My injured shoulder was pumping in time with my pounding heart. Lily galloped over and put her warm paw on one side of the wound and Rí did the same on the other side, making a little sandwich in which I was the middle part.
The weegees and Crom Cruach were safely in my Roscommon Football club souvenir coin purse. Whatever evil they got up to in there, I did not care to know.
Log pulled some matches from her belt and burned the metal clasp at the top of the coin purse, welding it shut—now it could not be opened accidentally.
“Dooley! Hold it right there!” I said, not quite able to move from the weight of the captain and the hounds holding me up.
“Ah, yes. Master Boyle. Thanks for doing the heavy lifting. Now I shall take that sack of yours and Crom Cruach, thank you very much,” said Dooley. “Crom Cruach has a date with my buyer in Dubai, and I will finally get my payment!”
Dooley jumped, his dagger aimed squarely at my face.
But it never arrived. The blade was caught mid-leap by the bare hand of Log MacDougal. Log has zero problem grabbing a knife by the blade; in fact, it’s something she practices, the same way you or I might practice harmonica.
Log bent the knife like a stick of gum and threw it into the bleachers. Dooley stumbled backward. He was about to pounce at me again, but he adjusted his pince-nez and got a good view of Log MacDougal looming over him.
“Good Lord, what are you anyway?” Dooley hissed.
“A leprechaun,” giggled Log proudly. Then she bit him on the knee and squirted some very good mustard into his eyes. (Log carries an unmarked mustard bottle for times like these.) This was such a leprechaun move. And it was a joy to watch. I was so proud of my friend Log.
Dooley screamed, mustard dripping down his famous nose. He backed away, reaching for something inside his leather cloak.
“Get away, away!” said Dooley. “I’m warning you!”
I covered the captain’s face, bracing for the worst possible scenario.
Dooley pulled out a tiny potion bottle and threw it at the ground. It broke, but nothing remarkable happened. (Perhaps it was supposed to be a smoke bomb? From the smell, it seemed to actually be a jar of fox urine.)
“Damn those walking turnips!” yelled Dooley. “Wee devils charged me fifteen euros for that bomb!”
There was an awkward pause. Then Dooley turned and bolted away. Dooley’s boots had high heels, a detail I had not noticed until right now when they click-click-clicked sadly across the splatmat.
Dooley disappeared into a vomitorium, his cape flapping pathetically.
“We can’t let him get away!” I shrieked.
“It’s all right, Ronan, he won’t get very far,” said Log, picking up me and the captain with very little effort, giggling like the genuine weirdo she is. “He’s got a vastsack filled with relics.”
“That won’t slow him down,” I said, tucking my own vastsack into the secure pocket inside my jacket. “That’s the whole point of the vastsack.”
“No, Ronan. Not the sack, it’s what’s in it. Dooley’s in for a nasty surprise when he opens that one up,” said Log with a smile.
I scanned the arena. Figs had turned back into a little naked man with a hat—he looked exhausted. The harpies were safely caged. All was well as far I could tell. Then I noticed: Dave and Mary—they were gone!
“I tossed Mum and Da into Dooley’s sack when he wasn’t looking,” giggled Log. “Mum and Da love to travel. They love adventure. And they hate beefies. This should be quite fun.”
Log giggled uncontrollably. I couldn’t help but join in. Her little parents were a living tracking device in Dooley’s sack. Soon I was laughing and crying along with Log. Then mostly crying. Then sobbing and laughing. Then moaning and sobbing and giggling. I was not well.
Lily and Rí licked my face, because they love me, and I love them back—and also because the salty taste of a human’s tears are a real treat for wolfhounds. They deserved it. I kissed Lily’s ear around the bitten-off edge.
All in all, this had been a really difficult four-day weekend.
The captain was dead asleep, strapped to me like furniture that I was trying to move by myself.
