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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
Fairy Lights by Keith Slater
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but was ye afther a bit o' company", says the old fellow, lookin' at me from the corner o' the reddest, rheumiest eyes ye ever saw in yer born days. "I wasn't greatly," says I, "but now ye mention the possibility it's one that appeals to me." "Ah, I thought it would," he says. "It's a lonely enough world without a man wantin' for company in a bar." "That it is," says I, "and I'll buy ye a Guinness for the offer of it." He declines politely, but I insists. It's a grand thing to find a like-minded feller to help the Guinness go down nicely. So we talks for a while o' the important things o' life. Ye know well what I mean. The merits o' the different whiskeys in Muldoon's place and whether the hurling's still as good as it was in the days when the two of us is not as old as we are now. Bye and bye he asks me if I'd noticed the odd behaviour o' the two fellers be the fireside across the other end o' the bar. I'd had me eye on 'em for a while be then, and he'd seen me lookin'. "To be honest," says I, "I have. There's the pair of 'em sitting there, not two feet from one another and divil a word have they spoke the whole time. What's the reason for it?" "Well might ye ask," says Red-eyes. "It's two month now since they spoke a word to each other, and it's the best o' friends they've been from childhood to that day." And this is Ireland, mind, where it's harder to shut a man up than to start him talkin'. "For what did they stop, then?" says I. He takes a long pull of his Guinness in readiness for talkin'. I can see it's goin' to be a long tale, so I calls the barman over and orders another couple apiece. "Ah, ye're a kind man," says me friend. "And I wish I could say the same for Sean O'Reilly." "He's the tall, dark one, built like a tank?" says I. "No, that's Michael Sullivan. Sean's the short one wi' the red hair and bright eyes. Ah, a real joker that one is, but he surpassed himself last October." "Did he now?" says I. "He did. The night I'm tellin' ye of, they're both sittin' in the chairs where ye see 'em now, the chairs they've had since I first set eyes on 'em twenty year ago. It's a healthy night, wi' the moon scuddin' to and fro round the clouds, the wind blowin' through the trees and the rain whistlin' down in gusts fit to soak a man's shoulders through the finest coat, so they decides to take the short cut home. "Now it goes through Flanahan's field, see, and there's divil a light in sight as ye walk across it. They'd both taken a drop in the course o' the evenin', and were happy enough to chat on this and that. "Sudden-like, though, Sean clutches a hold o' Michael's coat. "'Michael,' says he, 'd'ye see that?' "'I do surely,' says Michael, "but I'm afeared to say so.'" "What was it?" says I, for Michael's a big strappin' fellow and I'd not like to start a fight wi' the man that could put the fear into him. "Lights," says Red-eyes in a hushed whisper. "Lights?" says I. "Lights," he says again. "Fairy lights." "Go on!" says I. "I've heard o' the things often enough, but I've never come across a man that's seen 'em until this day." "The selfsame words I used meself! But Michael had been talkin' of 'em that very night, and I heard the fear in his voice. 'It's a pale whitish light, that comes and goes wi' no rhyme nor reason', he says, 'and it shimmers and brightens and goes out and shimmers again.' I tell ye, the creepin's walkin up me back as he tells me o' them lights flickerin' and fadin'." "I know it," says I, for truth to tell the same shivers is creepin' about me as he talks. "Well, there they are, in the middle o' nowhere, standin' a-gazin' at lights that flickers on and off. 'Shall we go to it, Michael?' says Sean. 'We will not,' says Michael, 'for I've heard tell o' what happens to the folks as interferes wi' the phookies at full moon.' "Now, Sean's had a drop or two, and he's not afther bein' scared be a handful o' fairies. 'Ye can do as ye will,' says he, 'but I'm off to see what's happenin' across there.' "So it's away he goes, stumblin' over the rough ground and sloshin' through the puddles. Michael stands petrified, not able to see at all well what's happenin' to his friend. "'Are ye all right, Sean?' he says, with a quaver in his voice, and ye can tell how he's feelin' when ye hear the bull's roar he has when he's orderin' the drinks. "But Sean answers him divil a word. The fairy lights is still a-flashin' an' a-fadin', and Sean's still stumblin' over the ground in the distance. And there stands Michael, helpless as a babe, just waitin'." He takes a pull at his glass and I can't contain meself. "What happened, man?" "Ah, well might ye ask. It's maybe ten minutes or more later that Sean gets back. 'What is it, then?' asks Michael, but it's still divil a word that Sean utters. "At that, Michael gets another attack o' the tremblin'. 'Will ye speak, Sean?' he pleads, but it's in vain." "Did the fairies cut out his tongue?" says I. "I'm tellin' ye, aren't I?" he answers, with a glare. "Michael's a big man, as ye can well see, and he's no coward. Well, be this time, his paddy's up. 'Ye dirty buggers,' he shouts. 'Fairies or no fairies, ye'll not harm a hair o' me friend's head and get away with it.'" "A good friend," says I. "Do ye say so?" he answers. "Well, there's not a word of a reply from the field. Nor yet a murmur from Sean, who's standin' there like a soul lost. So Michael's torn o' what to do. But, like I say, he's no coward, and he's gettin' madder be the minute. He looks across the field at the lights. He looks at Sean. He looks at the lights again, and somethin' snaps." "Snaps?" says I. "Snaps," he says. "Like a tiger that's got its meat took away in the middle of its dinner, he is. "Well, he starts to walk across the field, swearin' and shoutin' for all he's worth. And the further he goes, the madder he gets. And the madder he gets, the faster he goes. And the faster he goes, the redder he sees. And he's runnin' now, runnin' like a madman. And the lights is flickerin' and fadin', flickerin' and fadin', as he gets nearer and nearer to 'em. "'I'll murther ye!' he cries. 'I'll stamp the livin' daylights out of ye for what ye've done to me best friend, the finest man that ever lived!'" "Ah, that's what I call a real man!" says I wi' gusto. "It is," he says, "but wait till ye hear what happens next." "Go on, then!" I tells him. "Well, he's goin' so fast ye can scarcely see him. Be this time, he's near on top o' the lights, and he's that angry he doesn't know what he's up to. And as he gets to where the lights is still flickerin', he takes off in a flyin' leap to smash 'em into the ground." "So what happens?" I asks, in a dither of excitement. "Ah, it's a sad endin' to the story. Michael realises the truth o' the matter when he's in mid-air, just about to blot the fairies out of existence, as he hears for the first time Sean laughin', over by the path. Flanahan's been spreadin' muck from the pile in the middle of his field, ye see, and there's a hole in the top of it, filled wi' rain that's sloshin' about in the wind. And every time it sloshes, the moon's reflection shakes, an' a light flickers. "An' it's sad I am to say it, but Michael's never spoke a word to Sean from that day to this!"
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