Spilt Stout and Sour Weed
It had been a long night at the pub. One of the local musicians had been in and had gotten the boys all roused up with songs from the long past. Why everyone had to get all blistered over the failed revolutionary attempts from so many years ago never ceased to amaze Padraig. He supposed he woulna' have been a very popular bloke in those times, his not having a rebellious bone in his body. But then again he was good at pourin' a pint and keepin' the whiskey comin' so perhaps he would have made out fine as long as he kept his mouth shut. Which was something else he was typically fairly good at. Still, it was enough of a blow-out the prior evenin' that he had left part of it to clean this morning. He simply did not have the heart nor the steam to scrub down the floors and the benches where the boys had slopped their stout while singing along with the old rebel songs. He paused for a moment in his ministrations over the wood bench and smiled. Of course, seeing Ol' John up on the table bellowing out that drinkin' song and substitutin' his wife's name on some of the bawdier lines had been quite a hoot. It was probably a good thing she was in Dublin with the other ladies for the weekend and not likely to get wind of that. He went back to scrubbing and soon had the pub returned to the spit and polish required to open for the afternoon. He had noticed a few bleary- eyed men wander by and give the closed sign the eye, but he definitely wasn't ready to deal with the hung-over men yet. They could take their chances down the road, where they suspected he would get no sympathy from the proprietress, who happened to be the cousin of the local priest. That thought brought another wide smile to his face.
He took off his apron and glove, the latter of which he knew would have gotten no end of comment had the boys known he used it, and set himself to rights. He had enough time to go visit the pesky birds so he might as well see to it. "Bloody Hell," he muttered, "When I see Roary, I am giving him a piece of my mind for tangling me up like this. I never thought this would turn out to be more'n a lark."
Gathering his necessaries he set out down the path. He made his way with a bit more ease now, having suffered through the climb and the twists and turns several times already. He had learned not to come without gloves or a light. This was not a passage for the soft handed, that was for sure. He had also learned to time it around the tides, having once got caught on the ledge and being forced to spend the night with his unpleasant hosts. Though truth be told, if you did not mind the smell of rank seaweed and swan shit, it really wasn't that bad. He had eventually slept and actually dreamed that he was surrounded by a chorus of angels that kept watch over him with their angelic voices seeing him safely through the night. Though waking to the stench of the cave quickly put paid to the lovely dream. He had brought a bucket with him this time with the intent of mucking out the cave. It couldna' be healthy for the bird to be living in that stink. He had replaced his cooler with a thermos of ice that had the seaweed from the day before tucked in it. He thought that should prove adequate for the feeding. After the pub-scrub he was almost looking forward to this cleaning as he thought perhaps it might smell better than what he had just taken care of, and he had promised himself a long hot bath as a reward for two jobs well done when he was through.
It was upon entering the cavern that he realized something was a bit "hinky". He couldna' place his finger on it, but he knew something wasna' right. He put the light away and went down by the bird, whistlin' the tune that had been caught in his head since his night in the cavern. The big bird didna' even lift its head to stare haughtily at him as it usually would. "Now that is mightily strange," he thought. He took his bucket out along the ledge and tied a long piece of heavy fishing line to it, throwing out and dragging in as full a bucket as he could without tossing himself into the tide. He carried it back and sluiced down the area, repeating several times over until his arms ached with the effort. Not once did the bird stir. It was as he cast the last bucket of water that the other pair swooped in around him, coming so close their wing tips almost touched his cheek. He was so frightened by their unexpected nearness that he almost pissed himself. Instead he held completely rigid. After swooping around him they flew back and began to circle outside, making a few sounds, but not the loud cacophony he would have normally expected if they were truly out of sorts. He relaxed and went to get the feed.
