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Prologue
The history of the london bridge
The present London Bridge in Great Britain is the latest version of one of several such structures that provided crossings of the River Thames for the past two thousand years. It is the most recent example of many earlier versions of this iconic edifice that has spanned the estuary running through the heart of London even before that city had received its current name. During the Roman occupation of The British Isles, the first bridge spanning the Thames was of a military pontoon construction. That bridge gave Rome's legions an easy access to the lands of the Iceni and other Celtic tribes. After conquering these regions, the Roman governor established an uneasy peace with King Prosutagus and Queen Boudicca. However, when Prosutagus died, the Romans, no longer feeling any need for a truce, abrogated their agreements with Queen Boudicca. They stripped her of her throne, flogged her and raped her daughters publicly. The Romans’ mistake was in not killing her. Boudicca and her daughters retreated to the hinterlands of the Celtic tribes and united them. During the revolution of 60 A.D., she led eighty thousand warriors against the Romans. That first pontoon bridge was destroyed along with the town the Romans had named as Londonium. Eventually, Roman legions defeated Boudicca but many of her Celtic kinsmen escaped by emigrating to Ireland, and away from foreign invaders. There is a story, of sorts, asserting that Queen Boudicca so hated that particular bridge that she begged the Druid gods to place a curse upon any such edifice spanning the river Thames. Some believe that her curse seemed to have worked and perhaps, still does. Over the next two millennia, many other versions of the London Bridge followed, including one that was constructed after the Norman conquest of 1066 and ordered by William of Normandy. That version was not to last very long, either, since it was consumed by a tornado in 1091.
King Henry II ordered the building of his version in 1178. That bridge lasted almost 700 years and was partially reconstructed in 1830 but it, too, eventually fell into disrepair and was found to be in need of total replacement by the 1960's. At that point England was in a serious recession, and to help finance the replacement for the present bridge, the government sold the 1830's version to a developer in the United States who disassembled it and transported the bridge and anything in it. There, it was refurbished and reconstructed in a place called Lake Havasu in the state of Arizona where it stands to this day.
The Legends of those London Bridges
There are two legends concerning the history of these various edifices. The first addresses that “curse” of Queen Boudicca, the leader of the revolt against the Roman's foreign occupation in the first century.
The second legend concerns that of the Toll (a Celtic/Nordic slang-word for “The Marrow Eater” a cannibalistic night beast) who is said to have been trapped inside the bridge ordered built by Henry II nearly a millennium past. The legend tells of a creature that fed on the blood, bones and marrow of persons of English heritage. Conjured up by Irish-Celtic Druids to drive out the British invaders, this Toll proved to be nearly immortal and veritably indestructible but not invincible. Betrayed by an Irish Druid necromancer, loyal to King Henry, the Toll was sealed within the under-structure of that bridge. There it has been trapped ever since, just dreaming of blood, crushed bones and marrow. But it's only a legend now, isn't it?
Chapter 1
London 1967
“London Bridge is falling down. Falling down. Falling down.
My Fair Lady. Build it up with iron bars. Iron bars.
Iron bars will bend and break. My Fair Lady.”
England was suffering a serious economic depression in the mid 1960's. The London Bridge needed replacement and the Exchequer allocated insufficient funds. So, an unusual solution was proposed and finally accepted. In order to help finance a new bridge, London's Common Council sold the old London Bridge to an investor in America. There was, at the time, a noticeable outcry by some Londoner's to be sure, but none so strangely demonstrated as that of a group of “weirdos” claiming to be the legitimate descendants of ancient Irish Druids. These people asserted a solemn responsibility for watching over their “savior” that they claimed still resided in the bridge. To most, of course, this sort of poppycock was laughable, but a determined and stubborn core of these Druids caused enough of a stir to occasionally catch the attention of the local papers and TV news stations. Even the BBC decided to hold interviews with certain scholars familiar with these presumably religious fanatics who kept insisting that an ancient Celtic “hero” lay somewhere within its structure, just waiting to be set free. However, no governmental authorities ever bothered investigating such audacious claims.
As the disassembly of the old bridge proceeded, the Druids who gathered there had never become violent or obstructive toward the workmen. However, they did seem to watch a particular central pillar of the under-structure with what seemed to be considerable, if not inordinate, interest. That strange behavior by these Druids and the subsequent old wives’ tales concerning ancient curses and some sort of mythical creature invoked further civic interest. The press and news stations continued to cover these oddities in order to indulge the curiosity of a small but growing number of the public.
A leading historian, Samuel Harrison, as well as an expert on religious cults, Pamela Prentis, were the two guests of the news anchor, Maynard Fleming, at the BBC. Fleming welcomed these people and he then got right down to business. “What do you two make of all the demonstrations around this event regarding the removal of what many, of course, consider an almost revered relic of British history?”
