Rusty and the Shillelagh

Rusty and the Shillelagh

Miche, the bartender, looked up from polishing his glass as the bell above the door jingled, and then nodded to the newcomer. It was no surprise to him, as it might have been to others, to see one of the 'wee folk' slip onto his barstool.

He was a tall leprechaun as far as leprechauns go, not as short as the cobbler-type, but a taller type like one who goes about the business of teaching the jig.

As his customer settled on the stool and laid his gnarled old shillelagh on the bar, Miche came over to take his order.

"A pint if you please." The leprechaun had a rich, high voice.

"Aye, right away, Sir."

As Miche filled the mug with frothy ale, the bell above the door jingled again, this time for the entry of Rusty, a local who on occasion had to be tossed from Miche's establishment for non-payment of his tab.

As per usual, Rusty made a beeline for the barstool next to any patron in the bar. Since there was only one, the leprechaun was chosen.

"Hello, my friend!" Rusty slapped the leprechaun on the back in greeting, only to receive a hostile stare from both Miche and the leprechaun. The looks didn't daunt him, because his smile remained bright as ever.

"Conas atá tú? How are you?" He said to the bartender happily. "A pint, más é do thoil é? if you please?" A smile spread across his lips, but his hand held no coin.

"You know the rules, Rusty, you have to pay in advance." The bartender scowled. It was cold and windy outside and Miche did not feel like wrestling Rusty out the door so early in the day.

"Yes, I know. Perhaps my friend here would buy the first round." Once again, he slapped the poor leprechaun on the back.

The leprechaun nodded and waved his hand at the place in front of Rusty, indicating he would buy if only to stop the man from knocking the wind out of his lungs.

The pint had barely touched the wood in front of Rusty when it was raised, "Sláinte! Cheers!"

The leprechaun replied with less gusto, "Sláinte chugat. Good health to you." Then raised his glass for a drink.

Rusty spotted the shillelagh the same moment the ale reached the leprechaun's lips. "See here! What's this? A baton?" To which the bartender snorted and shook his head. Rusty reached for the shillelagh, but the bartender stopped him.

"It's his shillelagh, you dolt! His, and his alone." Miche leaned close to Rusty and whispered. "You best not touch it, it's magical."

Rusty laughed a great belly laugh loosened by the ale. "Here now, how can it be magical? It's just a scrap of wood."

The leprechaun didn't answer directly; he merely ordered a craythur whiskey for himself and Rusty.

Rusty tossed the drink back with a grin. "Maith thú! Well done!" The leprechaun's generosity was loosening his tongue and dulling his wit. He foolishly reached for the shillelagh.

The bartender gasped and the leprechaun tutted, "Augh, augh, not for you." His voice filled with warning, "You would be quite sorry."

The bartender agreed. "Aye, man, it's not for you. Leave it be." Miche reached for Rusty's collar, ready to toss him to the street, but the leprechaun shook his head.

Rusty shrugged, as if he didn't care, and the leprechaun replied. "You had your warning. Nár laga Dia do lámh. May God not weaken your hand."

With that, the drunk lunged, made a greedy grab for the shillelagh and then snatching it up, held it high. "It's mine! It's mine!" He yelled in triumph, sliding off his barstool to dance about the floor. "I have the leprechaun's shillelagh!" His heels clicked high and he twirled with the cudgel in hand. "I have....ow!" His merriment ended as quickly as it began. The shillelagh had turned on Rusty and cracked him in the head.

"What happened?" Rusty rubbed the lump that was already forming on his noggin. He tried to shake the shillelagh from his hand, but his fist remained firmly wrapped around the billy stick.

"Fillean meal ar an meallaire. Evil returns to the evil doer." The leprechaun laughed. "You stole what might have been given." He shook his head, turned back to his ale and then took another sip, smiling when he heard yet another hearty crack.

"Owwwwww! Ow! Make it stop!" Rusty begged. "Take it back! Take it back!" He howled as another great blow was delivered from his own hand, then stumbled toward the bar trying to pry the shillelagh from his hand.

The leprechaun shook his head again. "Have you no manners?" The bartender and he exchanged a woeful look. "He does a good AnRìl reel/dance, does he not?" They both chuckled.

"For god's sake, le do thoil please!" The lump on Rusty's head was growing away from his skull like an egg coming out of a chicken. It looked very painful.

The leprechaun, having warmed his belly with drink, felt a bit sorry for Rusty. He opened his palm to receive the shillelagh.

Rusty slapped the oak rod into the leprechaun's hand. His fist opened of its own accord and released the cudgel. "Aithníonn cíaróg cíaróg eile! One beetle recognizes another beetle! You're both evil!" He stumbled to the door holding his aching head, which was now dripping blood onto the pine plank floor.

The doorbell jingled as Rusty exited. "Imeacht gan teacht ort! May you leave without returning!" Miche called out to Rusty's retreating back. He poured another whiskey for the leprechaun and one for himself.

"They always try to take it." Miche raised his glass, "Sláinte Cheers" and tossed the whiskey down his throat.

The leprechaun smiled and replied, "Sláinte chugat Good health to you," and then downed his own drink. "Perhaps greed makes them believe that taking something from a little man has no consequences." He picked up his shillelagh and gave it a wet, drunken kiss. "Time to go. Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin. There's no place like home." With that, he stumbled and jigged to the door.

As the doorbell rang once again, the bartender called out, "Slán leat! Goodbye!"

With a wave and a mumble, the leprechaun departed. "Slán agat! Goodbye!"

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