THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 5:  Ya calls dis pro-gress?

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Now, as odd as it seemed, a bond was forming between the two American rednecks and the long deceased Irish roughneck.  Perhaps it was being part of the “Brotherhood of the Traveling Shine Jug.”  Or maybe it had something to do with Pegleg being inebriated and O’Neil being staggered by the blast, the general effect being about the same—with one exception, however: one was a bit more entertaining than the other. The fog around Beau was just Beau being himself.

Beau finished his cup and went back for another.  Then he found his shovel, dug a shallow grave, and unceremoniously pushed the captain’s remains into the hole, being unintentionally obvious that he really didn’t want to touch the bones.

“So’s dat be how you boyos lays a body ta rest?  No words, no doffin’ a’ da hat...”

“We’re not wearin’ hats!”

“Dat be aside the point, ya great hulkin’ beastie!” the captain spit out angrily.  “Ya calls dis pro-gress?  A man can’t be laid to res’ wid a little dignity, jus’ dropped in a fookin’ hole....”

O’Neil raised his hands magnanimously and walked towards the shallow grave, motioning to Beau to keep working so as to get the job done as soon as possible.  Still swaying from the blast, O’Neil raised himself to the straightest height he could manage.  “Here lies the earthly remains of Captain Brian... Brian, is it?... Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson.  A superior sailor, a fine figger of a man as attested to by the ladies of Brannock-A-Bend, never a husband but an excellent father to his children, or at least the ones he knew about...”  O’Neil looked over at the Captain for confirmation of his supposition.  The spirit was visibly moved and, with moistening eyes, nodded vigorously and waved his free hand to let O’Neil know he wished him to continue.  “Where was I?  Ah... at least the ones he knew about.  No truer moonshiner there ever was.  A man who met his untimely end at hands of a disgruntled husband and a keg of gunpowder.  With great courage, he threw his mortal body between the exploding powder and his whiskey.  Not one drop was lost, I say, because of his sacrifice.  And while it was untimely, it was befitting the lifestyle of a man who drank, cussed, whored, cut throats and ran Irish whiskey to the English in time of war.”  O’Neil paused.  “Wat ya want me to be sayin’, Pegleg?  I can’t tell ya to rest in peace!  You’re still here!”

“ ’Tis fine!  Fine, me young bucko!  I be truly moved.”  The spirit was blubbering like a baby.  “After all dis time, I feel like I be remembered.”

“Oh, you’re remembered all right!”  Beau interjected as he wiped the dirt from his hands and face with earthly remnants of Paterson’s vest.  “Dis whole community seems to have a cottage industry based on you and moonshine!”

“No shite, ya sez?”  The ghost wiped his eyes, grabbed the two Americans’ empty mugs, and headed towards his tapped keg.  “How be dat possible, lads?  I hasn’t run no whiskey since d’days a’ Queen Lizzy and h’ain’t ben seen in these here parts since d’days a’ Grace O’Malley!”

“Ya ain’t been seen, but ya been heard, you phoney banshee, you!” Beau interjected, clapping his hands free of dirt.

“Yeah, Cap’n.  They been huntin’ you for almost a century,” O’Neil added.  “Ain’t nobody found you yet ’cause you’re on Idy’s property, and she’s been runnin’ ’em off!  You’re a big part of the ‘Moonshine in the Daytime’ festival, and—”

“B’jay’sus, d’wot?”

“The ‘Moonshine in the Daytime’ festival.  A contest to find the best shine in the west of Ireland...”

“D’devil ya say!  Shine?  Moonshine?  Well, I’ll be damned!”

“I ain’t sure, Pegleg, but I dink ya may already be!”

After five centuries of being semi-moderately dead, you’d think the captain would have wanted to be brought up to the speed on the rest of the human race.  Not so.  The boy was in a permanent state of intoxication.  Even more than the mystifying sailless, oarless boat that had motored Beau and O'Neil across the lake, old Pegleg couldn’t get over the idea that a human being could grow as large as Beau.  Man walking on the moon did nothing to impress him, but the idea that O’Neil and Calhoun had each earned what he deemed a king’s ransom playing a sport that allowed you to beat people violently, and the more violently the better, “em-pressed de shite” out of him!

After the burial, the question arose as to what O’Neil and Beau should do with their newest acquisition—a cavern full of five-century-old moonshine!  Their trip to the Emerald Isle was exceeding all expectations (except for the fact they hadn’t been fishing yet!).  It was decided the old whiskey would stay where it was (except for the occasional quart or two taken for “medicinal” purposes).

This particular idea pleased “de B’jay’sus” out of Pegleg.  The captain was perfectly happy to remain with the barrels, and sat down in the same spot he’d sat in for five centuries—though he admitted it felt kind of funny with his bones being gone and all.  While most Irishmen would have been content to let it go at that, to the American mind this made no sense.  They insisted that Pegleg take a small vacation back at Idy’s place so’s to stretch his legs a bit.  Take a look around, see how things had changed, and see the new world as it were.  In three or four days, or as soon as they got the parts they needed to set up their still again, they’d take him back.  Pegleg was perfectly against it until the “boyos” let it slip that women wore skirts that stopped around the knee.  At that point, he did a 180 degree about-face, agreed, and fairly ran to the boat—after all, it had been five centuries since Pegleg had seen a skirt.

