A few minutes later, my eyes were swollen shut from either the pizza or the wontons or possibly both. As I have noted, I have many severe allergies.
We sat on the couch, and, in my nearly blinded state, I related to Dolores the bizarre events of the day at Clifden Castle, even though Pat Finch had made me sign a nondisclosure agreement specifically stating that I would not tell anybody anything. This is pretty much the way it works in the world. If you absolutely do want someone to tell other people about something, make them swear that they will not. It’s the human way. This is one area where leprechauns have it sorted out.5
Dolores interrogated me for ages—what is a real leprechaun like? Was he cute? Did I find his pot of gold? Did he fill my shoes with candy? Could she have some of the candy? These sorts of questions were starting to seem silly to me, as my first encounter with a leprechaun was as much fun as, say, riding a Ferris wheel with a cobra. I told her as much as I knew, which was pitifully little. Neither one of us had ever heard of the Garda Special Unit of Tir Na Nog, as it is an enigmatic organization.
When I ran out of answers, Dolores got her fiddle out. She played until the wee hours, and we wrapped the evening up by singing “The Broad Majestic Shannon,” which is a great song.
I awoke on Thursday with my brain spinning like a dreidel about the night ahead.
I checked the coach schedule to calculate how long it would take to get to Killarney. Ireland is a tiny country, but the distances can be exaggerated if you must rely on the coach system.
Dolores was nowhere to be found in the flat, which is her natural state, as she is quite popular and probably the most fun and unreliable guardian imaginable. I mailed a letter off to my parents in Dublin, relating the news to them and assuring them that I would visit as soon as I could.
* * *
1 Hubbub.
2 It’s against the law even to use a metal detector in Ireland. No joke, look it up. Of course, you don’t have to look it up, because I just told you.
3 The Vikings had two bases in Ireland from which to go around whacking cheerful, unsuspecting Irish people on the head.
4 Street performer.
5 Leprechauns keep their secrets locked in containers they call claddagh jars, and if you open someone else’s, you’re cursed with an egregious case of diarrhea. Yes, I am aware that this is a disgusting detail, but the wee folk are often vindictive and frightening in their ways, and if you’re reading these diaries, you should be forewarned—there will be times when I cannot paint a rosy picture.
CHAPTER FOUR
COLLINS HOUSE
At just noon on Thursday I loaded myself and my duffel bag onto the Number 13 coach from Eyre Square and arrived in Killarney six hours later.
Having no car or license saves me a great deal of stress, as driving in Ireland is a deadly game of chicken in a lush maze with old tractors being driven by farmers who know they are going to heaven when they die, so—watch yerself. Driving on the Emerald Isle is not recommended for the faint of heart.
The offices of the Garda Special Unit of Tir Na Nog are located in the Killarney National Park in an 1830s stone mansion called Collins House. Collins House is large and imposing; it’s also enchanted with a spell cast by an old faerie prince named Ciaran the Less Confused. There’s a song you must sing to Collins House to be able to see it, and while the song is classified and I will not write it down, I can tell you that it is much longer than you would expect, and the middle part is quite high and tricky. I certainly didn’t nail it on my first few tries. If you don’t know the song, Collins House just looks like a picnic table.
At 8:45 P.M. I was inside the bustling lobby of the house, addressing a thick and severe desk sergeant named Jeanette O’Brien, who seemed to take an instant disliking to me.
“I’m Ronan Boyle,” I explained. “Captain de Valera ordered me to report for the Special Unit.”
“And how is this my problem?” Sergeant O’Brien shouted back at me. “Am I your nanny? I got phones ringing off the hook, Boyle. I got five kids at home with the flu. I got a report of a Dullahan on the N72. Sort yourself out and get a proper uniform if you’re going to work here.” And with that she thrust her furry paw out at a sign that pointed toward the Supply and Weapons Department.
