SPEAKER_00 0:06

From the whales of the star, a fish arrived.

SPEAKER_02 0:10

Journey to the other world.

SPEAKER_00 0:11

To the hills where the fires are burning bright. And cry, baby, cry by the star for moonlight creatures call. The time is now, baby, night.

SPEAKER_02 0:32

Goddess drove back down to Ross Common for the weekend. He wanted to maintain contact with his constituents, but also to meditate in the fresh country air on his very strange experience beneath Leinster House. However, he mainly wanted to see his county team take on local rivals Leitram in a championship match that Sunday in Dr. Hyde Park. As a diehard, he had to be there. While many politicians went to matches and funerals just to be seen, Scotus went to roar on his team, his beloved primrose and blue, even if his enjoyment of the occasion would surely be spoiled by some ignorant yokes out to make a joke about his current position in life. But let them. He had now seen the treasury, the Museum of Supernatural Irish history, and some of those portraits hanging on the wall. Those were his predecessors. And by God, he had some mighty big shoes to fill. He had just crossed the River Shannon, the natural boundary between the east and the west, between the rich pastures of Leinster and the bogs of Connock, from good roads to bad, when he saw a sign for the luxury new development, Hollywood on Shannon. A big billboard advertised new homes for sale with price reductions too. He immediately drove in the direction of the big gearish sign. Before long, right on the banks of the Broad River Shannon, he saw about 40 homes thrown on top of each other. Each and every one was a bigger eyesore than the next. Houses faced this way and houses faced that way. Their backsides shoved up provocatively on the surging blue Shannon waters. All the homes had perhaps two things in common. All were half done, and their Celtic tiger builder, an M.J. McGovern, new development. Scottis jumped out of his car and walked around a new development. It was clearly deserted. The proverbial ghost estate. Grass and weeds were already shooting up through some cracks on the footpaths, even on the driveways. Windows were broken in many of the houses, and lewd graffiti and schatological scribblings were generously scrawled on many of the gable walls. There was a distinct lack of freshness in the air. Scotus surmised that this was the result of the many bags of litter disgracefully dumped in several of the gardens. Keep Ireland tidy, indeed. I wouldn't buy there, said a voice behind Scotus. He looked round to see a man with a walking stick, homemade of Blackthorn, tweed capen, and cow muck covered Wellingtons. He was clearly a farmer in his late fifties. I'm not looking to buy, said Scotus. I was looking for a man by the name of John McDermott. Do you know in which house he lives? That one? Pointed the farmer with his stick. The blackthorn stick happened to point at the most dilapidated house of all, every window smashed, and flies buzzing about the unsightly litter strewn garden. He doesn't live there any more, added the farmer. Since when? asked Gurtis. But been left about two nights ago. Himself and his two little girls. Couldn't stick it any more. Couldn't stick what? This she. Should never have built here, said the farmer ruefully as Scotus walked back towards his car. Why? Because they flattened the ferry fort to build these dirty houses. Now they've ran everyone out. The revenge of the she. Some would lay the blame on the banks and the subprime mortgage crisis. I lay the blame on the builder and the farmer that sold the field. Why the farmer? It was his duty to protect it as his father's had before. There was good money selling sites. And what good is the money to him now? Who was the farmer? I was, said the gaunt-looking man, his hand shaking as he gripped the well-worn black thorn stick. As the evening sun emerged from behind a low-hanging cloud, Scottus could now clearly see his face. Where once was a strong jaw was now nothing but deep black hollows sunk into the sides of his darkened face. Where once stood a horse of a man, now stood skin on bones, and the eyes that once smiled at the beauty of the world were now locked in a lifeless stare. The poor farmer was dead but to washing. This was a man who didn't sleep much at night. How would he? How would he when he heard strange voices outside his window at night? Strange voices singing, singing, that they'd soon flatten him, too. A sun-drenched Doctor Hyde Park was always a festive occasion for the conic championship clash between bitter Shannonside rivals, Litraman Roscommon. The whole ground was festoon in the green and gold of the Grey Ridge County, and the primrose and blue of the sheep sealers. The fateful made their way from every imaginable hogmire, every sodden boghole, from the northern strongholds of Carrick and Mohill, from the better half of Atlone and the occupied lands of Bala. There were owl men there in overcoats on the hottest day of the year, because you never know it could rain any minute at a match like this. The young ones were also out shown copious amounts of flesh, not that any young lad would have noticed. Such was their concentration on the game at hand, and so their bosoms bounced away unnoticed as the players took to the sacred sod. Scotus was also mightily relieved that no jokes were thrown in his direction either. He stood on the side terraces, happily lost in a sea of colour and eating a bag of tater. When he was finished, he carefully folded the wrapper and sunk it into his pocket, thereby preventing any clinking sound that might have irritated an excitable fan or drew any unnecessary attention to his good self. Just as the national anthem reached its climax, a rousing roar went up from the crowd, lifting the roof off the stand on the other side of the pitch. It may also have awoken the dead in the graveyard behind the golem mount. The tension was now fierce as the remote that reading the children of the road. But not before the public address announcer requested the owner of a car, reading out its registration, to move as it was blocking a gate. Then the game began and the crowds roared even more. It was at this time that Scotus noticed a devilish face in the crowd. It wasn't an old schoolteacher, a litramite, or a bank manager. It was the little old manine that accosted him when he last frequented Dr. Hyde Park. The same man that warned him that there'd be trouble if M.J. McGovern Construction built the new government-funded roadway through the rats at Rakrahan. There was trouble, sure enough, for Ashling O'Connor went missing the first minute McGovern's metal blades cut through the ancient site and dug up the hallowed turf. He had just noticed his evil smirk in the crowd, and the little Manny stole away. A cursed hell on him, thought SCOTIS. I have to catch him. With the game in full swing and the excitement level at fever pitch, Scotus regrettably pushed himself through the standing crowds in chase of the old man. The inevitable abuse followed from the crowds of angry culchis. Did you just come for the votes? said one man, recognizing Minister Olen. Did you park the state murk in front of the gate? said another, with uproarious laughter. Scotus profusely apologized to everyone, and when he finally broke through half of Leitramanra's common, he saw the little man running down the embankment behind the side terraces. Scotus ran as fast as any half back in chase of a tricky corner forward. He gathered even greater momentum as he charged down the hill. The little man was storming past the clubhouse and within sight of the exit gates when Scotus dived through the air. He met the old man at full force and grabbed him around the chest before he could escape through the turnstiles. In the background a huge cheer was heard for the first score of the game, just as both of them landed with a deadening skid on the hard summer grass. I have ya now, said Scotus, frotting at them out. I think well have you now. The little manning, his wiry hair all disheveled, squirmed beneath him, trying to break free like the slithering, sneaky old snake that he was. Let me go!