Opening the thermos he was hit with a scent that was nearly as foul as what he had just sluiced out of the cavern. "Damn it all to Bloody Hell," he growled. He had not brought any other stores with him. He was going to have to go out on the damned ledge and use the fool woman's method to try and feed the bird. He looked about and found the silly golf-ball retriever. He rested this against the wall and looked at the bird. It still had not moved. He went back and got her medical kit. Whistling the little tune under his breath, he approached slowly. The last time he had tried to look at the bird he had come way with his fingertips all but snipped off. He wasn't sure he even wanted to try this but felt for certain there was something wrong. He edged up; when he was within a hands-breadth of the bird it turned its head just slightly and stared at him with a single glazed black eye. Padraig wasn't sure how you would know if a swan had taken to fever, but the glaze in this one's eye gave him the feeling that this was so. He reached out so slowly it looked like his own arm was in pain. Still whistling he finally laid a hand on the smooth white neck, just at the top where the line broke from its head into the faint beginnings of the long curve. It was cool to the touch on the back side; stroking down and around toward the line near the breast it appeared to gain heat. It seemed like that would be normal to him. He nudged up his courage and tucked a finger under what would be the bird's chin if it were human. He turned it to look him straight in the eye. "I am needin' to look at yer wing, ye ken?" The bird stared at him, then held its neck away so that the injured wing was revealed.
"Holy Mother, please forgive me," whispered Padraig. The wing seemed to be covered in what was a green slime. He opened the little medical kit and began gingerly cleaning the area. When he had finally cleared the wing of the oozing green mess, he was satisfied that it was not a pustulation; rather the bird seemed to have gagged and left its dinner on itself. "I am thinking that ye ate something that didna' sit vera well, young sir," said Padraig with a wry smile. "Looks like I am after getting ye something a bit fresher. In the meantime, perhaps ye might like a drop?" He pulled out his own cup from his sack and poured some fresh water into it and, with a bit of an afterthought, put just a dash of Tullamore Dew in to make it tasty. Who said a swan couldna' enjoy a drop, and perhaps it might act as an antibiotic from the inside out if any of that mess did happen to still be in it. He set the bowl down, gave the bird a pat without so much as once worrying about a snip, and went off to "retrieve" its dinner.
He sauntered along the ledge like he was a pirate on a well worn deck, twirling the retriever like a bit of cane. Leaning out over the waves he retrieved the bit of weed with self assurance, and then and only then did his mind flash back on the image of the woman balancing with one hand on the upper ledge. He found himself in the sea with that image in his mind, his heavy boots like stones pulling him down, the retriever hard fast in his hand as if somehow it would help him as he flailed about trying to push himself back to the top where sweet air waited. The waves pushed him toward sharp rocks and the sea sucked at him, pulling him downward. He flashed on the men singing, on reverently polishing the wood, and on the lovely chorus from the cavern as he slowly lost air and light and thought.
He felt a rough push at his belt line, like hands thrusting him up. He considered struggling against this intrusive touching, but he no longer had the strength. Let whatever fish was considering him as dinner have him, at least he would add to nature's bounty that way. He felt himself being propelled rather quickly and actually with some discomfort as his pants seemed to be being lifted by the waist and were becoming rather tight in all the wrong places. Seawater coursed through his shirt and trouser legs and still the pressure of moving faster built. He was almost thrown from the sea, landing almost two-thirds of the way upon the little ledge. He noted that he still had the retriever in his hand - and that it was full of weed - just before he passed out.
A large wave hit him square in the face, causing him to wake sputtering long unsaid curses in the Gaelic tongue. He rose slowly patting himself down. Other than scrapes and bruises, he was, in fact, all in one piece, though he thought he might be singing with the girls the next fortnight or so given the pain in his nether-region. He got gingerly up and took the retriever with him, glad to see that he at least had something to feed the bird after his drenching. He leaned on the ledge wall to make his way back only to find his patient staring at him curiously. "Apparently whiskey does a body, anybody, at least in small increments, good," mused the bartender. He managed to procure his flask and then settle in front of the bird. They shared the meal then. Whisky for the wet and battered man and fresh seaweed for the bird. With one last long glance at each other they both curled up on their "wings" and fell asleep, each to nurture their own peculiar wounds.
No comments:
Post a Comment