Where are you now? asked the Pooka.
I am here, replied the Good Fairy, on the flag with the elliptical crack in it.
Pardon me for a moment if you please, said the Pooka with a small bow towards the cracked flag, I wish to take leave of my family.
He approached the bed with a tender solicitude the way he could put his hand in under the clothes. He caressed her rough cheek, hanging his stick on the rail.
Good-bye, my dear, he said tenderly.
Your granny, Fergus, she said in her queer muffled voice.
Where are you, asked the Pooka again.
I am in the pocket of your coat, said the Good Fairy.
You are a nice pocketful if I may say so, said the Pooka, but no matter. How will I know the way to go unless you proceed in front, cracking twigs and disturbing the leaves the way I will know the right direction?
There is no need for the like of that, said the Good Fairy. I will sit here in your pocket and look through the cloth and tell you when you make a wrong step.
You will not look through that cloth, said the Pooka, that is the best cloth that could be had. The cloth of that coat when it was new cost me five and sixpence a yard. That was before the War.
I could see through my lids if I shut my eyes, said the Good Fairy.
There is better stuff in that coat, said the Pooka with an earnest but polite inflexion, than was ever in any angel’s eye-lid.
There is little doubt but that you are over-fond of the old talk, said the Good Fairy. Could I trouble you, Sir, to start walking?
I will start now, said the Pooka.
He caught hold of the boards of the door and pulled them open till he passed out into the glory of the morning. He fastened the door carefully with an old rope and strode from the clearing into the murk of the surrounding undergrowth, making short work of all obstacles with terrible batters of his club-boot, demolishing tendrils and creeper-ropes and severing the spidery suspensions of yellow and green and blood-red yams with whistling swats of his ashen stick and treading the lichen with a heavy tread, and a light one, iambic pentameter, a club-step and a footstep.
There is no need, said the Good Fairy, to walk through every bed of briars you see. Picking your way, there is such a thing as that.
That is a matter of opinion, said the Pooka.
You could give yourself a bad jag, said the Good Fairy. Keep to the left, you are going the wrong way.
The Pooka wheeled in his course without appreciable loss of pace and went straight to the middle of a thicket of stout rods, cracking it before him the like of a walnut in a strong palm. The Fairy turned to survey the ruin of shattered stirks.
Some of these trees are sharp, he observed, mind or you will make a tatters of your coat.
There is better stuff in that coat, said the Pooka with a wilful march on a wall of thornsticks, than they are putting into clothes nowadays. A coat in the old days was made to stand up to rough wear and was built to last.
Keep to the left, called the Good Fairy. Do you always carry on like this when you are out walking?
I do not mind telling you, said the Pooka courteously, that there is no subterfuge of economy more misconceived than the purchase of cheap factory-machined clothing. I was once acquainted with a man who committed himself to the folly of a shoddy suit. What do you think happened?
Keep well to the left, said the Good Fairy. It was likely torn off his back by a nest of thorns on the roadside.
Not correct, said the Pooka. It lathered in a shower of rain and that is the odd truth. The seams of these inferior garments are secured with soap. It frothed on him in the street the like of a pan of new milk boiling over.
One thing is certain, observed the Good Fairy, if you walk through that clump you are now heading for, you will make ribbons of your coat and a tatters of your skin, you will kill the two of us. Discretion, there is such a thing as that.
I will not, said the Pooka. There was small else for him to do but to enter a barber’s shop and have the suit shaved. Do you know how much that cost him in silver coin?
The Good Fairy gave a cry in the gloom of the pocket as the Pooka strode in his career through the mad rending and crackling of the thorn-fraught branch-thick tangle.
I do not, he said.
Ten and sevenpence, said the Pooka, and that was a lot of money before the War. Would it be a discourtesy to ask you whether I am travelling in the right direction at all.
You are doing very well, said the Good Fairy.
Very good, said the Pooka.
Once again he quitted the warm sunlight of the clear morning to smash and shatter a clear path in the sun-trellised twilight of the jungle.
