The Púca’s Share

A short story by Monica Corish

Welcome once more to Thrutopia. This month we are serialising a short story by Monica Corish, starting with part one appearing today and part two (the final part) next week. We will also feature an interview with the author. Enjoy!

The Púca’s Share by Monica Corish

(Part one of two, in which the Púca, a mischievous shape-changing spirit from Irish folklore, does some mischief in a pub…)

Púca pulled her hat down to cover her hairy ears. She checked her reflection in the window of the pub, then pushed open the door. A handful of women were sitting by an open fire, laughing and drinking wine. Three men sat at a table closer to the door, one old, one young, one middle-aged. The middle-aged man was spoiling for an argument. Púca shifted shape, became male. The barman glanced up, blinked, returned to polishing the glasses.

“Jameson and a bag of crisps.”

“Ice?”

“No, thanks.”

A wide-screen television blared violent colours. Unnatural blues and greens, red and yellow players chasing a ball. As he walked past, Púca brushed against the television with his shoulder. The screen fizzed and died.

“Mick,” the young man said, “the telly’s on the blink.”

The barman sauntered over, twiddled a knob, turned the television off and on, checked the plug. “It must be the fuse. I don’t have a spare.”

“Never mind,” the old man said. “I like the quiet.”

Púca sat a few feet away, close enough to listen, maybe to join in.

“No green gobshites are going to cull my cows,” the middle-aged man said. “That shower would have us all living in the dark ages.”

“Come on, Vinny,” the young man said. “You’ve seen the reports. There’ll be no need for a cull if –”

“If what, Jim?” Vinny was red-faced. “If I don’t inseminate my cows? A few less every year? Let the herd wither away?”

“You could do that,” Jim said. “But there are plenty of other ways to cut emissions. You could breed for less methane. You could switch to one of the new fertilisers and sow multi-species grasses and clover. You could make the shift toward agroforestry, plant hazel and oak and –”

“Listen to you, college boy, with your diploma in environmental waffle! You’ll have me setting up bee hotels in my hedgerows next. I’m a dairy farmer, not a feckin’ forest ranger.”

Jim shrugged. “Each to their own.”

“It’s all nonsense anyway,” Vinny blustered. “The climate is always changing. Always has, always will.”

“Whisht,” the old man said. “That’s the drink talking, Vinny. The growing seasons are out of whack, grass growth is down, there’s too much rain in winter, too little in summer. You know all that.”

“Maybe so, but it’ll change again without us having to twist ourselves into knots. And anyway –”

“Mick, could you turn on the radio?” A woman’s voice.

Púca felt a thread of exasperated tenderness stretching between her and Vinny. Daughter to father.

The barman pressed a button. The aching lament of an uileann pipe filled the air.

“Port na bPúcaí,” the old man whispered. “Turn it up, Mick.”

Púca conjured a vision into the quiet: A field of haycocks, the twilight buzz of midges, the swoop of swifts, the chant of a corncrake.

Photo by lornzo on Freeimages.com

The old man spoke, his voice dreamy. “Do you remember when we were young lads driving to dances, the windscreen would be speckled and splattered with midges? You’d have to turn on the wipers to clear them. And the corncrake calling all night long, looking for a mate. Like ourselves at the dance, all looking for a mate.”

The men grinned and glanced shyly at the women. Vinny blew his nose.

“Heaney wrote a poem,” Jim said, “about how the fairies gave that tune to a fiddler on the Blaskets.”

That was me, Púca wanted to say. I gave him that tune, and I’m no flittery fairy. It was a bad day for the daoine sídhe, the day they started calling us the little people.

“When I was a lad,” the old man said, “we used to leave a share for the Púca at harvest time. Do any of you remember that?”

“I do,” the barman said. “We’d strip a few stalks out of each haycock and leave it in the field. And there was something about Halloween. What was that?”

“If you left a gift for the Púca at Samhain, he’d bless your harvest and do his mischief elsewhere.”

“Like trick or treat?” Jim asked.

“I suppose so.” The old man took a sip from his pint. “That’s what you’re doing, Jim. You’re leaving a share for the Púca.”

Jim grinned. “Maybe I am. Bee hotels and all.”

Vinny glowered.

“Like fairy gardens.” Vinny’s daughter laid a hand on his shoulder. The other women were finishing their drinks and putting on their coats. “It was you told me about that, Da. You used to say we should always leave a corner of the garden for the fairies.”

“That’s it, Maeve,” the old man said. “A patch of wild in every garden.”

“And no need for fairy doors or painted toadstools.” Maeve fished Vinny’s car keys out of his pocket. “Time for home, we’ve to be up early to milk.”

“I’m grand to drive.”

“No you’re not.”

“Time for us all to go home,” the old man said.

Púca walked to the back of the bar, pushed open the door to the toilets, shifted shape, became a fly. He slipped back into the bar and settled on Vinny’s shoulder.

Outside, the full moon struggled to shine through layers of heavy cloud. Maeve pressed the car key. Amber lights blinked.

The radio came on as she pulled out of the car park. “Port na bPúcaí again. It’s like that tune is following us.” She reached to change the channel.

“No, leave it be. It reminds me of your mother.”

Maeve glanced at him. “You never talk about her.”

“And I won’t tonight.”

Vinny closed his eyes. Púca slipped inside his mind. A lonely chessboard, rigid squares, kings and castles, an abacus of calculations, profit and loss, time splintered into quarters. Púca wove a new game. Worms in place of snakes, windmills in place of ladders, a circular border, wild-flowers and bees and dragonflies. The vision slipped past Vinny’s defences, down into the twilight place where dreams take root.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I sold the farm.”

“What?”

“My carbon emissions have barely shifted, and I can’t do what Jim’s doing. It would stick in my craw. Maybe it’s time I got out.”

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We’ll leave Vinny, Maeve and the Púca here for now. Join us next week to read the second half of the Púca’s tale! And please feel free to share the story or comment below to let us know what you thought.

Part Two is now live; click below to read!