pushed out by this interloper. Father Tom decided to have a word with Mr O'Brien, at the end of the service.

Father Tom was distracted throughout the Mass, at one stage, he nearly knocked over the chalice. Mass was nearly over, when he heard the distant rumble of a heavy engine. The sound grew louder, until whatever was causing it, was loitering directly outside the church. The engine noise was soon joined by the insistent honking of a horn, and cheers from men who had snuck out for a sneaky cigarette, during the Eucharist. Without even waiting for "Go in peace", the crowd rushed for the doors. Mr O'Brien seemed to be struck by the predetermination that this would concern him, judging by the way he was shoving his way through the crowd. The first thing that hit Father Tom when he walked outside the church, was the smell. The air was thick with the stink of slurry. All around, people were doubled over laughing, clapping, and cheering. Mr O'Brien stood like a pillar of salt, in the middle of the gate, gazing at the spot where his new four wheel drive should be. What stood in its place, was a six foot high pile of cow-shit, with the car at its heart. 

On the road, Tony Ryan leaned against the wheel of his tractor, behind which was an empty slurry spreader. Tony mounted his tractor, waving to the crowd, like a victorious gladiator. "There you go, Father. If that’s not enough muck for the flowers, I can always deliver more, any Sunday."

As he drove away, he was cheered by all the crowd, well, nearly all.

Mick and the Mouse

I want to tell you a story that unfolded in the pub over the last few nights. One of my regular customers, Mick, known far and wide as Mick the Buddhist, has been having a bit of bother.

Before I start, I better say this...the Irish are great for giving nicknames, and Mick the Buddhist is just that...a Buddhist. Before he was a Buddhist he was a handyman, I guess he still is...of sorts. We all thought the Buddhism thing was a midlife crisis, and it didn't take long for the chanting, vegetarianism and avoidance of alcohol to be dropped, but Mick's natural good nature made the nickname stick.

Anyway, on with the story.

About a week ago, Mick landed into the bar and said he had a mouse in his house. As you are probably aware, Buddhists don't harm anything. This left Mick in a quandary. As a good Buddhist, he should welcome the mouse into his life but as Mick said himself..."The fecker is eating me out of house and home!"

The next day, I was down the hardware shop and came across a Live-Capture Trap. It was only a few euro so I bought it. On the way home I stopped at Mick's cottage. I knew he was home because his bike was lying against the outside wall. When Mick answered the door, he was covered in wood chippings. On Mick's kitchen table stood a towering maze of timber. It turned out he was making a bookshelf. My eye might be off but I could swear the yoke leaned left...and right...at the same time. It was making me queasy just looking at the thing. When I produced the trap, Mick was delighted.

Christmas Eve arrived and Mick turned up for a pint.

"How did yea get on with the trap?" I asked.

"Grand, I nabbed the little guy a couple of days ago."

"And? What did you do with him?" I inquired, as I filled his drink.

"That's the problem...I've still got him," he said looking a bit ashamed.

"Ah Jesus! I thought you were going to put him outside?"

"I was reading up on mice...on the Internet, you know. Apparently, they can find their way back even if you drop them a mile from the house," he said, proud of his knowledge. "Anyway, he's a house-mouse, not a wild mouse," Mick mused.

"Ah...for God sake, Mick, it's a mouse, and Kerry is hardly wild," I teased, dropping his pint on a beer mat.

"I suppose you're right," he said, taking a swig and wiping beer-foam from his whiskers.

"I bet you've been feeding him," I said.

Mick looked like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie-jar. "I couldn't let him starve," he mumbled.

"You’re such a softie," I laughed. By closing time, Mick had heard at least a hundred Micky Mouse jokes.

***

On Christmas morning, Mick set out on his bike with the little mouse dangling from the handlebars, waving a cheery hello to all he passed. He'd decided to release his little friend in a wooded area close to town. Mick picked a nice spot and opened up the trap. The little mouse scampered out, vanishing into the undergrowth.

Half-past-eight that night, I got a call from a distressed Mick the Buddhist. The day had started out lovely but as night fell a storm had rolled in.

"Hello?" I said into the phone, wondering why Mick would be calling so late on Christmas night.

"Squid, I know it's crazy, but I need a favour. Can you drive me somewhere?" Mick said.

