Sodden by midweek Lughnasa rain, he made his way into the local pub. The distinct smell of tobacco smoke welcomed him as he entered a dimly lit snug. His eyes adjusted to its dullness. He could perceive an occupant within; sipping away at a pint of porter. They acknowledged each other with a slight nod.
-Good evening, my dear companion!
-Well Donnacha, responded Sétanta.
Donnacha grabbed the attention of the passing barman.
-Howya Dickie. The usual please.
-Right you are.
He took a seat within the snug and reached into his inner coat pocket.
-Now!
He placed a typewritten sheet of paper upon the table.
Extract:
I.VIII.MMXIX
Itinerary
Here follows an embryonic agendum for the fifth day of the second week of the eighth month of the Julian calendar:
I. Congregate.
II. Break our vesperal fasts and ethanolic aridity.
III. Excogitate.
Regardless of your opinions, dear recipient, I have taken the liberty of suggesting the following activities which could be conducive to liveliness:
I. A ramble upon the Reek.
II. A bicycle-propelled gallivant to Acaill.
III. Ball sport observation followed by a Westport boozing bout.
IV. The inhalation of Scythian hempseed.
I would counsel the bearing of headrests and comforters to Caisleán an Bharraigh.
End of Extract.
-Archaic and quirky, as per usual, remarked Sétanta. You couldn’t have written it in plain English?
-O, but where is the fun in that? Our tongue is an abundant word-hoard! Why settle for the
mundane?
-Our tongue? Day in, day out you drone on about how Irish is our tongue! I’ve even heard you belt
out Amhrán na bhFiann on the toilet.
-You know what I mean!
-Why didn’t you translate Westport then?
-It wouldn’t have been appropriate. Cathair na Mart was supplanted long ago by this ‘Westport’.
Bloody Brownes! I tell you, these Normans have done more damage than…
-Would you kindly return to the present? Or should I say, ‘the first quarter-century of the second millennium’?
The snug lightly shook as the boisterous banging of the pub door made known the arrival of a new client.
-Well lads!
-Well Liam, they responded.
-How’s the farm? asked Sétanta.
-‘Tis grand. The baling’s done.
-Is Diarmaid ready?
-He is. Raring to go.
-Who’s Diarmaid? asked Donnacha.
-My bull, responded Liam. He will be off to the All-Ireland Bull Championship in two weeks’ time. He came in first place at the Swinford qualifiers. A good breed. Corriente. Strong. Sinewy. The other livestock I’ve seen aren’t worth a shite! He’s the favourite to win. I can almost feel the prize in my pocket.
-What is it?
-30,000 euro.
-Jaysus! The best of luck so.
-Thanks, but none is needed. ‘Tis in the bag.
The snug shook again. Another arrival appeared. He carried a rucksack.
-Hello!
-Well Peadar, they responded.
-Are ye ready for next weekend? he asked.
-Indeed we are, replied Donnacha. Have a look.
He handed Peadar the itinerary, who promptly read it.
-Scythian hempseed?
-Cannabis, replied Donnacha.
-Is that an uncommon street name? asked Peadar.
-Not at all, replied Donnacha. The Scythians were the first to use cannabis for recreation, or so said Herodotus.
-Speaking of, said Peadar, I did some ‘online’ shopping and got hold of an assortment of substances.
-Such as? asked Sétanta.
-Hash, sneachta, ecstasy, pookey mushrooms, acid and weed – for a few toitíní draíochta, replied Peadar.
-I don’t suppose you brought any to sample? asked Sétanta.
Peadar opened and presented the contents of his rucksack. Voilà! he proclaimed. Within could be seen a well-packed variety of stimulants, hallucinogens and depressants to commandeer the brain receptors.
-I volunteer! shouted Sétanta.
-I checked their quality beforehand in the chem lab at NUI, said Peadar. They should be fine. Same dealer of the stuff we took at the festival this summer. We can have a bit of a taster here.
-Ah lads, could ye not lay off the auld wacky-tobacky? remarked Liam.
-I’m afraid not, my dear Pioneer, replied Donnacha. You will just have to bear the peculiar rank and erudite conversation thereof.
-Hear, hear, agreed Sétanta.
-Now don’t start without me, said Donnacha. I’ll be back in a bit. I need to get my pint.
