| Supernatural Fiction posted February 23, 2019 | Chapters: |
-Prologue- 1 
|
  |
Two friends erecting a fence on the edge of a cliff.
A chapter in the book The Widow Glynn
The Lost Tammy
by Lordinajamjar
Padraig stood at the edge of the cliff and barked orders to the driver of the flaking-blue upon erupting-rust coloured truck.
"Steady there now! Now back her up slowly. Easy now! Easy! Stop! Dammit, Dermot! Didn't I tell yea to take it easy. Now will yer look. The feckin' back wheel is hanging over the edge of the bleedin' cliff."
Dermot Malone stepped out of the truck. He was a worn strap of a man. A bachelor. Life had weathered his 57 year old face, though he was still as fit ever he was. He could toss a bale of hay further than some men half his age, plus a few women twice that. He carefully dragged his five foot ten inch frame to peer behind the Ford truck. It was overloaded with barbed wire and wooden posts. He grasped tightly onto the battered tailgate as he stared at the rear left wheel hanging over the imposing cliff.
The screeching sound of an agitated seagull caused Dermot to suddenly look up towards the greying sky. Just in time he ducked his head, avoiding physical contact, but not timely enough to prevent the swooping bird from knocking the Tam O'Shanter cap from atop his balding head.
The doomed cap rose up on the wind like a circular winged plaid albatross. It was spun around and blown inside-out, then right side-in, somersaulting as it careened forever skywards. It was if the cap had been deliberately thrown off the cliff in one last jubilant hurrah. It arced and spun, before signing off in a final death spin, as it was enveloped by crashing waves and white sea foam. The cap bade a last farewell as it was spun like a sopping Catherine Wheel, on the exploding spray of a great ocean finger.
Apparently lost forever to human kind. The cap was pummeled and pounded into the gentler depths of a raging Celtic sea.
Dermot was inconsolable as he cried out, "Me Tammy! Awrgh, Jaysus me late great-uncle's favourite cap. Ah, no not me uncle's Tammy. Ah, sufferin' Lord that Tammy's been in me family for nigh on seventy years."
He stared inconsolably at the raging sea. Was he imagining things, or could he hear the song of a mythical selkie? Its voice almost lost among a choir of barking seals. Could it be singing a sad lament to his late great-uncle Francis' favourite cap?
Dermot's thoughts were violently interrupted. He turned his head in response to the screaming agitated voice of Padraig who had watched the incident from his position at the front of the truck.
"Dermot! Will yea no cop yourself on, man! Come away now! Over here, get yerself beside me. I don't want yea falling into the sea to join your great-uncle's miserabe cap. Not yet anyway. Not before yea have had time to buy me that pint owed to me from two summers long gone."
Dermot protested. "Ah, ya auld shite! I've never owed nothing in me life. Yea drank your due at the wedding of the widow Glynn. I was most generous. I well remember standing you a few jars of the black porter."
Padraig was incensed.
"Yea did no such thing. I remember that I stayed sober the entire day out of respect to, her then departed husband, Barry McCann. The finest friend I ever had. Rest his poor soul."
Dermot shook his head. "No not that wedding. I am talking about the other one."
Padraig drew his right hand to his head.
"For God's sake man which other one do yea mean? She's wed and buried nearly half the men in this town already. Why, isn't she the reason that Billy O'Brien's pub is so prosperous on account of all the drink he sold at her weddings, not counting all the wakes?"
Dermot had a bit of a soft spot for the widow and tried to placate his friend.
"Ah Padraig but yea have to admit she is a fine daycent upstanding woman."
Padraig grimaced.
"Aye she is upstanding alright but more's the pity that her men don't remain upstanding for too long after their nuptials."
This set Dermot wondering.
"Now tell me Padraig what's the state of herself right now? Is she still holding the knave of hearts or is she left holding the ace of spades again?"
Padraig looked at his friend with widened eyes. He was visibly taken aback by Dermot's question.
He responded angrily, "Aw, would yea shut your hole man. Are yea losing your mind altogether, thinking about that damn woman? Were we not dancing just three weeks ago with the reverend mother from the convent and her drunken sister Kate. Herself, returned from America for Fintan O'Reilly's wake. Was he not the same man who boasted at his wedding four weeks earlier that he was the fittest man in town. Didn't he claim without shame, that he was the groom that would outlive the widow Glynn?"
Dermot nodded his head in agreement.