“It’s true,” I said to the captain, “I really do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
OIFIGTOWN
East (or ? on faerie-drawn maps) of Bad Aonbheannach, not too far from the Swamp of Certain Death, lies the Very Shortcut that leads to the outskirts of Oifigtown, the leprechaun capital city. Oifigtown is at the opposite end of Tir Na Nog from the Undernog; it’s the wee folks’ financial center, where stockpiles of shoes are kept in temperature-controlled vaults. It’s also the seat of the Leprechaun Royal Family, the Leprechaun Royal Navy, and the Royal Harp and Clog Orchestra (an orchestra in which shoes and harps are the only instruments played—I’ve heard one of their records, and it’s better than you might expect).
Per the treaties between the Special Unit and the faerie folk, I could not legally hold the weegees in my vastsack for as long as I wanted. There’s a rule against this called Habeus-Nymphum. Regular faerie folk could be forcibly taken to Dublin and processed at the Joy Vaults. Weegees, however, because of their political stranglehold on faerie politics, would have to appear before King Raghnall of Tir Na Nog, or one of his Yorkshire terriers.
Per the 1979 treaty, I had twenty-four hours to present my case to the leprechaun royals, who would then decide the weegees’ fate: either to send them with me to the Joy Vaults, or to the prison of the faerie folk called the Gaol. The Gaol is in the Upnog town of Doors. (The twenty-four-hours part of this treaty was added by the humans, as wee folk have no idea what twenty-four hours would be. So I didn’t feel all that rushed to get any of this done.)
I stood at the bank of the River of GLOOM with the wolfhounds, Log, Figs, and Captain de Valera. The captain had awakened from her Black Anvil knockout, but was still very much afflicted with the harpy poisoning.
Figs and Rí would be bringing the captain back to Collins House, where the Mysterious Dr. Boiko would set her right. The captain’s memory would be wiped, and she would not remember this whole dreadful affair.
Nor would she remember how far I came to save her. Or the silly things I might have said.
Lily and I planned to take the Very Shortcut to Oifigtown for the audience with Raghnall or one of his Yorkies, then we would return to the human Republic of Ireland with Crom Cruach and exonerate my parents. (Hopefully no time would be added to their wrongful sentences for actual prison escape. This was going to be a tricky legal matter to sort out. Also, I would have to find them, as their whereabouts were currently unknown. Also, hopefully I was not under investigation for aiding and abetting them, which I had not. Oh boyo, this next bit was going to be tricky indeed.)
Log was checking her shenanogram, which was pointing Upnog toward the town called Floating Lakes.
A familiar sound came from down the river. Whoomp, there it is! Whoomp, there it is! The rusted, broken, and oh-so-beautiful Lucky Devil chugged around the bend toward us. The mop must have been driving, because Capitaine Hili was standing on the bow, wearing a T-shirt that said: I SUNNED MY BUNS IN BAD AONBHEANNACH. So tacky. And yet I was so happy to see her little fur body and webbed digits. She flipped around and showed her bottom “eyes” to us, laughing like a genuine nutcase.
“Roxanne Boyle! You have made your venganges!* Well done, mon ami,” shouted Hili.
Hili lowered the gangplank. Rí exchanged some sniffs with Lily, then trotted onboard. Figs was about to lead the captain up, but I held them back.
“Wait,” I said. I fumbled around like an eejit, patting my jacket to make sure the vastsack was still there. It was. “You’re not going to remember any of this, Captain de Valera. And so . . .”
For a moment, I thought I was going to lean in and kiss the captain, which would have been certifiably insane. Of course I did not do that. She is my mentor and ranking officer and also my friend.
“You will not r
emember this . . .” I continued, “so I promise that I will write it all down.”
I stretched up tall and saluted her. Something sparked in her and she saluted back—although I could tell that she wasn’t sure why she was doing it.
Figs led the captain aboard.
Log picked me up and squeezed me, like you would do with someone you love when you forgot they were recovering from a major lance wound through the shoulder.
“Be careful, Log,” I said.
“Not my style,” she giggled back. “You did it, Ronan. And you thought you were the wrong boy for this mission.”
