THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 9:  We Be All h’on the Same Side, Wantin’ d’Same Ting... More or Less!

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Before Beau had even made it home, O’Neil was keenly aware that his partner had beaten down both the local leg-breakers.  It was as if the whole town had declared a holiday, hopped in a car, and headed out to Idy O’Neil’s homestead.  Word had spread at lightning speed through the sleepy little Connemara settlement that O’Malley’s muscle had been smacked down.  It had spurred a race to get to Idy’s before the conquering hero returned.  This was all done mainly under the guise of neighborly “welcome-wagon” visits, many the households of Brannock-A-Bend donating its supper to the cause, and causing a mass party to spontaneously erupt.  When people started arriving, O’Neil was throwing a few lures off the end of the dock, having just broken down his kitchen stove moonshine lab.

O’Neil hadn’t worked this hard since his school days’ examination cramming sessions—amazing how much you can learn when a scholarship is at risk.  He had cracked the formulas for both Idy’s brew and Pegleg’s hooch; tinkered, tested, and tasted it to perfection... or thereabouts.  And he had created a Frankensteinian additive that might one day eliminate the need to age whiskey!  When he realized he had the liquor industry right by the barrels, he was filled with a strong humanitarian feeling of goodness, otherwise known as greed—the goddamned formula could be worth millions.  O’Neil decided to keep this to himself.  If word got out, there’d be panic on Wall Street.  Lord, if Pegleg found out, he’d start haunting for real.  O’Neil could hear him already: “Wat d’fook are yer talkin’ ’bout, makin’ me whiskey wid dose ga’damned chemicals.  It h’aint nach’rel!”

He'd made a final run off of about a quart and a half of the stuff while the captain was on his football break—as O’Neil estimated, he had enough juice to make three large septic tanks full of shine, a couple of Idy’s still runs, and still have enough left to duplicate the formula precisely.  He’d been a little loose in his methods—a little of this, a little of that.  Trouble was, he knew of what, but not how much.  He poured it from the beakers into Idy’s jug; there was nothing left in it anyway.

When the ghost was ready to return to the cave, he volunteered to take the damned ’lectrik boat and store the jug away, safe from prying eyes.  It was better than volunteering to help O’Neil take down the lab.  That would have been too close to real work for the captain.

When Beau pulled up in front of the house, it resembled a parade for Super Bowl winners in downtown Cleveland.  He’d driven all the way back home clutching the pole and a handful of nine-inch shark hooks he’d snatched on the way out McNally’s door.  He’d pushed his way out of the truck, pushed through the adoring crowd, and went up to O’Neil.  He leaned into O’Neil.  His lips trembled as he tried to form words.  In a strange, batman-like voice, he uttered “he tasks me,” pushed O’Neil aside, staggered into the rowboat, and with a mighty pull of the oars drove the boat into the water.  With a determined, defiant look he rowed slowly towards the opposite shore.  The crowd was silenced.  They watched reverently as the great man went about his business.  Finally, from the back of the crowd, old man Murphy’s voice rose.  “Yep!  H’it’s h’all over a fookin’ pike!”

At about the midway point, Beau was passed by Pegleg motoring towards the mob surrounding O’Neil with a small barrel in the boat.  Pegleg waved; Beau never looked up.  Fitz-Ryan, with Father O’Doul and Sister Maria, had arrived and pushed through the crowd to protect O’Neil from the violent throes of neighborly friendship.  The falling of the Dougals was a big community affair.  Truly, a hero of the ilk of Saint Paddy or Shane O’Neill was in their midst—and he’d walked right past them to go fishing!  This was not good.  The grumbles were setting in.

When Pegleg came sliding along the dock, the crowd turned its attention to him.  Fitzy, Father Sean, and O’Neil ran to the boat to tie him to the dock.  Fitz-Ryan climbed into the craft to help with the barrel.  “Are ye daft, man?  Wad are ya doin’ here?” he whispered.

The dead pirate smiled and whispered back, “H’I’m savin’ yer lives, ya fookin’ ole fool! I hear’d dere be grumblin’ in the mizzenmast.”  Having gotten out of having to lift the barrel, Pegleg turned his smile and gaze to the gathering mob, who was wondering why the weird-looking stranger was holding on to the pewter mug full of liquor.  “Hullo, hullo, mate—er, frien’s.  Master Beauregard sends his regrets, but a man a’ h’honor mus’ do d’honorable ting!”  No one in the crowd had the faintest idea what the ghost was talking about, but it sounded good, so in the finest Irish tradition they agreed with him.  “Master Beauregard ’as tol’ me ta brings ya’all dis here barr’l of the finest nectar the colonies has t’offer.  He mades it hisself with his lifelong friend, young Michael here, by d’light h’of a harvest moon in d’fair state a’ h’East Angeles.  Aged in glass, with O’Neil’s h’own sac’hret chemicals h’added fer a sof’ golden tint.  Aye, a finer brew-up t’aint in h’all a’ Ireland!”  Pegleg reached down and handed two pitchers to Fitz-Ryan and the priest to fill from the cask, pushing O’Neil into the house to get every glass and mug he could find.  “Belly-oop ta da bar, folk and...”

