The Pipe of Rover

In the year of their lord, in the Kingdom of Ireland, Patrick Kilcullin rode his pony from Doolin, County Clare, to the blacksmith’s shop in Dingle, County Kerry, in the province of Munster. Waiting for him, with a cup of tea and pints of warm ale, was his friend and sometimes enemy, Will O’Fallon, and his young apprentice, the smiling Ann-draysh Oats.

“Mr. Kilcullen, I wondered why Master O’Fallon poured a second pint of ale.”

With a pinch of rover, Patrick walked through the last smoke of his pipe into the sometimes shop and sometimes bedroom that, for one reason or another, had pieces of hay lying beside dust-covered tools and the Kerry dirt. Patrick removed his top hat and sash. A mustached man of dark complexion with chops and locks, dark and thick as a guinea, that attracted many a lady, but it is said, many a woman would have preferred a brain on his pillow instead of the lengthy hair that blows so sweetly at the edge of Moher. He is offered and accepts young Ann-draysh’s chair, and hangs his hat on a nail.

“Do you hear the string and whistle of our blood?” asked Patrick Kilcullen.

“Indeed, sir,” replied Ann-draysh. “Tis’ Peter, Loretta, and Rachel, playing Women of Ireland, if my ears not be mistaken.”

Will O’Fallon’s glasses slide down his sloped nose. An older gentleman at 35, and rather stoutly, leaned in his chair, and said, “Mr. Oats, it appears Mr. Kilcullen has brought his ears from Doolin, put if he has to piss, he may need to borrow yer hands.”

The lads shared a laugh that would open any clover. They are a peculiar bunch; neither’s socks are a comfortable length, and in the mirror, they have one time or another, considered themselves rogues. They nod and wait for one Patrick Degnan of Tralee, a man who would rather be in a garden of roses than the Barrony of Corca Dhuibhne.

Young Ann-draysh, a mere 15, stood beside a table he had called many a night, observing their potential wants and needs. He wore a white, long-sleeve shirt and a black vest, and his hair was pulled back by a scented bow. Privy to the smells of the other sex, Patrick Kilcullen folds his hands and rests them against the buttons of his vest, sewn, so he said, by a banshee who humorlessly fell into the sea looking for snakes. He leaned forward, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his frock coat with a grin that could turn the frown of any spinster upside down, and said, “Who’s the lass, Ann-draysh? You’re not still trading dancing lessons for kissing lessons with orphans under Garfinny Bridge?”

The boy’s master put down his empty tin of warm ale, looking into Kilcullen’s brown, County clare eyes, as if there was to be a third Desmond rebellion against English peerage at Ard na Caithne, where it was said that so much Irish blood had been spilt over its soil that it would be fertile as long as Mary remained a virgin.

“Many a boy have played the whistle down that path, Mr. Kilcullen, but have any boy played the whistle as well as Mr. Oats?”

“Aye,” said Patrick. “I’ve seen through Cromwell’s eyes a top o’ the last centure, and have spoken with the Lord of Ballyferriter in Corca Dhuibhne. He tells me Mr. Oats has rowed through Ferriter’s Cove with a lass as white as the froth of this fine ale, and as pale as your ass in the full moon.”

“Just like your banshees that fall into the sea chasing snakes, Mr. Kilcullen.”

It was said that had the room not been built with Munster stone, it would have collapsed from the abrupt laughter from all parties involved, though Patrick Kilcullen was not done having a craic, and with an eye on the boy’s bow, crossed his arms.

“Shall we open a window?”

“The door is open, Mr. Kilcullen, if he wishes to join the winds from Malin to Mizen with a brew of one’s own making?”

“Can you not smell the heresy, William? The anti-popery of the boy’s scented bow?”

Will O’Fallon nearly choked when he realized his tin was still empty of ale. Ann-draysh was quick to fill it.

“What Corkery is this?”

“Turn that long nose inside out, Mr. O’Fallon, or has it been so stuffed with flax by the Knights of Kerry that the shrine of St. James no longer accepts pilgrimage for fear of running into yer?”

Things were said that were hard to take back, but luckily, Mr. Kilcullen was interrupted by the Irish Rose, the scarecrow of Tralee, one Patrick Degnan, with an amber bottle of copper pot whiskey.

“It smells like the king of England’s bed sheets in here. Boy, open the window and fetch three cups.”

“Mr. Degnan! Master O’Fallon and Mr. Kilcullen have cups.”

“I said, fetch three cups, boy. Has that culchie shoe shine gone to yer head?”

Will smacked his flax trousers and said, “Well, if it isn’t the crow of Tralee? A flowerbud beside Mr. Kilcullen after me own heart. Degnan, my boy, what’s that you have brought us?”

Dressed in the clothes of a city, Patrick Degnan, lanky and tall as the cross on top of Mt. Carrauntoohil, paraded his gift to all its attendees.

“Copper pot whiskey, made from the finest barleys this side of Rome.”

Patrick Kilcullen, who had neither said hello nor goodbye, thus, in his later years, would claim to be the inventor of the Irish goodbye, stepped outside to smoke a pipe of rover and listen to Peter, Loretta, and Rachel, or so they thought.

Having brought a cup for Mr. Degnan, Ann-draysh found himself with one extra cup, so he thought. He moved to return it, but was stopped by Mr. Degnan.

“Mr. Oats, it seems Mr. Kilcullen has relinquished his drink. Mr. O’Fallon?”

Will looked through his glasses and told the boy to sit, and so he did.

“Ann-Draysh, do you know why we Irishmen drink whiskey instead of lager?”

Stiff as Eask Tower, Mr. Oats could not find an answer.

“I’ll tell ye, but it’ll cost ya a guinea, when ye get one in about four years.”

Will laughed so hard, he fell from his stool, clenching his Irish heart, and died. Mr. Kilcullen, having finished his pipe of rover with a protestant in his heart, returned to find Ann–draysh over his master, listening for sounds of life.

“Do ya hear anything, lad?”

“Just the bubbles of morning ale.”

Degnan looked around the shop, having forgotten his trade, and asked, “Well, does anyone know why he summoned us here?”

Ann-Draysh shook his head, but Mr. Kilcullen, seeing that he was just a boy with his wife’s bow, took his seat and said, “To have a cup of tea.”

Master Oats nodded and brewed a cup of tea.