“Did I say that? Out loud?” I asked, as I was well aware that this thought was on repeat inside my brain, but I keep most of my nervous thoughts to myself.
“Oh boyo, Ronan,” giggled Log, “nobody knows what you’re thinking better than Lara MacDougal.”
“Lara! I thought we weren’t supposed to say that?” I said.
“Don’t—I’ll break your face,” she giggled. “And yes, you were the wrong boy for the mission. But somehow you ended up as the right man for it.”
Log pulled a Kinder Egg from her pocket and ate the entire thing, wrapper and all, because she is wonderful and totally nuts. She put away her shenanogram and took off Upnog, along the bank of the river.
“To Ireland, Lily. By way of Oifigtown. And maybe at some point we will stop for lunch,” I said, scratching Lily’s chin.
Lily barked happily, spinning in a circle.
And together Lily and I trotted toward the Very Shortcut. My pink face started to fade back to its natural color of “mashed potatoes with Maldives-shaped freckles.” Except for having lost my very nice umbrella for a second time, this was all wrapping up nicely.
“Yes, a brief stop in Oifigtown, then home for a game of ‘Are You There Moriarty?’ with Mum and Da,” I said. “I think you’ll like them very much, Lily. They’ll get their names cleared and their museum jobs back! I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces.”
This was the happiest I had been in ages. A weight was off my shoulders for the first time since I began my internship with the Galway office of the Garda almost a year ago. Maybe I wasn’t just lucky? Maybe I was a real officer of the Special Unit? And a decent one at that. After all, I’d just returned a captain from one of the most dangerous places in Tir Na Nog. I let a smile take over my face for a moment, and then my mind flashed to:
Pierre the far darrig! Still a prisoner of the Free Men of the Pole! Still pinned to the wall of a hut, high in the Steps! I must go back for him. I will go back for him!
. . . at some later date. I put a pin in the idea for now.
* The French plural for multiple vendettas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THOMAS LENNON is a writer and actor from Oak Park, Illinois. He has written and appeared in many films and television shows, as well as the music video for “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “Foil.” This is his second novel after Ronan Boyle and the Bridge of Riddles.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Love and thanks and apologies to:
Love to my human and canine family who stand by me or sit in my lap and make these books possible: Jenny, Lilo, Oliver, Pedro, and Heidi Lennon.
Apologies to my cousin Bébhinn whose glorious name was misspelled in Book 1 as Bébinn. Just for fun, it’s pronounced bay-veen, and we are related by blood, even though she tells people that it’s by marriage.
Three cheers for Ferdia Doherty, my Irishness tester from the town of Gweedore, which only exists for one day every hundred years.
Hugs to my godson, Lennon Wedren, guitarist and loyal supporter of the Garda Special Unit.
Love to my cousins the Lallys in Tuam, whose names and faces have been ever-so-slightly altered in these books to protect their identities.
Love to my parents and grandparents, the Lennons, Crowes, McSheehys, and Helms.
Love to my dream team, who are the 1995 Chicago Bulls of representation: Stephanie Rostan, Karl Austen, Peter Principato, Gregory McKnight.
To the 1995 Chicago Bulls themselves.
To John Hendrix and his amazing magical hand, the hand that PUT ST. LOUIS ON THE MAP!
Maggie Lehrman, my brilliant editor who makes these books something other than pure rawmaish. She truly is the Shields to my Yarnell.
And to the rest of my friends at Abrams Books:
Hallie Patterson, the Peaches to my Herb
Melanie Chang, the Wind to my Earth, Fire
Nicole Schaefer, the Stills to my Crosby, Nash and Young and was there one other dude in that band?
Patricia McNamara, Maytals to my Toots and the
Jenny Choy, Roy to my Siegfried
Chad. W. Beckerman, Cheese to my Bacon Egg and Cheese on a Kaiser Roll with two ketchup packets and pepper but no salt, please
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Ronan Boyle and the Swamp of Certain Death Page 17