Sometime in the Past

Doolin, Ireland

An hours walk north of the Cliffs of Moher, where the fishermen sing and the grass endlessly grows, lay a small coastal village by the name of Doolin. 

The sun shines brightest on this part of the Emerald Isle, blessing the western shores with its last bit of light.  Stacks of cottages line the well-warned fields.  Thatched roofs shielding their patrons from the last bit of heat. 

The fine people of Doolin are much like every other Irishman: bearing a temper as hot as the coals on their fires, as stubborn as the mules that graze through their fields, and a wit quick enough to always keep them one step ahead of the damned English. 

They work hard seven days a week, treating jokes as serious things and serious things as a joke.  On Sundays they pray like they were taught to do, and when their confessions were through, they could swear like the best of us.  From gombeen to gobdaw, bloody and bollox, prick, dick, and dryshite, to just about any slagging that came to mind. 

Like the mostly civil ‘ask me bollocks’ to the absolutely sublime ‘this fecking langer is as dense as the other side of my calf’s arse’, this is truly what Doolinders do well, especially Finn Lockwood and his fair wife, Siobhan, for they lived far out beyond the village limits where you had plenty of room to come up with words rang true whether made up or with a streak of blue.  

As the sun fell that night, the moon crept up through the sky, red as blood, a truly ominous sign of things to come.  You see, there was a new type of evil for Brigid’s cross to bear, an evil that Finn Lockwood thought that he could end himself.  

“For the last time, will yer just let me be, woman?” Finn Lockwood insisted.

The wooden shack rattled as the door was flung open.  One look at him said, yes, I’m from Doolin.  His face was squished all the way around, as if the hand of God himself slipped across Lockwood’s mug and thought that’ll do.  His hair, askew, was auburn except for the last few pieces of straw he had forgotten to comb out after work, and his sleeves were still rolled up as if he’d had something better to do.

Though, even for this time, something about his clothing seemed off, you see, he was garbed in the Lockwood ceremonial kilt, fur sporran and all, with a medieval broad sword swung over his back. 

“Woman?!” A new voice howled out from inside the hut.  “You mean the woman who’s had to bed with yer arse for the past fifteen years?  The woman who’s cooked, cleaned, and kept this house afloat?  Now will ye get yer arse back in here, Finn?”

The silhouette of a woman appeared in the door frame, the fire inside flickering behind.  Her body was slender, and her hair tightly wound, but she stood with great pride with her head held high. 

“I can’t, Siobhan.  I can’t just sit around and wank myself off while people are dying.  As a good Catholic man, how can I turn my back to such hatred?”

The frail woman marched out into the field to get closer to her, in her own words, deranged husband.  Unlike the strong Lockwood line, Siobhan’s hair was as dark as the sky above, and her eyes like infinite depths of the abyss. 

“It’s not your decision.  Éire made that decision for yer, don’t you remember? You were such a staunch supporter of Fianna Fáil no more than a week ago, what the hell happened to yer?”

“Well, I was an idiot then.”

“And you’re a downright imbecile now, Phineas Lockwood.”

“Éamon de Valera is the nit-wit, pushing neutrality onto the public. It’s not within an Irishman’s heart to stay neutral. We fight over everything…land, sports, women, religion!”

“Yeah, and you fight against your own brother, it’s between you and the bloke you’re sharing a pint with, not someone across the channel.” 

The veins in Siobhan’s neck had stayed at a constant state of bulge ever since she had approached her husband. “And besides, from everything I’ve heard, the masses seem to agree with the Taoiseach.”

“The masses? And who’s that?  Deirdre over in Knockfin? She’s got more screws loose than the Jack’s door at O’Shea’s.”

“That’s just cause yer and Tommy Flanagan can’t hold more than one pint down at a time.”

On any other night, the red moon may have left one breathless, perhaps even frightened, but tonight the Lockwood couple had plenty of hot air to fill all of Ireland.

Finn’s thick fingers ran through his hair like bangers being dragged through your gran’s onion gravy. “That’s fine then, I’ll go me self.”

