Through the Kisandra Prism (7 page)

Ever since they were young and their arguments led to physical tussles, the more robust Blodwyn only had to wrestle Myfanwy to the floor, hold her by her nose, pin her arms down with her knees, and grab a finger and thumb-full of mid-riff fat and squeeze hard! This had to be accomplished while avoiding Myfanwy’s beautiful, sharp white teeth: for she was not particular about what part of Blodwyn’s body she clamped on to when in a raging mardy.

But would this trick still work? Would the pain place Myfanwy under so much stress she would be unable to concentrate on turning into something nasty. There was only one way to find out!

Blodwyn quickly wrestled Myfanwy to the ground; pinning her arms down with her knees she squeezed her cute nose, as she pinched the fat on her midriff… hard.

‘Oooch! – Oooouch! – Oooooooch! You nasty little spiteful, bitch!’ screams Myfanwy. I’ll get mad and turn into something nasty and kill you!’ she threatens.

‘Go on then,’ says Blodwyn.

Myfanwy tried to concentrate; Blodwyn pinched the Queen of the Fairies tummy-fat even harder!

‘Ochooooch! ‘you little slut… that really hurts you wicked little cow… you tart… just you wait,’ cries out Myfanwy ‘… I will murder you slowly!’ Despite her threats she found it was impossible to concentrate enough to become a Changeling… due to the pain.

‘I give in,’ pleads the Queen of Fairies finally, ‘I will do it…I’ll deal with the Silly-Ann.’

Blodwyn let her friend get up.

‘I promise to help,’ continues Myfanwy, her long graceful fingers crossed behind her back.

‘Bring your hands where I can see them,’ orders Blodwyn, ‘now promise me again.’

‘I promise my dearest friend,’ repeats Myfanwy Jenkins, her face the picture of pure holiness, ‘to behave at your birthday party and get rid of the Silly-Ann.’

Blodwyn studied Myfanwy’s face and smiled; her friend’s face was radiating pure angelic innocence and divine serenity.

‘Ok,’ replies Blodwyn ‘you better mean it – or else!’

‘Look,’ replies Myfanwy, quickly forgetting her friend’s warning. ‘We could hide, your handsome cousins can come looking for us…the one they find first…gets a kiss.’

‘Don’t be stupid – you won’t hide properly, and besides… I live in the mountains of Wales – not in the Ozark Mountains of America. We don’t kiss first cousins here! There will be no kissing games. There will be barn-dancing, Irish folk music and karaoke.’

‘That’s great,’ says Myfanwy ‘we could sing a couple of the Pogues songs…the ones with swear words.’

Suddenly Blodwyn had an idea, a wonderful idea to stop her friend from misbehaving. Blodwyn giggled at the thought of her wicked trick.

‘My uncles and aunts will also be there – they are old fashioned Irish catholics, we will be singing the Spinning Wheel together, the Minstrel boy… and The Boys of Wexford. Oh, and by the way, have you helped the Widow Owen yet?’

‘You only asked me a couple of days ago – I am still thinking about it. What do you want me to do? Turn up on the door-step as a grinning, drunken leprechaun and say: “Top of the morning Mrs. Owen, me darling – how’s she cutting? Here’s a pot of gold to keep you and your starving children going ‘till next week.”

‘What about the Sillian?’ reminds Blodwyn.

‘I will deal with the Silly-Anne tomorrow morning. You can come with me.’

With that Myfanwy Jenkins concentrated; Blodwyn watched fascinated as the Queen of the Fairy’s atom molecules broke down and began to rearrange themselves. She seemingly dissolved before her eyes. The flowing liquid spilled; then rose and turned into the shape of the fierce Harpy eagle once again. The giant eagle glared at Blodwyn and raised its ruff, stabbing in her direction with its large sharp beak, forcing her to jump back in alarm. She opened the barn doors to the clear blue sky.

Then, with a massive flap of its huge wings, the eagle took off and flew out into the cloudless sky of that lovely June morning. All the farmyard animals of feather and fur scattered again, into their shelters and coops.

Blodwyn smiled to herself. The trick that she would play on the Queen of the Fairies Myfanwy would make everyone keep a safe distance from her. Myfanwy was at her worst when she was the centre of attention; but this was not the kind of attention her best friend wanted!

The answer lay in the bottom of her bedroom draw. She had been waiting for ages to play this prank on Myfanwy, this was the ideal opportunity. She knew that Myfanwy had no intention of behaving herself in company, especially if young men were around. For that was the nature of the Queen of the Fairies.