"No bother, where do you need to go," I asked, thinking he'd say, to the doctor or hospital.

"Not far, Barry's Glen, and bring a torch," he said, before hanging up on me.

I picked him up five minutes later and we raced through empty streets and out into the country. After a mile or so we reached the woods.

"What's all this about?" I asked, as I put on the handbrake and glared out into the driving rain.

"I let the mouse go today...out there. Jesus lad, look at the weather, how can I leave him out in this?"

I nearly threw Mick out of the car...but the look on his face stopped me. He was pure miserable. I just didn't have the heart. "Come on so, yea lunatic," I said, clicking on my torch and throwing myself into the maelstrom.

Two hours we search the woods...two bloody hours. No sign of the mouse...of course...because the mouse wasn't half as daft as the two of us.

"That's it! I'm going home!" I declared a dozen times before Mick would admit the futility of what we were at. In the end he got into the car and let me drive him home. He looked like a man who lost a tenner and found a penny. When we got to his house I said, "Don't worry, that little fella is curled up as snug as you like, probably laughing his arse off at the two of us."

"I hope so," said a maudlin Mick, as he gently closed the car door and mooched up toward his front door.

***

Today, Mick burst into the pub a changed man. He was beaming from ear to ear.

"What's got you grinning?" I asked.

"You won't believe it! It's a Christmas miracle!" he said, throwing his arms to the heavens.

"I didn't know Buddhists believed in Christmas, or Miracles," I said, loud enough to draw a chuckle from the lads along the bar.

"Shut up and let me tell the story, you messer," he said, sitting at the bar. "I was fair upset last night...when we couldn't find yerman. I was so bad, I even tried a bit of meditation. Now, I don't know if it was the meditation…or the hot whisky's…but I was soon snoring on the rug in front of the fire. Jesus, it was the middle of the night when I woke up. I was stiff as a plank, hell, I was half crippled. I was trying to crawl up the stairs when I heard rustling coming from the kitchen. I thought I'd imagined it, so I held my breath and listened. Then it came again. Rustle, rustle, crackle, crunch. Quite as you like, I got myself up and snuck into the kitchen."

Mick paused for dramatic affect.

"Well?" I demanded...he had me hooked.

"Low and behold, when I turned on the light...wasn't the mouse sitting, as bold as you like, in the middle of the table. He'd chewed through the corner of the cornflakes box and was stuffing himself. He must have been starved after his adventure. He didn't even run when I turned on the light. Can you believe it, he found his way back! A Christmas miracle!" Mick said, and the crowd was awestruck. We'll they were...until one wise-ass piped up.

"It must have been a homing mouse!"

Everyone started laughing and Mick went very red. The others didn't hear Mick say this...but I did.

"Still a miracle," he whispered.

"Here," I said, putting a pint in front of Mick. "A Christmas drink to toast your good fortune." Mick took a sup of his pint and I didn't have the heart to tell him, that when you have one mouse in your house, you most likely have dozens.

Perhaps It’s the child in me, but I think the story of the homing mouse miracle of Christmas is much better than a mouse too stuffed with cornflakes to run away.

Happy Christmas, one and all.

A quick Joke

A trainee began working in the city morgue. His very first job was to move three new arrivals. The trainee was a bit taken aback as all three corpses had smiles on their faces.

"Is it normal that they would be smiling like that?" the trainee asked the pathologist.

"Not really," replied the doctor.

"You see this first one," the pathologist said indicating a white haired man in tattered clothes "he is a Scott's man who scrimped all his life never parting with a penny unless he had to. Yesterday he won 100 million on the lotto and dropped dead of a heart attack.

"What about the next man?" asked the trainee pointing at a well groomed gent in a night shirt. He had to be 90 years old if he was a day; with huge grin on his face.

"That is Rene, a wicked womaniser. He married a 21 year old dancer and died in bed on the honeymoon night," replied the pathologist covering up the old man.

The last body was in a terrible state, while a lot younger that the other two, he was covered in burns from head to toe. The smoke was still drifting up from is clothes, like the others he was smiling happily.

"What is the story with the last man?" asked the puzzled trainee.

"Oh that is Paddy the Irish Golf Pro, he was hit by lightening," said the pathologist.

"That's tragic," said the trainee "why is he smiling?"

"He thought someone was taking his photo."

