The Hunger

"Right there folks, Lets go now! Move it on there now folks!"

The loud drawl of the security man calling time is a thing often heard. Even in Ireland bars do have to close at some point.

I downed the last of my pint and rose to don my coat. My companion slipped nimbly to his broad feet despite his large size, the full pint still in his meaty fist.

"You right there Big D? Need to leave that one behind do you?"

His dark eyes met mine with just as much mischief.

" You know me better than that, never leave a good one standing alone."

So saying he raised the pint to his lips and with a tilt of his head an opening of his mouth he poured it down in one go, leaning back near fit to fall.

As the he stood straight again he placed the now empty pint glass down with but the smallest of wobbles to his balance.

"Right lads, finish up there now!" called the security man as he purposefully strode past.

"Right you are sir, on the way there now!" replied my companion matching the mans tone and volume exactly, so much so, that the security man broke stride to shoot us a quick glare.

Shaking my head with a chuckle I moved my companion on towards the door and out into the cold winter January night.

"Chipper?" I queried pointing over my shoulder to the nearest take out joint.

"Sure. I will have a battered fish. I don't pay for any of that slave food."

My eyebrows must have shot up to show my confusion at his remark.

"What?"

I found no reply as He trundled on past me in his rolling gait.

We entered the chipper, out of the cold into the fryer scented warmth, my glasses steaming up in an instant, and placed our orders. Smoked Cod for him and a Large chips for me, heavy on the salt an vinegar.

Stepping back outside, with hot food in hand we took a lean against a nearby store front to eat. I tried to wait patiently knowing that he had heard my question, but at times patience is not my strongest virtue.

" Are you going to explain that last remark or what?" my tone indicating that no dissembling would cut it this time.

His dark eyes met mine as he chewed through his current bite off fish under the street light. With a swallow his eyes fell on the brown paper bag in my hand.

"That. Potato. Slave food."

I felt my brows furrow as I tried to think my way around the few pints we had shared to a logical comprehension, eyes looking down in the bag, nose full of the tasty scent, one long chip hung suspended between the bag and my mouth.

"Oh come on now lad, find the Why, no more than 6 pints in you an you're stumped? Slave food. That vegetable was the near death and destruction of our people.

Not native to the island is was brought from the Americas and introduced here by the conquers. Cheap and hardy so it was, growing in almost any patch of dirt it can and as such a stable item to feed the folk of the land, when the more valuable bounties, grown here of the land by its people, were taken to line the pockets of the conquers"

His tone hard with a controlled anger, he looked off into the night, not seeing the cars rolling past, nor the tall buildings around him.

"Over a million taken by an Gorta Mór and another million of the folk scattered all around the world. The land bereft of her people, the strong blood of her, sent out to risk the trials of travel, clutching to naught but hope and the strength of their own Will to survive.

Food there was. Food enough here on the island, but not for her people was it. Oh no. Taken to the conquers land, their laws protecting the wealthy and strangling the prices so a the working folk could not afford to feed their starving wee ones." 

His big eyes blinked quickly as his gaze returned to the now. 

"The Fate of the land was forever changed  by as small a thing as a fungus, and the greed and ignorance of humans.

1 in 4 survived the Big Hunger. The Tough. The Wilful. The Smart. Those with heart enough to fight for life."

He looked to me then, the anger cooling in his gaze.

"I don't know what would have been, but I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, the world is better because that Heart, the beating battling blood of the people can now be found all over. Standing tough and Willfully. Not bowing nor broken nor conquered. Fighters and survivors."

He looked at me, those deep dark eyes seeing down into me.

"Always know where you come from and why you choose to do a thing. You will always be accountable to your own Heart no matter what any other may think."

I looked down at that one chip, suspended between the bag and my mouth. Appetite leaving me I dropped it back amongst the rest of the hot salted potato.

"I don't think I can finish these now."

So saying I began to turn toward the nearest trash bin, when like lightning his big hand snapped out, snagging the bag.

By the time I spun on him he had already stuffed four or five chips into his mouth.

"What?" He mumbled around a mouthful of delicious salted potato.

"I said I wouldn't pay, not that they weren't tasty."

He accepted the punch in the arm I gave him and his laughter followed me as I trundled back to the chipper to buy some fish.

I guess at least I now knew the Why...

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The World from a Snug

The loose leaves hustled in passed the doorman without showing their ID.

Gambolling about gaily on the gusts of an autumn wind, they set to a spin in the open area of the pub's entrance, a riot of orange and yellow.

I gave a nod to the guy standing wrapped up against the oncoming winter chill and followed the leaves in. 

The pub was quite busy for the afternoon. Regulars propped up in spaces almost fit solely to them, families enjoying the social space and food menus, couples leaning in to one another ignoring the rest of the world about them. 

At the bar I called for two pints and once in hand began moving through the people in the place, looking for the seat I knew would be reserved for me. 

Stepping in and around any crowd you pass through a lot of conversations. I slipped in and around the people as I moved between the spaces in attention.

"Are they sure the numbers are right? I mean there was that thing a few years back..."

