Ronan Boyle and the Swamp of Certain Death

by Thomas Lennon

  Chapter Eighteen

  INTO THE DOME

  “MOVE YER POOPERS!” bellowed Log as our bizarre entourage sped through the filthy streets of North Ifreann. Wee folk scattered away from us, toppling over themselves. From the perspective of a wee person, Log MacDougal would seem like some kind of flesh Godzilla.

  Cat-shaped Figs was riding on Lily’s back. Lily wasn’t making a fuss about his claws in her back because she is a pro.

  I raced next to Rí, still dragging Dooley along by the handcuffs, which would surely leave a red mark on my wrist for years to come. Dooley was probably complaining and making icky nose sniffs, but there was no way to hear it over the chaos of North Ifreann.

  The MacDougals rode atop Rí, their tiny fists clutching his salt-and-pepper fur. Despite his blindness, Dave with the Courage of a Minotaur was calling out directions, just using his ears (a leprechaun’s hearing capabilities rivals that of a dolphin).

  In the hustle and bustle Mary’s red wig had blown off, revealing that Log’s mother is decidedly bald, which transformed her from looking somewhat like a walnut to being indistinguishable from a walnut. From a sack over her shoulder she pulled another wig. This one was platinum blond with pigtails. Why Log’s mum felt the need to put on another wig at this moment will remain the greatest mystery I have ever encountered in the human or faerie realms.

  We were moving so fast that I could scarcely keep track of the number of nonfatal stabbings I was getting from random wee folk—thank heavens for my Special Unit knee protectors and the Kevlar-blend jacket. I should have ditched my nice umbrella ages ago, but now I was holding on to it in my armpit like a precious totem.

  The grime in the air gave my glasses a dark tint. I wiped the lenses and glanced to check if Figs was still with us. I was concerned, as we were now heading through a famous, five-way intersection of North Ifreann called Gherkin Junction—home to some of the most famous pickle parlors in Tir Na Nog.*

  Figs was licking his barely existent cat lips, side-eying the pickle parlor marquees. It’s likely that he hadn’t had a pickle since we left the Lucky Devil, now many human hours ago.

  I could sense harpies moving about in the sooty air above our heads.

  We were closing in on the Noggin. You could cook an egg on my hot pink face.

  The Shoustmarket wraps around the Noggin, a half kilometer in each direction. It’s in this hopeless place that the wee folk trade harpies (illegal), harpy saddles (made of far darrig fur—immoral), and lances tipped with precious stones (expensive and beautiful, worth seeing if you get the chance).

  The leprechaun jockeys who ride harpies rent themselves out by singing boastful songs about their jousting skills to potential backers. A classic jockey-rental song was being belted out as we passed a tiny man dressed in DayGlo satin; it went something like:

  Why not fly with wee Grant?

  He’s a master with the lance,

  When it comes to riding birds, luv,

  He’s the best ye’ve ever heard of,

  He’s impossible to kill, it seems,

  He’s won solo and on mix-coed doubles teams,

  And if he loses, he’ll likely die,

  So what’s to lose? He’s worth a buy

  A thousand euros for the rental,

  To pass this up, you would be mental,

  He jousts like the devil, soars like an eagle,

  Rent Grant for your shoust, or he’ll stab you: it’s legal.

  So, so sad. The wee little man singing this looked to be at least four thousand years old. Imagine, to be that age and still renting yourself out in the shousts? And all because the jockeys are all under the thumb of the weegees,* who control the whole operation.

  Harpy jockeys and gamblers parted at the sight of Log. A tiny man with a face like a bulldog approached us, carrying a brass shillelagh—the trademark (illegal) weapon of the weegees. He stepped right in front of Log, trying to block our path. His badge proclaimed him to be REAR COMMANDANT, SO HIGH DON’T EVEN ASK in the Wee Gaisoich (this means he was a rookie, probably in his first few weeks on the job).

  “You’ve no business here, beefies,” said the little man. “Hand me your weapons and any whiskeys or ports in your possession or I’ll mail yer ears to Belfast, book rate.”

