As I quit the steaming field of battle swathed in gore, my well-used smiting staff and halberd scraping ‘long my heavy wake, my heart o’erfull with what I’d seen that day, I heard a tiny voice exclaim O! Help me! Help me please!
Not all were dead! There on a sward, upon a strew of corpses, a small man lay, girt half in green and sorely battle-worn.
By my whiskers, ‘twas a leprechaun!
How by Drothmere’s gaiters came a leprechaun to the Battle Of Vlith-Tromulk?
How badly injured was he? And, should I chance to save him, what of his pot of gold?
(My wench and wenchling having accused me these two crusades past of coming home unseemly plunder-light.)
What are your wounds? I asked.
It’s my fucking leg, quoth he.
But in a tiny squeezy voice, like coming from one of those bathtub ducks.
Verily, a poniard cruel showed gruesomely a-jut from his red-spattered thigh. Do you wish I pull it out, I asked. Or cut it off? Or… leave it in there, or push it all the way through, or what? For plainly he was by it fulsome pained.
Get me to a hospital you fucking moron, quoth he.
The crudeness of his words did pain my ears, yet bound I was by oath to succor all who fought beneath the colors of King Thrayn. I trod to where he lay. What name go ye by, I asked.
Tuna Mikey, he proclaimed. What’s it to ye?
A slight misgiving rose. On which side, leprechaun, didst thee lately fight, I asked.
I’m not a fucking leprechaun you mamblejam, he cried.
But thou are small and green, said I.
And you’re fat and stupid, he said. Are you a cow?
I paid his tricksome words no mind and asked again, upon which side…
No fucking side, he spat. I was crossing the path, wasn’t I, delivering – oh shit, he cried, inspecting wide about. Where’s the fucking sandwiches?
My picture of his fabled kind was changing by the word. (Had I ‘pon me a gloss of the Chivalric Code I might have looked up Rescues, comma, difficult. Or: Leprechaun, saucy, battlefield obligations to.)
Tuna Mikey, said I, t’would be but maiden’s work to hoist and bear you from this hellish place. But wouldst thee ‘pon a troubling point or two kind put my mind at ease?
Oh Christ, he yelled. Still in the squeaky voice.
Thy race, I ventured cautiously, are for their jests and japery well-known…
Does this look like a fucking japery he screamed, angling so far as he was able his bloody lower limb toward my eye.
Not, I admitted, at first glance. Regardless, I said, unknown is it not for your tribe to pull such tricks as do you much amuse and draw the gullible astray. Rumplestiltskin, I exampled…
He was no fucking leprechaun, he shouted, self-seizing with a trembling hand to staunch the carmine flow.
Maybe I’ve got the wrong story, I said. The goose and the straw? “If you can guess my name…”?
Gold and straw, he spat, teeth gritted. Still not a leprechaun.
So… what was – ?
A little man, he cried, gaining by force of will a tenuous composure. Little man. That’s all.
Aha, I said. Also, I ventured, thy kind do from Ireland hail. This being not that emerald isle but craggy, wind-swept Vlith-Tromulk, what exactly – I mean, how did you…
Look, he cried, exasperation rendering him pale. I’m not Irish, this isn’t Vlith-Tromulk and you’re not a fucking Saurobard or whatever you’re playing at, are you?
Lowering my halberd’s blade, I weighed his vexing words.
He continued thus: I was delivering sandwiches to the Fair and got too close to one of you fucking knife-chucking morons, didn’t I?
’Tis a poniard, I corrected.
I don’t care what you call it, he shouted. Get me to a hospital or I’ll come over there and shove it up your poncing ass!
A corpse beneath him stirred. Do we have to listen to this? it asked.
Quiet, I ordered, for thou wert in battle slain and count of this day among the glorious dead.
Also he’s sitting on my arm, quoth the corpse.
And my foot, plainted another.
The wind bore down from Hollrid’s Tor. The ravenous carrion birds began to light. Crows, true, but still, annoying. I weighed my options. How much gold hast thou on thy tiny person, I inquired.
Twelve bucks and a Mobil EZ Pass, the little man replied.
Mine gas to the begirting and armoring site having been, say, five gold pieces, and the map of double surface waterproofly laminate another two… should I trick the leprechaun-slash-little man out of his purse, I might, I saw, make it a wash for the day.
Swear thou art in service to King Thrayn, said I, and I can take you from this place astride my noble steed Glynixxorr.
Wurrggghhh, quoth he. The corpses did soft mutter ‘mongst themselves.
Tuna Mikey, said I, as Thrayn himself did pull the barb from Kolg the gryphon’s thigh, I am prepared to see you safely on.
Mmmmrlf-glrrg, he moaned, his blood and spirit failing fast.
I took to spare the seat of Glynixxorr a blanket lying near (though protested a corpse that it was his and had his last name thread upon) and bore him from the field of battle down to where they knew of unguents, medicaments, emollients, Blue Cross and salves.
And lo! that night, as fires across the clashing-place did blaze, mine wench and wenchling did rejoice to see me ride home tall and well, and with my steed as well refreshed as could twelve guilders buy.
Ride not again, pled my lady wife, into that hellish place, but if thou must, pray tarry not among the gruesome dead… and bring back dinner. Or you could stop by that new sandwich place that delivers, quoth she.
Yes, um, about that, said I.
Wally Slowik, Jr.
http://tinyurl.com/ndp3cbj