"That doesn't make sense though. Surely democracy is based on a majority ruling?...

"I just can believe it. Like, my brain can't process this..."

"I hope my family over there are doing ok. I'm sure there are a lot of people really upset right now..."

The emotions in the conversations were easily read for anyone to see. Uncertainty, Confusion, Incredulity, concern all there on the face or carried on the voice.

Under it all though was something deeper, something a lot more powerful and dangerous.

Fear. 

I came out of the crowd into the snug, that comfortable quiet space kept aside in some pubs. 

The empty seat was set beside its twin, a slope backed little tub chair, designed for easy comfort.

I placed one pint on the dark wood table in front of the filled seat beside one which was near its empty, took a sip from mine, then spilling out of my over coat, settled into my chair. 

The silence was the easy comfortable sort as I relaxed into the seat and he finished his pint. Placing the empty down his big hand closed around the fresh glass. Cold condensation running down the glass into the lines and over the work calluses, that hand raised the pint up to his bearded mouth for a first sip. 

A sigh followed as the pint returned to the table.

"You arrived just in time, I have a thirst on me today."

I glanced at the six empty glasses already in situ.

"Well you know me. I'm like a wizard. Neither early nor late and arriving exactly when I mean to." 

My smile matched his as our eyes meet for the first time in a few days. The deep brown of them showing the humour within, but to a familiar gaze such as mine, I noted a redness around that earthy colour. He looked tired and sore.

"Good story that. A long one for sure and leaning heavily upon tales of my people, but still, a good one.

The movies did it fair justice."

My concern did not shift but neither did my smile. 

"We're drinking then? Am I on catch up?"

So saying I downed the two thirds which remained in one long pull and placed the empty on the table.

"Your round old man."

Dagda's smile was warm and eyes a sparkle as he waved to the server and called for more pints. 

We sat in silent companionship sipping pints and watching the people as the existed within the space. It was busy in the pub.

"It's noisy in here."

His rumbling voice came out soft and sad, for my ears alone, and I understood the 'noise' he was referring to.  

All people generate a certain amount of energy or presence and at times this can be coloured by their emotions and felt by anyone one with an awareness to it.

The 'noise' he mentioned was how we referred to a dissonance in someone's state of mind or emotion when they are in pain or fear of some sort. When gathered and shared the individual may ease their own burden but it's spread further to those who share in the moment, which of course can improve the situation or, should many already share a similar state, be made many times worse in a collective.

"Is that why we're drinking? You doing ok?"

His eyes rolled up to the nearby tv screen which showed a country divided red against blue, peoples split asunder by fear turned to hate.

 "There's the cause. People the world over are uncertain of tomorrow, so they gather close with each other and try figure it out."

I glanced around the room and recalled the snippets of conversations I had over heard. I had to say it had triggered some questions and specific worries but less so for me given my own privileges than for friends and community.

"There will always be another Bres. Those who love of power, position or influence. They always  trumpet on about various policies or promises. Yet when it comes time to serving the needs of the entire community fairly and justly, you never see them with shovel in hand digging the drainage, or hands in the river scouring the pot."

I look down from the screen to see Dagda gazing at his callused worn hands. It looked to me that they had fresh marks and even small sections of torn skin recently scabbed over. Working hands. His knuckles popped as he made fists. 

"So, tell me how we fight."

His eyes came up to meet mine and darkened to see the angry frown upon my features.

"Not like that lad."

He exhaled slowly, unclenched his hands, and reached for his pint again.

"You can't fight hate with more hate. Aggression would only be read as a justification to those who have chosen to view their world from a position of divisiveness."

He took a long pull from the pint as I tried to wrangle with the problem.

"So I'm supposed to love those who hate me? Plead to their better nature or some such? That's very Christian alright, turn the other cheek so I can be slapped again and trust to hope that they will get bored of kicking me eventually?"

The words came out with an angry snarl. Dagda locked his earth brown eyes on mine and without a word I realised I had overstepped. The anger abated and I recognized my own fear, riding just below the surface of conscious thought. Still words said are hard to take back. 

"We are a brutal species, driven by base instinct. We think we have come so very far and achieved so much, but given any excuse we would still cave each other's heads in with rocks."

The anger was replaced by a deep heart aching sadness which seemed my constant companion, and though my gaze fell to my pint, I still felt his eyes locked on me, seeing through me. 

"I know you feel it Oakheart, it's what I have always felt since the start. Take it from me, don't let it harden you over much. We need to be tough enough to get on with the work despite the pain, but remain soft enough so that we can care enough for others. Not an easy challenge."

I raised my now wet eyes to his and saw there a deep compassion, not just for me but I knew for everyone of the people in the pub and even more then for those of this land and the others. 

"You know my ways lad. When I'm moved to fight, I Kill. No quarter, no restraint. That is not what's needed here. I Know that much."

"Then how do we fight this? How do we raise the change that's needed?"

He glanced again at the tv screen, seeing the victory of fear over love.

"I don't know."

My surprise must have been written plain on my face when he turned to look at me again.

"What? I'm known as the flame of all wisdom, not all knowledge. You of all should know the difference."