"Jaysus Padraig yea might be wrong but I know yer right. T'was a shocking boast he made and herself giving him such a dirty look and all. Then she smiled all coy like a sweet seventeen-year-old virgin instead of the seventy-year-old vinegar that she is."
Padraig's dismeanour was visibly calmer as he responded to his old friend with a few words of caution.
"Aye, Dermot, she's a quaer one alright. So, don't yea be getting any of those hot blooded romantic inclinations about yeself and that auld sow. You hear me! Come on now let's get going. We still have that fence to build at the edge of this cursed cliff before it claims any more lives. Do you realise twenty three men have fallen off its edge in the last five years. Tis very strange. Their deaths are all unrelated except for one thing. They were all married to the widow Glynn."
Dermot nodded in apparent agreement to Dermot's words. However in his mind those words oddly drifted away before they could register inside his head. In his response to Padraig he tried to focus his mind back to the problem immediately at hand.
"Tis a mighty coincidence all right Padraig. Let's be walking down to O'Farrell's farm. Tis there where we will get the loan of a tractor. We will soon have that truck pulled away from the edge of that cliff."
Padraig was in agreement feeling some pity for Dermot's loss, but also recognising a good opportunity when he saw one. He responded mischievously.
"We will, Dermot, we will. Now since we pass Tony's Tavern on the way, wouldn't it be a sin to not call in for a drop of the cratur. It would be just to raise a few glasses in honour of your late uncle's recently departed cap."
Dermot grinned, and then nodded in agreement, as he reverently ran his hand across his unprotected naked head.
The two old friends traipsed side by side across the damp green fields in the direction of Tony's Tavern. Padraig talked the entire journey without reply from Dermot. Dermot's mind had been distracted by a beautiful sound which only he could hear. The words of Padraig fell on deafened ears.
As the two men drew out of sight a large seagull landed on the back of the truck. Two shadowy figures looked on from among the trees as the Ford truck of flaking-blue upon erupting-rust teetered helplessly over the cliff edge. In resigned silence the doomed faithful old truck relinquished its final load as it tumbled backwards into the heavy swell amid a flight of wooden posts and unwending wire.
The widow Glynn turned to speak to Billy O'Brien. In her hands she held a sea-soaked Tam O'Shanter cap.
"Well, Billy, I think I will be soon courting again. Tell me about that baldy fellah named Dermot. How much land does he own?"
Billy looked nervously at the Siren standing beside him, still dripping wet from her ocean swim. He hesitated before responding. Dermot was an old friend who had helped him out years before. Billy had never forgotten the help he had received. He was torn with guilt wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Billy's hesitation prompted the old girl to hiss impatiently. Billy knew better than to risk her ire.
He spoke quickly, though reluctantly, as his tongue tripped out the words.
"He has sixty acres of untilled land adjacent to your last late husband's farm."
The phoney old widow raised her head and began combing her hair. Slowly her facial features began to change from those of a crone to those of a beautiful young maiden. She was the desire of men's lustful dreams, but she had the power to turn those dreams into nightmares from hell.
She opened her mouth and began to wail a seductive Siren's song. The song was unheard by all except the ears of Dermot Malone.
Padraig stood at the edge of the cliff and barked orders to the driver of the flaking-blue upon erupting-rust coloured truck.
"Steady there now! Now back her up slowly. Easy now! Easy! Stop! Dammit, Dermot! Didn't I tell yea to take it easy. Now will yer look. The feckin' back wheel is hanging over the edge of the bleedin' cliff."
Dermot Malone stepped out of the truck. He was a worn strap of a man. A bachelor. Life had weathered his 57 year old face, though he was still as fit ever he was. He could toss a bale of hay further than some men half his age, plus a few women twice that. He carefully dragged his five foot ten inch frame to peer behind the Ford truck. It was overloaded with barbed wire and wooden posts. He grasped tightly onto the battered tailgate as he stared at the rear left wheel hanging over the imposing cliff.
The screeching sound of an agitated seagull caused Dermot to suddenly look up towards the greying sky. Just in time he ducked his head, avoiding physical contact, but not timely enough to prevent the swooping bird from knocking the Tam O'Shanter cap from atop his balding head.
The doomed cap rose up on the wind like a circular winged plaid albatross. It was spun around and blown inside-out, then right side-in, somersaulting as it careened forever skywards. It was if the cap had been deliberately thrown off the cliff in one last jubilant hurrah. It arced and spun, before signing off in a final death spin, as it was enveloped by crashing waves and white sea foam. The cap bade a last farewell as it was spun like a sopping Catherine Wheel, on the exploding spray of a great ocean finger.
