Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

Well, there is not much the father can do. He says a few prayers for Roddy, then blesses him before enquiring of Mrs. Mooney, “Has he not moved at all, spoken or anything?”

The widow serves the priest with a slice of soda bread spread with her very own fresh churned butter. She wipes both eyes on her apron and sniffs aloud. “Ah, sure, I’m completely distracted, Father, me son’s like the livin’ dead. Night an’ day he’s as y’see him now, alive only by the mercy of the Lord. ’Tis a sad burden for a mother to see her darlin’ son in such a miserable state.”

She straightens a lock of Roddy’s hair and wipes his nose on her apron corner. Father Carney looks away, saddened by Widow Mooney’s grief. It is then he sees the crowd of village onlookers jamming the doorway and windows to see what was going on inside. Shoving on his battered hat, he reaches for his knobbly blackthorn stick. “We must trust to the power of prayer, Mrs. Mooney. I’ll drop by again this evening, after benediction.”

Striding out, the priest confronts the crowd of gawping faces angrily. “Have ye no homes to go to? Be off with ye, now. ’Tis not a penny peepshow, there’s a grieviously sick person in there! Give the lad’s poor mother some peace, for pity’s sake!”

Mary Creeley, the village gossip, purses her lips shrewdly. “Father, is it true that Roddy Mooney’s had a spell cast on him by a water banshee?”

The good man shoots her a glare of disgust, then moves off, surrounded by curious villagers all wanting to hear what he has to say concerning the All Ireland Fishing Champion. “Wash your mouth out, woman, that’s a sinful thing to say. Who’s been filling your head with such nonsense?”

Barney Gilhooly winks at the priest and smiles slyly. “Ah, well, Father, there’s some knows what they knows, an’ there’s things not better mentioned. That’s what I always say.”

The priest halts and shakes his stick at the man. “Hold your foolish tongue, Gilhooly! Who knows what, eh? An’ who listens to the tales of snot-nosed urchins or tattlin’ ould gossips that should know better!”

The crowd stands cowed by the reverent man’s wrath. But Mary Creeley, who would have the last word with a hangman, calls out in a whining voice, “Ah, sure, nobody tells us anythin’, Father. We’re left entirely in the dark, with only the words of one witness, the child who was the last to see Roddy Mooney on that day.”

Father Carney’s stern eye seeks out little Mickey Hennessy. “Witness, indeed! Ah, ye make me sick, all of ye. Believing the ramblings of a child who’d say anything for a sweet! Listen to me now, I’ll tell you the truth as only a priest can.”

Little Mickey Hennessy ducks behind his mammy’s shawl as the good father thunders out at his errant flock. “Holy Mother Church forbids belief in all pagan superstitions! If you attended your services more often, you’d all know that. Hah, standin’ outside of Gilligan’s pub, tellin’ fairy stories, ye should be ashamed of yourselves as grown men an’ women! Water banshees, is it? Leprechauns, boggarts, sprites, willow the wisps, phantom coaches an’ pots of gold at the rainbow’s end. Do ye not know that folk with a bit of sense an’ education laugh at such things?”

Father Carney strides off in disgust, leaving the chastened villagers gazing at the ground in silence.

But that ould Mary Creeley, she is like a dog with a bone, she will not leave it alone. She wails out piteously at the saintly man, “ ’Tis yourself that’s right, Father, sure, we’re knowin’ nothin’. Simple ignorant folk is what we are. I’d say it’s your duty as our holy priest to tell us, what really happened to poor Roddy Mooney?”

Holding back his irritation with remarkable fortitude, Father Carney gives his explanation of the affair. “Have ye not got the sense the good Lord gave ye? Your man was out fishin’, an’ he fell into the river. Somehow or other, he was trapped underwater, by the weeds, or mud, or even some waterlogged branches. Poor Roddy was so long tryin’ to free himself that his brain was affected by the loss of breath an’ all that water he swallowed. But by the mercy of Heaven he lived through it all. Though his brain was addled, an’ he’s not the grand feller we once knew, an’ that’s why Roddy Mooney’s the way you see him now. Let that be the last word on it. An All Ireland Champion Fisherman he might’ve been, but an All Ireland Champion Underwater Escape Artist he was not!”

So there you have it, the terrible tale of poor ould Roddy Mooney. It happened almost sixty-five years ago. Now, whose explanation are you to believe, that of a priest or a ten-year-old boy, little Mickey Hennessy? As for meself, I believe the lad, and I’ll tell you why.

Every midsummer since, at the night of the full moon, the boy has gone down to the very spot on the riverbank where Roddy was taken. Aye, all those years, an’ he still goes there. Listen, I’ll not be telling anyone but yourself this, for fear of being laughed at. Mickey still sees the Nye Add lady return, to look for Roddy Mooney. Of course, being the wise man he is, Mickey keeps well away from the river’s edge. But over all that time he has learned to understand the creature’s language, though he cannot speak it, because Mickey’s no great shrieker. The fishwoman told him that she’s neither water banshee nor Nye Add, she’s called a Kelpie. I think that she fell in love with Roddy, because she returns there every midsummer, hoping some moonlit night to see him. Ah, she’s a sad ould thing now.

Well, I’ve told you the tale now, so I’ll go on me way an’ bid ye good day. But it’s a true story, an’ if I’ve told you a lie, then I’m not seventy-five years old next birthday, and my name’s not little Mickey Hennessy.

The Mystery of Huma D’Este

THEY SAY THAT BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP,

it’s a fact that’s very well known.

So, answer me this question—

how deep is the beauty in stone?

And whilst we’re at this little game,

pray tell me please, what’s in a name?

Girls admired Jason Hunter, boys envied him, and not unusually, Jason loved himself. He was a tall, handsome boy with thick blond hair, golden tanned skin, teeth like pearls and heavy-lidded hazel eyes.

Jason was not overly intelligent at school subjects. However, he was adept at most sports, and excellent at running. He was the best sprinter in the school for many terms. As every student knows, this excused him a multitude of faults.

Jason possessed a languid manner and a sarcastic wit. Most folk went out of their way to please him. His group of peers laughed readily at his jokes, and were unanimous in their condemnation of any thing or person that displeased him. Even teachers were wary of offending him, since it was a sure way to make themselves unpopular with the students in school.

Have you got the picture now?

Right. Jason Hunter was the perfect teenage bully!

It was the Friday morning at the start of summer term heralding the Inter Schools Running Finals on the following Saturday morning. Jason was certain to win the one-hundred-metres sprint. The place in the school trophy cabinet was already reserved for the cup he would bring back. This would be added to the three cups he had gained in previous terms, all engraved with his name. The quick glory of the one-hundred metres was more suited to Jason’s temperament than the two- or four-hundred-metres. Nobody dared to mention that it was because he lacked the stamina, or determination, to try for the longer events.

Jason sat on the main school entrance steps, surrounded by his followers. He watched everybody coming to school, amusing his group by singling out certain unfortunates as the target for his caustic comments. “Hi, Tommy, who cut your hair? Tell us who did it, and we’ll go along to his shop and beat him up for you.”