-I’ll come with ya, said Liam.
The two companions departed the snug to the excited giggles and rummaging of Peadar and Sétanta.
The atmosphere of the public house was that of a secluded shebeen. Inside there was a turf fire aglow in perpetuum. It had a bewitching view before it. Two large fishful lakes, long-seeded oaken groves, venerable ruins, and a small eighteenth-century Georgian house atop a gentle knoll. The Gardaí were unaware of its existence. Those who were, drank at it themselves. The language of the clientry was of a thoroughly Hibernian variety. Catholic, Protestant, and Dissenter were recurrent within. It was a sanctuary from Ross’s drink-driving legislation, a harbour for lonely souls and a lingering legacy of a dying country life. The small bow-shaped bar was surrounded by men sitting on tall soft-seated stools, busily engaged in an evening-long devotion to Bacchus. Donnacha, pint in hand, and Liam, mineral in hand, readily uttered the witty and entertaining conceptions of their minds with these men and engaged them in conversation and gossip.
The pub door banged a third time, making known the entry of new patrons – a party of four. They approached the bar.
-Good evening Mr. Beirne.
-Howya Méabh. What will it be? asked Dickie.
-Two porter, a glass of red, and a vodka and tonic.
-Right you are.
Méabh exchanged greetings with all those who she knew. Upon paying the drink-price she made her way to the lounge, accompanied by her companions.
-She’s a fine lady, remarked Donnacha. I’ve heard of silver foxes, but she’s an argent vixen. Rawr.
-Did you hear? queried a patron, Bricre, to Liam.
-What?
-A bull. The finest bred. Horns as hard as hell. As sharp as swords. Hooves like hammers. Muscles like mountains!
-Go away. Whereabouts?
-In Moydakeogh. I saw an almighty shape lumbering about the fields there.
-Who owns it?
-Yon woman who just came in.
-Méabh Burke?
-The very same.
-When did that blow-in start bullin’?
-Last year. She has a herd in Roscommon. Somewhere near Tulsk.
-Well good luck to her.
-You won’t be saying that when you hear what I have to say next!
-Go on…
-Her bull won the Roscommon qualifiers. First place!
Liam gazed in wordless silence at Bricre.
-Here, I’m heading back to the other two, said Donnacha.
-Right, said Liam. I’ll join ye in a bit.
Liam – carefully concealing his shookness – remained at the bar and inquired further into the constitution of Méabh’s bull. He learned it was a Highland bull called Fionn. Its maturity was that of three years – possibly. All sorts of estimations were thrown out about its weight, size, age and endowment. Nothing was truly certain of it. Nothing except one thing: its greatness. The bull surpassed all other bulls of all other breeds as to its might and muscle, hindlegs and forelegs, horns and hooves, coat and colour, testicles and tool, mooing and wooing – in short, a grander bull there never was.
-The same again Richard, asked Méabh, who had come in from the lounge.
-Right you are, responded Dickie.
Méabh turned to Liam.
-I had meant to congratulate you on your victory, Mr. Mulligan. Diarmaid was fab! Your Swinford win was well-earned.
-Thank you, responded Liam. A lot of time and hard work went into him.
-I would believe it, said Méabh.
She paid what was due and took her drinks in hand.
-Your bull is a fine bull, she remarked, but a bull that will be beaten.
Méabh gave Liam a wink and left for the lounge. Liam was agitated. Within a short time his agitation gave way to vexation, his vexation to anger, and his anger to conniving thoughts. He returned to the snug. Donnacha, Sétanta and Peadar were amidst a bout of hearty laughter fuelled by three pints each and a pill of something else.
-How long did you say this would take? asked Sétanta.
-Fifty minutes. Maybe an hour. I can’t be sure, but you will feel it, responded Peadar.
-You have rejoined us Mr. Mulligan, said Donnacha.
-You seem a bit broody, observed Sétanta. Is everything alright?
-I’m afraid he can no longer feel the prize in his pocket, remarked Donnacha.
-Is that so? asked Sétanta.
-It is, answered Liam. There’s been a change in circumstances.
He looked out the snug door and made a thorough scan of the bar. Certain that the pub patrons were busily engaged in their own affairs, he made a gesture to his companions to huddle together.