Apparently lost forever to human kind. The cap was pummeled and pounded into the gentler depths of a raging Celtic sea.
Dermot was inconsolable as he cried out, "Me Tammy! Awrgh, Jaysus me late great-uncle's favourite cap. Ah, no not me uncle's Tammy. Ah, sufferin' Lord that Tammy's been in me family for nigh on seventy years."
He stared inconsolably at the raging sea. Was he imagining things, or could he hear the song of a mythical selkie? Its voice almost lost among a choir of barking seals. Could it be singing a sad lament to his late great-uncle Francis' favourite cap?
Dermot's thoughts were violently interrupted. He turned his head in response to the screaming agitated voice of Padraig who had watched the incident from his position at the front of the truck.
"Dermot! Will yea no cop yourself on, man! Come away now! Over here, get yerself beside me. I don't want yea falling into the sea to join your great-uncle's miserabe cap. Not yet anyway. Not before yea have had time to buy me that pint owed to me from two summers long gone."
Dermot protested. "Ah, ya auld shite! I've never owed nothing in me life. Yea drank your due at the wedding of the widow Glynn. I was most generous. I well remember standing you a few jars of the black porter."
Padraig was incensed.
"Yea did no such thing. I remember that I stayed sober the entire day out of respect to, her then departed husband, Barry McCann. The finest friend I ever had. Rest his poor soul."
Dermot shook his head. "No not that wedding. I am talking about the other one."
Padraig drew his right hand to his head.
"For God's sake man which other one do yea mean? She's wed and buried nearly half the men in this town already. Why, isn't she the reason that Billy O'Brien's pub is so prosperous on account of all the drink he sold at her weddings, not counting all the wakes?"
Dermot had a bit of a soft spot for the widow and tried to placate his friend.
"Ah Padraig but yea have to admit she is a fine daycent upstanding woman."
Padraig grimaced.
"Aye she is upstanding alright but more's the pity that her men don't remain upstanding for too long after their nuptials."
This set Dermot wondering.
"Now tell me Padraig what's the state of herself right now? Is she still holding the knave of hearts or is she left holding the ace of spades again?"
Padraig looked at his friend with widened eyes. He was visibly taken aback by Dermot's question.
He responded angrily, "Aw, would yea shut your hole man. Are yea losing your mind altogether, thinking about that damn woman? Were we not dancing just three weeks ago with the reverend mother from the convent and her drunken sister Kate. Herself, returned from America for Fintan O'Reilly's wake. Was he not the same man who boasted at his wedding four weeks earlier that he was the fittest man in town. Didn't he claim without shame, that he was the groom that would outlive the widow Glynn?"
Dermot nodded his head in agreement.
"Jaysus Padraig yea might be wrong but I know yer right. T'was a shocking boast he made and herself giving him such a dirty look and all. Then she smiled all coy like a sweet seventeen-year-old virgin instead of the seventy-year-old vinegar that she is."
Padraig's dismeanour was visibly calmer as he responded to his old friend with a few words of caution.
"Aye, Dermot, she's a quaer one alright. So, don't yea be getting any of those hot blooded romantic inclinations about yeself and that auld sow. You hear me! Come on now let's get going. We still have that fence to build at the edge of this cursed cliff before it claims any more lives. Do you realise twenty three men have fallen off its edge in the last five years. Tis very strange. Their deaths are all unrelated except for one thing. They were all married to the widow Glynn."
Dermot nodded in apparent agreement to Dermot's words. However in his mind those words oddly drifted away before they could register inside his head. In his response to Padraig he tried to focus his mind back to the problem immediately at hand.
"Tis a mighty coincidence all right Padraig. Let's be walking down to O'Farrell's farm. Tis there where we will get the loan of a tractor. We will soon have that truck pulled away from the edge of that cliff."
Padraig was in agreement feeling some pity for Dermot's loss, but also recognising a good opportunity when he saw one. He responded mischievously.
"We will, Dermot, we will. Now since we pass Tony's Tavern on the way, wouldn't it be a sin to not call in for a drop of the cratur. It would be just to raise a few glasses in honour of your late uncle's recently departed cap."
Dermot grinned, and then nodded in agreement, as he reverently ran his hand across his unprotected naked head.
