Sully groaned aloud as morning sunlight cascaded through the windowpanes to set his brain afire. Flaming orange motes danced a jig before his half opened eyes; sour whiskey taste clogged his furred tongue as his temples thrummed with the father of all headaches. In a petulant croak he called out, “Bridgey, bring the honey, girl!”
There was no answer. Sully heaved himself painfully out of his chair. The embers of the fire were hidden beneath thick grey ash. With ill-tempered bile rising within him he glared at the cold teapot beside the cold bacon and potatoes on the table. Tripping over his boots he cursed and kicked at them.
“Bridgey, bring me the honey an’ a spoon, or I’ll skelp the skin off your bones. Bridgey, where are y’girl?”
Stumbling and muttering he searched shelf and cupboard for the crock, longing for the soothing sweetness of honey to drive away the whiskey bitterness from his mouth. The quacking of unfed ducks down at the lake diverted his attention. He fumbled with the latch and swung the door ajar, wincing at the stream of sunlight which shafted in like a volley of golden arrows.
There she was, the idle little brat, curled up on a stone with a shawl around her and that cheeky old drake. This time he would teach her a lesson that she’d remember to her dying day!
Snatching the blackthorn stick from behind the door he roared like a wounded lion.
“Bridgeeeeeeee!”
Like a shot the little girl sprang up. Mister Rafferty, quacking and ruffled, slid from her knees awkwardly. Bridgey’s face went white with fright at the sight of her uncle brandishing the blackthorn stick as he strode barefoot toward her.
“Er, er, top of the mornin’ to you, sir. I was about to feed the ducks.”
A large vein stood out on Sully’s temple, pulsing like a nightingale’s throat. His voice was thick and harsh.
“Feed the ducks, is it? What about me, don’t I get fed? The place is like a midden—cold food, no fire, no tea or honey, and you out here sleepin’ your shiftless life away!”
Sully had begun moving this way and that, cutting off any possible retreat. Bridgey had the lake at her back. There was no way she might avoid a skelping.
“Uncle, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my fault. Me hands were wet an’ the honey crock slipped off into the water. I’ll never do it again.”
Sully smiled wickedly, raising the heavy stick.
“So, you’ll not do it again, eh girl. You’ll be lucky if you have legs to stand on after I’m done with you, me lazy scut!”
He swung the stick in a vicious arc. Bridgey dodged to one side. Sully slipped and fell heavily in the mud-he came up shouting and covered in brown slime.
“Cummere, I’ll skelp the skin off your bo—”
And then Mister Rafferty was upon him, quacking and flapping. As if on a given signal the ducks came out with a rush from the water and piled in on Sully. Bridgey could hardly make out her uncle—he was enveloped in hissing, quacking, feather-beating, web-clawing birds. Sully lost the blackthorn stick in the mud. Frantically he beat about, his arms milling wide, slipping, falling, skidding in the slutchy mud as he ranted and roared.
“I’ll kill yeh, d’you hear me! I’ll wring your blasted necks!”
Out in the middle of the lake bubbles began bursting on the surface. Bridgey cried aloud in terror.
“Save us, Grimblett! Oh do something, please!”
Sully thrust the birds from him with a mighty effort and stepped backward to gain a breathing space.
But he stepped back into the lake!
He slid in the sloping shallows and overbalanced. Blowing water from his nostrils and wiping his face upon a wet sleeve he stood there, his clawing hands shaking at Bridgey.
“I’ll throttle the life from yeh, you and those ducks!”
The lake behind Sully McConville began bubbling madly, as if the waters were boiling. He tried pulling himself forward but slid further backwards. Something was wrapped around his feet; he felt the water lapping about his chest. A look of fear crossed his ugly features.
“Bridgey, help me, girl. Help me!”
Now the thick, trailing green fronds appeared. They draped about his arms and neck, caressing him with coldness they had fetched up from the depths. Sully tried feebly to fight against them, but they piled upon him like the tentacles of some unknown emerald monster. Colossal bubbles created waves upon the lake that filled his mouth and flooded his ears.
“Save me, girl, Bridgeeeeeee!”
She watched, fascinated, as a waving sloppy frond wrapped itself around her uncle’s mouth and nostrils, stifling his cries forever. Back, back he was dragged until he vanished beneath the surface. The waters gave one final bulking swirl; a single bubble burst up from the depths into the sunlight. Then calm reigned over the scene. To any passing traveller it would have made a charming rustic picture: the little ragged girl standing in the sunshine with her ducks on the banks of a quiet lake.
Sully McConville’s boots burned merrily on the turf fire. Bridgey sat in his chair, Mister Rafferty at her feet like a faithful pet dog. Ducks perched on the shelf, windowsill and table, some of them eating the remains of the cold potatoes from the supper plate. Bridgey stirred the drake gently with her bare foot.
“Mister Rafferty, d’you think you could tell your family to lay lots of eggs? Then in a day or two perhaps you and me will go to Ballymain market and get more honey, white bread too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sure it’s grand stuff the honey is.”
She rose and went to lean on the windowsill, gazing out at the lake. “And yourself, Grimblett, we’ll bring honey back for you and all. Sure, it’ll help you to get rid of the nasty taste, so it will.”
6
Waiting, waiting, year by year,
as centuries turn to dust;
here’s a ghost you shouldn’t fear,
whose tale is so unjust.
Waiting through each season
in a wayside lane,
for a simple reason—
loneliness and pain.
Will you see him as you pass,
Gilly, standing there
midst the hedges and the grass?
His life was so unfair.
Waiting, waiting, year by year,
till winter has begun,
or when the spring is drawing near,
through rain and wind and sun.
Far away the birds mayfly,
‘cross clouds, ‘neath skies of grey—
hear the ghostly boy’s sad cry.
Oh why must Gilly stay?
The Sad History of Gilly Bodkin
Life had never been much fun for Gilly Bodkin.
Death was even less of a joke, considering that he had been confined to the same field and lane since the day of his untimely end. That event had taken place in the year 1690, though Gilly was not much good at dates and figures, or reading and writing—in fact he was a total stranger to anything remotely connected to learning. Being the son of a peasant laborer and one of a family of thirteen children, the chances of his being educated were extremely thin, so any scrap of knowledge Gilly had acquired was from his parents or kin. He knew that one cow made one, two cows were a pair, and beyond that it was either a “big herd,” or a “mizzuble little ‘un.” Chickens, pigs, horses and goats were much the same, so were people. Gilly recalled having his ears soundly boxed by his mother for calling Squire Manfield’s four daughters a mizzuble little herd.