The silence was broken by a cacophony of seabirds as the anchor fell with a rattle of chain into the green waters of Dingle Bay. I threw water jugs into the skiff, rowed to an ancient stone building at the head of a rickety wharf and, on rubbery legs, walked up to the pub.
I pushed open a weathered, oak door. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw men around tables in conversation. A one-eyed galoot was yelling at a tweedy gent who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nigel Bruce.
“I tell ya, his foul betrayal will forever be a curse upon us all!”
Against the other wall, a lanky guy with glasses recited in a clear tenor:
…but maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
because it was your prayer
recovered him upon the bed of death.
In the back sat a guy in a hoodie, staring at an empty mug like he just emptied the last beer on God’s green earth.
D: Are you McWhirr?
I felt a dull pain in my chest. The Skipper may have been a pain in the ass, but he was steady and could tie a one handed back splice under water.
C: He was lost at sea.
D: What is mine or anyone’s death? Best to renounce that too.
C: Can you help me with this post?
D: Brevity is key.
C: Brevity isn’t the issue. Having something to write is the issue.
…for your soul’s sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
D: Let’s get real for a change. Why did you name your engine after your mother?
C: What’s she got to do with this?
Nigel Bruce mumbled something about another pint. The one-eyed guy pounded the table:
“Parnell will return someday as sure as I’m sittin’ here and we’ll all have again our ancient birthright restored in the full light of God’s glory-all except those land grabbin’ traitors, who’ll burn in hell for their greed!”
D: Why did you volunteer to guest blog?
C: I’m starting to regret it. I don’t know anything about time-traveling Pects…
C: …or Irish history.
So great her portion of that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
C: So what’s all this about time travel?
D: The portal is always there, 6 inches behind your left scapula.
C: How can you pinpoint it so exactly?
D: You must shut off the inner dialogue and attend to the conversation that sounds like a grand symphony among all creation.
“I tell you, the suppression of our own sweet, native tongue is the greatest weapon wielded by perfidious Albion. The Gaelic League is the advance guard in the struggle to throw off the oppressor’s yoke!” Says the Cyclops.
D: You only need to change the world.
C: How do I do that?
D: Just start with your own world, the rest follows.
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with the image of air…
D: Anyway, get McWhirr to help you with the post.
C: He’s dead.
D: Are you sure?
The door creaked. All turned their heads to see, framed in the brilliant light of the doorway-like Lazuras risen from a watery grave-the gaunt form of Saturnius McWhirr.
“A pint of Guinness, for the love of God.”
Poetry Credit: WB Yeats, “Broken Dreams”