The following's a piece of nonfiction, and yes, it actually
happened. Names have been changed to protect the guilty, so
_____ and ______ have been replaced by the fictional
characters they inspired, Giles and Seamus.
----------------
In the course of my life, I've seen things.
For most people, going to college is their first taste of
independence. They are on their own, free to travel, meet
people, resolve problems and challenges, decide on a future,
and most importantly cast the mold of their self. They fear
and desire it.
Not me. I defined myself by wandering through Europe and
Asia. My soul resounds with the echoes of bells and pigeons on
the Simeonstrasse. I have walked the streets of a foreign city
that I called home and was totally at ease, surrounded by
friends whose native language differed from mine. I have
walked through the streets of London and seen its cathedrals
and houses of state. I have poled a boat down a river near the
Black Forest. I have walked through Flanders' fields and picked
out the horrors of 1915 from the grass. I have been under the
earth both in centuries old catacombs and a decades old
underground fortress. I have hiked through the Alps, climbed
up to innumerable castles and ruins, and tramped through
endless streets in several countries. I have boated through
canals in two different cities. I have stood in a concentration
camp and felt the lingering malignancy that permeates it. I
have crossed communist checkpoints in China, and newly
capitalist borders in Russia.
In short, I've seen a lot of cool stuff.
And the strangest of them....certainly the most
unbelievable....occurred in a remote part of County Kilkenary,
Ireland.
* * *
I came home one day to find a telegram waiting.
Home, at the time, was a small apartment in the city of
Trier, Germany. It had been six months since I had walked out
of the Blau Teufel for the last time. I missed the place, and the
people even more. I missed the food. I even missed having to
duck bottles, though admittedly not very much.
So my eyes brightened as I read, and I began to hum under my
breath.
--------------------------------------
Mike Stop Care to come by for a visit Stop Giles already here
Stop Come Crossbridge Station, County Kilkenary Stop Wire
reply no telephone here Stop Seamus Stop
---------------------------------------
This was too good to be true. I'd get to see my friends, have
a chance to see what sounded like a quiet corner of the Irish
countryside....heck, the only bad part was the trip up there.
The rest of the afternoon was spent pouring over rail guides,
talking to rail clerks, and railing at rail idiots who don't know
if their line even passes through Kilkenary.
Finally, I was the proud owner of two boat tickets and a
Eurail pass. I sent Seamus a telegram saying when I'd get in,
so he and Giles could pick me up at the station.
Two days later, I walked down to the train station and took
the 5 AM to Calais. It was a beautiful day for traveling; sun
smiling down, a light breeze, and a few puffy white clouds
that looked like either castles or dead swans, depending on
who you asked.
By the time we made Calais, the clouds were black and the
sun had decided that it had had enough of my company for one
day. The light breeze was now a stiff wind of the sort that
makes you glad you had sense enough to stay indoors.
This was okay, though, because I knew that the English
Channel hates me. I had packed the mandatory umbrella and
sickness bags.
Halfway to Dover, my umbrella decided that it could get
there quicker by flying than by staying with me. My breakfast
had long since taken its leave of me.
We landed, and I heaved a deep sigh of relief. The worst was
over, and British Rail would carry me in comfort and warmth.
And indeed it did, all the way to Holyhead. Where the ferry
was waiting.
The Irish Sea makes the Channel look like a millpond on a
calm day. If Ranma had been on the boat, he would have changed
form every 30 seconds. Staying dry was impossible, and the
cabin kept doing a nifty impression of the interior of a
washing machine. Up came lunch.
I staggered ashore in what I think was Dublin. The walk to
the train station is a complete blank.
After a few cups of tea, I felt much better. Halfway to
Kilkenary my appetite returned, and I wolfed down a packet of
biscuits. By the time the call for Crossbridge came, I was in
good spirits.
Crossbridge was...well, small. There was a road intersecting
the track, and a tiny house for the stationmaster. A glance at
my watch revealed that it was 8:00 PM; I was almost exactly
on time. Go figure.
I walked inside the station house to get out of the rain and
find my friends. The stationmaster glanced up as I entered, but
aside from him the place was empty. Seamus was late. Not
that this was anything unusual. I took a seat on the ugly yet
uncomfortable bench, and waited.
Half an hour later, the stationmaster decided to find out who
the irritated guy muttering about killing Irishmen was.
"From England, then?"
"No, America."
He was suitably impressed. "How was the flight, then?"
"Took the ferry."
He gave me a reproachful glance.
"The ferry from Calais," I hastily added.
