The Other of One - Book One: The Lythiann Chronicles

by Brian G. Burke

  Young Muldoon did have some friends of his own age but no real friends, as far as he knew. Just a few quiet chaps to make small talk and trade the odd conker with at school. When it came to the livelier lads, he felt like something of an outsider, because they were more inclined to get along better in their own circles than with him. Not in a cold way, exactly. Not when it came to him, at least, as he was a likeable chap, and they often told him so. It’s just...they had their own little cliques, which was fair enough, seeing as he didn’t really care about trying to fit in anyhow. Nor were any of the other things terribly important to him, such as following the more popular lads around just because it was what the less popular ones used to do. He couldn’t help feeling that there was a bit of disloyalty amongst that sort in particular. They were ever gossiping behind each other’s backs, trying to gain the favouritism of those whom they idolized the most, and so on. Sheep, with no minds of their own. Judgmental and often presumptive. Quick to spread a rumour without trial. That sort. It was all very two-faced and silly, he thought. One second they’d be slagging some poor fellow off behind his back or dropping snide remarks, then, not two minutes later, they’d be off being all pally with him like never a bad word was said. Unfair carry on, to put it mildly. Especially when they weren’t around to defend themselves. And the most amusing part of this for William—if any portion could indeed be deemed as ‘amusing’—was how they always thought they were getting away with it. Maybe they were, with some. But not with young Muldoon, no. He could always see through their bitter tricks like old net curtains.

  When it came to William himself, he was mostly very loyal, very courteous, generous, and very set in his ways. He treated everyone exactly the way they deserved to be treated. It was because of this that he didn’t think he would’ve been cut out for that toadyish way of life. It just wasn’t for him. If it was the other children’s wont, then so be it. ‘Off with them,’ that was his attitude. So long as it didn’t rub off on him...

  Whenever they went off about their sports and marbles, he went off about his reading and, sometimes, daydreaming. He needed to believe, young William, for sanity’s sake, that there was more to life than just dribbling a ball or flicking glass pebbles about. Indeed, something was missing in his life. Purpose...

  Day to day he otherwise loved his own little comforting pleasures. Be it going for a stroll with the farmer’s dogs, playing slingshot (which he was terribly accurate at, by the way), or else relaxing with a tasty jar of buttermilk. He simply adored his own company above any which could be granted by his peers, because again, he was left to his own thoughts. However, if any task ever called for his absolute attention, he would be all over it like bees to honey.

  He used to love exploring strange places, too. Most of the time he ended up getting into all sorts of trouble with the older folk, but it was all very harmless. The villagers adored him, don’t you know, despite his boyish antics. The old ladies even had a persistent habit of pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair whenever they saw him. He often got a farthing, too, for carrying their groceries to their houses and feeding their animals. William certainly would’ve done it for free, because it gave him a chance to get out and about, but they insisted on it nonetheless.

  Another of his most favourite pastimes was getting up before the birds to feel the westerly winds blowing in from the ocean. He could enjoy the winds best upon the crest of the big green hill near the town. A fine stroll in itself, especially at that time of the morn, but worth it. He’d just sit there, waiting. Then, before long, the smell of fresh heather would carry through the westerly breeze, right up into his nostrils. William treasured that feeling most. Its mild sensation and gentle aroma whisked his mind off into different worlds and, like clockwork, it would tell him that the sun was about to rise behind him. He would then turn eastward to see the birds taking off from the forest, after which he’d witness the sun rising through the trees. This was a sight he deemed ever so free and wonderful, nor did it ever lose its novelty.

  Every one of these little pleasures were all well and good. But as far back as he could recall, nothing—and I mean nothing—enthralled William more than the reading of Irish lore, and the sound of good music. Every day after school he would be first out of the classroom and through the playground gate. He knew the faster he got home, the sooner it would be that he could start reading about his favourite stories (the tales of Cùchulainn, and the Fianna, were two of his favourites).

  To get home, he took this special shortcut which he’d discovered through his explorations. He’d dash home through it as fast as he could; sometimes with his jacket only half on over one shoulder. He never took much care, nor did it really bother him. His bag was always left open, and it bounced up and down, with pencils and erasers flying out here and there. The young fellow usually happened upon items which he had dropped the previous day, which he considered a lucky omen.

  “Be sure to close that bag o’ yours before you come home!” his mother used to say. “And don’t run so fast, William Muldoon! I can’t afford to be buying you new toppers and pencils every day o’ the week! It’d almost be cheaper to have aul’ Mattie’s jarvey pick you up outside the school every day. And you know how fond o’ counting the shillings he is! Sense the tone, lad!”

  It wasn’t much of a scolding, because she couldn’t help but smile whenever she said it.

  As was to be expected, William promised her every day that he would take more care. But, time after time, he would do the exact same thing: The bell would ring, he’d spring out from his desk, dart across the yard, and dash off onto that old shortcut trail, running faster than ever he could. Down the big green hill he’d go, past Mr. O’Connell’s field, over the old moor, and then through the Elder-grove. He simply couldn’t contain his excitement...he had to run.

