The Luck Of The Irish

Plays: 9  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 1

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Finding that fabled pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Paddy O'Brien lifted his green beer to his swarthy Irish lips and gave a toast to the creature before him. “I shouldn’t have to explain the blarney to such as you.” He wasn’t quite drunk, yet. You might say he was just this side of it.

“Me seems to have lost my memory. I was purely hoping you’d be kind enough to oblige. Ye seemed to know me upon first appearance.”

O'Brien had been spouting off more than his share this 17th of a March evening. But lucky enough for the others of his ken, all his speaking were done safely in the cellar of his ancient Dublin cottage.

“By the mere look of you, I’d say you were close relative to a Leprechaun if not being one yourself.” He opened another bottle, wiped his mouth and prepared to give it a welcome kiss. “Here. MIght there be a chance this will stir things up inside you? If not your memory, then the loss of thought worrying about it.”

The little-bearded man in the topcoat and hat seemed to have a bit of mischief in his returning smile. “Thank you, governor, now if your tongue be loosened, share a bit of knowledge along with the brew.”

They clicked bottles together, letting the foam drip down to be licked up by Paddy’ O’Brien’s Irish Wolfhound. A singularly glazed expression shed its light in the animal’s eyes. This was not the first such bubbly treasure it had successfully hunted this day.

“Where to start.” O’Brien steadied himself. He had a mind to try a bit of clogging dance but waved the honor for personal safety’s sake. “In the beginning, to be sure. It were A.D 461 in the year of our Lord, when the beloved Saint Patrick, favored of all Ireland gave up his ghost.”

The little guest seemed glued to the spot. “It sparks something in my head but no fire is lit. Tell me more, kind sire.” The two sat together staring at their bottles as if what they were imbibing could tell the very past, present, and future all rolled up into one.

“Being our patron saint, we honor him by way of a feast this day, each year thereafter. That’s the beginnings.” Paddy’s burp brought forth a whine from the third party in this tale. A hasty loan of the tip of his bottle brought peace to the scene being unfurled. The dog lapped away, heedless of any other purpose in life.

“Then how does that pertain to me, I be wanting to find out.” The little man tipped back his hat for a better view of the proceedings.

“Most of your kind are cobblers, making and repairing shoes like the very ones on your feet.” The bottle was empty of treasure upon further inspection at O’Brien’s tongue. He eyed his guest with sudden interest. “If true leprechaun you be, and not a figment of my imagination, you have a special talent I’d make a wager to know.”

“A shoemaker? That’s what these hands do?” A note of disappointment rang into the air.

“Aye, and more. You have a way of putting your savings in a pot of gold found only at the end of a rainbow.”

“Such a one as that?” A crooked cane in the little man’s hand rose to point out the doorway.

The jig to be danced could no longer be contained. Paddy O’Brien’s feet barely touched the ground in his excitement. “Let us go see. Leprechauns are as pure a symbol of Ireland as the name of the man giving this day it's birth.” And the Irishman, Wolfhound, and potential Leprechaun stumbled against each other in their hurry to reach their goal.

The first to reach it was the little man only half as high as O’Brien’s shoulder. A second such creature leaned up from picking four-leaf clovers in the green glade where the end of the rainbow lay on display.

“Peevish McNob, why have ye brought such as this inebriated clout to our gold?” stormed the twin.

“I forgot myself, but he won’t remember more than a dream the way he is a weaving.” A snap of McNob’s fingers, followed by a lick and kiss to the fair Irish air and O’Brien’s head rested down on his Irish Wolfhound’s hairy, soft coat. Both slept.

The gold coin within O’Brien’s pockets added to the plentiful bounty the two Leprechauns possessed. “A Leprechaun may say he has lost his memory, but never his mischievous nature.” Peevish McNob chuckled while patting the man’s cheek in farewell.

When dawn arose, so did O’Brien, a smarter though poorer man than before. The rainbow had fled along with his guest and his Wolfhound was gone wagging this tale behind him..

Submitted: December 08, 2019

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A lovely piece, Bob. Good thinking in making the pursuit leave the man poorer. Leprechauns - never trust the tricksy tykes.

Sun, December 8th, 2019 7:25pm

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