The Wee Fella

Och would you ever away and shite?

The fecker is still after me, following my every footstep, grinning like a fool.

I shouldn’t have taken that wee nap by the boulder but, you know, with the sun on my shoulders and a hard day’s shoe-making behind me, what else is a fella to do? My eyes grew heavy, the breeze wafted gently and sleep washed over me.

Next thing I know I’m hearing a voice that pulls me from my slumber. The sun is sinking in the sky and this voice, issuing from an American if I’m not mistaken, is gushing and whooping because he can see me lying there, my hat down over my eyes, snoring like a thunderstorm in April.

So I’m trapped by this gushing tourist. While he can see me and his eyes are upon me I can’t be doing the disappearing act we leprechauns are known for. While he has his eyes on me he is in control and, if he has done his reading, which most of them do on the aeroplane over, he will know that while I am in his power he can make me give up some of my gold. My hard-earned, well-hidden gold.

Do you have any idea whatsoever how many shoes I have had to make over the centuries to put together my hidden hoard? And now some fella from across the Atlantic is going to take it from me?

Well, I’ll not make it easy for the fecker.

I got up from my sleeping spot and pretended as hard as I could that I hadn’t noticed him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his wide-eyed wonder and I could almost hear his heart beating in his chest the gobshite was so excited.

Still is by the look of him following me. I need to slip out of his eyesight.

If I could catch the total git who first started making them dollies and crap showing the world what we look like then this gobshite following me probably wouldn’t have known what I was. He would have smiled at how quaint the locals are to sleep in a field and would have wandered on to bother someone else.

Or it could be he is a fan of breakfast cereals in which case he’s probably seen that oul fool Fintootle who went over the ocean on a ship and got himself displayed on a cereal box. A feckin’ cereal box? Have some pride, boy!

Be it the souvenirs or the cereal, when this fella saw me slumbering, he knew damned rightly what I was and what he could get out of me.

Feck! He’s still following. Sure it’s not too far now to the gap in the hedge that I can duck through. Then his eyes will no longer be upon me and I will be away and free in the Other World where he can’t follow. I don’t think their package tours include portals to our world.

And would you just look at that! A very convenient crowd of sparrows chattering in thon bush. This’ll take his thieving eyes from me while I take advantage of Farmer McMahon’s casual approach to fence maintenance.

I am sorry sparrows, but the stone won’t hurt you. It’ll just make you rise in chirping panic into the air, sure to make the tourist fella jerk his head towards you and away from me.

Away goes the stone and up go the sparrows.

Yee-hee!

Through the gap I leap and into the field beyond. The cattle raise their grazing heads, look at me with no interest in my gold and return to the green, green grass they are lunching on. Good girls yerselves!

I close my eyes and picture the beautiful land. I concentrate on stepping through the veil between worlds. Follow me here you fecker!

I open my eyes and am still looking at the cattle munching and farting. I didn’t cross.

I try again but no sweet scent of fairy groves fills my nostrils. Only the methane from the flatulent cows.

Why can’t I cross?

And now the tourist fecker is clambering over the gate. He has seen me again. Why couldn’t I cross over?

I march down towards the river, still not letting on that I know the hallion is hot on my heels. There may well be a hollow tree or something I can duck into.

It bothers me that I couldn’t cross over when there is no way his eyes were still on me, him being on the other side of the hedge. Is he some sort of sorcerer?

Feck me, he’s quickened his step! He’s getting closer! I’ll put an inch to my own step is what I’ll do.

Lanky fecker.

My wee legs can’t cover the same ground at his speed. He’s almost upon me. Shite!

Right. I can’t get away from him. That’s plain for all to see. Or at least for him and me to see because there’s no other fecker around. I stop dead in my tracks and turn to face him. Maybe we can come to some sort of understanding.

A deal.

Anything but my gold.

He stops not fifty feet from me, staring.

He holds this black yoke up in front of himself. I don’t know exactly what it is but it’s not a gun so I should be alright. He has started taking long slow steps towards me. I hold my ground.