“Aye and be Saint feckin’ Patrick, then, eh?”

“Bloody hell, I don’t need to be Saint Patrick with this.”

With an unheralded swish, the shimmer of a sword’s blade flooded in moonlight.

“Oh, for God’s sake with that sword.”

Finn tightened his grip on the sword’s hilt as he straightened his back.  “This sword here has been passed down through eight generations of Lockwoods! Open yer bloody eyes.” 

He shoved the hilt of the sword towards his wife.  “That right there is the crest of the Knights Templar. Me great ancestor, Sir Lawrence Lockwood was a holy knight out of Limerick! The sword here is blessed in the lord’s name.”

“If there is one thing you and I can agree upon are any fool from Limerick is a pretentious little prick.”

“Aye, but not back in King John’s day.” 

The two had now been standing in their stalemate long enough that Finn had to dislodge a slit of wool that had wedged itself up where kilts weren’t meant to go.  

“Aye, but when you go and find yerself in front of a band of Nazis you’ll be ripped to shreds before yer even able to unsheathe that holy avenger there.”

“And if I’m lucky enough, I’ll take down double the amount on the way down!”

As if it was the right thing to do, Finn raised Sir Lawrence Lockwood’s sword high above his head.

“What are yer posin’ for an erl painting, you buffoon?”

And much like every countless argument the pair have had, Siobhan saw her chance to silence her dope of a husband.

“Now give me that shite!”

The pale woman’s calloused hands lunged at Sir Lawrence’s sterling blade.  She wrenched each one of her hands over Finn’s meat wads and Finn, himself, let out a wail. 

“Get your grubby paws off!”  His voice rang out in the hollowed night sky. 

“If yer goin’, then do it the right way and enlist with the Brits and get yerself a gun.”

Sweat trickled down Finn’s back, his hands struggling to reacquire a grip on the leather hilt. His mind raced trying to understand where his wife had gained such superhuman strength. 

The struggle seemed to last for hours, or at least from the way Finn’s biceps quivered, it felt that way. 

“Why’d yer damn hands get so frickin’ sweaty?”  Siobhan grimaced through her teeth.

“It’s just the way I am, yer know I’ve a problem.”

“Yes, I do know!”  Spittle flung from Siobhan’s mouth.  “I told yer, I’m the one who has to bed yer arse! Now give that to me!”

Without a second thought, and maybe even a first, Siobhan shifted one hand further up to get a better grasp on the Lockwood sword, and to her credit, she did, it was just around the blade itself. 

All at once her nerves shrieked out as the sword dug deep into her bones. 

“Get off!”  Finn demanded, shoving Siobhan back.  The sword tearing out of her hand.

Blood flowed out of the mangled hand down to Siobhan’s elbow, mimicking the blood on the sharpened steel.

“Fine then!” Siobhan wailed. “Go, but I will haunt you for the rest of your days Phineas James Lockwood.

“Bad cess be upon you! May you never prosper on your ways. To the first drop of water to quench your thirst – may it boil in your bowels.

“May the flesh rot off your bones and fall away putrid before your eyes. May your limbs wither and the stench of your rotten carcass be too horrible for hungry dogs.

“May you fade into nothing, like snow in summer. But whatever it may be, you will hear my voice up until your dying breath and with God’s will even beyond that!

“Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be there to haunt your every turn.  I hope you live three-hundred years so that I may torment you on every one of those days.  May I live long enough to see this through so that you will regret this very moment!”

Unnerved, Finn froze, locked up in terror.

“Go now! Git!” Siobhan waved her hand as she should at their clueless sheepdog, Seamus.

The wind whipped around, pushing at Finn, and he knew there was no going back, not now.  He looked over his wife one final time.  He thought to himself how she’d always been one to walk alone in darkness rather than follow in someone’s shadow. Closing his eyes, he turned around and headed East, the moon still lighting both of their ways.

Copyright William Meier Jr. 2023 ©