The trip across the pond almost queered the whole deal.  Towing the great wooden rowboat behind, the electric motor was barely capable of forward progress, especially with the wind blowing down the lake and raising white caps and two-foot swells.  Just as the captain was sarcastically offering to “gets out and walk,” the battery powering the motor dropped its charge and the motor shut off.  The wind immediately began spinning the two boats.  With great difficulty, Beau managed to get into the old rowboat (which had nearly been blown back to the shore they’d started from, pulling the newer craft behind), and reversed the tow rope.  His ability to row them all across the rough lake in the ugly wooden boat seemed to be a source of satisfaction for the ghost.

As they approached their dock, they could see Fitz-Ryan waiting for them with a stack of unsigned papers.  O’Neil had forgotten that he was coming by with paperwork and the “Widder” Browne.  Both Americans knew that this was going to be a real thrill.  Beau just hoped the old lawyer wouldn’t stroke out and become a ghost himself!  As they reached the dock, they could see Fitzy studying the disgruntled-looking stranger in the back of the boat.

“Hey, Fitzy!”  O’Neil shouted out.  “Where’s the Widow?”

Still studying the Captain, Fitz-Ryan responded.  “Ahh, d’Widder heard that O’Malley wanted t’see ’er and took off on a shoppin’ trip ta Galway Bay.  She sends her r’gards an’ h’apology.”  At the name, “O’Malley,” old Pegleg’s ears noticeably picked up.  Looking mistrustfully at Pegleg as he tied the bow of the boat to the dock, Fitzy asked, “An’ who might dis gent be?”

The two footballers just went speechless and tried to look as guiltless—and sober—as possible.  But to the educated beak of a longtime Irishman, the scent of five-century-old whiskey immediately filled his nose, alerting him that something was up.

“Me name be Captain Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson.”

Fitzy looked down at the two perfectly good legs.  Immediately Calhoun and O’Neil chorused, “It’s an honorary title!”

Pegleg just grinned and added, “H’an I’m a ghoost, not a banshee, ya fookin’ id’jit!”

Fitz-Ryan was dumb struck.  He just stared at the spirit.  “H’ain’t ya ’spoozed ta go inta some sorta light or sompin’?” he muttered.

“Agin wid dat fookin’ light!”  Pegleg snatched the bottle he'd given Beau from his hand and popped the cork out.  Holding it under the lawyer’s nose, he said to the stammering, confused soul, “Ya looks ta me ta be a boyo who knows a good whiskey when he smells one.  Take a pull  a’ dis shine.  Queen Lizzy’s best.  I made it ma’sel’.”

Whatever fears and apprehensions Fitz-Ryan harbored disappeared when the essence of Paterson’s brew reached his face.  It wasn’t shine, but something else.  Something old and warm... like an old, well broken-in fisherman’s sweater.  Fitz-Ryan took the bottle, swirled the liquid, and lifted the container to the sun.  The color was a rich, golden brown like he had never seen before.  He dipped his pinky slowly into the bottle’s mouth and placed the tip against his tongue.  He froze deathly still.

“Ga’wan wid yerself, dis h’ain’t no shine!”  His eyes suddenly became the size of silver dollars with realization as he spoke to the spirit, “Y’are the traitor, Cap’n Paterson.  Tere’s been a rumor ’round here for centuries, dat Shane O’Neill had ya buried alive in these hills wid fif’y huge barrels of whiskey meant fer da h’English.  Traitor dat y’are, hew was goona be sellin’ dem barrels for English money!”

 “Not fer d’English, boyo.  D’Queen.  I’d get’er drunk and pomp’er fer information... which usually meant I had ta pomp her, which usually meant I’d have ta be drunk me self!  Nice woman, but the oogliest bit a’ quim I ever seen in me life—h’an I seen some quim, boyos.  Ya kin believe dat!  I did me part for Ireland and Shane O’Neill, but Shane kept it quiet.  A spy I was, but not a good’un.  I was better at makin’ whiskey sail out Galway Bay.  An’ Shane had nuttin’ ta do wid it.  Dat old bastard O’Malley found out I was humpin’ his wife an’ he blew me ta pieces wid a keg o’ goon powder!”

“O’Malley, ya say?”

It had been two days since anyone in or around Brannock-A-Bend had heard the wail of the banshee.  All the tourists at the B&Bs, the hotels, and the brand new O’Malley motel, who spookily thrilled every time old Pegleg popped a cork and let out a yell, were getting restless.  The locals were beginning to panic, which in a small community that based eighty percent of its economy on moonshine and ‘other’ spirits, is never a good thing.  The whole town was up in arms.  To their collective minds, the sudden loss of their banshee centered around the two Americans at old Ida O’Neil’s house.  After nearly two weeks they still hadn’t come into town to, well, make themselves be known to the population.  The only Brannock-A-Benders to have met them had been Shamus Finnerty (who was pretty much looked upon as the town’s first choice for village idiot), who said they seemed okay, and Barrister Fitz-Ryan.  Fitz-Ryan, who always had more news than the Brannock-A-Bend Daily Register, had been strangely quiet on the subject, which led to the suspicion that the old shyster might know more than he was letting on.

