Through the Kisandra Prism Page 6

  Blodwyn’s heart raced; she was on the right trail. The Cold-blood, Karak had said: ‘Don’t listen to the Android – it picks up a lot of rubbish from his mad, drunken, Terasil inventor, who came from a part of Tarrea-two known as Ireland.’

  ‘Did you know any genius in your parish?’ asks Blodwyn.

  ‘Know any?’ the red faced Priest chuckled – ‘I sat next to one at college. Now my dear I have to get this Guinness into the cool – the black stuff doesn’t travel well you know, especially through Anglo Saxon country.’

  ‘Did you know a Mary Murphy?’ ‘I mean a very beautiful Mary Murphy?’

  ‘Ahhh yes…all we boys were in love with that Mary Murphy.’ Blodwyn was now certain she was on the right track.

  ‘Was the student you sat next to interested in science…particularly in physics?’

  ‘Mickey Finn… was a genius all right…but a sad story I am afraid, he just disappeared one night while gazing up at the starry sky! He was never seen or heard of again.’

  Blodwyn left it at that; if she could contact the Irish genius Mickey Finn, now living somewhere in the Antares Cluster with his army of Androids… she was sure he could help her in her quest to find the Alter Dom and even possibly render some assistance to the Galla Qualls in the pending final war with the Cold-bloods.

  On that warm June evening, Irish folk music drifted on the balmy evening air before dispersing and filtering through the soft tender leaves of the trees that warm June evening.

  In a small wooded spinney by the enchanted pool, only one-third of a fairy league from the barn, small laughing, slender beings jigged, hopped and pranced to the lively notes of many a well known lively Irish jig. All the Fairy clan was present; Spiky haired, Perrygrists and Jack-Gimbels jumped up and down like demented punks. Elverins and delicate Gyrille Ghylls did graceful skipping steps. Narlings, Maylings and Sislings did twirling waltzes and frantic jigs; all to the sweet notes of the Irish pipes, fiddle and the rapid beat of the boron. This was their kind of music, the lively music of the Celts.

  Higher up the mountain as the sun’s dimming rays caressed the eastern slopes of the Cambrians, the oldest mountains in the world, the Sillian that had been sheltering in a crevasse between the rocks crawled out with awkward movements: it was still hungry. The three sheep it had killed last night were not enough to dull its voracious appetite. Besides, the animals were strong tasting and had to be skinned because of their dirty pelts; the Sillian was partial to a little skin with his meat; skin without an excess of hair.

  Now the tall life-forms that walked upright seemed very appealing to the creature; they were thin skinned and looked to be without fur it noticed. The life-form inside the stone hut that it had tried to break into the night before smelt very appetizing. The Sillian had watched this upright life-form come looking for its animals and later when the sun was hot, it had dimly seen another two upright life-forms by the hut. (Blodwyn and her father)

  The Sillian scuttled forward and found what it had been looking for: a game path. A path that all the upright life-forms seemed to use to travel up or down the mountain. This was an ideal place to dig his trap-door. The creature began digging frantically four feet from the footpath; for it knew the nights were short on this strange planet.

  That evening once everyone was present at Blodwyn’s birthday party, Myfanwy Jenkins, the new Queen of the Fairies made her dramatic and finely timed entrance; appearing suddenly at the open barn door, wearing a long green, yellow and blue dress. Everyone was taken aback by her eloquence and beauty; especially Blodwyn’s young, unmarried male cousins. Of course only Blodwyn and Bryn Jones the Wino knew that Myfanwy was now Queen of the Star-worshipers.

  The Irish fathers, mothers, uncles and aunts watched Myfanwy with wise suspicion – she looked like a fancy woman. As usual she kissed Mr. and Mrs. Jones and Blodwyn; who noticed Myfanwy was wearing what looked like long false, enchanting, golden eyelashes which she flashed at the young men in a dreamy, sleepy way: that turned their blood into water! Although Myfanwy was always beautiful, she was now extraordinary beautiful. Her hair shone like new Welsh gold, her skin was the delicate shade of soft moonlight; her green eyes sparkled under long eye lashes, like wet emeralds and her beautiful teeth gleamed pristinely in her small half open, sweet cherry-pie mouth. Then, Myfanwy saw the keg of Guinness and the large tray of Mrs. Jones’ wonderful pork pies – without further ado she headed straight to the table and got stuck in.

