The Witch, the Saint & the Shoemaker

by Aonghus Fallon

  Suddenly Beverly felt quite sick.

  “How far is it, Penny?” Donald asked.

  “I dunno. Ten minutes’ walk?”

  “Sound reasonable?”

  Everybody nodded reluctantly. They could all tell from Donald’s expression it was pointless arguing.

  Somebody had torn down the stone front of Mr. Finnerty’s home so you could see right into that tiny room. The cobbler’s bench had been smashed to bits, the shoes ripped to shreds and the fire was just a pile of sodden black ashes.

  Penny couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.

  “Some queen,” Donald sneered.

  “I get it,” Melvin retorted. “Penny’s telling the truth and I’m just some big fat liar. But think about it: doesn’t this sort of prove my point? Maybe this guy was causing trouble and the queen had him arrested.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Now can we go home?” Beverly wailed.

  “Not until we get to the bottom of this,” Donald said. “I’m pretty sure Penny is telling the truth. Melvin reckons this guy Finnerty had it coming. What we need to do is keep going until we meet somebody else who can tell us what’s really going on. Agreed?”

  Nobody dared say no.

  By now the rain was falling harder than ever and they could barely see more than a few feet in front of them.

  They really did get utterly and totally soaked, so wet they couldn’t have got any wetter if they tried—not if they’d jumped into a lake. Water dripped off the low, overhanging hawthorn branches onto the backs of their necks and their shoes got sodden, but Donald kept insisting they weren’t turning back until they found somebody who could tell them what was really happening.

  The track rose along with the two hills on either side of it, then descended down the far side into flatter, more open country, dotted here and there with clumps of hawthorn or patches of rushes. Under such a dark sky and in that a jewel green landscape, the rushes seemed a particularly a vivid shade of orange, but they weren’t the only things to catch Penny’s eye. Once or twice, in places where the landscape was darkest, she glimpsed other colors—reds and blues and the odd, unexpected flash of silver. Strangest of all, these things seemed to be moving.

  Whatever could they be?

  Finally, just as a pale gray streak appeared over to their left (a sure sign the rain was finally dying down) they came upon a low, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof. They could just make out a faint, flickering light through its tiny, dirty windows.

  Donald knocked on the door and after a minute somebody shouted at them to come in.

  Inside, the cottage was just one long, shabby room with an enormous fire blazing away in the fireplace opposite the door. There was very little in the way of furniture or decorations, bar a few knick-knacks on the mantelpiece. Over in the far corner, an enormous pig snored away peacefully on a pile of straw, while sitting on either side of the fire itself were two of the oldest people the children had ever seen.

  One was a tiny woman wrapped up in a shawl several sizes too big for her, with a nose and a chin like a nutcracker, who was busily knitting away. The man rising from his stool to greet them was taller and thinner but he had an equally large nose and chin. He was in his shirt and suspenders but he still wore a battered brown hat on his head and he was grinning from ear-to-ear, grinning so wide in fact, the children could see right away he had practically no teeth.

  “Four childer! Well I never!” he exclaimed. “Come a bit closer and dry yourselves. My name’s Michael and this is me wife, Nora. The pig is called Malachy.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Donald said, and they all gathered in front of the fire and warmed their hands. It sure was nice to be out of the rain! “My name’s Donald. These are my sisters Beverly and Penny and my brother, Melvin.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the old man nodded. “Are you visitors to Tir-na-Nog, same as ourselves?”

  “We came through a door,” Penny said uncertainly.

  “We’ve been here years and years,” the old lady explained, her knitting needles bobbing busily to and fro. “Michael and I wanted to sell Malachy at the fair in Killarney. We had to cross the mountains to get there, only we got lost. When the mist lifted we found ourselves here and we’ve been here ever since.”

  “And a grand life it is too!” said her husband. “Or would be, if it weren’t for the weather! Not an ache or a twinge have I felt since I got here! Nora’s the same. And though both of us were nearly done for, neither of us has got a day older since we arrived!”

