The Trials of Young William

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Off into the big dark ugly in anticipation of fearsome revel we trotted and let me assure you we were not disappointed in our pursuits, no sir! The money and whiskey flowed like whiskey and money. Ere long I found myself surrounded by Sweet Colleens and let me tell you, lovelier than the lasses nowadays by half, er. . . present company excepted, I’m sure. Ah, but I was man of the hour and no mistake! Cuttin’ up the rug I was. Such a fine St. Patty’s as you never did see. Have you ever tasted the nectar of night? I mean to say the distillation of all that’s good in life? Well, let me tell you, it’ll put a spring in your step and warm you clear through to your old age. I’m telling you truthsomes, here! Why, that just reminds me of a story about a fellow I knew far back in my wee little speck of a village.

Now, y’see, Young William was nobody’s fool, but he’d never been known to stay out of nights. Slow and steady sort of lad with a no-nonsense disposition. This poor fellow had a charming lassie and he loved nothing more than to call her his own, but one afternoon she asked him to meet her down at the pub and he hastened off to do so, but with an indescribable sense of foreboding. Something there’d been in her tone which sent a chill just where he couldn’t tell. Nevertheless there she sat at their favorite seat and the band was setting up for some good craic, it being St. Patty’s and the fiddles all getting a good dusting. He looked down at her and a lovely sight she was, red hair with hunter’s green ribbons, “easy on the eyes” and no mistake. But when he sat there was a shadow in her smile and his misgivings redoubled.

“What’s the matter, Reign?” for that was her Christened name. “Yer lookin’ a tad misgiven.”

“William,” she said, for that was William’s name, “you’ll perhaps think me unkind, but I’ve been troubled lately and, well, here we sit where it all started and this being the day,” for indeed they’d first met in that very pub, at that very table, on that finest of all days precisely one year prior, “and I think this must be the end.”

Well poor William couldn’t have been harder hit had an anvil dropped upon him.

“The end?” cried he. “Surely you’re mistaken! I’m quite sure we were in just the very early part of the middle. Why only recently I told you of my shadowy royal lineage as pertains to the ancient chieftains of our noble land,” he paused to wipe the sweat on his brow. “And moreover I’ve never related the mysterious details of my Uncle Cornelius’s peculiar inheritance.”

“That may well be, but never the less I fear this to be my exit.”

“It’s another man then?” William asked, mostly deflated and the rest of him crushed.

“I don’t want to be saying yes,” she said, looking up with eyes that had never been so green, “but yes.”

Suddenly indignant, William demanded, “And who might he be, then?!”

“Connor O’Connor,” she replied with a sudden warm flush.

“So it’s Connor, is it?”

“Yes,” she replied, rather breathless.

“Connor, eh?” he asked hotly.

“Aye,” for she couldn’t see denying it now.

“Young Connor O’Connor?” clarifying the point.

“Yes, William.”
“Well!” he said in just such a way to make clear the point had gotten home but he certainly didn’t like it. Connor O’Connor was generally acknowledged as the most powerful boxer in the village, if not the county round.

Reigne had just the sort of twinkle in her eye to say she was beyond retrieval, but William was of the stalwart sort that never believed he was truly beaten, even when he was.

“So what is it about this here Connor O’Connor you’d be preferring over me?”

“Well,” she seemed only too eager to catalog his distinctions, “he’s a marvelous fiddler--”

This was true for he was admired for his rosining of a bow.

“Humph!” said William disparagingly.

“--and he’s a marksman with darts--”

Also a commonly acknowledged fact. William arched his eyebrows just so.

“--and he’s the fiercest boxer in the land.” As mentioned, a point beyond contest.

William considered these points momentarily, counted them out on his fingers to check, and found them not so weighty as all that. “Is that all?” he demanded with just such a tone as he was certain he was scoring a point.

“And he’s asked me out to the Dance this evening,” and here she looked a bit sheepish for she knew she was somewhat in the wrong, having let herself be asked and still a spoken woman. Moreover, she knew William’s feelings on late nights and the Dance was to last into the wee hours when all good working folk ought reasonably to be in bed.

