by Rhys Hughes
They persisted for several days but finally gave up and decided to catch a bus back to Tralee in defeat. They had reached a point just west of Ventry, an ancient stone fort called Dún Beag, from which the Blasket Islands were visible across the agitated sea, when they turned around and commenced their retreat. The weather was strange, as it always is in this part of Ireland, with Mount Eagle smothered in black cloud but Ventry beach speckled with late sunshine, and the daytime moon, pale as the head on a pint of Guinness viewed from above, low over the waves. When night fell they stumbled on a small hostel just outside Dingle town and hired a bed.
In the communal kitchen they met a traveller from Austria who explained the absence of markers and the locked gates. “It’s the local farmers. They hate the concept of the Dingle Way and do everything they can to block the path and discourage walkers.”
Chuffia absorbed this news in silent fury and she vowed to take revenge. As for Bram, he merely listened to the crash of raindrops on the windows and when the Austrian traveller remarked “The downpour is very heavy now” he asked in all innocence:
“I wonder if they allow it on aeroplanes?”
But nobody answered him and after several cups of tea and a simple meal of boiled pasta, Chuffia led him to the dormitory that contained their bed. All night she designed her revenge and in the morning she knew exactly what to do. They travelled to Tralee on the bus and then she announced her intention of making a phone call to Cork. Bram went for a coffee while she did this. When she joined him she wore a menacing smile but he did not question its meaning. A few hours later she led him to the train station to greet the hundred or so very tiny men who had just arrived. Bram looked closely at them and this time he easily recognised them as leprechauns.
Chuffia’s revenge proceeded in the following manner. She purchased a large quantity of wooden planks and iron bars in Tralee. Then she disguised herself with a false moustache and set off along the Dingle Way again, but this time the tiny men accompanied her, constructing a fence as they went. It was a most excellent fence, strongly put together, with closely placed wooden posts held upright by iron rails top and bottom. Naturally she was challenged by farmers as the fence grew longer, who demanded to know why she was trespassing on their land, and to each she gave the same answer, an answer that made Bram scratch his head in considerable confusion.
“I am the Inspector of Obstructions,” she announced every time, “and I have been sent by the government to help farmers block footpaths. We are erecting this fence for your benefit, to prevent hikers and other tourists from enjoying the scenery.”
“Your labourers seem too small to be real,” would come the objection.
“A trick of perspective. They are full sized but further away than you think. If you would prefer not to have this free fence, please let me know and we will depart, leaving your land at the mercy of ramblers and nature lovers. It’s your choice.”
Without exception the farmers gave permission for Chuffia to continue her work and in some cases they even helped with the positioning of the planks and bars. And so she completed the whole of the Dingle Way and her fence skirted the entire peninsula all the way back to Tralee. As for the enormous cost of raising such a barrier, Chuffia had already patented enough inventions to make her wealthy beyond the dreams of the average eighteen year old. Bram burned with curiosity to understand her scheme but felt too intimidated by her cold fury to question her directly. She only began to relax when the fence was finished and they were sitting in the pub.
“Why did you help the farmers?” Bram finally asked.
“I did not,” she replied. “It was the leprechauns I helped. I gave them the transport system they wanted. That fence is actually a railway.”
“But the tracks are on their side,” countered Bram.
“Only for a day or so. This is the west of Ireland, where the wind rarely stops blowing as hard as it can. The fence will topple over soon enough, laying the track all at once. Now we just need something to run on the line. What is the name of this pub?”
“The Stoker’s Lodge Bar in Clonalour, Oakpark, Tralee.”
“I didn’t ask for the address but thanks anyway. The name is perfect for what I have in mind. I just need to convince the owner.”
“That’s me,” cried the barman. “What is your idea?”
“To convert this pub into a locomotive,” said Chuffia. “It will still look like a pub. In fact it still will be a pub, but it will run on wheels and be powered by steam. I will also need to make some mechanical adjustments to your body.”
“Fine by me,” answered the barman.
Chuffia, Bram and the leprechauns worked hard to fit wheels and an engine to the building. The barman himself was subjected to minor modifications. When everything was ready, Chuffia gave the order for Bram the Stoker to stoke the furnace. He did so and the water in the boiler was soon bubbling as furiously as the saliva in a rabid chimera’s mouth, but there are no snakes in Ireland and a chimera is one third snake, so that simile is only 66.666% accurate. Nonetheless the pub started to move and Chuffia and the leprechauns seated themselves discreetly in the shadows to watch the unfolding of her strange vengeance.
At each and every farm the brakes were applied and the pub waited for the relevant farmer to notice its unexpected arrival. These farmers were all Irish. When they saw a pub appearing on their land from nowhere the only thought they had in response was “Miracle!” As they approached the pub, the front door would fly open and the barman inside would smile and wink enticingly, one hand holding an empty glass, the other poised on a pump handle. The farmer would step inside and make his way to the bar and deliver his order in a thirsty voice, and if he did happen to glance sideways at Chuffia and the leprechauns it was too dark to recognise them.