The lovely Silky sprite swam fast and slight;

Skimming low beneath the cold rivers flow.

The beautiful Changing swam at dusk naked;

her green-tinged skin shimmered with dancing star light,

beneath the pale moon's glow.

The following afternoon a small coach-full of people arrived with shamrocks in their hats and collars. Blodwyn's father's relatives had arrived from Eire. Everyone was already in good, duty free spirits, looking forward to her birthday party and the Ceilidh band.

The first out was Father O' Brian, a big, red-faced, village priest, with large hands; an honest and good son of the soil. The priest was fondly cuddling a keg of illicit ‘porcine (Mountain Dew)' in his arms; a bottle of Irish whisky peeped shyly out of his cassock.

‘Hello there Brian,' greets Father O' Brian – ‘how's she cutting?'

‘Sound as a bell Father O' Brian,' answers Mr. Jones, ‘we will have a fine turf fire going tonight in the barn.'

Blodwyn's mother looked-on disapprovingly; she was teetotal Welsh Chapel with a strong disapproval of inebriation while her husband and his relatives regarded alcohol as salubrious. The priest was followed out of the coach by the uncles and aunts; they were the Mullholands from Dublin, the Talbot's from Kerry, the Devereux of Wexford and the Jones from Glin in County Limerick, on the banks of the River Shannon. Mrs. Jones would sometimes mumble when Blodwyn's father, Brian Jones was in his cups and became too exuberant… ‘How your father's Irish family came to get a good Welsh name like
Jones
has always puzzled me.'

The last out of the coach were the cousins; most of the boys were called Patrick, Padriag, Michael or Brian: all the girls were called Mary, Magdalene or Teresa.

Greetings over, the boys began to unload the Guinness. Blodwyn's parents talked to Father O' Brian.

‘You are late Father O' Brian…by nearly three hours. I suppose you visited all the Irish pubs in Hammersmith, Kilburn and Cricklewood?' complains Mrs. Jones.

‘I am afraid to say Mrs. Jones,' answers the Priest, ‘that Hammersmith and Kilburn will have to wait ‘till the next visit. We met up with some McAlpine fusiliers. You see Mrs. Jones – we never left The Crown.'

Suddenly Blodwyn thought back to when she had been pretending to be Grunwalde Angharad, Queen of the Fairies in her first adventure. She recalled what the Android, Glen Adair had said when she met him at the Alien banquet; after its lubrication had been spiked with alcohol, the Android had said: ‘Jesus, it's Father Murphy himself – would you be having a pint of the Guinness Father, in a tin glass?' Father O Brian was from Glen. Another name the Android used was Mary Murphy: ‘Whose peaches rose and fell like the waves of Galway Bay when she followed the plough.' Father O' Brian was old enough to know both Father Murphy, the mad genius and the beautiful Mary Murphy.

Blodwyn waited her chance and managed to get the Priest on his own.

‘Well my dear you have grown a good two inches since we last met.'

‘Father Murphy, did you happen to know of a genius back in your parish in Ireland?'

‘My dear child,' answers the priest, ‘Ireland has a higher rate of genius per square mile than any other country in the World. Ireland exports genius and the finest whisky and the Guinness. Why, the head of the NYPD was once my pupil – I used to box his ears! Ireland is the cultural centre of the world and Rome the centre of the universe…that is what Father Murphy, my old tutor used to tell us students… when we were novices.'

Blodwyn's heart raced; she was on the right trail. The Cold-blood, Karak had said: ‘Don't listen to the Android – it picks up a lot of rubbish from his mad, drunken, Terasil inventor, who came from a part of Tarrea-two known as Ireland.'

‘Did you know any genius in your parish?' asks Blodwyn.

‘Know any?' the red faced Priest chuckled – ‘I sat next to one at college. Now my dear I have to get this Guinness into the cool – the black stuff doesn't travel well you know, especially through Anglo Saxon country.'

‘Did you know a Mary Murphy?' ‘I mean a very beautiful Mary Murphy?'

‘Ahhh yes…all we boys were in love with that Mary Murphy.' Blodwyn was now certain she was on the right track.

‘Was the student you sat next to interested in science…particularly in physics?'

‘Mickey Finn… was a genius all right…but a sad story I am afraid, he just disappeared one night while gazing up at the starry sky! He was never seen or heard of again.'

Blodwyn left it at that; if she could contact the Irish genius Mickey Finn, now living somewhere in the Antares Cluster with his army of Androids… she was sure he could help her in her quest to find the Alter Dom and even possibly render some assistance to the Galla Qualls in the pending final war with the Cold-bloods.

