Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, Part five

Two Years Ago, West Ireland

part one
part two
part three
part four

With a hand still clamped to the side of his face, he stumbled along with the travellers as they dragged him toward the sound of the villagers, who'd gotten pretty vocal. It could have been heartwarming, if Josiah'd been in a state to appreciate it. As he was pushed back down to his knees in front of the rebuilt bonfire, he called out, "Imigh sa bhaile, Aodh." Well, he tried to call it out. Groaned it out would be a better description. For his effort, he got a foot between the shoulderblades and pitched forward onto his hands. Seriously, Aodh. Go home. You're not helping anyone here.

"We won't be goin' home!" Missus Ó Connacháin replied. Crap. Was the whole village here? There were some largish rocks near his knees on the ground. He /could/ conceivably get to them, aid in his own rescue. But he'd have to conk someone on the noggin, and he knew from experience now that being bashed in the head was a trying experience. No, better they all just go home. The Travellers had treated him well until the entire gaeltaecht'd shown up to take back their property.

"Lemme just-" he started, looking up to the oldest brother beseechingly. "Lemme just get one of them here, to talk. How about that?"

The traveller considered it, then grinned. "Oiya!" he called, and Josiah sat on his feet and tried to rally his waning attention as a conversation ensued. He didn't actually end up getting anyone over to talk, because all the traveller needed was the seed of idea, and then he did the rest on his own. Whatever they were saying, Josiah didn't pay attention except to listen for tone. He breathed a sigh of relief when the conversation ended without raised voices. But when the representative from the gaeltaecht stepped into the firelight, he almost groaned again.

"Missus Ó Connacháin," he muttered. "This is not a good idea."

"Think they'd hurt me?" she replied in that lilt that barely passed as English. "I'm safer here than you are."

Maybe if the travellers had been more unsavory, maybe if she'd been alone, she'd be wrong. But they weren't, and she wasn't, and if the travellers wanted to take out their anger on anyone, a male stranger without kin in the area was a much better target.

"Please go home," he mumbled instead of acknowledging the truth of that.

"Leave you here, should we?"

"Yes. I can get home on my own."

"And can the pig get home on its own, then?"

Josiah blew out a breath. "Obviously not. Just. Give up on the pig, all right?"

Missus Ó Connacháin leaned forward a bit. "Come along, then," she murmured, glancing up at the travellers who stood just feet away. She grabbed at his arm and he saw what she meant even as he got himself to his feet. Yes, ok. He was in for this part of the plan, at least.

He'd only gotten two steps into escape when he heard the "Oi!" and the backward jerk of an arm around his neck. A moment later, he found himself on the ground, dazed and coughing through the sudden, if short-lived, strangle hold. Crap. He looked up just in time to see someone shove the Missus back into the dark. Someone else yelled something about a "blac," and he realised in a crowded moment that they wouldn't deal with a woman again. Not because of any perceived weakness, but because they wanted to be able to beat up on anyone who tried that again without damaging their personal moral codes. Cripes. Stupid complex society.

Okay. This was figure-out-able. It was probably even more figure-out-able in the light of day, with a whole night of nice, satisfying sleep under his belt. And whatever happened to the idyllic Irish countryside the pamphlet talked about, huh? No one ever said, be wary of situations involving stolen pigs. By the way, if a teenager says "we're just gonna steal it back," get the Heck out of there. And while you're at it, don't try to break up the fight. They needed a new copywriter.

"Oi!" Ok, so, the travellers wanted an answer. All right. They didn't want to be ignored. Right, because as a people they were either ignored or reviled by the country at large. That was easy. And they weren't bad - they were good to visitors, had solid if unusual moral boundaries. Ok. So. There was a reason this pig got stolen. Why did they steal the pig? Rabeen's voice filtered back to him as he sat up in the dirt. /They deserved it, Mister Josiah./ Moral code, plus a fairly unbothered philosophy on life - meant probably that they weren't actually taking stuff just because they simply felt marginalised. They probably really did deserve some kind of... payment.

Duh. The ó Cuinns just got their roof reshingled, didn't they? And who did that work? Probably these guys. What if...

"Hey, Muireadhach," he murmured, sitting on his butt in the dirt and rubbing his temple. But while he was figuring out something everyone else already knew - including Aodh, the little jerk - the travellers were having an argument of their own. Rabeen had her finger in Muireadhach's chest, sounding kinda miffed. She glanced over at him and huffed, putting her hands on her hips. She was still angry with him, probably, for asking about the pig. But it seemed like she was on his side.

Unfortunately, she didn't win the argument. Muireadhach strode over to him and hauled him to his feet by the arm. "Oiya!" he called, and they all just sort of assumed the villagers were watching from the dark. He shook Josiah violently as he spoke, and before Josiah could fully translate what he'd said, the traveller'd spun to him and crashed his knuckles into the linguist's jaw.

/Ow./

On the ground again. Grrreat. Oh, right. Boxing was a popular past-time among gypsies, wasn't it? No wonder he was still seeing stars. He wasn't a big guy to start with, and had no experience fighting. He didn't much enjoy the prospect of being a punching bag just to win a pig. "Wait!" he bumbled, palm of one hand to his jaw. The stupid ring had split skin to bone, it felt like. Ow crap ow. "Wait wait wait!" He got to his feet and put his hands out to either side, an alarming reminder of what had gotten him into this mess to start with. "Damn it, wait!"

The members of the gaeltaecht had never heard him curse before, and on them at least, it had the desired effect. The travellers were less impressed, but looked at him in amusement.

"You," he said, gesturing loosely toward the travellers. They looked a little agitated to be gestured at, but he didn't care. "Did /not/... steal a pig." Outrage from the villagers. Of course. "You were owed payment, right?" Outrage on one side, vehement agreement on the other. "But!" he continued, stemming the premature victory. "A pig wasn't the agreement, was it?"

Shuffling feet. Murmurs of "nil" and "nip" and "No it wasn't!" from both sides.

"Ok," he said raggedly. "Then what are you going to do about it? Fight? You're all civilized, bi- or tri- lingual people here, for cryin' out loud!" That got them thinking. He put a hand up to the cut on his chin and winced. A few feet off, he heard Rabeen's murmuring voice at Muireadhach's side, damning and beseeching all at once. He wavered on his feet, feeling dizzy and sorta sick, and let her do her thing for a few minutes, assuming a purely observational role, as he should have done to start with. Voices were lowering. Some little kid started wailing in a camper. Some coin jingled. And from what he gathered before he passed out in the dirt, the villagers had decided to buy back the pig, and keep it in the village rather than giving it back to the ó Cuinns, who through the entire ordeal had slept soundly in their beds in a big house on the hill.

Wow, he wanted a bath.