-How would ye like five-hundred euro each? proposed Liam.
-For what? asked Peadar.
-I want ye to get rid of Méabh’s bull.
-You must be joking, said Sétanta.
-I am deadly serious. Her bull is going to fuck up my chances of winning. I’ve put too much blood and sweat into my bull for this sheep-shaggin’ hussy to come and ruin it for me. May her cows not hold!
-Are you certain? asked Donnacha.
-I am, said Liam. I may not have seen it, but there are men here I trust who have. If half of what they say is true, then Burke has it in the bag.
Silence fell on the snug. The fellows considered Liam’s offer.
-Even if we were to accept, begun Donnacha, how would we go about ‘getting rid’ of it exactly? You may be surprised, but bull disposal is not a common particular of ours.
-Ye have a few choices, said Liam. Drive it from its field onto the main road; let a passing car do the work. Alternatively, you could damage its leg so that it would have to be put down. Poison is an option too.
-I’m not sure we will be in the right state of mind to do anything shortly, remarked Peadar.
-Ah, never mind that. It’ll take no time at all. Ye’ll be as quick as lightening, said Liam, and ye don’t necessarily have to kill the bull. Just ‘disappear’ it for the next fortnight.
-We will do it then, said Donnacha, but for a thousand each.
-Right so, agreed Liam.
-Where is it precisely? asked Donnacha.
-In the townland of Moydakeogh. ‘Tis a few miles away. As you are going out the door take a right and follow the road to Ballymore. Sétanta will know where to go after that. He’s local enough.
-What will you do?
-I’ll stay here to avoid suspicion. I’ll see ye when it’s done.
Donnacha, Sétanta and Peadar quickly finished their pints and departed the pub. After reaching the Ballymore road they turned off on the seldom-trodden boreen of Illdawagh. Sétanta considered this route the best to follow if they did not wish to be seen.
The few miles to Moydakeogh Liam had mentioned were in fact seven in number and took two hours to walk. Mid journey the trio soon realised this disparity and decided to increase their pace lest they become too muddled.
-It’s been well over an hour, said Peadar. I think I’m coming up. What about ye?
-Nothing yet, responded Donnacha.
-I’m feeling tingly, said Sétanta. Floaty even. The grass is acting strange. Like really strange. Christ it’s vibrant. I’m definitely trippin’.
-You know, begun Donnacha, I love nature, and hate to see the unyielding growth of civic areas into the countryside. Even the recent road works have removed the character and idiosyncratic twists and turns of the laneways. I appreciate the necessity of this growth, but I…I…oh wow…I feel fuckin’ great! I think I’m coming up.
-I feel energetic. Like really energetic – fantastic as hell, said Peadar. WOOOOOOH!!!
-Jesus, my nipples feel awful odd, remarked Sétanta. Sensitive even. Here, touch them…
-Christ, I’m invigorated right now, said Donnacha. I haven’t been this happy in ages!!!
-Shit, look at that cow! shouted Sétanta. Its tail is like a long, thin, whirling piece of spaghetti.
-Lads, my eyes are like black holes… said Donnacha, looking into a water-filled pothole.
-Everything seems so warm and golden, remarked Sétanta. I’d love to lie on a few sheep.
-God, I love you guys! proclaimed Peadar.
The friends proceeded to group hug each other and exchange affectionate language. They continued apace in a giddy manner, stopping to look at flowers, insects, cattle and all sorts of trivia that caused them amazement. Peadar and Donnacha regularly clenched their jaws; Sétanta sporadically burst into fits of laughter. The latter two, while on different drugs, claimed to have seen otherworldly figures and effects in the fields around them or strange birds, which they referred to as ‘sky-chickens’.
The trio finally reached the townland of Moydakeogh and cheerfully began searching for Méabh’s bull. They hopped ditches and fences, burst through brushes and bushes, and ran rampantly about the fields and farmlands. Eventually they came upon the bull grazing on his own. His woolly, wavy, longhaired coat was the colour of a gingernut biscuit. His large, white, inclining horns projected from either side of his hulking head. A curly fringe fell over his eyes and stopped just above his muzzle. His frame was hefty, and his tail was like a tattered sailor’s rope. Hidden by his repose and outward warmth was an as of yet unagitated lethality. The companions carefully approached the bull and began to pet him.