“Well!” said William, confident he had her dead to rights and, “There you are!” pushing his advantage. “It just goes to show you what kind of fellow he is now, doesn’t it?”

I should perhaps interject here a bit on the character and moral makeup of our Young William, for young he was. He’d been raised by his mother alone, a woman of the most up-right character, strong, noble, and never one to forget the family’s misty relation to the noble chieftains of shrouded ages. She’d reared William accordingly and he’d gotten it before he was weaned. Particularly, she’d taught him that events transpiring during hours of darkness were nothing for God-fearing people to witness and, moreover, weren’t good for the body, exposing one to noxious night-time vapors.

Thus, William’s policy had always been to conduct courtship in the daylight hours and, just to be safe, deliver his beloved home before the setting of the sun, lest she be beset. And while she’d never said anything outright, William always quietly suspected Reign doubted the sagacity of his good mother’s council from the way she pursed her lips whenever William looked nervously westward and suggested they be getting her home.

“Well, doesn’t it?” William repeated.

“I want to go to the Dance,” she said simply.

Poor William was thunderstruck.

It was then Molly Mallone, the barmaid, set a pint down before him, a concoction of seltzer water and bitters his mother prescribed as being healthful and instilling vigor. Molly had been his closest friend and advisor in the courting of fair Reign. It seemed only fitting she was present as they reached this momentous crisis. William stared numbly at the glass of frothy amber fluid, took it in a none-too-steady hand, and quaffed it at a gulp in such a way as would have concerned his noble dame considerably, she engendering strong objections to the too-rapid consumption of one’s drink. Heady vapors required time for digestion, after all.

Glancing up from the empty glass he saw Molly studying him with deep concern and recalled all her sage advice regarding the mysterious ways of women. Perhaps, he thought to himself, Reign was. . . what was it? ‘Testing the strength of his resolve!’ Well, he had a thing or two to tell her.

“Connor isn’t all that good at fiddlin’--” he announced.

Reign’s face registered deep shock.

“I’ve been playin’ better than him since I was six.”

The lass arched one eyebrow and her gaze hardened. “Is that so?”

“That’s so!” William retorted loudly. A number of nearby patrons perked up their ears to hear the quiet man raise his voice.

“What’s more, I can lick him at darts on a bad day.”

“Y’can neither, William!” the girl called back, acquiring a touch of pique.

“Who’s that?” asked a nearby imbiber, namely a Mister Nixtrum the local bailiff.

“I believe he’s talkin about our own Connor O’Connor. Says he can beat ‘im at darts!”

“And makin’ disparagin’ remarks about his fiddlin’!” said a portly fellow delivering a keg of porter who happened to be standing nearby.

“It’s just the liquor talkin’!” exclaimed an amicable old codger who was teetering on the warm, bleary edge of oblivion and his barstool. “Losin’ his girl to the blighter, he is. Never liked the Young Connor anyhow. A blowhard like his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father’s--”

“Hear now,” contested a roundish matron who’d arrived to collect her displaced husband “that doesn’t make it right for him to be making disparaging remarks and all.”

“She’s right, replied the portly porter porter piosly. “A fellow who’s lesser of a man oughtn’t be disparaging a fellow who’s morer of a man just ‘cause he takes a fancy to his lass.”

“Takes a fancy!” shouted William, getting rather hot. “I can out box the no-good blighter any day of the week, too!”

The pub fell silent. Reign stared at him as if she’d overheard him profaning the gospel. The old codger at the bar felt a brisk shock of youth in his old limbs. In the kitchen the scullery maid dropped a pin which produced such a deafening tumult the patrons all jumped and one gentleman almost spilled the whiskey frozen half-way between the surface of the bar and his quivering lip. Admittedly it was a rolling pin, but nevertheless the room was startlingly quiet.

“Ha!” Reign exclaimed at last in a most unlady-like manner.

“Well now!” cried the lurking form of the matron’s husband from beneath a corner table.

“Careful, laddie, said the friendly old codger at the bar.

