Bareknuckle Barbarian (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  The little man was laughing maniacally and yelling, “Want ta dance with me, eh? Be wantin’ some Mac Tir flesh do you, lads? Well how about some speachoireacht, eh? How about a little dance?”

  Neither attacker landed a blow on the little man, and cursed liberally as he savaged their legs from shin to thigh with rapid-fire kicks. In a few moments they dropped to their knees, and he hooted in triumph and jumped into the air with a double kick – each foot connecting with the foreheads of the men.

  The two attackers flew backward to lie still on the ground while Conri literally danced a jig.

  Howard moved to help the younger Mac Tir, but Cuan had his attacker in a painful arm and neck hold, with the masked man bent nearly in half and moaning, “Let me go, ya half-breed!”

  The thing that struck Howard most about the scene was Cuan’s expression was not outrage nor anger, but a certain sense of resignation. As if such attacks were common.

  “Leave him be, spawn o’ me loins,” Conri said as he wiped his hands as if they were dirty. “We’d better get back home before it gets too dark.”

  Howard picked up his duffle bag as the masked men – those who could get up – scrambled off into the gathering gloom.

  “You folks have this sort of trouble often, Mister Mac Tir?”

  The red haired little man shrugged his shoulders. “Not much anymore,” he said. “I didn’t think there would be any problem with all the visitors here for the fair. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s about me,” Cuan said with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Mister Howard. I think sometimes they will forget, and then something like today with Bran, and they all start up on me again. No wonder Morgana closed the doorways.”

  “Now you stop that talk, son,” Conri said. “Because some men have little minds should not be used to judge them all. Your mother was a Kerry woman, and there were plenty of others who accepted us and you.”

  “Sorry, Da,” Cuan said. “I didn’t mean to talk ill.”

  The elder Mac Tir patted his son on the shoulder. “I know it’s hard. But tomorrow you’ll find your partner and you’ll gain all I’ve lost.”

  “If I win.”

  “You will, son. I have faith.” The elder Mac Tir remembered Howard was walking along beside them. “Sorry, Bob. I should not have asked you out. I should have realized after today that some old wounds might come open.”

  Howard considered all he had seen and heard, and smiled at the little man. “I always like a little exercise before I have a meal.”

  Conri smiled back. “That’s the pioneer spirit, boyo.” Then he waved ahead of them as they crested a small hill. “And that’s me house. We’re home!”

  The cottage was a picturesque thatch-roofed building set by the side of the road and had two small outbuildings – a barn and a small shed. Beyond it was a barren, rocky looking field where a small brook bubbled.

  “All my history starts here, Bob. It’s been me castle since I met Cuan’s mother twenty-five years ago.” The little man’s expression got wistful. “I miss her every day.” He surveyed his domain letting memoires darken his expression for a moment, then he gave a wolfish grin. “Now let’s see how brave you Texas fellas really are. I’ll heat us some stew.”

  “I’m honored, sir,” the Texan said with sincerity. He had to duck to pass beneath the lintel, as did the younger Mac Tir, who went directly to the stone fireplace and began to stoke it.

  “The lad will get things started,” Conri said. “I’ll show you where your room is, so you can put your things.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Howard asked. He took in the rustic main room of the cottage with its simple wooden table and, he was delighted to see, a bookcase on one wall, and enjoyed the familiarity of it. “My room?”

  “Why, you don’t think I’m going to let you stay at some cold inn now, do you, boyo? Not since we’ve dusted knuckles together on the chins of those blighters.” Mac Tir said. “Besides, with the crowds in town for the fair, there’s probably not a decent room to be had.”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose,” Howard said.

  The small redhead flashed a wolfish grin at the burly Texan. “Now, it would be imposing if you asked, fella. But tell me, if the situation were reversed, would you be offering me and mine a place to lay our weary heads?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, there you go,” the elder Mac Tir said, the issue resolved. The visitor surrendered and followed him into a small room, an add-on to the original cottage. It had a small bed, a table and chair, and a small window with a wooden shutter.