-This bull is brilliant! said Peadar. What breed is it?
-A grand Bò Ghàidhealach ghasta. The famous Heilan Coo! answered Donnacha. I now understand Liam’s worries. It’s fuckin’ great!
Sétanta – beside himself with delight – began to hug it.
-It’s like a big warm ginger carpet! Mmm, it even smells good.
Donnacha and Peadar also proceeded to hug and smell the bull.
-Lads, begun Sétanta, I…I can’t do it. I can’t hurt it. It’s just so fuzzy-wuzzy. I love it!
-Me neither, said Peadar, his eyes closed, and his face pressed against the other side of the bull’s torso.
-A coup against this coo I cannot do! agreed Donnacha, playfully brushing the bull’s dosan.
-What about Liam and his money? asked Peadar. We have no way of harming it and we don’t want to hurt it either.
-He said we didn’t have to harm it – just have it disappear for a fortnight.
-We could still do that.
-What do you think Sétanta?
-I’m just thinking about how we human beings more or less ignore the contingency of our individual sets of beliefs and engage in pointless arguments…
-Jesus, I’m certainly not in your frame of mind right now. Could you still lead us to a suitable place to hide the bull?
-I think there’s a secluded area a bit up the road.
-Good! We can put him there for the time being.
The trio gently drove Méabh’s bull out of the field. With Sétanta’s guidance they led him down a meander of laneways. They eventually reached the end of a nature-ravaged boreen which stopped midway on the slope of a large drumlin. It flattened gradually into a meadowland. Another drumlin of equal height marked the meadowland’s far edge. This formation created a well-concealed dale through which flowed a rivulet like a light-blue Brobdingnagian serpent under the luminous eventide. Donnacha, Sétanta and Peadar drove the bull down an old stone-walled pathway and shut the gate behind him. They sat on the wall and watched him lumber into the field to graze.
-Well done fellas, said Donnacha. We’ll soon be a thousand euro richer!
-MMRRRUUUHHH!
-What the hell was that?
An aggressive bellowing echoed throughout the dale. Another bull emerged from under a copse canopy. The tip of his tail bristled like the head of a broomstick. His burly frame was as black as Arigna coal. Two broad, sharp horns as white as ocean foam curved upwards from his large, narrow head. A silver ring hung from his nasal septum.
-Oh fuck, said Sétanta.
-What?
-That’s Diarmaid!
-Who? asked Peadar.
-Liam’s bull. I forgot this is his land.
-Shite! Quick! Get him out! shouted Donnacha.
The two taurus titans charged at each other. Heads clashed; horns locked. Tails swung wildly about as dirt was flung into the air. Fierce heedless manoeuvring brought them splashing into the rivulet. It turned a shade of red. Ground nesting birds scattered to safer perches. The meadow became marred with great hoof marks. A whiff of weed wafted from the wall where the lads sat smoking. They were enthralled by the contest. As the sun sank to its occidental rest, they could only hear the uproar and fury in the darkness.
-Well, we made a right balls of this, said Peadar.
-Perhaps they will tire themselves out, said Donnacha. We’ll come back tomorrow and assess the
damage. What do you think Sétanta?
-This whole thing is making me anxious.
-Here, take a toke before you have a psychedelic crisis.
The trio returned to Donnacha’s house where they enjoyed what remained of their drug-fuelled glee. They checked their phones the following morning and could see a multitude of missed calls and unchecked messages from Liam. The earlier messages were received yesterday evening, asking where they were and why they were taking so long. The later messages contained vicious profanities that cursed them seven times to Hell and wished the worst possible form of diarrhoea upon them. The lads returned to the dale to check on the bulls. Mounting the wall, they could see Fionn grazing by the rivulet. His horns were adorned with Diarmaid’s entrails, whose battered, black body lay among a patch of bloodstained wildflowers. Liam was kneeled in despair beside him.
The Gardaí never learned how Méabh’s bull made its way to Liam’s field. Acknowledging the peculiarity and obvious suspiciousness of the whole matter, his life was spared. He went on to contest and win the All-Ireland Bull Championship. The lads went to Castlebar. Liam buried Diarmaid.
Meascra 