When I say “paw,” I mean that literally, because Sergeant O’Brien is a púca, which is a shape-changing faerie who can sometimes appear to be human and at other times appear to be a cat, goat, rabbit, or horse, among other creatures. I had mistakenly assumed that all of the officers of the Special Unit were human beings, but O’Brien was the first of many faerie folk I would meet at Collins House. For the next twelve weeks, every time I would pass the sergeant’s desk, I would note O’Brien in her various púca forms—they change depending on her mood and the temperature. Rabbit O’Brien, whom I had just met, was actually one of her more pleasant manifestations. If you were ever to walk by the desk and see horse O’Brien, or (God forbid) human O’Brien, don’t engage—it will not go well.
The hiring of faerie folk by the Special Unit dates all the way back to the mid-1990s, after the unit was involved in a lawsuit brought by two clurichauns, twin brothers named Aodh the Incredibly Clever, and Cian the Less Clever but More Handsome Twin of Aodh.
With the help of a human lawyer in Dublin, their suit stated that the Garda Special Unit of Tir Na Nog was in violation of wee folks’ rights by hiring only human beings. The Special Unit lost the lawsuit and subsequently had to hire faerie folk in certain appropriate jobs. It’s worth noting that the two clurichauns who filed the lawsuit—Aodh and Cian—were employed for precisely one day in the Donegal office before they robbed the place. When I say “robbed the place,” I mean exactly that. They took it. The entire building. Go look for the Donegal office of the Special Unit—it’s not there anymore. It’s not hiding; it’s very much gone. Stolen by Aodh and Cian. Remember: Clurichauns are not leprechauns—do not trust them.
POLITE REMINDER!
Information leading to the safe return of the Donegal office of the Garda Special Unit of Tir Na Nog or the whereabouts of the clurichauns Aodh and Cian will be handsomely rewarded.
Finbar Dowd
Deputy Commissioner
Special Unit of Tir Na Nog
I pushed my way through the busy main-floor hallway of Collins House. The walls were crammed with paintings and memorials to various garda officers and faerie folk. From the displays, it became clear to me that the Special Unit was much older than I had thought. Amongst the bric-a-brac were letters, platters, swords, and shillelaghs dating back to the 1700s. The scale of the items was a touch confusing. There was a jewel-encrusted crown almost four feet in diameter hanging next to a shillelagh as small as a toothpick. A few items caught my eye in particular: one was a black-and-white photo of a merrow—a half woman, half seal. She was having a luncheon on a beach with what looked like James Joyce. It was signed at the bottom: “Thanks for the great sandwiches, J.J.” The other was a framed platinum record of U2’s Achtung Baby signed by Larry Mullen Jr., with the inscription “Now I can finally use my chimney again! All the best, Larry.”
The Supply and Weapons Department is in the east corner of Collins House next to the astonishingly bad cafeteria. There’s a window and a chicken-wire cage with a human attendant named Gary, who looks like he has never been outside in his entire life.
One wall of the S&W Department is a display of supplies available for purchase: knee protectors, torches, gloves, notebooks, pens, rhyming dictionaries, carabiners, etc.
The wall adjacent to it displays weapons: shillelaghs, anti-troll sprays, holy water atomizers, brass knuckles, and various flasks of very good and very bad whiskeys, which can be used to reward or trick at least seventy-five percent of land-based faerie folk.
Gary was being assisted by Dan, a one-eyed bridge troll in a lavender jumpsuit, because some nonviolent prisoners from the Joy Vaults are allowed to do work-release programs in garda offices around the country.
&nb
sp; I explained to pale Gary that I was a new trainee, and I had been told to collect a uniform. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I was pretty excited about the prospect of a new outfit, especially since currently I was in my backup garda uniform trousers, which were ever-so-slightly too snug.
I pictured myself in a slick version of Captain de Valera’s rig—the leather boots, the gloves, the knee protectors—but alas, my hopes were dashed. Dan the Troll climbed up to a very high shelf—apparently this was his job—and returned with my temporary uniform: navy blue overalls with rubber kneepads and the word TRAINEE on the back in reflective print. Where my badge would be was just a patch.
I was issued a new torch, a flask of the worst available whiskey, and an entry-level shillelagh made from hemlock, too light to inflict any real damage, but perhaps this was the point. I gave it a few practice twirls and lost hold of it. It rattled across the linoleum floor, to my embarrassment. Dan the Troll blinked his singular eye and pointed to a sign on the wall that read: IS YOUR SHILLELAGH SECURE?
