The Village of children

                                  THE VILLAGE OF CHILDREN.                                                         

He was definitely lost. Driving slowly through the thick Irish fog his eyes strained for a sign of something recognizable. He was tired, and somehow he had driven off the main road and didn't know where he was. He squinted at the digital clock on the dashboard, 8.53. I can't carry on in this he thought gloomily. I'll have to pull in somewhere and try and get shelter for the night. “It would have to be Halloween night,” he groaned. His wife wouldn’t be happy but it wasn’t his fault.

          Twelve minutes later the village loomed out of the fog and Paul heaved a sigh of relief. A small figure, was leading a horse and cart up the street and pulling to a stop Paul waited until the figure, a boy, drew near. Then he wound down his window and called. “Hello. Sorry to bother you but could you tell me where I am?”

          The boy stopped and scratched his head before saying, “Clontallaght, sir. You're in Clontallaght.”         

  “Clontallaght? Is that near the main road?”         

  “The main road? Ah no sir. Sure yer miles away from there.”

          Paul pondered on this. It would be useless to try and get to the main road now. “Could you tell me is there a comfortable Inn in the village? Somewhere I could stay the night?”     

  “The night, sir?” The boy's freckled face twisted into a smile. “Ah, then you'll be wantin' Herritys Pub, sir.' He turned and pointed down the village street. “Aye, there's usually a spare room at Herritys.”

          Paul smiled at the boy. “Thanks.” Then winding up the window he switched on the engine and drove down the street. Strange he thought looking around. There appeared to be no fog in the village. It was then he saw the sign, HERRITYS, painted in bright red above narrow double doors. As he pulled on the handbrake and stepped out of the car he was unaware of the many eyes that peered at him through the tiny windows of the pub. The eyes vanished as he pushed easily on one of the doors and a bell tinkled above his head as he stepped through the door.

          Inside he saw that the pub was packed with children. Frowning and wondering he stumbled to the bar counter. “Excuse me,” he said to the boy behind the bar who was cleaning glasses. “Is your father in?”         

  “My father, sir? No sir. May I help you?”

          Without answering him Paul turned and stared around the room at the children. Most of them were drinking. Some sat at tables, others where standing by the counter drinking stout.     

  “May I help you, sir?” repeated the boy.         

  “Eh?” Paul turned back to him. “Yes...yes,” he stammered. “I'm looking for a room for the night. I was told you might have one.”         

  “A room? Are you sure, sir?” said the boy leaving down the glass he was cleaning. He had dull red hair, bright green eyes, and wore a white apron that was two sizes too big for him. Under his apron he wore a collarless striped shirt.

  “Yes. I like a room for the night and maybe a little supper, if it's not too much trouble. I’m quite tired and apparently the main road is a fair bit away. I’ll never find it in this fog.” He gulped as he looked side-ways along the counter and saw a boy quickly throw back a glass of whiskey, smack his lips and shout for another.

  “A minute, Paddy!” the bar-boy shouted back, then turned to a door behind him and yelled, “Mary!”

          A dark haired girl, with large, brown eyes came out through the door. Her eyes flitted over Paul as she dusted flour from her loose green dress.                                                                         

  “Gentleman would like a room for the night,” said the bar-boy.

          Mary's large eyes widened even further as she studied Paul for a few moments. She looked at the bar-boy and he nodded.     

  “Follow me, sir,” said Mary. The bar-boy raised the counter lid to allow Paul through, and with a last look around the room, Paul squeezed through and followed Mary out to a narrow hall, then up a narrow staircase where he was shown into a tiny bedroom. The only window in the room overlooked the village street.       

  “Would ye like me to bring ye up somethin', sir, tay and some scones? I'm after bakin' some.”         

  “Scones? Yes, Mary that would be lovely. Thank you.”

          Giving Paul another strange look, Mary left the room.

          Removing his jacket, Paul hung it over a chair at the side of his bed then went to the window and pulled back the curtains. Down in the street he could see two boys, on Daisy-bell bicycles ringing their bells and whistling loudly at a young girl who was pushing a pram across the street. Another boy, smoking a pipe drove past on a horse and cart, his whip flicking at the frisky black and white horse. Looking directly below Paul could see more boys and girls coming down the street and going into the pub. He stood for a few minutes watching then swung away muttering to himself, “Where the hell are the people, the adults?” These questions and others ate at him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He yawned as he looked at the soft pillow. A good night’s sleep will help, he thought.

          A minute later there was a knock at the door and Mary entered carrying a tray with a mug of tea, some steaming scones and a dish of butter. “Here we are sir,” she beamed placing the tray on the chair.         

