Through the Kisandra Prism by Jack Challis Page B

Mountains of America. We don’t kiss first cousins here! There will be no kissing games. There will be barn-dancing, Irish folk music and karaoke.’
    ‘That’s great,’ says Myfanwy ‘we could sing a couple of the Pogues songs…the ones with swear words.’
    Suddenly Blodwyn had an idea, a wonderful idea to stop her friend from misbehaving. Blodwyn giggled at the thought of her wicked trick.
    ‘My uncles and aunts will also be there – they are old fashioned Irish catholics, we will be singing the Spinning Wheel together, the Minstrel boy… and The Boys of Wexford. Oh, and by the way, have you helped the Widow Owen yet?’
    ‘You only asked me a couple of days ago – I am still thinking about it. What do you want me to do? Turn up on the door-step as a grinning, drunken leprechaun and say: “Top of the morning Mrs. Owen, me darling – how’s she cutting? Here’s a pot of gold to keep you and your starving children going ‘till next week.”
    ‘What about the Sillian?’ reminds Blodwyn.
    ‘I will deal with the Silly-Anne tomorrow morning. You can come with me.’
    With that Myfanwy Jenkins concentrated; Blodwyn watched fascinated as the Queen of the Fairy’s atom molecules broke down and began to rearrange themselves. She seemingly dissolved before her eyes. The flowing liquid spilled; then rose and turned into the shape of the fierce Harpy eagle once again. The giant eagle glared at Blodwyn and raised its ruff, stabbing in her direction with its large sharp beak, forcing her to jump back in alarm. She opened the barn doors to the clear blue sky.
    Then, with a massive flap of its huge wings, the eagle took off and flew out into the cloudless sky of that lovely June morning. All the farmyard animals of feather and fur scattered again, into their shelters and coops.
    Blodwyn smiled to herself. The trick that she would play on the Queen of the Fairies Myfanwy would make everyone keep a safe distance from her. Myfanwy was at her worst when she was the centre of attention; but this was not the kind of attention her best friend wanted!
    The answer lay in the bottom of her bedroom draw. She had been waiting for ages to play this prank on Myfanwy, this was the ideal opportunity. She knew that Myfanwy had no intention of behaving herself in company, especially if young men were around. For that was the nature of the Queen of the Fairies.

Chapter Six
Blodwyn’s Birthday Party
    The lovely Silky sprite swam fast and slight;
    Skimming low beneath the cold rivers flow.
    The beautiful Changing swam at dusk naked;
    her green-tinged skin shimmered with dancing star light,
    beneath the pale moon’s glow.

    The following afternoon a small coach-full of people arrived with shamrocks in their hats and collars. Blodwyn’s father’s relatives had arrived from Eire. Everyone was already in good, duty free spirits, looking forward to her birthday party and the Ceilidh band.
    The first out was Father O’ Brian, a big, red-faced, village priest, with large hands; an honest and good son of the soil. The priest was fondly cuddling a keg of illicit ‘porcine (Mountain Dew)’ in his arms; a bottle of Irish whisky peeped shyly out of his cassock.
    â€˜Hello there Brian,’ greets Father O’ Brian – ‘how’s she cutting?’
    â€˜Sound as a bell Father O’ Brian,’ answers Mr. Jones, ‘we will have a fine turf fire going tonight in the barn.’
    Blodwyn’s mother looked-on disapprovingly; she was teetotal Welsh Chapel with a strong disapproval of inebriation while her husband and his relatives regarded alcohol as salubrious. The priest was followed out of the coach by the uncles and aunts; they were the Mullholands from Dublin, the Talbot’s from Kerry, the Devereux of Wexford and the Jones from Glin in County Limerick, on the banks of the River Shannon. Mrs. Jones would sometimes mumble when Blodwyn’s father, Brian Jones was in his cups and became too