Pale Gary gave me a small map of the house and the Trainee’s Handbook, and then a bill for six euros, which is what the Trainee’s Handbook costs. He directed me to the barracks, which are in the attic of Collins House.
There is a lift1 in the house, but I would never recommend using it in a zillion years if you have my fear of confined spaces or body odor. The lift dates from the 1930s and is excruciatingly slow. It always smells of a strange mix of coffee, stressed-out humans, and curious faerie aromas. I would hate to be trapped in that lift in the event of an emergency, and so I always take the stairs—which are a stone spiral set, seven stories up, and lit by oil lamps, as the stone walls are too thick for electrical wires. While the stairs are cramped and mildewy, they don’t rely on ancient pulleys like the frightening lift does.
The barracks is a very fancy name for the actual room that trainees and cadets occupy in Collins House. In reality, it’s just a dusty attic with discarded sofas and cots radiating out from an old potbelly stove. I tossed my new handbook down on an empty cot close to the stove and kicked off my trainers. I closed my eyes in an attempt to rest my brain, which was overinflated with new information. A few minutes later I was awakened with the not-so-gentle thump of a boot to my temple.
“Oi, noobster,”2 said a scratchy voice. Three seniors were scowling down at me. The leader of the group was Big Jimmy Gibbons, the sweatiest person I have ever met. Honestly, I have no idea why his nickname isn’t “Sweaty Jimmy”—because he’s not even that big. His sweatiness and his nastiness are his most defining traits.
“Stove cots ain’t for noobsters, ya daft noobster,” said Jimmy with a voice that was ruined at some point in his life and now sounded like someone dragging a canoe across gravel.
Turns out the cots closest to the stove are reserved for the senior recruits. This is what Big Sweaty Jimmy Gibbons was trying to explain to me in the most violent way possible. This is his style. His two henchmen, Dirk Brennan and Chip Flanagan, hoisted me up by the ankles, and I was now dangling like a piñata that no child would want. Big Sweaty Jimmy gave a short, hard punch to the soft part of my middle, knocking the wind out of me.
“Sorry . . . I didn’t know,” I said as best I could without any air in my system.
“Shut up, noobster,” snorted Chip Flanagan. Big Sweaty Jimmy pulled back for another punch, but just then he froze. His eyes glazed over, and remarkably, he began to levitate.
Dirk and Chip gasped and dropped me on the top of my skull. I looked up to see that Big Sweaty Jimmy wasn’t actually floating. He was being held aloft by the waistband of his underpants. His scream would have woken the dead, had he not ruined his voice at some point in the past. But this was no ordinary wedgie happening to Big Sweaty Jimmy Gibbons—he was three full feet off the ground. Who—or what—in the world had that kind of strength?
Log MacDougal. Log has that kind of strength. She can hold a full-grown man in an airborne wedgie for as long as she wants. Her arm was chiseled like some kind of over-the-top statue of Zeus.
“Let the noobster be, or I’ll eat your face,” giggled Log MacDougal, an insane glint in her eyes.
Log MacDougal is six feet tall. She has bleached white hair, a nose that seems to have been broken a dozen times, and the strength of a chimpanzee. She has the nervous habit of laughing under her breath both while awake and while asleep, which can give the impression that she is a psychopath, which she in fact may be. At this point, Log had repeated the trainee program four times without ever graduating.
With a tragic snap of elastic, Log MacDougal dropped Big Sweaty Jimmy to the floor. Jimmy’s pride would never quite recover, and this pair of underwear would never be wearable again. Not by him, anyway.
Jimmy, Dirk, and Chip scampered off down the spiral staircase as fast as they could, which was a bad idea, as the stairs are often slick. I could hear them slipping and falling for a surprisingly long time.
Log hoisted me up. She leaned in close, her cheek next to mine. It seemed like she was going to whisper a secret in my ear. She did not.
She just giggled.
Log MacDougal would take some getting used to.
Being a brand-noobster, I would occupy the worst cot, farthest from the potbelly stove and closest to the bathroom, which everyone calls the loo. The attic has no windows. The instructors say that this is a great way to adjust to the nocturnal schedule of the Special Unit, but it’s really just an excuse for why there is no view, when one of Lough Leane would be spectacular from this height.
