Prologue to Lucky Me
Lucky Me; Prologue
When I first made the plans to come here, I already knew some of the richer portions of the folklore and history. In fact, my ancestors once owned a castle here, some ancient days ago. What stands now, however is a field of grass-covered rubble where shepherds tend their herds.
The horses are also extremely popular. Unfortunately, there are several traffic accidents involving horses all the time.
My trip, some of you may conjecture, takes me to a place within the U.K.
When I get off the plane at the terminal, nobody is here to greet me, save a blonde-haired limo driver holding a sign in her distinctive black uniform and cap. I find myself a loner, traversing the places of my history. I'd come across some money playing the investment game for some time, but I wasn't gonna stay in that race and let the greed devour me.
Instead, I waste wealth on what some people would find an idiotic notion.
And I wonder about that myself, considering I have no family in the county that is so famous for green, drinking, plaid skirts, weird air-filled instruments, and little dudes with pointy ears and hoards of gold.
Ireland; place of my ancestors.
Why did I come HERE? No family, no friends, what point could I have for this impromptu decision? I hardly considered myself a tourist! I certainly wasn't here to sight-see.
It was just something to do, I guess.
"Sir! Mr. Horgan! that be you?"
Asked the driver. We'd never met nor talked. All the arrangements were carried out through her company.
"Yeah. Someone said you wanted to take me around the countryside?"
She smiles sincerely.
"Aye, if you'll be wantin' t' do that?"
I sigh tiredly. Not ten minutes off the plane, and I'm already treated like a tourist.
Well, she DID offer. Would I come off as a rude American were I to refuse?
Aw, fuck it. Everyone already thinks Americans are rude. It just comes down personally to what I feel like doing. Well, the trip wasn't that bad, and-
"Do you know about some ruins in Donegal?" I muse.
"Aye, and why yah be askin'?"
"Granted, I don't know why I've come here, but I have history in that place, ancestry."
"Ah. You wanna r'trace the path o' yah genealogy. People come all the time f' that."
"Yeah, maybe, but I don't do the touristy crap, if you know what I mean."
Her face fell a little, crestfallen.
"It be no shame t' be t' tourist. It be nothin' but learnin' 'bout another country."
"I'm sorry. I just feel a little retarded running around in these groups with cameras, getting excited over shit that's been there for hundreds of years and hasn't moved. I mean, seeing the Blarney Stone in real life is just as dull as seeing the special on National Geographic."
"Not a believer in t' magic, Sir?"
"What magic? You mean the little midgets in green granting wishes to those who catch them? Nah. I never even seen a ghost."
She wrinkled her nose, in an almost equine-like way of displeasure.
"Not all is as it appears, Mr. Horgan. If you paid more attention to the people around you, you'd have realized that."
"Yeah, right. Are you saying that if I take a closer look at these folks in the terminal, I could see one of them has a pot of gold and a clover growing out of his ass?"
"Maybe, Mr. Horgan. They're YOUR eyes." She retorts testily.
"I'm sorry, Ms.-"
"Shandra McAtherty, but friends call me Shamrock f' short."
"Cute. Shandra, I apologize. I'm a loner without hope. I've no family, nothing. I just thought maybe this would be a change from my usual crappy life."
"Life is what yah b' makin' it." She offers, softening.
"For my part, I didn't wanna go and make money forever."
Her eyes were a little wide, she hadn't expected that omission, like money were something sacred or some shit.
"I b' workin' m' tail off! 'course money b' importan'!" She protests.
"You can have it. Money hasn't bought me a soul OR purpose. And this trip, expensive as it is, doesn't seem to matter much."
"Wow Sir. Yah be meanin' that? Money doesn' matter to yah?"
I smile wryly.
"Ask me that when I find myself one of the wee folks."
"Would yah b' all that virtous, gold in yah face as high as a mountain?"
"What am I doing now with my fortune?"
"Goin' t' Iyreland, Sir." She answers.
"And has this trip appeared to make me much more the content?"
"Made yah a whiner, Sir, Begin' pardon."
"No, it's alright. That's apt of you to say. I didn't even particularly want to step outta my room this vacation."
"If yah b' wantin' t' sit in a hotel all day, it woulda been cheaper t' do that back home."
"Cheaper, but I wouldn't have the history."
Her face brightens.
"Aye, t' history! By Mac and O
You'll always know
True Irishmen they say'.
But if they lack
The O and Mac,
No Irishmen are they."
"Hmmm. My ancestors were the O' Kane."
"bes' b' careful. I hear that only 'true' Irishmen have Banshees t' announce their deaths."
"Banshees? Those are the evil spirits that speak of death to these families?"
She shrugs impatiently.
"Just 'cause they got t' bad news, they evil. Nope Horgan Sir. It's only polite t' have warnin'. Wouldn' yah b' glad t' know when yah was goin' t' die? Nice time t' break out w' an' drink that special Cognac yah bin savin'."
Something else I remembered was that Banshees followed the families about, no matter where they went, to continue to bear the bad news out of...love? Was that it?