  “This used to be the boy’s room when my Mary was still with us,” Conri said with a shade of sadness in his tone. “But he outgrew it and we built him a larger room.”

  The Texan set his bag on the bed and his precious typewriter on the table. “It’s a damn sight finer than many a room I’ve had growing up. Thank you.”

  “You may have to squeeze in a bit,” the Irishman laughed, “but it is warm and dry.”

  The two men went out into the main room of the cottage where Cuan had a roaring fire going beneath a kettle.

  “I’ve begun the crime, Da,” the boy said with a grin. “Though I fear you’ll be just as guilty when the poor Yank passes away.”

  “Texan,” the elder Mac Tir corrected for his guest. “And you’ve prospered on my cooking these past many years.”

  The young man stood up and pointed to his waistline. “Prospered?”

  “The lad never misses a meal,” Conri said. “He takes after his mother. She was a tall thin lass who could out-eat three bully boys any day and never put on an ounce.”

  The three sat down around the table and ate the filling meal of stew and rough bread, with some cider to wash it down. The Texan found the company of the two proved what he had come to learn in his travels since leaving his small oil-filled boomtown home – people were the same all over. Particularly the simple people who were connected to the earth.

  Their conversation continued from the pub, and after a bit, when the lamps were lit, the elder redhead brought out some whiskey.

  “A little single malt always makes me sleep a bit better,” he said as he poured a small drink for himself and his guest.

  The Texan offered his host a cigar. “Cuban,” he said. “A lady friend of mine’s father had a large supply, and he ain’t smokin’ no more, so I got me some.”

  The two puffed while Cuan went out to the barn to bed down the animals. This allowed Howard to ask a delicate question.

  “I hope I’m not prying, Conri,” he said, “but how did your wife pass away?”

  “Doctor said it was fever. Came on her the wet winter just before the last fair and took her quick. Sometimes I think it was just being too tired to keep fighting all the small minds.” The little redhead puffed twice on his cigar, and then looked across the room to the bookcase. “I’ve often thought if only I had a little of my old self…” His voice trailed off and an expression of great sadness washed over him.

  Then Conri shook himself like a terrier and continued. “Them there’s her books, my Mary’s. She was one for reading. Used to sit in the ruins of the old Kimaule Castle, up the hill there. Used to be the home of the Viscount Kimaule back in the fifteen hundreds, you know, but before that it was a Fairy mound. Home of the Queen Morgana herself, ya know?”

  The Texan smiled. “Ah ha,” he said, “You did say I might see some of the little folk.”

  The redhead laughed. “Well, yes, I did. But then, as I was saying, me darling used to take a book up to the ruins to read about the old tales. She let her mind soar in waking dreams then, readin’ bout the old heroes.”

  “Can’t ever fault a person for that,” the Texan gave a gentle chuckle. “I’d not have a living if it were not so.”

  “She’d have loved to have met you, a writer.” Conri said. “A maker of dreams. Though, I have to say, I never expected a writer to look like you.”

  “Lord Byron was fond of boxing, Poe was a ru
nner, Bierce was very proud of his skill at knife throwing,” Howard pointed out. “Jack London loved to box, fence, and wrestle. I’ve had this discussion with my friend Howie Lovecraft about which is more important muscle or mind. We sort of agreed all that matters in the end is the ability to dream. I’ve wrestled with my own place in the world. At least I’ve made a career of it while I try to figure it all out.”

  “I suppose you have at that,” Mac Tir agreed. “For me, the dreaming mind made my life. You see, she was a real dreamer, and in that magic place her dreams breeched the gateway between the realms.” The little man sighed and smiled at the memory. “There she was in her blue dress and her long, red hair pulled back with a simple, green ribbon. She was reading On Baily Strand, she was, when I rounded the corner of the courtyard wall to sight her the first time. It wasn’t even fair time, yet her ability to dream just called me to her like the sweetest songbird.”

  The Texan grinned. Cuan came back in and paused in the doorway to listen to his father reminisce.

  “The world changed that day, and I knew I had to come across.”

  “Come across?” the Texan asked.