I hear a click coming out of the black rectangle in his hand and then want to slap myself in my own stupid face when his click makes my own mind click. I know what that cursed thing is.

That’s why I couldn’t cross over and leave him scratching his thieving head as to where I had gone. That black thing? It’s one of them there cameras. Or phones. Or phone-cameras. I can barely keep up with what the Big Fellas have these days.

And if he used his camera-phone-thing to capture my image while I was enjoying my innocent doze, then sure he doesn’t need to be looking directly at me to always have his eyes on me because I will be right there on the feckin’ screen.

Shite.

Who made these rules up anyway? They do nothing but bring grief and hardship.

With his eyes upon me I cannot disappear. If I cannot disappear then he, being the longer-legged of the pair of us, will find it easy to get to me. If he can get to me he can grab me and if he can grab me…

Excuse my wee shudder at the thought of what he can do if he can grab me.

If he can grab me then he can look me in the eye and ask me where my gold is.

If he asks me where my gold is I must tell him.

And I must tell him the truth.

Those feckin’ rules. Whoever made them up is in the same feckin’ boat as whoever made the souvenirs if I ever get my hands on them.

Sweet Jaysus how many pictures do you need of me you creepin’ gobshite?

Think. There has to be a way out of this. Us being around for feckin’ millennia and we’re hobbled by a thing that they have only had for a matter of minutes in the cosmic timescale.

I glance around, hoping inspiration will strike. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve even seen some of the stories happening before my very eyes. We always find a way to bamboozle and fool the Big Fellas. For all their size, they’re not the brightest.

“Well now how are we doing on this fine day?” I venture with as happy a smile as my frazzled mind can conjure up, “And welcome to Ireland.”

Ah shite upon shite! He has the glow around him. The green glow that signifies his ancestral connection to the Emerald Isle. There’s loads of them across the pond that claim the connection, but not many still have the blood pure enough in their veins to be glowing like that. This makes it all the more likely that the gobshite will know all the rules. Shite upon shite.

“Well hi there little fella,” he drawls.

I ignore the condescension.

“And have you lost your way?” I suggest.

“No, no, little guy,” he grins, “I have been following you.”

“Ah have you now?” I chortle, “And how is it you are sure I haven’t lost my own way, which would leave the pair of us losing our ways?”

“I don’t reckon that you have,” he reassures me, “And I think that perhaps you know what I am going to ask.”

“You’ll ask what they all ask,” I reply, “But sure I’ll save you the trouble of asking.”

“You will?” he gasps, standing up straight. Jaysus he’s tall.

I clear my throat. He looks delighted and awed at the same time. I look along the stretch of river and then up the hill on the other side. I turn back to face the Big Fella.

“So, if you carry on downstream for a mile or so,” I smile, pointing in that direction, “You’ll come to a crossing place. Step over the river – looks like you have the right sort of walking-boots for the job – and head up the hill. At the top is where the finest fairy ring in this whole island is to be found. Now if you need some guidance on how to coax the fairies out, I would be more than…”

He has raised his hand and shushed me.

He shushed me!

The indignity.

“I was not seeking a tour, little fellow,” he smiles at me, “Unless the tour takes us right to your…”

Now I have my own hand raised and am shushing the gobshite right back.

“You mustn’t say it out loud,” I snarl through my gritted teeth, “Lest the banshee hear you.”

I am trying to buy myself some time and cannot have him asking his question out loud or I am bound to show him my precious crock of glittering gold. Of course the banshee won't hear him. That's not how they work.

As he starts to laugh I spot my last chance to get myself out of this predicament. My good friend, Crow, is perched on a branch high above the tourist, watching and grinning at my discomfort. He’s a friend but can be a right pain in the arse sometimes.

“I should confess, little fellow,” the tourist says, “I have a PhD in Irish Folklore.”

“Well I’m sure there’s a treatment for that,” I suggest, hoping to win his trust by offering medical advice.

“So I know,” he continues, ignoring my gesture of concern, “The rules of engagement.”