“I’m telling you, I’ll out-fiddle, out-throw, and out-box Connor O’Connor any day of the week. Including tonight!” Young William exclaimed in a high fury.

“Can y’now, lad?” asked the old codger, stroking his silvery whiskers and trying to remember who he addressed.

“Beyond doubt!”

“Tonight?” asked Mister Nixtrum, a betting man if ever there was one.

“Tonight,” attested William, though with somewhat less conviction, aware suddenly of what he attested.

“Good on ye, laddie!” cried the old codger. “And I’ll stake ‘im!”

“A quid,” cried Mister Nixtrum.

“Just a quid?” the codger goaded with something of a slur.

“Make if five, if yer a man,” responded Mister Nixtrum who could pick a loser when he saw one after fifteen years of dragging them from before the Bench.

“Three pounds sterling for two out of three, five pounds for a clean sweep,” the codger declared. “And it’s about time Young Connor got what’s coming to him, by gumption!”

“Yer on,” cried Mister Nixtrum, already contemplating modes of collecting from the bleary old gent.

“Humph!” said Reign, thrusting herself proudly upward, outward and, finally, through the doorway into the street beyond.

Only then did the full scope of his predicament reveal itself to Young William and if it had not been for the fortifying nature of his bitters and seltzer he might have been render unsteady. Amidst the bemused onlookers, who’s numbers suddenly multiplied prodigiously, he found Molly’s face. Her eyebrow continued to arch as she released a long, slow, steady sigh William recognized as the approach of the county tax collector or impending doom.

Taxes weren’t due till Fall.

Some minutes later over a third bitters and seltzer Young William appraised his situation with the good counsel of Molly. They were not all together hopeless for he could at least play the fiddle. In total his father, God rest his merry soul, had left behind the little cottage in which William lived with his proud mother, a prodigious debt at the very pub in which they sat, and a very fine fiddle which had passed father to son no small number of generations. William had learned the rudiments in his youth and hadn’t let the dust gather too thickly or the bow go too long without a touch of rosin, but always in private.

Darts were a bit stickier a problem. Connor was a favorite while William, not frequenting the pub when such activities were common, scarcely knew how to keep score. Molly sought to console him by pointing out everyone in town was sure to turn out and score keepers would abound; this did little to soothe Young William’s dismay.

Molly considered the problem more deeply. Her tender brow creased for a long moment before she advised William not to worry.

“The Just shall live by Faith alone,” she said. Molly was a great one for quoting Scripture, capitals and all, but she never did it in a preachy way, being a barmaid and a sweet girl besides.

But mention of survival only heightened Young William’s foreboding, for the boxing match freshened itself in his memory. William was no weakling, having inherited his father’s robust constitution along with his rocky lands and the clearing those fields each Spring of stones which crept back in with the weeds was enough to maintain his sturdy physiognomy. His expertise at boxing, however, had been severely curtailed by his mother’s vigilance. While other school boys were diligently practicing jabs and clinches, William was being shepherded back to the sanctuary of their outlying cottage. Thus his brave head sank heavily into his hands and Molly could only pat him tenderly on the shoulder and say “There, there,” as she rehearsed her great aunt’s recipe for poultices for bruises.

The evening arrived, as such calamities must. Connor O’Connor arrived and was informed of the match. Reign, looking radiant, clung to his arm as Connor regaled an enrapt audience with stories of past victories. The old codger had sobered considerably and now looked rather pained, perhaps by a mild hangover but more likely by reflection upon how much drink five quid could purchase had he five quid to lose. At five minutes past the appointed hour Connor supposed loudly that Young William wouldn’t arrive. At quarter past young Molly was the only one present not astounded to see Young William enter sullenly by the side door with his father’s old fiddle tucked under one arm and a small, green bottle of tonic under the other.

His tardiness had not, in fact, been the result of presentiments of doom. To these he had resigned himself. That night he would do justice to his word. Tomorrow was soon enough to look into selling the humble family lands and moving his mother, himself and their two cows to a distant county.