The Apprentice

In the far south of France, nestles Carcassonne, a magical fortified town whose existence can be traced as far back as the Roman Empire. In 100BC, a garrison encampment was formed on high ground overlooking a natural fording point on the river. This land has been constantly occupied ever since. Despite current appearances, this occupancy has been anything but peaceful.

Morning light floods the cobbled streets painting ancient buildings in hues of rust and gold. The place has a feeling that only comes with age. You can’t help but know that these walls, these streets, have witnessed deeds of bravery and savagery in equal amounts. The very stones are steeped in human emotion, perhaps that's why this town has a magical feeling.

Uneven streets twist narrowly among buildings. Everything is quiet, only flocks of finches break the silence of the early morning. It is hard to imagine that blood once flowed on these streets, bodies were dismembered and lives were lost here in needless combat. All paths through this historic town lead to a central concourse. The square is a wonderful work of engineering that no modern man would ever dream of undertaking. The cobbles cover a full acre, undulating gently. One end is flanked by a fast-moving stream, emptying eventually into the main river. The square is speckled with mature trees and hemmed in on all sides by majestic buildings. The cathedral’s spire rises high above the town, the morning sun making the golden cross at its tip twinkle. The only sign of life comes from two little shops standing side by side in this fairy-tale setting.

When you're a baker, life starts early and Monsieur Arnaud Gras rose so early it was still the night before. As the smell of freshly baked bread fills the square, a stooped figure emerges from the gloom. A walking stick taps across the cobbles to the café next to the boulangerie. M. Benoit Delarge is well into his eighties, sleep doesn’t come easy for him. Even though no customers would rise for hours yet, he sets out his cast-iron seating in the square. As the sun appears, M. Gras joins him from the bakery and the two old men sit enjoying a café au lait with fresh pan au chocolate, still hot from the oven.

Another resident of Carcassonne famous for her habits is, Mademoiselle Annabell Rossier. Mlle Rossier is a spinster, who lives in the largest house on the square. She’s renowned for her bad temper and sour demeanour. Dressed nearly entirely in black, she will snarl at every man, woman and child that happens to cross her path. She is particularly nasty to people forced to serve her in shops and restaurants. The only place she’s ever greeted with welcome is at the Café of M. Delarge. No one can figure out why he was always so cheerful towards the inhospitable crone.

Today, the young man that M. Delarge employs, suffered a terrible barrage of insults from Mlle Rossier after accidentally spilling her coffee. Young Luic came stormed into the shop, slamming the cup and saucer into the dishwasher.

"She is such a battle axe, why do you put up with her?" he demanded of M. Delarge.

The old man chuckled, "She is not all bad you know, she has a wonderful side."

"There is nothing but hate in that woman," fumed Luic.

"I think you're wrong, Luic. You have to look past the front and see the woman beneath," said the old man, wisely.

"I think you’ve been seeing things," huffed Luic, filling a fresh coffee for Mlle Rossier.

"I tell you what, come open the shop with me in the morning, and you can see for yourself," said M. Delarge. After some persuading, Luic agreed to rise at four to help the old man open up.

***

Luic accompanied the shuffling old man along the cobbled streets and into the still dark square. As delicious cloud of steam billowed from the bakery, they unlocked the café, turned on the lights, and started the coffee machine. Luic placed the metal tables and chairs outside the shop while M. Delarge prepared the first coffees of the day. Half an hour later, M. Gras appeared with a basket of fresh pastries. 

"Good morning, Benoit. I see we've company this morning," said M. Gras, sitting at the table. The old café owner laid out three large coffees for the gathered men. M. Gras took a tape player from under his arm, which he put on the table, but didn't turn it on. As the sun rose, the old men chatted about mutual friends, and Luic sipped his coffee, watching the finches flutter from tree to tree. As the sun began to chase the shadows into the deepest corners of the square, the door to Mlle. Rossier's house opened. 

She glided down the stone steps, dressed in a gossamer nightgown. The two old men smiled at each other, and winked at Luic. M. Gras turned on the tape player. Delicate notes drifted into the air. Mademoiselle Rossier was clearly sleep-walking, but she had the most beatific smile on her face. As the music reached her ears, she began to twirl and dance. For a full ten minutes, she performed a joyful ballet around the square. To Luic had to admit, like this, the woman was beautiful. When the music finished, Mlle. Rossier faced the three men, giving them a deep curtsy. Monsieur Gras and Delarge stood, bowing back to the sleeping woman.  Mademoiselle Rossier disappeared back into her house, closing the door on two smiling old men, and one shocked younger one. 