SPEAKER_01 10:16

Where the little devil. Where who is? I don't know where she is.

SPEAKER_02 10:32

The sweat breaking out through his forehead, grabbed the rascal by the neck and began to choke him. The old man began to cough and splutter, and one of the ticket men ran from the turnstiles, shouting, I called the guard! I called the guard!

SPEAKER_01 10:47

But the goddess would not relent. Tell me where she is. I said I don't know. Why did you tell me there'd be trouble? Some man told me to pass the message.

SPEAKER_02 11:02

The old man was gasping for bread now, and a steward with the help of the ticket man was trying to pull his GOTIS off the old man as the cheers of the crowds only intensified in the background. He was not going to let go.

SPEAKER_01 11:24

One night when I saw three figures in front of me blocking my way, I could hardly see her face. When I saw under the moonlight, what I saw under the moonlight was enough to give me the sense not to mess with these lads. What did they want? They said to pass a message onto a young politician by the name of Olen. And for every day I delayed, I'd find one of my livestock dead in the fields. Get up!

SPEAKER_02 11:57

Get up! Shouted a big heavy groundsman as he pulled his daughters off the old cooking. And stop! And stop your blackguarding.

SPEAKER_01 12:05

He grabbed the two of them by the scruff of the neck and looking fiercely at the both of them, said, You think the two of you were old enough to have some sense? You're a right good example to the youth of the day. I'm sending both of ye home, and don't ever let me catch sight of the pair of ye here again. You're banned. We can do without troublemakers in Dr. Hyde Park.

