CHAPTER SIX

WHICH WITCH ATTACKS

Nobody knows when Morgan took over the abandoned copper mine. Some speculate she preceded King Haines, but the exact date is unimportant. It’s the “how” of her takeover that concerns us. It is paramount to realize she was the person responsible for the flicker of light Alexander saw that fateful night—the night he referred to as the great leprechaun disaster. Unfortunately, it’s also crucial for you to read the history of Morgan and the night she entered the mine.

                                                                       

The moonless night was the coldest on record. It was so cold; an egg would freeze on the sidewalk. The lights of the copper mine pierced the darkness. Those in the valley took comfort in the lit mine. They knew their loved ones working in the pit were relatively safe from harm… safe, if you don’t count the occasional cave-ins.

Guards roamed the grounds with crossbows at the ready. Their eyes scanned the woods for any indication of vicious forest creatures. Of course, any self-respecting vicious creature knew it was insane to hunt on a night as cold as this. They were all snuggled warmly in their beds, dreaming of tasty miners.

However, not all the vile, despicable creatures slept that particular night. One such creature slithered along the tree line, crackling. She placed her sights on the mine. Morgan decided. All those inside her new home would have to serve as her minions or die. She preferred the latter.

At the entrance to the mine, two guards tried not to freeze to death. Steam exuded from Private Angus Strand’s nostrils. He stamped his frigid feet on the filthy, dingy snow. His overstuffed jacket was no match for the chill, and he wrapped his arms around his body, to no avail. The frigid air refused to release its tight grip. Corporal Eli Phillip, standing to his right, fared no better. He swayed back and forth, blowing a cold breath into his ungloved hands. His crossbow leaned against his leg, arrow side up.

Private Strand whispered. “It’s too calm. I fear there is something amiss.”

The corporal jumped. They’d worked together for three months, and this was the first time the private uttered a single word.

“It’s just your dinner causing tricks in your imagination. Perhaps you should burp.” The corporal, grimaced as his crossbow fell from his frozen grasp, sending the nocked arrow skittering along the frozen ground like a drunken snake.

The private shivered. “I tell you, there is something unholy out there.”

Corporal Phillip leaned down to retrieve his weapon, careful not to remove his eyes from the terrifying dark woods. He notched another arrow and leaned the bow against his leg. “It’s nothing more than your urge to find a warm fire playing tricks with your emotions.”

Private Strand shrugged off the feeling of dismay but kept an ever-vigilant eye glued on the horizon.

If Eli or Angus could see in the dark, they would have noticed Morgan tiptoeing between the trees, with her black cape flowing in the slightest of breezes.

Morgan stood motionless behind the last withered tree nearest to the mine. Her mouth formed a sinister smile. She raised her arms over her head and chanted an eerie mantra. The acidic, guttural words spewed from her lips. Dry leaves swirled around her as if being whipped around by a mixer. A sudden gust of wind encircled the witch as her long blonde hair twirled in the breeze. A dark mist enveloped her. She became the bleak, black fog, and was ready to move into her new home.

Like a dark, menacing cloud, she meandered toward the two unsuspecting, freezing guards. Morgan touched the trigger of the crossbow next to Corporal Phillip. Eli looked down in bewilderment at the gaping hole in his chest before he fell into a pool of his own blood. Morgan’s next victim, Private Strand, didn’t stand a chance. She sent a bolt of dark lightning through his eyes, burning his brain instantly.

                                                                       

 It’s sufficient to say Morgan left no survivors inside or outside of the cave. You will thank me later for sparing you from the blood-curdling ordeal. Trust me. Besides, I am sure we haven’t seen the last of Morgan Olsen. You can count on that.

CHAPTER FIVE

OWEN MEETS RALPH AND TRIXIE

Owen Braithwaite hated the outdoors and despised camping. However, the direct instructions from his King and spiritual leader would require either camping, nature, or heaven forbid both. His orders were clear: find and arrest all leprechauns who were foolish enough to cross his path. Although the order to apprehend all the children unsettled him, there was no choice in the matter. Owen dreaded the responsibility of finding the culprit behind the sudden influx of wayward leprechauns. The age-old prophecy stating a young child would call forth the vile creatures didn’t help matters. Whoever this child was, Owen needed to find a way to stop him or her. He could not locate and deputize anyone willing to aid in the seizure. If he was to capture every child on his own, then so be it, and all the glory would be his.