"That's a good idea. Didn't think on it like that. Tell me Shandra, what else is there to worry about, here?"
She thinks on that awhile.
"Yah might as well know that someone ses that a Dullahan or Pooka is out there, rippin' through sheep herds."
"Huh?"
The odd names confused me, but thinking back on my studies, I knew that the Pooka, pronounced in the english as Phooka, was an evil being that was most often seen as a black horse who would take men upon it's back and run into the sky or drown them deep in the ocean. But the king, Brian Boru curtailed their murderous ways, did he not?
"Aren't Pooka's supposed to obey their promise to Brian Boru not to kill mortal men?"
She smiled appraisingly.
"Yah know a bit about this after all. But t' Pooka horses have not obaid since t' last o' t' Boru clan died. They have taken it upon themselves t' consider t' promise void, an' ignore it's application. T' Dullahan is t' Headless Horseman of Irish lore. Oooh, he is a mean git. Throws blood at folks feh no reason."
"Someone has been terrorizing the flocks?"
"If yah can call 'tearin' 'em apart' terorizin'."
I cringe. That's not the best thing that comes to mind. Then I frown.
"Haven't I seen you in New York somewhere?"
True, she had that common everyday face I was so used to seeing, but I could swear I saw her somewhere. Maybe Time Square or Central Park or somewhere else.
She looks away, refusing to answer.
Was it my imagination, or was Shammy hiding something?
In a distracting motion, she has both of my large totes by their straps and leads me toward the brilliance of the white limo.
She tosses the luggage in the trunk, proceeding to open the door for me. Inside, I'm greeted by the bright green of dyed leather, and various brands of ales in the nearby minibar.
I sigh. Why the fuck should I care if she HAS been to N.Y.C?
Just one of those faces? Coincidence? No.
She gets in the driver seat, lowering the window that normally seperates the two areas.
"Donegal ruins?" She inquires.
"Please...Did I bother you with my questions?"
"Ask m' no questions, yah'll get no lies." She simply replies.
It was no coincidence! She WAS in N.Y.C., but why was she hiding that?
"What's wrong with being a tourist in America?"
"Yah I was there, but I wasn' no touris'."
"Business?"
"Bodyguard duty. Yah coul' call it that."
"Anyone I would know?"
"Aye, very importan', but I don' wanna speak of it."
I dropped the subject, and we continued to talk about Leprechauns and such.
"How oft has the Banshee cried
How oft has death untied,
Bright links that glory move,
Sweet bonds entwined by love." She sings.
If I'm not mistaken, her voice has a lovely windy quality to it. Perhaps almost like the keening of old lore.
"Hold up there, Horgan. We're crossing a bridge, now."
I look out. The bridge is thin, it doesn't look too sturdy, but we're close to Donegal, so I make no big deal of it.
A very deep rumbling of a voice echoes from under the bridge.
"Where yeh' b' runnin' off t' Shammy? Why do you delay the inevitable? Clan O' Kane is doomed to end, and there is nothin' yeh can do about it!" The deep voiced thing chortled out.
"Piss off Pooka! O' Kane b' m' responsibility!"
"Shammy...It's not m' who wishes t' end yeh clan, It b' a Dullahan and the Dearg-Dur, an' they b' pissed at yeh...'Hast thou heard the Banshee at morn,
Passing by the silent lake,
Or walking the fields by the orchard?
Alas! that I do not rather behold
White garlands in the hall of my fathers!" Then the unseen thing laughs, as Shamrock floors it the fuck outta here.
"What the fuck was that all about?!" I nearly freak out. This isn't how I expected Ireland to be.
All this folklore might not be so mystical, after all. I mean, a fuckin' Phookah just threatened my fuckin' life!
She stops the car, and looks back at me, her eyes red, like she had been crying for a long time.
I never noticed that before.
"Some bloody powerful plonkers' wan' t' kill yah, Horgan, b' I won' let 'em."
"What the hell is the Dearg-Dur?"
"B' t' name fah t' vampire; a wicked thing that takes' t' form of a nice lass and tempts men irresistibly fah a kiss- a kiss of death that drains all t' life away."
"Why do they want me?"
"I don' know. Let's jes' go."
"Wait, he said something back there; that you were O' Kane's guardian. You were in N.Y. watching over me. Why Shamrock?"
A shiver caresses my spine. I knew who she was;
Banshees followed the families about, no matter where they went, to continue to bear the bad news out of...love? Was that it?
Yes, love. Love and protection of the original noble families of Ireland.
My very own death seer.
Hahaha.
"You...You're the Banshee of clan O' Kane. My ancestors. If you're here with me, there must be no one else left."
"Yes, an' when yah die, m' purpose will end, an' m' with it. I know y' be dyin' soon, but I hoped t' keep yah alive long enough to have a heir, despite those who b' plottin' against yah."
Things made sense to me, then. Many coincidences I should have died but went on, anyway.
"They're coming after me because I am a fluke, I should be dead, and they know it. Shammy, how do we stop this?"
"Here in Iyreland, luck b' on yah side, love."
I smile wryly.
"Lucky me."
