THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 4:  You Go into the Fookin' Light, I Like It Here!

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

O’Neil was pretty dizzy.  The blast had blown Idy’s still to the other end of the cave and had taken down what appeared to be a solid wall.  There was unboiled mash all over the place, and the whole cave smelled like a Louisiana cornbread baking contest.  As his hearing slowly returned, he tried to focus in on what the strange creature in the three-cornered hat was saying.  It was busy studying Beau as he juggled the pewter mug he held in his hand.  It was obvious he'd never seen anyone that large before.  It wasn’t long before it spied the septic tank.

“What d’hell is dis ting?” he said, pondering the tank.  Then a big grin spread across his face.  “Tell me dis h’aint a boil black pot!  You two boyos are moonshiners!  Saints be praised, I ben rescued by two o’ me own!  Drinks h’on me!”  He was in a state near-ecstasy as he danced a jig towards the giant casks pressed into the cave wall.  He grabbed two more mugs partially hidden behind a strangely-but-familiarly dressed skeleton, rubbed the dust off the mugs on his shirt, then turned the tap spigot and out shot not the clear flow of moonshine, but a deep golden-colored fluid.  The shade turned the tap off, paused thoughfully, and looked at his liberators.  “What century be we in?”

“Twenty-first.”

“Twenny-fir... well den, have a five-century-aged mug a’ Irish whiskey!  Dis here be ta las’ bits a’ h’English Queen Lizzy’s private stock!”

“Queen Lizz...”  O’Neil had picked that moment to get his hearing fully back.  “You mean Eizabeth the First, the Virgin Queen?”

“The... the what?  Believe old Pegleg, Lizzy was nooo virgin!  She might have been too ossified to do the deed at times, but dat woman was never a virgin!  She could even breathe tru’er ears, a trick she learned from her da, ole Henry eight, I’m more tan sure!”  The smile crossed his face again.  “H’en I’d swear to it in a court a’ law!”  He handed them the mugs, and O’Neil almost spilled his, thinking it was all an illusion of some sort caused by having a moonshine still exploded in front of him.  “B’jay-sus, I ben drinkin’ for five hun’red years non-stop, an’ I’m steadier than tat!  Or has ya the dropsies, poor lad?”  O’Neil shook his head.  “Well, be more careful, dis here stooff’s worth a Queen’s ransom by now, sure it is.  As I was sayin’, Lizzie was no virgin!  An’ d’ole girl could hoist a cup wid d’best sailor on the sea.  She loved her Irish mug, I’ll be tellin’ ya, boyos.  Yeh, she could hoist a cup, but she couldn’t hold wad was in it.  When the Spanish Armada was spotted off d’coast, I was droppin’ a load for the ole girl.  She was certain her head was as good as gone.  She was tappin’ kegs faster’n I could get ’em off me ship!  Nex’ ting I knows, she strappin’ on parts of an ole suit of h’armor and ridin’ out to meet ’em.  Well, I’ll tells ya, boyos, t’English went crazy!  ‘Oh, Queen Liz is fearless!,’  ‘Ole Bess’ll whip ’em by ’erself!’  Ha!  The old broad was snockered ta da knockers!  She was so banged out, she were headin’ towards t’wrong coast!  Ole Pegleg had to run ’er down and turn ’er ’round!”

The shade paused at the septic tank.  “Wad I could a’ dune wid you!” he said to it, patting its side almost lovingly.  And then he downed the entire contents of the mug with one toss of his arm.  His face turned red, his eyes crossed, and out came a long moaning whine followed by three short wups and a long, less articulated, “aaahhhhh...”

O’Neil and Calhoun’s heads snapped around towards each other and chorused, “IT’S A REBEL YELL!!!”

“Wad?” replied the shade, who was now propped up against the tank.

