Since it’s always a full moon over North Ifreann, lots of unemployed werewolves have created a little suburb of dens and lairs around the eastern (or ? direction on faerie maps) section of the wall. A sudden boom in werewolves can be tough on an economy, especially for a forest with lots of young male werewolves like Gary who have no particular job skills or motivation.
Gary was lounging on an old plaid sofa, sipping an Irn-Bru (a popular orange-flavored soda with caffeine from the human country of Scotland). Gary was bopping his head, plucking the strings of an out-of-tune guitar, attempting to play along with the solo part on the Waterboys’ “Fisherman’s Blues,” which was spinning on a turntable so brand-new that it seemed like it must have been stolen from humans.
I can’t say if Gary was much of a specimen of a werewolf. He remains one of only two I have ever met, including his mum, Freya. Gary was three meters tall, dangerously thin, almost gaunt, with a partial spiderweb tattoo that rose from his neck onto the lower part of his face.
His guitar playing was in the bottom five I had ever heard. His massive claws didn’t help much. This seemed very much like the first time he’d ever even tried to play a guitar. Let’s hope that it was.
Gary’s face was partially human, with a shock of orange fur all around it like a lion’s mane. He nodded hello as Figs hopped toward him, dropping the guitar with a terrible clatter, tugging at his ripped human pants, which must have shredded themselves when he turned into a werewolf at some point.
“Figs Dromghool! Fit like?” said Gary, with a smile that revealed some poorly maintained teeth. Why Gary wore a flesh-colored Band-Aid over his left eye we may never know. I certainly wasn’t going to ask about it.
“Gary, you ol’ bass!” replied Figs, hugging Gary’s leg.
Gary scooped Figs up in his werewolf arms, which displayed many tattoos between the patchy fur. Gary had even more tattoos than Log MacDougal, who until this point had the most I had ever seen. The visible ones on Gary read SCOTLAND FOREVER, WEREWOLVES FOREVER, and one seemed to be an image of a one-liter bottle of Irn-Bru.
Wow. Gary was the real deal. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more Scottish werewolf than him.
“Care for a bit o’ ginger, Figs?” asked Gary, offering his Irn-Bru.
“Aye!” said Figs.
Gary poured some Irn-Bru directly into Figs’s rabbit mouth. Figs guzzled it down and then let out a gigantic burp, scratching his foot against his chin. An orange cloud of sugar and caffeine passed over the room. My eyes fought to stay open against it.
“Ye lot lookin’ to get up over the Whinge Wall, then?” said Gary.
“Aye,” said Figs. “Allow me to introduce Detective Ronan Boyle of the Garda Special Unit of Tir Na Nog.”
I bowed, doffing my beret, which is one of my favorite things to do when meeting people and/or things. “At your service,” I said, resetting my beret in the jaunty way I prefer with the Special Unit logo pointing to the left.
“Ain’t he a wee stuck up?” said Gary, laughing at me harder than was appropriate. “You just wee stuck up, boyo. Barely a lad! They couldn’t send a ladybug instead?”
I laughed this off awkwardly as Gary gave me an amusing but forceful punch in the arm, but really it served as a great reminder that it wasn’t just me who thought myself unqualified to be here, at least it was EVERYONE who thought that! UNANIMOUS THAT I AM A FRAUD! Try to smile? Playing along with the joke. Why am I so sweaty? Why did I high-five Yogi Hansra that one time? Does she think about it as often as I do? I attempted to act official.
“And these are my partners, Lily, WSU; Rí, WSU; and Log MacDougal, cadet, accidentally raised as a log by the wee folk,” I said.*
“Aye, it happens,” said Gary giving a hug to Log MacDougal.
Log and Gary scanned each other’s tattoos for a moment, mumbling things like oh, nice and fit like. In many ways, they seemed like long-lost soulmates.
“Bit o’ the ginger, Log MacDougal?” asked Gary as he scratched his belly (which seemed to be VERY itchy), holding out his can of Irn-Bru to Log. Log took a huge swig of it, pleased, then passed it to me. It was evident from the sound of the can that this was now mostly orange backwash.
“Nae, I’m all fit like—cheers,” I said, attempting to use some Scottish slang. “Time is against us, and we’ve got to stop a human sacrifice on the other side of the wall in North Ifreann.”
