The Hounds of the Morrigan

by Pat O'Shea

  ‘Grand day!’ he cried out when he came close enough to salute them.

  ‘We’ve been up hours and hours,’ Brigit said proudly.

  ‘Have you? Aren’t you the great girl.’

  ‘Yes. Chasing pig-rustlers and God knows what!’

  ‘Did you catch any of them?’

  ‘Not yet but I will later. I have to get some handcuffs first.’

  ‘Where will you get them?’

  ‘Oh, somewhere,’ she answered vaguely.

  ‘Did you get many little musheroons, this morning?’ Mossie asked.

  ‘We got fourteen hundred or so,’ she told him.

  Mossie was laughing. Everybody knew about Brigit and her stories.

  ‘Well, I hope you left a few for me,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘We didn’t go near the bottom half at all; there should be plenty down there,’ said Pidge. ‘We only got about a capful.’

  ‘Good. Now, wait’ll ye hear my news!’ Mossie said with great satisfaction. ‘I’ve two right queer ones below on my place!’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Pidge asked.

  ‘Two ladies, they are. You’ll never believe it but one of them dyes her hair blue. She has golden wheels in her ears and I declare to God, she smokes cigars! She says her name is Melodie Moonlight, if my hearing is not gone astray entirely. Melodie Moonlight,’ he repeated wonderingly. ‘Did you ever hear the beat of it for a name?’

  ‘What’s the other one called?’ asked Pidge.

  ‘As good as the first or nearly. She says her name is Breda Fairfoul! And if the first one smokes cigars—well then, the second one is not far after her, for she chews tobacco. The likes of it I never saw in a woman! Anyway, to go on! The first one has blue hair—like a sort of bluestone spray for potato blight, and begod, the second one has orange hair hanging in flames down her back like a horse’s tail.’

  ‘Oh, them two!’ Brigit said scornfully. ‘I saw them yesterday. They have dogs and an oul’ motor-bike!’

  ‘What are they doing on your place?’ said Pidge.

  ‘Renting my old glasshouse! They are paying me good money to live in it. What do you think of that now, hah? It isn’t everyone has the like of them to stay is it?’

  ‘Living in your glasshouse? They must be daft,’ Brigit said because she was feeling a bit jealous.

  ‘Why are they?’ Pidge wanted to know.

  ‘Because they’re artists and a bit touched,’ Mossie said with pride. ‘They told me they do it out of bits of old bikes and tractors and the like. They said it delights them to make Works Of Art out of old rubbish. They are very funny as well. Such jokes they have between themselves, always roaring laughing at something, they are.’

  ‘Do they do any painting?’ Pidge thought he must ask.

  ‘Painting?’

  ‘Signboards, for instance?’

  ‘They didn’t say so. I don’t think they do.’

  ‘Oh,’ Pidge said.

  ‘Well, I’ll be getting on,’ Mossie said.

  ‘Mind they don’t make a Work Of Art out of you, Mossie,’ Brigit said, half as a joke and half in resentment that Mossie liked them so much.

  As they walked towards the gate, she kept looking back and waving.

  ‘I don’t like them two at Mossie’s,’ she said.

  ‘Not them two, those two,’ Pidge said.

  ‘Why not them two?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t remember but it’s those two, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like those two and if you meet them, sure you won’t like them either, sure you won’t Pidge?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not if you don’t,’ Pidge promised.

  ‘I suppose Mossie likes them ’cos they’ll give him a spin on that oul’ motor-bike. I wish I had one myself.’

  They walked along in the sunshine. By the time they had reached the bend in the road, Brigit was saying that she wouldn’t have a motor bike if they went down on their bended knees and begged her to have one. She’d far rather have a foal or a ‘hellercoptor’.

  There was a phone-box tucked in by the wall at the turning. It gave Pidge an idea.

  ‘Wait here a minute, Brigit. I just want to phone someone,’ he said.

  He went inside, took the small card from his trouser pocket and dialled the number of the second hand bookshop.