  “To the mortal realm,” Conri said as he puffed out a cloud of cigar smoke. “It was the only way to be with her. And for twenty wonderful years she made it magical. Then, like all of you of flesh, her body gave out. A simple chill took her from me.”

  Howard set his cigar down and leaned forward. “All of you of flesh?”

  “Yes sir,” Cuan said to the Texan as he closed the door against the evening wind. “Like mother, yourself, and me. Well, half of me anyway.”

  “Half of you?”

  “What me boy is tryin’ to say is he’s only half Fae,” Conri said. “Me, I’m full blood Cluricaun!” He smiled to show his canines, and for the first time, the Texan noticed the little man’s ears came to points!

  ROUND 4

  WISTFULNESS AND WHISKEY

  The Texan sat in stunned silence for a long moment after his host made his statement, just staring at the redhead. Howard looked to the younger Mac Tir to see if he was being joshed, but saw the young man was in complete agreement with his father.

  “You – you are a Sidhe?” the Texan asked.

  The little red head evidenced surprise. “Well, technically, yes,” he admitted. “My tribe of Cluricauns dwells in the Summerlands under the rule of the good Queen Morgana.”

  “Cluricaun, you say?” Howard repeated. “That’s a type of leprechaun, right?”

  “You do your reading, fella,” Conri said.

  “I told you,” Howard said, “I write. I got my roots in this land. Between my Mama telling tales and my researches on my own, I got me a fair idea what you all are. But – now, don’t get me wrong – I thought you all were not so out front about existing. I mean, weren’t you supposed to be the people under the hill?”

  The little Mac Tir laughed and poured himself another whiskey. “Well, yes, American cousin, that we are. But, you see, DunKillie is special. That castle up the hill is built over an old gateway and on the other side of the portal are the lands of the Fae. Even though the pathways between the worlds are mostly closed these days – the Queen isn’t too happy with mortals – there are still places were the veil is thin, places where dreams live in the daylight. And this whole county is one of them. And since I came to be with my long, tall Mary, the folk around here accept me. Most of them anyway.” His features darkened with a thought. “Not much choice though, since I was banished.”

  “Banished?” The Texan caught sight of the younger Mac Tir’s face. The boy made a drinking gesture and Howard realized his host was not holding his drink as well as he appeared.

  “Aye, banished for my love of a mortal,” Conri said. The voice of the little redhead was slurred a bit, but there was no bitterness in his tone. “We Fae are supposed to be above and aloof from your sort, Bob, me friend. But in all my time in the Summerlands, I ne’r saw a Sidhe or a she as lovely as my Mary. Once a five-year, when they have the fair and the veil shreds in the sunlight, we would walk together there. Then with wee Cuan with us at the fair, I knew they all wanted to be sorry for me, but when they saw her or heard her laugh, I knew they couldn’t be. Because, you see, they all knew they would have made the same choice. I would not trade a day of my time with her, or me boy, for a lifetime more on the other side.” The little redhead’s eyes were a little unfocused now. It was clear, he was seeing more memory than reality. “I had to give up me Fae powers to come over for Mary, but I always thought I gained far more than I lost.”

  “Time for bed, Da,” Cuan said as he reentered the room. “Gonna be a long day tomorrow. You’ll want to be fresh when you see all your friends at the fair.” The boy gently took his father by the shoulders and half walked, half carried him toward the elder Mac Tir’s room.

  The Texan rose, put the whiskey bottle back in its cabinet, and cleared the table. By the time he had washed the dishes in a basin near the window, Cuan had reemerged from his father’s room.

  “Thank you, Mister Howard,” Cuan said. “Da gets a bit melancholy around this time of the year.”

  “Bob, please. And I understand,” the Texan said. “He loved your mother a great deal.”

  “I only hope to find a woman like her,” the boy said. “But that’s not likely.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Howard said. “She did come from around here.”

  “Oh, but none of the local girls know what to make of me, being half-Fae and all.”

  “You mean your father was…was serious about all that?”

