SPEAKER_01 0:54

Now that the days had got that little bit longer and the weather was lovely, Dal Aaron, the Irish Parliament, was due to go into summer recess. Its sessions adjourned until the early weeks of September. Unfortunately for Scotus, there was still one session left. It was a tricky one at that. It was one of those mysterious midnight sessions where his particular ministerial ship would come under the microscope. The Taoiseach had already warned him in advance that after the Sligo massacre of Yetsian scholars in bizarre circumstances, the opposition were baying for his blood. The midnight sessions were just about to commence when Jack Mulligan stumbled into the chamber, sweating profusely, his hair spiked in every direction, his pallor deadly pale, and took his seat on the front benches beside Scotaus and the Taoiseach. Well look what the cat dragged in, said the Taoiseach wryly. Where were you, Jack? said Scotus, whispering into his ear. I was worried to death about you. Never felt better, said Jack. Been enjoying the trip down the country. Us Jackines need to get outside the pail a bit more often. Why did you leave the hospital? The doctor said you were seen heading for the hills. Sure after the summer recess. I won't be the only politician heading for the hills. No more strange symptoms then? asked Gotis. Symptoms? Since the Rodica incident. Since she bit you. Come to think of it, I've had a terrible appetite, an absolute ferocious hunger for sex, said Mulligan, with a shameless display of braggadocia. At moonlight in Mayo, by Sligo Sally Gardens, from Lochrio Lochrie, where the three counties meet all the way to the Currah of Kildare, no girl's virtue has been unassailable. I shagged my way through the Midlands, through Langford Mullingar and Tolamore until I reached Dublin again. Let me rephrase, said Scotus, rubbing his brow. Any untypical traits, Jack. But there was no time to answer, for the Kyon Corla, the chairman of the Dole, in a very gruff manner, opened the midnight sessions. He warned all to make it quick.

SPEAKER_00 3:22

Everyone else, he said, was probably just as tired and cranky as him. They had all worked hard through thick and thin, through a rough winter, not to mention a dire economic situation. It was a worldwide crisis not particular to Ireland, though the Emerald Isle had suffered more than most, and at least the poor politicians have served was a well earned summer break. So could the supernatural shite to a minimum? No one gives two facts about this unsufferable bollocks. Brethney O'Reilly, Bretney O'Reilly, please. The first and only one to shut up after the Count Corolla's warning was indeed Brethren O'Reilly. But the minute explain the disappearance of the two Romanian dignitaries down in the west of Ireland, and does he continue to deny that he and the Taoiseach disgracefully invited two vampires into Ireland?

SPEAKER_01 4:21

There was a delay before Scotus slowly rose to answer, and it even took a dig in the ribs from the Taoiseach to rise him from his seat. There is not one shred of evidence that these two fine visitors to our shores were vampires. I had occasion to spend time in their company, and they were two very pleasant young women. They were scholars of vampire lore, having studied under the famous professor Dragon Petreshku in Bucherest. There is absolutely no evidence that they are vampires, and I call on the alligator to withdraw the allegation. No evidence of you and Brephney? Aren't they feasting away on the plain people of Ireland? And what happened to the unfortunate Yetsian scholars down in Sligo? I heard there were marks, teeth marks on their necks. Do you even believe in vampires, Mr. O'Reilly? shouted Scouters across the floor. Do you even believe in humanoid creatures of the night with long sharp fangs? No, said Brefne. Do you think I'm soft to the head? Then why are you haranguing me? It's the midnight sessions, said Brefne. It's a time honored tradition to talk shite and at all at midnight. Then go home. All of you, have you no homes to go to? It's summer recess. There's no vampires. There never was and there never will be, other than in the fevered imaginations of mad Irishmen like Bram Stoker and Sheridan Lafinue. And there's no fairies, no leprechauns, no puka's. Maybe there once was, but they've long since departed these shores. We stopped believing in them, and they stopped believing in us. Were we to hold awake, we'd be a century or two too late. Let the undead rest in peace. Supernatural Ireland is dead and gone. It's with the Banshee in her grave. It was perhaps his greatest ever speech in the doll. After the awful tragedy in Sligo, the nod to William Butler VIII was well appreciated, even by those Philistine politicians who never read a page of poetry in their sorry lives. Even Jack Mulligan clapped him on the back saying, Well done! You have taken your place amongst the greatest orators of Ireland with that speech. Jack grinned, and for one second Scotus thought his incisors had gotten just that little bit sharper. Everyone wanted to shake his hands afterwards, and he must have dilly-dallied for in the early hours of the morning he found that he was the last one left in the doll, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't find his way out of Leinster House. He banged on doors and called out loudly, but there wasn't a sinner to be found at that ungodly hour. Wouldn't the papers have a right good laugh in the morning when they heard a minister got