  Whenever he got tired of reading—which was seldom—he would head over to his neighbour, Mr. O’Connell, and listen to the phonograph. The farmer had the only one in the village, and it was quite an attraction to the other locals if there was ever a party on. Mr. O’Connell didn’t mind folks listening to it, though, because he was a cheerful man, and one of William’s closest friends, too.

  His music collection was absolutely massive; with his little living room crammed with shelf upon shelf of records. He had all of the greats, and every piece that was ever composed by them. There was Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Vivaldi, Haydn, Chopin, and many, many other funny names in that collection. It was very impressive to see.

  William could lose himself for hours in their music, and often he did just that, pondering the tales behind the symphonies. Each and every time, those same pieces had different stories to tell, depending on William’s mood that day. His mind would simply drift away until his consciousness eventually carried him back to the falling of twilight and a grumbling belly, then off home he’d trot for a feed and a fine rest.

  However...

  One day something happened to William on that homeward trail. Something so unexpected and so impossibly wonderful that even he himself could hardly believe it.

  So now, if you’re sitting comfortably, all settled in your favourite chair, let me tell you what happened to our young William Muldoon.

  - Chapter Two -

  Bylan’s Detention

  The church bells chimed on a dull Friday’s eve in October. It was icy and brisk, and a thick blanket of mist lingered over the hills of the old countryside. Just beyond the cobbled streets of the town square was the old school.

  Of gothic structure, it bore cold, granite brick. The grounds were of two wooden prefabs with the tiny chapel across the yard. It was named St. Mathew’s School for Boys, and our young William had just finished talking to Mrs McGrainne and was on his way to a dreadfully boring Latin lesson.

  Mrs McGrainne was William’s history teacher, and was his most favourite teacher at that. A thoughtful old woman with frizzy grey hair and glasses as thick as jam jars, she always told the most amazing stories of warri
ors and kings; of great creatures and magical lands. The children would sit there, chins plonked on their arms, as quiet as mice as she told her tales. And when she finished, they’d all yawn and stretch, happy and fulfilled.

  That morning, she’d lent William one of her old books. It was blandly named, Irish Myths and Folklore, within which was a story about an evil imp known as the Pooka.

  (Now, you could also call them ‘Faeries,’ but that often leads to the misconception of tiny critters sporting spangled wings, fluttering about the place all happy and nice, whereas that isn’t necessarily always the case. Not with the Faeries of Ireland, at least, the likes of whom come in many different shapes; some you would never deem likely. For the sake of fallacy, we will refer to them by their other common title, which is imp, because this tends to darken the image that one might have, and rightly so.)

  Incidentally, they happened to be learning about this particular imp in class that same day, and William had immediately taken a keen interest in it. This was how the book described him:

  “Cold hearted and nothing on his mind other than an undiluted lust for chaos, the Pooka was the most feared imp in all of ancient Ireland.

  As well as his fear-mongering, he has been known to feed upon the souls of those who were once good, invading them and spellbinding them through the use of his demonic minions, spirits and devils, who serve their master well. These evil ones offered their entranced hosts up to him freely; sometimes even as sustenance, should he ever crave it, which was, unfortunately, all too often.

  Otherwise their job was to transport the Pooka, from place to place as he saw fit, like work horses, and often in a conveyance of his own liking, be it a carriage or a trap, boat or winged, depending entirely upon his whim.

  This fiend could make your hair turn white and your skin come alive with goose bumps had you seen him. Thank your lucky stars that that day will never come...”

  Now you can see why William was so enthralled by this character, like any other lad his age would be.

  In any case, William already had that book somewhere in his collection, although he hadn’t previously read it, as he had so many others to get through. His ‘pile of shame,’ he called it. And yet he didn’t wish to seem uncouth by declining his teacher’s kind gesture, either. Graciously he accepted her token with a thanks and a smile.

  Little William was never much good at the other stuff. To be honest, he despised school otherwise. He never saw himself amounting to much, you see. Maybe working for a farmer, or for the local greengrocer; that would see him through life just grand until something better comes along, he thought. And as far as he was concerned, anything would be better than school. His skin simply crawled at the idea of equations and timetables, or adjectives and politics.

  The sciences, I suppose, proved something of interest to William, on occasion. A crutch, so to speak. Only because he had a burning disliking towards feeling cheated, in that he was forever itching to ask why there was always a huge deal of contrast between his scientific studies and the religious studies which he’d sat through during his junior years at that same school. “Which was it?” he pondered. “Which came first? God? Or was it science? Does heaven even exist at all? Who, or what, really created space ‘n’ that?” He was a curious chap, but it was more a one-sided curiosity. He had a mistrust in religion, which likely had more to do with his father’s unjustly death than he would otherwise care to admit. In the end, he just kept his taboo theories to himself, lest news should travel home and offend his dear mother, who was already giving him a reasonably devout upbringing as it was. Asking such heathenish questions in an esteemed Catholic school like St. Mathew’s would have only resulted in one consequence anyhow; punishment. So where was the point in raising his hand when he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer, just a sound thrashing? “Humph, a holy school named St. Mathew’s that teaches its pupils about the science of all things. Just odd!” he often remarked, fairly pleased at himself for having picked up on it when nobody else had.