SPEAKER_02 12:36

As Gotis drove home, he had to listen to the rest of the game on Shannonside radio. He found it difficult, however, to concentrate on Willie Hegerty's commentary, for the old man's parting words to him were These people are not our kind. They are not gales like us. Stay well clear of them, if you know what's good for you. The old man would not have been the first Irishman to encounter sinister men on a dark country road at night and be given a strange task. Dr. Hyde Park was named after Douglas Hyde, the first president of Ireland and collector of folk tales of conduct. In one such story, Tygo Cain and the Corpse, a young man was asked by the fairies to bury a talking corpse, a hair-raising tale that would later inspire a chapter in the Hellboy comic and film. Scottis Olen now regretted that he did not heed the warning of the old man. He sat idly by as the diggers ploughed through the hallowed turf. Ashling O'Connor's abduction was on his hands. Scottus was also very bothered by his irrational behavior, chasing an old man through the crowds of Hyde Park, dragging him to the ground, and almost strangling him. And then to be banned from Hyde Park for life, a diehard Rossi supporter like him. What meaning did life hold if he could no longer support his team as they competed on the sacred sod of the Hyde? By the time he reached Castlery he felt in desperate need of a pint of porter, and he had little hesitation in stopping at a pub just as he turned right at the corner for the little town of Laplin. He ordered a pint of stout in a bag of Tato and sat in a corner minding his own business. But that still did not stop some buck who was sitting at the bar nursing an old pint, quizzing him till the cows came home. Were you at the match? I was. Did Ross win? I don't know. Bad game, was it? I had to leave. You must have left awful early. I did. You must be one of those. One of those what? One of those who leaves a match early. I usually stay till the end. And you have no idea who won? None. The bitch you saw, who was on top? The mindless conversation was mercifully interrupted when a group of tourists entered the bar looking for the railway museum, a unique feature of the bar and perhaps the only railway museum in Ireland. While a railway museum was a strange feature in a bar, Scotus smiled as he supped his pine thinking of the museum he oversaw. What would the people of Ireland, or even the people of the world, think, if they could visit a museum with cloaks of invisibility, goblets of truth, and supernatural artifacts that had the power to obliterate the whole world, should they ever, God forbid, end up in the wrong hands? What responsibility he carried on his shoulders? Was it any wonder he was all wound up, as tense as a mandolin string, attacking all men at football matches? He thought of having a few more pints of stout to help him relax, but the one he'd consumed had already gone straight to his head. Besides, there was something he had to do, something very urgent, and he quickly stole out just as the buck at the counter asked, Was there a good crowd there? Scotus had just driven past the little town of Tulsk when he saw the sign for the Ratkraan rats, and the words of Lady Wile were still ringing in his head. If you walk nine times around a fairy rat at the full of the moon, you will find the entrance to the Shefra. He looked towards the heavens, but there was still several hours of daylight left, and the gorse bushes were still blazing in the fields, drenched in the golden sun of the evening. So he parked his car and took a little nap, and dreamt that he was a county footballer playing for Russ Common, scoring points from all angles, shipping heavy tackles and suffering constant abuse from the sidelines and opposing fans. But at all times he emerged unscathed and raised a triumphant fist in the air. The chants went up from the terrace. We are Ross, we are, we are, we are Ross. He also dreamt of Ashling O'Connor. He dreamt of the first time he saw her. Some older boys in the town, he amongst them, had decided to raid a local orchard belonging to the nuns. It was a rite of passage in his town. It was a formidable task. The orchard was a fortress surrounded by great big crenellated walls, but inside it was said were to be found some of the ripest apples ever seen. Lovely red juicy apples. It was even said that the nuns hardly even picked them, so one might as well rob them before they went to waste and rotted away. On the way to the orchard, some more kids joined them, including a little girl that Scotus thought was strikingly beautiful, the prettiest he had ever seen. He thought this in a very sacrosanct sort of way, for Scotus back then was the purest of the pure. When it came to climbing the great big wall to Red Apple Heaven on the other side, he made sure to help her up and kept a watchful eye so that she did not fall and hurt herself. Scotus felt very protective of this little