Instead, the delay resulted from a lengthy debate with his mother regarding the hour of a fiddle contest for family honor. At first she insisted they send one of the neighbor children down to the pub, asking for a mother’s sake that the match be rescheduled to a daylight hour. Upon learning all the neighbor children were already at the pub anticipating the match, she exhorted Young William to carry a bottle of tonic to ward off the more noxious of the night vapors. To this Young William acquiesced only to learn that said tonic, a tea of foul-smelling medicinal herb in very precise proportion, awaited preparation.

Now William, looking ill at ease, set bottle and fiddle on a table and fished out a handkerchief to dry his brow. He was warm despite the cool night. A hush fell over the room and he was greeted by such stares as might have met some vaguely familiar French nobleman as he mounted the scaffold.

Molly and the old codger were the only two who approach him. The band had relinquished their make-shift stage until the bouts were completed when they would reclaim it and everyone celebrate Connor O’Connor’s victory into the wee hours.

Connor took his place and proceeded to tune up. The spell of silence was broken and the general roar recommenced and redoubled as the contender’s odds further depreciated.

“Good to see you, laddie,” the old codger said moving with the pained caution of one carrying too great a weight. His greeting lacked conviction and an unsympathetic listener might have surmised he’d hoped for an absence. He sat down with a wince and a sigh.

“Is yer lumbago bothering you tonight, Mr. Kelley,” Molly, who always had time for a compassionate word, asked compassionately.

“Something like that, my dear,” he replied. “Are y’ready, then, lad?” He studied William and did not seem to like what he saw, a large but very pale young man with a worry-wrought brow and ill-fitting clothes. William was just then calculating how much he might get for their house and land and failed to answer at all. Instead he blinked twice at kindly Mr. Kelley like one who’d just woken from a bad night’s sleep.

“Never y’mind, then,” he sighed heavily. “How about a little touch of the water of life?” He held up a small, green glass bottle

“No, thank you kindly, sir,” William replied considerately. His mother expressly forbade spirits.

“It’s some of the finest, lad,” and he winked with a strained-but-conspiratorial smile. “An old friend sends it down to me. Guaranteed to put shuffle in yer step and a dip in yer fiddle.”

“I think William will need his fiddle fairly keen this evening, Mr. Kelley,” Molly chimed in.

“Perhaps yer right, then,” Mr. Kelley conceded and, drinking deeply himself, set down the bottle and turned to the stage.

Connor was now ready. To be fair, Connor had drunk heartily since arriving and perhaps had already rounded that first turn beyond which our self-esteem waxes even as our abilities wane. Having struggled to tune for some minutes while smiling confidently at Reign and stopping twice to speak to well-wishers, he had decided the poor old fiddle was close enough to pass muster and took bow in hand. The din of the room hadn’t helped because he’d been largely unable to hear over the roar and hubbub of spectators and speculators. Betting, alas, was slow and startling odds were to be had for William.

Thus when he began to saw away, it might not have surprised an impartial witness that something was sorely amiss. Alas, lovely Reign was completely tone-deaf and only stared dreamily up at her new champion. Connor, in turn, was aware he was a bit off but between the wash of the lager, Reign’s gaze, and his own indomitable confidence, he couldn’t discern what he was about at all. The audience, however, was painfully aware of a cacophony more akin to the gutting of a cat than the purring of its guts. When he finished there was more coughing than clapping and popular sentiment was that someone was guilty of deceit. Reign alone clapped frenziedly, which seemed to be enough for Connor who beamed until he glanced into the eyes of Mister Nixtrum the Bailiff. The smile faded.

Meanwhile, Young William diligently tuned in a suddenly silent room. He was about to mount the stage when he recalled his mother’s tonic and reached back for the bottle. Seeing him take the green-glassed philter in hand, Mr. Kelley took up his own of identical make with a stern resolve to make the best of things. They touched goblets and drank deeply.

Now be it the benevolence of St. Patrick himself was smiling down on our little hamlet that night or some trick of chance, the two bottles were confused and Young William took a long pull on some of the strongest, sweetest whiskey to ever pass an Irishman’s teeth. The room swam before him a moment. He gasped a deep breath. Finally he released a long sigh followed closely by a hiccup. Those standing near heard him whisper “Dear Mother’s tonics, better all the time,” before mounting to the stage.