  “Thanks Mary.” Then as Mary turned to go Paul asked, “Mary, where are the adults? Are they away? Do they know about the children downstairs, drinking?”

        Mary stared at him her brown eyes twinkling mischievously. “Drinkin', sir?” she said.     

  “Yes, Mary, drinking...drinking,” Paul repeated angrily. “Alcohol. It is alcohol they're drinking? They're all far too young. Why some of them are younger than you, Mary.” He studied her. “Ahm, what age are you, Mary?”

          With a smile Mary blushed, then whispered, “One hundred and thirteen, sir.”

  “Eh?” Paul's mouth fell open as he watched Mary turn and leave the room. He stared at the closed door for several seconds then shook his head. No, it must have been thirteen she said. Yes, it must have been thirteen.

          Half an hour later Mary returned.         

  “Is the bar still open, Mary?”         

  “It is, sir.”         

  “Good. I think I'll go down for a drink later on.” He was curious about the children now and knew he knew he wouldn’t get to sleep until he found out why the children were in the bar and why they were allowed to drink.

          Mary smiled as she bent to pick up the tray. “Of course, sir,” she whispered almost to herself.

          Ten minutes later, Paul came through the door to the bar. Smiling the bar-boy lifted the counter lid and Paul squeezed through. He looked around the room. He could see it was even more crowded and he was the only adult there. Frowning he saw that some of the children appeared drunk and to his left he gaped at a young girl who had her arms around a boy with dimples. She was lilting a song in Gaelic in a slurred voice into his face. Occasionally one or two of the children would look over at him and whisper to each other. Dazed Paul turned back to the bar and motioned to Mary who was cleaning glasses to come over to him. “Mary,” he whispered, “Do you think I could have a whiskey and a stout please?”

          As Mary poured the drinks he turned again to look at the children. What the hell is going on? he thought.         

  “Your drink, sir.”

          Turning Paul grabbed at the glass of whiskey and in with gulp downed it, almost choking, as the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat. Grabbing his glass of stout he took a long drink of the cold liquid.

          As he drank Mary watched him.

  “Mary,” gasped Paul when he had recovered. “All these children, their parents?”

          Mary frowned her question at him. “Sir?”         

  “The adults,” Paul snapped. “Where are they, the children's parents?”       

  “Parents, sir?”         

  “Yes Mary, their parents, their mothers and fathers, where are they?”         

  “Oh them,” said Mary smiling. “They're all gone, sir.”       

  “Gone?” Paul frowned.         

  “Dead, sir, many years ago.”

          Paul gaped at her.

  “Same again, sir?”

          Dazed he nodded and as Mary poured him another drink he turned back to look around the room. No parents, he thought. He studied the children for a few seconds then turned back to the bar and took a good drink from his glass of whiskey. This time the drink slipped easily down filling him with a warm glow.                                                             

  “Ye'll have one on the house, sir,” the bar-boy said coming along the counter towards him. Before he could answer the boy lifted his glass and filled it almost to the brim with whiskey.

  “Here easy on, son,” Paul smiled. “That's strong stuff.” He looked at Mary as she topped up his glass of stout. The bar-boy stood beside Mary watching Paul as he took another drink of whiskey.     

  “Tell me,” Paul asked when he lowered his glass. “How long have you worked here?”       

  “Worked here, sir?” The boy said smiling at Mary. “I own this pub.”       

  “You own it,” croaked Paul reaching for his glass. His hand trembled as he took a gulp of the whiskey. Then glaring straight into the boy's green eyes he snapped, “You're a bit young to be owning a pub aren't you?”         

  “No sir. My wife, Mary,” the boy nodded to Mary, “and I have owned this pub nigh on eighty years.”         

  “Eighty ye...Wife?” Paul's hand shook as he took another quick mouthful of whiskey. His eyes watered as he gasped, “Did you say eighty years?”         

  “Yes sir. Mary's father owned the pub. I married her.”

          Paul stared at Mary who smiled shyly at the bar-boy. 

  “It's a joke. Yes, that's it,” smiled Paul. “A mad, crazy joke.” His head was beginning to spin and with two more gulps he finished off his whiskey then turned to the crowded bar. “It's a joke!” he shouted. “A mad joke!” The children all stared at him and some of them began to laugh. Swinging around to the smiling bar-boy Paul waving his hand behind him indicating the children snapped, “Tell me, what is the average age of the children in this pub?”

          The bar-boy looking around the room said, “I would say about a hundred years, sir.”

  “A hun...ye... a hundred...but… but where are the adults, older people like me? Where are they?”       

