by Jack Challis
‘Please…please let me come to your birthday party my sweetest cariad – I am your best friend after all. How can you be so cruel?’
‘Look Myfanwy, your argument does not improve with repetition,’ answers Blodwyn.
‘We have been best friends, since we were four,’ pleads Myfanwy.
‘You are no longer the sweet, angelic Myfanwy Jenkins, I once knew,’ replies Blodwyn, ‘now you have terrible table manners, behave outrageously, your swearing is intolerable and then there’s your bad wind, that you no longer control in public. My dad’s relatives from Ireland will be here tonight, I do not want to be embarrassed by your behavior.’
‘Yippee!’ shouts Myfanwy lots of the lovely Irish Guinness… and all your lovely male cousins…all good looking, young, clean, Irish country lads who never swear…I wonder if they know any swear words…apart from Jesus, or be-Jesus or Jesus-Mary-and Joseph,’ giggles Myfanwy.
‘Those are religious exclamations – not swear words,’ says Blodwyn.
‘Of course they know swear words,’ she continues, ‘but they are good young Irish Catholic gentlemen. And there is another reason I am not inviting you to my party – your blatant flirting and some of the stupid things you come up with,’ says Blodwyn, ‘like sticking your bare feet under someone’s nose and saying: “Haven’t I got the most beautiful toes you have ever seen?” Or asking people: “Have you ever snogged a weasel?” It is really embarrassing, especially as you are my best friend – what will they think of my choice of friends?’
‘Is your mother making her homemade pork pies as usual, yum, yum, all that lovely jelly?’ asks Myfanwy ignoring Blodwyn’s rebuff.
‘And that’s another thing – the embarrassing way you stuff your face with food and drink – where does it all go? Do you have two stomachs now and all the pipe-work that goes with them?’
Myfanwy giggles. ‘I promise not to stuff my gob…’
‘There,’ cuts in Blodwyn, ‘exactly what I mean – ‘gob’ is not a word used by any decent young lady. And yes, there will be a great amount of ‘the Guinness’ as you put it. That’s another thing I am afraid of – you getting bladdered and embarrassing everyone.’
‘I also get embarrassed by things you do, Blodwyn Jones,’ answers Myfanwy, putting on her hurt face.
‘For example? Pray-tell?’ asks Blodwyn, hands on hips, waiting. Myfanwy has to stop and think…
‘Now then… now let me see,’ Myfanwy answers. ‘Arrr …yes…the silly way you wear your hat…the annoying way you sip your tea…and the stupid way you always dine at eight…’
‘Don’t be such an idiot,’ answers Blodwyn, ‘that’s one of your dad’s favorite songs.’
‘Well there are other things that embarrass and annoy me,’ counters Myfanwy.
‘Oh yes? I am waiting …,’ counters Blodwyn.
‘Ok,’ says Myfanwy, ‘why do women find Bill Mitchell irresistible – his face looks like a spud-you like. His body has the bone structure of a pregnant slug. And he sounds like he is deflating when speaking. And another thing that really embarrasses me’ continues Myfanwy, now on a roll, ‘when old people over thirty wear jeans and use the words “Wicked” “Cool” and “Chill” and try to dance like when they were in their teens, looking ridiculous – fall arse over tit and instead of running out into the woods and killing themselves, carry on dancing with stupid grins on their faces. What happened to Prefab-Sprout? And why have they stopped showing Billy Bunter on television – can’t you laugh at fat, greedy people anymore?’
Blodwyn knew Myfanwy was having one of her moments and tapped her foot impatiently.
‘…What about hungry students?’ continues Myfanwy relentlessly, ‘they spend all their time getting drunk – puking in the sink while sitting on the toilet, missing lessons – all on our money. They hold up the MacDonald’s queues – writing a cheque for a bag of chips – between four! And what do they do when they become solicitors, lawyers and politicians – devote their entire lives to screwing the very people who paid for their education! Please…please…please …let me come. I really miss being with normal humans – those little bug-eyed cretins – always following me around looking up – down – and underneath… asking stupid questions:
“Why are you doing that?…Why do you need to do this?… what is this for? Boochi the Sisling asked me if there was any milk in my breasts and could she have some – bloody cheek!’ (Sislings have a taste for milk and often stand under cows just before milking time on warm summer evenings, when their udders are dripping milk.)