  “We were wondering about the guy who lives just down the road from you,” Donald explained. “A Mr. Finnerty.”

  “The leprechaun? Queen Ula took him back to her house a few days ago.”

  “She hasn’t changed him into anything yet, has she?” Penny asked anxiously.

  “I wouldn’t think so. She’ll want to interrogate him first.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Penny sobbed. “It’s all my fault she took him. I visited him. I think he was supposed to tell her, only he never did. Somebody must have seen us anyway.” She was very sorry she’d ever doubted Mr. Finnerty now. “He was just pretending he might tell the witch about me to stop me coming back!” she realized.

  The old woman shook her head. “You haven’t a hope, mackushla! Not against the likes of Queen Ula! Didn’t she turn the Fianna and their leader, Finn McCool—the warriors supposed to keep Tir-na-Nog safe from any harm—into a dozen different animals when they tried to stand up to her? Now she keeps them all tethered up in her house, the same way a farmer keeps cattle and sheep in his shed.”

  “Maybe they do and maybe they don’t!” the old man said excitedly. “Remember the old rhyme, Nora? How does it go again?

  Rain-bringer, Shape-changer,

  Such is the power of the one,

  Youthful hearts, fearless of danger,

  By children will that power be undone.

  What if these four childer are to be the witch’s undoing?”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” his wife snorted.

  But already Donald could feel a warm glow, deep inside him. He’d read enough stories to know that adventures happened mostly to heroes and that very often being a hero was a matter of destiny. So why shouldn’t the prophecy be about him and the others?

  “With me being the hero, naturally,” he told himself.

  “Sure didn’t Saint Patrick himself arrive only last night? And isn’t he on his way to Patrick’s Seat this very moment? If that isn’t a sign things are changing around here, I don’t know what is.”

  The old man’s wife just sniffed.

  “I thought Saint Patrick died hundreds of years ago,” Melvin objected.

  “Oh, Saint Pat is alive and kicking,” the old man said happily. “Everybody for miles around will be coming to pay their respects, and some of them might be willing to help you, especially the ones who remember that rhyme!” Then the old man took off his hat and scratched his head—which was quite bald. “I suppose I should take you there.”

  Beverly opened her mouth to say they had no intention of going to see Saint Patrick or of trying to defeat some witch, that actually, they were going to turn round and go home right now, but then she saw the expressions on the others’ faces. Melvin didn’t look one bit happy, but Donald and Penny were both nodding away as if the old man’s suggestion made perfect sense.

  “Which means we won’t be going home for a while yet, I guess,” she thought miserably. “All I can do now is make sure nobody gets hurt!”

  “Are you mad?” scoffed the old man’s wife. “Traipsing across open country at your age! And all because of some stupid ould prophecy!”

  “It’s time that witch got her come-uppance,” her husband replied.

  Over in the corner, Malachy snorted twice, then rolled over onto his other side without ever opening his eyes.

  “What if Queen Ula does something awful to poor Mr. Finnerty in the meantime?” Penny asked.

&nb
sp; “One touch of Saint Patrick’s crosier undoes any magic spell.”

  “Where’s Melvin?” Beverly said suddenly.

  Everybody looked around. Melvin had vanished into thin air. That was when they all noticed the door was ajar, if only by an inch or two.

  The rain drummed down onto the roof, harder than ever. “Where’s the little creep gone?” Donald muttered as they peered outside.

  “We don’t even know which direction he went in,” Beverly added.

  The old man was already putting on a dirty old oilskin. “No matter. We need to get moving, childer—rain or no rain!”

  “We do indeed,” his wife agreed, putting her knitting to one side and reaching for her walking stick, then getting stiffly to her feet.

  The three children stared at the two old people in bewilderment.

  “You know where Melvin went?” Beverly said in surprise.