Now the first drop of liquor a lad ever takes is akin to the nectar of the gods. Transformative stuff in its own right. Moreover, in accord with his mother’s instructions Young William had downed half the flask in a gulp. It doesn’t take long for their effects to move a man unaccustomed to their caress.

Young William had chosen the favorite tune of his poor old father, God rest his merry soul. It wasn’t a terribly fancy piece, but it had some deep feeling and a real snappy part towards the end which William was in the habit of taking rather cautiously because he didn’t fancy missing a note. But that night he let fly with extreme vigor. Without knowing why, he felt confident the bow was caring for matters of its own accord; all he needed do was hold on. His fingers danced and cavorted along the fine, worn neck and he picked up speed. The room came alive as he finished the first section and dark faces lit up, feet tapped, lads took lasses in their arms and gave smiling nods to nearby friends.

As he started the third section there was no stopping him. While that hazardous curve which toppled Connor might have lain somewhere ahead, Young William was galloping along the straight-away, indifferent to caution and oblivious to care. He began to dance a bit of a jig himself as he sawed away. The room before him had already broken into dance and the musicians in the wings nodded approval each to each.

Ignoring convention, William repeated the piece from start to finish without pause and wound up with a delighted little flourish, spinning in the air with a jaunty click of the heels which brought an admiring gasp to all who watched. William stood still before them perspiring heavily and unsure what had happened. Only slowly did he realize the roar in his ears was applause or that his audience didn’t consist of the usual two cows and occasional barn sparrow. Remembering himself, he blinked, flushed, and moved hurriedly off stage harried by many congenial slaps on the back and an excited squeeze of the hand from Molly.

“Well done, laddie! Well done!” Mr. Kelley shouted at him over the roar in the packed little pub. He shook hands vigorously and stood a little more upright, having forgotten completely to ask about the contents of his companion’s flask.

Only six eyes weren’t smiling. One set belonged to Connor’s face, which was heavily clouded with uncharacteristic doubt. Reign, too, looked confused and gnawed contemplatively at her lower lip. Mister Nixtrum was looking daggers at poor, stupefied Connor from a dark corner of the pub.

“Never would’ve dreamed you had it in you!” the glowing Mr. Kelley continued to shout up at William, pumping his arm up and down with surprising vigor.

“Thank you, sir,” William replied in a daze.

“Now if you can do the same in darts--”

And with that William’s sense of impending doom returned and redoubled. Not only did he not know how to score the game, as he’d confessed to Molly that afternoon, he’d never thrown a dart in his life.

The two contestants adjourned to the dart board in the corner and the multitude crowded about for a decent view, now and then thrusting their fellows into the line of fire in their eagerness. Molly had retreated to the bar, uncertain she wished to witness the painful spectacle and with a plan of her own in mind.

William was lent a beautiful set of darts by Mr. Kelley himself who’s spirits were soaring as he strutted about with his arm awkwardly upon his boy’s lofty shoulders. Before the first round was thrown a set of drinks arrived from the bar for the competitors. William sipped at his bitters and seltzer with deep concern. His head throbbed and he felt a little dizzy.

Connor, on the other hand, had the composure of a man in his element. Countless nights had been spent sinking his whetted tips into that very board. The bound horse hair within the bull’s eye knew his precision and welcomed dart after dart. William, on the other hand, was a complete stranger with no prior compact. No offerings had been made. He was an interloper and the board would offer no concessions to his near misses. A dart board, as every devotee knows, is nothing if not capricious and spiteful to a stranger. Like any other petty god, it expects regular supplication and ceaseless fawning to ensure victory at a crucial crux.

The game was simple cricket in deference to William’s ignorance. Mr. Kelley anxiously explained rules as the game progressed. He started off with “Aim for what Connor just hit” and ended up with “Try for the board.”

