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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1006291-Fool-Luck
Rated: 18+ · Book · Horror/Scary · #2222317
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
#1006291 added March 13, 2021 at 9:08am
Restrictions: None
Fool Luck
“It don’t make sense,” Thomas Magee slapped his tankard of ale down, nearly crushing Able Macquires’ stubby fingers. “Missy were a wee lass and her elderly mother with nary a friend in her life.”

“Cept’n for one of the fairy folk, they says. Which is how Missy came to be.” Able Macquire licked his fingertips tastefully sucking on one after the other. Nothing fazes a drunken sot except’n for more drink.

“Aye. I heard that tale. With some disbelief, I might add.” A pocket full of coin lay empty of weight where Master Thomas Magee’s empty hand went wandering. He stared into the empty bottom of his tankard, squeezed one eye for better view, “She paid a price for her mischief, whatever it were, I’d wager.”

It was in unsteady gait the two helped each other rise. The celebration of this particular Saint Patrick’s Day would leave shameful headaches on the morrow, but for now, all was right with a world gone bad. “Surely, god a mighty, I could be using a rainbow pot a gold. I be more broke than my fiddle I stepped on wishing it were you.”

The red haired Magee lived from mad rage to its brother. The usual black Irish mop adorning Maquire framed a cherub face denying the truth of wicked and evil thoughts held within. “Bless you for that act of kindness. The sound of your bow cat wailing across them strings like to shrivel every nerve I own.”

Every other day but this, the two Irish lads were solid enemies from birth, blessed to be so. They were legends of their time, much like the Hatfields and McCoy’s, original progenitor transplants from the green isle.

They slowed their talk along with themselves, at reaching a fork in the road where they usually parted ways. The rune of an ancient Cletic carved rock stood stolid in their path marking some mystical affair long past.

“They says when Missy reached her teen years, she was twice more ugly than her crone mother. Nay would look long enough to have her.” Magee swallowed hard what he’d already swallowed before. His tankard’s swill lay bitter on the taste in his mouth.

“Cept’n for the promise of her fairy gold,” remembered the tongue of Maquire.

“An what would ye be knowing of that?” There was suspicion in the tone of the blood enemy stood weaving with the shadows under a full moon. “What I want’s to know is where you got enough coin to liquor both us up and why you wanted me anything but sober.”

There were steps taken to widen and stretch any spark of friendliness to splitting apart. Fists were raised in readiness. A fine fight is never better when drink has done its fair duty, eliminating the feeling of pain from embattled senses.

“Take that.” Maquire struck at Magee. His fist struck the rock instead. The crack where it hit widened a mit, opening into a black mouthed cry.

“Me lucky hat.” Magee plunged after it, tripped over Maquire, pausing only long enough for a swift body kick. A howling wind sucked them tumbling into the gaping dark maw.

“I feels like my flesh been torn off,” Maquire sat up first, resting his nether parts on Magee’s head.

“Watch where on ye are resting your cheeky self,” A small earthquake ensued raising Magee, forcing Maquire aloft back onto his feet.

“Now, laddies, look what you’ve done. Broken open a long sealed curse.” It was MIssy shaking the dust of her teenage years appearing before the two sets of raised fists.

“Now, what’s done cannot be undone,” It was Magee’s elderly mother long gone and reported abducted without a trace. “Jest like his poor old dad, rest his soul, driven to drink and worse friends.”

“I want that one,” Missy pointed a pudgy finger between the two.

“That’s my hat,” Magee swiped at the Irish Walish hat escaped to the crown of a wee little fellow. Fairy size he was with a mean little grin firmly in place. Pockets spilling with gold coin scattered, rolling around well sod black cobbler boots shined to perfection.

“By golly, tis a leprechaun,” Magee sputtered, spitting the words between the creature’s ears. “Catch him and all its riches be ours.”

“Hold him. He’s mine. I dreamed him here. Don’t let him go.”

Maquire, of more practical mind, stooped with the hat in hand, scooping up the litter of coin. His large size behind got a kick at the seat of his pants. “Leave that scrabbling alone. Magee’s old crone of a mother belched out. “Now’s our chance. The curse is broken the’t is trapping us here. Tis time to get out whilst the gett’n is good.”

The walls of the underground cavern began shaking from the little fairy guy’s bout of uncontrolled laughter. “Me marry you, ugly wart. Nary a chance. I’d rather give away every pot of gold I own.”

There is no anger quite like that of a shunned and embittered Irish maid. “I wish this curse were alive and yours instead.”

There are those not too sodden with home made Irish brew obtained from the close by inn, who find theirselves weaving and wondering which split in the path to take where they come from. If it be on Saint Paddy’s eve about the hour of magic midnight, the earth itself may be heard to groan a welcome.

A whispering wind will carry the sound of secret girlish laughter from out of a crack in a stone rune. For those unwary travelers who investigate up close, there looms a thunder of embattled rage fighting for release.

Above it all, for the ear pressed against the carved out signs of an old Celtic curse will be heard the cackle of an old crone mother’s warning.

If it be a full Saint Patrick’s moon flashing its glit ray upon the scene, a strange thing will happen. Many a drunk fallen and gawking in the dust can testify of the seizure of a crack widening open. It is a sure way to get rid of an enemy without a trace.

There is always room for one more in a fairy’s domain where a Leprechaun refuses to marry and a good Irish fight is in progress between ever more ardently rage endowed foes.

Fool luck alone spills out in a few sprays of gold coin before the crack is closed. It is how the inn continues to prosper. No drunk can refrain from spending found gain in the fastest way possible.

Some may call this legend, others swear it fantasy, a few cruel hearts have tested the evil nature of its promise, sent their accursed enemies to their unjust doom.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1006291-Fool-Luck