locked in the doll? To make matters worse, once Parliament was adjourned, politicians were famous for showing the hallowed chambers a clean pair of heels, getting out of Dodge before they could be quizzed on government performance. He was clearly found wanting, even in this regard. It was then that he thought he heard someone call his name. He looked around calling, Who's there? But there was no answer. He walked around looking for the lights, pressing every button he could find. He was amazed that not even a security guard came rushing to his assistance. Anyone walking down Kildare Street would have seen distress signals flickering all over Leinster House. But even they too must have gone on vacation. He eventually found a switch that lit up the whole chamber, and all around both back benches and front benches were empty, as if an important doll vote was being held at the same time as a World Cup match. But he noticed something slightly askew on the floor of the doll. The great blue carpet that decorated the floors of the famous old chamber had a rather large ripple on it and was even turned up at one corner. Better fix that or when the doll reconvenes again next September, the politician could easily trip and break their neck. He could not remember what exactly happened next. He believed a little voice in his head or an instinct told him to look under the blue carpet, for you never know what might be lurking underneath. In this instance, it was a trapdoor, right smack in the middle of the August all floor. He'd heard many stories about secret passageways in Leinster House. They were escape routes lest Ireland be attacked by foreign powers, and the esteemed leaders of the country needed to be safely tucked away so that nothing might interfere with their mismanagement of the country's finances. Some even said there were tunnels leading to some well-known drinking establishments. Even high-class brattel was mentioned. However, he had never heard of any hidden getaways beneath the doll chamber itself. Since it was highly unlikely he'd ever get the chance to explore Doll Aaron all by his lonesome again, he decided to open that trapdoor. And when he did all he saw was pure blackness. He stuck his head a bit further, and again all he saw was the blackest of black holes and a very damp old smell. He stretched his neck down even further and said Hello anyone down there? Though not an adventurous soul, his curiosity only increased when he heard a wistful echo that sounded suspiciously like his own name. He felt a presence behind him. The Tisha was it? Or someone from the opposition benches. Before he could even turn around, a foot jabbed him on the arse. Between all the jigs and reels, Scotus lost his grip and went head first. His final thoughts were But that's the end of poor Scotus Olen. He landed with a deadening thud by the bank of a great dark river that flowed right under Dublin City. A river finer than the famed river Liffey itself. The stunning underground world was dimly lit up by medieval torches burning away, as if eternally, on the spectacular grey tunnel walls. There's a whole new world down here. He didn't even have time to dwell on the back pain which already bothered him to begin with after M. J. McGovern flung him around the fields of Tulsk earlier that day, when a voice called out in a thick Dublin accent Dear yeah, Neil Sagosha. Scotus looked up to see a smallish man in his sixties, cap on head, hopping off a well seasoned little boat. You took your bleeding time finding this place, said the little man. What place would that be? asked Scotus. You're pulling me feckin' arm, said the little man. You're pulling me feckin' arm, surely. I honestly don't know where I am, said Scotus, struggling to his feet. Some bastard push me. Probably Brefley O'Reilly. This is the fairy to the treasury. The treasury? The supernatural treasury. Scotus could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and as he surveyed his strange surroundings he knew there and then that he had to be dreaming, or else that someone had spiked his drinks in the doll bar. He never saw the like, said the old man. Never saw the like of what? asked Scotus. A minister who had such a devil make here attitude to his post. And that's Feckin' saying something. That's really feckin' saying something. How do I get out of here? How do I get back to my flat and rat mines? After you've met your responsibilities, I'll ship you back. What responsibilities? The government is on summer recess. Not you, my old flower. You, my friend, are in for one hell of a summer. Hop in in that old boat there, Boss, and they'll ferry you to the treasury. Soon they were floating down the dark river, deeper into the tunnel, and the deeper they went, the more the medieval torches diminished. Until soon there was no light at all. What is your name? asked Gotis. Philo. And what do you do, Philip? Besides ferry people to a strange treasury no one has ever heard of. It's Phillow. Yes, Phillow. Sorry. After Philip Linet, lead singer with Pin Lizzie. No, after every other bleeding fellow in Dublin City. And you're the ferryman? Ferryman and caretaker. The previous caretaker met with a fatal accident, and those bleeding bastards in Leinster House now make me do two jobs at the same salary. The likes of me down in this blasted feckin' hole has no union reps are the like to fight my cause. Philo did not have time to finish his rant, for at the bend of the black underground river, a magnificent, imposing