Snips and Blisters
Padraig was in a bit of a snit. Perhaps snit was an understatement. He could not quite get his head around why he had agreed to help the snarling bit of fluff in the damn cave. Sure Roary was a fine fellow and he had no grievances against that new lass and her kin, but at this particular moment in time he would dearly love to wring both their lily-white necks.
Did they have any idea just how impossible it was to pour a perfect tap with two fingers wrapped like sausages? And did they give a thought as to what it would bloody feel like to have the alcohol from the beer fight him behind the bar every night as those same sausages absorbed his nightly work? Blast and bother, if he wasn't a decent man who believed in keeping his word, he would let the stupid swan starve.
He took a long soothing draw of his Guinness and sat back behind the bar. He had closed up for the night and was letting his hand rest before he tended to the cleaning. Resting he found himself smiling a bit. He was rather pleased with himself for coming up with the solution to the general feeding issue. There was absolutely no way he was going to fling himself out over that tiny little ledge and grasp at straws like that woman did to feed the bird. He had pondered a bit on how to gather the food for the bird without having to go to those lengths. In the end he went with fishing. He smiled again, a large self-satisfied grin. Resting his beer on his stomach, he allowed himself a low, gutteral grunt of satisfaction, followed by a wee-bit of a whistle. He had enjoyed taking the curragh out and tossing his tackle out to sea, dragging it back as soon as it had fallen, by his estimation, deep enough to be in the weed. It had taken a bit over an hour, but he had hauled in more seaweed just fishing for it than he bet the fool woman did in two or three days of using that fool pole. He had used his bucket to pull in sea water and iced it to keep it cold. On the shore he had separated enough for a day's feed and put it into his flask with a bit of chilled sea water.
He was really very proud of that much. It wasn't until after he had scraped himself up getting to the cavern that he began to have second thoughts about the whole caretaking idea. Then he saw the wee bird, though in reality it wasn't that small. It did look sad there. He could see from where he had stood that the wing was still not all healed. There was a certain redness to it where the feathers should have covered the torn area. It made him wince a bit to think how hard it must be to need something like that to be whole and to have it severed. He had looked down at his own arm and studied it from his shoulder to his hand, flexing it just to feel the sinew and muscle move. Yes, it would be very hard indeed he had thought.
He should have been thinking about what they had told him. He knew that. But he had only thought to take the bird its food. He moved too fast and he moved too close. As he set out the weed offering, the bird had reared its long neck up, craned over to stare him briefly in the eye and then bit him savagely. His index and middle fingers were torn at mid and tip. Yet, at that moment, all he could do was stare into that lone black eye and read the warning there. He had stumbled back, ripped at the cloth of his undershirt and bound up his fingers. Then he had stared at the bird. It was sitting there, its neck fully elongated, staring straight at him. He wasn't sure how long they paired off, but eventually the bird turned its gaze to the food and began to eat. Apparently, Padraig had been dismissed. He had climbed out and made his way back to the pub. That first night had been grueling, the pain of the bite second only to fending off the questions of the patrons.
It had not been quite so bad today. The bird had simply waited until he had dropped off the proffered food. Gave him the haughty glare and then began to eat. Perhaps they had made a sort of peace. Padraig pushed himself to his feet and began the laborious process of cleaning the bar. Normally it was a favored part of the night. He enjoyed wiping down the lovely bottles and cleaning and polishing the wood and brass. Every night these simple tasks reminded him just how lucky he was. Tonight though, they were just one more set of duties that kept him from his last Guinness and a well-earned bed. He hoped Roary and the two women found what they needed soon. He doubted very much he had the courage and patience to tend that bird long term.
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