She drove on towards a glen where no roads go. A place of whispery shadows and foxfire lights; a place no mortal dare traverse; the world of the faerie folk. The world of the Luchor-Pan; wee-bodies.
She called it the Hawthorne tree of the Daione Sidhe. (fairy people)
I called it creepy, then again, she was the white/grey-haired lady of death.
I knew little of the faerie folk. It was them who kidnapped you if you sneezed and nobody said 'bless you', they had a dark rider who took prisoners for the entertainment of the queen and her court. It was also he, the Far Dorocha, whom wrought vengeance upon those who were released and boasted of faerie secrets and powers they be given. Their music enchants until the point you are like a zombie living in a dream or fantasy.
I could see some of them, with the long yellow hair and almost perfect bodies.
I could see a two foot tall old man wearing red clothes of poor quality, yet his buckles and shoes glowed with dull glints of gold. I was mesmerized as he proceeded to haggle with a faerie lady, whom was drinking some white liquid from an overly large container, for her size.
They seemed to ignore us, as finally, he gives her a tiny pair of shoes, and receives a large barrel of some sort of liquor in exchange. I see he doesn't like being around here, and he visibly tries to disappear, flashing in and out like a defunct light bulb, but fails.
Shamrock nudges me with an elbow, whispering to me.
"That b' a Leprechaun. As long as a mortal man'll b' lookin' at him, he can' escape."
I whisper back to her, my gaze still on him. He looks back intensely, blue eyes curious, a playful smirk on his lips barely covered by a red-haired beard.
"Do I look away, so he can leave?"
She shakes her head emphatically.
"Nay, he b' t' luck you'll b' needin'."
He takes a few steps toward us, now brightening significantly from his prior grief and anti-social tendencies.
"Shammy! It b' some time, lass!" He smiles, yelling in good cheer.
"Aye, Shamus. been lookin' after m' charges in t' new world."
"Clan O' Kane fortunate t' have ye."
"Nay, t' O' Kane's, I b' lucky t' have."
"Wait, I thought the Leprechauns were green." I protest.
"Aye, and St. Patrick's used t' b' more than a wee bit o' a drinkin' day, laddy." Shamus replies, giving a humorous wink.
"Brian, Leprechauns b' red until some o' t' tourist wantin' folks said green represented t' Emerald Isle more."
"Aye! Turned m' form an' all into a bloody mascot they did! Everyone b' talkin' 'bout m' gold an' shoe makin' ways, b' nobody like the faeries or the banshee folks." He spat.
"No disrespect to you Shammy, but what tourist would want to go to a place represented by a lady who sings about when someone is going to die, or where faeries steal children and kidnap your family members?"
"Ah, aye. Nobody b' wantin' t' go t' Iyreland if ye b' talkin' 'bout t' bad." He muses.
Then he gets serious.
"But' I b' takin' it, that w' ye charge, ye b' not wantin' t' make t' small talk?"
"Shamus, yah b' knowin' that if I had a choice, I won' b' takin' me joy w' m' t' the sacred places. Things bein' desperate. I don' wan' t' leave him alone one minute. The Dearg-Dur and Dullahan b' wantin' to take his life, after he b' survivin' everythin' else."
"Well, ye b' showin' him our secrets, bes' ye show him yours. In for a penny, in for a pound they say."
"Are yeh sure, Shamus? I b' not wantin' t' freakin' him out." She replies uncertainly.
"And he b' not freakin' out now?"
She sighs, point taken.
"Brian, there b' a goode ol' faerie. A friend o' t' mortals after the days o' t' Iyrish heroes. He be the Far Darrig, t' red-haired man. He so loved mortals, and 'specially t' original clans, he used his magic t' create t' banshees, t' faerie mourners from some o' t' original residen's o' Iyreland."
"What? Who was here before the Irish came?" I ask, confused.
A mist of grey smoky fog covers Shamrock, hiding her body from view.
"I b' t' red-haired man o' t' wee folk. I was pleased t' b' honorin' them (the Irish heroes) w' t' loveliest, kindest lasses o' Iyreland, b'fore men come t' settle." Shamus said.
As the fog continued to swirl about Shammy, here I saw white fur, there a long large-nostrilled nose. Long muscular legs. Black skin, giving her a grey appearance. Funnel ears. Funny teeth. And a tail like a broom.
"T' secret o' t' banshee, t' lass who loves all her clan dearlie, b' that she b' treatin' 'em like 'er own familie, 'er herd."
The mist revealed more details of Shammy's unusual anatomy.
"She b' named not Shamrock b' 'cause she b' Shandra McAtherty, she b' named Shamrock 'cause she b' likin' t' eat 'em t' most. I b' choosin' her an' her kin, 'cause these lasses have kindness an' patience. T' b' t' banshee's, I b' magickin' t' affectionate, hard-workin' Connemaras." Shamus finishes, as Shammy's cloud cover vanishes, revealing a white-grey anthromorphic mare in a shroud looking to be made of spidersilk.
The ultimate spiritual guardian of clan O' Kane...
Was a pony.
Hahaha.
Death pony.