“A rebel yell!  For years, folkses around here said you were a banshee trapped in—”

“Wad d’hell is dis great lumberin’ fool talkin’ ’bout?” Pegleg cut Beau off.  “Banshee?  BANSHEE!!!  Dere hasn’ ben no banshee in dis mountain for five centuries.  I’m a ghoost, an’ have ben for ta las’ five hun’red years.  Dey got sum nerve callin’ Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson a—”

“Okay, okay, calm down now.”  O’Neil saw that the spiritual error was ruffling the spirit’s feathers.  “What did they know?  They heard your yell... do you do that ev’ry time you take a drink?  Judgin’ by what we heard, I’m surprised there’s anything left in those barrels!”

“’Ceptin’ the two mugs I gives ta you two, evy drop’s still in dose casks as safe as dey was five hun’red back, ’cept for t’angel’s share, a’ course.”

The angel’s share caught Beau’s attention.  “Angel’s share?  Wad dat?”

The ghost look at O’Neil.  “I liked him so much more when I taught he couldn’t talk, big, hulkin’ beast dat he is!  What kind a’ moonshiners are you boyos?  T’angel’s share.  When ya put it in d’barrel t’age, it’s always a little less when you open it oop agin.  T’ole monks use ta say their whiskey was so good, t’angels took a share of every ruin-hoff.”

“That’s all the alcohol seeping into the barrel wood...” O’Neil offered to Beau, remembering his basic chemistry.

“Oh yeh?  Sez h’you!” the spirit snapped at him.  “Y’aint never seen a piss-eyed angel, has ya?  I’m surprised God let’s dos looshes back through d’Pearly Gates!  Wad’s missin’ from dose barrels is a tribute to me n’ me brewers!”  As he was talking, the ‘boyos’ noticed that the spirit’s cup was re-spiriting itself, filling itself to the brim.  Looking down into his cup, the lost soul continued.  “An’ me?  I ben drinkin’ the same coop a’ whiskey since d’day I died!  Hey, from wad I heard from a coople a’ guys sneakin’ out a’ Idy’s place about fif’y years ago, you fellers are richer tan Millie’s cream!”

O’Neil blinked at the spirit.  “You knew Aunt Idy?”

“Oh, Aunt Idy, is it?  Never met t’woman.”

“But you said...”

“I said wad I heard a couple guys sneakin’ out  a’ Idy’s place say.  They stashed her barrels here till the dark o’ d’moon, then ruin it pas’ t’English in the river and right out through Galway Bay.  Jus’ like I done!  The ole girl had sum business goin’ fer a time.  From wad I heard dem boys a sayin’ aboot d’price of a barrel a’ good shine whiskey, why dems gotta be wert ten... maybe twenny pounds English a barrel, h’en it’s ‘finders, kapers’ wid moonshine, especially ya bein’ Idy’s kin en all!”

“More like ten or twenty thousand pounds, or more... a barrel,” Beau mumbled.  “At five hundred years aged, I wouldn’t be surprised if a quart of that juice pulled over a hundred pounds a bottle!”

The spirit heard him.  His knees began to shake, and it spread to his whole body.  “Der ain’t dat mooch money in d’whole werl!  You’re pullin’ me peg leg, right?”

Beau just shook his head ‘no.’  The spirit collapsed to his knees and raised his clasped hands (still holding the mug) as if in prayer and shouted, “Merciful God h’en all d’saints, ya found a way t’poonish me for me sin-filled life!  All dat work, all dat ass-kissin’ of dat stupid English bitch of a Queen, all dat midnight ruinin’ out a’ Galway Bay... an’ dees two boobs are gonna get all me loot!  Sweet Jay’sus, say it’ain’t so!”  As he ranted, the far end of the cave began filling with an illuminating, heavenly light.  “Ah shite, here we go agin.”  Grabbing the side of the tank, he pulled himself off his knees into a standing position.  “Alls I has to do is mention d’name a d’lord, in vain or utherwise, h’en tat fookin’ light shows oop!”

