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“There never were any damn snakes in Ireland,” the stranger said, pounding his mug on the bar. Flecks of flat green beer slapped Moira across the face.
“Easy there, champ,” she said. “It’s just a legend. Need another?”
“Please,” he said, pushing the mug across the bar. “And it’s not a legend, it’s a lie.”
Moira grabbed the mug and reached for the tap, but she hesitated.
“This is, what, four already for you? You sure I shouldn’t cut you off?”
The stranger bowed his head. Moira couldn’t help but notice a yellowish-green tint to his skin. The whites of his eyes were a sickly piss yellow, as well.
“Jaundiced,” she thought.
“I’ll quiet down,” the stranger said. “I don’t mind St. Patrick’s Day. It’s just that particular damn story.”
Moira filled the stranger’s mug and pushed it back to him.
“Yeah? What, you got a pet snake or something? Herpes-ologist or whatever?”
“Nothing like that. First of all, St. Patrick had nothing to do with anything. He was a wizened old missionary. The natives humored him. They sprinkled a little Christ on top of their celebrations to keep the money flowing from Rome. St. Patrick brought money to build churches, dig wells.”
“You talk like you knew him,” Moira said.
“It was all fine until the money stopped coming. St. Patrick’s, ah, cavalier attitude toward conversion had been noticed. Rome cut off the gold supply and left St. Patrick in a lurch. He’d promised ransoms to the Norse villages to keep raiding to a minimum. That’s when a few of the locals near Au’ Myrterie told him there was plenty of gold to be had in Ireland, if you knew where to look.”
Moira leaned across the bar. The stranger smelled like cheap beer with a tang of something else – an old purse, leather gone bad.
“The Green Folk had gold, the locals said. They hoarded it in a cavern near Loch Purslane. A natural overflow from the loch showered the caves below with mist. When the sun hit the mist just right, it created rainbows.”
The stranger drained his mug. Moira refilled it instinctively.
“The Green Folk lived in the caverns surrounding Loch Purslane. They were half-fish or dragon, some said, due to their green scales and yellow eyes. It was half a leap from there to calling us devils. They came with nets and pikes. Few survived.”
“Us?” Moira said.
“Us. Aye,” said the stranger. “They took our gold from those shimmering rainbow caverns and left the lot of us to rot by the shores of the loch. I don’t know when St. Patrick got directly thrown into the story – he was miles away haggling with the Norse. The Lep’reckin, we called ourselves. Imagine what that got bastardized to.”
The stranger sighed and reached into his pocket. He flicked a heavy gold token on the bar.
“That ought to cover my tab, and more,” he said. “Just remember – there were never any damn snakes in Ireland.”
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