A voice rose from the crowd.  “H’en who might chew be, friend?”  It was Constable Harold Callahan, the village cop.  The spirit looked at him and froze, considering his next move.

“Me name is Brian... MacPhail.  H’I be d’new... grouns’keeper.  I be Charley’s h’estrange bruther, h’if ya please.”

“Bruther, is it?  Didn’t know Charley had no bruther?”

“Well, h’oscifer, we weren’t h’real close.  Now, here...”  He filled a beer mug straight from the keg and handed it to Callahan.  “Me h’an me dear, sainted bruther were never of a mind, but towards the end he wrote me as ta how he loved ole Idy McNeil and dis here place.  ‘Brian’ says he, ‘Brian lad, if ever d’good Lord takes me, put h’our past be’eyend and takes me place!’  Sure enuff, here I be!  H’an it feel likes h’I ben here for fi’unred years already!”  Pegleg turned his head to the priest and winked.  If the cop had any more questions, the first whiff of Paterson’s five-hundred-year-old happy juice gave him all the answers he needed.

Fitzy turned to the priest as Pegleg walked around the crowd dispensing mugs and glasses of good cheer.  “Wad d’ya dink of h’are ghoost, Foder?”

The priest looked over at Paterson, who was busy charming Mrs. Callahan.  “H’I’m dinkin’ he’s so full a’ shite his eyes ’r brown!”

The boat sat about ten feet away from the fallen tree.  Beau realized if he was going to have his revenge, just tossing lures in towards the shore wasn’t going to do it!  After about an hour, he realized he was being watched as two eyes floated to the surface and began to circle the boat.  By sunset—when the rain set in—Beau had tied his fish-scaling fillet knife to an oar and was stabbing the water trying to harpoon the damned fish.  It was nearly midnight before he finally withdrew from the battle field, a near-broken man.

It was dark, the rain was falling, lightening and thundering; not a fit night for man nor beast.  And even though Beau couldn’t see him, he could feel that fucking pike following him back in, just waiting for the boat to capsize!

The light was on in the kitchen when Beau reached land.  He was soaked to the skin, tired.  He was starting to ache from his discussion with the Dougals.  The rain was washing down the front lawn, which seemed ‘ripped up’ from the mass of people who had trampled over it.  He could see right through into the house, and there were still people around the table.  He reached out and touched the handle of the porch screen door when the smell of Dixie hit him in the face.  He strained his eyes to see.  On the table was a plate, and on the plate was a big barbequed pig ear sandwich, surrounded by fresh yams, greens... and a whole mess of grits!  It felt like he was walking into Big John’s Pig Emporium down in N’Orleans.

As he stepped onto the porch, all eyes turned to him.  O’Neil, with dabs of barbeque sauce still on his face, leaned back in his chair.  “Welcome back, Captain Ahab.  Sit’cha weary butt down and enjoy a little down-home from d’Widder Browne!  Sorry buddy, dem spare ribs be gone!”  Beau paused at the back of the kitchen chair in front of the still-warm plate.

“Ya act’chly met d’Widder, O’Neil?  I was dinkin’ she was the real ghost ’round here.”

Fitzy just shook his head.  “Well... d’boy h’ain’t quite met her yet.  He was in the shed takin’ a doomp.  D’Widder was afeared O’Malley might be comin’...”

“D’rat bas’turd never showed,” Paterson grumbled, clutching the handle of the dagger on his belt.  “All that good whiskey ta bait me trap, wasted.”

Beau slid into the seat and played with the food on his plate, touching and prodding with his fork to determine if it was real or not.  One bite into the pig ears and grits, and the world was semi-good again.  This food was the real deal, as down-home Dixie redneck as it got.  “Where did she get dis?  Man, dis is home!”  Much to Beau’s surprise, the Irish contingency felt about Dixie redneck food the same way he and O’Neil had felt about blood pudding.  They were going to toss it out before O’Neil saw it and stopped them.