  The sweet, petite, angelic ‘bouche’ of Myfanwy, without qualms or difficulty, efficiently demolished three large pork pies in quick succession; to the utter amazement of all the guests. Each pie was helped on its way with a pint of the Guinness, gulped down like a thirsty navvy. All the while she was being closely securitized by the Jones’ Irish relatives.

  ‘At last Myfanwy is getting an appetite,’ excuses Blodwyn’s mother, who also looked-on with amazement, and a little embarrassment, ‘normally the girl hardly eats at all,’ she continues, ‘it must be her hormones…she will also be seventeen soon.’

  ‘Hormones my foot – the girls got worms!’ exclaims Mrs. Mullholand from Dublin. ‘It is a good dose of the worming-power she’ll be needing.’

  ‘A large tape worm if you ask me,’ adds Mrs. Talbot from Kerry. ‘She will end up a bag-lady on the streets of London with a thirst like that – mark my words.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Blodwyn heard Patrick, one of her Irish country cousins remark.

  ‘Will you look at Myfanwy now – she is such a different Colleen from a year ago… did you see her drink the Guinness?’

  ‘Pay no notice son, that Myfanwy is a fancy woman,’ adds his mother, ‘She will be in and out of the repair shop every week.’ (Repair shop: as in hairdressers and beauticians etc.) ‘She can swallow the Guinness quicker than father O’ Brian – a fancy woman who likes to take a drink – she will cost you a fortune in repair bills and the Guinness.’

  ‘And I bet a penny to a pinch of snuff,’ pipes up his father, ‘that she has a pair of legs on her as tin as ole sticks – Jesus… she could never pull a plough. You wont be getting a full days work out of her me boy.’

  ‘That Myfanwy is certainly not sound in wind and limb,’ adds an uncle, ‘it’s a Comamara colleen you should be thinking of marrying with a pair of sturdy legs, like young oak saplings. A good Comamara girl will never need the repair shop… and will know how to cook a fine pig’s head with the cabbage for your supper.’

  Myfanwy’s acute hearing picked up this conversation: she acted appropriately.

  ‘So I am not sound in wind and limb is it?’ Myfanwy said to herself in a thick Irish accent – and my legs are as tin as ole sticks – I will show them.’

  First Myfanwy turned and faced everyone. Then she let out a great rattling burp; aided by three pints of Guinness she had quickly swallowed. This burp was perhaps a little louder than Myfanwy originally intended! She giggled, hand over mouth and looked around the barn. Silence. All eyes were on her!

  The sound of Myfanwy’s wind echoed around the building, bouncing off the thick oak timbers.

  ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ Father O’Brian exclaims, ‘There is nothing wrong with that young girl’s wind, gullet, stomach or anything else, from what I am hearing.’

  All eyes were still on Myfanwy; there was amazement at the velocity of her wind. Myfanwy still giggles hand over mouth; her green eyes sparkling.

  Even the Ceilidh band stopped playing. Only Bryn Jones the local wino and fine fiddle player discreetly looked the other way. She was not a young lady to upset – especially as he lived on her doorstep.

  Blodwyn glared Daggers at her childhood friend…if looks could kill!

  Myfanwy continued giggling. Then she stopped. Her face a picture of abject terror as she gave out an am-dram cry of horror exclaiming, ‘I can feel something big, horrible and hairy crawling up one of my legs!’

  She then lifted up her long dress and exposed a leg that any female Russian shot-putter would have been pr
oud of. Being a True Changeling, she could change any part of her body at will, providing the atom molecules were hers in the first place; this would later prove to be her downfall soon when Blodwyn played her trick.

  ‘Jesus! That’s a fine looking leg on herself,’ says one of Blodwyn’s male cousins.

  Knowing Myfanwy Jenkins had been a delicate child, Mrs. Jones asks her with concerned tones,

  ‘Are you all right my cariad? And why aren’t your parents here, they have always come to Blodwyn’s birthday party?’

  ‘My father has piles Mrs. Jones.’ answers Myfanwy, ‘bad piles according to him…mind you, I have never heard of anyone with good piles – have you Mrs. Jones?’ Myfanwy asks in a loud voice, with a mischievous giggle.

  ‘No my dear… I can’t say I have,’ answers the sharp witted Mrs. Jones, ‘let’s just hope bad piles don’t run in the family.’

  Myfanwy giggles, hand over mouth.

