Paddy sniffs. He might want to keep pouting, but it appears the lure of telling the story is too strong to resist. “Okay. So … as I was sayin’ … there lived in Ireland a hag who hailed by the name of Mal. At the same time, there lived a great warrior who hailed by the name of Cú Chulainn. He was one of the Red Branch Knights, the warrior band of the High Kind of Ulster, Conchobar mac Nessa…”
I have to blink my eyes several times just in an attempt to keep all these Irish words straight, but I give up shortly after the hag’s name. I’ll have to do some Googling later to see what I can resurrect from this conversation. I encourage him with smiles and nods, pretending I’m totally comprehending every word.
“…Cú Chulainn was said to be handsome and fierce, the kind of man all the ladies fancy. Unfortunately for him, he caught the attention of Mal the hag. She’s said to have fallen in love with him upon first sight and became dogged in her pursuit. She refused to take no for an answer. His only recourse was to run, and run he did, indeed … all the way to the edges of the Cliffs of Moher.”
“Where are those cliffs?” I ask.
“Just a skip from here, lass. You could go on foot and be there in less than an hour.”
“Really?” I take a sip from my beer, suddenly very intrigued by the idea of a late-night walk by a cliff. I must really be drunk.
“I wouldn’a lie to ye.” Paddy’s ready to be offended.
“No, of course not.” I wave his worry off, anxious to hear the rest. “Tell the rest of the story.”
“Right, so, he reached Loop Head at the mouth of the Shannon River and is said to have jumped from there to the Diarmuid and Grainne’s Rock.”
“He tried to escape by jumping onto a rock? Was that just a short-term solution or what?”
“It’s not a rock. It’s an island.”
“Oh. That makes complete sense.” I have to battle not to roll my eyes.
“Aye. But the problem is, this hag was veeerrrra determined. So she jumped too, and although she was a smaller sort, and bent over and stone-ugly as hags tend to be, the wind caught her skirts like the sail of a ship and sent her over to the island as well.”
“Oh, bad news for that warrior guy,” I say. “Talk about a Survivor episode gone really wrong.”
“I don’t folla ye.”
“Never mind. Wrong century. Continue, please.”
“Well, Cú Chulainn realizing he was trapped, made another leap, this time in the other direction.”
“Back to Ireland?”
“Yes, back to the Loop Head, over the Shannon River.”
“Did he make it?”
“Yes, he did.” Paddy beams at me.
“Did she follow?”
“Yes, she did.” He beams again.
“And?”
“And she crashed into the rocks and died. The end.”
My jaw drops open, and I look from Paddy to William. The slightly larger man has dropped his forehead into his hand.
“Och, Paddy. Ye’re hopeless when it comes to a punchline.”
“What? That was classic storytelling procedure, that was. Build em up and then let ‘em plummet back down to earth.” He pokes his finger into the table for emphasis and then he leans back in his chair, raising his hand for the bartender’s attention.
William picks up the story while Paddy focuses on getting his next pint. “He had it mostly right. The hag jumps as well, still pursuing yer man there, but the wind is going against her this time, ye see, and so her skirts fly up like a sail in the wind and she’s pulled out to sea where she’s dashed against the rocks below and shattered into a million tiny pieces.” He grins, obviously very proud of himself. “Now there’s how ye tell a punchline.”
“A million pieces?”
“A million or so. Mebbe two. And if ye look, ye can see a rock down there in the shape of her ugly face, staring out to sea. We call it Hag’s Head and it lies in Malbay, the water named for her.”
“And I could walk there from here?” My Guiness-buzzed brain is picturing it already. I could use some fresh air. It’s getting really beer-stinky in here. It could be my breath.
“The cliffs are no place to be walkin’ at night,” says a voice over my shoulder.
All of us look up in time to see a broad-shouldered mountain of a man standing behind me. He looks like he just came back from the cliffs directly to this pub, the way his hair is scattered all over his head and his clothing rough with what looks like sea salt. Hubba, bubba, he is hot.
“Oy, William, look what the cat dragged in!” Paddy whacks his friend on the upper arm. “It’s Donal, the old man o’ the sea.”
William pulls out a chair. “Take a load off. Have a pint.”
“I’ve already had one. Now it’s time to go home. Lots of work to do and not enough hours in the day to do it.”
“Ye work too hard, lad. Look, we found a pretty lass to take yer mind off all o’ that farming business.”
I stand, seeing that he doesn’t want to be lured in any more than that old warrior did. “That’s okay. I’m leaving too. It was nice meeting you and I really enjoyed the story.”
“Ye’re leavin’ too?” Paddy frowns and then looks at his friend. “Is it me or is the younger generation failing to appreciate the fine art of having a pint and a gab to settle the stomach?”
“Oh, trust me, I have mastered that whole program,” I say. “I’ve already had way too many pints as it is and all I’ve done all night is gab.” I take my purse and jacket off the back of my chair. “So, which way to the bed and breakfast called … uh … oh, crap. I forgot the name of it.” Did I ever know the name of it? At this point my brain is too fogged in to remember.
“What’s the name of the bean an ti?” asks Donal. “We’ll probably know her.”
“O’Grady? I think?
“Aye,” says Paddy, smiling as he rubs his stomach absently. “Siobhan O’Grady of Doolin. I knew her well, once.”
William rolls his eyes. “Oy, that’s enough, Paddy. You didn’t know her a’tall.”
“Yes, I did. I knew her verra well, as a matter of fact.”
William waves him off. “Donal here can take ye.”
I look at Donal and he nods.
I’m only a little concerned about the fact that he looks like he weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds of pure, solid muscle. A glance at his hands tells me he could wring my neck with just one while he drinks a pint of beer with the other. Holy shit. It takes everything I have not to let my eyes stray farther down.
“No need to worry about Donal,” says Paddy, smiling as he watches me. “He’s as big as a lion but gentle as a lamb. A newborn pink one.”
“Well, now, that’s not exactly true, is it?” asks William. When he sees my look of alarm he corrects himself. “O’ course he’s gentle. Never’d hurt a lady. Only perhaps a man who needs a bit of an attitude adjustment.” He holds up a gnarled finger and shakes it for emphasis. “But even then not without provocation.” He nods as if he’s decided for me that all will be well.
I look at Donal to see how he’s managing this review of his character. He shrugs. “On my honor I never taught a lesson to any man who didn’t ask me for it with a please.”
The three of them chuckle over some inside joke, but it does make me feel a little more safe about the idea of being alone with him, especially when Paddy adds the last little nugget of information.
“I’d trust him to walk me own sister home. And that’s the best recommendation a body can get from Paddy Horahan.”
William nods and points at his friend. “You can count on that one. His sister’s a real looker.”
Paddy whacks his friend on the shoulder. “Watch it, now. She’s a married woman.”
“Doesn’t change the facts.”
“No, I suppose not.”
The two go back to drinking beers and soon the talk of fairies resumes.