                                                                 

He left the castle walls three hours ago with his carriage full of expensive camping gear. Of course, Owen spent his own money to purchase the equipment. A crafty sales associate at the castle’s market charged him more than he wanted to pay for a cooler, which the clerk promptly filled with overpriced frozen dinners.

Before leaving the castle, Owen searched various documents looking for previous times in history when the kingdom arrested all the children at the same time. He hoped it would give him a timeline and some clues as to how to accomplish the deed. The prison library was no help. Apparently, this would be a first.

The trek through the forest was no fun at all, especially for the two horses that pulled the carriage. Owen stopped at what he thought was a decent clearing, spotting a pond and some reasonably flat ground.

      “I’ll set up my campsite here,” he informed the horses, who stood as he unloaded his gear. An hour later, he sat next to his rented carriage. The tent bag lay empty, with the contents spilled on a patch of lawn a few yards away. The tent itself was a tangled mess. Unfortunately, he used the crumpled instructions as kindling for a pathetic fire he somehow lit. Now, he was left scratching his head and wondering how he’d assemble a shelter.

He read the directions on the box of his EZeat's Hungry-Man Mexican dinner, but nowhere did it state how to cook the frozen meal on a campfire. Hunger finally got the better of him, so licked the frozen enchiladas like a Popsicle and pondered what to do next. Of course, the horses, which had been forgotten, were also hungry and thirsty. They stomped and whinnied until Owen finally unhitched them and tied them to a tree near the pond.

Owen drifted off to sleep under the stars. He awoke to a thunderous lightning bolt that struck a close-by tree. Shaken, he was determined to pitch his tent and vowed to stay up all night to accomplish the deed. After hours of fighting poles, canvas, and stakes, Owen crawled beneath the carriage, entangling himself with tethers and reins. His nose informed him that he was lying precariously close to several piles of horse plop, but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Soon he was fast asleep again, sucking his thumb.

                                                                 

Sleeping beneath a carriage is the one thing in life you should avoid, especially when a pair of gigantic pond squirrels is sitting nearby roasting an EZeat's Hungry-Man Mexican Dinner over a smoldering campfire. You remember giant pond squirrels, don’t you? They are almost as large as a grizzly bear but live primarily near water, thus their name. You should avoid them at all times. Never feed a giant pond squirrel.

Ralph, of the pond squirrel species, contently devoured what was left of Owen’s meager supplies. The enormous creature was entirely unaware that the tent-tied former vice-leader slept under the carriage. However, Ralph’s mate—an even larger pond squirrel named Trixie—noticed the intruder after her fifth dinner. She gritted her sharp, saber-like teeth and let out a horrendous bark. Next, she lobbed a smoldering campfire cinder directly at Ralph, pointing at the sleeping Owen.

“Husband dear, I fear we are not alone.” 

Ralph looked at his smoldering fur, and without so much as a how-do-you-do, leaped at Trixie, his razor-sharp claws at the ready. Trixie expected the attack and sidestepped at the precise moment, sending poor Ralph head first into an overgrown oak tree. Owen slept through it all.

Trixie waited for Ralph to gain consciousness and fanned him with a charred Turkey EZeat's cardboard box. Ralph counted the brightly colored stars as they whizzed around the huge bump on his head.

                                                                 

The crescent moon darted behind an off-white wispy cloud, as a hoot of a Barn Owl argued in the distance. The gentle forest creatures trembled behind whatever foliage they could find. The ungentle animals shook in their dens and caves. Even the two carriage horses moved behind a tree and stood as still as statues. The necessity of avoiding massive creatures is common knowledge, especially sizable male pond squirrels about to recover from a near coma.

Ralph lay motionless for the longest time. Trixie pondered the best way to tell her dray of young squirrel kits that she accidentally murdered their father.

One giant paw stirred, followed by another, and then an agonizing, “OUCH.”