structure slowly came into view, illuminated by exterior spotlights revealing an architectural masterpiece deep in the undiscovered boughs of Dublin City. It blew Trinity College, the GPO and Christ Church Cathedral, right out of the water. Scotus stood now at the ornate Celtic and pagan artwork, deeply and intricately embedded into its grey walls, and shuddered in fear when he saw the grotesque Shield in the gig exposing her privates over the entrance to ward off all evil spirits. If it was built to scale, he'd hate to see the size of the demons it was supposed to scare away. Neil, I'll have to ask you to check in any cameras, video recorders, or mobile phones at the door, said Philo, steering the boat towards the entrance, as Scotus looked on, practically dribbling at the mouth. Why would you want to keep this place secret? You'll soon find out, Neol Sagosha. You'll soon find out. The sights inside would have driven many men mad, and many men blind, and many more would have died on the spot, their noggins unable to comprehend or contain the extreme levels of bewilderment. The treasury was a world of the unknown, the illogical, and the paradoxical. It was a place where history and mythology existed side by side as happy bedfellows. The treasury was literally a museum of supernatural Irish history. The treasury was a place miles beneath the earth, beneath Dublin City, by the banks of a great dark river. It was a place the Irish state somehow managed to keep secret for many centuries. Why was that? Scotus wondered. The first thing Scotus noticed was a tall phallic-shaped standing stone. Indeed, was there any other kind? That's the bleeding Leo Fall, said Philo. That's the original stone of destiny, brought to Ireland by the Tutadan along with three other magical items which you'll also find down here somewhere. But we lent it to the Scots, and they never give it back. They lent it to the English, who use it as their coronation stone, and only recently gave it back to the Scots, who think the real one is in their hands now. Though as Bleed and Scots are a stingy lot, and sure enough they'd never give anything back, but the muckers have got the wrong stone. There's plenty of new age hippies who think the standing stone that exists today on the hill of Terra is the real one. William Wilde thought it was down in the bags of Roshammon. But this is the real one. We have it hidden away down here out of Harem's way. You said it was magic. What does it do? It cries out in joy before the rightful leader of Ireland. Do the leaders of our country come down here then? Just to make sure they are the right man for the job. Do they fuck? Those gangsters would run a hundred miles in the other direction first. This doing is not cried out in joy since Brian Baru was elected king back in ten thousand and two. The next thing Scotus saw was an old ornate book, masterfully crafted by some ancient monks, and one that would easily give the famous Book of Cells a run for its money. It's the Battle Buke of the O'Donnells, said Philo. It's also known as Alcatok of Saint Columba. But that book Assaulter is in one of the normal museums up above, said Scotus. I remember reading about it somewhere. The one above is an illegal copy made by Saint Columba, the first known copyright infringement made in history. Scotus was somewhat familiar with the story of Saint Columba. Had the saint lived today, he'd probably be a serial downloader of music and movie files, making unauthorized copies and sharing them with his slacker friends, while expertly hiding his IP address from the record companies and movie studios. But back in the five hundreds, he had every other monk in the land driven mad by copying their books. It reached a crisis when he made an unauthorized copy of the Katock, and the owner of the book Saint Finian cited him for copyright infringement. It went before the king who sided with Saint Finian, saying To every cow it's calf, to every book it's copy. The first copyright judgment in history. But it didn't end there. The copyright judgment led to a war, and thousands were slain in the Battle of Kuldrevna in Sligo in five sixty one. All over a bleeding book, said Phillow. Aren't we the mayhem race? There was something special about the book, was there? asked Gotis. It's a very powerful buke, said Philo. The wrong hands it could lead to untold destruction. Look at me, old Sagotia. Nothing, and I mean absolutely bleeding nothing, ever gets out of the treasury. Right. To carry that buke three times around your army during battle guarantees victory. Can you imagine if some of the rogue nations got their hands on the like of that? Can you imagine if the pharaoh oilens got it? What have the pharaohs ever done to anyone? It's not what they have done. It's what the bleeding sheep taggers would do if they got that view. The mesmerizing museum seemed to be without end, and an office politician's eyes lit up at all that was before him. He began to see the magnitude of his responsibility as Minister of Supernatural Affairs. In many ways, he was sitting on more power than any other politician in Leinster House. For the power he sat on was an ancient one, and one that incorporated all the magical history of his nation. The next thing he saw was a modest-looking goblet, but one that he was sure also told a tale or two. It's a magic goblet of truth, said Philo. What does it do? asked Otis. Is it like the Holy Grail? This is the real world, brother. Not some biblical fantasy