  Without batting an eyelash, Log picked up the little man by his head and threw him several hundred meters. He sailed through the air for a remarkably long time. We never saw where he landed. These are the times when Log MacDougal really shines. I doubt there’s a human alive who can throw a leprechaun farther than my wonderful friend Log.

  We pressed on through a sea of sad jockeys singing rental songs. Until we arrived at one of the vomitoria* of the Shousting Dome itself.

  This particular vomitorium was sealed with a wooden portcullis thick enough to stop an elephant wearing a helmet.

  A sign near the entrance read: SHOUSTING,? P.M. UNTIL ??? P.M. This would make sense to the wee folk. All I could tell is that the venue seemed to be closed at this moment.

  Log waved us back and tried to force the gate open with a deadlift. I had never seen Log fail at anything related to physical strength. Her face turned the color of my face, which was disturbing. She was lifting with her legs, which—while I almost never mention them—are seven times stronger than her famous arms.

  It was to no avail. The portcullis barely budged a centimeter. The only thing that looked like it might break soon was Log herself.

  “Stop! You’ll never get in that way, you eejits,” said Dooley. Except for the pain in my wrist, I had almost entirely forgotten he was with us.

  “The portcullis is almost certainly beefie-proof,” said Dooley. “If you keep trying to force it, you’ll turn into a pile of straw.”

  “Mmm, complimentary straw,” said Dave, to himself, welling up with tears because the wee folk love free things.

  “Then how the devil are we supposed to get in?” I said, taking a slight step back from the portcullis, as I did not want to be a pile of straw right now.

  “Well . . . I could help you. I am not your enemy, Boyle. But you would have to trust me,” said Dooley, smiling like an eel at his parole hearing.

  I looked to Log, who shrugged. Rí and Lily did, too (dog versions of shrugs).

  “And how would you help us?” I said, with my most suspicious face and posture.

  “First you have to promise that you’ll leave me here in Tir Na Nog,” said Dooley. “If I help you, you can’t bring me back to Ireland.”

  “You’re lying,” I said. “Not a chance.”

  “Uncuff me and see if I’m lying,” said Dooley.

  This was a conundrum. If I unlocked him, he would very likely run. Could I catch him? Of course I could. I was fifteen and spry, he was basically a gargoyle with bad breath. But this would cost valuable time and I might lose the captain forever.

  Against my better judgment, I took a chance.

  I pulled the key from my jacket and unlocked the cuffs connecting Dooley’s wrist to mine.

  To my astonishment, he did not run. He rubbed the red mark on his wrist. I did, too.

  “I’m going to reach into my cloak, very slowly,” said Dooley, showing me his empty hand. “I have something for situations like this.”

  From his cloak he pulled out a key ring that held approximately a thousand keys.

  Some were ancient, some were brand-new, some were stone, some looked like solid gold, some looked like lock picks a cat burglar might use.

  “In my line of work, I collect a great many things. When I was your age, Ronan Boyle, I learned: Start collecting keys,” said Dooley as he felt the squiggly edges of each key. “So many things you can collect once you have a key collection. Almost anything really. I’m surprised more people don’t do it.”

  “If you have every kind of key, why didn’t you unhandcuff yourself?” I asked, annoyed and suspicious.

  “Maybe I knew you’d need me at some point,” said Dooley with a strange chortle.

&nb
sp; Ugh. He truly is the creepiest person I’ve ever met.

  Dooley tried a half-dozen keys in the lock of the portcullis.

  “Of course, it’s impossible to have every key, but eventually you’ll find that there are only so many types of locks. It’s probability.”

  I’d love to say the next key he tried opened the lock, which would be oh-so-much more dramatic, but it was actually about seventy-five keys later. (This is the kind of annoying detail I feel obligated to share with you in my journals. This is for the sake of transparency; otherwise the unbelievable things will seem commonplace.)

  Key seventy-six—Click! The portcullis rose with a groaning of wood and metal.

  “After you, Detective,” sneered Dooley, tucking the key ring back into his cape.

  And I ran into the vomitorium, feeling like I could boke.

  * Queen Moira with the Magnificent Forehead exploded here, celebrating on a pickle bender on the first ever Queensday—which is named after her.

