“Aye,” replied brown unicorn, sniffing me. “He must be a weakling, as he can’t even make much of a musk. He will bow to Equasos!”
The brown unicorn stuck his snout right into my armpit and took a long sniff.
“Not much magic in you, is there, pickletooter!” snorted the white unicorn, giving me a sharp poke right in the bottom with the tip of his dowser. Even with a Special Unit kilt and double underwear it hurt sooooooo much. It went all the way to the bone of my upper leg.
It was clear that these fellows had mistaken me for their natural enemy: the leprechaun. While I am somewhat thin, and not the tallest person by any means, nobody would ever mistake me for a leprechaun. It’s impossible. Not to play into the stereotypes, but leprechauns are disgusting little thieves with filthy beards who smell horrid and will swipe your baby—and those are the nice ones. I, on the other hand, am Ronan Boyle, son of Brendan and Fiona Boyle, curators from the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin. Other than some food allergies, and hot pink cheeks, I am a fairly ordinary human.
“Fellows! Big misunderstanding!” I said as cheerfully as possible. “You seem to think I’m a wee man, but I am actually Ronan Boyle—human of the Special Unit. Oh so very human.”
“Ha, the little trickster is three sheets to the wind!” snorted the brown unicorn.
“Typical!” said the pink unicorn, taking a swing at me with his dowser for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
“Seriously, gents, we’ve all had a laugh, but I’m a regular human here. Never even had a drop of whiskey in my life!” (Unicorns certainly don’t love humans by any stretch, but they also don’t hunt and eat them as they do leprechauns.)
Brown unicorn gave a sidelong glance at the many flasks of weaponized whiskey around my utility belt. These, of course, are standard issue for the Special Unit—to trick and/or barter with the wee folk. I should remind you that I was also wearing the full uniform of a Detective Special Unit! This was a preposterous situation. I was starting to hear Dame Judi Dench’s voice in my ear, which meant panic time. I reached for my shillelagh, but I realized that the white unicorn had taken it from the hooks on my back, and was now gnawing on it, disgustingly, like a horse’s bit.
“Mmmm, a fine leprechaun shillelagh,” he mumbled, getting unicorn spit (which has powerful medicinal properties) all over my beautiful fighting stick (which had been a gift from Captain de Valera and features a carved fist at the head).
“Listen to the walking turnip! ‘Big misunderstanding,’ he says! Never heard that from a leprechaun before, have you, lads?” The unicorns laughed hard and long. In their defense, I realized I was saying precisely the sort of thing a leprechaun would say. Leprechauns will say anything to escape captivity. This was a Catch-22—the more I protested that I was not a leprechaun, the more I would be doing precisely what a leprechaun would do.
The Neapolitan unicorns led me up the ramps of the city—which, I cannot stress enough, are Gorgeous, capital G. The white marble avenues loop lazily around and through the great falls with a level of feng shui that will knock you on your behind. (The Chinese art of energy balance called feng shui is one of the unicorns’ best skills.)
The trio trotted me upward, passing some of the touristy restaurants of the town. Every table was packed, as it was the high season. Most of the outdoor cafes have live bands playing in them. I wish I liked unicorn music more, but it’s an acquired taste. Unicorn music is performed on the xylophone, with a special mallet attachment that mounts onto their dowsers. It sounds like what humans would consider “smooth jazz.” It can make humans feel like they are about to undergo a dental procedure.
We arrived at a lush tunnel that led into the cliff wall. The only light was from tiny oil lamps that smelled of eucalyptus, which opened up my nasal passages for the first time in weeks. Say what you want about their politics—unicorns know how to live. Their taste is impeccable. The tunnel was wide enough for one unicorn, so I was marched in single file with my captors. A few human minutes later, we entered into the Cave of Miracles, which was not remotely what I expected.
The Cave of Miracles is a majestic showroom. There are burgundy velvet banquettes that can hold up to eight unicorns. Each table has a fondue pot, as unicorns are uniquely suited among the creatures of Tir Na Nog to enjoy dipping foods into cheese with their dowsers and serving them to each other (since, of course, they can’t eat the items at the end of their own dowsers).
The far end of the cavern was a stage with a magnificent gold lamé curtain depicting great moments in the unicorn entertainment industry.
Unicorn waitresses and busboys were prepping the tables, folding napkins, and all the thousands of little details that go into running a performance venue. Haretrolls were zipping about, picking up any stray droppings.
