A crisp evening breeze blew the locals into the pub for the long-awaited storytelling event. They wasted no time claiming the chairs the staff had lined up from the bar to the cozy main dining room. Once everyone had taken their seats, the lights grew dim. Conversation ceased; the rustle of clothing died down. The only sounds came from clinking glassware, the whoosh of the beer taps, and the hissing of red-hot, smoky-sweet turf in the hearth.
To the left of the fireplace, a barstool blackened by decades of turf smoke served as a perch for Fintan, the white-haired, snowy-bearded shanachie. As he nodded to the arriving guests, he removed his tweed cap and set it on the small, round table beside him. In his right hand he held a blackthorn stick as if he were holding a pole on a tram. The fingers of his left hand drummed his thigh.
A masterful teller of tales, he sat so the dancing flames served as his spotlight while leaving the rest of the pub in shadows. He began by banging his blackthorn stick on the floor.
“Good evening,” he said in a rich, serene tone at odds with the gleam in his lively brown eyes. “’Tis fine to be back in Mossy’s pub. The lot of ye are a cure for sore eyes. If I had a tail, I’d be waggin’ it.”
Gentle laughter rippled the air.
“Are ye in the mood for a story or two?”
The audience answered with cheerful assent and light applause.
“Grand. The tales I tell ye will shorten the night and banish the cobwebs from your ears. Ye’ll scarcely believe a word I say, for I’m going back on old times. Back to the days when the Good People made the rounds more than they do now.”
Fintan laid his blackthorn stick across his thighs. His long, thin fingers caressed the knobby wood. “Mossy telt me we have Yanks here tonight, visitors from Americay, near the Cape of Cod, so I’ll keep the Irish down. Sure it won’t harm the bit of shanachus I’m going to give ye. A snippet of folklore, a story from history, that’s what shanachus means in Irish.”
Like a fisherman reeling in a ten-pound trout, he spooled the blackthorn toward him, deftly drawing his audience into the story world he summoned. Then he raised his head, rested his hands on the stick, and gazed out at the gathering.
"Oh, it’s often and often when I was a boy, I traveled a fair wipe of Ireland with my father, a man I sorely miss. The old fella was a renowned shanachie in his own right, and he taught me a lot. The pair of us heard a power of shanachus from old ones who were young when they learnt them. They telt us of ages past. Tonight we’ll visit parts of that past, from a thousand years ago to more recent times.”
Twisting the blackthorn toward the audience now, Fintan resettled himself on the stool and smiled the smile of a man who’s good at what he does and knows it. “I’ve a perishing thirst on me. Where’s Mossy? Be a good lad and bring me some stout, and pour a cup for those in need. When all of ye are ready, we’ll go back on old times, though not too far back. Not at first, anyway.”
A pleasant barmaid emerged from the shadows and set a glass on the small, round table next to Fintan. He nodded his thanks, and she made her way back to the bar.
“I’m goin’ to tell ye a tale well worth retellin’. A story I learnt from a couple of Yanks I met in a pub in Sligo a few years ago. ’Tis a tale that goes back to the days when the young folk used their thumbs to ramble all over Ireland.”
He sipped his beer and smacked his lips. “It was this way…”