The two of them had not journeyed the length of two perches statute when they saw the two men drinking draughts of cool water from their large hats by the stream-side, the one a tall-boned large fine man and the other a small fleshed man. Around their middles they had the full of two belts of bright bullets as well as a pair of six-guns apiece, and two hatfuls of clear crystal they had drunk before the Pooka approached to the back of them as they knelt there to surprise them with a mouthful of his talk.
Ask them who they are, said the Good Fairy.
Greetings, said the Pooka courteously, to the pair of ye.
God save you, said Slug Willard adroitly donning his wet hat the way he could raise it for politeness, this is my friend and my butty, Mr Shorty Andrews. How are you?
I am very well, said the Pooka. And how are you, Mr Andrews?
I am grand, said Shorty.
Isn’t it wonderful weather, said the Good Fairy from the interior of the pocket, a morning like this is as good as a tonic
What’s that? What did you say, Sir? asked Slug.
I said nothing, said the Pooka.
My mistake, said Slug. Unfortunately, Sir, I suffer from noises in the head and in my sleep I often hear voices. You didn’t happen to see a steer anywhere, did you, Sir?
We are searching our legs off looking for a lost steer, explained Shorty.
Lord save us, said the Good Fairy, you will surely have the nice job looking for it in a place like this.
You’re right there, said Slug, but, no offence, you have a queer way of talking, Sir.
That time, said the Pooka smiling, I did not talk at all.
Maybe not, said Shorty.
On my word of honour, said the Pooka.
It seemed to come from your clothes, Sir – that voice, said Slug. You are not in the habit of carrying a small gramophone in your pocket, are you, Sir?
I am not, said the Pooka.
Introduce me, the Good Fairy said in his urgent whisper.
You are at it again, said Shorty roughly.
Allow me to explain, said the Pooka, the voice you hear is coming from the pocket of my coat. I have a spirit in my pocket and it is he that is doing the talking.
You have your porridge, said Shorty.
On my solemn word of honour, said the Pooka gravely. He came to my house this morning and the pair of us are now engaged on a private journey. He is very gentlemanly and very good at conversation. The two of us are on our way to assist at a happy event at the Red Swan Hotel.
Your porridge, said Shorty.
Well that’s a good one, said Slug. Could you give us a look?
Unfortunately there is nothing to see.
Are you sure it’s not a ferret you have in your pocket? asked Shorty. You look like a man that was out after rabbits.
Who’s a ferret? asked the Good Fairy sharply.
It’s a bloody spirit all right, said Slug. I know a spirit when I hear one talking.
Your porridge, said Shorty, would you be so kind, you in the pocket, as to give us a selection on your harp?
The idea that all spirits are accomplished instrumentalists is a popular fallacy, said the Good Fairy in a cold voice, just as it is wrong to assume that they all have golden tempers. Maybe your doubts would be resolved if I kicked the jaw off your face,
Mr Andrews?
Keep your distance, me man, said Shorty with a quick move to the gun-butts, keep your distance or I’ll shoot your lights out!
Put your gun up, man, said Slug, he hasn’t got any. Do you not know that much at your time of life. He is all air.
He’ll have a damn sight less when I’m through, shouted Shorty, no bloody spirit is going to best me.
Tut, tut, said the Pooka soothingly, there is no necessity to make a scene.
I was called a ferret, said the Good Fairy.
Porridge and parsnips, said Shorty.
You keep your trap shut for five minutes, said Slug with fierce shoulders towering over the head of his friend, shut your bloody mouth now, do you hear me? This gentleman and his spirit are friends of mine, mind that now, and when you insult them you insult me. Don’t make any mistake about that if you value your bloody life. H.O., H.A. Hit one, hit all.
Now, gentlemen, please, said the Pooka.
Hit one, bit all, repeated Slug.
Pipe down, said Shorty.
I’ll pipe you and I’ll pipe you down the nearest sewer if you say another word, my fine man, shouted Slug, I’ll give you what you won’t hold, I’ll knock your bloody block off if you say another word. Apologize!
