PATRICK'S DILEMMA: A NOVEL

By Ciarán MacMahon

In the 4th century, an enthusiastic Patrick arrives back in Hibernia to try and bring the Christian faith to the Celts. But from the moment he sets foot on land, he finds that his mission might not be as easy as he had hoped as the Celts have their own unique ways of interpreting and going about life.
A humorous take on how mankind so often needs someone, or thing, to look up to in order to give validity to one's existence. And how there is always someone about who is more than ready to exploit this need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781446602294

Book preview

PATRICK’S DILEMMA

A Novel

Ciarán MacMahon

PATRICK’S DILEMMA

A Novel

Colophon:

Copyright © Ciarán MacMahon 2024

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781446602294

This is a work of fiction and all characters are fictitious. Those names that do relate to legends from the very distant past have been adapted to fit the story. Like any legend: what is true and what is not?

Original manuscript Patrick’s Dilemma copyright 1997, Ciarán MacMahon

Cover design © Ciarán MacMahon 2024

Also available in Ebook by the author:

Tales From the Bottom of the Glass (short stories)

To Every Man His Due (screenplay)

Dave’s Return (screenplay)

Author’s note:

After trying one’s hand at some short stories and a thriller (screenplay) I decided to attempt a novel and thought: why not give comedy a go while you’re at it?

Choosing the legend of Saint Patrick as a very loose basis and with an overflow of anachronisms, inaccuracies and total fantasy, I attempted to have a humorous look at mankind’s seemingly endless need to always have someone, or thing, to look up to in order to give validity to his/her existence. And how there is never a shortage of those ready to exploit this need for a pretty penny or power or, as is also so often the case, both.

So, for all the anachronisms, distortions, misspells, grammatical short-comings and whatnots here it is.

And, importantly too, for any possible offences to the sensitive believers, please just try to remember: it’s only an attempt at comedy and no real offence is intended.

Carry on believing by all means…

Ciarán MacMahon 2024

In the 4th century, an enthusiastic, if not a little gullible and somewhat innocent, Patrick, arrives back in Hibernia to try and bring the Christian Faith to the Celts. But from the moment he sets foot on land, he finds that his mission might not be as easy as he had hoped as the Celts have their own unique ways of interpreting and going about life…

To Sinéad

PROLOGUE

Who's there!

The three men froze in their frantic cleaning up.

The main gate duty guard, Sir!

What the fuck does he want? hissed Mac Cool wide eyed with panic.

What the fuck do you want? demanded one of the sweating, bloody-handed guards of the presence beyond the closed door.

There's a bunch of aul' ones down there outside shouting about wanting to see the Bishop.

The three men looked at each other. Momentarily stuck for words.

Well? came the voice from beyond the door.

Well, what? returned the other of the caught-in-the-act guards.

What'll I tell them, Sir?

Again, the three men exchanged panic-riddled expressions.

Tell them he's lost the head! And as soon as he's found it again, he'll see them!

The guard who spoke watched Mac Cool for his reaction. Mac Cool blinked his approval and the guard, feeling the sniff of possible promotion in the air, threw in another little show of spontaneity.

And ask if any of them can manage a bit of needle work and would be into putting their mind to a bit of top-quality sowing!

In their frenzied and bloodied excitement, they broke into a hideous, meaningless giggling as the departing guard's dangling metal bits could be heard clinking and scraping down the hall outside.

CHAPTER 1

(Patrick gets the Call. Or is it just a case of all the endless hours studying by bad light?)

CHAPTER 1

1

Patrick sat and looked out towards the west. The sea stretched out below the cliffs as far as the eye could see on this clear and warm spring day. Beside him lay his most cherished possession, an authentic autographed copy of the Bible. Signed by his favourite Pope at the time Pope Constantine. Although the inscription wasn't directed at Patrick personally, he having acquired the rare copy of the Holy Book during his mysterious travels on the continent in the company of strangers and under equally dubious circumstances, nevertheless, he saw the words `To my humble and hard working servant' as being his own - strangely though, the name following the dedication had faded almost completely while the rest of the inscription remained clearly readable? - and had kept the Book with almost obsessive care and, again, almost always to hand, ever since. Next to his Bible lay a primitive form of a Latin dictionary and bits and pieces of scrolls in Gaelic. He'd been at it for years now, the translation lark, ever since he'd got `the Message' in fact, and was now almost finished his rough 'n ready translation of the Christian's version of how things are, were, and will be. Including a guide of how to be a good one - Christian that is - and get ‘There’ in the end.