“Dearest beloved husband, I saw that nasty tree lunge at you as you were about to rip my throat out.” Trixie tiptoed away from her husband.

Ralph rubbed the knot on his forehead as he struggled into a sitting position, with no help from his wife, mind you. “Dearest wife, there isn’t a tree around insane enough to lunge at me. Either you tripped me, or I'm getting feeble in my old age.”

Trixie pointed to the rumpled, hog-tied heap sleeping under the carriage. “Hush, my feeble, feeble darling. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“I swear, Trixie, one of these days…” Ralph brought his fist from his side and pointed upward. “One of these days, to the moon, Trixie, to the moon.” 

“Yes dear, I’ve heard that every day for the last three hundred years. But, what do we do with… it?” She jabbed her thumb toward the sleeping figure.

Ralph looked at the sleeping thing, sniffing the air and shrugging. “It beats me, my beloved. You know I gave up man meat years ago. It’s a disgusting habit and leaves a bad aftertaste. Besides, they’re high in cholesterol and send my blood sugar through the roof.”

Trixie shook her head and kissed her husband’s knotty head before she whacked it with a fallen branch. “Now, dearest, I understand you are stressed, what with that nasty knot and your feeble age. But you must remember what we are to do if we encounter a human outside of the castle wall.”

Ralph rubbed his head and shied away from his wife. “Eat it?”

“No, a tempting idea, but no. We are to escort it to our illustrious leader. She will know what to do.”

Ralph sneered. “Ah, yes, but we are to execute it first. I’m sure.” His expression went blank.

“Now, now, dearest,” she whispered, “our leader will decide its fate.”

Ralph hefted an enormous leafless branch above his head, swinging it several times. “Execution it is.”

 “Dearest, I am positive there’s no killing involved. We are to escort the human, not execute it.”

Ralph’s squirrel lips jutted out, his eyes drooped, and his arms went slack. “Are you sure?” he snarled. “Can I rough it up, just a little?”

Trixie shook her disapproving head but then relented. “Just a little, on account it will lighten your mood. But you must not kill it. Promise?”

“Aw, spoilsport. All right, a few slaps, but no mortal wounds. At least you tied the thing up while I was lying in my near-death state.”

“He was tied up before we got here. I can’t take the credit.”

“Tied up with what?” asked Ralph.

“It appears to be horse reins and such.”

Suddenly, Ralph’s eyes lit up with an idea. “My dear, have our kits ever dined on horse flesh?” 

“Well … no. That’s a rare delicacy in the forest.”

At that exact moment, the two carriage horses shuffled in fear, inadvertently giving away their location.

Trixie sighed. “Well, make it quick, dearest. I’ll tidy up the trash while you drag their carcasses to our den. Once our darling babies are fed, we’ll take the human to Morgan.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE KING

Now, I fear it’s time to introduce you to the evil King. You will have to look far and wide to find someone whose heart is as black and bleak as his. I wish we could avoid this, but as he is the main character in a later chapter, we must deal with him somewhere, and here is as good a place as any.

                                                                 

King Boyce, who was by far the meanest leader in a long history of cruel leaders, sat behind his desk in the lowest reaches of the Castle's underground labyrinth. He preferred the solitude his office afforded. It helped that the office location was so far off the beaten path that few knew it existed. Only his semi-vice leader knew of the office, and he took an oath of secrecy. The vice-leader in charge of knowing about the secret room changed weekly. Untimely accidents were a common occurrence for the poor soul from the previous weeks, for Boyce dispatched them to other, more dangerous parts of his city when their week ended. Some were buried in unmarked graves. The poor person chosen for knowing the office location this week fell upon Owen, the son of Smedley, the unfortunate person from last week whose absence didn’t go unnoticed.

King Boyce’s mind whirled with evil and sinister plots, which he hoped to release upon his loyal subjects. He’d unleash these evil deeds as soon as he achieved his current sinister plots.

He was a man of small stature with a beak-like nose and beady steel eyes. His massive ego made up for what he lacked in size. A thin pencil mustache, bushy black eyebrows, and thinning black stringy hair were well greased, so it wasn’t difficult to sweep his thinning mane off his forehead and have it stay in place.