M. Delarge turned to Luic, "Now, you see there are many sides to people."

"Perhaps you're right," said Luic.

"This is our little secret, not even Mademoiselle Rossier knows about our morning dance lessons," said Monsieur Gras, taking his tape recorder back to the bakery. Monsieur Delarge smiled as he gathered up the cups, "You were a bit unlucky, actually," he said.

"Why's that?" asked Luic.

"Most of the time she wears nothing to bed, it must have been chilly last night," laughed the old man, shuffling away on his stick. 

The First Turkey

This is a story told to me by my mother, about her mother, from a time before she was born. Granny Begley was only mammy Begley back in those days but I can never bring myself to call her anything other than Granny Begley, it would be too weird in my head.

This takes place in the late 1930's, Granny Begley was married a few years at that stage but already had three small boys out of a family that would eventually encompass a full nine brothers and sisters. Granddad Begley had just began working for Captain Raskin as a farm hand. Working as a farm worker was not a well paid job and with a growing family, existence for the Begleys was hand to mouth. The few coins in Granny Begley's purse never went far but Christmas week highlighted just how little they had.

The Begley family had three forms of transport, Granddad Begley had a bike, weighing as much as a small car and made from the indestructible metal that comets are made of. The second was shanks mare, or walking to you and me. The final mode of perambulation was Neddy and his little cart.

Neddy was the family donkey, who once secured between the tines of the cart, could move heaven and earth, if he felt in the mood. On the day of the dreaded Christmas shop, Granny Begley hitched up Neddy, with the three kids loaded aboard, she struck out for the town. She had a week's wages in her purse which didn't amount to a hill of beans. Christmas dinner would be sparse. Granny Begley hoped she could stretch to a broiler hen for roasting on the most holy of days.

As they clip-clopped the five miles to town Granny Begley drifted off into a world of her own and failed to hear the flat bed truck rumbling up behind the cart. It over took them on a bend, wobbling dangerously on its hard rubber wheels. The back of the truck was stacked high with wooden crates, each stuffed with a huge gobbling turkey. The driver shook a fist out the window as he raced away at the break neck speed of 30 miles an hour.

Neddy bucked and skidded between the tines of the cart. Granny was too much of a lady to say anything bad about the driver of the truck, but she went very red. She got Neddy steadied and it was a minute or two before they were ready to continue on their way. Three bends later that they came across a smashed timber crate in the middle of the road.

"Woah," called Granny hauling back on Neddy's reins.

"Would you look at that lads," said Granny to my tiny uncles hunkered down in the back of the cart. "I wonder where the turkey got ta?"

As if in answer to her question the turkey gave a loud gobble from the field next to the road. He was wandering around clearly dazed from his confinement, as well as having just survived one of Ireland's first car accidents.

"Come on boys, don't let him get away," called Granny Begley bounding over the dyke, into the sodden field followed by three very excited little boys. So began the great Christmas rodeo. They chased in circles but the outcome was never in doubt. A turkey never lived that could outrun a hungry Irish man. Once the gobbling tearaway was apprehended, Granny Begley wrapped it in her shawl so he couldnt fly again. The Begley clan raced back to Neddy who was nibbling at the grass growing in the middle of the road. Granny dropped the turkey in the back of the cart instructing the three boys to hold on to it. They had their work cut out as the turkey out-weighed the oldest boy by a couple of pounds. Granny turned the cart for home spurring Neddy into a gangly trot.


This is the story of how the Begley family came to have a huge glistening turkey steaming on the dinner table that Christmas day for the very first time. Everyone dove in to their dinner except Granny Begley who could only look at her plate, downcast and worried.

"Why are you not eating Mammy," asked Granddad Begley.

"I can't touch it, tis a sin," Granny mumbled to her husband.

"Whisht woman, eat your dinner," he said with a laugh.

Granny picked but got no satisfaction from it, neither did sleep come that evening. Nothing would do her but to be waiting at the gate the next morning when the priest came to open the church.

"Morning Mrs Begley," said the priest when he arrived.

