Terry began walking down the street once again, this time with a bit of a smile on his face. Apparently, that last call had taken something off his mind. Terry pulled out the papers he had been looking at earlier. “Okay, let’s check out your grandparents’ pub, Rachel.”
It didn’t take Terry very long to find the O’Hara pub, a cozy place with leather seating and wood paneled walls. A small stage was tucked in the back. Though it was only a little past three, a fair number of people were already engaged in quiet conversation, mostly local news. The barmaid, a strawberry blonde woman in her late twenties caught Terry’s attention.
“Good afternoon t’you sir. Is there anything I can get for you?” “Well…its my first time in a pub like this. What do you suggest?”
Fiona smiled. “An American, eh? You’ve never been to Ireland, then?” “No, my first day here as a matter of fact.”
Fiona ducked behind the bar, coming up with a handful of shot glasses. “The national drink in Ireland is Guinness, but a lot of tourists find in very strong and bitter. Erm…you are at least eighteen, right?”
“Oh sure,” Terry said, pulling out his drivers license.
“Hey, yer from Indiana! Marty, the owner has family there, his daughter and granddaughter.” She extended a hand. “Fiona Kennedy, Terry. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Fiona.” Terry tasted the dark stout. Damn, “strong and bitter” was an understatement, yet still. He wiped off the thick foam smiling. “Not bad,” he informed her. She gave him a skeptical look, then offered him the cider. “This is a lot lighter and sweeter. Terry agreed, the cider was delicious.
A few samples later, Terry decided that Smithwick’s dark-red draft was his preferred beverage. Fiona’s curiosity was piqued. “Tell me, Terry, what brought you to Ireland in the first place?”
“I’m the drummer for a band in Evansville. We managed to scrape up some money and came to Ireland for a couple of gigs in Dublin, maybe go to Liverpool later on.” Fiona smiled wryly.
“You’re quite a ways from Dublin or Liverpool, achara, what brings you to Galway?” She offered him a full pint of Smithwick’s. “It’s on the house,” she whispered.
Terry shrugged, gulping down half of the reddish liquid. “There were three girls on the flight over. I knew two of them, and was going to introduce myself when I overheard their conversation.”
“Fiona!” came a sharp voice from the back. “Lass, you have other customers. I’ll take this young man.” A stern-looking man in his mid fifties gave him a quick once-over. “Ye say you came over on the flight to Dublin, and you’re from Indiana, ay? The girls you overheard…their names wouldn’t be Rachel, Dita, and Heather, now would they?”
Ohhhh, crap. “Um, yessir…they would be.”
The man nodded sagely. “I’m Martin McDonald. I take it that the conversation you overheard didn’t involve a topic that comes up in everyday conversation. Amiright?”
Terry nodded wordlessly.
Martin leaned over on the bar, placing a roughened hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Son…I appreciate your concern. I’m also glad you chose to pay our pub a visit. Now consider this a warning, boy: forget what you’ve heard. You do not want to get involved in this. You know that old movie cliché, ‘you’re meddling with powers you can’t possibly comprehend’? Lad, trust me, you’re doing exactly that.
Refusing to be intimidated so easily, Terry called Martin’s bluff: “Werewolves, eh?”
“What do you know of them, boy?” “I know that Rachel said that your daughter was one.” “She did, did she? Just proclaimed it in the middle of a transatlantic flight?” “No, it was nothing like that. I heard her through an air vent I had knocked off accidentally.”
Martin grunted roughly. “You seem like a nice young man, maybe not very bright…but a good kid. I’m gonna tell you a story. Around the mid 17th century a young man, like yourself, the youngest brother of the parish priest, happened along a coven of witches or warlocks, or druids, some such nonsense as that, performing a profane, pagan ritual. Foolish lad thought he was hidden, but what he didn’t know was that they had seen him coming long before he saw them. You see, the druids had just about enough of being persecuted by the Catholic Church as far as they were concerned. They captured the young man, John Murphy was his name, and summoned the Prince of Darkness. Not able to kill the boy directly, nor able to take the soul of a saved man, Old Nick stole the essence of a dying wolf not too far away, altered the beast’s spirit and grafted it with John.”
Martin poured Terry another pint of Smithwick’s. “You chose a fine ale son. A fine ale. Now mind my words. After Mephistopheles grafted the wolf’s spirit into John, he spoke to the young man, saying: ‘your soul belongs to my Enemy, but your body shall be mine.” From that moment on, John began to change. He was released, but over the next few weeks, he became more and more bestial. The first murders happened about a month after he’d been touched, the second group a month later. All the victims were torn apart, devoured. The parish priest was killed straight away, the rest of the family within the year. Well, I needn’t tell you that such mayhem was cause for deep concern, and the wolf became the focus of hatred. The last of our wolves was killed off before you Americans had your revolution. Never did find John Murphy though. Some say he was killed, burned and buried by the druids, but his legacy lives on as his curse passes from one victim to another. Other say that he still lives, seeking a release for his soul, but cursed to roam till doomsday. My point is this: you are too young and innocent to be dealin’ in such matters. Again, I suggest you forget what you heard."
McDonald nodded brusquely. “Fiona will be along shortly. You mind what I said and enjoy your stay in Éire."