Since his escape from Hibernia and his finally getting back home to his family, he'd been busy rediscovering God. Someone who'd only been a vague memory when he was kidnapped by the Celts and taken to Hibernia as a very young boy. Their paganism was all he understood and knew for the sixteen years he'd slaved for them. And so, after his escape and during his stint on the Continent where he first had his reintroduction to God - the real God! not the rubbish the Celts were flaunting about over there beyond the sea - it was like a fresh, beautiful, mind opening rebirth.

He was so thankful to his father and mother and brothers and sisters for their loving and accepting him back into the family with open and unquestioning arms. At first at least, anyways. And for that first, unforgettable, time they took him along to the little church down in the valley beyond the back of him there.

He turned to look in its general direction but only succeeded in giving himself a creak in the neck and so gave up on that and returned his gaze to the sea, letting his thoughts suffice.

The tranquillity of it all. The quiet serenity. The sense of order. `Yes', he remembered thinking, `this is where I want to be at.'

His father introduced him to the priest and since then there'd been no looking back. The autographed Bible was dug out from his belongings, dusted down and got stuck into with a new, till then unheard of, verve. It wasn't long before he was baptised, no one could remember if he'd been done before the Celts got their hands on him but it was reasoned a second splashing of the waters could do no one any harm. Then, after a short but intensely concentrated instruction, he took the Communion and Confirmation. There are rumours that he was the only man in the history to have them done on the same day. Only rumours mind you! Rumours being the thing of the day round those times what with there being no `Guinness Book of Records' to keep track of such events of exception. No Guinness either! poor buggers.

But that was not the end of it, much to the disappointment of his father and brothers who had to do, or so they thought, all the graft around the farm while Patrick was off praying, meditating or translating the Bible. Although, truth be known, Patrick still did a lot around the place, his slave days having bred it into him. It was just that his quiet and contemplative ways seemed to make these things go somewhat unnoticed. However, whenever any of the family uttered their feelings openly they were quickly hushed by their mother, who was only too glad to have a religious one in among them. Every little bit helped to ward off the evil spirits and bad luck even if the local, somewhat progressive, priest kept hammering on about all that old superstition being nothing but a load of old cobblers. `Better safe than sorry!' being her policy.

Patrick's mother had her worries about him as well though, as she stood with her husband on that particular evening watching Patrick way off in the distance and him looking out towards the west with his scrolls and whatnots all about him, oblivious to the world.

What do you be thinking that Patrick does be thinking when he's sat like that for hours on end without a move out of him? she asked her husband.

God only knows. But a little more sweat and a little less of that book reading and day dreaming wouldn't go astray. Replied his father putting his pipe in his mouth and turning from the wind to get just the right suck out of it to keep the almost extinguished smouldering going. He hated when it went out and it meant going back into the house to get a light from the fire again. Took all the bloody pleasure away that did!

Would ye listen to yiserselves! You are all going on about him and his doing nothing. But he's up before ye all and has prayed and worked 'er the sun has crept oe'r yon hills. It's not the work that has me bothered it's all that translating he's busy at. I mean why translate the Bible into that Gaelic? I mean who gabs it around these ways? We is civilised we is! Not like that shower over there who took him from us in the first place! She shook her head slowly with worry.

Drawing on his pipe her husband looked at her and then again in the direction of his son in the distance.

I just don't know, he sighed. The young people these days. He put his free arm around his wife and smiled teasingly. I thought you were happy with having a Godly one among us? You never know, might even be the makings of a saint in him yet!

Oh, I am! I am! It's for how long he'll be among us that has me worried.

She returned her husband's smile, if with somewhat less conviction, then coming away from his arm she turned and headed back towards the house, bent and unsteady on her ageing feet. Remembering she stopped and turned, calling to her husband.

The supper will be up in a short while. Put the whistle out on that one beyond and get him moving for his supper!

II

Young Helen from the village has taken a little fancy to our Patrick, said Eve as she sat a jug of milk on the table.