  * Of the one-thousand-euro rental fee, the weegees keep all but three euros, which goes to the jockey, who then also has to pay for his satin outfit! This is covered in the documentary on shousting made by my friend Aileen Whose Luscious Eyes Sparkle Like Ten Thousand Emeralds in the Sun. This documentary won the Grand Jury Prize in the Town of Doors film festival, which is a leprechaun film festival in Doors where most of the awards are just stolen off the table when the organizers aren’t looking.

  * Vomitorium means “exit from a coliseum-type venue.” Vomitoria is the plural form. Anyone who knows this would also know that vendetti is not the plural of vendetta. Yes, some of us ARE keeping score. Your associate in County Kerry, Finbar Dowd.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SIOBHÁN

  From the bowels of the dome I could hear the sound of dozens of harps playing a pizzicato version of a leprechaun heavy metal song.

  We followed the sound until we reached the upper deck seats of the Noggin. (The most expensive seats, opposite of a human stadium, closest to the midair shousting and the violent action. The next most expensive seats in the dome are the floor area called the splatmat, where you can hear and feel the splats of the jockeys when they fall from the harpies.)

  Dooley was at my elbow. We huddled in the shadows, scoping out the grand, mostly empty sporting venue.

  Above us, two jockeys were swooping around on harpies, practice-jousting each other. They would circle the birds to opposite ends of the dome, then race at each other—only pulling up their lances at the last minute.

  Watching them in dry runs, I could tell that shousting was ill-advised, stupid, and reckless. And remember, the jockeys are only making three euros—the cost of two Lion Bars in human Ireland.

  Down below on the splatmat, a group of enchanted harps were playing the music we had heard.

  A stone altar like you might find in the Burren dominated the center of the splatmat. It was circled by torches and a dozen or so free-standing stones to create a small “henge.” Some of the stones were carved with Celtic symbols like the Sheela Na Gig. (A creepy image that was once kicked into my chin by the Red-Eyed Woman’s shoe.)

  “That altar is stolen from my shop. And the slabs, almost this entire henge,” whispered Dooley. “Two hundred thousand euros in relics that belong to me, right there, officer!”

  “Hush!” I said to Dooley, as I had zero interest in his stolen henge items right now, even though a theft like that is usually precisely the work of the Special Unit.

  A dozen wee folk in druid robes entered, stepping in unison. Some of the wee folk held bundles of sticks and brass cups.

  Under one cloak I caught a glimpse of the bright red eyes of the Wee Woman Whose Nose Looks Like It Was Put on Upside Down. The same leprechaun who attacked me in Dooley’s gallery—a high-ranking member of the weegees, and likely the ringleader of this whole cult.

  Some of the wee folk played on bodhráns, pounding out an ominous tempo.

  I didn’t quite recognize the Bog Man, or Crom Cruach, as he was now known to me. I had only seen him as a beef-jerky mummy: once in my parents’ home lab, and once in a carriage in the rain in Duncannon Fort. Crom Cruach was now in a long black robe and hood, with only his skinless face visible. His huge black eyeballs sat in their sockets like olives. His face, mummified by four thousand years in a peat bog, had the look of a badly burnt chicken.

  The wee folk began to chant:

  Am chun beatha

  Am chun beatha

  Crom Cruach!

  “We ten are gathered, the last of the devotees of Crom Cruach! We will serve him as we did in days of old. He shall protect us again! As he grows in power, so do we!” said the Red-Eyed Woman.

  If I had my shenanogram it certainly would have been going haywire right now.

  Log squeezed my hand, which is a lovely thing she does in frightening moments like this when my self-doubt creates a face typhoon of panic sweat, making it look like I’ve just stepped out of a shower.

  “What’s happening?” whispered blind Dave, from his perch atop Rí.

  “Some dark ceremony. They’re going to sacrifice Captain de Valera to this Crom Cruach, but over my dead body,” I growled.

  I checked the gear on my belt, which included a vast-sack* shaped like Roscommon Football Club souvenir coin purse that I’d taken from the Supply and Weapons Department. In the event of successful arrest, I’d be able to transport this entire gaggle of lowlifes back to Killarney for processing.

