which one of you you’d planned to eat first!” Two
big rats eyed the scrappy one and unconsciously licked
their chops.
I apologized for the interruption with my eye on
a long rope which hung just above the fastest rat’s head
who was still standing right between me and the rest of
my American adventure, and just maybe, my life. It was
attached to a pulley that hung from the ceiling and had
been used to lower hay bales from the hay loft, swinging
them out the barn door into the open barnyard. “I’ll just be on my way, now,” I said, and
although my wings were a wee bit on the lighter side
not the most glorious an Irish pixie gnome has ever been
given - they were sturdier than the rude firefly comment
had suggested - and I, at that moment, channeled all of
my magic energy into them to lift me, my knapsack, and
my suitcase over the rat’s head, high enough to grab onto
one end of the rope, swinging it with all of my might.
The other end was still attached to a hay bale in the loft
above - the previous family really must have left in a
hurry, I’d guessed - when the vibration of my magic and
my might swung the rope just enough to send the hay
bale to the edge of the loft.
“Look out below!” I called out as the hay bale
teetered. It’s drop sent me a flyin’ up nearly to the
rafters of the tall barn’s ceiling while the hay bale went
crashing down toward the barn floor. Swinging like a
pendulum just two inches above the ground it went,
clearing out rats swift as a McGillicutty’s broom to the particles of dust on a floor. The fast one was smackered
clear out into the field and the rest went rolling,
tumbling into an empty milk pail which teetered for a
moment and then fell like a trap on top of the lump of
dirty, tossed about rats.
“Hooo-weeee!” I yelled as I tumbled onto the hay
bales. I chanted, “All for the love of Ireland’s pixie
gnomes,” in ancient gaelic, “and in admiration of the
venerable firefly, too” I added in English. “What did
an innocent firefly ever do to those guys,
anyway?” I quickly gathered up the contents of my
suitcase - which had flown out of my hand during the
landing - and noticed the glass of my dearly loved mum’s
photograph frame, broken. Right then, my sorrow and
disappointment turned to wrath. Reduced, once again,
to the company of rats and the sight of this very sad
fact affecting the sanctity of my cherished mum’s
keepsake - my proud Irish heritage - well I down-right
snapped. I grabbed up in my hands the first thing I saw
- a set of leather reins off a horse’s bridle.
I slid down the pulley rope and yelled in a sweet,
mocking voice, “O, rats!” Some of them were dusting
off, and a few of them were, from the looks of it, out
for the day; yet, I swung the leather strap, anyway, in
circles above my head like a whip, and called for any of
‘em to fight me - any at all.
Several looked up at my calls, but shook their
heads, “No,” and two others scurried back into holes, to
nurse their wounds - with dashed pride - away
from the eyes of the rest of us.
“You scared?!” I accused.
“No, I’m not scared,” said a loud voice, a bit like
my own, “I’ll fight ‘ya.”
“Do I detect an Irish accent?” I asked.
“English,” he said, “right from the house of the
queen.”
“O, are ya, now, or is that just what you tell
these fellas?” I swung the whip until it made a whirring sound, rapidly, through the air above my head.
“I do, and I am. I be the King, here!” he said.
“He’s our king,” yelled another.
“The King of therats!!” I mocked.
“Better to be king among your own kind, don’t
ya think? Than a, than a… - What are you, a firefly?
among, well - you know what I’m sayin’!!” he flustered
and fumbled his words a bit, then he got mad too.
Wounded pride to wounded pride we fought. He
picked up a roasting stick at the sting of a
whip slap which caught the whip ‘round it; he yanked
the opposite end of it out of my hand. I grabbed for the
other stick down near my feet and narrowly missed a
swipe to my head as I bent. Roasting stick to roasting
stick we battled like warriors with long, wooden spears.
This dual went on for nearly an hour.
Any rat hooligan, who was too wounded before,
gathered round at a safe distance to watch the fight and
hail their king. I knew I was out numbered if the king was to call in his minions, but he did not. A kingly rat
in that, he was, keeping it a fair fight - just me and his
highness - battling alone. To the death, I supposed,
because whichever one of us won would have the
hooligans on his side. I knew it had to be me, or I
wouldn’t survive an entire season in this barn, probably
not even the night. The ladies, too, would be driven
out; so, as we battled like marxmen - right good hewas,
too probably’d seen at least a few sword fights back in
England - I bent down and picked up the strap of reins
that had fallen, unwrapped from his roasting stick,
during our fight. With one hand, I speared him, with
the other I encircled my whip ‘round the hand which
tightly held his spear and flung him up in the air and out
into what had become a dark and starry, moonless night.