The moment the farmer finished speaking his single word, usually “Guinness!” but sometimes “Beamish!” or “Murphy’s!”, the smile on the barman’s face would turn into a sneer and a spare set of arms growing from his shoulders would rise up from behind the bar and two massive hands would reach out and seize the farmer and shake him until he rattled. When he finally did rattle for real, and this outcome might take many minutes, the artificial hands would suddenly hurl him out of the pub and the front door would slam shut. The whole process was steam powered. Even Chuffia could not say why the gigantic false hands were buttercup yellow.
And so she took her revenge. The farmers of the Dingle Peninsula are still traumatised by what happened to them. The leprechauns were happy to be left with the new railway and even the barman was satisfied with owning a portable pub and six limbs. Chuffia and Bram caught an ordinary train back to Cork. She was less fond of him now than she had been. As they pulled into the station she decided to break the bad news.
“Drizzle and dew don’t really enter competitions.”
He blinked sadly. “Don’t they?”
“Not only that, but downpours never travel on aeroplanes.”
He found it difficult to accept the truth. Their relationship went into a nosedive after this and the following day Chuffia met a new man in a pub, a singer called Bryan the Ferry. She abandoned Bram and went off with Bryan instead. In fact she decided to take him home to her parents. Bryan the Ferry offered to give her a ten hour ride across the sea to Swansea. Somehow her underwear was lost over the side during the voyage. Bram was so miserable he vowed to shovel himself into the next available furnace, but he was young and forgot about her sooner than he expected. It is a shame this story does not end with a clever sentence.
In Sunsetville
In Sunsetville when the moon comes up, young lovers sometimes stroll down to the bridge known as the Once Held Hands Crossing. They only do this if they are very much in love or if they secretly no longer love each other, for the bridge in question has a reputation for destroying romance in the same way that a pointless comparison may destroy a sentence.
Sunsetville is a young city and that is why the lovers who inhabit it, to
say nothing of those who feel no love at this time but live there anyway, are young. The city almost never passed intact through its infancy, for the founder of a rival metropolis, Frabjal Troose of Moonville, once tried to wipe it off the map with a giant mechanical napkin.
That plan failed but it was only the first of a pair and the second was more malign. Frabjal Troose sent a swarm of clock-a-lots against Sunsetville. These artificial monsters resemble toppled grandfather clocks with four stumpy legs, a powerful tail and huge snapping jaws. Because they are powered by hours and minutes, Frabjal reasoned there would never be enough time to defeat them. But the inhabitants of Sunsetville simply hid until they wound down, and then there was suddenly all the time in the world to dismantle them.
From the spare parts and wooden cases they built the Once held Hands Crossing. It extends far out into a misty lake and connects with an island that is not wholly within this dimension but not partly in any other. Where it is, nobody in Sunsetville can say, it is one of those mysteries only solved by people who have left the city and never returned, and they are in no position to tell us.
On that island a man or woman will be given their greatest desire. For free. That is the legend and probably not just a legend but a stark and marvellous fact. This is why nobody who has made the crossing has ever decided to come back.
The Once Held Hands Crossing exerts a particular fascination over young lovers. It is often used as a test of true love. A couple will approach the bridge and one of them will set off across it, promising to return after a quick tour of the island. How could they not return? Their greatest desire is waiting for them back in the city. The island cannot possibly offer them an even greater desire! Not one person has ever passed this foolish test.
Hissy and Poona were so much in love that all their friends and neighbours would be violently sick out of windows whenever they passed. They kissed outdoors in all kinds of weather. Flowers and chocolates were exchanged between them with such frequency that even the most level headed observers suffered giddy attacks and fell to the ground.
No man in history had ever loved a woman as much as Hissy loved Poona. No woman in history had ever loved a man as much as Poona loved Hissy. Symmetry is a wonderful thing. Two throats, two tongues. Asymmetry is not bad either. Two hearts, one pulse. Four hands, twenty tickles.
Their love was so strong and pure, so full of stupendous swoons, so mutually consuming and yet so self nourishing, that they were confident it could pass any test, and they decided one evening to take that fateful stroll down to the Once Held Hands Crossing. Hissy would walk across the bridge while Poona remained on the shore with the jumble of tilted city roofs behind her. Because she was his greatest desire he would not remain on the island for more than a minute. Indeed he expected to encounter a sign with an arrow emblazoned on it that pointed back across the bridge. He would be the first person ever to return that way.
“You are my greatest desire,” he told her again and again, “and so there will be nothing on that island for me. I will hurry back into your arms!”
And he crossed the Crossing while she blew kisses after him and he kept turning his head to catch them, and then he arrived at the gateway of the island and it was very misty here and the city was shrouded from his sight, but a sweet voice behind the portal called out, “To gain admittance please state your name and physical condition.”
He answered in only two words, “Hissy. Fit.”
The gateway swung open and he rushed forward into the embrace of Poona, whose presence on the island now seemed utterly logical and perfect, and they kissed and kissed and kissed. They would have kissed even more but Poona was forced to disengage her mouth to speak. “Yes I really am your greatest desire!” she said.
“I never doubted that I would pass the test,” he replied.
“The first man ever to do so. And now we can be happy on this island forever and ever, for we can share, borrow or steal the greatest desires of the people who proceeded us. In other words free wine, money, soft shoes and toffees!”