A buffet stretched out as far as I could see, which led me to notice the sign above that advertised this place as: THE CAVE OF MIRACLES, HOME OF EQUASOS AND THE BUFFET AS FAR AS YOU CAN SEE.
“You will serve Equasos now. He comes,” said the pink unicorn. “Bow before him! Bow before Equasos!”
The unicorns all poked and swung their dowsers at me. A chubby lavender unicorn with a rhinestone-encrusted dowser waddled over to us, puffing on a clover cigarette. His hooves were shellacked with glitter, and he was almost as sweaty as Big Sweaty Jimmy Gibbons.
“Sweet banana-pants, he’s perfect! I’m so happy I’m gonna pee!” said the lavender unicorn, trotting in a little dance. He tipped his dowser to me.
“I’m the Magnificent Equasos—I do six shows a day here except on Nonsdays, when I do nine. I wanna eat you up, wee man! I WANT TO EAT YOU UP! YOU’RE PERFECT FOR THE OUTFIT! I’M SO HAPPY, I’M GONNA PEE!”
Equasos giggled hysterically and did let out a bit of pee. A nearby haretroll scampered over and mopped the floor beneath him.
“Oopsie daisey!” giggled Equasos as he licked my face, elated. “I love this little leprechaun guy!”
“Isn’t he great?” said the brown unicorn. “Tiny and weak. I want to poke him to death with my dowser!”
“He’s one of the best ever! He’s gonna crush it. When we put this awful leprechaun in the Box of Death—everyone’s gonna pee,” said Equasos. “This show just made a HUGE leap forward. This is what I was talking about when I said we had to take things up a notch!”
“We serve Equasos!” said the Neapolitan unicorns in a creepy unison, bowing to him.
“He should have a beard, though! Why no beard on you, wee man?” asked Equasos, giving me an annoyed sidelong glance and ever so slightly scraping my chin with his stubby dowser.
“Yes. Why no beard, walking turnip? Answer to Equasos!” prodded the pink unicorn.
I cleared my throat and stretched to my maximum height.
“Good fellows. As I have very clearly stated—I am Ronan Janet Boyle, human being, employed by the Special Unit, Garda of Tir Na Nog!” I hollered, showing them my BeefCard.*
All of the unicorns examined my BeefCard for a moment, puzzled. Equasos let out an annoyed guttural sound as a haretroll shuffled over and placed a set of bifocals on Equasos’s snout. He scanned me up and down a few times, letting out more displeased grunts from his nostrils. A tiny bit of glitter burst into a cloud with each of Equasos’s snorts, because—as I would soon come to learn—glitter is a big part of his life, and once you get glitter on you, it’s nearly impossible to get glitter off of you.
“Why?!” barked Equasos. “Why must I be surrounded by EEJITS? EEJITS AND NINCOMPOOPS. I AM SURROUNDED BY EEJITS!”
The Neapolitan ice cream–colored unicorns shuffled their hooves, embarrassed. They cast their faces toward the floor as if they were trying to get as small as possible.
“I AM TRYING TO DO SIX AND/OR NINE SHOWS A DAY, AND I’M WORKING WITH PICKLETOOTING EEJITS WHO CAN’T EVEN KIDNAP A PROPER LEPRECHAUN. IS THAT REALLY SO HARD? TO KIDNAP A DECENT LEPRECHAUN!?”
Equasos’s tantrum spiraled into a hurricane of glitter and unicorn smells. He used his tee
th to yank at the tablecloth of a nearby banquette, pulling all of the place settings, creating a deluge of glass and silverware. A nearby busboy popped up with a here-we-go-again look on his snout.
“I’ve been working with this last pickletooting phony for six months! HE’S HORRIBLE. You promised you would do better. We were going to ‘take the show up a notch,’ weren’t we? Honestly, no offense, Ricky—you’re a good kid, but a TERRIBLE fake leprechaun!” shrieked Equasos as he pointed his dowser at a little far darrig who was poking around at the buffet.
The far darrig’s tusks had been blacked out with paint, and the fur around his chin had been dyed orange, to look like a leprechaun beard. He wore glasses with fake human eyes in them, and a tight outfit with shorts made entirely of green sequins that was attempting to be a “showbiz” version of an actual leprechaun outfit. The shoes were gold glitter, and so tacky that any real leprechaun would not be caught dead wearing them. To me, he looked exactly like what he was: a far darrig posing very badly as a leprechaun.