To a small town that for centuries thought it was living in the shadow of a real-life banshee, it was downright unnerving.

The O’Malleys had been the town’s hereditary mayors for at least two hundred years, and probably longer.  A democratic voting process hadn’t done much to alter the situation as the O’Malleys always counted the votes.  At Mayor O’Malley’s request, the two Dougal Brothers, the town’s sanitation workers and otherwise known as “O’Malley’s Muscle,” were sent out to find Barrister Fitz-Ryan for the purpose of having “a little chat.”

Darrel Dougal, when he wasn’t picking up garbage or breaking arms at the behest of the O’Malleys, could usually be found with a bottle of Jameson’s and a gallon of dark beer at O’Malley’s tavern—or anybody else’s tavern, for that matter.  He had done this since his days as an under-aged but over-sized dock worker in Galway Bay.

Brave men grown faint of heart spoke in hushed tones of the time when the Russian circus, reaching out to all the small communities of the world, landed at Galway Bay for three days of special performances.  Brannock-A-Bend and the surrounding towns filled up with hundreds of British tourist who wished to celebrate this rare event.  Dougal made it clear and well known that he had no love for Englishers and in fact found them quite annoying.  On the first night of scheduled performance, Dougal sat in a shady tavern in a less-than-fashionable section of town dropping double shots of whiskey into mugs of Guinness and cursing the Brits.

Over at the nearby docks, a gorilla slipped his cage and made his way through the town, and sure enough, right into the tavern Dougal sat in.  Well, the patrons vacated like roaches caught when the lights were flipped on, but Dougal was smashed and never moved.  To the bartender’s horror, the poor man being trapped behind his bar, the ape walked up behind Dougal and threw its great, hairy arms around his chest.  It wakened Dougal from his drowse.  He turned his head and locked eyes with the gorilla, then grabbed his beer mug and smashed the great ape right in the face.  The hairy beast dropped his grip and fell backwards with Dougal falling on top of it.  They wrestled on the floor, in a mutual death grip, then rose to their feet and destroyed most of the furniture in the place on each other.  As the patrons began slipping back in through the windows they’d jumped out of, so’s they might better enjoy the fight, the two combatants bounced past them and out into the alley—which immediately drew the patrons to the bar for another round.

They assumed the stance of a mob listening to a good prize fight on the wireless.  For a long hour, the sounds of breaking glass, cracking bones, and groans, grunts, and beer mugs being refilled could be heard by the patrons.  At last it grew silent in the alley and they waited to see who or what the victor was.  Staggering in, cut up, broken and bloody, Dougal dragged himself slowly through what was left of the doors.  Going up to the bar, he grabbed a mug of beer, emptied it in one swallow, looked at the bartender, and said, “How d’hell j’a like d’nerve a’ dat ugly English broad in the fur coat, comin’ in and tryin’ to put’er h’arms aroun’ me!”

Daniel Dougal was even worse.  For years it was thought that he was an assassin for the IRA.  When the IRA got wind of the rumor, they threatened to burn Brannock-A-Bend to the ground if they didn’t dispel it immediately!  Daniel Dougal was too violent even for the likes of them, and association with him would lower their “kinder, gentler” image.  He was a consummate boozer, a man of whom it was said blood had been found in his alcohol system.  He preferred backyard poitín to manufactured whiskey, reveling in its potency and ability to numb the mind and body—an admirable thing in a brawl.

To have these two looking for you for a chat was never a good thing, and no one knew that better than Fitz-Ryan.  As Brannock-A-Bend’s one and only Barrister, the O’Malleys had often employed him to go to a surrounding community on a Sunday morning and bail the Dougal brothers out.  Fitzy knew all too well what these two hooligans were capable of.  But Fitz-Ryan had been around for a while and knew, considering the recent turn of events, that the “Flyin’ O’Malleys” would probably come looking for him.  What he thought of the O’Malleys was not publicly known, but most of  Brannock-A-Bend suspected that their lawyer was living proof that you didn’t have to like someone to take their money.

Fitzy knew to take the war to a favorable battleground.  He went to his favorite pub and waited outside for his enemy.  When he saw the Dougal brothers coming, he ducked inside, certain that he had been spotted.  By the time the brothers came in, the lawyer had three shots and three beers lined up and was leaning on the bar like he hadn't a care in the world.  The brothers walked up until they stood toe to toe with the Barrister.

Daniel pushed his face forward.  “D’mayor would be havin’ a few words wid ya, Hubert Fitz-Ryan.”

“Sure, sure, sure!  But first, I saw you boys comin’...”  Fitz-Ryan had his Irish full-on now as he handed each of the brothers a shot.  “Thir’sty werk we be employed at.  Down d’hatch!”

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