The Púca Verse

After currying favor with an Anglo magistrate, Joseph O’Fallon was granted a five month leave of absence from building Duckett’s Grove during the 21st year of its construction to see if his uncle, one Will O’Fallon, was dead or alive after a peculiar wind blew in from Dingle, County Kerry, to his home under the rocks of Kernanstown Cromlech, County Carlow in the province of Leinster. Joseph promised to fly the Union Jack over his Uncle, dead or alive, but unbeknownst to the magistrate, Joseph’s fingers were crossed behind his back.

The walk was 3 rain and 4 night, but that did not stop Joseph from walking across the butcher's apron, as it was more commonly known, every step of the way. Helping him pick up and put down the flag was the Greek, Nicholas Apopoulous, a former Orthodox priest who had renounced the falsehoods whispered to him in the cradle by he-devils, and became a Roman Catholic. Joseph thought he smelled of oil and other foreign spices, and a fine companion to join him on his walk, but how this Greek ended up in Ireland roused much curiosity to Dingle, much more than the flag he constantly picked up and dropped in front of Joseph, for that was the common way to and from Province Munster.

Though he wasn’t being paid, Joseph was the only person building Duckett’s Grove, having been the only guilty party for his crime 22 years ago when he forgot to bathe his grandfather, Brendanus Bláán O’Fallon, on the 20th night. The law of Elderly Obligation clearly stated one must provide an oat cake, a container of sour milk daily, 17 sticks of firewood, and bathe them every 20th night. Still, Joseph was then a lad, and a riding one too, for he had met a woman on the 20th night he now says was the púca bear, but it did not matter now or then. He was caught the following morn’, bathing his grandfather on the 21st day, and they threw the book at him, literally, in front of Saoirse Molloy’s barn, and though Brendanus Bláán O’Fallon asked for arseways during his testimony against Joseph, they gave his grandson the minimum sentence of a quarter centure hard labor. His grandfather, at 43 years, could not wait that long for another bath, and ended up on Bachelor’s Walk in Dublin, where he taunted one Peter Louis Lafferty, calling him a “Buttermilk Beau,” and was shot through the left breast, or so it was reported in The Dublin Evening Post.

Joseph enjoyed the Irish Penal system, but shortly after he was chained, the former Greek Orthodox Priest showed up. He too roused Joseph’s suspicions, for Joseph thought he had an eye on his position at Duckett’s Grove, and Joseph would just as soon have the rocks of his home under Kernanstown Cromlech fall on him in his sleep than see a convert lay a stone.

“How’d ye end in me neck of the rock?” asked Joseph. “Ireland be an Irish nation, and an island to boot, full of island province and island counties full of island towns, separated by a sea of green, and yet here ye are, pickin’ n’ droppin’ the butcher's apron for not a guinea or pint of warm mornin’ ale across the battlefields of Cú Roí mac Daire before the eyes of Jaysus upon his golden thrown of barley n’ hooves.”

At 33 years of age, Joseph did not show the wear and tear of 21 years hard labor, for which he attributed to the fact that he had not owned or worn a shirt in 24 years, and that, unlike his grandfather before him, the blessed Virgin Mary herself cried on him every day instead of the 20th, and that on his 43rd year, Joseph swore he’d step into The Pale, and demand satisfaction from one Peter Louis Lafferty, what this had to do with his appearance, Joseph never specified nor has anyone ever asked.

Upon seeing the peak of Barnanageehy, they walked around Tralee, for Joseph had only a sliver of time. “Five month is what they gave me, and five month I shall take. No time to be countin’ crow’s with the Rose, one Patrick Degnan. Has he ever reached into yer empty pockets, Nicholas, and claimed sainthood?”

It wasn’t until they saw Connor Kilcullin on the outskirts of Dingle, refilling his tin of warm mornin’ ale, that Joseph realized Nicholas never answered a single one of his questions, nor spoke, but that was about to all change.

“Connor!” said Joseph. “Mighty far from Doolin to be fillin’ one’s tin.”