Then I grabbed both spears , guarding myself at both
sides as I ran to my knapsack, gathered my case, leapt
for a window and squeezed through its open crack. I was out, alive, and only slightly wounded.
The Faerie Ring Dance
Chapter Four * Territories and Adventure
The farmhouse loomed dark and shadowy, all
except the front windows, lit by the light of two lamps.
Out through the half open window, I heard a sound
much different than my own sniffles, which escaped out
of me while examining my bumps and bruises, thinking
about my mum. The other sound was laughter. And
music! The sisters were laughing, and someone was
playing what sounded like music! While I had been
fighting for my life and defending the sisters’ homestead,
had they received a visitor? I dragged my things over to
the house - O, how I longed for a home! - and looked
up into the partially opened window.
The sisters had caught a cricket and were looking quite a mess. Honor’s neat bun had slipped to one side
and Blithe’s long hair fell in loose tendrils.
From the looks of things - it had been quite a capture,
and they were poking things at him to make him chirp!
“O don’t do that!” I said, from where I stood
boldly on the windowsill. I was at my wits end - or I
felt so, you see - and I gave not a hoot what happened
to me next.
“Did you say something, Honor?” Blithe asked,
smiling at her conquest and its most recent chirp.
“No, dear, I
didn‘t. What shall we name it?” she
asked smiling at the cricket.
“I don’t know.”
I sat down and crossed my legs criss-cross, right
in the center of the sill, the lamplight shining out upon
me while I listened to a list of ridiculous names - for a
cricket - and the laughter of the two ladies who I must
say sounded as though they were feeling the joy of their
new found freedom. I guess that is why I pressed on for my own, like I had dreamed back in England and all
during the voyage. It certainly looked worth it by the
glow and smiles of the ladies and I must say they’d never
sounded so happy as far back as I could remember. My
mind shifted to the sight of the rat pack.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and the ladies looked
up. Up from the cricket cage, out to the sill, and into
my bright, little eyes. I blinked. The ladies blinked
back. The cricket chirped. But this time, instead of
spilling into giggles and poking it again, the ladies’ eyes
held, steadfast, on me, their expressions frozen. They
twice blinked again. Nervous they might try to swat at
me, again, I decided I’d better start talking and quick!
“The name’s Twinks!” I said, “Narn Twinks, and
you’re welcome.”
All Blithe said was, “Wha-a?” So I explained.
“I just, well I just saved your lives, and your
home, I think.” There was only silence, but Blithe did
shift her weight, slightly, so I knew, at least, she was not dead of fright.
“You shouldn’t poke - at the cricket - either.
You wouldn’t like that would you? I mean if you were
his size, and he, were your size. No. No, you
wouldn’t.”
Blithe’s eyes narrowed, “Who are you?”
“Narn Twinks, like I said. All the way from
Ireland, I am.”
Then, Honor looked at Blithe, her fingertips
touched her lips, “The land of the little people,” she
whispered to Blithe, and then she whispered, “What do
we do?”
“I don’t know,” Blithe answered quietly.
I lifted my hands, palms out, I’d had quite
enough of fighting for my life, so I said, “Before you
think about swatting me off, I’m just going to tell you
I’m here to stay, so you can quit eyeing that pillow over
there like you were thinking of hitting me with it. You
know, my journey was just as long as your own - longer if you consider my size to the ratio of the
distance traveled and-” then I started to weep thinking
of their joyfulness compared to my own, “I’d like to be
celebrating - just like you were. I like laughing and
singing-” I sniffled, “too, ya know!” Then, I sat
back down, wide open I was, vulnerable and defenseless,
“I’d like to be settling in,” and then I just cried. Well,
this set the sisters off into feeling all sorts ofcompassion.
They lost a bit of their fright, I guess, and theybegan to
feel sorry and even apologize. Honor even handed me
her handkerchief that covered me like a blanket, but still
I blew my nose.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Of course,” she cooed, sweetly.
“There, there,” said Blithe. I poured out all sorts
of my feelings, on a rant, I almost was, about how they
humans - just did not understand how lonely this
‘disbelief’ thing of theirs could be and how maybe, all
these years, it just hadn’t gotten to me like it was getting to me now. Now, that I saw the sisters
acting completely free, I just, well I went on and on until
one of the sisters did a very brave thing; and it touched
me to the very soul. She picked me up, in her hand, and
wiped a tear from my eye with the back of her pinkie
finger.