  “Of course,” said the old man. “Sure isn’t that why we have to leave as soon as possible?”

  “How come?” demanded Donald.

  “Because your brother is in league with Queen Ula, and gone off to tell her where youse are.” The old man shook his head. “I wondered the minute I clapped eyes on him. “She’s got her hooks into the young fellow and no mistake!” I sez to meself.”

  “Figures,” Donald said gloomily. “Problem is, he knows where we’re going. You said Saint Patrick was at Patrick’s Seat and then—”

  The old man grimaced. “Aye—and then your brother said he didn’t see how Saint Patrick could still be alive. He must have sneaked out right afterwards.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Melvin hadn’t liked the sound of the prophecy one bit.

  “Donald would just love being the hero who gets the better of some witch. And supposing Saint Patrick decides to help?” he thought.

  There and then Melvin decided he had to tell the witch everything. Not that he wanted his brother or his sisters coming to any harm. Already a vague plan was forming at the back of his mind: he and the witch would ambush Donald and the others on their way to Patrick’s Seat, then tie them up and bring them back to the door in her chariot.

  “We stuff them through it, I lock it from this side and then they’ll never be able to come back.”

  He’d already figured out Mr. Finnerty must have had the only other key.

  So while the old woman had been telling her husband he was too elderly to go hiking cross-country, Melvin had been sidling quietly out the door.

  He was lucky it stopped raining a few minutes later. He wondered how often this happened—“Often enough to stop the whole country getting flooded, I guess,” he thought to himself.

  Melvin went back along the same track, past what was left of Mr. Finnerty’s house, through the gorse, out across the bog and then into the wood where Queen Ula had told him she lived.

  It was a dank, gray dusk by then, and Melvin found it even harder to see where he was going once he’d entered the wood. The trees were small and stunted and leafless and covered in moss and pale green lichen. In places the ground was so marshy, somebody—somebody working for Queen Ula he guessed—had lain logs over the wetter parts so her chariot could get across them.

  Nothing seemed to stir in the wood. No birds sang there. The only sound was the sound of dripping water. Melvin didn’t like it one bit, but he cheered himself up by imagining all the amazing things he’d do once he was a wizard, so soon he’d almost forgotten about where he was going—until he came out into a clearing in the heart of the wood.

  Here the trees formed a circle around a patch of open marsh. Queen Ula’s house was in the middle: a dark wooden hall on stilts, with a broad wooden bridge leading up to its tall wooden doors.

  That was when Melvin started to have his first doubts about throwing in his lot with Queen Ula. There was something very grim and forbidding about the house. And if she was so powerful, how come Queen Ula hadn’t built herself a castle or something? Why choose such a crappy place to live?

  But he put these doubts aside and set off across the bridge. The hall doors were ajar and even as he slipped through them, a voice called out from the shadows— “Well? Where are your sisters? And your brother?”

  He could barely make her out. She was sitting at the very end of the hall, in a high wooden throne set on a wooden dais and it was even darker inside. Melvin wouldn’t have seen her at all if it hadn’t been for the tiny creatures, a bit like fireflies, that were drifting here and there and which glowed with a pale green light.

  The whole place stank. It stank of the marsh over which it had been built—water was running in rivulets down its dark wooden walls—but mostly it stank of the animals tethered along either wall. Melvin could make out a fox, a badger, a wild boar, and a dozen other creatures slouched or curled up on the floor, all of them silent and very forlorn-looking. There was even a great bear, lying in chains at the foot of Queen Ula’s throne, but it looked too listless and depressed to attack anyone. It lay with its nose between its paws like some great dog, watching him with bright, sad eyes.

  They must have been the famous Fianna, the same warriors who’d tried to stand up to the witch and got changed into animals for their troubles. Melvin was surprised to find himself feeling just the teeniest bit sorry for them.

  “Well?” the queen demanded.

  “I couldn’t get them to come, your majesty—” he stammered.

