In South-West Ireland there was an old farmer. His name was Mickey. One day he discovered that someone was stealing his potatoes. Initially he paid no heed but it became a recurring theme. Every morning he found more had been stolen. Waking early or staying late did nothing to deter the criminal. Standing guard was not an option. Not every night. His land was spread in patches all across the parish. He didn't want to deter further theft by standing out every night. He was concerned with laying his hands on the culprit.
One night, donning a large black cloak he crept up to his field and lay down between the drills of potatoes he had laid down. He lay in dead silence for over two hours, feeling the cold creep inside his skin and settle in his bones. Just when he was beginning to consider aborting his plan, he heard a sound of rustling in the distance. Listening intently he could make out the distinct sound of someone making their way through his fields up towards the crops. A figure came into view, a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a flat cap to hide his face.
Readying himself to unearth the crops, the thief removed his coat and cap. The moonlight shone brightly off the magnificent orb which had laid hidden beneath the headwear. An enormous head, reflected in the moon, illuminated the features which sat on the face below the luminous bowl.
As the man bent to commence his "work", the old farmer sprang up from the earth. Brandishing a spade, he announced himself to the intruder:
"You didn't lose your hair through honesty, did ya?"
Without waiting for a reply the farmer promptly struck the trespasser with the head of the spade, driving it firmly into his face. The bald man was knocked back, landing neatly between two drills.
The old man stood proudly over his handiwork. A job well done.
"Nobody lays their hands on my spuds," he declared to himself.
Exalted from the thrill of taking down the would-be thief, the old man considered what he would do with the criminal. Stepping closer, he realised that the collapsed man was known to him. It had been years since they had seen each other, but the bald man was Donal Glin.
It had been 20 years ago when Donal disappeared one night. It broke his mother's heart. Despite her earnest search there were never any leads as to what befell him. Many had assumed he killed himself. He was always quiet as a young man. But now he lay before Mickey, a middle-aged man with a bald dome where once sat thick dark curls of hair.
Upon closer examination of Donal, he noticed a large scar running from behind Donal's left ear down inside his shirt. His hands were enormous, weathered and puckered. Clear evidence of heavy use. a lifetime of manual labour. What could he have spent the last 20 years doing?
Before Mickey had time to decide a logical answer to his own question, those great arms sprung from the ground and clasped Mickey's front.
"They can't know I'm back!" Donal pressed his face close to Mickey's, pulling him closer. Every muscle in his body was knotted and Mickey was helpless against the younger man's strength.
"I can't let you tell them," whispered Donal. He pressed his fingers to Mickey's throat and began to squeeze. The hands completely covered Mickey's neck, whose vision began to fade.
The hill was deserted, without a soul to hear his soundless scream. In the calm night, had anyone looked up on the hill they would have spotted a large, bald man rising to his feet and hoisting a smaller older man into the air by his throat. The dangling man's legs kicked helplessly against the attack. He engaged his left hand in a feeble effort to push himself free while in his right hand he squeezed the spade.
With the last of his strength, Mickey clasped the spade in both hands and drove it up into Donal's chin. Immediately, he felt the tree-trunk arms release him. Mickey fell, gasping for breath and barely able to stay on his feet.
The blow had knocked Donal to his knees, sending the breath from his body. Mickey reacted quickly, bringing his tool around, readying for another strike.
Donal stared up at him, the fight gone from his eyes. "I... I'm sorry. You have to help me!"
His body had slumped, surrendering to the older man.
Mickey stood for a long minute considering his would-be killer and contemplating how far the situation had escalated. He had never imagined himself in this kind of situation. His father had fought in the civil war, not that it was ever spoken about. It was his father who had seen a lifetime of violence. His son had been destined for an uneventful life of farming. Now at the end of it he found himself in a harrowing dilemna over what to do.
Finally he made a decision. "Ï'll help you," he promised.
In one great swing he drove the spade down upon Donal's head. Checking around, he saw he was completely alone. Walking down the hill he retrieved his wheelbarrow. With some difficulty, due to the size of the body, he loaded it into the barrow. He covered the body with the blanket he had laid on in the drill only minutes before.