On that warm June evening, Irish folk music drifted on the balmy evening air before dispersing and filtering through the soft tender leaves of the trees that warm June evening.

In a small wooded spinney by the enchanted pool, only one-third of a fairy league from the barn, small laughing, slender beings jigged, hopped and pranced to the lively notes of many a well known lively Irish jig. All the Fairy clan was present; Spiky haired, Perrygrists and Jack-Gimbels jumped up and down like demented punks. Elverins and delicate Gyrille Ghylls did graceful skipping steps. Narlings, Maylings and Sislings did twirling waltzes and frantic jigs; all to the sweet notes of the Irish pipes, fiddle and the rapid beat of the boron. This was their kind of music, the lively music of the Celts.

Higher up the mountain as the sun's dimming rays caressed the eastern slopes of the Cambrians, the oldest mountains in the world, the Sillian that had been sheltering in a crevasse between the rocks crawled out with awkward movements: it was still hungry. The three sheep it had killed last night were not enough to dull its voracious appetite. Besides, the animals were strong tasting and had to be skinned because of their dirty pelts; the Sillian was partial to a little skin with his meat; skin without an excess of hair.

Now the tall life-forms that walked upright seemed very appealing to the creature; they were thin skinned and looked to be without fur it noticed. The life-form inside the stone hut that it had tried to break into the night before smelt very appetizing. The Sillian had watched this upright life-form come looking for its animals and later when the sun was hot, it had dimly seen another two upright life-forms by the hut. (Blodwyn and her father)

The Sillian scuttled forward and found what it had been looking for: a game path. A path that all the upright life-forms seemed to use to travel up or down the mountain. This was an ideal place to dig his trap-door. The creature began digging frantically four feet from the footpath; for it knew the nights were short on this strange planet.

That evening once everyone was present at Blodwyn's birthday party, Myfanwy Jenkins, the new Queen of the Fairies made her dramatic and finely timed entrance; appearing suddenly at the open barn door, wearing a long green, yellow and blue dress. Everyone was taken aback by her eloquence and beauty; especially Blodwyn's young, unmarried male cousins. Of course only Blodwyn and Bryn Jones the Wino knew that Myfanwy was now Queen of the Star-worshipers.

The Irish fathers, mothers, uncles and aunts watched Myfanwy with wise suspicion – she looked like a fancy woman. As usual she kissed Mr. and Mrs. Jones and Blodwyn; who noticed Myfanwy was wearing what looked like long false, enchanting, golden eyelashes which she flashed at the young men in a dreamy, sleepy way: that turned their blood into water! Although Myfanwy was always beautiful, she was now extraordinary beautiful. Her hair shone like new Welsh gold, her skin was the delicate shade of soft moonlight; her green eyes sparkled under long eye lashes, like wet emeralds and her beautiful teeth gleamed pristinely in her small half open, sweet cherry-pie mouth. Then, Myfanwy saw the keg of Guinness and the large tray of Mrs. Jones' wonderful pork pies – without further ado she headed straight to the table and got stuck in.

The sweet, petite, angelic ‘bouche' of Myfanwy, without qualms or difficulty, efficiently demolished three large pork pies in quick succession; to the utter amazement of all the guests. Each pie was helped on its way with a pint of the Guinness, gulped down like a thirsty navvy. All the while she was being closely securitized by the Jones' Irish relatives.

‘At last Myfanwy is getting an appetite,' excuses Blodwyn's mother, who also looked-on with amazement, and a little embarrassment, ‘normally the girl hardly eats at all,' she continues, ‘it must be her hormones…she will also be seventeen soon.'

‘Hormones my foot – the girls got worms!' exclaims Mrs. Mullholand from Dublin. ‘It is a good dose of the worming-power she'll be needing.'

‘A large tape worm if you ask me,' adds Mrs. Talbot from Kerry. ‘She will end up a bag-lady on the streets of London with a thirst like that – mark my words.'

‘Jesus!' Blodwyn heard Patrick, one of her Irish country cousins remark.

‘Will you look at Myfanwy now – she is such a different Colleen from a year ago… did you see her drink the Guinness?'

‘Pay no notice son, that Myfanwy is a fancy woman,' adds his mother, ‘She will be in and out of the repair shop every week.' (Repair shop: as in hairdressers and beauticians etc.) ‘She can swallow the Guinness quicker than father O' Brian – a fancy woman who likes to take a drink – she will cost you a fortune in repair bills and the Guinness.'