Mr. Flood's Last Resort(23)

He rolls the paper and licks the seam. “The bird’s flight was a thing of beauty and of terror. For when it ended so too would the life of one of the villagers.”

He twists a few flakes from each end of his cigarette then tucks it behind his ear. Ignoring my smile, he continues. “Every year the villagers held their breath and waited, until, with claws outstretched, the owl landed on the roof of a house. It was then that the villagers sent up a cry of grief or relief, for the owl had chosen her yearly tribute. She would send a soft hoot down the chimney and in a week’s time, to that moment, the owl would return to carry away the purest soul in the household.”

Larkin stalks back through the bushes, ready to give chase to another sandwich.

Mr. Flood smiles benevolently at him. “Have you found it, then? Good man yourself.” The fox licks his snout in answer then drops to his hindquarters and stretches out on the ground. Mr. Flood turns to me. “Over the years the families of the accursed tried everything. They’d pack their innocents off to Canada, or hide them down the well, or up at the church. Nothing saved them. Within a week the owl would return, then babies, mothers, grandfathers, all, would sigh once and die.”

Larkin flops onto his side, his plumed brush tapping the ground like an angry cat’s.

“So it was that time of year again,” resumes Mr. Flood. “As usual, the villagers were praying for the owl to pass them by and land on their neighbor’s roof. This time the owl circled round and headed out over the trees.

“On the edge of town there lived a woman and her son. The husband was a great gallivanter who rarely came home. When she saw the owl scrabbling on her chimney she nearly died. The owl had come for her son, but she loved her son and was not ready to lose him. Now, this woman was no ordinary woman; she was a gifted enchantress, so she set about making a quick spell. She ran into the house on feet and she jumped out again on paws, in the form of a sleek vixen.

“The owl took fright and the fox followed, her trim red body weaving through field and bog after the swoop and rise of the great white bird. From time to time the owl drew near the ground to feed, but the fox jumped up and snapped at the owl, so the owl flew on.

“The fox was tireless: she ran day and night. Until she ran so fast that her feet no longer touched the ground. The owl heard no footsteps and believed she had lost her pursuer, and so, flying over a forest, she landed in a tree to rest awhile.

“The fox hardly stopped to draw breath; she drove up the trunk of the tree.” Mr. Flood stops. “I’ve a throat on me, Drennan.”

“There’s tea in your flask there,” I say.

“Grand so, and where would that be?”

“There, in front of your eyes. Get on with the story and I’ll pour it.”

He grins at me as I unscrew the lid. “The fox climbed the tree and saw the owl perched on a bough. The fox crept nearer. But before the fox could get her maw around it, the owl spun her head round and started to talk. And the owl told the fox she hadn’t come for the boy’s soul at all, for she only harvested pure souls and his was evil to the root.”

He pauses for the longest time. I glance at him. He looks to be gazing at Larkin, who is turning over again and again on the path, dust dulling his coat. But then I see Mr. Flood is not looking at anything, not really.

“Are you all right, Mr. Flood?”

He nods and drains his cup of tea, spilling it on the gray fuzz of his chin. “When the fox learnt that her son was wicked, her heart broke and, unable to stand it, she jumped.”

Larkin stretches, watching Mr. Flood intently, as if he’s listening too.

“The owl peered down through the boughs of the tree to the dead woman on the ground below and screeched in disappointment. For one who had died by her own actions was no good to the owl. Later that night the owl would fly back to the village and claim the boy. For the owl needed her tribute.”

“But he wasn’t pure, the son.”

“Well, he would have to do anyway.”

Larkin springs to his feet and runs off through the bushes.

“What about the husband?”

He frowns. “What about him?”

“The enchantress had a gallivanting husband, couldn’t the owl have taken him instead of the son?”

“She couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

The old man smiles sadly. “He was even worse.”

I glance at him. “And was there a daughter?”

He hesitates. Then he puts down his cup, his movements slow and deliberate. “No,” he says. “Only a son.”

We sit in silence. I wonder if I believe him.

“What’s the moral?” I ask.

“What?”

“Doesn’t that kind of story always have a moral?”

“Of course.” Mr. Flood picks up his sudoku pad. “Now I’d have thought a bright young inquisitive gobshite like yourself would have that easily worked out.”

“Maybe you overestimate me?”

Mr. Flood squints at me. “For being a gobshite, never.”





CHAPTER 7


There were two ways to reach Pearl Strand and both of them involved jeopardy. One way was the long way, out along the lane that ran by the side of Boland’s place, then down through his field. An area patrolled by Mister Boland’s Lady, a collie fully likely to rip the face off you. Sometimes Lady was chained up, sometimes she wasn’t. There was a gap in the fence halfway down that she could come out if she wanted. She never did, but she could if she wanted. We knew it and she knew it too.