“So, ye are heading over the wall?” said Gary. “How you plannin’ that? ’Tis a right muckfest these days getting up the wall.”
“Well, that’s where you come in, Gary,” I said, confused, as we were only meeting Gary to be our coyote over the wall. There was literally and figuratively no other reason we were here talking to Gary in this musky hut.
“Aye. Brilliant,” said Gary, swishing that last backwash bit of Irn-Bru around in his mouth to savor the flavor. “When ye all plannin’ to go?”
Gary stood there, a dim look in his magnificent green eyes. I have no idea how he wasn’t understanding all of this.
“Um. We need to go right exactly now, in fact—a little while ago would have been ideal,” I said, trying to be as firm and clear as possible.
“Oi, so ye want to leave right now? Well, there’s nae danger of that,” said Gary, crushing the Irn-Bru can in his huge claws. “I’ve already got a paying customer tonight. Sorry luvs, nae can take you.”
“You’ve—already got a customer? But we can pay whatever you ask! Let me show you my BeefCard,” I protested. “I’m sure your other client won’t mind us joining in on his or her excursion up the wall?”
“Nae, except—he might actually,” said Gary softly, checking over his shoulder. “Not the nicest bloke, if you get my drift. Bit of a trick, in fact. Nasty old beefie. Aye, here he comes now from the loo.”
A toilet flushed in the back room.
If the next look on my face were a painting in a museum, it would be called Portrait of Irish Teen Silently Screaming.
I screamed, silently, and then out loud.
From the darkness in the back of the hut something pointy was born into the light. I recognized it in an instant. It was the tip of a very nice umbrella. My umbrella! The very one I had left behind when I fled Lord Desmond Dooley’s art gallery on Henrietta Street.
Clutching at the handle end of it was the twisted hand of the man himself—Lord Desmond Dooley. My nemesis. The man who looks like a gargoyle with the flu. The man who framed my parents for stealing the mummy called the Bog Man and let them rot in Mountjoy Prison for his crime. A man I despise with every molecule of my body, from my toes to my optional beret.
His face was as pointy as ever. He was wearing a leather cape, with gloves and tinted pince-nez with dark glass, as if he had somehow had an evil makeover since I last saw him.
Dooley limped across the room toward me. He poked the tip of my umbrella into my sternum.
“Young masssster Boyle,” he hissed. “Congratulations, I read in the newspapers that your parents have escaped from Mountjoy Prison with their gang. This must be a great comfort to you, boyo. Mum and Da, no longer locked up for something they didn’t do.”
If anyone could describe Lord Desmond Dooley as giggling, that’s what happened next. A hollow chortle came from his throat as the corners of his mouth pulled up.
“Lord Desmond Dooley,” I spit out with disdain and with emphasis to show that I knew that “Lord” was his actual first name, not a title. With my left hand I quietly unclicked my shillelagh from the hooks on my back, ready to thump him directly across his bald noggin. “For the record, my parents are in two different gangs!”
“I’ve been a day or so behind you since you left Killarney, Boyle. I almost caught up to you in the Steps mountains, but the Free Men of the Pole delayed me for a bit.” He gestured to his foot, which was wrapped up tightly in Christmas paper. “I’m afraid the Free Men made some pass-arounds from my toes before I was able to escape.”
I shuddered. This was disgusting. And even for cann
ibal-type monsters like the Free Men: What kind of pass-arounds could you make from Dooley’s foul little toes? There’s not enough garlic bread crumbs or jalapeños in the world to make Dooley toes palatable.
“A far darrig named Ricky in Bad Aonbheannach told me that I arrived only an hour after you escaped the Cave of Miracles,” said Dooley. “I must have made up some time against you in the Bheithlimbs to get here to the wall before you. Well, sorry to spoil yer fun, but this is where your journey ends, lad.”
Dooley pulled an antique bronze-age dagger from his sleeve and twirled it.
I pulled my shillelagh using Yogi Hansra’s famous Hansra Pull, a method of drawing and cracking the opponent’s jaw that is so foolproof that she named it after herself.
I missed.
Not because the move was executed poorly, but because before I could thump him, Log had already hoisted Dooley in one of her famous wedgies.
Log giggled psychotically as Dooley dangled from her stupendous arm. He tried to swat at her with the dagger and my umbrella, but only connected with the air.