His name-tag, which he decreed all public servants must wear, was sky blue with puffy white clouds wrapping around a name; Hunter Haines. Yes, he was too cheap to replace the name tag. Hunter was the King before Boyce and would most likely still hold the position if he had taken the time to become immune to poison.

                                                                 

Owen Braithwaite, son of Smedley, did not know the proper etiquette required when disturbing the King, which of course meant an appropriate request in triplicate sent three weeks before the required disturbance, which isn’t possible since the King kills his vices after only the first week. So Owen burst into the secret office with his arm full of official-looking documents and a warm cup of fizzy mocha latte. Boyce ducked and rolled under his desk, afraid the disturbance might be an avenger of a former victim of his regime.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty.” Owen paused when he noticed his King cowering under the desk. Curious, Owen asked, “Did you lose something, Your Grace?” 

Boyce’s face reddened. “You imbecile.”

Owen dropped to the ground and groveled, making sure he didn’t spill his latte on the exquisite carpet. “Sorry, Your Eminence, but we have a significant incident on our hands. It requires your undivided attention.” He crawled forward, offering the leader his free hand. “Let me help you up.”

“I’ll decide when and where my undivided attention is required.” King Boyce batted Owen's helping grasps away. “I don’t remember a request from you requiring my interest. So leave, now.”

Owen placed the latte cup on the carpet and got on his knees before he lowered his nose to the ground. “But, Your Majesty, I knew nothing about requesting a meeting with you in advance. I have great news.”

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Boyce asked without looking at his soon-to-be ex-vice leader. “I’ll cut you some slack. I’ll be benevolent and give you five seconds to leave my office, turn in your resignation, and depart. You won't find a better offer in another four seconds.”

“But sir,” Owen was still on his knees. “we’ve learned that leprechauns have entered the Valley twice in the last month.”

“Impossible,” retorted Boyce as he stood and quickly deposited himself into his sleek, jewel-encrusted office chair. “Leprechauns have been extinct for the last thousand years.”

“That might be true, but we have undeniable proof that leprechauns have entered our valley within the last month.” Owen attempted to unroll a scroll on the floor with one hand. The other hand held the now-lukewarm coffee.

Boyce swiveled his chair around to face the opposite wall. “It’s a free valley. Creatures can come and go as they please as long as they pay the Toll Trolls when they enter.” Boyce knew nobody could leave or enter the valley, and he laid-off the Toll Trolls months ago when the treasurer told him there wasn’t enough money in the bank to pay both him and them. The trolls took it hard, but there was nothing they could do about their predicament except plan horrific revenge on any unsuspecting soul foolish enough to enter their mountains.

“Your Excellency, have you forgotten the prophecy?” Owen shuffled his feet as he pointed to the partially unrolled scroll lying on the lush red and black checkered carpet.

“What prophecy would that be?” Boyce asked, even though he knew the answer.

Owen rifled through a dog-eared book and ran his finger down a chosen page. “A child shall reap the harvest of the unrighteous seated upon the throne. Rainbow watchers and unicorn shepherds shall assist in the conquest.”

Boyce laughed aloud. “Oh, my dear Owen, you have fallen victim to the age-old problem of trusting in prophesies. Prophesies are invented by holy men like myself to instill fear in the minds of their sheep-like followers. You can’t believe them.” Boyce knew the prophecy was the real deal and should have the proper treatment. “However, if it will make you sleep better, I’ll authorize you to search the kingdom, nearest the castle, and arrest and detain any child whom might match the brat in your prophecy.”

“But Your Grace, I know nothing about children or leprechauns,” Owen said, scratching his head.

Boyce snarled, still facing the opposite walls. “Trust me. There is not much to know about the subject.”

Owen stiffened his back and puffed out his chest. “But, Your Magnificence, I am your vice leader. It is beneath me.” He lowered his head. “Besides, I don’t have the expertise to carry out such an elaborate search.”

“Come, come, Owen, you can do it. Besides, you’re no longer my vice-leader. I can’t allow your complete disregard of rules to go unpunished. You are now free to assume a new position in my employ. I am assigning you as under-secretary to the under-secretary in my newly formed Search and Destroy division of Boyce Enterprises.”