‘Please let me come to your Birthday party my sweet, best friend; it’s my Birthday soon, but I won’t be at home and will miss it. Please!’ implores Myfanwy, ‘…let me come…’ Myfanwy breaks into song: ‘I just want to be with the dirty faced, common scruffy people…live with the filthy, lazy, skiving, common people. Dance, sing, drink, eat and puke with dirty, greedy, common people, common people like you like youuuu…’
‘Very funny Myfanwy,’ answers Blodwyn hands on hips; she was not afraid of the Queen of the Fairies changing into something frightening in order to get her own way. For Blodwyn knew a secret: a special secret that would stop the Queen of the Changelings transforming into something dangerous like a tiger, python or harpy eagle.
‘And for the last time stop calling me your little cariad,’ continues Blodwyn, ‘you are not my great aunt – besides I am a day older than you. You are still not coming to my birthday party and that’s final.’
‘Please my sweetest cariad…I shall just die…kill myself…or maybe have a nervous breakdown and need counseling if I am not invited. Now what dress can I wear?’ says Myfanwy again totally ignoring Blodwyn’s re-buffs.
‘Listen cloth-ears,’ says Blodwyn, ‘you…are…not…coming, you will just embarrass and annoy me.’
Myfanwy places her hands on her hips and huffs and puffs.
‘You are such a drama Queen – you are still not invited.’ Repeats Blodwyn. She could see her friend getting up steam, as if to acquire the right pressure to force out a few tears. She studied her once best friend and nearly burst out laughing – how Myfanwy Jenkins had changed. There was a time that this rebuff would have sent the old Myfanwy into a genuine streaming veil of tears. That is before she had been chosen by the Lings and Fairies to be their new Queen; now she was as bold as brass and as common as muck.
‘Look,’ says Blodwyn, beginning to feel sorry for her best friend. ‘You would not be able to come anyway – there can’t be two Myfanwy’s Jenkins in Tala Pandy or at my birthday party – don’t forget the Silky Changeling masquerading as you is now accepted by your parents as the real Myfanwy – she will have to be invited.’
Myfanwy smiles sweetly; she knew Blodwyn was weakening.
‘I am Queen of the Fairies and the Lings – all Silky Changelings are kin and take commands from me. I have already instructed the Silky posing as me. We are to meet by the river bank under the willow’s leafy weeps. The Silky will undress,’ continues Myfanwy working herself into a high state of excitement at the thought of the party. ‘I will put on the Silky’s clothes, chosen by me in advance and come to your birthday party. The naked Silky will slip into the River Pandy and swim underwater out to sea to meet up with her own kind for the evening.’
Suddenly a possible solution to Blodwyn’s other dilemma came to her. She thought about the Sillian. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Queen of Fairies could help?
Blodwyn relents. ‘Ok, you can come to my seventeenth Birthday party, but on certain conditions.’
‘Anything – anything, I will even kill myself if you asked me to,’ answers Myfanwy skipping and hopping with excitement. ‘I will always be grateful…unless I forget of course.’
‘Now,’ says Blodwyn, ‘I want you to promise you are not going to swear, threaten to gob on anyone or bite anyone – especially my male cousins. You are not to have wind, eat or drink too much. You are not to shove a drumstick down anyone’s throat while they are speaking to yo
u and lastly, none of your childish sayings – I mean it Myfanwy or I will murder you myself!…Understand?’
‘Bloody-hell…oops sorry,’ interrupts Myfanwy. ‘I can’t’ remember all those rules and conditions!’
‘Yes or no?’ demands Blodwyn.
‘Yes – yes my dearest friend – I will do everything you say, how can I ever repay you?’
‘Simple,’ answers Blodwyn, ‘You can get rid of a Sillian that arrived on Pandy Mountain last night. Every person and animal in Tala Pandy is in danger – it has already killed three sheep.’
Myfanwy looked puzzled.
‘Have you seen a Sillian? You have heard of a Sillian haven’t you?’ asks Blodwyn
‘Now let me think…a Silly-Ann,’ says Myfanwy, looking up at the barn roof. ‘
Blodwyn knew the new Queen of the Fairies was not acquainted with this dangerous alien; she just did not wish to admit the fact.
‘You have never seen one, have you?’ says Blodwyn.
‘Noooo – I have never seen a duck-billed platypus either, so what? Anyway we Fairy Lings are not afraid of any animal.’
‘A Sillian is not an animal – it is an intelligent, dangerous alien!’