His single raised eyebrow on that stern broad face told me the joke for what it was and I could feel the smile stretch my cheeks. 

His answering smile arrived a split second later.

"If you want to know about change then go talk to Her."

His eyes became distant for a moment as if he gazed out through the pubs walls and into a place I could not see.

"I dare say She saw this coming. Mayhaps that's why She has been recruiting all this time. Gathering the strong, the smart, the wilful to Her. Those who are brave and willing to Stand and be seen. To drive the change right there upon the very edge of the challenge. That is her Way." 

His eyes came back to the room with a slight shake of his head, as if to clear it of distraction, and he lifted his glass for another drink.

"So what do we do? What's your Way?"

He glanced at me, then rolled his gaze about the room, taking in the regulars, the families and the couples. 

"Me? I do the work. I look out for what they need. Protect them, feed them. 

Help them feel their sadness and cry, remind them of joy and song, and when all that is done, help them find a restful sleep.

Maybe if our community comes together, supported in these things, sharing in love and kindness, we can set a better example of acceptance for everyone. 

Maybe that way love can defeat hate, community can overcome division, and the aching heart of our people can be healed."

 He looked back to me, those deep brown eyes meeting my now tear filled ones, and I could feel the warmth of his hope  for the future. 

His gaze fell to the near full pint in my hand, then across to the drained empty one in his. 

When his gaze came back up it was all a mischief as usual. 

"Drink up. Sure isn't it your round? I hope you were well paid recently for I have a thirst upon me." 

The smirk on his broad warm face brought a bellow of laughter from me in an instant and I waved to the server for their attention. 

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A Game of Turns

The space was warm and comfortable, it's earthy scents surrounding her as she readied the game pieces. 

The darkness of her home was alleviated by a large warm fire crackling joyfully on the hearth and candles circuiting the main chamber. 

Company was coming. 

As the last piece was placed on the board she took a moment to admire her work. 

Tiles of blackthorn interspersed with oak blackened from the bog set a checkered pattern across its surface, sanded smooth by her hand.  

The chess pieces were carved in matching woods and stood sentinel ready for the challenge to come. 

Staring at the pieces she plotted and forged her strategies. Tactical positioning and preplanned manoeuvres. Her hand fondly stroked the queen piece, some would say the most versatile and powerful of  the game. This had pleased her greatly when first she encountered this game.  

She did not miss the heavy tread of her opponents arrival. He often lumbered about making great show of stomping slowly along, but all of this was to her just that, a show. She of all knew how silent and subtle he could be should be wish it. 

Stepping into the room, he gave her a broad grin to which she replied with a raised eyebrow. Doffing his coat he hung it upon the rack and produced from its deep pockets a bottle of wine. 

Fetching two goblets he poured them both a measure, which she accepted with a slight nod. The wine was deep red with a heady full flavour. Her favourite. Holding the goblet up she inhaled its scent, savouring the moment, then allowed its liquid to caress her lips. 

She looked up to see him admiring her work with an impressed appraisal. His thick fingers stroking each in turn from queen down to pawn. 

He was set to play the blackthorn and so awaited her opening move. 

The game began as she sent forth her pawns in sacrifice for position on the field. Her knights, moved about in sweeping manoeuvres, reaped a tally among the pawns of her opponent and he moved slowly in defence. Bishops plied their angles deep into the opposite side of the field as her queen made her presence felt in every section of the field from attack to defence. 

The game wore on with pieces falling to her planned strategies, a victory seemed assured time and again, yet always seemed to fall short of killing his King as he managed to build a defence from what appeared to be a formless mass of pieces but a moment before. 

Her frustration grew to be so blocked but she would not be stayed. With an aggressive twist to her strategies she pushed further into his lines, taking more territory from him yet aware that this caused her to sacrifice more pieces. 

All the while he remained resolute, pulling stoic defence time and again whilst being whittled down in number but tightening his holding each turn. 

With a short pause of consideration he picked up his last pawn, loan survivor of the earlier massacre in centre play and placed him forward, taking her piece and claiming a new advantage. With a sigh he sat back to sip again from his goblet. 

Her eyes narrowed and looked from him to the board and back. The outcome was clear. 

Every move she could make would bring ruin to not only his forces but also to hers. In one simple move he had cornered her play and she finally saw that this had been his strategy from the start. 

With a cold frustration she raised her hand to make her move when the room was filled with a Crack!

The table toppled to its side and the pieces spilled across the floor, the moment forever lost for that game.

The table leg had snapped. Broken through from old age wear and tear. 

The Dagda moved about the floor carefully collecting the chess pieces, ensuring no harm had befallen them and that they were safely returned to the Morrigan. 

I'm sorry love. 

That old table I made for you seems to have let us down at last. 

How about we call that one a draw eh? 

His grin was broad and his eyes sparkled with mischief. 

She couldn't be sure the table had simply just ceased to function correctly or if it was assisted towards its demise. 

With a smirk on her face she closed the box on her pieces.

Pour me another measure of that wine ya big oaf. 

And the Dagda was more than happy to comply.

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