Hissy abandoned all thoughts of crossing back over the bridge. There was no need. Poona was with him here and everything had worked out in the best possible way. Holding her around the waist, he led her deeper onto this island of delights.
But the real Poona remained on the shore all night and the following day and wept herself dry as she realised that Hissy was clearly never coming back, that he was going to remain on the island with his greatest desire, that he had failed the test.
She never learned that she really was his greatest desire. She assumed he had found something better on the other side of the bridge. And so she turned away and walked out of Sunsetville and planned to keep walking until she died from exhaustion, but she did not go far before she found herself entering the outskirts of Moonville. The two rapidly expanding cities were about to mesh. Some people claim she ended up marrying Frabjal Troose but I do not believe that. As for pointless comparisons, they have been unjustly maligned in her view.
Fable with Turkish Coffee
Lester Spigot, the camel driver from Istanbul, and Crypto Modo, who had secret humps of his own, were friends once. That was during a long hot summer in Patara, birthplace of Saint Nicholas, the blessed patron of merchants, virgins, scholars, pawnbrokers, chocolate logs and wrapping paper. Legend has it that the saint’s first present was a purse of gold to the daughter of a poor man who was left without a dowry. In fact, it was a stone wrapped in a leaf.
Patara is a dusty, rocky sort of town, dawn-stirred with cockerel crowings, goat bleatings and dog yappings. The road winds down from the hills, passes between cafes and fairy lit taverns clustered like olive stones on a saucer, and descends to the white sand beach, one of the longest in the world. The ruins of the ancient city are entered through a massive triple arched gateway, where it is dark and there are no more bars. Meanwhile, the warbling of the imam’s call to prayer floats on the still air from pitted mosque.
Lester Spigot had driven his turbocharged camel all the way down the Turquoise Coast, pausing only in Dalyan to dally with loggerhead turtles, and now he was tired and thirsty. He switched off his ignition, removed his seatbelt and climbed down from the saddle. He made his way to the Traveller’s Bar, a muddy shady place covered by a tarpaulin and occupied mostly by thin cats. He ordered tea with sugar, lit a broken cigarette and wiped the dust and sweat of the road from his brow with a napkin. In the corner, a sallow figure leaned forward, stubbly chin jutting at an inquiring angle.
After some minutes of this jutting, Lester began to feel uneasy. The man was staring at him with infinitely sad, luminous eyes and his face seemed contorted with some ineffable pain. Finally Lester could contain himself no longer and he asked the mysterious stranger to stop looking at him. Immediately, the man shook his head in refusal. Lester squinted and asked again, more firmly this time. Once more the man shook his head. When this happened a third time, Lester knew the fellow was trying to make a fool of him.
Lester grew angry. The blood boiled in his skull. He had lost much of his patience long before reaching Fethiye, let alone Patara, and he could find little to amuse him in the stranger’s attitude. So he took up the tiny silver spoon from his glass of tea and proceeded to beat the man across the head with it. Back and forth the spoon flew, with rapid calculated strokes, while the man desperately attempted to articulate some form of protest. But Lester was firm. Soon the spoon was bent and twisted and the man’s lips trembled and a large tear crawled its salty way down one of his cheeks.
At this the proprietress, a huge woman with the fists of a man, rushed up and cried, “Ayip, ayip! – Shame, shame!” And she removed the bent spoon from Lester’s grip, shaking off the crimson droplets. Then she added, “Leave him alone. Mister Modo comes from an unlucky family and it’s not fair to add to his worries. His brothers, Pseudo and Quasi, already do enough of that.”
“He kept shaking his head at me,” growled Lester.
And now the man spoke. “Ye
s, but in sympathy rather than opposition to your request. I can see you have come far and are very thirsty. I was in the same situation when I arrived here more than twelve years ago. I recognise a fellow spirit.”
The proprietress had departed as abruptly as she had appeared and Lester felt safe enough to pursue the conversation. “I fail to see how your case relates to mine.”
The man sighed. “You have just consumed a glass of tea. Because of your extreme thirst, you will soon want another drink but if you keep drinking tea you will shortly feel ill. The tea here is very strong and an overdose of caffeine is never pleasant. The logical outcome is that you will order other kinds of drink, and that’s how your problems will begin. Thus it was with me!”
Lester was intrigued and sat down facing the man. They introduced themselves formally and Lester now learned some of the tragedy of his new friend’s existence. Half his troubles concerned his brothers. Pseudo pretended to have humps but did not; Quasi seemed to have them but had none; Crypto appeared to be humpless but was in fact riddled with them, all hidden on the inside. Lester expressed a measure of sympathy. Crypto dismissed it with a wave and confessed to being more concerned with the other half of his troubles.
“The drinks in this place,” he clarified.
“Well I am still thirsty,” Lester admitted. “Perhaps I shall order just a simple glass of water.”
“There’s no water here,” Crypto said.
“Then I shall order wine. I can see bottles of wine stacked behind the bar.” And he was about to call the proprietress when Crypto placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“Buying wine here is a big mistake. I tried that a long time ago. Allow me to demonstrate. Watch!”