Lynch's Mob

A story of the Pooka Lynch

16 August, 2005...

Already they're inside the house. I can hear them tearing apart the barricades on the stairs. At a guess I'd say it's fifteen minutes before they find me...

It started when my mother passed.

"She was quite a woman," Father Gill said.

"That she was," I replied.

"Kept working the farm till the day she died, as I hear."

"She loved that farm," I said.

"I suppose you'll be selling it?"

"I suppose I will."

"I expect some rich American will snatch it up," he said. "Our little town's becoming quite the tourist attraction. You know we've our own website now and all?"

"Really now?"

"Oh yes. It's not the sleepy little hamlet you remember, Michael."

Oddly, I remembered Derrygonnelly as the busiest city in the world, because that's what it was back then. We'd come in for market on the weekends, and there would be more people there than I ever saw in my life. Then I moved to Belfast, then New York, and all of a sudden the great metropolis of Derrygonnelly had become little more than a crossroads.

Oh, Christ, Lynch, where are you? You're the only one can save me...

I went back to the old farm after the service was done. When first I came in, I smelled sour milk; she'd left a saucer out on the windowsill like she had done every day, along with a crust of home-baked bread, which was starting to grow mould. I threw them out, but once I had milked poor old Maggie, I refilled the saucer. Mum had always believed in the sídhe, who she called the Tuatha dé Danann—the ancient gods of the Celtic race who were forced to live under the hills. The least I could do was feed them one last time.

The milk made me think of the faery-ring in the field she always left fallow. She always told me as a boy never to play there, never to disturb those who lived there, and so when I walked over to the fallow field, saucer in hand, I walked as quietly as I could. On a whim, I took off my shoes and walked barefoot through the clover. I placed the saucer by the edge of the circle.

"My mother is gone," I said to no one in particular. There was silence. "Eighty-six when she died, and never hired a helper, but the farm looks the same as ever it did. I'll be selling the farm, but I'll keep this field for her sake—and for yours, I suppose. Peace."

If I'd known then what I know now...

A week later, I found myself back home in New York, sifting through a pile of junk mail, when someone rang my doorbell, twice. I went to answer it, and saw there a very tall white rabbit in a black waistcoat and matching fedora.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed.

"Not quite," it said in a Northern Irish accent even thicker than mum's had been. "I am the Pooka Lynch."

"Get you back, Pooka," I said. "I've done your kind no harm."

"But you've done us a service," the Pooka said. "May I enter? Your neighbors will find it odd if you keep talking to something they cannot see."

"This is New York. People don't notice that sort of thing. But if you wish to come in, come."

If only I had barred you from my door... but now, now I need you to come back...

"As the Pooka of Ulster," said Lynch, who had courteously adopted human form for my sake, "it is my responsibility to deliver punishment to those who cross the Even Fae, and mine also to reward those who do us a good turn. You did not sell your faery-field out of respect for my kind, and for that you have earned my thanks."

"I did it out of respect for my mum," I said.

The Pooka shrugged. "An irrelevance. Now, name your reward, and it will be given you."

"I don't want anything from your kind," I said. "All I want is to be left in peace, receiving no more than what I earn and what I deserve for my acts on this earth."

"You refuse my offer? You are certain of that?"

"Completely," I said.

"Then you will get just what you ask for."

You gave me something you know I never requested, Lynch! This sick joke must end!

Everything I earn, everything I deserve. The cruellest blessing I never asked for.

When I first realized Lynch had granted the wish I hadn't intended to make—that I get exactly what I deserve—I admit, I was pleased. An extra quarter in my change at the convenience store where I always leave a penny but never take one. No one ever honked at me in traffic unless I'd earned it. And there was Jenny, of course, pretty Jenny the receptionist, with the boyfriend who didn't deserve her... unlike me.