“Our sincere apologies, Master Equasos,” said brown unicorn, “we thought this one was better than Ricky, at least.”
“Yes, yes! Of course we knew he was a human, but won’t he fit in the outfit?” asked the white unicorn, clearly lying and trying to dig himself out of a hole.
The nearby far darrig, who logic implied was named Ricky, munched on a dinner roll, his feelings hurt.
“Oh, he is. By a factor of a zillion—no offense, Ricky, but you’re terrible! But don’t toot in my face and tell me it’s raining cupcakes—this kid is not a real leprechaun, just a skinny beefie! But he’ll do. RICKY—YOU ARE FIRED. GET OUT OF MY FAT FACE! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. GO!”
The far darrig drooped and shuffled away, giving me a very solid nudge as he passed.
“Watch yer back, beefie, and good luck in the Box of Death,” whispered Ricky.
“LEAVE THE OUTFIT, RICKY. ARE YOU BRAIN DAMAGED, RICKY?! THE OUTFIT BELONGS TO THE SHOW,” said Equasos, swatting at the poor far darrig with his dowser.
The next few moments were interminable. Four adult unicorns and I watched Ricky the far darrig try to wriggle out of the sequin leprechaun outfit, which clearly hadn’t fit him properly in a long time. It was an epic struggle. It all felt like watching someone who had been eaten by an anaconda trying to reverse the process. It didn’t help that Equasos kept yelling insults at the poor creature.
“I told you to lay off the dinner rolls, Ricky, YOU PICKLETOOTER. He can’t lay off the dinner rolls! So Ricky stretches out the oufit. YOU’RE THE WORST, RICKY. I hate you sometimes, and YOU OWE ME for the damage to the outfit,” shrieked Equasos as he stomped his hooves.
Four human minutes later, Ricky was finally out of the outfit, ashamed, clothed only in his reddish fur (which is what far darrigs usually wear anyway). Then he skulked away. Equasos picked up the sequin outfit with the tip of his dowser and tossed it at me.
“You’re up, beefie. You’re the new sidekick for the Magnificent Equasos, unicorn of wonders. Lay off the dinner rolls if ya know what’s good for you! You’re gonna wanna wash that outfit for sure. And somebody get this kid a beard.”
* Bad is the human German word for spa, and unicorns like to sound fancy, which makes the name translate as: Unicorn Spa.
* A card given to Special Unit officers that should grant them amnesty in Tir Na Nog if they are on official business. It states: Do not kill this daft beefie without a decent reason OR I SHALL BE PEEVED. Very truly yours, Raghnall, King of Tir Na Nog. Sealed with the royal shoe print.
Chapter Six
BOX OF DEATH
The Box of Death is not part of Equasos’s show. It’s the metal cage that the “sidekick” is kept in backstage at the Cave of Miracles. This is where I would be locked between performances. I was Equasos’s new sidekick.
The backstage area at the Cave of Miracles is dim and moldy, and stacked floor to ceiling with magical props, harps, and ten lifetimes worth of cheap show business bric-a-brac. There’s a life-sized poster of the Magnificent Equasos when he was much younger and thinner. Honestly, from the poster, the unicorn I met was barely recognizable—his eyes had been lifted or tucked or both.
Please note: While a sidekick generally is, say, a friend of the main hero of the story, “sidekick” was an inaccurate description of the job I was now forced into six and/or nine times a day for the Magnificent Equasos. Luckily, I had been confined in the Box of Death with my all-time favorite actress: Dame Judi Dench. As I drifted in and out of sleep, she told me the story of her performance in Notes on a Scandal, and of the lasting friendship she formed with her costar Cate Blanchett, my second-favorite actress of all time. Dame Judi and I scarfed down Lion Bars, which she had thoughtfully smuggled in. Lion Bars are nature’s perfect candy bar. I had LOTS of questions for Dame Judi—for example, “Was that character based on a real person?”
“It’s a hybrid, Ronan Boyle,” said Dame Judi, pausing for a thoughtful moment from chewing on a Lion Bar. She wiped the corners of her mouth with an unparalleled level of precision. “Often my performances aren’t an impersonation of a single person, but the collection of a lifetime studying the human condition. Do you know what I do when I’m in doubt, Ronan Boyle?”
“No, please tell me, Dame Judi Dench,” I pleaded.
“I tell the truth,” she said as she crumpled the Lion Bar wrapper and tucked it into her pocket because even imaginary Dame Judi Dench doesn’t litter.
