Wild Eire

Worlds crumble, often for the most absurd of reasons. Rome wasn’t built in a day, though a hoard of barbarians sure tore it down in one. Pompeii was drowned in a tide of noxious ashes. The Aztecs were betrayed by pox-ridden Spaniards seduced into treachery by the lure of gold. All around the globe, all through the ages, worlds have risen and fallen. Call it the breath of the earth.
My world crumbled for no less of an odd coincidence - God inserting the wrench, so to speak - and maybe not as globally important as a great society of thinkers vaporizing, but no less crushing to me. It collapsed just a few weeks after I joined the rodeo; the night after I won my first competition, to be more precise.
“You look a fool out there, Nathaniel,” my father said.
I rolled my eyes at him as I tossed my sweat stained hat on the cot that was a pitiful replacement for a bed. Sitting down, I sighed as I prepared for the fatherly lecture that has been driving sons crazy since…well the fall of Rome, I suppose.
“How can I possibly look the fool? I’m lithe, graceful, and good-looking. I have killer reflexes, I never fall. Even if I did, I wouldn’t get hurt.”
He rubbed his brow as he sat opposite me.
“Jeez, Dad,” I said. “A little support wouldn’t kill you.”
“It’s a mockery to all vampires,” he said. “You showboating around out there. Secrecy, boy! You have to remember secrecy! “
I flopped on my back, trying to drown him out.
“What you need,” he said, his voice taking on that dangerous tone that still had the ability to freeze me, “is to get in touch with your heritage. See the land of our ancestors, meet the old ones.”
My ears pricked up at that. Transylvania, Romania, the land of elegant vampires with shiny black locks and loads of money. Visions of a disgusting pile of money that was mine for the spending, with a veritable harem of beautiful women at my beck and call wrapped me in a delicious blanket of self-interest.
“…Ireland,” father said.
I shook myself a little.
“Sorry, Pop. Did you say ‘Ireland’?”
He nodded.
“The land of our ancestors is Ireland?”
My fantasy of wealth and excess was swept away by a nightmare of red headed, heavyset doxies dancing a rough jig while a band that played music that could only be classed as a more annoying version of bluegrass. My disgusting pile of money was just a pile of empty pint bottles. The barbarians were at the gate.
Now I was the one who jumped up and lectured.
“Father, how can you speak to me of looking the fool? For God’s sakes, what self-respecting vampire comes from Ireland?”
“Our surname is ‘Moran,’ did you never wonder about that?”
“What about Dracula, Dad? You ever read that? Eastern European, Gothic, and cool!”
“The expose of an Irishman,” he said. “I take it you never bothered to even read the cover. As for Gothic, you’re a vampire! How much more ’Gothic’ can you get? And don‘t talk to me about cool; you gave that up in your hick pursuits.”
“Well, I’m not going there! I have a competition next week!”
“Nathaniel,” he said.
It was that warning tone that meant I was sitting on a plane for the Emerald Isle the next week. Some little one-horse town named Innishkeen. Wrinkly faces, lots of unintelligible brogue. Looked like I walked on the set of The Quiet Man, except I was really a cowboy - not someone who played them. And no Maureen O’Hara to spice things up, either.
At least there was a pub every other building, and I promptly entered one. Given the dark hour, it was packed with lots of folks shouting over one another. At least the pickings would be good here, as there would definitely be one drunken cur staggering alone by the end of the night - and he would be marinated for extra flavor, to boot. I planned to wait for said dinner bell to ring, except she showed up.
“Welcome to Innishkeen,” she said in a cheery lilt. “I can see yer new here.”
Not Maureen O’Hara, but she was striking. Thick black curls draped down her cherubic face. Her blue eyes twinkled at me, brighter than a summer sky (not that I’d ever seen one in the flesh). Strangest thing about her, though, was the more I looked at her, the prettier she got. And her perfume was…odd. It was a faint scent I picked up, the tiniest whiff of ancient being. Not a vampire, she had too much color in her skin for that, but she was-
“Leprechaun,” she said. “You’re almost right.”
I started in my chair.
“That was a bit frank,” I said. “Not much for keeping secrets, are you?”
Her hair bounced like a river of ink as she laughed.
“This is Ireland, boyo! We believe in our faeries, sprites…and vampires.”
Maybe I was too perplexed to get up an walk out, or maybe it was her increasingly alluring charms. At any rate, I ordered us a drink and stayed put.
“Ye don’t have to worry! Nobody will hunt ye down here for that ‘drinking problem’ ye have! They donate it to feed ye, and you don’t hunt. So, unless you break that rule, yer fine.”
“Sounds great,” I said, sounding as unimpressed as I could. “But what if you like the thrill of the hunt?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I’m a leprechaun, remember?”
“That’s right. So do I get your pot of gold, or something?”
“How bout I buy the next round, instead?”