  In all, he would’ve been perfectly content to just go in for Mrs. McGrainne’s class and be on his merry way.

  He tried that once; to skip off. The pup. Only to be caught by the scruff of the neck before he could even reach the front gate. Caught by ‘Old Misery-Guts’ himself...Mr. Bylan Blackhead.

  Blackhead was William’s maths professor, and also the vice principal at St. Mathew’s. To this day, I have never heard of such a horrible-sounding teacher.

  His teeth were few and stained brown from smoking his long black pipe, and his fingers were dirty and thin. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the feeling of these cold, bony digits grabbing your neck when you did not expect it. Nasty. Very nasty indeed. A highbrow yet lonesome individual, he had a cruel manner nobody honestly cared for. Most of the other teachers even dreaded his presence, bar Ms. Cleaver, who was just as dreadful, if not worse. Lucky enough for William, he didn’t have her for any of his classes.

  Blackhead’s face was scrawny and pale, with the baggy sacks under his eyes stretching down to the very length of his thin, aquiline nose. To top it all off, his oily, black hair was slicked back in such a way that it gave the impression of two shadowy horns poking out the rear of his head. But the worst thing about him was this long, unsharpened pencil which he carried around. I wish I could say that he used it for its intended purpose, but unfortunately, his students were not that lucky. His ‘friend,’ he used to call it, and he was never afraid to clatter you over the knuckles with it if you ever stepped out of line. And he would continue to whack and slap you with it until the pencil was stained red, and your bloodied hands shaking. Yes, Old Bylan was the bane of William’s life for many a year in that school. Granted, that’s slightly beside the point for now.

  So, after a laborious and quite dreary afternoon of Latin, the five o’clock bell finally rang. Breathing a sigh of delight, William jumped from his seat and legged it out of the classroom door. He just couldn’t wait to get home and out of that boring old uniform—a loose pair of grey socks, old brown brogues, long baggy shorts in an awfully dull shade of grey, and a wrinkled old jumper with a fat, striped tie. He never even gave his teacher (Ms. Leary, his Latin teacher) the chance to give out the homework for that weekend. But she yelled it after him regardless, with a wave of her fist as his footsteps disappeared down the long corridor.

  “Read Chapter Eighteen, and do questions one to thirty at the end! And don’t run out o’ my class like that again, ya little maggot, or there’ll be lines! Lots o’ them!”

  Not taking a blind bit of notice, William rushed through the large green doors of the main hall and darted across the playground as fast as his legs would go.

  On the grounds ahead of him, near the old school chapel, was a small gathering of pigeons. They were feeding upon crumbs and bits of loose bread which had strayed from the litter collection at lunch time. Yelling out, William dashed through them, making them flap into the air in every direction; releasing a bombardment of crumbs and droppings to the tarmac below. He laughed heartily as he watched them taking to the steeple, when suddenly, he heard a shuddering, throat-clasping scream.

  “What do you think you’re doing?!” was shouted from a prefab door across the way.

  Yes, that’s right. It was Old Misery-Guts himself, standing there in his thin black suit, with a pointer in hand. William stuck like a fly in glue when he heard him. He didn’t even have to look to know who it was, for he knew that foul voice only too well.

  “I said, what are you doing?!” demanded Mr. Blackhead a second time, smacking the pointer off the prefab wall with a muscle-tightening crack.

  William threw his eyes upward with a silent sigh. He was indeed fully aware of what was on Blackhead’s mind, thus bracing himself for the lecture which he was undoubtedly about to receive.

  “Did you not hear me, boy?!” growled Misery-Guts, who was now becoming very agitated and rather purple for his ghostly complexion.

  Stomping out from the
door, he made for the lad, and with every step of his old black brogues it tore a splint in William’s nerves. Any boy at St. Mathew’s, beefy or frail, would have cringed at the familiarity of that very sound. Not just he...

  “Yes, sir?” William asked, fixing himself upright.

  “Don’t you ‘Yes, sir’ me! You have quite the habit of leaving class before the other boys, don’t you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed, because I have! Do you think you are more important than everybody else in this school that you always have to be the first to leave?!”

  At a loss for words, William turned his eyes downward. What was the point in him saying anything really? Blackhead was never very fond of him, don’t you know. Nor was William extremely fond of Blackhead. And yet he never made his feelings known, and he always did as Misery-Guts asked, never once spitting out complaint.

  Still, the revolting old blight always tried his hardest to mock and berate the poor little fellow, endeavouring to make his life harder than it already was. He was a cruel piece of work, I can tell you.

  “Should I go back to class, sir?” William asked, trying to cooperate.

  “Don’t you pull that innocent little student routine with me! I can see right through you!” snapped Blackhead, with a string of dribble oozing down his chin. “Though I am hardly surprised! One could only expect this from someone who was raised by such an incompetent, sorry state of a woman...trying to get your own way all the time! No respect for those who rightly deserve it!”