  After a few seconds, the bookseller’s gruff voice came down the line.

  ‘Hallo!’ He sounded as cross as ever. Pidge’s heart sank.

  ‘Hallo. ‘Is that the bookseller?’ he asked politely.

  ‘It is!’

  ‘Could I speak to the assistant?’

  ‘What assistant?’

  ‘The old one with the white moustache’

  ‘What? What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Could I please speak to the old man with the white moustache—the scholar?’

  ‘What scholar? What are you talking about?’

  ‘He was there yesterday. I saw him.’

  ‘No one works for me as an assistant.’

  ‘But he was there yesterday.’

  ‘Must have been a customer. A scholar you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of scholar?’

  Pidge thought for a moment.

  ‘A latin scholar,’ he said, crossing his fingers.

  ‘I’m a scholar of latin myself.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Pidge. ‘Could you translate something?’

  ‘I could!’

  ‘Well, will you?’

  ‘You’re a boy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t they teach you latin at school?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m not old enough.’

  ‘Are you trying to fool me into doing your homework for you?’

  ‘Honestly! It’s the summer holidays. I haven’t got any homework and I don’t learn latin. Honestly!’ Pidge said earnestly.

  ‘All right so. Fire away!’

  ‘Right. Here it comes,’ said Pidge. ‘ “O Serpens Vilissimus! Et hic signo et his verbis Te sic securo, in Saecula Saeculorum, Amen. Patricus.” ’

  ‘That’s simple!’ the bookseller said loftily. ‘It means: “O most vile serpent! By this sign and these words, thus I secure thee, forever and ever, Amen, Patrick” Or words to that effect. Ask me another one. Go on! I’m in the mood now.’

  ‘I haven’t got any more to ask,’ said Pidge politely. Thank you very much for your help.’

  ‘Your latin pronunciation is atrocious—don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ said the bookseller.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t any more for me to do while I’m in the mood?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s it then!’

  ‘There was an old man serving in your shop. You didn’t see him because you ran outside to look at “supersonic jets or similar rubbish” ’

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky!’ the bookseller said and he hung up.

  Brigit was sitting on a wall.

  ‘Who did you phone?’

  ‘I can’t say just yet,’ Pidge answered, feeling mean.

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tell me.’

  ‘I will later. Let’s get home. I’m starving.’

  ‘So am I. I could eat an elephant.’

  Pidge laughed and gave her a little friendly push.

  ‘No you couldn’t. It’d never fit inside you.’

  Brigit imagined what shape she would be with an elephant inside her. It made her forget to ask any more questions about the phone call.

  Pidge caught her by the hand and they ran together towards the boreen and home. All of the way, he wondered about the old man in the bookshop.

  To Brigit’s deep disgust, the pig hadn’t been rustled after all. He was in a field close by the house, grunting and rooting in his normal happy way.

  ‘Bet you they tried but he was too clever for them,’ she said.

  Breakfast was delicious; thick ra
shers of home-cured bacon, fresh field mushrooms, and wholemeal bread with yellow home-made butter. Auntie Bina had cooked it for them before going out to shadow the little hen.

  While they were eating, there was a hesitant, sly sort of knock on the front door; a sort of searching whisper of a tapping rather than a bang-bang-I’m-here knock. A knock to find out if anyone was in.

  Pidge opened the door.

  A strange man smiled into the kitchen. He was extremely tall and thin—stretched out like elastic and on his back rested a large, brown bag that bulged in places.

  ‘Good morning to you, young sir,’ he said and showed his teeth again in a smile. Pidge hated his smile because his teeth looked so sharp and needle-like. For the sake of politeness however, he gave him a good morning in reply.

  ‘Is the lady of the house in?’ asked the man.

  Pidge had the impression that the man was well aware that they were alone in the house without the protection of an adult.

  ‘I’m the lady of the house,’ Brigit said rudely. ‘What do you want?’

