The Ribbajack

Holding back his irritation with remarkable fortitude, Father Carney gives his explanation of the affair. “Have ye not got the sense the good Lord gave ye? Your man was out fishin’, an’ he fell into the river. Somehow or other, he was trapped underwater, by the weeds, or mud, or even some waterlogged branches. Poor Roddy was so long tryin’ to free himself that his brain was affected by the loss of breath an’ all that water he swallowed. But by the mercy of Heaven he lived through it all. Though his brain was addled, an’ he’s not the grand feller we once knew, an’ that’s why Roddy Mooney’s the way you see him now. Let that be the last word on it. An All Ireland Champion Fisherman he might’ve been, but an All Ireland Champion Underwater Escape Artist he was not!”

So there you have it, the terrible tale of poor ould Roddy Mooney. It happened almost sixty-five years ago. Now, whose explanation are you to believe, that of a priest or a ten-year-old boy, little Mickey Hennessy? As for meself, I believe the lad, and I’ll tell you why.

Every midsummer since, at the night of the full moon, the boy has gone down to the very spot on the riverbank where Roddy was taken. Aye, all those years, an’ he still goes there. Listen, I’ll not be telling anyone but yourself this, for fear of being laughed at. Mickey still sees the Nye Add lady return, to look for Roddy Mooney. Of course, being the wise man he is, Mickey keeps well away from the river’s edge. But over all that time he has learned to understand the creature’s language, though he cannot speak it, because Mickey’s no great shrieker. The fishwoman told him that she’s neither water banshee nor Nye Add, she’s called a Kelpie. I think that she fell in love with Roddy, because she returns there every midsummer, hoping some moonlit night to see him. Ah, she’s a sad ould thing now.

Well, I’ve told you the tale now, so I’ll go on me way an’ bid ye good day. But it’s a true story, an’ if I’ve told you a lie, then I’m not seventy-five years old next birthday, and my name’s not little Mickey Hennessy.

The Mystery of Huma D’Este

THEY SAY THAT BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP,

it’s a fact that’s very well known.

So, answer me this question—

how deep is the beauty in stone?

And whilst we’re at this little game,

pray tell me please, what’s in a name?

Girls admired Jason Hunter, boys envied him, and not unusually, Jason loved himself. He was a tall, handsome boy with thick blond hair, golden tanned skin, teeth like pearls and heavy-lidded hazel eyes.

Jason was not overly intelligent at school subjects. However, he was adept at most sports, and excellent at running. He was the best sprinter in the school for many terms. As every student knows, this excused him a multitude of faults.

Jason possessed a languid manner and a sarcastic wit. Most folk went out of their way to please him. His group of peers laughed readily at his jokes, and were unanimous in their condemnation of any thing or person that displeased him. Even teachers were wary of offending him, since it was a sure way to make themselves unpopular with the students in school.

Have you got the picture now?

Right. Jason Hunter was the perfect teenage bully!

It was the Friday morning at the start of summer term heralding the Inter Schools Running Finals on the following Saturday morning. Jason was certain to win the one-hundred-metres sprint. The place in the school trophy cabinet was already reserved for the cup he would bring back. This would be added to the three cups he had gained in previous terms, all engraved with his name. The quick glory of the one-hundred metres was more suited to Jason’s temperament than the two- or four-hundred-metres. Nobody dared to mention that it was because he lacked the stamina, or determination, to try for the longer events.

Jason sat on the main school entrance steps, surrounded by his followers. He watched everybody coming to school, amusing his group by singling out certain unfortunates as the target for his caustic comments. “Hi, Tommy, who cut your hair? Tell us who did it, and we’ll go along to his shop and beat him up for you.”

The crimson-faced victim of Jason’s acerbic wit hurried into school, followed by howls of laughter. Jason picked on a fat girl next, she made an easy mark.

“I love the colour of that skirt, Betty.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

Jason remarked aloud to his cronies, “I used to have a tent that colour, wonder where it went. Don’t suppose she’d lend me it to go camping, do you?”

They followed one after another, each having to run the gauntlet of Jason’s remarks.

“Morning, Ella, I see you got your new braces. That’s funny, has anyone noticed the old railings round the bus stop are missing? Come on, Ella, give us a smile. No, on second thought, keep your mouth shut. The cops might be looking for those railings. Don’t cry, we won’t tell them.”