Her mother stopped her stirring of the huge blackened pot hanging over the fire place and looked at her eldest daughter. Her father and brothers didn't pay any attention as they sat in wait for their tea. Maggie, the other sister, came with the bread and knife to the table and after putting them down turned to Eve.

That Helen would fancy the branch of a tree if it had a whiff of the quare thing on it

She'd probably have more luck with a tree branch than with our Patrick. If you ask me.

Eve turned on Alan, the oldest of the brothers and cut through the chuckles of her father and brothers.

Fancying the branch of a tree would be better than fancying you! If you're asking me!

The men of the house just laughed harder at her outburst. Their mother's coming to the table with a scornful glare and a huge, family sized jug, which she set down, quietened the laughter as the anticipation of sorting out the pangs of hunger took priority.

Enough of that mockery now! She shot glances around the table for signs of dissent her glare coming to rest on Maggie. And just because the others mightn't have noticed I did Missy! You'll be watching your language in this house. You're turning into a right hussy! I don't know where you pick it up from.

She looked about again but no one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. With a sigh she changed direction.

Where's that boy now? And we be needing a prayer.

'E's probably out snoggin' with young Helen. Alan couldn't resist.

Everyone laughed and even the mother had difficulty in subduing her smile. They all fell silent as the door opened and Patrick quietly entered and lay his books to one side before approaching the table. The brothers and sisters exchanged mischievous, knowing, smiles as Patrick sat quietly down beside his mother.

Good Patrick, you can say thanks for us.

Thanks?

They all bow their heads, Maggie and Eve with a giggle. Patrick understood, finally entering reality and with bowed head babbled some Latin. Once finished everyone relaxed again and busied themselves with cutting themselves some bread and filling their bowl with some broth. Patrick, being the prat that he was, just waited till everyone had served themselves then just proceeded to take some milk. There was silence as everyone ate, except for the sound of munching and slurping which meant that it wasn't very quiet at all what with table manners still being in an early stage of development at the time.

This noisy, wordless silence seemed to be directed at Patrick as the others shot furtive glances in his direction and exchanged them with one another. The Bible Boy seemed oblivious to it all, just sitting there sipping his milk now and again. He caught his mother looking worriedly at him and tried smiling at her reassuringly.

Well Patrick, you've been out on that cliff all day. What can you be up to at all I wonder? She'd given up years ago trying to get him to eat more, something one would expect from most mothers on seeing one of their offspring taking just a drink of milk while better was on offer, and even though it was a continued source of concern it was not one she bothered to voice aloud anymore knowing that her son just did what he did anyway.

Mother, I've finished my work...

One has to start work to finish it, muttered John, his younger brother, under his breath.

There were smiles all around except for Patrick, who didn't catch the remark, and his mother, who chose for the sake of peace in the household to ignore it.

Ah! So there'll be an end to that sitting for hours? she asked.

Yes... But I... I have to leave you again mother...

What...? she was visibly shocked.

Is it Helen you'd be leaving for? Alan slipped in with an added grin for the benefit of his brother, sisters and father.

Helen?

Young Helen. The tavern maid below in the village. Eve here says, she be fancying you, Patrick.

Everyone was smiling waiting for Patrick to respond. He felt this, became embarrassed and confused but gave no reply.

Well if you'll not be havin' it then it's the branch of a tree with a whiff of the quare thing on it for poor Helen, by the looks of it.

Alan's father, brother and sisters laughed at Alan's humour, but Patrick was left even more confused. His mother came to his rescue, her worry even making the vulgarity at the table take second place.

Patrick don't be paying heed to that lot and their vulgarity! Where will you be leaving us to go, may I be asking you?

Patrick turned to her with an expression of sincerity and with a hopeful longing for understanding.

Hibernia, mother.

What? Hibernia! she didn't understand at all. To that bunch of heathen savages? To that bunch who kept you slaving for so many years? Who stole you from your own heartbroken mother?

She stopped abruptly and looked around for support but none was forthcoming from the rest of the family.

Well, that explains all that translating into Gaelic then for ye, woman! was all she got from her husband. Ye won't have to be bothering yourself with that little puzzle anymore now, will ye?

She glared at him then softening turned back to Patrick with the look of the wounded Mary on her.

But why son? Why?