Gentlemen! said the Pooka in a pained manner.
Make your apologies quick, rapped Slug.
All right, all right, said Shorty, apologies all round. Is everybody happy?
I am satisfied, said the Good Fairy.
That is very satisfactory, said the Pooka with a bright re-dawn of courtesy, and now possibly you gentlemen would care to join us in our happy mission. There is a small son being born to Miss Lamont and I have no reason to suspect that guests will be unprovided with refreshment of the right kind.
It’s a pleasure, said Slug, we will go and welcome. Did you ever happen to know a party by the name of William Tracy ?
I have heard of him, replied the Pooka. Let us take a short-cut through this copse here on the left.
A decent skin if there ever was one, said Slug with warmth, a man that didn’t stint the porter. It was a pleasure to work for Mr Tracy. Isn’t the Red Swan where Mr Trellis lives?
Quite correct, said the Pooka.
What about presents for the bride, asked Shorty, it’s only right to bring the full of your pockets when you’re going to a hooley.
It’s the usual all right, said Slug.
That’s a pretty sort of a custom, said the Good Fairy. I wish to God I had a pocket
The travellers then scattered apart for a bit about the wilderness of the undergrowth till they had filled their pockets with fruits and sorrels and studded acorns, the produce of the yamboo and the blooms of the yulan, blood-gutted berries and wrinkled cresses, branches of juice-slimed sloes, whortles and plums and varied mast, the speckled eggs from the nests of daws.
What do you think I’m made of, asked the Good Fairy sharply, take that thing with the prickles out of your pocket.
Musha, you’re very tender, said the Pooka.
I don’t wear armour-plated stays, said the Good Fairy.
There’s something in there in that clump, called Shorty, I saw something moving.
It’s only a rabbit or a black tyke, said the Pooka.
You have your porridge, said Shorty as he peered with his shading hand, there’s a trousers on it.
Give us a look, said Slug.
Are you sure it is not a ferret, asked the Good Fairy, chuckling.
Come out of there, roared Shorty with a clasp towards his gun, come out of there or I’ll shoot the tail off you!
Steady now, said Slug. Good day, Sir. Come on out till we see you and don’t be afraid.
It’s a man and an old one, said the Good Fairy, I can see htm through the cloth of the coat here. Advance, Sir, to be recognized!
I don’t believe you will see much through that cloth, said the Pooka. Five and sixpence a yard it cost.
Give the word, said Shorty with a waving menace of his hand, or it’s gunplay and gravestones. Come out of that tree, you bloody bastard you!
There was a prolonged snappling of stiffened rods and stubborn shoots and the sharp agonies of fractured branches, the pitiless flogging against each other of green life-laden leaves, the thrashing and the scourging of a clump in torment, a jaggle of briar-braced tangly-brambled thorniness, incensed, with a demon in its breast Crack crack crack.
A small man came out of the foliage, a small man elderly and dark with a cloth cap and a muffler around his wind-pipe.
Jem by God Casey! said Slug Willard. Two emblems of amazement, his limp hands sank down to his waist until the thumbs found fastening in the bullet-studded belt.
Can you beat it? asked Shorty.
Good morning, said the Pooka courteously.
You are a terrible man, Casey, said Slug.
Greetings all round, said the Casey, and the compliments of the season.
All I can say is this, Casey, said Slug, you are the right fly-be-night, the right hop-off-my-thumb, to be stuck in a place like that. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Jem Casey, Poet of the Pick and Bard of Booterstown.
That is very satisfactory, said the Pooka. To meet a poet, that is a pleasure. The morning, Mr Casey, can only be described as a glorious extravagance.
What sort of a voice is that, asked Casey, high and low like a bloody swingboat?
The remark about the weather, explained the Pooka, was not made by me at all but by a fairy that I have here in my pocket.
It’s a fact, said Slug.