The two old friends traipsed side by side across the damp green fields in the direction of Tony's Tavern. Padraig talked the entire journey without reply from Dermot. Dermot's mind had been distracted by a beautiful sound which only he could hear. The words of Padraig fell on deafened ears.
As the two men drew out of sight a large seagull landed on the back of the truck. Two shadowy figures looked on from among the trees as the Ford truck of flaking-blue upon erupting-rust teetered helplessly over the cliff edge. In resigned silence the doomed faithful old truck relinquished its final load as it tumbled backwards into the heavy swell amid a flight of wooden posts and unwending wire.
The widow Glynn turned to speak to Billy O'Brien. In her hands she held a sea-soaked Tam O'Shanter cap.
"Well, Billy, I think I will be soon courting again. Tell me about that baldy fellah named Dermot. How much land does he own?"
Billy looked nervously at the Siren standing beside him, still dripping wet from her ocean swim. He hesitated before responding. Dermot was an old friend who had helped him out years before. Billy had never forgotten the help he had received. He was torn with guilt wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Billy's hesitation prompted the old girl to hiss impatiently. Billy knew better than to risk her ire.
He spoke quickly, though reluctantly, as his tongue tripped out the words.
"He has sixty acres of untilled land adjacent to your last late husband's farm."
The phoney old widow raised her head and began combing her hair. Slowly her facial features began to change from those of a crone to those of a beautiful young maiden. She was the desire of men's lustful dreams, but she had the power to turn those dreams into nightmares from hell.
She opened her mouth and began to wail a seductive Siren's song. The song was unheard by all except the ears of Dermot Malone.
"Steady there now! Now back her up slowly. Easy now! Easy! Stop! Dammit, Dermot! Didn't I tell yea to take it easy. Now will yer look. The feckin' back wheel is hanging over the edge of the bleedin' cliff."
Dermot Malone stepped out of the truck. He was a worn strap of a man. A bachelor. Life had weathered his 57 year old face, though he was still as fit ever he was. He could toss a bale of hay further than some men half his age, plus a few women twice that. He carefully dragged his five foot ten inch frame to peer behind the Ford truck. It was overloaded with barbed wire and wooden posts. He grasped tightly onto the battered tailgate as he stared at the rear left wheel hanging over the imposing cliff.
The screeching sound of an agitated seagull caused Dermot to suddenly look up towards the greying sky. Just in time he ducked his head, avoiding physical contact, but not timely enough to prevent the swooping bird from knocking the Tam O'Shanter cap from atop his balding head.
The doomed cap rose up on the wind like a circular winged plaid albatross. It was spun around and blown inside-out, then right side-in, somersaulting as it careened forever skywards. It was if the cap had been deliberately thrown off the cliff in one last jubilant hurrah. It arced and spun, before signing off in a final death spin, as it was enveloped by crashing waves and white sea foam. The cap bade a last farewell as it was spun like a sopping Catherine Wheel, on the exploding spray of a great ocean finger.
Apparently lost forever to human kind. The cap was pummeled and pounded into the gentler depths of a raging Celtic sea.
Dermot was inconsolable as he cried out, "Me Tammy! Awrgh, Jaysus me late great-uncle's favourite cap. Ah, no not me uncle's Tammy. Ah, sufferin' Lord that Tammy's been in me family for nigh on seventy years."
He stared inconsolably at the raging sea. Was he imagining things, or could he hear the song of a mythical selkie? Its voice almost lost among a choir of barking seals. Could it be singing a sad lament to his late great-uncle Francis' favourite cap?
Dermot's thoughts were violently interrupted. He turned his head in response to the screaming agitated voice of Padraig who had watched the incident from his position at the front of the truck.
"Dermot! Will yea no cop yourself on, man! Come away now! Over here, get yerself beside me. I don't want yea falling into the sea to join your great-uncle's miserabe cap. Not yet anyway. Not before yea have had time to buy me that pint owed to me from two summers long gone."
Dermot protested. "Ah, ya auld shite! I've never owed nothing in me life. Yea drank your due at the wedding of the widow Glynn. I was most generous. I well remember standing you a few jars of the black porter."
Padraig was incensed.
"Yea did no such thing. I remember that I stayed sober the entire day out of respect to, her then departed husband, Barry McCann. The finest friend I ever had. Rest his poor soul."
Dermot shook his head. "No not that wedding. I am talking about the other one."
Padraig drew his right hand to his head.