  The man smiled again and pretended to believe her.

  ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘So young for such work! I wonder now, ma’am, if you have anything you’d like to sell? Any old gold or silver?’

  ‘No,’ said Brigit brazen-faced. ‘All my old gold and silver is brand-new.’

  ‘What about old pictures? Have you any old pictures—paintings, drawings, gilt frames or anything like that to sell?’ and he looked at her so sharply, while the tip end of his tongue flickered over his lips, that Brigit lost a little of her courage.

  ‘No. I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No old pictures? No old gold or silver? What about old books?’ said the man.

  ‘No,’ Brigit said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Are you positive?’

  ‘Of course I’m positive,’ she replied. ‘I never tell lies!’

  Pidge went bright red at this declaration from Brigit. Some people might think she seldom told the truth. At least she’s got her courage back, he thought.

  ‘So sorry to give offence,’ smiled the stranger, and his pink tongue flickered again. ‘I only meant to jog your memory, in case you had something to sell, and it had slipped your mind for the moment.’

  ‘My memory doesn’t need jogging,’ said Brigit. ‘I’ve got cups and medals for it.’

  ‘What about you, young man,’ said the stranger, turning to look at Pidge. ‘Any old books to sell today?’

  He knows, thought Pidge. He really knows I’ve got that tattered old book.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Not even one?’ said the stranger in false tones of amazement.

  ‘Not even one,’ Pidge repeated firmly and turned his head away.

  ‘Hard times for pedlars and dealers,’ said the man. ‘Still, you’ve got your health and health is more than wealth, they say!’

  This was said with a dark look from soft brown eyes and seemed to Pidge to be a threat. He felt sure that the soft brown eyes were not a real indication of the man’s true nature.

  He stole another look at the pedlar.

  He was reminded of something but he couldn’t think what it was. Even though he was unusually tall and thin, the man was beautifully built. There was a litheness about him that suggested strong muscle underneath the clothes. His waist was lean and his face long and narrow. The soft brown eyes held yellow glints. Then Pidge knew of what he was reminded, for the man had the look of a finely bred animal; something like the horses his father bred.

  The pedlar stared back at Pidge and then he smiled again.

  Pidge saw the pointy teeth so sharp and creamy-coloured and the pink tongue flickering over them. He saw the great strength resting quietly in the fine slim build of the shoulders and he realized as well, that all of the time the stranger had been at the door his nostrils had never stopped working—as though the man were smelling at every single thing that lay inside the house. Smelling and identifying without having to think while he was doing it.

  He’s like a greyhound, thought Pidge. Not a greyhound but a hound of a more ferocious breed? And maybe he has smelled the book?

  ‘I’ll buy your thoughts if you’ll sell them?’ the pedlar said softly.

  He stood for a moment waiting for Pidge to reply and then he went away down the boreen towards the road. He left Pidge feeling very stunned.

  ‘Well,’ said Brigit. ‘That’s the strangest looking creature I’ve ever seen. I didn’t like him the smallest bit.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Pidge.

  ‘What a funny thing he said about selling your thoughts, Pidge. I wonder what he meant?’.

  Pidge wondered if he should tell her all the things that had happened since his visit to the bookshop the day before.

  But, suppose all of the strange things hadn’t truly happened? Suppose it was real in the way that say—a painting was real? A painting is canvas, wood, paint and things; but the artist could make a bowl of oranges, or a whole valley somewhere, or a battle, or anything he wanted to, out of his materials and they always looked real, didn’t they? It was something in the artist’s mind that did it. Maybe, he was doing the same thing in another way? I’ll leave it for a while, he decided.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he replied truthfully.

  They washed up the dishes and then the whole day lay stretched before them like a sheet of white paper with nothing written on it. There was the feeling that time was not passing at its correct speed. The day would be long in passing, because today their father was coming back from Dublin with the new mare.

  An ordinary day unfolds itself bit by bit and is sometimes full of surprises; a day with an expected high point built into it is hard to bear.