"Right you are, sir."
Three more minutes passed.
"Here to see the auld sod, then?"
"Hmm? No, visiting a friend. Seamus McAutren."
"Owes you money, does he?"
"Nope."
"You know him, and he doesn't owe you money? Cor, that's
one to tell the missus."
I chuckled. Apparently some things never change.
"Oh," he said, "when you see Seamus, could you give him
this?" Rummaging behind the counter, he brought out a
telegram.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I knew exactly what the
telegram would say. It would tell Seamus to pick his old buddy
Mike up at the station on 8 PM, Friday. And so it did. Just
bloody wonderful.
"How far away is Seamus's place?" I asked wearily.
"Oh, about seven miles, sir."
Terrific.
"And what does the place look like?"
He beamed. "Just look for two big stone lions on posts. It's
what's left of the old manor. Seamus has the house at the end
of the path."
"Thanks. Suppose I'd better get going."
"It's raining out, sir," he helpfully pointed out.
"I noticed."
"You'll get wet."
"This is the usual thing that occurs when you walk in the
rain, yes."
"Right you are, sir."
I shouldered my backpack, savored the last few moments of
warmth and dryness, and walked out into the rain.
"Have a care for Old Matt then, sir. He'll be out tonight."
I wondered what he meant for a few seconds before
discovering I could care less.
***
Oh, but it was green. Green and black earth and grey sky, and
it was beautiful. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I hadn't
been soaked to the skin.
Kilkenary is a remote place. Even the towns are few and far
between, though there's many a field between them. "To Hell
or Connaught", Cromwell had told Kilkenary's people long ago,
and some had gone to the one and some to the other. The
population had grown in recent years, but not by much. The
bones of several towns are buried under pastureland.
The wind howled, and the rain spat, and I was wishing I had
stayed in the stationhouse til morning. Small creatures, dry
and stupid and warm beneath their fur, watched me from the
undergrowth, scampering off when I got too close for their
liking.
Every once and a while their would be a clump of trees, and I
would draw under them, in order to get a bit out of the rain. It
didn't help much, though.
The sun slipped below the horizon, sputtering redly before
vanishing. Luckily, the moon shone down full and bright. Not
much light, but enough to see the path.
Then came the trees.
I crested a hill, and there they were below, a small forest of
oak and holly, and the path dove straight through the heart of
them. I hesitated; the pale moonglow I was walking by
wouldn't be nearly as bright inside.
But, I reminded myself, it would be a hell of a lot dryer.
And so I walked down to where the trees swallowed the
path, and pressed on.
It got darker in a hurry, and quieter too. The wild and rain
howled, but at a distance. The old trees loomed over the path,
making a dark, moving tunnel of branches and leaves.
Everywhere was the swish-plunk of individual droplets falling
from the boughs.
And there were other noises. The rustle of branches clawing
at each other, a dim shape darting across the path, a bird
fluttering above.
I could hardly see the path, and ran into a low-reaching
branch more than once. In a way it was worse than the rain, for
a leafy branch would snap down, whipping itself across my
face, shaking water and stinging.
A cloud passed over the moon, and it was darker than the
belly of a cave.
I walked on; what other choice did I have? It was a business
of moving slowly, feeling with outstretched hands for a tree
trunk.
Moving slowly.
Every part of me wanted to get the hell out of these trees,
back into the open fields. But if I went too fast I might lose
the path, and I didn't like to think about that.
Then the jingling began.
It came from behind me, and I turned. A light was drawing
closer.
I stopped and waited, and soon came the creak of wheels and
the clop of hooves. And then the light resolved into a
horsedrawn cart, with a lantern hanging from a stick in front
of the driver.
A ride. I could get a ride!
"Oi!" I called. "Mind if I get a lift?"
The driver didn't say yes, but the cart pulled to a stop by me.
I unslung my pack, tossed it up, and clambered in after in.
The driver gave a flick of the reins, and the cart began
moving again.
"Thanks," I said gratefully.
The driver said nothing, but nodded his head a little. I
squinted at him though the blackness. He wore a short-
brimmed hat, an overcoat, and a woolen scarf of a grey-brown
hue. Between cap and scarf was a wild tangle of matted hair,
black with a tinge of grey.
The cart picked up speed, and burst out of the trees. My
driver flicked the reins, and the horses neighed and lept
forward.
We took the next turn at a sharp angle, and I got a nasty jolt
that managed to bruise my arm against the side of the wagon.
The rain poured down, and the wind buffeted us, causing the
cart to shake and sway.
