THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND
Chapter 17: In Me h’own Werds
by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012
Aye, matey, da stage be set h’an’ da players ’sembled. I be truly empressed tat folkses from h’all h’over be commin’ in ta Brannock-A-Bend for ta sample da finest moonshine in h’all a’ d’Emerald Isle. There be a pot a’ gold fer O’Neil and Beauregard at the end a’ dis rainbow if we wins it. The townsfolk will be free of a tyrant an’ I’ll gets me revenge on da family wat blew me h’up ta pieces, five long centuries past. An’ h’it all ’pends on da quality of h’our moonshine! Simple ting it is ta make, an’ here abouts we makes it from the purest water, da finest grains and fixins... Me ’merican boyos does me proud, as they makes it like d’ole Master made it, back in da day of Queen Lizzy. H’our stills is good, fixins gathered, da folkses h’all ta’gither at Brannock-A-Bend be standin’ with their tongues a’ hangin’ oot in expectation a’ barrels a’ good shine—and O’Malley has drawn ta’gither a tribe a’ ruff boys ta stop us! So here we go, lads and girlies, hold on ta yer skivvies!
“It’s an ’onorary title!”
The Widder Browne, Father Sean, Sister Maria, Fitz- Ryan, Calhoun, O’Neil, old man Murphy, Hacky Dunn, Colin Quinn, Connor Sullivan, McNally, Charley Brennan, Emmy Kelly, and the entire work crew that had rebuilt Aunt Idy's Cave Inn (and now volunteered for the set-up in town) shouted at poor old Sister Clare, who smiled back pleasantly.
“Bluedy ole woman’s thief as a stone! Sh’ain’t heard a single werd no one’s said!” Pegleg said. “Foder, has she got her brains, or is she addled? Can she keep dis place a ruinin’?”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “I learned a long time ago—never troost a nun. A devious lot they be! Joodgin’ by ta way she’s smilin’, I ’spect she got the drift a’ tings! She’s wipin’ down da bar already. And aside from yer time at da stills, you’ll be ’round ta keep a sailor’s eye on ’er.”
Paterson’s head dropped and he switched the hand holding his mug. “Aye! And sorry I am fer me wicked life tat binds me to dese grounds ferever. I should be in town ta see O’Malley’s face when the joodges award da prize ta me boyos, a week from dis very day!”
“Do ya mean tat, Brian Paterson?” Father Sean asked. “Are ya really sorry fer yer wicked ways? I’ll get ta grantin’ ya Absolution fer yer sins dis very minute if ya h’are! I dink ya’ve dune yer penance already, trapped in tat wretched cave fer five centuries.”
Father O’Doul had caught the pirate by surprise. He looked at the priest, and the Father could tell Pegleg was weighing his words. “Nah, Foder, me life was wat it t’was. Could be worse fer me!” Pegleg lifted his mug as if to drink a toast to the cleric. “Bot I thanks ya fer the kind werds. A pirate an’ scalawag I was, and a pirate an’ scalawag I’ll always be!”
“Well, Cap’n Paterson, d’Lord werks in mysterious ways, I’m told.”
“Aye, Foder, tat He do. Now get dese good lads down to da Widder’s and load oop ta barrels, h’an don’t let ’em puts ’em down in da sun! Have ya got dem pouter moogs?”
“Real pewter moogs, jus’ like ya described, Brian Paterson. Da Widder ordered dem h’oop all special like...”
“Paper coops! Fine moonshine in paper coops! Tease fools wants ta serve shine in paper coops. H’are dey crazy? Ya needs ta spends money...”
“Ta makes money, I know. So did O’Neil an’ Beau. Dey drove all d’way ta Dooblin ta gets ’em.”
“Good boyos they are... Wat be tat ting?”
Fitz-Ryan was approaching the group with a strange-looking rectangular box in a canvas case so that it could be hung from a shoulder. “An’ hullo to you, too, Pegleg Paterson. I got a gift wat yer boy Beau picked oop in Dublin. It’s a gizmo called a squawky-talky ’er some sooch nonsense.”
“Wats it do, Hubert?”
“Watch dis!” The old barrister pulled at the antenna, which was telescoped down, and raised it. He started pushing a long button on the side. “Young Beau, h’ar yer dere? Come in, Beau!”
There was a crackle, then from the center of all the noise came a familiar voice. “Dat chew, Fitzy? Put da spook on!”
Fitz-Ryan handed the device to Pegleg. “Here, jus’ push dis ting in ta talk, den let it go ta listen!”
Pegleg took the device, looked at it and, started talking. Fitzy pointed to the button, motioning to hold it down. “Beauregard?” Pegleg said. “Beau? S’tat chew? Where be ya, matey?”