  “Like you?” The bar-boy frowned and then smiled. “Oh I see what ye mean now sir, like you.” Suddenly a shout from a bigger boy at one of the tables drew his attention and leaving down his drying cloth he said, “Excuse me, sir.” Paul watched as the bar-boy ducked under the lid went to the table and began to gather up the empty glasses. As he did he shouted, “Four more pints and three halves Mary!”           

          By now Paul's head was spinning so much that he was beginning to feel sick. A heavy tiredness had come over him. Turning to Mary he whispered hoarsely, “I think I'll go on up...” 

  “Yes, sir,” said Mary smiling as she lifted the counter lid.

          Squeezing through, Paul stumbled to the bottom of the stairs and with his head spinning even more he staggered up to his room.



          Next morning a knock on the bedroom door woke him, and with a groan he sat up. His head was pounding like a Lam-Beg drum when Mary entered. She smiled at him. “Yer breakfast sir.”

          Placing the tray containing a plate of crisp bacon, two eggs, three scones and a small pewter pot of tea, milk and sugar on the chair, she then went to the door. Studying Paul for a couple of seconds she smiled then left the room.

          Groaning Paul crawled to the edge of the bed and squinted at his breakfast. His stomach heaved. Groaning louder he pulled himself back to the middle of the bed and huddled under the sheets.

          Two hours later he came downstairs. The bar-boy smiled at him.         

  “Last night...” Paul began.         

  “Ye had a wee bit too much sir. Ye drank it too quick.”         

  “Yes, yes. Well, thank you for your hospitality. How much do I owe you?” He gave Mary a forced smile as she came out of the kitchen. Mary smiled back. After settling his bill and groaning as his stomach heaved again he walked out into the sunny village street.

          As he drove out of the village in the direction the bar-boy had told him would lead to the main road Paul tried to reason with himself about the previous night.

          Five minutes later his mind was still on the children as he drove through a valley. The glare from the early morning sun had become brighter and reaching inside the glove compartment he searched for his sunglasses. As he took his eyes off the road, the car slipped into a pothole and he lost control and the car skidded into a shallow ditch. After trying for a few minutes to drive out of the muddy ditch he gave up and got out of the car. Looking up and down the road he could see no one about, so after a while he set off in the direction he had come from.

          Twenty minutes later he heard the sound of a tractor coming behind him and a few minutes later he was back at his car. The driver of the tractor was a tall, thin pleasant man wearing a pair of dirty dungarees and muddy Wellington-boots. After pulling a thick rope from the back of the tractor he tied it to the front axle of Paul's car.       

  “Get in, sir. I'll tow ye out. You'll have to steer.”

          Two minutes later the car was out of the ditch and Paul gratefully thanked the man, explaining how he had landed in the ditch in the first place, and where he had stayed the night before. When he was finished the man scratched his head. “You say you stopped in a pub called, what?”         

  “Herritys. Herritys pub. It's in the middle of the main street.”

          The man stared at him. “Sir, I've lived here for fifty years and I can tell you the nearest pub is thirty miles away, Dungloe. In that direction.”                                                             

          Paul gaped at him. “But I tell you, I stayed in Herritys last night, in the village of Clontallaght. My God, man you should have seen the children. They were all drinking. All of them.”

          Rolling up the rope the tractor driver asked, “was everyone in the village, children? Were there no older people?”

  “No. At least I never saw any. A girl there said all the adults were all dead.”

          The man gasped. Paul studied him then asked, “Do you know the village then?”           

          Saying nothing the man climbed into the tractor.         

  “Wait,” said Paul. “I must pay you.”

          Turning to him the man said, “No, sir. I don't want anything. It wouldn't be right.”           

  “Eh?”         

  “Sir.”         

  “Yes?”         

  “My father used to tell me about the village of Clontallaght.”

  “Yes?”         

  “Well, many years ago, on Halloween night, the villagers there were supposed to have trapped a Leprechaun. During his capture he was fatally injured, and as he lay dying he cursed the village and all in it, telling them that not one adult in Clontallaght would live to see old age.”

          Paul stared up at the man. Then just before starting up his tractor the man said, “It's just a tale sir,” and without another word he drove off.

          A minute later the tractor driver turned and sighed when he saw the car speeding away. He frowned now as he remembered another part of his father's tale, the part about the Leprechaun's curse including anyone who stayed overnight in the village on Halloween night.



          Years later, a teenager and a middle-aged woman drove slowly through the valley.       

  “We must be near the place now, Catherine. Maybe we'll be lucky this time. I think it was near here where I got stuck in the ditch.”         

  “Are you sure, Paul?”         

  “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

          Sighing heavily his wife changed down a gear as she followed his directions. She hoped they would find Clontallaght this year.



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