I... I've had a message.

Where? From the shop down below?

Alan was quick becoming a master in the art of side comment. Patrick looked at him bemused, all that religion had dried up what little humour the Celts, famous the world over for their ability to have a giggle even under the most unimaginable circumstances, might have given him in his slave days. His mother shushed impatiently the giggles around the table.

Shut it for a minute you lot and be serious! Let the man finish! She looked at Patrick for him to go on.

Mother when I first returned and you brought me to the Priest I knew I had found my path in life. To serve the Cause. Then just before I started the translation `the Message' came and I knew in which way I could serve.

There was silence as his family looked at one another exchanging expressions as to the degree of Patrick's sanity. Their mother glared yet again at them but it wasn't needed as Patrick was starry-eyed and oblivious to his surroundings. He was almost trancelike as he recalled in his mind the blissful, tinged-with-fear, experiencing of the `Message'.

As it became obvious that he had fallen into this trance-like silence with the look of a loony about him while everyone waited for him to get on with it, which he didn't, his younger brother finally broke the spell.

What's happening now, Patrick? Another message coming in?

Everyone laughed, even his mother couldn't restrain a smile. Patrick looked at them collectively coming out of his trance and then at them all individually.

I love you all. Mother, Father, John, Eve, Alan, Maggie. And you've been so loving to me and I know it hasn't always been easy. But I've got to go back to Hibernia and bring them the Word of Our Lord.

What? The word of that waster Rankinus? Our landlord? That cider swilling waster? Alan asked mockingly.

Patrick was again immune to it all. Religion and laughter have never really hit it off together. Which in itself is strange when it can be considered that so much of it concerns love and happiness ever after and all that crap.

His mother's worry wasn't appeased.

But they're an awful crowd of savages them Celts! They took you away all those years ago and left half the village killed or pregnant behind them! They might do you harm if you try to change them in their ways! Why not stop here and do the good work in among your own kind?

While Patrick looked sadly but lovingly at his mother, Eve took it upon herself to answer her question.

Then all that translating stuff would 'ave been for nought, mother!

Be silent you! You don't give a damn for your brother and what happens to him!

Granted, he's not all that bad looking. But all that religious and mystery bull'... naw... not my kettle of fish... Besides which he's my brother and that leaves him out of my list of possibilities... The Celts are welcome to him, so... Although, if he was to stay and maybe got something going with that trollop Helen... It would mean that there be one less bit of competition hanging about for me to have to contend with...

Shut it, Eve! A familiar but humorous chorus rose from round the table causing the girl to cease her teenage ramblings. Everyone was smiling except Patrick whose ability to appear as being `lost to it all' was seemingly boundless. His mother became serious again.

I still don't like it, Patrick. You'd be far better off among your own.

I'd only be preaching to the converted. The Celts need me mother. God has spoken and I have to go. Don't worry I'll be grand. The Celts are not as bad as one makes out. We only see the one side... their worst side. Patrick smiled but his little shot at humour, if it could be called that, went unnoticed.

Bloody right we do! Raping, pillaging, burning, murdering drunken savages! Came a sudden burst of anger from his father.

Yes father, you are right. That is the side they've shown to us. And that is why I have to go and bring them religion... Patrick's little smile took on a rather sickly appearance as he tried to calm the situation.

Good luck to you, then! You're a grown man now and know what you have to do. Then do it, is what I say and be done with it!

His father raised his tone in finishing as an indication that he'd heard enough and that as far as he was concerned the subject was finished.

Everyone continued in noisy silence with their supper. Only the mother shot a worried last look towards her soon to depart, religious freak, of a son.

CHAPTER 2

(Patrick is hardly off the boat and the Celts are already trying to pull one over on him. He even manages to lose his mission bell before the sun has set on his first day back.)

CHAPTER 2

1

The coast could be seen taking shape with each sighting as the ship approached rising and falling in the rough sea. Patrick stood gripping, in as casual a manner as he could muster, onto the side of the ship as he looked out with more than a little trepidation towards his destination. Behind him were a group of noisy Celts busy finishing off a half keg of cider. They were drunk and singing the usual rowdy songs of their homeland and its trials and victories as if they'd been away for years instead of just a day trip to get some cheap goods and wears along the English coast.