“Down by what was town hall in your day, ma’chacho! I’m holdin’ a nice, shady spot.”
“Ga’wan, boyo! Tat’s d’far end a’ town. Lord, almighty! It’s gotta be a clean mile, h’an I’m hearin’ ya like ya be nex’ ta me! Yer puttin’ me on!”
“Now would I do dat?”
“Yer fookin’ right I’d tink you’d do... sorry, Foder.”
“Pegleg, it’s true—and it’s more like a mile an’ a half. Dat’s good ole U.S. of A. military surplus, an’ it’s good up ta five long miles or better! So ya should be able ta hear us all the way ta da cave. Now listen! Dat ding ain’t gonna werk inside da cave, the antenna gots ta be outside. An’ evy night we gots ta charge da batteries, ya understand?”
“Aye, aye, matey!”
“When yer done, Cap’n, say ‘over n’ out’ an’ let go da button.”
“Aye, boyo, ole Pegleg be h’over an h’out! An’ tanks fer thinkin’ a’ me!”
“Don’t mention it, boss. Beau out!” As the voice faded, the pirate looked at the priest and smiled a sheepish grin. “Glory be, Foder. Mysterious ways it is den!”
D’lord high Mayor O’Malley saw it ’tall slippin’ away from ’im. D’O’Malleys were never a clan ta give oop without a fight, as far back as da won wats murdered me. From all d’low places, he acquired sooch men as crime an’ laziness breeds—h’an I should know, bein’ at won time a part a’ it. From da docks an’ bars from ’cross d’Emerald Isle came very large an’ very nasty mean men wat t’ought very liddle a’ causin’ pain to gits wat dey wants. Serious men ta be reckoned with. But maybe me an’ me boyos is h’oop t’it!
H’our poob had been blown ta bits, but in less den a few hours, some good folk led by an All-’Merican haf-back Priest had put it back ta’gither. It would have ben a simple serlution fer O’Malley if we’d let it go—but we thwarted d’ liddle prick an’ we rebuilt it better tan it wuz! Da livin’ folkses all hoped d’mayor would go away now bot, bein’ a scalawag meself, I knows he wouldn’t. Many da weeks I spent in life tendin’ da fires under da pot, brewin’ up da shine, so dere was no real mindin’ doin’ it now. B’jay-sus, I would a’ loved ta be in town handin’ oot moogs a’ da boys’ shine, bot it was almos’ as good as bein’ there, havin’ Beau’s squawkin’ ting ta listen at. Bot worra, worra, worra I knew ta worse was yet ta come.
I had ’em leave me at Idy’s, bein’ near time for me ’merican football watchin’. Den it was straight ’cross da pond in tat oarless rowboat O’Neil had gotten ta torment me. Still... it was slow, but it beat the shite out a’ havin’ ta row. When I was livin’, evy while or so I’d get me feelins’ when sompin’ was not right. I was feelin’ like tat when I built up da flames. T’were a strange kind a’ feelin’... likes I was bein’ watched.
In the four-hundred-and-fifty-nine-year history of the “Moonshine in the Daytime” festival, Brannock-A-Bend had never seen anything like the moonshine the two Americans had set out. Tourists and townsfolk marveled at the pewter mugs they used; you bought the mug for next to nothing, and it came with what the makers called “The Eternal Refill.” Show them an empty mug, and they’d refill it!
Always overcrowded for the event, by the second day half-stoned residents and tourists alike were calling friends and family all over Ireland to come and taste this new nectar, and it really blew the visiting population up. By the start of the third day, when all twenty barrels were finished and more hastily being made by the budding factory, folk were being called from all over the continent! The festival was becoming the Woodstock of the moonshine world. Aunt Idy’s still was now running around the clock and, in the finest Appalachian tradition, the shine was going straight from the still into the barrels into the drinkers! Pegleg was running both stills at max and, as soon as the big still was ripe enough to harvest and the pirate had mixed in O’Neil’s secret powders, there would be enough high-quality moonshine for the rest of the festival. Then they could kick back and enjoy the oncoming victory.
Emmy Kelly kept her ear to the ground. She made sure that the Widder knew everything Mayor O’Malley was planning with enough time to try and stop him. Kelly was starting to realize just how dangerous her situation was. Her boss had become sullen and more secretive, and Kelly was certain he was up to something really bad. When it finally happened, she was taken completely off guard. It was doins’ low, even for the mayor. She’d come in to work to find Attila’s Golden Horde sitting in her waiting room, sharpening their axes and cooking small dead animals they’d killed on their way to the office.
“Wey bay waitin’ fer d’mayor, Missy.”
“Yeh. Wey bay da Doblin lawyers he sen’ fer!”