‘In that case,’ answers Myfanwy pondering the matter… ‘I think I will pass on that one, the problems of Terasils are no longer my concern.’
‘Your parents walk on the mountain path – they will be in danger!’ answers Blodwyn.
‘My parents are now the responsibility of the Silky Changeling who has taken my place – it is her duty to look after them.’
‘You ungrateful, selfish, little cow,’ says Blodwyn, her blood rising. It was time to find out if an old trick that Blodwyn knew would still work; it would mean exploiting an important secret that she knew about Myfanwy Jenkins. It was a kink in the Fairy Queen’s armor of magical tricks and powers; an Achilles heel. A secret that her many alien enemies like the Cold-blooded Malis Afar and the Jal-mar would be most interested in.
Ever since they were young and their arguments led to physical tussles, the more robust Blodwyn only had to wrestle Myfanwy to the floor, hold her by her nose, pin her arms down with her knees, and grab a finger and thumb-full of mid-riff fat and squeeze hard! This had to be accomplished while avoiding Myfanwy’s beautiful, sharp white teeth: for she was not particular about what part of Blodwyn’s body she clamped on to when in a raging mardy.
But would this trick still work? Would the pain place Myfanwy under so much stress she would be unable to concentrate on turning into something nasty. There was only one way to find out!
Blodwyn quickly wrestled Myfanwy to the ground; pinning her arms down with her knees she squeezed her cute nose, as she pinched the fat on her midriff… hard.
‘Oooch! – Oooouch! – Oooooooch! You nasty little spiteful, bitch!’ screams Myfanwy. I’ll get mad and turn into something nasty and kill you!’ she threatens.
‘Go on then,’ says Blodwyn.
Myfanwy tried to concentrate; Blodwyn pinched the Queen of the Fairies tummy-fat even harder!
‘Ochooooch! ‘you little slut… that really hurts you wicked little cow… you tart… just you wait,’ cries out Myfanwy ‘… I will murder you slowly!’ Despite her threats she found it was impossible to concentrate enough to become a Changeling… due to the pain.
‘I give in,’ pleads the Queen of Fairies finally, ‘I will do it…I’ll deal with the Silly-Ann.’
Blodwyn let her friend get up.
‘I promise to help,’ continues Myfanwy, her long graceful fingers crossed behind her back.
‘Bring your hands where I can see them,’ orders Blodwyn, ‘now promise me again.’
‘I promise my dearest friend,’ repeats Myfanwy Jenkins, her face the picture of pure holiness, ‘to behave at your birthday party and get rid of the Silly-Ann.’
Blodwyn studied Myfanwy’s face and smiled; her friend’s face was radiating pure angelic innocence and divine serenity.
‘Ok,’ replies Blodwyn ‘you better mean it – or else!’
‘Look,’ replies Myfanwy, quickly forgetting her friend’s warning. ‘We could hide, your handsome cousins can come looking for us…the one they find first…gets a kiss.’
‘Don’t be stupid – you won’t hide properly, and besides… I live in the mountains of Wales – not in the Ozark Mountains of America. We don’t kiss first cousins here! There will be no kissing games. There will be barn-dancing, Irish folk music and karaoke.’
‘That’s great,’ says Myfanwy ‘we could sing a couple of the Pogues songs…the ones with swear words.’
Suddenly Blodwyn had an idea, a wonderful idea to stop her friend from misbehaving. Blodwyn giggled at the thought of her wicked trick.
‘My uncles and aunts will also be there – they are old fashioned Irish catholics, we will be singing the Spinning Wheel together, the Minstrel boy… and The Boys of Wexford. Oh, and by the way, have you helped the Widow Owen yet?’
‘You only asked me a couple of days ago – I am still thinking about it. What do you want me to do? Turn up on the door-step as a grinning, drunken leprechaun and say: “Top of the morning Mrs. Owen, me darling – how’s she cutting? Here’s a pot of gold to keep you and your starving children going ‘till next week.”
‘What about the Sillian?’ reminds Blodwyn.
‘I will deal with the Silly-Anne tomorrow morning. You can come with me.’
With that Myfanwy Jenkins concentrated; Blodwyn watched fascinated as the Queen of the Fairy’s atom molecules broke down and began to rearrange themselves. She seemingly dissolved before her eyes. The flowing liquid spilled; then rose and turned into the shape of the fierce Harpy eagle once again. The giant eagle glared at Blodwyn and raised its ruff, stabbing in her direction with its large sharp beak, forcing her to jump back in alarm. She opened the barn doors to the clear blue sky.