“Thank you, Your Benevolence.” Owen shivered with fear.

“Excellent. When can you begin?” Boyce rummaged through papers on his desk, ignoring Owen.

Owen lowered his head, lowered his shoulder, and walked toward the door. “After I clean my desk out?” He bowed and walked away meekly.

“No need. I had your desk fumigated and burned the instant you walked in unannounced.”  Boyce held back a huge smile. “Might I suggest you begin at once?”

“Yes, Your Gruesomeness.”  

“Your first order of business is to find the extinct leprechauns and their hideout and then arrest all children in the kingdom.” King Boyce coughed and repositioned himself in his chair. “Shut the door as you leave.” 

CHAPTER THREE

BETSY

 Sorry, it’s me again, the narrator. I’m afraid that we must go back in time for a few days—just enough to find out why these leprechauns were outside the Sigh’s house in the first place.

 It is a real odd affair when leprechauns interfere with humans. But, this is no ordinary story. And we are going through something beyond strange. Interfere they must.

                                                                       

We begin inside Thomas Malley’s quaint little bright blue cottage. It wasn’t a musky, smelly place—oh no. This was a tidy, clean leprechaun house.

Malley, a shorter-than-average, rotund, freckle-faced leprechaun with only a small tuft of hair springing up on the center of his head, paced back and forth on the dirt floor of his humble home. Occasionally, he wandered over to the window and peered out onto the green flower-filled street.  “The Council meeting should be finished by now. I’m going to pop over there and see what’s taking them so long.”

Betsy Malley, his wife of three hundred years, shook her head while she stirred a pot of stew hanging over the fire. “The meeting will be over when the meeting is over,” she said without looking up. “Have you forgotten you are forbidden to be anywhere near the council chambers without a reliable escort, dear?”

“But…” Malley objected.

“There are no buts.” Betsy wiped her hands on her bright pink apron. “Neither time nor Council meetings will alter their speed, no matter how much you pace.”

Malley sat in the nearest chair. “You allow one giant into the village, and they brand you for life.”

“Your giant nearly destroyed the village, and he destroyed the Council building.” Betsy stood next to her husband and ran her hands over his bald head to comfort him.

Malley paced again, wearing out a space on the dirt floor between the soft green sofa and the large picture window. “It was not my fault. The giant seemed honest. He told me he was on official business and was hired to check out our Early Giant Detection System.”

“Giants are not known for their honesty.”

Malley pulled the red flowered curtains aside and peered out the window. “The giant was ages ago. The town should forget about it and about the whole ordeal. I have apologized.”

 “The incident was last year, and the town would forget about it if you would let them. Your constant apologies aren’t helping them to forget.” Betsy patted her husband’s back.

“Last year? Are you sure?” 

“Yes, last year. Have some herbal tea, my love. It might relax you a tad,” Betsy said, pouring the hot liquid into a dainty gold cup.

“Herbal teas of any kind will not help me relax.” He blinked when he saw the frozen glare on his wife’s face. “Maybe a sip or two will help.” He forced a smile and gulped down the tea, handing the cup to his wife. “Are you happy now?”

Betsy shook her head and placed the gold cup in the sink. “Right now, it’s not about me dear. It’s about you.” She tasted the stew and stirred in some eye of spider cinnamon, some Lot salt, and an assortment of mythical spices. “You’ve been so busy with that young child, whats-his-name. I fear you might wear yourself thin.”

“Alexander. His name is Alexander Sighs. And he is important in the overall scheme of our plight.” Malley pushed himself from the table. “The child will determine if leprechauns continue to exist, or fade away like the fairies,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air—something great orators do to get their point across.

 “At least the Council finally deemed me fit for this assignment.” He peered at the clock on the wall as if that could hurry the meeting along.

Betsy smiled. “Well, you have to admit; those in charge of the academy never trusted you.” She walked over to her stew hanging on the hearth and tasted it with a large wooden spoon. Her nose scrunched and her eyes crossed. “The stew is ready.”

 “I wasn’t bad at the Academy.”

Betsy burst into laughter. “Well, you were so excited on your first day you popped into Pots of Gold 101 naked.”