After a fitful non-sleep, I got up that afternoon and put on my new trainee jumpsuit. I was pleased to find it didn’t look all that terrible. It fit my small frame relatively well and was warm and comfortable, allowing for great freedom of movement—like a pair of battle pajamas.
I attached my torch and flask to the utility belt and practiced trying to lock the shillelagh into the hooks on my back. It turns out this is much harder than Captain de Valera had made it look at Clifden Castle. Basically, you have to use your shoulder as a lever and smack it with the shillelagh just right to get it to lock into place. After three failed attempts, I rested the shillelagh between my back and the wall and forced it into the hooks with the weight of my body. I’m glad nobody saw me do this.
The first day for all trainees at Collins House is called “Frolic Day,” and it lives up to the name. At dusk, to the ear-destroying drone of bagpipes, the trainees line up in the courtyard. Four of us stood there at attention, awaiting the ceremony, while the horrible Pat Finch played “Fields of Athenry” on the pipes. Certain people in this world can play the bagpipes with a light and casual confidence that makes it look ever so easy. Pat Finch is not one of those people. His bagpiping is legitimately scary. The whole time it looked like his eyeballs were about to pop out. Or perhaps he had somehow passed gas in reverse. I couldn’t keep watching, and yet I could not look away.
“You’re Boyle, right?” said a voice that sounds like what a strawberry milkshake tastes like.
The proprietor of this voice was the trainee to my right: Dermot Lally. Dermot has broad shoulders, a square jaw, and curly black hair and would by any human conventional standards be described as a “dreamboat.” He is so much taller than me that he would have blocked out the sun if the sun had been out, which it seldom is in Ireland at this time of year.
Dermot had failed out of military flight school because his vision was not perfect.3 In an effort to improve Dermot’s vision, he is required to wear an eye patch over his left eye—his is made from white silk and somehow only makes him that much dreamier.
“I signed up for the adventure, the mischief, bodily harm, and possibly an early death. But if I’d been told we’d have to listen to the bagpipes—I’d have skipped it,” said Dermot, winking his one visible eye.
If you were ever to make a film of my life, I certainly hope you would cast Dermot Lally as Ronan Boyle. In many ways, he’s the more cinema-ready version of me. I’d like to tell
you that after Frolic Day, Dermot Lally and I forged a lasting friendship, as I have certainly tried to forge one, but to this day he seems to think my name is Little Rick. Where he got this idea, I do not know.
The trainee to my left stuck out his hand. At first, I thought he was having an asthma attack, but he was actually beat-boxing, and—even more surprisingly—he was amazing at it.
“Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Brian. B to the R-ian,” he rapped. “They call me the notorious Brian Bean. Bagged groceries at SuperValu like you’ve never seen. I murder at rhymes, and you can probably tell that I grew up in Meath, in the hood they call Kells.”
Then he made the sound of a crowd cheering and flashbulbs popping. And it was absolutely brilliant.
This was my introduction to the hilarious Brian Bean. Brian Bean can impersonate anyone or anything. His ears poke out like pretzels, and his face turns bright pink when he breaks out into voices that can turn any room into a comedy club. He can mimic the voice of any singer, movie star, footballer—even the sounds of birds, guitars, different types of cars, airplanes, and toaster ovens. He can make himself sound like an old-fashioned phonograph and perform entire radio plays with a dozen characters.
“Wow. Brilliant. Pleased to meet you, Brian. I’m Ronan Boyle,” I said, shaking his hand vigorously.
“Actually, I believe I’m Ronan Boyle,” replied Brian Bean, pushing up imaginary glasses on his nose and doing the most accurate impression of me that nobody on earth had ever seen until now. It was like listening to a mirror. I laughed hard, letting out a snort. The air from my nose fogged up my glasses, which is something that happens. This was ill-timed, as Captain de Valera was just coming out of Collins House with two dozen officers and the faculty following her. She gave me a biff on the head with her shillelagh. I straightened up.
Ronan Boyle and the Bridge of Riddles Page 4