  I drew my shillelagh, trying to calculate the best angle to attack this lot. “Now, here’s my plan. Figs, Log, and I will use the element of surprise . . .” I looked around for Figs. Figs?

  No.

  Figs was gone.

  “FIGS!” I screamed ever so softly, searching the shadows with my torch, in case he had changed into one of his animal forms.

  Lily and Rí sniffed about. No trace of him, not even his hat.

  My heart deflated. After every stupid thing we’d suffered to get here: Yum Yum, Ricky the far darrig, damp walnuts, the snakes, the hose, the on-the-lips kisses from Capitaine Hili, my brief but genuine triumph in the theater.

  Figs had been virtually useless—nothing but a burden on these entire vendetti. Now he was off on a picklebender, and in our moment of crisis.

  I cursed him in my head. I would write a scathing report about Figs if I ever made it back to Killarney.

  My rage about Figs was soon overshadowed as my blurry eyes were drawn to the most terrifying-slash-magnificent thing I had ever seen.

  Below us on the splatmat: Five weegees, each about two feet tall, ushered out my mentor, Captain Siobhán de Valera. The captain’s eyes were glazed over—a symptom of the harpy poisoning. She wasn’t even in chains; the weegees were gently holding her ankles. The poison was making her a willing participant in this dreadful cult affair! She seemed happy to be there! Ugh. My blood boiled.

  For the record: The captain was dressed in a green silk gown. The colors of the embroidery seemed to be inspired by her two different eye colors; the captain has one brown and one green eye, and the detailing reflected that dichotomy magnificently. Even from one hundred meters away, I could tell she was absolutely crushing this gown. The captain is my friend and mentor and the second-best shillelagh fighter I’ve ever seen. She has a brilliant mind for criminal justice, and is a steadfast officer of the Special Unit. She’s everything I aspire to be as an officer and as a person. But I had never been so aware of her as, well, a human woman. It was a funny feeling like falling.

  The captain is only five or six years older than me. Which is part of why she is my mentor, and THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT, REALLY. I don’t think I have any other feelings for her, and she certainly does not for me. How could she? I’m like a scarecrow with food allergies. Dermot Lally can’t even remember my name, and for good reason, why should he? I’m only in the Special Unit because I fit into a rather small hole.

  Also she’s ridiculously older than me, if I hadn’t mentioned that
. Ridiculously so? Maybe it’s just four years? I’m not really sure, as I would never ask something like that.

  Many people have weird-looking feet, but the captain is not one of them.

  To clarify: This is all just something I was noticing.

  A detective needs to have an eye for details, and this stunning gown on the captain was the part of the details of the crime in progress that I am reporting to you. I convey these details to you with zero personal opinion, because it’s unlikely that I am in love with the captain.

  So, the captain was there, accounted for. I noticed her gown, for my report. Check. Nothing else to say on that really. Blah blah blah—she looked nice, for somebody under an evil spell.

  The bodhráns pounded. A wee man blew a mist of whiskey from his mouth at the torches, making them roar into giant fireballs—the most evil luau imaginable.

  The captain was led up to the altar, all smiles and dead eyes. The fact that she was not fighting back was making me mental! Clearly she had been put under some sinister spell, as the REAL captain and her purple fighting stick could make seven-layer dip of this group of thugs.

  Crom Cruach knelt, pulling back his hood. The Red-Eyed Woman went up on her tiptoes and put a bronze crown on his head.

  “Crom Cruach! Lord of the sun! We present you this human,” said the Red-Eyed Woman. “Her blood shall be spilled for you, that you might grow strong again as in days of old!”

  And then I did something ever so stupid.

  “Siobhán!”

  I screamed out the captain’s first name. This is something I never do except in my head. I screamed it as loudly as some eejit requesting a song called “Siobhán” at a rock concert. I don’t think the word came from my mouth but somehow from my stomach.

  Every head down on the splatmat turned to look at me. Crom Cruach locked his dead olive eyes with mine.

  I stretched up to my maximum height and took off my glasses, slipping them into the Roscommon Football Club souvenir vastsack. Taking off my glasses looks like a brave move, but it is actually something I do when I’m frightened and want to have a not so perfect view of what’s in front of me.