I believe you, said the poet, I believe all that I hear in this place. I thought I heard a maggot talking to me a while ago from under a stone. Good morning, Sir or something he said. This is a very queer place certainly.
My hard Casey, said Slug. Tell me, what were you doing in that clump there?
What do you think, asked Casey. What does any man be doing in a clump? What would you be doing ?
Here Shorty gave a loud laugh.
By God I know what I’d be doing, he laughed.
Approximately half of the company at this stage joined their voices together in boisterous noises of amusement.
We all have to do that, roared Shorty at the end of his prolonged laugh, the best of us have to do that.
He collapsed on his back on the rich grass, shrieking aloud in his amusement. He moved his feet in the air as if operating a pedal cycle.
They have no respect, said the Good Fairy quietly to the Pooka, no respect and no conception of propriety.
The Pooka nodded.
I hope I am broad-minded, he said, but I draw the line at vulgarity and smut. Talk the like of that reflects on them and on the parents that brought them up. It speaks very poorly for their home life.
Suddenly Casey turned round and presented a stern face to the company.
What was I doing? he asked. What was I doing then?
The only answer was a loud laugh.
Well I will tell you what I was doing, he said gravely, I will tell you what I was at. I was reciting a pome to a selection of my friends. That’s what I was doing. It is only your dirty minds.
Poetry is a thing I am very fond of, said the Good Fairy. I always make a point of following the works of Mr Eliot and Mr Lewis and Mr Devlin. A good pome is a tonic. Was your pome on the subject of flowers, Mr Casey? Wordsworth was a great man for flowers.
Mr Casey doesn’t go in for that class of stuff, said Slug.
Dirty minds be damned, said Shorty.
None of your soft stuff for Mr Casey, said Slug.
I am very fond of flowers, too, said the Good Fairy. The smell of a nice flower is like a tonic Love of flowers, it is a great sign of virtue.
The stuff that I go in for, said Casey roughly, is the real stuff. Oh, none of the fancy stuff for me.
He spat phlegm coarsely on the grass.
The workin’ man doesn’t matter, of course, he added.
But why? asked the Pooka courteously. He is surely the
noblest of all creatures.
What about all these strikes? asked the Good Fairy. I don’t know about him being the noblest. They have the country crippled with their strikes. Look at the price of bread. Sixpence halfpenny for a two-pound loaf.
Dirty minds be damned, said Shorty again. Oh, by God I know what you were doing in that clump, me boyo.
And look at bacon, said the Good Fairy. One and ninepence if you please.
To hell with the workin’ man, said Casey. That’s what you hear. To bloody hell with him.
I have a great admiration for the worker, said the Pooka.
Well so have I, said Casey loudly. I’ll always stand up for my own. It’s about the Workin’ Man that I was reciting my pome.
And then you have the Conditions of Employment Act, said the Good Fairy, class legislation, that’s what it is. Holidays with full pay if you please. No wonder the moneyed classes are leaving the country. Bolshevism will be the next step.
I admire the working man immensely, said the Pooka, and I will not hear a word against him. He is the backbone of family life.
I’d advise that man in the pocket to keep his mouth shut, said Casey roughly. He wouldn’t be the first of his kind that got a hammering.
It would take more than you to hammer me then, the Good Fairy answered.
The Pooka spread out his long-nailed hands and made a long soothing noise through his haired nostrils.
Please, gentlemen, he said, no need for acrimony.
If that’s what you were at in the clump, said Shorty, stand out there and give us a couple of verses. Go on now.
The poet removed his frown.
I will if you want me to, he said.
Not everybody can recite poetry, said the Good Fairy. It is an art in itself. Verse-speaking they call it in London.
Don’t mind him, said Slug. Off you go, Casey. One, two, three…
Casey then made a demonstration with his arm and gave out his poetical composition in a hard brassy voice, free from all inflexion.
Come all ye lads and lassies prime
From Macroom to old Strabane,
And list to me till I say my rhyme –
THE GIFT OF GOD IS A WORKIN’ MAN.