The veins on Malley’s neck pulsated, and his face turned crimson red. “What, you’ve never been so excited you forgot to dress before going to a meeting?”

“Calm yourself, dear. If it were the only time you did something foolish, they’d forget about the whole messy thing by now.” She walked to a side table and picked up The Bert’s Academy for Junior Leprechaun’s Handbook of What Not to Do at the Academy: Inspired by the Antics of Malley, which was now required reading for grades one through thirty. Opening the textbook, she ran her finger down the page. “Shall I continue?”

Malley became agitated. “That’ll do.” He sat on the floor with his head cupped in his hands. “You’re right. I should ask the Council to send someone a little more trustworthy.”

Betsy grabbed her spoon and tasted the stew. She knew her husband needed self-assurance, and this quest promised just that. “Malley, you stop it this instant. There isn’t a leprechaun on this side of the valley as trustworthy. You might be a bumbler at times, and you aren’t known for your wisdom, but you have the market cornered when it comes to trust.” She peered out the window. “The Council chose you. That’s all you need to know. Now set the table. O’Toole is coming up the walk with three mangy mules behind him.”

Malley jumped up, almost knocking a table over in the process.

“Set the table,” his wife yelled as he bolted for the door. “You aren’t leaving this house on an empty stomach. The mission can wait.”

“But dear—”

“There are no ifs, ands, or buts in this house.” Betsy untied her apron and hung it on a hook.

                                                                       

Malley, O’Toole, and Betsy sat around the dinner table slurping their stew in silence, while the mules waited outside, chomping at the marigolds. Malley opened his mouth to speak, but O’Toole shushed him with an extended finger.

O’Toole, three inches taller and more distinguished looking than Malley, absorbed the aroma of the hot stew, wafting the steam with his hand. “Betsy, you’ve outdone yourself. The stew is exquisite, and the bread is more magnificent than a field full of four-leaf clovers.” O’Toole slurped another mouthful of stew. “You must give my wife the recipe.”

Betsy looked at her guest, confused. “What wife?”

O’Toole dabbed another piece of bread into the empty bowl. “I am only five-hundred-years-old. I don’t intend to remain single until I die.” He shook his head at his perplexed friend. “I meant my wife, once she becomes my wife.” He tossed his wadded napkin next to his bowl and faced Betsy. Rubbing his hands together. “Now, if you don’t mind, your husband and I have some matters to discuss. Might we retire to the other room?”

“Do you mean the Council has finally given you permission to discuss your impending top-secret mission?” Betsy’s eyes widened as she scooped up the dishes from the table.

O’Toole shot a look at Malley with one of his secret-missions-are-to-remain-secret-even-from-your-wife looks. “I have no idea where you could hear such gibberish.” O’Toole squished his eyebrows into one solid line. “I suppose rumors abound at the marketplace.”

Betsy saw her husband’s unicorn-caught-in-the-sled-light-look. “Yes, of course. We, wives, are such gossipers,” she concluded. “Oh my, look at the time. I’m late for my women’s ten-pin league. Please excuse me.” She took her bonnet from the peg on the wall and blew a kiss to Malley. “Have fun in your quest, dear. Don’t lock up as you leave. I haven’t any time to find my keys.” She curtsied and slammed the door on her way out.

Malley managed a weak wave to his wife as the door whooshed air into the room from her slam. “O’Toole, was that necessary?”

“Was what necessary? Obviously, your wife has other plans.” He looked over his shoulder, and then to his right and left. He drew the curtains shut and sat in Malley’s chair, satisfied they were alone.

“Are we going?” Malley whispered.

 “Careful, walls have ears. How much does your wife know?”

“She knows nothing.”

O’Toole jumped up, startling Malley. He tiptoed to the door, cracking it to look out. “I suppose there is nothing we can do about it now. Can she be trusted?”

“What’s your problem, O’Toole? Every leprechaun this side of the Dale knows we are going on a mission. The clan in the eastern mountains sent us a motivational greeting card and a fruitcake. It’s not a secret.” He hopped into his favorite comfortable chair before his friend could get back to it. “And they say I’m the brainless one.”

A shocked look formed on O’Toole’s face. “They all know?”

