The Hounds of the Morrigan by Pat O'Shea Page B

plain she didn’t mind at all. It was all said with a twinkle and only for fun.
    ‘Who’s rich?’ yelled Patsy.
    ‘We are!’ Boodie shouted back.
    That’s right. I’ve got my black hazel stick from Lugduff and you have your white hazel stick from Cregbawn; do we want more and we having the wealth of Wicklow?’
    ‘Well, a few pancakes wouldn’t be amiss,’ Boodie replied, ‘but you’re right as always, Patsy me ould Champion!’
    Patsy took off his hat and stuck it up in the air on the tip of his black hazel stick.
    ‘It’s grazing time!’ he announced. ‘Lunch is about to be served!’ He looked across, grinned and winked at them and said:
    ‘Would you like to eat some food with us?’
    ‘Not if you’re eating grass,’ Brigit said. ‘I’ve never grazed and I don’t think I’d like it.’
    ‘See now, Patsy, you have made confusion in the small one’s head. Drollery nor waggishness is not what’s needed, but lashin’s and lavin’s of edibilities, I’m thinking,’ Boodie said.
    ‘Yes! We have full and plenty for all,’ Patsy replied. He held up a spotless white bundle. ‘There’s a few farls of oaten cake tied up in this handcloth so that they can’t escape, a hambone and a pot of jam.’
    ‘A hambone is sweet; but a pot of jam is the supreme comforter!’ Boodie declared.
    ‘We have hard-boiled eggs,’ said Brigit, and she walked forward at once. Pidge held back. Suppose they were not what they seemed? Suppose they were the ones doing all the strange things?
    Patsy appeared to be marvellously pleased about the hard-boiled eggs.
    ‘Now we have everything!’ he cried.
    ‘Yes, and twice-offered too,’ Boodie said with a secret smile at him.
    Whatever does that mean? wondered Pidge.
    Boodie took Brigit by the hand.
    ‘And what’s your name?’ she asked.
    ‘Brigit.’
    ‘The lovely name. Patsy, this child has the lovely name of Brigit.’
    Patsy scattered his rose petals.
    ‘Ah, the lovely young Goddess—here’s to her honour. Did you know that there was the Goddess Brigit here in Ireland in the old days, young sir?’ he asked Pidge.
    ‘I’ve heard of Saint Brigit.’
    ‘Ah, I’m persuaded ‘tis likely the Goddess was before your time,’ said Patsy sadly.
    ‘Don’t be downhearted, Patsy. See what flowers the child wears on her wrists?’
    ‘Daisies!’ Patsy exclaimed, and his eyes seemed to light up. ‘Do you like daisies?’ he asked Brigit.
    ‘I do. I love them.’
    ‘That’s the word right enough!’ Patsy said, adding, ‘It’s a potent word and a mighty flower for all its littleness.’ He patted Brigit on the head as if he were her grandfather.
    Pidge came over to stand beside him. He touched Patsy’s sleeve.
    ‘My name is Pidge—short for P.J. It’s quicker than saying P.J., you see.’
    ‘And what’s P J. short for?’ asked Boodie.
    ‘Patrick Joseph,’ said Pidge.
    ‘One of the new-fangled ones—but, good enough!’ Boodie observed. She was taking things from inside the bag and setting them beside her on the grass. ‘Look here! We have yellow meal bread!’ she continued.
    ‘That’s the ticket!’ Patsy said, rubbing his hands together and cheering up. ‘The yellow meal bread washed down with a good mugful of buttermilk.’
    ‘No buttermilk,’ Boodie said.
    ‘Well then, we’ll have spring-water.’
    ‘No spring-water. The can is empty.’
    ‘No spring-water?’ He sounded quite horrified.
    ‘Rest aisy,’ Boodie said. ‘There’s some on the island.’
    ‘There isn’t!’ Brigit said smartly. ‘We know every inch of this place and we never saw a spring, did we, Pidge?’
    ‘Not on this island anyway.’
    ‘Back a piece the way we came, I saw a waterspout sticking out over the path and it gushing out glittering water that fell to the ground like a shower of diamonds. Would you carry some here in this little milk can—to please Patsy?’
    ‘It’s me legs or I’d go meself,’ Patsy said. ‘The screws do be terrible by times.