girl. Her name was Ashtling. Once inside the orchard, the kids filled bags and bags of apples and filled their hungry bellies too. Scotus' heart filled with gladness when he saw the big smile on Ashling's face as she sank her little teeth into a big rosy apple. He was not sure if he ever felt happier than he did in that little moment. But the joy was short-lived. Overlooking the orchard was a great big convent, and on the top floor, one of the boys noticed a fierce visage peering down angrily at them. It was the reverend mother. Thunderstruck with terror, the children skedaddled out of the orchard as fast as they could, climbing back over the walls and hauling their bags of loot with them. Everyone except We Ashling O'Connor. In the panic that ensued, her golden hair got caught in a tornbush. She was horribly trapped in the orchard just as the nuns unlocked the gates at the other end and came charging down the apple lanes, screaming all kinds of vitriol at the pillaging kids. The other kids now gone. It was left to Scotus to save the little girl. She now had tears streaming down her face from both the pricks of the terns and the menacing spectacle moving at full speed in her direction, their black habits flying in the air. Scotus was rushing back to save her. Ashtling was bawling, the evil army of nuns had their long claws stretched out when he awoke in his car. There was a tear flowing down his cheek, and there was now a full moon in the sky. He had work to do. He had to rescue that little girl once more. Scotus walked with a nervous gait. His shoulders all crunched up. He was on the lookout for angry farmers tired of tourists tramping on their fields. The last thing he wanted was the belt of hay fork across the head. He then jumped over the ditch and approached the great wrath at Rakrahan, a large circular mound in a field by the side of the road that to the untrained eye might have just looked like an old hill. There were thousands of rats still remaining in Ireland. These forts had survived because previous generations, unlike their arrogant greedy counterparts today, feared the consequences of destroying a sacred site. Of all the rats, Scotus felt this was the great mammy of them all. This was the rat he would walk nine times around under the moonlight. He walked around it like a bashful countryman circling a dance hall, trying to summon up the courage to meet the mysterious females inside. The head down, hump on the back, hands in pocket, and glancing from side to side, muttering under his breath. A confused and terrified walk. But he counted every time he circled the rot, and when he started on round number nine, his breathing became irregular, and his terrified heart started to pump. He felt as if he was about to meet the devil himself. He had marked out a spot, a clump of rushes by the side of the mound, as his finish line. They were beside a big lump of green commuck that. In the moonlight. When he saw the old bunch of rushes approach for the ninth time, he launched into a furious bout of prayer. He closed his eyes as he stepped over the finish line. He wasn't sure what would happen next. He thought he might get a thump on the head or be sucked into a black hole, or even fall right into the gates of hell. When he opened them, it was very much like he was still in Roscommon. Well, so much for the theories of Lady Wilde, he thought. I think I'll go home now, he said to himself. It's been a long day. I don't even know who won the match yet. But as he looked around for his car and for the road he had parked on, he got the fright of his life. They were nowhere to be found, even though he had just hopped over a ditch to circle the wrath. Scottish shivered to the bone as he realized he really was in a different countryside. It was very much like Roscommon, but it was sort of a parallel universe, Roscommon. It was unsullied by roads and houses and the garish colours of modernity. Stretched out before him was miles and miles of pure bogland. It was like Ruscommon in olden times, as if he itself had got dislocated in time. And there was a little path, a little trail of hawthorn bushes lit up under the moonlight, and that too seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. And though he was thunderstruck with fear, and though he had a terrible feeling of foreboding, and thought he was awful tired, a little voice inside his head told him he ought to follow the path. He did, after all, have a girl to rescue. It was time to be brave for once in his life. He walked along the path, thankful there was a full moon. If he slipped and fell into a bog hole here, the only certainty was a cold, lonely death. He'd never be found again. He could not imagine what it would be like to find the dwelling of the She on a black dark night. The mere thought of the sinister She filled him with fear. What would he do when he found their sheifra or their castle? Would he just knock on the door and ask for her