Casting his gaze a final time to detect any witnesses, he then took the barrow and its contents down the hill.
Balor O'Brien
One night, donning a large black cloak he crept up to his field and lay down between the drills of potatoes he had laid down. He lay in dead silence for over two hours, feeling the cold creep inside his skin and settle in his bones. Just when he was beginning to consider aborting his plan, he heard a sound of rustling in the distance. Listening intently he could make out the distinct sound of someone making their way through his fields up towards the crops. A figure came into view, a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a flat cap to hide his face.
Readying himself to unearth the crops, the thief removed his coat and cap. The moonlight shone brightly off the magnificent orb which had laid hidden beneath the headwear. An enormous head, reflected in the moon, illuminated the features which sat on the face below the luminous bowl.
As the man bent to commence his "work", the old farmer sprang up from the earth. Brandishing a spade, he announced himself to the intruder:
"You didn't lose your hair through honesty, did ya?"
Without waiting for a reply the farmer promptly struck the trespasser with the head of the spade, driving it firmly into his face. The bald man was knocked back, landing neatly between two drills.
The old man stood proudly over his handiwork. A job well done.
"Nobody lays their hands on my spuds," he declared to himself.
Exalted from the thrill of taking down the would-be thief, the old man considered what he would do with the criminal. Stepping closer, he realised that the collapsed man was known to him. It had been years since they had seen each other, but the bald man was Donal Glin.
It had been 20 years ago when Donal disappeared one night. It broke his mother's heart. Despite her earnest search there were never any leads as to what befell him. Many had assumed he killed himself. He was always quiet as a young man. But now he lay before Mickey, a middle-aged man with a bald dome where once sat thick dark curls of hair.
Upon closer examination of Donal, he noticed a large scar running from behind Donal's left ear down inside his shirt. His hands were enormous, weathered and puckered. Clear evidence of heavy use. a lifetime of manual labour. What could he have spent the last 20 years doing?
Before Mickey had time to decide a logical answer to his own question, those great arms sprung from the ground and clasped Mickey's front.
"They can't know I'm back!" Donal pressed his face close to Mickey's, pulling him closer. Every muscle in his body was knotted and Mickey was helpless against the younger man's strength.
"I can't let you tell them," whispered Donal. He pressed his fingers to Mickey's throat and began to squeeze. The hands completely covered Mickey's neck, whose vision began to fade.
The hill was deserted, without a soul to hear his soundless scream. In the calm night, had anyone looked up on the hill they would have spotted a large, bald man rising to his feet and hoisting a smaller older man into the air by his throat. The dangling man's legs kicked helplessly against the attack. He engaged his left hand in a feeble effort to push himself free while in his right hand he squeezed the spade.
With the last of his strength, Mickey clasped the spade in both hands and drove it up into Donal's chin. Immediately, he felt the tree-trunk arms release him. Mickey fell, gasping for breath and barely able to stay on his feet.
The blow had knocked Donal to his knees, sending the breath from his body. Mickey reacted quickly, bringing his tool around, readying for another strike.
Donal stared up at him, the fight gone from his eyes. "I... I'm sorry. You have to help me!"
His body had slumped, surrendering to the older man.
Mickey stood for a long minute considering his would-be killer and contemplating how far the situation had escalated. He had never imagined himself in this kind of situation. His father had fought in the civil war, not that it was ever spoken about. It was his father who had seen a lifetime of violence. His son had been destined for an uneventful life of farming. Now at the end of it he found himself in a harrowing dilemna over what to do.
Finally he made a decision. "Ï'll help you," he promised.
In one great swing he drove the spade down upon Donal's head. Checking around, he saw he was completely alone. Walking down the hill he retrieved his wheelbarrow. With some difficulty, due to the size of the body, he loaded it into the barrow. He covered the body with the blanket he had laid on in the drill only minutes before.
Casting his gaze a final time to detect any witnesses, he then took the barrow and its contents down the hill.
Balor O'Brien
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