  “What?” The witch’s beautiful face twisted into the most terrifying scowl and Melvin swallowed hard. “They’re close, though—in a cottage about three miles from here, with some old couple.”

  “Ah. Is that all?”

  Melvin hesitated and the queen snapped, “Come here.”

  So Melvin walked across the uneven floor, past all those despondent animals, his heart racing, until he was standing before that wooden throne.

  Then he told the queen everything the two old people had told him and the others: about the prophecy and how Saint Patrick had come to Tir-na-Nog and was on his way to Patrick’s Seat, while the queen bit her lips and her black eyebrows knitted together in fury.

  “All right. We better set off right away, so. We’ll never catch up with them otherwise.”

  “Here’s what I think we should do—”

  And Melvin started to outline his plan. But the queen just snorted and shook her head.

  This was when Melvin guessed what she meant to do instead and how she’d meant to do this from the start. Why? Because otherwise the prophecy might actually come true. And suddenly he was furious despite himself. “You’re going to change them into a bunch of animals, aren’t you?”

  “What if I am?”

  “No way am I letting you. No way.”

  “Is that so?” Suddenly there was a dangerous glitter in those green eyes. “And how are you going to stop me?”

  Melvin didn’t care how annoyed the witch got or if she never taught him any magic. “Just leave them alone. I mean it.”

  “Are you telling me what to do? Me?”

  Suddenly the witch had risen to her feet, staff at the ready.

  “I grew up with six brothers ordering me about,” she hissed, glowering down at him with her terrible eyes. “I didn’t care for it then—and I don’t care for it now!”

  Melvin knew what was coming next, so he turned and ran. There was always a chance he might reach the other end of the hall before the witch had cast some enchantment over him.

  He was halfway to the door before he stumbled. He managed to throw out his hands just in time.

  Even as he did so, the hall seemed to stretch and grow around him—to become a hundred times huger and darker and more mysterious and terrible, while the animals tethered along either wall were suddenly each the size of a house.

  Melvin was so scared he didn’t even bother scrambling back to his feet. Instead he half-ran, half-scuttled towards the hall doors, which seemed farther away than ever.

  And then somebody had plucked him off the ground and was holdi
ng him up in the air, holding him the wrong way round, so suddenly a huge, upside-down face was only inches away from his own. He was just wondering where the giant had come from when he saw its face was covered in fur and how it had golden eyes. It was the queen’s charioteer.

  “Bring him here,” he heard the queen say.

  Melvin tried to cry out as he was carried back the way he’d just come, swinging this way and that—he couldn’t figure out how the charioteer was holding him, only that it was really painful—but all that came out of his mouth was a terrified squeak.

  By then he’d realized it was too late: the queen had changed him into something, but what?

  And then the queen had taken him onto her lap. She petted him with her cold, strong fingers while he shivered in terror. “Do you know something, Daithi? I think this little fellow will be my new favorite!”

  The charioteer fidgeted about, muttering to himself.

  “If we don’t catch them tonight, then we’ll ride right up to Patrick’s Seat tomorrow morning and tell that eejit not to meddle in my affairs!’ the queen snapped. ‘Or I’ll make an end of himself here! Let’s see how they all like that! Now fetch me a cage!”

  A second later the charioteer appeared with a cage made out of wicker. The queen scooped Melvin up off her lap and popped him into it, then the charioteer tied the door shut with his quick, nimble fingers, using a strip of bark, complaining all the time in his gruff little voice.

  “If he gets out, he won’t leave this hall alive.” The queen took the cage from her servant, stood up and hung it from a peg jutting out of the beam above her throne—she was so tall, she could do this easily. “Besides, supposing he did? Supposing he found his own way home again and my spell lost its hold over him? Why would he ever want to come back?”

  The charioteer spoke softly now, his golden eyes fixed firmly on his mistress, even as Melvin peered down through those bars at Queen Ula and she stared back up at him, a terrible, contemptuous smile on her face.