Wonderful, I find out my heritage was from a ridiculous lot, I didn’t have the money to get home (and don’t ask about the changing to a bat thing. If I could, I would‘ve been there already), and to top it off, I was stuck with a cheap leprechaun. I didn’t imagine my night could get any weirder.
“No more weird than the great Nathaniel Moran: up and coming star in the rodeo scene.”
A cheap, mind reading Leprechaun. Great.
“And stop calling me cheap,” she said.

Later that night, as I wandered the rutted and serpentine paths of Innishkeen in search of a tolerable inn, she turned up again.
“Never gave you me name,” she said, blushing. “It’s Dubheasa.”
I liked the sound of it. It was unusual, like her. I looked down on the pretty, petite beauty and extended my hand to her. A vampire and a leprechaun was a strange combo, but why not? She was growing one me.
And so the nights progressed. Little Dubheasa accompanied me on my search for one of my ancestors. Her smile was infectious, and I soon found myself enjoying my stay in Ireland. Though I still missed my home, she filled me with an inner peace I had only before found in my daredevil antics on the backs of wild animals. She found my tales of the American west altogether addicting, and longed me to tell them over and over again.
Was this love? I hoped so.
So much so that I forewent my mission to find an Ancient and spent all my time with her. Who needed to find an Ancient to make sense of my life and please my father? All I wanted was right here, and leprechauns were ancient, too, so I was sort of doing as I was bid.
But, of course, one found us. It was while she was showing me the finer points of dancing a proper jig. I tripped for the umpteenth time over my own feet, crashing to the hard wood floor.
The hand offered to help me up was not hers. Long, bony, thin; much like the disapproving face that leered at me from above. Before he even spoke, I knew him as my grandfather. I’d seen the same expression on my father’s face nearly every day of my life.
“Nathaniel,” he said. His voice scraped like dried leaves on concrete. “I imagine you’ve been looking for me.”
I refused the hand, righting myself on my own.
“Nope,” I said. “I sort of gave that up a while ago. I like to live in the now, rather than chase the past. Sorry, Grampa.”
He flinched at such familiarity. What is it with vampires and their pomp, anyway?
“You need to learn respect for your people,” he said.
“Or you could just catch up with the times,” I said. “Look, I have no interest in getting scolded for following my dreams. Y’all may hate me riding broncos, but I’m happy. Isn’t that what matters in life? Happiness?”
I imagined my grandfather agreeing with me, folding me in a familial embrace and telling me he loved me. My father would walk in and say how wrong he was, and how he was proud of me and now supported me in my life.
“No,” Grandfather said. “Propriety and respect is first in our life.”
So much for that. Rejected, I curled my hands into fists.
“Propriety? Please. The Irish are a people of fun and happiness, and I have learned to love them for what they are. I was wrong for wishing them otherwise, and I beg you not to ruin it by being the image of someone I shouldn’t admire. Someone cold and serious.”
He scowled at me. I was getting tired of being scowled at by my elders.
“It’s that little minx over there, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s got ye befuddled.”
I stepped toward him.
“You leave Dubheasa out of this. I love her.”
Not the most romantic way to drop those three words on a girl, I know. It just sort of slipped out, but the shining in her eyes told me it was returned threefold. Despite the heated nature of my argument with the Sultan of Sulk, I grinned at her.
“Ye love her, now? Well, then. I suppose we need to get rid of that distraction to better clean the slate. Ye are too rebellious, lad. You need to learn the right way.”
Now it was Dubheasa who clenched her fists.
“Did ye not hear him, ye daft night crawler? He said he loved me. Ye can’t get rid of me.”
“Indeed I can,” Grandfather said. It was in that same tone my father preferred, and my skin went colder than the norm.
“Leave her be,” I warned.
My petite beauty laughed her infectious laugh.
“C’mon, Nate. It’s not like he’ll kill me.”
“My dear,” Grandfather said, “That is precisely what I intend to do.”
He snarled, baring his fangs as he whipped around to gnash at her. Shrieking, she vaporized in a puff of smoke. She had told me this ruse - it made her unseen to human eyes. As vampires, though, the trick did not work. I never did have the heart to tell her when she teased me. That white lie now turned around to bite me in the ass.
I tackled my grandfather to the floor, baring my own fangs. Over and over we rolled on the floor, locked in this violent embrace. The bar cleared out in record time, except for the pissed bartender who shouted that we better pay for any broken chairs and held his footing to keep tally of the damages. What a way to begin a family reunion.
Vampires only grow stronger with age, and seeing as my Grandfather was older than God, he broke my hold with little effort. He lurched at my girl, and knowing I couldn’t hold him for long, I searched about for a weapon. I didn’t want to use a chair to stake him - patricide was a bit much for me - but the jar of pickled eggs would do.
I snatched the jar and flung it at his face. It shattered on him, pouring brine in rivulets down his face. He shrieked as his skin flamed red, swiping at it with his talon-like hands. Thank God for pickling spice, and more importantly, the garlic it contained. Leaping over the bar, I grabbed Dubheasa’s hand and dashed out into the darkness.