The dirty fecker wants to get married? What is the world coming to? Sure we’ve only just met.

I have no time to waste.

“Sure you have me there, you clever chap,” I say, slapping my thigh in a gesture of frustration, hoping the flattery will do its job, “But before you ask your question, let me do my wee incantation that will protect me from others who might overhear us.”

“No tricks now,” he frowns.

“Sure wouldn’t I have to get up early in the morning to get anything past the likes of you?” I laugh.

“Ok then,” he nods, “But I am going to have to film you doing it. You don’t object, I hope?”

As I have no idea at all what the silly gobshite is on about, I agree. He raises his phone-camera-thing again in my direction.

I close my eyes and begin with some gibberish words, embellished with some very Irish sounding noises. There’s nothing like the back of your throat if you’re wanting to sound Celtic.

And then I slip into actual Irish. The more ancient version of our tongue that I know my friend Crow understands. Crow looks down from his branch and gives me a nod.

The gobshite is grinning from ear to ear as his eyes dart from me to his screen and back to me.

As Crow steps silently off his branch above the gobshite I gesture in the air above me, pointing upwards. As I had hoped, the gobshite lifts his phone up to capture whatever it is I gesture to. With it raised above his head it is an easy mark for Crow to swoop down upon.

Before the tourist fecker has had time to even realize what has happened, Crow is high up above the trees, the phone clasped in his sharp claws. With a great “Caw!” Crow lets the black thing go and it spins as it plummets onto the rocks by the river bank, smashing into pieces when it lands.

“And now, you thieving fecker,” I say as I dance a little jig, “The second you blink and I’ll be gone and your dreams of stealing my gold will be as smashed to pieces as that thing on the riverbank over there.”

I make a wee leap and click my heels together. It’s not something we usually do but it seems to be something the Big Fellas expect.

“You mean if I take my eyes off you?” he asks, looking concerned.

“Sure even a blink is enough!” I holler through my chortling.

“So, if I were to look away, you mean?” the tourist says, looking away.

What is even wrong with this gobshite? He’s just given me the very chance I have been hoping for since he started following me. Silly fecker! It’s been nice knowing…

I try again.

Silly fecker! It’s been nice knowing…

Why in the name of all that’s sacred am I not crossing over? He is still gazing away across the field so he’s not looking at me. His phone-thing is smashed to smithereens so he can’t be looking at my picture.

He looks back and smiles when he sees me standing there trying to cross over, eyes scrunched, breath held. I probably look like I need the toilet.

“But…” I say, pointing to his eyes.

“But…” I flounder, pointing at his deceased phone.

I try to cross again to no avail.

“How?” I say, resigned now to my fate.

“The pictures I took of you, little guy…”

“Can we just stop with the little? Please. I know I am little and there is shite all I can do about it you lanking great bollix you!”

“My apologies litt…my fine fellow, well met.”

Well at least we’re being more polite now. It’s really not much to ask for a fella you’re about to rob blind.

“So you worked out that I had a picture,” he says, “So I didn’t need to keep my eyes on you.”

I nod.

“And so you had your friend,” he continues, “That raven…”

“Crow.”

“Sorry? Oh. I see. So you had that crow smash the phone so that I did not have the picture any longer, hence granting you the freedom to disappear.”

“I am glad you’re keeping up.”

He takes a step towards me. I start to get that nauseous feeling we get when they come too close. Another step towards me.

“Well, I don’t know how up-to-date y’all are over there in the Other World,” he grins, “But, you see, as soon as I had the pictures of you I posted them.”

“You posted them?” I gasp, “But there isn’t a post-box within the twenty miles of here, you lying shitehawk you!”

“No,” he sighs, “I posted them online.”

“What feckin’ line?”

“Online,” he says as his big, rough hands encircle my little chest, “Once you are online there is always someone’s eyes on you.”

He lifts me from the ground until our faces are at a level. Staring at me he utters the question I have tried so hard to prevent.

“Where, my good little Leprechaun shoemaker,” he whispers, “Is your gold hidden?”

Shite.