Kelly had never seen lawyers in coveralls with brass knuckles in their pockets. She smiled at the lynch mob, slowly backed out of the room, and got right on her phone to warn the Widder that there was a pack of Tyrannosaurus Wrecks coming after them with the intent to do corporal harm.
“Lord, Widder, I ain’t ever seen their likes. It’s bodily harm an’ mayhem fer certain. The mayor’s gonna kill someone, sure as I sit here! There’s ten a’ dese apes in me waitin’ room, and between dem all dere ain’t one neck an’ a total a’ two full sets a’ teeth!”
So far, no one had even sniffed at O’Malley’s liquor at the festival. The Mayor had planned to open their cage and just let the animals wander the streets intimidating judges, citizens, and tourists alike back towards the O’Malley product—or else! However, the wave of humanity flooding into the town had foiled that plan. There were too many folk wandering around; there’d be no hiding anything. It would take an army with siege equipment just to push through the mob. The accidental death or sudden disappearance of two American footballers, after all the stir they’d caused with their damned moonshine, would raise international flags for sure.
In the end, though, that had to be better than losing his hold on Brannock-A-Bend.
Well, I were stokin’ oop da flames, an’ tings were lookin’ good on both me stills. Da first h’run was dune on da big still, a good eight or more barrels easy, an’ anudder h’off a’ Idy’s still. Dey was oot a’ shine at da stand, h’an I was walkin’ outside da cave with me squawky ting callin’ me boyos ta comes an’ gets it! Nex’ ting I be knowin’, me n’ me squawky ting be flyin’ over da boats an’ bouncin’ h’off da rock—an’ da whole fookin’ mountain be comin’ dune on me! If I wasn’t dead a’ready, I’d be dead agin fer certain. Lord almighty, ya could smell cornbread an’ new whiskey straight ’cross da pond. If any soul was settin’ in Ida’s parlor, dey’d be drunker tan a monkey jus’ from de smell a’ all d’alcohol!
When I finished bouncin’, I could see d’whole mountain was downward-like. Where da stream had run through da cave, a steady brook a’ moonshine ran down in ta da lake. B’Jesus, it must a’ ben won hell of a blast, ’cause it stunned a dead man! I kept lookin’ at da stream a’ shine flowin’ in ta da pond, an’ I be tinkin’, “where d’hell be all dis shine comin’ from?” Sure, t’were a big tank, but...
“Jahhh-suuus H. Key-hristtt! DA RAT BASTERTS GOT ME WHISKEY TOO!!!!!”
Beau stood on the bank by the fallen tree. Back in his playing days, a photographer friend of his had told him a story about a shoot he’d had for a fish food company. They needed some shots of fish for their boxes, so the photographer set up a big tank and began trying to get the fish to stop moving long enough to take a good picture. He tried sedatives in the water, even got some sodium pentothol. Either the fish got high, ignored it and kept swimming, or went belly up. He was standing there watching the fish and wondering what to try next while sipping some Jack Daniels Old Number 7. Touched by whimsy, he poured the whiskey into the tank. The fish froze in place, not so much as a fin moving for more than an hour! Beau had always thought the guy was pulling his leg, but there it was.
About a foot from shore, his arch enemy, the pike, was floating motionless in the branches of the half-sunken tree just bobbing up and down like a cork. Even the little fish the pike has been chasing was stock-still, too. “Ga’damn!” he thought. “Dey really does get stewed ta da gills!” He could see all manners of fish caught in the moonshine torrent frozen motionless in a straight alcoholic channel clear across the lake. In fact, if Beau wasn’t a sportsman he could have just reached into the water and stocked his freezer with fish for the next two years. He fought the temptation. From where he stood, he could see the big game net he’d bought from the Bass Pro folk still in the rowboat. He shook his head and walked back towards O’Neil and Pegleg.
Pegleg was sitting on a rock, knee deep in water. His hands were on his face, and through his fingers he just kept mumbling, “Me whiskey... me poor, poor children, me whiskey...” O’Neil thought he might be crying.
“Dis is bad, O’Neil. Dey got us good dis time. D’pirate’s a veggie, the stills are in pieces, an’ there h’aint a drop of Mad Dash lef’. We got four more days ta go, and we ain’t got a drop ta give ’em. Wat we gonna do, boss?”
O’Neil looked across the pond at Aunt Ida’s homestead. “I really don’t...”
He never finished his sentence. Pegleg suddenly unlaced his fingers and swung a back hand into both their chests. He never raised his head, but lifted his eyes and rolled them from one man to the other. “Coom wid me,” was all he said as he began to climb up O’Neil’s arm.
Beau looked at his buddy. “Get him in to the bass boat. I’ll take the rowboat and be right behind you in a minute. Sompin’ I gotta do ’fore we leave.”
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