Then, with a massive flap of its huge wings, the eagle took off and flew out into the cloudless sky of that lovely June morning. All the farmyard animals of feather and fur scattered again, into their shelters and coops.
Blodwyn smiled to herself. The trick that she would play on the Queen of the Fairies Myfanwy would make everyone keep a safe distance from her. Myfanwy was at her worst when she was the centre of attention; but this was not the kind of attention her best friend wanted!
The answer lay in the bottom of her bedroom draw. She had been waiting for ages to play this prank on Myfanwy, this was the ideal opportunity. She knew that Myfanwy had no intention of behaving herself in company, especially if young men were around. For that was the nature of the Queen of the Fairies.
Chapter Six
Blodwyn’s Birthday Party
The lovely Silky sprite swam fast and slight;
Skimming low beneath the cold rivers flow.
The beautiful Changing swam at dusk naked;
her green-tinged skin shimmered with dancing star light,
beneath the pale moon’s glow.
The following afternoon a small coach-full of people arrived with shamrocks in their hats and collars. Blodwyn’s father’s relatives had arrived from Eire. Everyone was already in good, duty free spirits, looking forward to her birthday party and the Ceilidh band.
The first out was Father O’ Brian, a big, red-faced, village priest, with large hands; an honest and good son of the soil. The priest was fondly cuddling a keg of illicit ‘porcine (Mountain Dew)’ in his arms; a bottle of Irish whisky peeped shyly out of his cassock.
‘Hello there Brian,’ greets Father O’ Brian – ‘how’s she cutting?’
‘Sound as a bell Father O’ Brian,’ answers Mr. Jones, ‘we will have a fine turf fire going tonight in the barn.’
Blodwyn’s mother looked-on disapprovingly; she was teetotal Welsh Chapel with a strong disapproval of inebriation while her husband and his relatives regarded alcohol as salubrious. The priest was followed out of the coach by the uncles and aunts; they were the Mullholands from Dublin, the Talbot’s from Kerry,
the Devereux of Wexford and the Jones from Glin in County Limerick, on the banks of the River Shannon. Mrs. Jones would sometimes mumble when Blodwyn’s father, Brian Jones was in his cups and became too exuberant… ‘How your father’s Irish family came to get a good Welsh name like Jones has always puzzled me.’
The last out of the coach were the cousins; most of the boys were called Patrick, Padriag, Michael or Brian: all the girls were called Mary, Magdalene or Teresa.
Greetings over, the boys began to unload the Guinness. Blodwyn’s parents talked to Father O’ Brian.
‘You are late Father O’ Brian…by nearly three hours. I suppose you visited all the Irish pubs in Hammersmith, Kilburn and Cricklewood?’ complains Mrs. Jones.
‘I am afraid to say Mrs. Jones,’ answers the Priest, ‘that Hammersmith and Kilburn will have to wait ‘till the next visit. We met up with some McAlpine fusiliers. You see Mrs. Jones – we never left The Crown.’
Suddenly Blodwyn thought back to when she had been pretending to be Grunwalde Angharad, Queen of the Fairies in her first adventure. She recalled what the Android, Glen Adair had said when she met him at the Alien banquet; after its lubrication had been spiked with alcohol, the Android had said: ‘Jesus, it’s Father Murphy himself – would you be having a pint of the Guinness Father, in a tin glass?’ Father O Brian was from Glen. Another name the Android used was Mary Murphy: ‘Whose peaches rose and fell like the waves of Galway Bay when she followed the plough.’ Father O’ Brian was old enough to know both Father Murphy, the mad genius and the beautiful Mary Murphy.
Blodwyn waited her chance and managed to get the Priest on his own.
‘Well my dear you have grown a good two inches since we last met.’
‘Father Murphy, did you happen to know of a genius back in your parish in Ireland?’
‘My dear child,’ answers the priest, ‘Ireland has a higher rate of genius per square mile than any other country in the World. Ireland exports genius and the finest whisky and the Guinness. Why, the head of the NYPD was once my pupil – I used to box his ears! Ireland is the cultural centre of the world and Rome the centre of the universe…that is what Father Murphy, my old tutor used to tell us students… when we were novices.’