Let us not labor on the painful. If you don’t happen to be familiar with cricket there’s no reason to learn now. A stomping is a stomping in Snooker or Darts, Football or Bowls. Connor had closed 20’s, 19’s, 18’s, 17’s and 16’s, and his score was well over 300 when William finally managed to close out the 20’s. They agreed to a quick break while William, who was feeling decidedly weak, stepped out for some air to clear his head.

Within the house affairs were heatedly discussed. Connor was back to boasting,. Around him had gathered a loyal band of supporters. Drinks flowed steadily from the bar towards Connor’s corner and they grew louder and more raucous by the minute.

But elsewhere denizens of our little hamlet were quietly admitting they may have judged Young William too harshly. The band had already agreed to solicit his membership. A few cited William’s kindness and congeniality, barring his being a little on the prissy side. Others noted Connor had always been something of an insufferable blowhard and wasn’t it a shame that he was going to pound the stuffing out of Young William when the dart game was finished. By and large the house was divided with quiet support for William on the one side, boisterous toasts to Connor on the other, and the modest camp of the indecisive in the middle. All the while, Connor kept drinking heavily of the good lager of the land, pint after pint arriving like clockwork, while he awaited Young William who was making sick in a rubbish bin outside.

Mr. Kelley was reassessing his fortunes. After the fiddle competition he thought he had somehow miraculously stumbled upon his own little Blarney Stone, his wishes were coming true, his luck was swinging around at last after all these years. Alas, it now appeared the fickle finger of fate had merely been playing him for a yo-yo and he was going down for another hard knock. He went to look for the vehicle of his destruction and found him wiping the corners of his mouth in the alley.

“What’s ailing you, lad?” he asked with sudden compassion. “A bit too much of the stuff?”

“No sir. As I told you, all I ever drink is fresh spring water and my mother’s wholesome tonics,” and with that he remembered that he was recklessly exposing himself to the night air and had not yet finished his dosage of home remedy. He removed the bottle from his breeches’ pocket and popped the cork. He studied the contents a moment with a cautious eye and took a sniff and then, with respect, raised the bottle towards his backer.

“Slan’sha,” he sighed a little unsteadily.

“A minute, lad!” Not remembering how peculiar it had tasted last time, he uncorked his own little green bottle and raised it in salute. “Slan’sha.”

And the two men drank.

It is not unlike one of those moments when the Fate of Empires hangs in the balance. One ill-timed sneeze and the invaders of Troy would have been roasted in a horse soup. A little less rain at Agincourt and the British Isles would be speak French. Similarly, our hero quaffed off the last and swayed to and fro a moment. Would he fall? Would he return to his gutter? Would he be cleanly walloped out of home, county and the love of his lass? As Mr. Kelley shook his head in amazement at the brackish taste of his own drink, William shook, swallowed again with difficulty, and cautiously returned to the bright lights of the pub’s open door.

And so the dart match ended as it must. Many a stout slap on the back for Connor, William looking doomed and despairing.

General milling about followed as spectators spoke in loud whispers of the final bout. Pints and glasses were recharged. Debate focused upon how long Young William could hope to last. Connor’s prowess had been touted far and wide since he was coming up in school. In the yard he had been known to blacken many an eye and bloody many a lip. Since then he had been restricted to the pub for his ring and the frequency of his bouts dropped off steadily as his fame spread.

William reviewed his prospects. He’d received a very painful humbling but it had been abstract. Darts hitting a board meant less than nothing to him, perhaps because his rarely hit. But the prospect of being punched disturbed him profoundly. He was nothing if not peace-loving and harbored deep misgivings about hitting Connor. On the other hand, watching his Reign doting upon him across the room he felt that he just might be willing to give it a try. Nevertheless, he was an exemplary novice. As he stood staring at the two of them Mr. Kelley regaled him with all the finer points of boxing. How to hold his hands, where to strike, when to move in and when to pull back, how to move his feet. It all fell on deaf ears which burned red when Reign rose on her tip-toes and placed a timid kiss on Connor’s glowing cheek. The lass swooned. Connor casually glanced at her with a self-assured and woozy smile.