  ‘It’s going to be a long day today,’ Pidge said. He wiped the last plate.

  ‘Why?’

  Brigit was stabbing soap-bubbles with the tip of her finger.

  ‘You know what it’s like when you’re waiting for something.’

  ‘Yes. It’s like being kept in a bag and hung up on a nail.’

  Pidge thought he knew what Brigit meant but he wasn’t sure.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I mean it’s like being kept in a bag and hung up on a nail on the back of a door in a shed!’ Brigit said with deep significance. ‘And you don’t want to be in the bag and it’s too hot inside it and all you can do is bang yourself against the door and you’re too soft to make any noise and no one can hear you. Now do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ he said.

  ‘It’s just like trying to break the sky with your fist, isn’t it?’ she said. She sounded as if she’d tried it many times.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d get so hot with madness because no one would hear me in the shed. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would.’

  So that was how Brigit felt when she only seemed impatient or thwarted.

  He looked at the kitchen clock. Only a quarter to ten.

  ‘I know.’ Brigit offered, ‘We could go down to the stony field and pick hazel nuts!’

  ‘They won’t be ripe for a long time yet. It’s only August, don’t forget.’

  ‘We could go to the lake and row out to an island?’

  And that was it, of course.

  ‘Good old Brigit!’ he said. She grinned proudly.

  ‘We can take bread and hard-boiled eggs and a bottle of milk with us. And you can take a book, Pidge.’

  ‘What’ll you take?’

  ‘My knitting.’

  Pidge laughed. Brigit was learning to do her first knitting. It was supposed to be a scarf. Brigit herself admitted that it looked sort of bocketty. She didn’t mind that Pidge laughed.

  By the time they were ready, Auntie Bina was back from her hunt. She was feeling hot and bothered because the little hen had dodged her again. They told her of their plan.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘It’ll be nice and cool near the w
ater. It’s so hot today! It’s enough to make the tongue of a crow hang out.’

  ‘We’ll call in and see Tom Cusack on the way,’ said Brigit.

  ‘Do. Your father will be taking the new mare in to him for shoeing in a day or two, I’ve no doubt.’

  Before setting off, Pidge went into the barn and took a few pieces of an old, worn out bridle from the tack box and put them in his shirt pocket. These old rings are made of iron, he said to himself, and it’s just as well to be on the safe side.

  He checked that the pages were safe inside his shirt against his skin.

  Chapter 4

  TOM saw them coming into his yard.

  ‘Aha, you two!’ he cried. ‘I was hoping I’d see you today. I’ve made something for you, Pidge.’

  He showed them a small thing made of iron. It looked like a little flat book.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it? Well, it’s a thing! A kind of case. For handkerchiefs or the like.’

  Tom sounded puzzled and he looked at it as if he didn’t know what it was or why he had made it.

  ‘You could keep paper money in it when you’re rich,’ he joked.

  ‘It’s very good.’

  Pidge held it in his hands. It was quite heavy.

  ‘It opens, doesn’t it?’ he added. ‘I can see where there are little hinges.’

  ‘It opens all right.’

  ‘Where did you get the idea of making it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just came into my head, yesterday. There was a couple of old tinkers playing a banjo and singing just outside the yard at the time, I remember. They kept smiling and nodding and, when I started to make it, they waved at me and went off somewhere. They didn’t come and beg at all though. I feel it was to do with them, in some way. I know it sounds cracked.’

  No, it doesn’t. Not at all, Pidge thought.

  Brigit was standing in the sunshine outside the wide door of the forge. She was feeling very left out of things and a bit hurt because Tom hadn’t made anything for her. She saw a spider hanging from the door-post on a long, silken thread. She hooked the thread onto her finger and the spider immediately began to climb up the thread to her hand. It was trying to get back to its web and knew that its web was upwards.

  When it had almost reached her hand, Brigit gave a little jerk to the thread and the spider dropped down again. At once it began to climb back up.