land. Philo took the goblet and started to speak over it, making three outrageous claims. The current government is competent. The country will be back in its feet within ten years. Philo had no sooner uttered these three statements when the magic goblet disintegrated into smitharines, and little bits of it flew all over the floor. You broke it, said Scotus, quite distressed, because he was sure that it was a black mark against his ministerial ship if one of these priceless relics was destroyed during his watch. A tree on truth will smash it. Speak three truths, said Philo. What? asked Scotus. Just say three bleeding things that are true and let's see. Scotus hated to be put on the spot, even for simple tasks. I was having difficulty speaking three truths. Sweet suffering Jesus, said Philo. What is your current title? I am Minister of Supernatural Affairs. What is your father's name? My father's name is Jimmy Olen. Excellent. Okay, woman. What is your mother's name? Here Scotus went silent, and his face grew dark. You don't know your bleeding mother's name? I never knew my mother, said Scotus. My father never told me her name. When Scotus spoke this last truth, the magic goblet, only previously broken into smithereens, instantly flew back together again. He should have marveled at the sight, but Scotus himself was shattered. Sensing his distress, Philo patted him on the back. Scotus felt himself getting sick. He got down on his knees to gather his thoughts, to regain his composure. The mystery of his mother, the coldness of his father had sent him into a very dark place, and not even the magical relics of Ireland's glorious past, their mythology made manifest, could bring him back. It was left to the words of Philo to snap him out of it again. Now don't ever let that goblet out here. Not on your life, boss. Could you imagine if it was unleashed in Lynster House? The housekeepers would be sweeping up their broken cup every bleeding day. As they moved through the museum, Philo grabbed something that appeared to Scotus as nothing more than fresh air, but when he flippantly threw it over himself, he suddenly became invisible. An invisible cloak like in Harry Potter? exclaimed Scotus. His spirits now fully back again. Harry Potter meers said invisible Philo. This is Mac Lur's magical cloak of Miss After throwing off the cloak again. Philo back to his little Jackine self then picked up what looked like a very old penny whistle. If the chieftains had been recording back in the first century, and such was their longevity, wouldn't surprise many if they had. Scotus imagined Patty Maloney whistling away on this. That's Elon MacMeda's tin whistle. He was a member of the She, a fairy musician, and every year at the festival of Sowan, he would go to the Hill of Terra and lull everyone to sleep with his tin whistle. He would then burn the whole bleeding place to the ground. He was a right evil little ballocks. This did not stop until he was slain by the great Fion McEwell. Scotus as a young buckin had been taught a little bit of tin whistle by the Christian brothers, and every now and again liked to toss out an old tune himself, sometimes one of Moore's melodies, or sometimes a march like Gary Own or O'Donnell Aboo. It made him feel good. Although he had resisted touching any of the precious artifacts in the supernatural treasury, he could not resist the old tin whistle. As he put the whistle to his lips and sounded the first exultant note, Philo shouted Don't feckin' do that! But it was too late. After about two notes of the last rows of summer, the caretaker was snoring away, and as much as Scotus tried to wake him, with a good shove a digging the ribs, a slap in the face, there was no waking Philo. Scotus O'Lyn was now all alone in the museum. Scotus, like a kid in a candy store, free of any shackles, had the glorious opportunity to have much fun in the museum. But when he saw a box labeled Ballor's Evil Eye, those who look inside will die on the spot. He thought it best to keep his nose clean and wait for the snoring caretaker to rise again from his slumbers. Instead, he walked over to some shelves of reference books in the far section of the museum and began to read some of the works of Lady Wild. In her ancient legends of Ireland, he learned that the she, the race he feared, had stolen Ashling O'Connor, lived in a splendid dwelling, a castle perhaps called a Shifra. He was also intrigued by the following line If you walk nine times around a fairy rat at the full of the moon, you will find the entrance to the Shifra. It was a good eight hours before Philo woke again, and he was cranky as a bag of cats. Why does some bleeding agent always play that feckin' ten whistle? My back is now feckin' killing me. I see someone got out of the wrong side of the bed, said Scotus. Oh you're a bleeding comedian now, I see. The caretaker went on to bemoan his uncomfortable sleep on the cold museum floor and the long hours he had to work, the poor pay, the intolerable conditions underground, and how the Minister of Supernatural Affairs always tended to be an incompetent Amadon who only succeeded in making the caretaker's life a pure misery. Get back in that bleeding boat, said Philo. It's time to get out of this godforsaken hole before you do any more damage. As they were departing to Treasury that morning, Scudus noticed some portraits hanging on the old walls. He had not noticed them before. He even recognized some of the faces. He looked at Philo for an explanation.