“Aren’t you supposed to go into that light when you die?”

The Captain looked at O’Neil with disgust.  “You go into the fookin’ light, I like it here!  Wad’cha tink dat light is gonna do wid the likes a’ me?  Let me gives ya some clues.  Let’s see...  Oh!  I ran Irish whiskey ta d’English durin’ wartime.  I stole, I cussed, I cut a few t’roats—dat’s a good one—lied, cheated...  In da late 1500s, or there aboots, I was bangin’ d’brains out a’ an Irish housewife in Brannock-A-Bend.  She got so crazy an’ bored wid her life, she grabbed a sword, learned how t’use it, and turned pirate!  But before she turned, Grace O’Malley filed rape charges on me wid d’local mayor—who happened to be her husband—and while I was out der bangin’ a’ h’English Queen for God n’ coun’try, she got me tried, convicted, excommunicated from Hooly Muther Church—dat by itself is a one way passage t’hell!—an’ sentenced to be hanged t’death as soon as I gots back inta town!  But nuttin’ pers’nal.  She knew h’I wouldn’t hang...  She knew her crazy husban’ twice her age would do me h’in firs’!  Sure enuff!  When Ole Grace got to be called d’muther of h’all rebellions, mockin’ her husban’s inability to keep’er in check, d’bastard waited for me to come into dis here cave for a pick up, an’ he rolled a full cask a’ goon powder into the fires beneath me still pots.  D’bas’turd got me good, an’ it t’weren’t like he were a saint!  The fookerhead was ta biggest deaf in Galway Bay!  It wasn’t my fault  his wife couldn’ find his pecker wid a tweezer.  Now keepin’ all dat h’in mind... where d’fook do ya tink that light would be droppin’ me off?  No tanks, I’ll stay right here.  Five hun’red years a’ bein’ droonk without a hangover, havin’ all t’whiskey I can down in one cup, I don’t have ta work, listen to a woman bitchin’, or worry ’bout money.  Dis is as close t’heaven as I gets.  You go into the fookin’ light, I be happy right here!”

Beau looked at O’Neil.  “He’s got a point, ya know!”  To the ghost’s surprise, O’Neil nodded in agreement.  “Yeah, I ’spose after five hundred years, this here cave is more his than Idy’s.  And as far as the hooch goes, Cap’n, I can’t quite see how two guys planning on mass moonshinin’ can explain to the Irish authorities how they found  twenny—”

“More likes fif’y, sirs.  Dey goes hafway through da mountain,” the ghost interjected, pointing in the dark cavern. 

O’Neil just stared at the barrels as if mentally counting.  “...Okay.  Fif’y barrels of Irish whiskey, five hun’red years old, when their ole Aunt Idy’s still blew up from a propane canister without a regulator!  I don’t think they’d buy a story that had a ninety-year-old woman dyin’ and leavin’ the propane burner on for three months!  And I’m really not of a mind to spend ten years in an Irish prison for moonshinin’.  ’Sides, I still wanna run off a few thousand gallons of Mad Dash.”  O’Neil smiled, raised the mug to the captain, and grinned.  “We gotta work out a few details, but on occasion, I'm gonna swipe a bottle or two of dis here stuff.  Dis ain’t shine, dis is the real McCoy, aged in oak!”  The spirit nodded in agreement and walked behind a barrel.  He re-emerged with two empty, corked bottles.  Washing them off in the stream, he proceeded to fill both of them from the tapped barrel.  When they were filled, he handed one to each of the Americans.

“Den, it be agreed.  An’ by d’way, ya kin do ten years standin’ on yer head.  I know.  Ten years t’ain’t nuttin’!  Now!  Who be dis McCoy ya be talkin’ of, an’ what’s he gots ta be doin’ with me whiskey?”

Then he paused, looking over at the bones in the  corner.  “Do ya tink one a’ you boyos kin get a shovel h’en lay me to rest?”

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