The time came. The two men stepped out to the dark village green. Lanterns were brought so the pugilists could clearly see each other. Both men stripped off their shirts and for the first time Connor realized what he was up against. Indeed, a quiet murmur rippled through the crowd.

Removing his bulky and ill-fitting tunic, William revealed a far stouter physique than any had ever credited him. Having pushed a plow through his father’s rocky soil since a very young lad, having dug stones from morn till night to clear space for a few more potatoes each year, straining every day to maintain their little cottage in an upright posture, these had wrought an imposing physique on the quiet young man. He had always been ignored in the accounts of the brawniest lads of the county because of his passive nature, but suddenly there was little doubt he was the more muscular of the two.

Connor admirably concealed his surprise. Perhaps his libations had inured his senses against the realization. Whatever the case, the two men stepped onto opposite corners of the grassy lawn of the village green. Behind Connor stood Reign and Mister Nixtrum who gave his contender a hearty slap on the back.

“Rip ‘im to shreds!” he grumbled.

Behind William stood Mr. Kelley and quiet Molly Mallone, who had reappeared for the final conflict. They both smiled as reassuringly as possible. The pub’s owner, an Englishman who kept a large cow bell handy for such occasions, clanged it a couple times for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried as a hush fell over the assembly. “A bout to the finish!” A general cheer went up. “Gentlemen,--” William looked at him steadily. Bailiff Nixtrum anxiously poked Connor, who was unaware he was being addressed and listing a bit. “This is to be a clean fight. No kicking up sand in your opponent’s face, no rocks or knees, no biting, scratching, hair-pulling or spitting except as needed, no calling for help from the spectators, no wives or girlfriends throwing rubbish from the side, in short a clean fight. Understood?” The two young men looked at him uncertainly. “Good!” He stepped back hastily and clanged the bell loudly.

Now William had never seen such an event but somewhere had gleaned the notion they were to shake hands next. Connor stepped forward warily and William approached him, raising his hand. Seeing an opening, Connor lashed out with an unsteady jab which landed squarely on William’s eye. The sturdy lad, fell back in surprise. The crowd cheered to see the battle so quickly joined. Molly winced as if it were her own eye which had been offended. Mr. Kelley just winced.

William was smarting painfully. Before him Connor was looking about to the cheering crowd and his eyes found Reign. Connor flexed his muscles and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, then staggered a little as the green tilt rather sharply to the left. He returned his attention to his opponent.

They faced each other. William felt a hot fury rush through his innards like a fire spreading through dry kindling. He raised his fists in imitation of his opponents. They circled warily. Connor was perhaps non-plussed by the stoutness of William’s knotty muscles but the lager drove him confidently on. Twice Connor lunged forward and swung at William’s face but the blows came too slowly and William stepped easily aside. The truth be known, Connor had not boxed in months, nor had he done anything else. Lying fallow had not strengthened his arms or resolve. Already becoming winded, he wondered through a woozy haze why the big man opposite him hadn’t already fallen down.

Intending to prove himself for his backer, the pretty lass, and the crowd in general once and for all, he prepared to lunge a third time. He’d misplaced the identity of his adversary in one of those many glasses of lager. He needed to win, but was no longer sure why. Focusing keenly on his target he struck out with all his might. But William saw him pull back in preparation for the swing. Closing his eyes, for he didn’t like to see such things, he drew back his own beefy fist, charged and let fly.

The effect was perhaps not unlike one of those medieval jousts in which tin-clad combatants rush towards each other, the sound of a mighty clash, they rush past each other, and one falls.

What more can be said of that finest of St. Patty’s? The people stared in stunned surprise. More than a few gasps were heard as they looked first at one, then at the other. William stood rubbing his bruised knuckles tenderly. Connor O’Connor lay curled on the grass with a dreamy smile on his face, already beginning to snore loudly. A cry went up, started perhaps by the astonished Mister Kelley but immediately joined on all sides. Our own Young William was suddenly surround by countless congratulators who had minutes ago scorned him ten-to-one odds. Mister Kelley himself was not among them. He was dancing an ecstatic and quite sprightly little jig with a startled but bemused Molly Mallone.