Gary’s eyes lit up as he watched Log dangle a full-grown man by his underpants.
“That’s my kind of girl!” said Gary, looking a bit smitten. Log blushed, which I had never seen her do before.
“Boyle, ya filthy devil!” said Dooley, now in the sad voice of a man being held aloft by his underwear.
I didn’t respond. Gary’s mum, Freya, broke the silence:
“So ye’ve all met, then?” she said, passing Gary a fresh liter of Irn-Bru.
“As a point of fact, we have,” I said, twirling my shillelagh and employing the best scowl a Ronan Boyle type can muster. “This is Mister Dooley. Art thief, smuggler, and framer of innocent persons! He’s an accomplice of the weegees and wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Captain Siobhán de Valera.”
From the sporran on my kilt I pulled out two weerrants. One for the Red-Eyed Woman, and one for the Bog Man himself. These are arrest warrants issued for the wee folk, signed by Deputy Commissioner Finbar Dowd. They are somewhat pointless, as no faerie folk would ever recognize their legitimacy. But waving the weerrants in Dooley’s face added gravitas to the moment, so I stuck with it.
Freya threw up her claws in disgust.
“This is why I don’t like doin’ this type o’ business,” Freya howled. “I pay to keep up this place, and yer nothing but a boil on me bum, Gary. I’m the one buyin’ yer clover and Irn-Bru. And ye missin’ the toilet every time!”
“And yeeee with yer havering!” howled Gary in her face.
Gary and his mum began snapping at each other, growling and biting like you might see ordinary wolves fighting for dominance on a Nature Channel show. Soon they were a blur of orange fur and spilled Irn-Bru.
“Perhaps we should take this outside!” yelled Figs, now a naked little man in a hat, forgetting to cover his bits.
Oh dear. If only I could unsee this.
The whole scenario was bonkers. Log kept Dooley in a weaponized wedgie as we all inched our way out of the hut.
“Not one false move, Dooley,” I said, “or you’re like the antiques you sell: history.” (This sounded brilliant in my head but came out a bit clunky from my mouth.)
* STOP. Apologies in advance for the interruption! This is not even close to a palindrome. On behalf of the Special Unit of Tir Na Nog, and the Republic of Ireland, our sincere apologies. As a nation we have failed young people like Ronan Boyle by letting them think that palindromes are some manner of AWKWARD ALLITERATION. Teach your children about palindromes—WRITE YOUR TOWN COUNCIL. Your man in Killarney, Finbar Dowd.
* How are you and not bad to very, very Scottish types.
* WSU = Wolfhound Special Unit.
Chapter Fourteen
CROM CRUACH
The stream of whiskey bubbled cheerfully, providing an upbeat counterpoint to the situation.
Log held Dooley in a remarkable wedgie. Even by Log’s standards, this was one for the books. Rí and Lily were at my sides, ready to pounce if Dooley tried anything funny.
Human-form Figs’s famous hat was now covering his bits, which made things less oh dear–ish.
Gary and Freya had found a brief truce. They were grooming each other like wolves, finding itchy parts to scratch. In the moonlight, I could see that Freya also had a lot of tattoos and that most of them were awful.
“Am I under arrest, boyo?” asked Dooley, trying to burn a hole in me with his eyes.
“Perhaps,” I replied as I paced, my eyes in a laser lock with Dooley. I clicked on my torch and pointed it in his face. “And it’s not ‘boyo,’ it’s Detective Ronan Boyle, thank you very much.” I twirled my torch because that’s what Captain de Valera would do, as she is amazing at these types of things. Side note: No, I do not think I am in love with the captain, but sometimes romantic thoughts do flash through my head.
“I do not recognize the authority of the Special Unit!” barked Dooley as he made a little snort from his nose, sending evil snot into the air.
“Dooley, I should feed you to the wolfhounds,” I bluffed, dramatically.
“Ha! You wouldn’t hurt a rabbit, Boyle. No offense to your púca friend.”
“Careful, I have a few nasty shapes you haven’t met yet,” said Figs.
“There’s one detail that you’re wrong about in all of this unpleasantness. I am not your enemy, Boyle,” said Dooley.
Log switched hands, moving Dooley to a right-hand wedgie hold. (Log is ambidextrous—she has no dominant hand).