I very soon realized, though, that it was a double-edged sword. After my glorious night with Jenny, a night well-earned, we overslept in the morning. On a normal day, we would have just made it—but I deserved to be late, and so we both were. And strolling into work an hour late, with my dismal fourth quarter numbers, after spending the night fraternizing with the receptionist, I deserved to be fired. And having lost my job and gotten Jenny into trouble, I didn't deserve her any more either.

Oh, Jenny. Are you out there now, throwing my furniture through the windows? Will you be one of those who helps kill me?

How many speeding tickets have you earned but never gotten? How many women would give you a well-deserved slap across the face if they knew what you were thinking? You may well ask what sort of man deserves to be torn limb from limb by an angry mob, as I soon will be. My answer is: the typical sort. I am not a bad man. I am not a particularly good man. To be honest, I can't say which of my countless sins—repented but never erased—has earned me this.

I worked for a corporation that was responsible for plunder and murder, as most corporations are, yet I did nothing.

I paid taxes which went to a bloated, mismanaged military and a war I find immoral.

I never bothered getting American citizenship, and so robbed myself of the ability to vote my conscience.

I looked at girls who may or may not have been quite of age, and I felt lust.

I didn't recycle.

I have overdue library books.

I burned copies of Netflix DVDs.

I secretly feared black people.

I supported an exploitative industry by spending money on porn.

Worst of them all, I did not oppose those who killed for things I believed in.

And the litany of evils goes on. Somehow, I doubt I could so easily list my virtues.

Lynch. I did you a service, Lynch. If I die today, what will happen to your evicted sídhe when they raze my faery-ring?

"I will find them new homes," said a voice behind me. "I've done it before."

I turned, and there was the great white rabbit, leaning casually against an attic rafter.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Wouldn't it be easier—"

"You insulted me," Lynch interrupted. "You rejected my offer. You told me you wanted nothing from 'my kind'. I do not take insults from mortals lightly, Mr O'Donnell."

"Are you waiting for an apology?" I said, incredulous.

"An apology would not erase the insult... but it would help."

"Get stuffed," I said. "My mum told me never to tangle with Pookas, because every word they say is a lie. Will you stand here and tell me that's not true? I need your help, Pooka Lynch, to lift the curse you put on me. If you leave me to die, I'll leave you to answer to your superiors."

The rabbit smiled. I didn't know they could do that. "I will enjoy watching you die, Mr O'Donnell..."

"Good," I said. "They'll be in the attic any moment now."

"Don't interrupt me," he snapped. "I will enjoy watching you die—but not today."

He twirled a long-clawed paw, and the sound from below vanished.

"You've lifted the curse?"

"There was no curse, Mr O'Donnell."

I suddenly realized we were standing in the living room again, where we had stood two days before. I looked at my watch: it was the 14^th again. Sunday again.

"It... it was all in my head?" I asked. "It never happened?"

"A warning," the Pooka explained. "I'm giving you a second chance, because Truth is an Odd Number. But if you defy me again, O'Donnell, don't bother begging for my forgiveness."

"I didn't this time, did I?"

"You will send the deed to your mother's farm to me as soon as possible." He handed me a business card: Malachy Lynch, Danukin Industries. "I will sell those parts meant for mortals, and keep those parts meant for my vassals. You will be reimbursed as I feel appropriate."

"You're too kind."

"Hope that you never see me again," he said. And with that, he put on his hat and left.

When he was gone, I sat down and examined the card. There were addresses in Belfast, Shanghai, Buenos Aires, Lagos, Manila, Karachi, Moscow, Delhi, São Paulo, Seoul, Istanbul... and, about halfway down the list, New York. Oddly, I could read every address clearly, even the ones that weren't in English. More of the Pooka's cheap conjuring tricks. Still, I did hope I would never see him again, and so I put the card down on my desk so I'd remember to send the deed to him the next day.

At that moment, though, I was too exhausted to do anything else but make my way upstairs (the barricades were gone, thankfully) and collapse into bed, fully clothed. As I dozed off, I pondered what tie to wear the next day, and decided on the red one, because Jenny said she liked it once.

I also decided to start recycling.