Around their feet swilled with the movement of the vessel a mixture of cider, vomit, piss and seawater and they were as indifferent to it as they were to Patrick. He having paid his fare with the keg given him by his father and thus of no further interest to them. At least until the keg was empty that is and their attention might drift again in his direction and God only knows in what form. Perhaps it was the knowledge of this possibility that was causing the hint of jitters in Patrick's expression? Worrying if the bloody ship would dock before the drunken twats for sailors ran dry and decided to have a go at him for his being definitely not Celt and thus definitely not one of them.

Patrick struggled therefore to give the outward impression of being composed and at one with himself and his company and surroundings as he stared with forced serenity ahead towards the approaching harbour. He was undoubtedly a troubled man and not only because of the rowdiness of the crew, contributing factor nonetheless acknowledged. But the wildness of the sea, the bitingly bitter wind on that spring morning and the drunken mob behind him were all daunting reminders of the difficulty of the task that lay ahead. Just the one slight attempt, if it could even have been referred to as that, at the outset of the trip with one of the sailors who'd negotiated over the keg, one of the more drunken and vociferous behind him now, just the one little hint of an attempt to introduce him to `the Word' resulted in a blunt and threatening reply.

Can this God of yours swim?

He is the Almighty. Patrick had in all his gullible innocence replied.

Good, 'cause he'll be going over the side with you if you don't shut the fuck up with that hoodoo crap and let me enjoy me drink in peace!

As Patrick had turned away, he heard the sailor finish to one of his drinking buddies.

Fucking religious freaks and politicians! Do my bleedin' head in they do! Promises and fucking more bleeding promises! Or doom fucking doom! When all a man wants is his bread, his woman and his drink! Fill 'er up matey! And let's get down to some serious business! And buggers to the rest of ‘em!

These and other thoughts had been revolving round Patrick's mind since and still were as the ship came to dock and he waited with his satchel and fidgeting impatience to disembark.

Once on solid land he immediately succeeded in drawing the attention of the coast guards, who scrutinised him with suspicion as he approached them. This for the most part because of his appearing to walk without a stagger unlike the majority of those disembarking or attempting to at least.

There was a loud splash followed by an even louder: Ah Fuck! me duty free!

Patrick however resisted the very human urge to look back to see what was happening and continued walking ahead. The guards on the other hand, being more humanly inclined to follow such urges, did let their attention be drawn and in doing so forgot the sober stranger and let him pass without questioning him.

Patrick slipped the unneeded bribing coins, he'd had ready in his hand, back under his cloak as he walked through the hustling and bustling crowd of merchants, beggars, con men and businessmen - the difference often a point of discussion - who eagerly tried to make a quick turn on the disembarking passengers.

Again he'd just about managed escaping their irritating attentions and was just beyond them when, thinking himself safe, he stopped to gather his thoughts and contemplate his next move. He looked back at the ship, from there letting his gaze drift over the hustle and bustle still going on at the disembarkation point and finally turning his eyes to look at the steep winding pathway leading up along the hill away from the harbour towards the tiny tavern and the one or two houses surrounding it some ways along the hill's summit.

Good morning to you Sir!

Patrick turned to find next to him a crumpled little man with what must have been the oldest donkey he'd ever seen in his life up till then.

Good morning to you again Sir! It not being the nicest morning that this fair island has seen. I'll grant you that begob! But she's seen worse so she has!

Patrick smiled and falling instantly into the Gaelic replied.

Yes, you're right there. Not the best but not the worst.

Begorragh! You're not from these parts that's for sure. But you've got a great grip of the tongue. If I may be so bold as to be complimenting you Sir?

You'd be right my friend. I'm not from these parts but lived many years on this wild and beautiful island and have now returned to do the work of my Lord.

The little old man looked at him now a moment. Scrutinising his prospective victim, trying to decide which way would be best to go on.

What would be your name Sir? If I might be asking.

Patrick.

Patrick. Now if that isn't a lovely name Sir. One I wouldn't mind having myself if it had been popular in the days I was brought about and one I'm sure will be many a future Celt's name if you get yourself about at all, at all. But tell me this Patrick... Your Lord? It wouldn't be one of these landowner types would it now? We've enough of them sort around these ways to be going on with so we have! If you don't mind my saying so.