Samuel Harrison chuckled and said, “There are, understandably, different groups among the various protesters and they are there for very different reasons as well. I need not remind you, or your audience, that a lot of London's history is associated with that landmark and many felt it should have been retained, or at least part of it, in museums or other historical sites in and around Great Britain. However, that unfortunately, was not an option acceptable by the purchaser and so every brick, every stone, every pillar is now owned by the Yanks. Of course, that can be off-putting and upsetting to many of our more sentimental citizens.”
“Yes, understandable, indeed” replied Fleming, “and yet those sentimentalists, as you call them, seem to be the only ones involved in physical altercations with both workers and the constabulary. The Druids, however, have conducted themselves in a dignified and unflappable manner. Except for their stubborn insistence in remaining on this site 24-7. It's as if they were expecting something to pop out of the bridge itself at any moment. There have even been rumors” he continued, “that a few of these Druid chaps may try to attain employment on board these freighters to more closely monitor things when the vessels set sail across the pond. Seems these men have adopted the London Bridge itself.”
The news anchor then turned to Pamela Prentis, “You’re the religion expert here, so I shall ask you this. Why, if it’s considered a nearly holy site by these Druids, can you not imagine that they might be more aggressive? They really do seem to believe that this bridge has some mystical or magical significance. Or is it because these cult members are not really sure that some imaginary entity is actually therein contained?”
Pamela spoke very softly as she replied, “They don’t think there is an entity in the bridge. They know the warrior Sean O’Magnahain transformed into the avatar of a god of the underkingdom is most certainly there and these people are, also, most sincerely convinced that he, like Jesus Christ, will rise, freed from his tomb, and take up once again the business he was engaged in those many hundreds of years ago.”
“And just what is this purported creature’s business as you call it?” asked Fleming.
Pamela smiled as she answered, “Why eating as many Englishmen as he can gobble up, don’t you know? Legend has it that he was known as the Bone Crusher, the Eater of Marrow among other names given this chap more than eight hundred years past.”
Unprofessionally, but quite understandably, Fleming laughed out loud. He then regained his composure and quickly apologized. “Sorry for the outburst, Ms. Prentis. I suppose everyone has a right to his or her particular religious beliefs but the thought of an eight-hundred-year-old boogeyman that is waiting to be set free and then proceed to go bump in the night and swallow up Englishmen, as their belief apparently goes, is a bit outlandish, say what?”
Pamela fixed a glare at Fleming as she answered sardonically, “Not anymore outlandish than to note that at Mass, on every Sunday morning, many Englishmen, when devouring a communion wafer, believe that they are actually eating an itsy-bitsy bit of a two-thousand-year-old carpenter and self-proclaimed Messiah by the name of Jesus. Outlandish that as well, wouldn’t you say?”
Fleming blushed at the blasphemous answer, although he knew she had made a good point.
After the BBC show ended, Professor Harrison told Fleming something that unsettled the news host.
“The Druids we were observing and discussing seem very polite and civilized these days, but you might be interested in reading some of the writings of Julius Caesar or Tacitus. Those early Celtic-Druid tribes were some of the most ferocious and blood-thirsty warriors in all of history. And I mean literally blood-thirsty. They believed that cannibalism not only pleased their gods but gave great strength to those that crushed the bones and ate the blood and marrow of their enemies. I just didn’t think that those ancient facts should be brought up to reflect poorly on the present, much more genteel persons of the faith in the present Century.”
Although the program had ended, the BBC cameras were still on the site known as “The London Bridge Project” and were still live-telecasting images for later editing in studio. On one of the screens the site reporter, Nigel Dent, narrated, “Most of the protesters have left for the evening but the Druids, as has been the case from the beginning, are never absent from their vigil and as reported earlier, their extreme interest seems to concentrate itself on one of the large support columns. This is quite curious indeed. It’s as if they were expecting something to come out of the bridge at any moment. Very odd, one might say. And there have also been those rumors that a few of these Druid chaps may try to gain employment on board these freighters to more closely monitor things when the vessels set forth to America. I’ve heard more than a few of them refer to it as The Druid Bridge! Very strange, I must say.”
Nigel paused for a moment as the cameras panned the surround of the bridge's now slowing work activities and then the camera refocused on the reporter. A hand had grabbed his shoulder and, as the camera crew backed up for a bit wider shot, it showed Nigel being shaken by a red-haired woman with a strange beauty-mark or possibly a tattoo covering part of her neck and forehead.
The woman started to scream at Nigel first and then turned to face the camera in an obviously desperate attempt to address the TV audience directly.
“You must not let these people take away Sean O’Magnahain, our hero! This is our bridge! The Druids’ bridge. For it most truly contains the resting place of our champion! But he is only resting! He lives and shall awaken very hungry and very soon and Boudicca and we, her kin, shall finally get our revenge on all of you English bastards!”
Nigel tried to wrest himself from her grip and some of the crew got the attention of a nearby constable who managed to separate her from the reporter and called for an ambulance to take away the obviously deranged woman. As she was being handcuffed, she let out a horrific wail that, as an appropriate descriptive was employed later, seemed to “shiver the timbers” of all within earshot.