"For God's sake man which other one do yea mean? She's wed and buried nearly half the men in this town already. Why, isn't she the reason that Billy O'Brien's pub is so prosperous on account of all the drink he sold at her weddings, not counting all the wakes?"
Dermot had a bit of a soft spot for the widow and tried to placate his friend.
"Ah Padraig but yea have to admit she is a fine daycent upstanding woman."
Padraig grimaced.
"Aye she is upstanding alright but more's the pity that her men don't remain upstanding for too long after their nuptials."
This set Dermot wondering.
"Now tell me Padraig what's the state of herself right now? Is she still holding the knave of hearts or is she left holding the ace of spades again?"
Padraig looked at his friend with widened eyes. He was visibly taken aback by Dermot's question.
He responded angrily, "Aw, would yea shut your hole man. Are yea losing your mind altogether, thinking about that damn woman? Were we not dancing just three weeks ago with the reverend mother from the convent and her drunken sister Kate. Herself, returned from America for Fintan O'Reilly's wake. Was he not the same man who boasted at his wedding four weeks earlier that he was the fittest man in town. Didn't he claim without shame, that he was the groom that would outlive the widow Glynn?"
Dermot nodded his head in agreement.
"Jaysus Padraig yea might be wrong but I know yer right. T'was a shocking boast he made and herself giving him such a dirty look and all. Then she smiled all coy like a sweet seventeen-year-old virgin instead of the seventy-year-old vinegar that she is."
Padraig's dismeanour was visibly calmer as he responded to his old friend with a few words of caution.
"Aye, Dermot, she's a quaer one alright. So, don't yea be getting any of those hot blooded romantic inclinations about yeself and that auld sow. You hear me! Come on now let's get going. We still have that fence to build at the edge of this cursed cliff before it claims any more lives. Do you realise twenty three men have fallen off its edge in the last five years. Tis very strange. Their deaths are all unrelated except for one thing. They were all married to the widow Glynn."
Dermot nodded in apparent agreement to Dermot's words. However in his mind those words oddly drifted away before they could register inside his head. In his response to Padraig he tried to focus his mind back to the problem immediately at hand.
"Tis a mighty coincidence all right Padraig. Let's be walking down to O'Farrell's farm. Tis there where we will get the loan of a tractor. We will soon have that truck pulled away from the edge of that cliff."
Padraig was in agreement feeling some pity for Dermot's loss, but also recognising a good opportunity when he saw one. He responded mischievously.
"We will, Dermot, we will. Now since we pass Tony's Tavern on the way, wouldn't it be a sin to not call in for a drop of the cratur. It would be just to raise a few glasses in honour of your late uncle's recently departed cap."
Dermot grinned, and then nodded in agreement, as he reverently ran his hand across his unprotected naked head.
The two old friends traipsed side by side across the damp green fields in the direction of Tony's Tavern. Padraig talked the entire journey without reply from Dermot. Dermot's mind had been distracted by a beautiful sound which only he could hear. The words of Padraig fell on deafened ears.
As the two men drew out of sight a large seagull landed on the back of the truck. Two shadowy figures looked on from among the trees as the Ford truck of flaking-blue upon erupting-rust teetered helplessly over the cliff edge. In resigned silence the doomed faithful old truck relinquished its final load as it tumbled backwards into the heavy swell amid a flight of wooden posts and unwending wire.
The widow Glynn turned to speak to Billy O'Brien. In her hands she held a sea-soaked Tam O'Shanter cap.
"Well, Billy, I think I will be soon courting again. Tell me about that baldy fellah named Dermot. How much land does he own?"
Billy looked nervously at the Siren standing beside him, still dripping wet from her ocean swim. He hesitated before responding. Dermot was an old friend who had helped him out years before. Billy had never forgotten the help he had received. He was torn with guilt wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Billy's hesitation prompted the old girl to hiss impatiently. Billy knew better than to risk her ire.
He spoke quickly, though reluctantly, as his tongue tripped out the words.
"He has sixty acres of untilled land adjacent to your last late husband's farm."
The phoney old widow raised her head and began combing her hair. Slowly her facial features began to change from those of a crone to those of a beautiful young maiden. She was the desire of men's lustful dreams, but she had the power to turn those dreams into nightmares from hell.
She opened her mouth and began to wail a seductive Siren's song. The song was unheard by all except the ears of Dermot Malone.
 Recognized |
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Lordinajamjar All rights reserved.
Lordinajamjar has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
