It’s quite the gathering inside. You wouldn’t mind if I had a smoke out here, would ya? How well did you know Charlie?

We didn’t know what he was dealing with at the time, exactly, but he sure got our attention. One night, his whiskey glass hit the wooden bar with a slam! “It’s the God’s honest truth!” he demanded. His voice trembled along with his shaking hands. “I swear it on me mum’s grave. Sure enough, I’ll be a joinin’ her soon if there’s room for one more in the family plot. And when I do, she’ll see how happy I am to be away from the two of you!”

Charlie knew those of us sitting next to him didn’t believe a word of his story, nor did the bartender who moved in and out of our corner of the bar, glancing our way now and again. Rightly so, for Charlie told a good many tales over the years that some might consider a wee bit exaggerated – but, ya know, he always told ‘em with a good heart. He was forever tryin’ to entertain us with his stories and he never failed to give us a good laugh. This time, he seemed frustrated, even a bit angry with his ol’ friends. It was getting hard to read Charlie at that point. We watched his hands shake with increasing severity that year and we saw him set a glass hard upon the bar more than a time or two. His head shook too and it was causing his speech to stammer. If he was frustrated, one could hardly blame the man.

Charlie was fully aware that his condition would get worse. He saw it progress in the widow O’Conner who lived on the hillside her husband farmed for decades. She long since passed. Dacey the bartender filled Charlie’s glass again. The full glass of whiskey sat there at a safe distance. Three wet, overlapping rings from Charlie’s previous fills formed that ancient mark of the blessed trinity. Christmas lights strung above the bar reflected in the whiskey slosh. Aye, it was pure happenstance but I stared into those glimmering rings asking myself if Charlie’s condition, or any condition one of us might be struck by some day, was the will of Almighty God. Then I snapped out of it, thinkin’ the almighty has better things to do than to bring a misery such as this into the life of a good man.

Charlie’s shaking hands entered my gaze. They shook uncontrollably as he took the glass into both hands and lifted it close to his shaking head. “It calms me nerves,” he declared as if we questioned the number he was having. He tried hard not to spill and managed not to on most nights. He placed his mouth above the rim and, with steady resolve, paused his tremors long enough to take a sip.

“I’ll just say this, it was far away, across Lochy’s field, but my eyes are still good enough to see that it was a great, disfigured beast – large and hideous – and it moved in a halting and cautious manner. I saw it by Gerald’s house, and again out by the crossroads. I swear it was the Púca!”

The fellas and me were hesitant to laugh. We had laughed at many of Charlie’s wild tales before, as friends do, but he was more serious this time and none of us knew whether poor eyesight or even his questionable observations could be symptoms of the disease. It was an awkward moment, to be sure.

The pub’s fire was burning low and the light outside was getting dim. The glow from Christmas lights and draft beer handles provided enough light for Charlie, having finished his parting glass, to carefully squirm off his bar stool and make his way to the door. As he parted, he bellowed his usual, “If I don’t see ya in the future, I’ll see ya in the pasture!” It was his way of declaring that our friendship remained intact.

It was a long walk, even for a healthy man. Charlie had walked this way home for many years; nearly four kilometers and much of it was over rolling hills on a road barely wide enough for a single car. I stepped out for a smoke and watched Charlie as walked past the cemetery where his wife and mother lay, past the crosses that rose above the perimeter walls, and past the stone ruins of graves from past centuries. Rain had fallen on-and-off throughout the day. The sky was still cloudy and retained a soft gray light long after the sun had set. I watched his figure fade into the gloaming, his body bent and right arm flailing. The damn rain started again.

A half-hour or so into his journey, Charlie sat down and leaned against an old stone wall to rest. He could hear the Spring lambs behind him bleating in the distance. His mind wandered. He thought about his wife and wished that she would be there, warm at home, waiting patiently to greet him. He never stayed late at the pub back then. He didn’t like to keep her waiting long. Then, there were his friends at the pub. He thought about how confused we must be about his illness, how careful we acted around him, and how he was only pushing his friends away. A sadness came upon Charlie and he closed his eyes. He always regretted his offenses and mourned his losses.

The wet grass began to soak through the seat of his pants and was cold on his arse, so he struggled to his feet and regained his balance to resume the journey home. Oddly, a kilometer or so into it, he came upon an old man creeping along in a wheelchair. The old guy labored steadily as he made his way up the hill, rolling the wheels with his weak, gnarled hands and dragging his feet to prevent himself from losing ground. His effort was not a mighty one but a gradual one – his progress, only a few inches at a time. Charlie knew who occupied each house along the way and had heard nothing about this strange visitor who was out late and, on the road, alone in a wheelchair.

 “Say . . . old fella . . . what brings you out here, so far from home? Who are you here to see? I know everyone along this country road. Are ya visiting someone I know?”

“I came here to see you my friend,” the old man said, catching his breath while looking up at Charlie’s face in the pale light.

Charlie was puzzled. “Do we know each other? You look familiar – in an odd sort’a way.”

“You will know me soon. I’m here to help you . . . with your journey.” The old man was out of breath and unable to speak without gasping for air. His head and body shook as well. His manner of speaking was as difficult to understand as Charlie’s.