"Father, I think I've done something terrible. I need to make a confession,"said Granny Begley
.
"Just give me two minutes Mrs Begley, I will be right with you," said the priest walking through the church turning on the lights. Ten minutes later Granny Begley found herself in a confessional shaking in her boots. The shutter slid back, "Bless me father for I have sinned it has been three weeks since my last confession" said Granny Begley.

"Tell me your sins, my child," said the priest from behind the grill.

"I have taken what is not mine father and defiled the most holy of days with my treachery," Granny said.

"What do you mean Mrs Be - my child," said the priest.

"I found a turkey on the road father, I killed it and feed it to my family when it was not mine in the first place," said Granny knowing this was a damnation offence. She was taken aback by the laughing from the far side of the grill.

"Mary, it's God's will that you found that turkey before a hungry fox. He works in ways that none can understand and if he intended you to find the bird, that is what he made happen. Leave here with a clear conscience, enjoy what God has delivered to you."

Despite this reassurance, from this day to the end of her time, Granny Begley could never eat turkey.

Granny Fitz

Running a bar in a small town along the west coast of Ireland qualifies you for many roles. Financial adviser, councillor, medic, peacekeeper, not to mention the provider of drinks and hangovers for a whole community. You'll find the young and not so young rubbing shoulders nightly, you may even find a dog or two snoozing under an owners stool. Any of you that have read my stories will know that I'm a bit of a dog lover. I've never yet encountered a dog that caused me an ounce of bother but plenty of two legged customers have ended up on the pavement, backside first.

Two of my most regular customers are, Mary Fitz and Bobby. Mary Fitzgerald lives four miles outside town and she’s the mother of twelve grown children. They're all married now but have never quiet cut the apron strings. Every last one of them are living within ten minutes of where they were born. I've no idea how many grandchildren Mary has, but it seems half the towns calls her Granny. With so many people calling her that, it’s only natural the name spread to the rest of us. Bobby is the latest in a long line of dogs that have shared Granny Fitz's life and all of them have been border collies.

Every Thursday, Granny Fitz and Bobby would walk the four miles into town. Regular as clockwork, she’d collect her pension, and do whatever shopping she needed. At each stop, Bobby would wait patiently at the door until she came back out. When a full round of the town was done, they'd stop by the church for a chat with Mr Fitzgerald, who's been resident in the cemetery for over ten years. Bobby never felt the tug of a lead on his neck, he never needed it. You'd always find him six inches behind Granny Fitz's heel, watching every move she made with utter adoration.

When lunchtime rolled around, Granny Fitz would call in to me for a bowl of soup and a toasted ham sandwich. At first, she left Bobby outside, like everywhere else she visited. One rainy day, I insisted she bring him in. Bobby slinked inside the bar, not believing he was being allowed. That first day, Bobby lay at Granny Fitz's feet, expecting to be hunted out at any moment. But since that day, he walks in with a huge doggie smile on his face. I always get lick and a head nuzzle from him before he settles down at Granny's feet while she eats. After lunch, one of Granny's brood would come and collect the shopping, while Mary and Bobby walked the four miles back. For some reason, she never liked travelling in cars.

A few weeks ago, Granny didn't turn up for lunch. I didn't think much on it but when it happened again a week later, I called her daughter. Granny Fitz had taken a serous turn. She was in hospital but things were not looking good. For a woman who'd never seen dawn in bed, her end came quickly. Not a house or business in the town greeted the news with a dry eye.

In Kerry, when a person dies, the funeral always goes to the graveyard via the departed’s house. Like I said earlier, Granny lived four miles from town and despite the graveyard being next door to the church, Granny Fitz's remains were slowly driven the long way out, to stop before her front gate. A final farewell.

If you ask me to explain what happened next, I can’t. As the hearse stood outside the gate, Bobby launched himself over the hedge, barking like crazy. He was in an awful state. It wasn't an angry bark, it was a pleading, heart-broken cry. Bobby clawed at the glass separating him from Granny Fitz, howling like he was being ripped limb from limb. The hearse pulled away and gathered speed, but even in third gear, Bobby kept throwing himself against the glass. It was a heart-breaking sight.