No, no! When I say my Lord, I mean my Saviour.

Again, there was a moment as the little old man studied Patrick from head to toe before going on.

Your Saviour... It wouldn't be a god by any chance now, would it? And would you be having one of your very own now, would you?

No, no, Patrick couldn't help smiling, my God is everyone's God. I've come to spread his `Holy Word' among the peoples of the island.

Lord God..., the old man muttered aloud rubbing his unshaven chin in wonder. ... Sounds good... Sounds good...

Then he lit up suddenly, realising he'd almost missed his chance. The old man jumped at his opportunity and threw in his sales pitch before this Patrick fella could go on about this Lord God of his and everyone else's besides and the spreading of this `Word' about like butter on bread. They came in all sizes and shapes these days thought the old man, but a sale is a sale and this Patrick looked like a right gullible gobshite.

You'll be moving about a lot so, will you?

Patrick nodded and the old fella went on.

So, you'll be needing transport! And maybe it was your... Our Saviour who brought us together like this. Because it just so happens, I've just the thing for you here and at a very reasonable price I can assure you.

The old man tugged at the donkey's cord but the haggard beast remained pityingly immobile. Patrick looked at the animal and thought to himself that the poor thing probably wouldn't make it back up the hill. He didn't speak his mind though.

My feet will be my transport good friend I thank you for your offer but my work is one of slow and patient movement where one's feet should be more than adequate.

The old man shrugged as if knowing that it had only been a shot in the dark in the first place.

Suit yourself Sir, but you're missing a bargain if ever there was one.

And before Patrick could flog him any more religious goodwill spill he started making to move away.

I'll be leaving you now Patrick and wishing you luck on your travels.

Patrick smiled and was just turning away when the old man asked.

Patrick, Sir?

Patrick turned again.

What would be the name of this god of yours now if I may be knowing it? Or is he just known as Lord God?

Patrick couldn't help smiling at the old man's misunderstanding but didn't bother to correct him.

Jesus, the Son of God...

Jesus?... Jesus... Well, that's a strange one if ever there was one... I don't know though... I find Patrick has a better ring to it...

He turned away slowly from Patrick and Patrick watched him as he went away mumbling to himself.

Jesus... And that's only the son! I wonder what his father goes by... Of course, that would be Lord God himself... I wonder if there are any daughters... they make the best gods... or goddesses as the female version would have it... Yeah, lots of mischief from a good oul' goddess...

He tugged at the old donkey.

Come on Jeezus, let's see if we can find a fool for you before the light goes out of the day.

Patrick smiled rather ruefully realising that what had just passed between the old man and himself was just a small taste of the long road of work that lay ahead of him. He turned and as he walked slowly towards the rise up the hill the old man called after him again.

Hey Patrick!

Patrick stopped and turned.

Watch out for yourself and your Jesus. There's some right blackguards out there! Steer wide of the Mac Shanigans clan, they're a right uncultured bunch of savages. There wouldn't be much left of you and your Jesus fella if they took a dislike to you. Good luck to you now!

The old man tugged again at his donkey and Patrick watched him a moment move back among the crowd along the quay.

II

Patrick stood looking back and out over the cliff edge to the sea. Below him was a sheer drop to the rocks and crashing waves. Off to his right lay the harbour, tiny from this viewpoint. He watched peacefully the comings and goings of the little shapes of people and animals down at the harbour. There was a slight movement to Patrick's right which caught his eye and on looking he immediately froze and held his breath as he perceived he'd just managed to find himself in the unwanted company of a snake. The reptile became still also a moment, as if sensing he was being observed, but then slowly wriggled its way towards Patrick. It stopped just beside him, head raised, forked tongue flapping as it took stock of its surroundings. Patrick remained dead still. The snake moved around in front of Patrick and Patrick pounced. He kicked, in a flash, the snake out over the cliff and watched as it fell away onto the rocks below and was swallowed by the crashing waves.

Huh! Bloody instrument of Satan! Patrick hissed relaxing his tense muscles and giving himself a little shivering shake attempting to dispense that uncomfortable feeling snakes can give people when they appear suddenly like that before them. His moment of peaceful contemplation ruined he turned away and walked with a briskness along the cliff edge.