  ‘I didn’t know your old dad had the farmers Myfanwy!’ exclaims Brian Jones, in surprised tones, ‘maybe now I have a chance to beat him at cribbage – if he can’t sit down for long periods… like.’

  Blodwyn’s dad is silenced by a look from Mrs. Jones, her mother.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ exclaims Brian Talbot to his cousins, ‘did you see the fine pair of sturdy legs on herself…Myfanwy. She would make a fine farmer’s wife. And if the ole tractor broke down, she could pull the plough alright.’

  ‘Jesus! Myfanwy is as sound as a bell – a fine Colleen,’ adds Padriag Jones with admiration, ‘she is certainly sound in wind and limb.’

  All the adults soon began dancing or sat down to chat. This left the young folk to themselves. Although Blodwyn wanted to keep an eye on Myfanwy’s behavior she had to join the adults initially, even though she knew Myfanwy would find it impossible to keep her promises; for being outrageous was the nature of the Fairy Queen.

  Having heard these complementary remarks from the young men with her exceptional hearing and being a terrible flirt, Myfanwy boldly approaches the boys. All the boys stare at Myfanwy:

  ‘Like cows at a new gate,’ observes Mrs. Mullholand from Dublin.

  ‘Now,’ states Myfanwy, coming straight to the point, mimicking a strong Irish accent, ‘are you boys looking for a good strong wife to do all the work, pulling the plough and having a fine pig’s head boiling with the cabbage for your supper, while you sit in the pub ‘till closing time, drinking the Guinness?’ Myfanwy then gives the boys a flirtatious wink. ‘Well, she continues, ‘as it happens I am thinking of getting married myself’. (This of course was a blatant lie; the Queen of the Fairies did not marry or take any lovers, she remained chaste till death; all the same she had an enormous ego that constantly needed topping up by proposals of marriage; which she outrageously encouraged.)

  ‘Come on,’ continues Myfanwy, I don’t have all day…speak up one of you…which one of you would like to marry me?’

  All the boys looked at each other, then looked down at the floor; shuffled their feet again but each remained tongue-tied.

  ‘You, Patrick Devereux – you have just bought a cottage I hear – describe it to me… but in just one word. If I like the description…who knows?’

  Patrick is too shocked to answer, but ponders the question.

  ‘Now while we wait for Patrick’s brain to eventually find a connecting pathway to his mouth, I have another question – and this is a question for the girls only. Now,’ continues Myfanwy with a giggle … the question is… after what occasions do you smell your fingers?’ Blodwyn’s male cousins remain silent and study the barn floor: the girls stare daggers at Myfanwy.

  ‘Speak up girls – my questions are hardly academic brain teasers,’ urges Myfanwy.

  ‘Academic brain teaser’s they are certainly not,’ pipes up Patrick’s sister Teresa Devereux, in her brother’s defense, ‘but impertinent and rather presumptuous they are… if you ask me.’

  ‘Perhaps you are jealous,’ answers Myfanwy, ‘well, it is just too bad – brothers are not allowed to marry their sisters in Catholic Ireland – now… I am still waiting Patrick Devereux,’ says Myfanwy, looking back at the young man.

  Blodwyn had been watching and listening, she knew the fiery Teresa Devereux would soon blow a gasket; she discreetly beckoned Teresa over to her. Teresa approached Blodwyn rolling up her sleeves.

  ‘If that little hussy Myfanwy says another word, I will punch her straight in the gob – I know her type – fur coat and no knickers!’ Time for Blodwyn to lay down the ground work for her trick.

  ‘You must be a little charitable with Myfanwy,’ whispers Blodwyn putting on her most sad and sanctimonious expression. ‘You see God will be calling Myfanwy to heaven soon… she has just undergone major brain surgery… they actually had to remove half of her brain… and considering her brain was rather small to begin with… she is finding it difficult to control her actions.’

  Blodwyn waited a moment for this information to sink in.

  ‘Poor thing,’ she continues, ‘that lovely hair is an NHS wig. Even her false eye lashes are supplied by the NHS. Her skull is still held together with metal rivets… that have now gone rusty.’

  Teresa’s mouth drops open. She is lost for words at this tragic news.

  ‘Please… promise not to tell anyone,’ says Blodwyn, ‘especially my parents. They already know of course… it upsets them to even be reminded…it will spoil their whole evening. You know, sometimes…’ continues Blodwyn unable to stop her flow, ‘Myfanwy runs through the village – stark naked, screaming obscenities… laughing her head off and gobbing on people!’