He used the reins again, and this time lashed them. The
horses screamed and ran.
I was getting worried that we'd wind up in a ditch. "Um,
scuse me? Sir?"
He ignored me, and thrashed the reins once more.
"Sir! Could you slow down a bit?"
He turned, and I could barely make out a face, for his beard,
mustache and forelock covered his features. But I could tell
that he was grinning, and that it was not a grin meant to
reassure or comfort. Shaken, I shrunk back and held on for dear
life.
And then, out of the rain and blackness, reared two post of
stone, lions atop them roaring in the pale light.
"This is my stop!", I yelled. "Can you let me off?"
He didn't turn around, which somehow relieved me, but he
didn't slow down either.
"Shit," I muttered, and jumped.
I aimed for a patch of heather, and landed instead in a bush.
A bush with nettles. I felt like one giant, living bruise.
And then the driver laughed, and it was a horrible thin
highpitched sort of laugh, as though my lying in a thornbush
was the funniest thing in the world. There was amusement in
it, and there was malice, and something else I didn't want to
identify.
The cart sped away, and driver and laugh were swallowed up
by the night.
Shit, my bloody pack!
After a few seconds, I picked myself up and pulled myself
out of the bush's embrace. A house lay beyond the gateposts,
and I made for it.
***
Seamus opened the door, and his jaw near hit the floor when
he saw me. "Jaysus, Mike! What the 'ell happened ta ya?"
I glared at him; a weary, relieved sort of glare. "Tea. Hot tea.
And a fire."
I was ushered inside, and Giles came to say hi. Tea was
produced, and dry clothes, and I was given a nice, overstuffed
chair by the fire.
"Ya shoulda told us ya were comin'," Seamus told me. "We
woulda picked ya up."
I handed him the telegram. "Stationmaster asked me to give
this to you."
He read it. "Got in early, did ya?"
"Nope. Right on time."
He looked puzzled. "But ya say in here as 'ow yer train'd get
in at eight."
"It did."
"Sure an yer wrong. 'Ow the 'ell'd you cover seven miles that
fast?"
I spat in the fire. "I got a lift from one of your maniac
neighbors. Almost wish I hadn't. Bastard almost landed us in a
ditch, and he drove off with my bag."
Seamus looked at me oddly. "Was the driver a hairyfaced boy
in a cart?"
"He was. Do you know him?"
My friends exchanged what I can only call Significant
Glances. Seamus nodded.
"That was Old Matt you gotta ride from, Mike."
"Hmm. The man at the station said something about looking
out for him. Probably was afraid the bastard would run me
down. Does he always drive like that?"
"A fiend to drive, 'e is. Reckless as all. In fact, 'bout 20
years back he tooka turn at the cliffs too sharply, an over 'e
went, horse, cart, an all."
"Damn. You think that would have taught him. It's a wonder
he wasn't killed."
"Mike, 'ave ya seen the height 'o those cliffs? 'O course 'e
was killed."
Nothing more was said about the subject that night. The fire
burned low, and I was given a cot. Sleep brought dreams which
I thankfully don't remember.
***
In the morning Seamus took me out to the cliffs. We
wandered down a steep switchback to the bottom, while the
gulls circled above us.
The rocks below were jagged and knife-edged, worn sharp by
the pounding surf. We strolled along the bottom, the bright sun
only giving a bit of warmth.
I found my bag, wedged in between two rocks. It was
battered, but thankfully hadn't had anything breakable inside.
Seamus tells me that others, walking through the grove on a
wild night, had gotten a ride from Old Matt. Many of them had
failed to get off before the bad part, when the cart reenacts
it's fatal plunge onto the rocks, and had been killed or badly
injured.
***
Today, with a bright sun and a familiar room, I think that the
whole thing was a prank engineered by my friends. Get the
stationmaster in on it, get a local with a fake beard and a cart
- Seamus always was a rogue, fond of such jokes. But then a
rainy night comes, where the wind whistles against the pane.
And again I feel the motion of the cart and hear that horrible,
highpitched laughter, and I am not so sure as I was.
-------------
- Mike of No Particular Title or Handle
===/\=====+==================================================================
/ \ l Mike Loader - Lincolnite, Amberite, Illuminatus, Discordian,
/ () \ l Journalist, Author, Traveler, Historian, Java Fiend.
/ \ l Trier - LA - LV - Kiev - Reno - Hong Kong. Fnord.
-------- l mloader@scs.unr.edu
==========+==================================================================