A pierced, bearded lad who fancied women’s clothing, having served his time as a maid servant in several houses, he scooped the air with his hand and fed his nose. “If I may be mistaken, correct me, but I don’t believe we are in Carlow, Mr. O’Fallon, unless ye claim my nose would rather crunch sand with the Armies of Cromwell? And whose this tall cup of sardine n’ soda? Is it the púca bear ye claimed robbed yer grandfather of a night's bath?”

Joseph’s lips pursed against his teeth, and he said, “It’s one thing to laugh at the púca bear, and another to have danced with one.”

“You hardly dance. The only dancin’ I’ve seen is when I walked past Duckett’s Grove, and it’s nothing more than a pile of rock.”

Joseph laughed.

“I would have smelled ye, but perhaps I was mistaken, for ye were in women's wears. Are you heading to Tralee?”

“Why would I be going to Tralee?”

“So the Rose can take a look at ya.”

“The Crow?”

“Aye.”

“It’s funny you should mention the Crow, for I have come down to join me brother, Patrick Kilcullen, and Master Oats in the company of the Crow.”

“Master Oats?”

Upon seeing his folly, he removed his tri-corn hat, and Connor stepped forward and offered his mornin’ ale to Joseph. He sighed.

“Aye. I’m sorry, Mr. O’Fallon, but I hear ye Uncle has gone to Irish heaven.”

Joseph drank between every tear that fell from his Irish eyes.

“Did they have anything to bribe Saint Peter wit?”

“Aye, they did. I was told they had found a shovel, and a mighty fine shovel it was.”

“Aye, that brings comfort to a lad.”

The three walked into Dingle and were not surprised to find his uncle, Will O’Fallon, in the blacksmith’s shop under a game of drink, as intense as any they had ever seen. There was Ann-draysh Oats, Patrick Degnan, and Patrick Kilcullen, flipping cards and clinking cups against the found table. Upon seeing Joseph, Patrick of Doolin, County Clare, kicked Will O’Fallon and said, “Wake up, ye manky sack of dead tayto’s be here.” But he did not move.

“What are ye doin!” asked Joseph.

“Revivin,” said Ann-draysh Oats. “Mr. Kilcullen said if we play cards and drink over his dead body, that 'll wake up any Irishmen.”

Connor Kilcullen nodded and claimed to have seen this before.

“Our Uncle had passed many a time, only to be roused from his slumber by a game of card and drink.”

Beside them was a ladder, and the sweet Gaelic sounds of a woman’s breath rolled down from the second floor into Joseph’s ears, and crushed by its beauty asked who that might be.

“That be the sounds of Loretta, wife of Pete Mueller.”

“A Prussian?”

“No,” said Degnan. “An Irishman with a Prussian name.”

“And what be his Irish name?”

“Peter Louis Lafferty.”

“The child who killed my grandfather, Brendanus Bláán O’Fallon on Bachelor’s walk, deep in the heart of The Pale?”

“That is only what he brags, Mr. O’Fallon, but he’s harmless as a fife on Christ-mass morn’.”

“My Uncle is dead, my grandfather is dead, and my Greek friend doesn’t speak.”

“I thought he was a sheep doused in me grandmother’s licorice.”

“No, his name is Nicholas Apopoulous.”

“How do ye know that?” asked Patrick Kilcullen of Doolin, County Clare. “I think he be sheep as well.”

Ann-drahys Oats, not wanting to be between claims of sheep or man, stayed put and silently pulled ahead in their game of drink, for he feared for his life.

Joseph asked for a pistol. Degnan asked why he be needin’ a pistol this earl’ after he handed them over to the mournin’ lad.

“Satisfaction,” he said.

Never had cards fallen and sounded like stone in County Kerry.

“Against whom?” asked Ann-drayhs.

“This non-speaking goat I’ve been walking wit for three rain!”

And he turned to Nicholas, who whispered, “Mallacht Chromaill ort,” and blew him into normal heaven. Will O’Fallon, having paid a fine price for that goat 22 year ago, woke and said, “Joseph, ye shot my only goat! Throw the book at him, lads!” And they did, all the way to Kernanstown Cromlech, County Carlow, but without the Greek, and without the butcher’s apron, and the Anglo magistrate, William Eckley, having procured 5 month leave for Joseph to find out if his uncle was the wind, sentenced them all in front of Saoirse Molloy’s barn for killing a goat, and recieved British citizenship.