  Blodwyn had to use great self-control to stop herself laughing out loud at these outrageous fibs; nevertheless she had to make Myfanwy sound unpredictable and unapproachable, so everyone would avoid close contact with her, even before she played her final trick.

  ‘Holy-mother of Jesus… the poor darling!’ exclaims Teresa Devereux, calming down now, ‘no wonder she is as mad as a March hare… I won’t tell a single soul…I promise on all the Holy saints of Ireland.’

  The first part of Blodwyn’s trick had worked perfectly.

  Meanwhile all the eyes of the young folk are still on Patrick, who is still contemplating the question. He wants to impress the beautiful young woman standing in front of him, but while under such pressure and in the presence of such enchanted beauty, just could not think of a ‘single’ word to describe his property accurately.

  ‘Well that’s a difficult one,’ answers Patrick,’ scratching his head.

  ‘One word you say…errrrr.’ His sister Teresa and his female cousins had no intentions of helping him marrying Myfanwy. Who would want such a brazen hussy as a sister in law?

  ‘Hurry up,’ urges Myfanwy, before I grow chin whiskers, dry up and die of old age – remember your singular answer must be truthful, and descriptive.’

  ‘One word eh?’ repeats Patrick Devereux, now rubbing his chin and looking at his other male cousins for encouragement, which was not forthcoming; not for the lack of trying.

  ‘An honest answer you say?’ checks Patrick.

  ‘Of course,’ answers Myfanwy placing her hands on her hips and taking on a theatrical impatient pose. ‘Honesty is paramount.’

  ‘That’s rich.’ thought Blodwyn coming from Myfanwy Jenkins.

  ‘Come on! Speak up Patrick,’ Myfanwy urges, ‘you are beginning to bore me now.’

  ‘I have… only just bought the cottage, mind you,’ excuses Patrick ‘…it needs…a little work…errr… at the moment… one word…you say.’

  ‘One word.’ Myfanwy confirms.

  ‘It is…’ answerers Patrick, ‘I suppose at the moment…that is…a shite hole… I suppose.’ On second thoughts he considers his answer. ‘Jesus…that is if shite hole is one word…that is?’

  Myfanwy looks on patronizingly. ‘It is… when hyphenated… it would also help if my future husband had a reasonable knowledge of simple grammar… and when required to, was able t
o string a complete sentence together in public.’

  Meanwhile Blodwyn knew that Teresa Devereux would waste no time in telling all the cousins and the family of Myfanwy’s misfortune and giggled at the thought of the next phase of the trick, which would endorse Myfanwy’s supposed deranged mentality.

  Blodwyn surreptitiously climbs the stairs to her bedroom with a pint of Guinness. It was a really rotten and embarrassing trick to play on anybody, but the two girls had always played tricks on each other since they were little and Myfanwy’s behavior had to be stopped; nipped in the bud and the sooner the better. Opening her wardrobe drawer, Blodwyn giggled to herself at the thought of what she was about to do and of the resulting consequences.

  She took out a small bottle of non-toxic, black indelible ink used on rams lower chests to mark the ewes in the autumn. She then borrowed her dad’s binoculars. Blodwyn smeared both eye pieces with the ink and poured some of the black ink into the pint of Guinness. Giggling to herself, she then rushed back to the barn and to all the merrymaking.

  Myfanwy was still with the boys posing and performing.

  ‘Now Patrick… how much land do you own?’ Myfanwy asks.

  ‘About twelve acres,’ answers Patrick.

  ‘I may consider marriage… only if the land is… as flat as a witch’s tit… because I am certainly not pulling the plough up-hill!’ declares Myfanwy in a loud voice to be heard by all.

  Myfanwy broke the long silence that followed.

  ‘Now, I have a riddle… why did Lady Damsel fly, flutter by?’ she asks. No answer was forthcoming.

  ‘Because she saw Sir Dragon fly, lick his flagon dry! Have any of you boys ever snogged a weasel?’ asks Myfanwy with bright, shining, mischievous eyes.

  “Right,” thought Blodwyn, “I have arrived just in time, next she will be taking off her shoes, sticking her bare feet under the boys’ noses and declaring. “Haven’t I got the most beautiful toes you have ever seen?”