Of course she tells the truth. This is the essence of any Dame Judi Dench performance: honesty.
A moment later, Ricky the far darrig was spraying me with a hose set to its most robust setting, which I believe is called “jet,” but might have a different name to the unicorns.
“Wake up, ya filthy beefie!” shouted Ricky as he blasted me with what might as well have been a bolt of ice-lightning. “You know how they say ‘there are no dress rehearsals in life’?”
I nodded, shivering and confused, as I felt like I had heard something along those lines before, perhaps even from the Dame Judi Dench who lives in my mind.
“Well, it’s rawmaish! Get yer behind out there for dress rehearsal. Dress rehearsal starts now!” With his little paw he unlatched the Box of Death and blasted me with the hose, using it to force me out onto the stage.
Chapter Seven
BUFFET OF MIRACLES
Like many big stars of the unicorn entertainment circuit, Equasos does not do his own dress rehearsals. He has a stand-in unicorn named Nelson who is also the assistant stage manager of the Cave of Miracles and the technical director. Nelson works the merchandise table between shows, selling sun visors and such.
“All right, places please!” announced Nelson, trying to adjust a headset onto his head with his foreleg. Nelson’s dowser had been snapped off at some point, quite close to the head, giving him the look of an ordinary horse with a mustard-colored coat. Nelson has a slight whistle when he speaks, which was pleasant to hear. Nelson had not one but two lazy eyes, each one of which drifted around in its unique orbit, making it impossible to look at him when he’s talking, as you will pass out.
A polka-dotted female unicorn in a tutu trotted onstage listlessly. She puffed on a clay pipe and nodded at Nelson.
“’Allo Nancy,” said Nelson to the polka-dotted female, then turned just to me. “If any of you don’t know me, I’m Nelson Grudgel, assistant manager of the cave. I see we have a new face. We don’t have time for chitchat, as we’ve got nine shows today, so let’s get right to it. In the event of a fire, please make sure that Equasos gets to safety even if it means you are burned alive. A few ground rules: Do not look directly at Equasos, ever. Do not ask Equasos how he is doing, or if you can get a photo with him. You cannot. Don’t bring family or friends to meet Equasos. If Equasos starts a conversation with you, please try to mention that he looks ‘great.’ Never, ever mention reviews of the show. Mentioning reviews of the show is punishable by death. If Equasos asks you if you’ve seen any r
eviews of the show, you say: ‘I haven’t seen any, but I hear good things’ or ‘Everybody loves you, Equasos.’ Got it? This is IMPERATIVE. Everybody loves Equasos, and you haven’t seen any reviews of the show.”
I nodded. The polka-dotted unicorn puffed her pipe, shaking her head, with a smile on her snout.
“Have you seen the latest review, Nelson?” whispered the polka-dotted unicorn (who would turn out to be Nancy, Equasos’s onstage love interest, who joined him in a few duets).
Nelson shuddered. “Aye. The one in the Times? Brutal.”
Nancy giggled, reciting: “The real miracle in this cave is Equasos still trotting out this out-of-date show that’s so full of manure you’ll wish you brought a shovel.”
“Ooof,” replied Nelson with a wonderful whistle of his teeth. “Good one. The Times always gets it right,” said Nelson, turning to me. “You, wee man, if you are ever asked for an interview about Equasos, your answer is: He’s a gem. Now, WHAT is Equasos, wee man?”
“A gem?” I stammered. I raised my hand to point out that I am NOT a wee man but rather a kidnapped Detective of the Special Unit of Tir Na Nog, carrying a valid BeefCard and traveling in the Undernog on official vendetti.
“Hold your questions until the end, filthy little wee man, or Ricky hits you with the hose,” said Nelson. From the side of the stage, Ricky smiled as he polished his tusks.
Nelson then walked (forced) me through a dry run of the show at half speed. It was a lot of “Walk walk, SCREAM, walk walk, mug to the audience, shake your little fist—SCREAM. Get stabbed in the bottom, SCREAM, fall through trap door, catch fire, look aghast, walk walk, flee . . . SCREAM, flee . . . trap door, etc.”
The show itself was a series of upbeat musical numbers (some duets with Nancy, who has a lovely voice), intermixed with minor magic tricks and Equasos stabbing, setting fire to, and generally humiliating his leprechaun sidekick for comic relief. It would be my job to screech, yelp, panic, flail, and look confused.
Ronan Boyle and the Swamp of Certain Death Page 6