The whole four miles, Bobby ran faster than I've ever seen a dog run. When the hearse finally stopped at the grave-yard, Bobby's chest was a blur as he wolfed air into his lungs. He wouldn't budge from the back of the hearse, remaining by his loves side till the very end.

As the coffin was lifted to the shoulders of her six oldest sons, Bobby lay prone at the head of the mourners, keening. I looked into the eyes of that dog and I'll never be told that they don't feel pain. If a dog could cry, Bobby was shedding floods. He was a dog no more, but a mourner, pure and simple. As the six sturdy men carried Mary's coffin to the freshly opened grave, Bobby remained, as he ever had, six inches behind Granny Fitz.

When the coffin was lowered, Bobby inched forward on his belly until his muzzle and front paws hung over the edge of the grave. The priest began the service but Bobby couldn't contain his grief. Surrounded by a dozen Fitzgerald children, and nearly seventy grandchildren, everyone knew the chief mourner had four legs. Bobby whimpered loudly, whining with sorrow. In the end it got too much for the priest. He turned to the undertaker and said, "Can you do something with the dog, Sean." The burley undertaker had taken two steps towards Bobby before a deep voice rumbled from the assembled crowd.

"Sean Ryan, touch that dog and you'll regret it for many a year." The sound of Michael Fitzgerald's voice was enough to stop any man in his tracks. The whole Fitzgerald family closed ranks around the little black and white dog. The undertaker retreated quickly. A few tension-filled seconds passed, everyone in the crowd held their breath. Then, the mollified priest finished his prayers and the congregation shook hands with the family. People drifted away, many to McFinnigan’s, where we raised a glass to a wonderful woman who'd be long missed.

That night, after I'd cleaned and locked the bar I walked for home. Passing the grave yard, something made me turn. It didn't feel right to go to bed without having a final word with one of my favourite customers. I walked through the moonlit headstones until I came to the freshly closed grave - but I wasn't alone. Bobby lay across Granny Fitz, his eyes huge and sorrowful. I hunkered down and rubbed his neck. He managed one lacklustre wag of his tail but his chin never lifted.

"I miss her too boy," I said. What else could be said. I turned sadly and walked away, leaving a dog and his mistress alone in the moonlight.

Mr Scrunch

I have the most wonderful lady who visits my bar for lunch. She is living proof that a body ages, while the brain remains as young as you wish it to be. She has a lifetime of stories which she gladly shares with anyone willing to listen. Here's what she told me today.

When I was a young girl, the town was much smaller place but that didn't stop it from having the most interesting people. One in particular was Scrunch, an old man with a huge bend in his back. Poor old Scrunch was so twisted, he only ever saw where he'd been, never where he was going. He was a jolly old lad who delighted in playing tricks on us children, making us jump with good natured frights. Far from seeing his affliction as a hindrance, Scrunch enjoyed the way his deformed back made him stand out from the crowd. He was surprisingly nimble and used two tiny walking sticks to help him get around, dispensing smiles and greetings with all he encountered.

Time ticks by, as it inevitably does, and Scrunch shuffled off to a better place. Back then, funerals were major social events, attracting huge numbers of people to pay their respects, and catch up with friend and foe alike. Mr Scrunch presented a particular difficulty to the undertaker. Not one day in his whole life had Scrunch ever lain straight in his bed, his final resting place proved to be no different. Try as he might, the undertaker couldn't get poor old Scrunch into the coffin. In the end, he drilled holes in the bottom and winched Scrunch flat with some bailing-twine. Scrunch's bones groaned with the strain, as his back straightened for the very first time. Once finished, the man draped a silk sheet over Scrunch's chest to hide his handwork.

People came from far and wide for the funeral. Every one of them commented on what a fine tall man Scrunch was, when he was lying down. The parish priest was a stern old bugger, but he said a good mass. Every seat was taken by the time he began. The priest was in full flow, raging against the evils of drink, when a loud snap ricocheted around the church. Scrunch sprang forward, sitting up straight in the coffin and scaring the life out of everyone there.

It was Scrunch's last, and best, trick. Once everyone realised that he wasn't actually coming back from the dead, the congregation howled with laughter. By all accounts it was the happiest funeral ever to take place in the town.

If you enjoyed Mr Scrunch, you can find a collection of similar stories for your reading pleasure on;
http://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1456185974&sr=8-1&keywords=the+misadventures+of+Father+tom