  “Why, sure was, Bob,” the boy grinned. “But then you can see for yourself at the fair tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, I thought Da told you,” the boy said. “Once a five-year, the veil is lifted up at the castle and we can cross over when they have the fair. Tomorrow we’re going to the Summerlands!”

  ***

  Bob Howard sat up for a time pounding out wordage for a story he owed to Weird Tales, but the thought of the little man’s story being true kept impinging on his mind.

  Afterward, Howard wrote a letter to his friend Gwendolyn Harker:

  “It’s mad to think about what Conri Mac Tir said, yet I know we have experienced strange things already in my time in England. There are old ghosts, here with the ages past and the present layered over each other like photos double exposed. It sure ain’t like Howie Lovecraft and I haven’t talked about all this sort of thing enough. Maybe it is just like Conri says. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see. And maybe I can figure out just what my path is in all this, Gwen. I know I can make the words all come together, but seems hard to hold the parts of myself together. Am I the barbarian inside I think I am or am I something else? Back home, I was the outsider – not really a man because I didn’t work with my hands, but with my mind. Yet ma believed in me, as do Howie and my readers. Still I have to know, just who and what I am. But then, that’s what this trip is all about. Hope all is well with you. Bob.”

  ***

  The next morning, Conri Mac Tir showed no sign of a hangover and had all the enthusiasm of a small boy, bounding about the cottage, preparing porridge for all three men. He was dressed in an old style tailcoat and breeches in deep red, with shoes with large silver buckles.

  “You really do look like a leprechaun, Conri,” the Texan said when breakfast was done.

  The little fellow looked hurt.

  “Cluricaun,” he corrected the Texan. “We are the fun fellas of the species. No shoe makin’ for us.” He did a small jig step and then called out to Cuan. “Come on and hurry feeding those chickens, you tardy spawn o’ mine. We have to get a goin’.”

  The younger Mac Tir was dressed more conventionally than his father, in tan trousers with bracers, a blue shirt and a brown dress jacket. When he had come into the Texan’s room to wake him, he had reminded the visitor the day was the first of two at the fair and to dress his best.

  Howard polished
his cowboy boots and donned his one suit, a worn brown jacket and matching trousers.

  “Gonna be a big day, eh?” he had asked the boy.

  “If I can win the wrestling match,” Cuan said, “I get to choose my own bride from the gallery of eligible Fae lasses.” He colored pink. “So I’ve been practicing hard all year.” He flexed his thin arms and tried to look heroic. “There will be no other chance for five years when the veil drops again.”

  So that’s why they are both on edge, the Texan thought as the three of them walked through the early morning fog up toward the hilltop castle. It really is do or die for the boy.

  The road was shrouded in the dense, damp fog clinging to all the low areas of the surrounding countryside, making the walk feel like an excursion into a dream.

  The three friends were not alone on the road, as a number of people from the town were also making the excursion. Men, women, and children, laughing and treating it like the holiday it was, were soon all around the trio.

  “Like the State Fair crowd back home,” Howard said. “Is it always like this over here, I mean in Ireland?”

  The buoyant Conri shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Our little corner of the world is unique, ‘cause, I suppose, the Queen has a soft spot for this place. She pretty much forbids crossing over most time, and in most places. Not like in the old days when magic was everywhere.”

  “In days of old when knights were bold and dragons roamed the land, eh?” Howard said with a smile.

  “That is pure truth,” Conri said. “Not that I miss those oversized vermin much. It’s not their flame that gets you, it’s their breath. Horrid!”

  The Texan was almost sure the little redhead was joking, but decided not to press the point. Before he could ask another question, the trio crested a hill. All of the walkers on the road, the Texan included, had paused when they reached that point, awed by the sight ahead of them. It was the castle – the stone walls of the structure rising up out of the silver grey fog like a ghostly retreat.

  Howard had expected an age-old ruin dressed up in bright finery, like an old dowager, but instead he beheld a refurbished and new fortress. The previously dry moat was alive with splashing fish, and there was lively traffic of men, carriages and horses in and out of the place. It looked, indeed, as it must have in ages gone when it was brand new!