“Oh, da Widder’s been around d’world.”  Fitzy shifted in his chair.  “D’woman knows her way ’roun’ a stove sure ’nuff, dough t’ain’t her strongest point.”

“A fine, fine woman.  In more ways din whon,” Pegleg added, throwing another wink at his boyos.

Sister Maria had been sitting quietly, hands folded on her lap.  She sneaked a glance every once in a while at Pegleg—or rather, the cup he held in his hand.  McNally had pulled her out of the pub and deposited her at the good Father’s door step.  It was clear to Father Sean that he had placed the burden of alcohol on the good woman’s shoulders.  The old girl had a moonshine ‘jones’ on her a mile wide, no doubt about it!

“Do ya dink ya could be puttin’ tat moog a’ whiskey dune and away from me face, sir?” she said sweetly.  The question sent a chill across the table.  With the whole town walking around with a hand full of liquor, the cup in Pegleg’s hand would go unnoticed.  But at O’Neil’s kitchen table with a bunch of semi-moderately drunk men and one reluctantly sober nun—No!  The good Sister was almost immediately aware of the chilled silence.  “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

Father Sean realized the cat was debagging rapidly.  “Sister Marie, you’re sworn ta secrecy.  Dis is the banshee of Brannock-A-Bend... well, ah, d’ghoost a’ Brannock-A-Bend, deceased these five hun’red years!”

Sister Maria looked at the priest, who looked at Fitz-Ryan, who looked at Paterson, who rose from his chair.  He bowed a gallant bow.  “Madame... I be holdin’ dis coop a’ shine since d’day I was blown ta bits by h’an angry husband.  Me name’s not MacPhail.  It be Paterson.  Captain Brian... Pegleg Paterson.”

The nun’s eyes rolled down Paterson’s body to the two perfectly good legs. Immediately Father Sean, Fitz- Ryan, Calhoun and O’Neil chorused, “It’s an ‘onorary title!”

Pegleg’s thumb was moving towards his top trouser button with a big grin on his face... but as he was about to speak, he remembered who—or what—he was dealing with, and in a very patronizing tone said, “It might be bes’, Sister, if we let it go at tat.”

The nun leaned forward and just looked at him.  “Why?  Has t’old ting stopped werkin’?”

“Wat?”

“I said... HAS T’OLD TING STOPPED WERKIN’?  You men, all alike.”  She rose and leaned into Paterson until they were eye to eye.  “Thear h’ar ate’ bruthers in me family.  D’ya tink I wouldn’t be knowin’ what’cha be meanin’, Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson?!”  Sister Maria slid back down.  “Now, would whon a’ you gents switch seats wit dis... wat-ever-hit-is, and get tat stinkin’ cup a’ shine h’out a me face!  Or h’at least have da decency ta pour me h’a moog!”

“Now, Sister...”

“Now Sister wat, ya’ dead fookin’ booze hound!  You sittin’ tere wid tat mug under me nose...”

“Calm down, we be all h’on the same side, wantin’ d’same ting... more or less!”

Mayor O’Malley stared across the room at the Dougal brothers.  It had never been even a remote thought that the muscle power faction of team O’Malley could get its ass kicked, but here it was.  Worse than that, word had spread faster than the speed of light that the two bloody Yanks had brought with them some of the finest shine ever tasted in these here parts.  The old derelict dispensing the booze had strongly hinted that there was a still going up, and this year the winner of the Moonshine in the Daytime festival was going to be an O’Neil, not an O’Malley.  Word had it that when McNally had said the O’Malleys would win this year, same as every year, the old bastard actually had the gall to say, “Over my dead body they will!”  Well there it is!  As good as a gauntlet dropped.

This was a serious threat, and it couldn’t go ignored.  “I want you two bangers ta find me tat still!  Comb h’every inch a’ tat property till ya do!”

“H’an wat do we do den?”

“Blow it ta bits.  Tat’s d’O’Malley way.”

They gathered about it.  It whistled, thumped, dripped, and cooled.  The Idy hybrid, as O’Neil called it, was putting out moonshine at last!  O’Neil had worked his chemical magic to the mix, and the aroma was not that of five-hundred-year Irish whiskey—but it lit up the scoreboard at four hundred and ninety eight!  The aroma, color, everything about it cried out ‘Irish Whiskey’.  It was miraculous, noted Father Sean.  Depending on what you were looking for, this grand blend could pass for either Idy’s or Pegleg’s moonshine.  The final test was simple.  The ghost took a real snort and let out a grand yell.  It lightened the heart of all in the project.  Everybody.  Well, almost everybody.

It went unnoticed by Beau, who was sitting in the rowboat being circled by a fish!

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