And Sweet Reign? She stood idle for only a moment, studying Young Connor in his repose before forcing her way through the crowd to stand near William’s side.

“Oh, William!” she cried in her most breathless voice, “I’ve been so wrong about you!! Will you ever forgive me?!” and she looked up at his simple face with her eyes wide and bright, a hint of a tear at the corner of the right one.

William turned to look down at her in turn, her amber hair glistening like chestnuts in late autumn, her eyes sparkling a deep, minty green, her slender waist and anxiously rising bosom shown to their best possible advantage in the lantern light and the deep forest-green of her handsome dress. As he pondered she offered a timid, encouraging smile.

But beyond her his eye was caught by a flash of dull white. Molly had disengaged herself from the jubilant Mister Kelley and was studying him curiously with her keen barmaid’s eye, reflexively smoothing the folds of her apron.

William merely shrugged.

“In faith, Reign, I do not know. I fear the night vapors have discommoded my poor brain, for I’m feeling a touch light-headed. Perhaps it was Connor’s blow to me skull.”

“Blow to your skull, nothing!” cried Mister Kelley from his elbow with irrepressible glee. “Ye’ve been quaffin’ the finest, sweetest liquor in the land! Lookie here,” and he removed the green glass bottle from the breast pocket of his worn coat. Sure enough, on its side had been scratched a crude W.O. for Winifred O’Doogle, Young William’s dam’s pre-nuptual name. “This here be your bottle and you’ve been drinkin’ from mine.” And he gave out a delighted cry of glee which greatly astonished the assembly for the man, while good-spirited, was generally rather somber.

“Are you well, Mister Kelley? Yer acting a bit--unusual,” Molly asked with concern.

“Why, I haven’t felt any better since I was Young William’s age! This fine stuff is truly a marvel,” and he tapped the glass bottle with his crooked index finger. “A marvel! I’ll tell you what laddie, you bring me your dear mother’s tonic and I’ll trade you ounce for ounce every night of your life! I’ve never felt so good! I want to be dancing! Where’s that band!” and he grabbed the down-cast Reign by her slender waist and began waltzing her amongst the bemused townsfolk. As if hearing their cue, the band began a spritely reel within and the villagers began to mill indoors to continue their revel, leaving Young Connor O’Connor to sleep it off in the grass.

Mister Nixtrum, for his part, had decided to make an early evening of it only moments after Young Connor’s dazed cranium collided with the sod. He growled and cursed all the way and made furious and inept kicks at a neighborhood dog which in turned snapped at his heels.

William was implored to repeat his performance on the fiddle and did with considerable gusto. The night waxed and then waned and William remained amongst the revelers of the town, aware for the very first time of the warm wash of the distillation of the night. When not playing his fiddle to the accompaniment of that exceptionally fine band he lingered near the bar and spoke to Molly as she filled pint and dram glass with spirited efficiency. And if she didn’t have a word of praise for him that evening, for such was not her way, her eyes had never sparkled and danced so keenly and she’d never smiled so gay, though our Young William couldn’t think why.

Now take heed, friends, of the plight of poor Connor O’Connor. There’s a dark line which ‘tis ill-fated to cross and no mistake! It’s a foolish, reckless clod who doesn’t pay due reverence to the Good Stuff. But ah! when the ladies are smiling and the warmth’s in your blood, the sweetness of her amber glow about you, it’s a fine thing.

But now it’s time we had us a drop and a toast and why, yes, I’d be mightily obliged of your generosity for I am a bit dry with talking. But I’d be remiss if I failed to mention that much later that morning William walked Miss Molly Mallone home under the fading moon, past the green where Connor slumbered on beside the companionable mutt so rudely abused by Bailiff Nixtrim’s boot. They talked of nothing but the warmth of the evening and William conceded that Mr. Kelley’s flask did seem adequate proof against the night vapors though he’d never say as much to his sweet mother and yes, it might be nice for them to meet that Sunday, Young Molly’s day of rest, for a quiet walk about the fairer of the county roads.

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©1999 Nathan Barnett