Further along from where Patrick was standing was a small outcrop of rocks with two raggedly clad men sitting among them. One was dozing while the other was looking in open-mouthed astonishment between Patrick walking away and out over the cliff edge where the snake had been sent flying just seconds before. The tramp grabbed the earthen jug that stood between his companion and himself and took a long swig then looked again at Patrick's fading shape, then out over the cliff and lastly at his gargling mate.

Did ye see that! he exclaimed nudging the dozing man.

Wha'? came the shut-eyed reply.

Open your bleedin' eyes and look ye eejit!

He nudged his friend again even harder but the man just fell over in a heap. The drunk took another swig out of the jug and looked at his friend in disgust.

Would ye look at yourself! Ye useless shit ye! And yer man after kicking all the fuckin' ugly snakes off over the cliff and you after seein' nothin' of it! Who the fuck is going to believe me now when I'm tellin' it?

He looked again out after Patrick who had all but faded in the distance. The drunk stood with his jug, took a last swig, which was short and judging by the way he looked at the jug in stupefaction, disappointing.

Fucking empty! Shite! He kicked at the sleeping heap next to him. Come on ye bollocks! I'm off to the tavern to get me deposit on this yoke! And maybe scrounge a jar on me story about the shitty snakes! His friend remained motionless. Have it your own way then! But don't say I never asked ye!

He straightened himself and with jug in hand he walked proudly away, leaving his friend still crashed-out on the rocks behind him. After a few meters the drunk had to breath and his proud stroll disintegrated into a stumbling stagger which nevertheless, if nothing like the few proud steps from before, did carry him forward. Though not necessarily in a straight line.

III

The tavern was noisy, musty, dark and totally in tune with places of its type of the time. The musty darkness was helped in no small way by a big turf fire burning at one end of the room with smoke billowing back into the room as much as rising up the chimney. At several tables sat drinking groups of men, some garrulous, some singing with here and there someone sleeping. Between the tables worked the serving maids, bringing tankards of drink to the rowdy men. They were playful in a rough manner with the customers, who in their turn were not too shy of making a grab as the women passed or bent over their tables. The proprietor stood behind his counter with his arms folded observing his source of income and the activities carried on in the making of it with a grumpy unsatisfied expression on his face. His wife came out of the alcove just to the right of her husband with a tray laden with bowls of a steaming stew-like substance and chunks of bread. With a sigh of relief she lay them on the counter.

Maeve! Get over here girl and stop flirting with that fella who's got his hand on your backside!

One of the girls looked back at her from one of the tables. She shrugged at the man whose arm was around her waist and moved towards the bar. The landlady looked at her husband with distaste. As for him, he hadn't moved from his folded armed, supervisory position.

What's up with you now? Besides too much of the hard stuff in ye. You look like an awful gobshite stood there and not a move out of ye this last hour! And me rushed off me feet.

Her husband turned his gaze for a moment towards her then away again, letting his eyes fall on the young Maeve as she arrived at the counter. There could be seen a spark of lust in the landlord's stare. His wife looked away in disgust.

Who's this for? Maeve asked the landlord with a teasing smile. And indeed, in the shadowy light and under her greasy unwashed face it could be perceived that that teasing smile was belonging to a young woman of no bad affair.

Never mind that dirty smirk to that waster. If I ever as so much as whiff you on him I'll skin you alive ye little hussy! harped the landlady. Now get that over there to that crowd of bowsies by the fire!

Maeve lifted the tray, turned with a cheeky expression away from the landlady and started to work a way through the crowded room. The landlady looked at her husband in spiteful anger.

And that goes for you too! Ye unfaithful lump of cow-dung!

The landlord just ignored his wife's threats as both their attentions were drawn to a ray of light cutting through the room, created by the door being opened and immediately being broken by the silhouette of a man with a long solid looking staff in his hand, appearing in the doorway. The new arrival closed the door before picking his way through the smoky haze to the bar.

The husband and wife looked at each other, shrugged and then back at Patrick as he stopped before the counter. He was uncomfortable with himself in these rough surroundings but tried to remain cool and confident before the proprietor and his good lady. His entrance was otherwise ignored by the other temporary and not so temporary occupants of the tavern excepting the odd uninterested half-glance here and there being cast out of idle interest at the new addition. Patrick did manage, just as on the