“Of course they do.”

 “Well, Mister Smarty-Pants Malley, I wasn’t talking about leprechauns. We’re not alone in the woods.”

“You’re freaking me out, O’Toole.” Malley squirmed in his chair.

“Snakes, did you think about them? Do they know?” O’Toole crept toward the window. “I suppose you have King Boyce and Morgan over for tea and honey crumpets. Have you informed them of our quest?”

Let me break the story here for a moment, please, and explain a tad about O’Toole’s references. As I mentioned earlier, there is no guarantee that you’ve heard the true story before, so let me mention that King Boyce and Morgan are both antagonists in the little tale. You’ll see more about them in the next few chapters. Sorry for the interruption.

                                                                       

O’Toole waved to his friend with a dismissive nod. “It would be better if we had something to drink before I get into what the Council requested. Do you have any nectar ale?”

Malley blinked at the request. “Nectar ale? Do you think that's a wise idea?” Reluctantly, he walked to a counter and pulled a bottle from a shelf. “The council granted our mission?” He took two glasses from the drainer.

O’Toole reached into his vest pocket and produced two parchments, both tied with a string and waxed with the official leprechaun four-leaf clover seal. He tossed the parchment on the table and sighed. “The mission is the exact reason we should drink.”

Malley unstopped the bottle and poured the liquid into glasses. “It makes no sense. We need all our wits intact.”

O’Toole gulped down the offered ale, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, filled his glass again, and ran his finger along the rim. “You’re right, my friend. Our mission, or quest, whatever you want to call it, just became difficult, insane, and silly.” He pointed to the papers, draining his glass again. Droplets of gooey nectar fell onto the official papers.

Malley pushed his glass away without touching a drop. His hands shook as he untied the documents. The younger leprechaun’s mouth opened wide as he read.

“This is a joke. Right?”

O’Toole bowed his head and rubbed his beard. “We could wish, but alas, it is the decision of the Council.”

“But—”

“There are no buts as far as our council is concerned.” O’Toole crumpled the papers and tossed them into the fireplace. He knew what would happen. He did the same thing to them several times already today. He reached into his vest pocket and produced two more documents tied with a string and waxed with an official seal.

Malley’s jaw dropped open. “The council is serious? How are we ...”

“How are we to get the child’s parents to sign a permission paper? Impossible!” O’Toole said.

Malley reached for the chair and sat down without looking. “Why?”

“The Council’s afraid of getting sued, and they want to do everything by the book.”

They both sighed and shook their heads.

Malley downed O’Toole’s glass of nectar ale before refilling it to the brim, again. “I’m afraid to ask what’s on the other scroll.”

O’Toole shrugged. “It’s a provision.” He smiled sarcastically at his friend’s blank face. “Yup, it’s a disclaimer that you, the child, and I must deliver to Boyce, in person.”

Malley opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a burp.

O’Toole scratched his head and shrugged. “I haven’t read the one document. I haven’t a clue what the other document might say. We are to present it unread.”

Malley grabbed the document. “Preposterous.” The paper flew out of his hands, landing on the table while smoke billowed out of his ears.

“We’re to leave at once. I hope your Invisibility Cloak is clean and packed.” O’Toole tipped the ale bottle upside down. “Empty? How did that happen? The bottle was full a few minutes ago.”

Malley, weaving side to side, looked out the window with a blank expression. He remembered the first time he saw Alexander, the day they placed the sleeping baby on the Sighs’ doorstep, thirteen years ago. “What are we to tell the lad?”

O’Toole paused in mid-step. “About the mission?”

Malley nodded his head and plopped into the nearest chair. “What can we tell him? Are we to say to him that he’s half leprechaun? We chose his fate. And we decided his family members without a second thought. We could tell him the truth: that we’ve been stalking him for the last thirteen years.” He handed O’Toole his hat.

O’Toole waived the hat away. “No hat today. We’ve been observing the child, not stalking him.”

Malley placed the hat in his pocket. “So, once again, what are we to tell the lad?”

O’Toole stood and knuckled the kinks from his back. “We’re not allowed to talk to him at this time. We have been assigned to observe him. Nothing more.”