“Help me?” Charlie questioned. “How could you possibly help me? I mean no disrespect, of course.”

“Push me along. We’ll travel together a while.”

The road was narrow and sections of it ran lower than the pasture walls on each side, where weeds and brambles tangled and waved in the wind. Blackberry bushes seemed to run the full length of it. Dark purple berries, appearing black, were ripe and ready to be picked by man or bird. Others not quite ripe had the hue of raspberries – more red than purple. The least ripe were white or pink. Shiny, ragged leaves of the blackberry bushes mixed with tall grasses, especially in the depth of the sunken road where rain pooled. Vine-like stalks with large, sharp thorns wove their way in and out of the weeds to protect their luscious fruit from picking – nature’s way of both tempting us and repelling us.

“You have walked this path many times, Charlie. Do you remember picking blackberries with your mum as a child?” Charlie paused and looked ahead, searching for the spots where he and his mother would tarry to pick them; remembering those happy times.

"Aye, my dear mum taught me which to pick and how to avoid the thorns. Those thorns – no matter how hard I tried, my little hands would get completely mangled! But the tenacious child I was, if they were ripe, I’d reach in deep to pick ‘em, no matter how many were out in the open along the road just ahead. My mother taught me how to make good choices, though. Happy times they were, picking berries with me mum. She baked a good pie with ‘em, too.”

Charlie thought for a moment, “Did ya know my mother?”

“Let’s push on,” the old man replied.

Charlie leaned into the wheelchair, his arms shaking as he pushed ahead. A car suddenly appeared over the next hill’s crest. Its lights were not on yet and it was approaching with a reckless speed. Fortunately for the two of them, a wider, worn spot on that narrow stretch allowed them to get out of the way, but Charlie had to react fast and push hard!

“You have had to move fast on this road before, haven’t you?” The old man chuckled. “The faeries had ya in their spell when you paused in thought back there, didn’t they? A pishogue to protect you, I’d say.”

“Indeed it was. As a boy, I jumped much faster – I once jumped squarely into a patch of those blackberry thorns. Saying I was all scratched-up doesn’t cover the half of it. It was that or be run over! My bleeding face sent me mum into a panic. She thought I’d been run over.”

“You walked this way home from school. Tell me about your brother.”

“Aye, we used to race home from school. Our races didn’t last long though – the way is longer than it seemed to us back then. We usually ended up walking it together, eating berries along the way. The time and distance passed quickly when my brother and I walked together . . . we talked about our troubles and our dreams. I haven’t seen him since he left for America – not in 25 years – do ya know my brother?” The old man didn’t answer Charlie. But then, after a wee bit, “Tell me about your wife.”

“My wife was a lovely woman. Always kind. Occasionally a flirt. We walked home together this way when we were in second level, then home from the pub when dating – sometimes in the rain. Sometimes, if it weren’t past her curfew, we’d dart off to the other side of those bushes, just over there, and have a roll in the tall grass. Sometimes in the rain.” Charlie stared out into the field for a moment; his eyes welled up a little. “Then, not wishin’ to part, she’d get home well past her curfew and wouldn’t be permitted to see me for a week. I miss her . . . it’s been 10 years since her passing from the fevers.”

The old man took Charlie past his home. They didn’t stop but Charlie looked hard across the field lying before it, trying to see some movement inside, hoping this strange journey was a dream that would grant him just a glimpse of his wife through the window. He hoped he would wake and find her at home, awaiting inside. But all he could see from that distance was the lamp he left lit for himself.

They eventually came to the end of the road where Charlie had seen the “disfigured beast.” He could see it more clearly now. It was a horse; old and decrepit. Like Charlie, it was disfigured by disease but broken in its own way. Its back was twisted and it dragged its hind legs as it moved about. It was mere flesh and bones which made the head look larger than normal. It was the “Púca” he claimed to see.

Charlie looked to the old man now barely distinguishable under the dark sky as he spoke, “You’ll be making this journey again soon, Charlie. You’ll make it again and again and the road will seem longer each time you make it. If you keep going, you’ll get on just fine – inch-by-inch like me, if necessary. I know you, Charlie. But when you no longer wish to make it and you want to be with your wife and mother – when you no longer wish to pick the blackberries and endure the thorns – he’ll carry ya home; both of you riding tall and stronger than ever before.” The old man asked with a stammering voice, “Do you wish to keep makin’ the journey, Charlie? Will you be pickin’ the berries a while longer?”

That’s the story he told us. I’d give my right arm to hear him tell another. We finally removed the ramp – it’s over there on the side, against the wall. We built it for him to get in and out of the pub and he used it for five more years. I suppose one can make such a journey on that long and narrow road only so many times. Charlie kept on – havin’ a drink with his ol’ friends, joking, and telling his exaggerated tales – as best he could. It only required a little patience and careful listening on our part, which he patiently taught us.

I’ll put this cigarette out so we can get back inside and warm up with the others. We’ll have one last slice of his blackberry pie and raise a glass to him at our corner of the bar.

For more stories by L. McLaughlin, go to lmclaughlinwriter.com

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