back? They could just as easily refuse and decide to skin him alive instead. His dark visions of doom in fairyland were interrupted by the most majestic sight. He saw clouds of mist, dripping in moonlight, rising in the air before him. He also heard something, something in the distance. He was certain it was the high-pitched sound of female laughter. He stopped in his tracks, scratched his head, looked around, and only saw the blackness of bog in every other direction. He walked apprehensively towards the mist. Two minutes later he marveled at the sight before him. It was a lake of mist. It could have been Loch Key or Loch Rie or Lake O'Flynn, except there appeared to be no water whatsoever. He never saw a lake so appetizing. He knew in his heart of hearts that those rising blue vapors would do nothing but soothe his weary old bones. Just gazing at them healed every ache he ever had. Just sniffing the air impacted knowledge of his curative powers and filled him with the unquenchable desire to jump in. Come in, she said. Scota stood in stunned silence when he saw the head pop up out of the water. It was a head that looked human in every way, but the speciam herself was clearly the most exotic creature he'd ever seen in his life. Every feature was absolute pure perfection. He knew that he must still be dreaming. What the like of her was doing in these eternal boglands was something beyond all comprehension. In Hollywood, she'd be making millions. Come on, she said again. The missus is lovely. I'm sorry, said Scotus, finally recovering the power of speech. I have no swimming togs. Swimming to she laughed. You don't need swimming togs in the mist. As she spoke those words, she raised her arms to tie up her flowing dark peat brown hair in an intricate knot, and as she did so displayed to Scotus the most wondrous bosom he'd ever seen. So much so that he was ready to get down on his knees to thank God for giving him the wisdom to walk nine times around the fairy rat on this lovely summer's night. She then turned, briefly showcasing a tattoo over her lovely arse, a sign that Scotus thought was old om writing, before diving back into the dreamlike mist again. She left him standing there, with a decision to make. In the lake of mists, Scotus felt every tension, every ache immediately depart his body. It was like distilling a lifetime of massages, not that he'd ever received a proper massage in his life, into one magical session. The unwaters of the lake also washed every worry, every bother, every muddled thought from his poor adult brain. He felt strong and confident and powerful, and he wanted nothing more than to see that beautiful creature again, and he had an awful urge to stare into her visage, into her dark eyes, and to taste the pleasures of her lips, and to kiss her and to hold her and to forget about everything else in life and remain with her until the ends of time. And sure enough, she'd pop up beside him and swipe her long dark hair, now all loose again, the color of bronze bog water, and it would envelop him and entangle him, and every little delicate strand that struck his chest would send a bolt of electricity through his body, and his muscles would quiver and feel like bulging and bursting and disintegrating into a million little pieces and then flying away like little butterflies into the night. After cavorting in the lake all night, he finally hauled himself out and lay exhausted on the mossy green banks. And when she crawled mischievously out after him, she began to kiss him slowly on the mouth and licked the film of misty moisture the lake bestowed upon his chest. In that very moment he knew things that had been previously unknown to him. He even Euros Common had beaten Leitrim, and that made him very happy. Indeed, in that moment, Scotus never felt happier in his life. Her body felt cool, and she made love to him in slow, graceful undulations and symphony of suscerous moans and laid him waste upon the supernatural boglands of Connacht. He thought she felt like freshly cut peat, and he remembered as a little boy how he'd grab a newly cut sod and sink his fingers into it, how damp and soothing it felt on a scalding hot summer's day, and how he'd squeeze it for all it was worth in his hands and mould it into anything his heart desired. He watched her now arch over him, and as she did so, descending towards him, his hands clasped upon her derry ear, and he finally got a good look at that tattoo. It was old Irish writing, sure enough, in the form of own characters, just like you'd see on an ancient standing stone. What is your name? he asked when she collapsed on him.

SPEAKER_03 30:04

Scottis.

unknown 30:06

Oh dear, she said.

SPEAKER_02 30:18

He must have fallen asleep then, for when he woke up, he was in a field and there was a stern looking garda standing over him. Well, if it isn't the strokes down streaker himself, said the guard. I have ye now, me buckle. By God I have ye now.