“Nice family!” she shouted through quick breaths. “Can’t wait to meet the rest of ‘em!”
“I’m sure yours will hate me too! Now come on; we gotta move!”
I knew the garlic solution was too weak to do little more than annoy my grandfather, and hearing his growl in the distance, he was annoyed indeed. And gaining, from the sound of it. We had to get our scoot on, but Dubheasa could never match my speed, and carrying her would burn me out sooner. Racing through the blackness, I heard the faint nickering of horses, and I grinned. My grandfather was about to learn why rodeo riding wasn‘t a waste of time.
It was a smell I missed: the musky perfume of urine, manure, and sweet hay. Regardless of my homicidal grandpa chasing us, I lingered in the stables - living, breathing gentleness to calm my nerves in the midst of familial bloodlust. Cooing to the horses, I ran my fingers along glossy smooth coats, felt the rhythmic palpations of their lips searching my palms for food.
But, time was short, and we were soon tearing across the countryside at breakneck speed, slender arms wrapped tight round my torso. Growls and snarls threatened us from each shadow as we rode hell for leather. What a way to learn that Ireland was the fatherland of vampires, and my Grandfather wanted to wipe us out. Romeo and Juliet was a powerfully romantic tale, but in real life - believe me, it’s not at all fun. We had to leave, and not just Innishkeen. But where was safety if we ran in fear?
I reined my horse as it came to me.
“What are ye doing?”
“I’m staying right here. Let them get us; I’m not running like some yellow-bellied fool.”
Holding my head high, I dropped off the horse.
“You ride to the next big city you find, you hear?” I said. “I’ll be coming along for you soon”
She tried to argue, but I slapped the flank of the steed. His pounding hooves pounded off in the distance, a faint heartbeat that soon died away.
“C’mon out, Gramp! Time to introduce you to the twenty first century!”
It was not long. The howl filled my ears as I tackled the wisp that raced in my peripheral. Knotting my hands in the gossamer hair of my Grandfather, I wrested him with a strength fueled by young love. Teeth flashed as they snapped at throats. Skin ripped under ragged nails. I fought with the fury of a man protecting his heart, and I wouldn’t be stopped again. Ancients had their aged strength, I had the passion from learning tradition was not always best. I would not lose.
Little wonder that my Grandfather’s statuesque frame was soon pinioned under my forearms. I almost lost my hold, so stunned was I at the feat. He struggled, but I tightened my grip. Immortal we are, but enough pressure to anyone’s neck will stop them from fighting. He looked up at me defeated eyes.
“Ye don’t know what you do,” he said. “There is tradition…”
“Don’t give me that. I’ve never met you till tonight, and you tried to murder Dubheasa!”
I pushed harder, fury driving me to the brink.
“Ah, I yield! Let me up! Leave him be!”
Wary, I sat up.
“Do you even know what I do?” I asked between greedy pulls of air.
“Showboat. Break the vows of secrecy.”
“Here?! Where they donate the food? Give me a break and wake the hell up!”
He pulled back from me, dusting himself off with more humiliation that I had seen in the brief time I’d known him. Was he done?
“Over yet?,” Dubheasa called from the shadows.
I whirled to face the voice.
“I told you-”
“And miss me man fightin for me honor? What lass doesn’t love that!”
Grandfather laughed. I couldn’t believe it - the crazy old coot was actually amused.
“Eh, could be worse. She could be a hunter.”
I blinked at him.
“What, boyo? Ye think this is the first time I’ve been fought? How did ye think ye family got to America in the first place? Yer father was in love with idea of Hollywood. Wanted to be an actor, he did.”
And I was sent here to learn the ways of secrecy? Oh please, someone rescue me from this madness…
“So then, ye better get going,” he said. “And best be wise about it; there’s others not related to you who may not take so kind a view.”
I blinked again.
My Granfather popped me on the head.
“Don’t be an ass, boy! Ye really think I have it in me to kill my own kin?”
“Actually, I kind of did.”
He threw up his hands.
“Go on then, get out of here. Find yer slice of heaven in the lights of fame.”
I breathed relief, but frowned as I realized the awful truth. We were broke.
“That’s not true,” she said, employing a tactic that used to infuriate me. “Remember how ye once asked me about me pot of gold?”
“Then you shall go back to America,” Grandfather said. “Ye learned about yer family. Time they learned about you.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“I heard there's a Dublin in Georgia ,” Dubheasa said.
“Wonderful,” Grandfather said. “Should be a fine place for you.”
“And you?” I asked, still suspicious.
“Eh, I grow tired Irish food. I hear America is the melting pot. Time to test it out.”
So, worlds crumble - but something always rises in its place. Same goes for tradition, I guess. Except for that part where the aging relative moves in with you. Some things never change.

[2995 words]