“Please—believe me! I’m on your side now! The Red-Eyed Woman betrayed me,” said Dooley. “Fine, maybe I did steal the Bog Man from your mum and da. And yes, I had planned to sell him to a buyer in Dubai for a private museum, which is illegal. And sure, I would have been rich beyond my wildest dreams. And fine, I’ve been up to no good for most of me life—but now, I’m just trying to get the Bog Man back. Same as you, Boyle.”
I scowled, doing my best to not get lured in by this nefarious not-a-lord.
“I could even help you if you’d let me, Boyle. All of the things I did . . . so foolish. But that was before I knew the Bog Man’s true identity.”
Tears welled up in Dooley’s eyes. I wish I could say that he was faking, but after some really tight shows in the Cave of Miracles, I know how hard it is to cry on cue. These were real tears streaming down Dooley’s face.
“The Red-Eyed Woman and her weegees came sniffing around before I could close the deal with my Dubai associate,” he said, still sniffling. “At the time I didn’t think much of it, we did some transactions from time to time. Mostly I’d sell ’em stray harpies and old brass spears, sacred knickknacks. But this time they’d come for the Bog Man and the next thing I know—pickle spray in me face! Brass knuckles to me noggin! Bites to me knees! The weegees say I work for them now. They whacked the stuffing out of me—you have no idea what that’s like, Boyle. Nasty little devils, those weegees. I’m not with them, not nae more, I swear!”
I had a specific idea of what a beating from the weegees was like, as I’d been on the receiving end of both bites and whacks from the Red-Eyed Woman and her gang at Dun-cannon Fort. I still had the bruises to show for it.
“Blarney!” I blurted. “This is a web of blarney because you’re outnumbered and want to escape in one piece.”
Dooley shook his head. At this point he’d been in a wedgie for as long as anyone on record.
“Boyle, I thought the Bog Man was just some trinket when I agreed to sell him. A mummy for display, stiff as a board. Dead as a doornail, for nigh on four thousand years. I didn’t know who he really is. But now I do.”
“And who is he, your grandmum?” I said, acting tough, using a snarky tone that’s not my usual style at all.
A cloud passed over Dooley’s face. Everything dimmed, as if someone had turned down the moon above us.
“The Bog Man is called Crom Cruach,” said Dooley heavily.
“And Crom Cruach is . . .
what exactly? I asked.
“Ye don’t know? O’course ye don’t know, schools these days, pfffft!” said Dooley with a sniff.
Then he checked over his shoulder. His voice became a whisper, as if he didn’t want the moaning trees to hear us. “Crom Cruach is one of the old gods of Ireland. Before Saint Patrick came and got rid of them and the snakes. Some say Crom Cruach was the sun god, but he demanded the darkest form of worship. Crom Cruach wanted human sacrifice.”
A zap ran up my spine as if I had stepped on a jellyfish.
“Crom Cruach! That’s the name. Not Crumb Crutch,” said Log (translating for Lily, who was barking like mad).
“You’re not chasing after a mummy, Ronan Boyle—you’re chasin’ after a god,” said Dooley.
My shillelagh dropped to the forest floor without a sound.
Everyone stood frozen for a long moment. My mind raced.
I had been a detective now in the Special Unit for approximately five days. Most of my career was spent in training. My last big case had been the theft of SOME WINE. I had barely graduated from Tin Whistle for Beginners with the lowest passing grade. I am fairly sure I cannot recite the Recruit’s Pledge properly. No part of my resume made me qualified to be in hot pursuit of an undead Irish god. There were far more qualified officers in the Special Unit. This was precisely the kind of case that should be handled by Commissioner McManus himself!
As I am always close to the truth in this journal, I will let you know that I wet my first set of underpants a little bit. I’m not proud of it, but these are the facts as they transpired.
“My parents dug up—a god?” I stammered.
“More like the devil himself. They didn’t know what he was. How could they have known? I didn’t know until the Red-Eyed Woman shows up so interested. She and her gang start calling him ‘Crom Cruach.’ They start worshipping the geezer right there in my back room,” said Dooley. “The wee folk live a long time, boy. The Red-Eyed Woman and Crom Cruach go way back. She and her mates are the last of his devotees. The Cult of Crom Cruach they call themselves.”
Ronan Boyle and the Swamp of Certain Death Page 12
