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.”