“Mr. Twinks,” Blithe said, “would you like to
come in and celebrate with us?”
She looked at Honor who smiled, not her usual
worry of a smile, but quite relaxed and open indeed, and
exclaimed with her palms pressed together, “Why yes!
Do. O, please Mr. Twinks.” And the two ladies did a
bit of emoting themselves.
They launched into explanations like, “Well,
we’d never seen a cricket before; and living right inside
the house, he was; well, I certainly won’t poke him,
again - you’re right about that, I suppose; I would not
like to be poked by a gigantic cricket. I definitely would
not like that at all.” All the way into, “You must realize we were not
made aware, Mr. Twinks, that we were your shipmates.”
“No, not at all,” and then Blithe, with a far away
look, said slowly, “Ireland,” and then she said
quickly, “Ah-ha!” with her index finger held up to her
chin she burst out her discovery, “You shared our
carriage ride! I did see you, I did!”
Then Honor twisted her lips up a bit, and she
looked like she might all of a sudden be feeling nauseous; but, she only said, “Yes,” in a long, drawn out tone.
The Faerie Ring Dance
Chapter Five * Time to Myself
Not one to give up on a dream, I went straight
for the basement stairs the next day, looking for materials
to build me a wee home. Ten steps into the darkness, I
locked eyes for several moments with what can only be
called a most elegant rat. Her large, charcoal eyes looked
right into mine, and blinked only once. She held in her
arms a wee babe. I looked down as I felt a bit sad for
her - I knew right away she was queen of the rats,
around here, anyway. She could tell by my look that
something had happened, I sensed.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Where is he?!” she cried. I pointed out
toward the fields where I’d flung him. “I spared him his life. That’s all I can say.” She
locked the strings of the baby’s bundle, tightly in her
jaws and took off running on all fours, to the fields to
find her king. For a moment, I regretted having had to
fight him at all, and I must say I’ve never quite felt that
way about rats; but, these two were different. Or,
maybe I was something about being in America, and our
thing about the old homeland - I just felt I’d lost a
friend I could have really counted on, somehow, and
possibly two, now that I’d met his wife.
“I hope she’ll find him,” I said a loud and then I
flew down the stairs, such a bother they are to climb up
and down, and nearly flew straight into the Old House’s
ghost. This was a surprise meeting, indeed; because,
back in England, anyway, it is customary to meet the
house ghost in the attic and the house’s goblin in the
basement.
For a moment, there, I wondered, “Crimeney,
what will be next?” The house ghost darted over into a dingy corner
of the dusty basement made mostly of cement and bare
cedar wood posts and pouted awhile. I
looked for thing - things with which to build a house for
myself. She finally came out of her snit to hover above
me while I worked. R
aw emotion house ghosts are
that’s why, they say, they don’t move onto the nextlife
- or maybe they do and yet a bit of the emotion is left
behind, in spirit. Usually some awful occurrence.
Anyway, I do know, as my mum once taught me, its not
wise to think too much about ghosts and when you’re
not in the company of one, they’re better left forgotten.
They have a way of transmitting their knowledge,
though, and while she was there, I picked up on most of
her story. She’d been the one for which the house was
built - I guess that’s why she clung to it so; but, while
her man was away fighting the Spanish-American war,
she’d received word that his entire unit was downed.
Assuming her true love dead - never to return - she just became so sad, she could not eat, she would not; so, she
starved clean to death, right here in her home. When
her man was released from the fighting - turns out he’d
only lost an arm - he rushed back home only to find her
soul hovering over her body. She appeared, each night,
to watch over him while he slept, up until he was a very
old man; and this is the reason that the town bares the
name Old Soul’s Hollow. The sisters, of course, were
not told of this story when the sale of the house was
made; and it certainly wasn’t written anywhere on any
tri-fold brochure of the Steamship Voyage Company.
No doubt the reason for the last vacating of house
residents was not merely due to a gang of over-confident
rats. That theirs was the entire story was probably only
their opinion. I could tell by the sad mood that drifted
over me, right then, having heard her whole story, this
house ghost was even more likely the culprit. Luckily
for the ladies, I knew how to handle these things. I
gathered the building materials up I had found, despite her annoyance and best hand at haunting me and bid her
good day. She cried only slightly, pushing the
boundaries already she was wanting more of my time
than I cared to give.
I went immediately out into the fields and picked
not one, but two wild flowers. I put them that night,
and again each day, on the windowsill closest the corner
where she liked to sulk. What a change it broughtabout
in her, and I knew it would, too. She’d brighten and
light up every time I walked by; but I, being smartabout
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