As the studio news crew watched transfixed by the scene from the bridge, Fleming tried to make light of what they all had just witnessed. “Well, there goes the business about peacefully demonstrating Druids, at least one of them anyway. And what about that scream? Thinks she's a Banshee or a Harpy, does she?” Fleming laughed, but neither of his guests nor anyone else in the studio did.
Before his experts left, Fleming asked professor Harrison one last question. “This bone crushing, marrow eating phantom or whatever the Druids refer to; does it have a name?”
“Its name has been practically erased from the histories of the entire British Isles apparently by order of Henry II, himself. But there is one young scholar who stubbornly insists he has uncovered certain clues as to the name that was used so long ago. His name is Ian Fitzwilly and he teaches at Dublin College. You can ask him if you're curious. Professor Fitzwilly claims the creature was called the Toll but no other records attest to that name neither here in England nor in Ireland as well,” came Harrison's reply. Fleming thanked his guests and promptly forgot about this Toll-creature and the apparently eccentric Professor Fitzwilly.
Dublin College
(1964)
Young Professor Fitzwilly was dumbfounded by the Welsh translation of his newly discovered White Book of Rhydderch. This exceptionally rare original manuscript contained references to the derwydd (the Welsh word for a Druid). It also referred to a Celtic hero of the 12th century presumed to have been the avatar of some obscure Celtic god with the name, the Toll.
It had piqued Professor Fitzwilly's curiosity as to why no records should be found in either English or, especially, Irish writings. No other source could be secured which might have been used in peer reviews, so Professor Fitzwilly dismissed it but never completely forgot about it either.
Many years later he would come to understand why this tale had been almost completely removed from any recorded accounts in every corner of the British Isles. Almost completely removed was it, but not quite. It would take more than a few decades for Ian to finally discover the terrible truths of the Toll and his avatar, the brave and fierce Irish swordsman, Sean O'Magnahain.
Upon further investigation of that particular O'Magnahain family, there was scant evidence of the family itself let alone the legends of Sean actually becoming the monster known to the English as the Bone Crusher. The Marrow Eater; this creature that could smell the blood of an Englishman and lust to drink his blood and grind his bones.
Chapter 2
1971 to Present Day
The disassembly, transporting and re-assembly of the old London Bridge took more time and thus cost much more money than the modest purchase price of nearly three million pounds that had been demanded by the Common Council. The new owner of the London Bridge was not bothered by these extra costs. He knew the investment would transform Lake Havasu into a much more interesting tourist attraction. And many of those curious tourists would sooner or later wander into his casino. By 1971 the job was completed but not without some strange stories emanating along the way.
Besides all the folklore and old wives’ tales about the bridge and both its historical and mythical histories, were now added the current comments of several workmen assigned to the various tasks of all that disassembling, transport and reconstruction. On several occasions, rumors of unearthly sounds coming from one of the major pillars circulated among the work crews. Those noises confounded and even “spooked” more than a few of those that were witness to the animal-like wails and grunts. However, upon further inspection, no one reported ever actually seeing anything and not a soul was injured aside from the normal construction-type mishaps during the entire undertaking.
Finally, almost four years after the 1967 purchase and by the Spring of 1971, the old London Bridge finally stood rebuilt in Lake Havasu, the new home for that hoary but iconic structure. And, for those few who were a bit superstitiously inclined, it also supposedly contained an impatient and very hungry resident captive. But, as time passed without any metaphysical incident, the earlier outcries in London and all its Boogeymen nonsense, like most other rumors, faded from the public memory over the decades that followed.
The edifice did, indeed, prove to be an important attraction to the gambling interests that had received a lot of new additional customers motivated by curiosity and by history buffs attracted to the bridge's ancient significance. All worked well for many years. The city did well, the investor did well, the visitors were happy, the community and especially the casino, thrived and everything was just dandy until a modest earthquake changed the whole equation in our present year.
Although the bridge had not seemed to have suffered any obvious quake-damage, there was an undetected fissure inside one of the support columns. It was the very same column to which the Druids had paid so much attention before its removal from England. A subsequent aftershock opened the still unnoticed fissure just enough to free the entity and allow it to commence the Bone Crusher's original purpose that had been interrupted so long ago. After all those centuries of entombment he was angry and very, very hungry.
(The Present Day)
“Fee Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of an Englishman”
The unusual disappearances of some British tourists were the first signs that not all was well in Lake Havasu. When forensic evidence recovered clothing and jewelry, some of it expensive, but still no bodies were recovered, well, that's when things became even more mysterious. Sheriff Manny Garcia was annoyed when the mayor's office called to tell him that the FBI would be sending agents from their Las Vegas bureau that were assigned to looking into possible kidnappings as the main explanation for the missing English tourists. But no ransom calls or notes ever came forth.
“Kidnapping, my ass,” said Manny to his deputies. “I can hardly wait to see the expression on their faces when the Feds see not only what jewelry we found but when they learn about where we found it!”
The deputies all laughed because they had been the first to gather the evidence. That material included a fifty-thousand-dollar Rolex and several diamond rings. Those things were extracted from a big pile of what looked like animal excrement. Some yard-workers were the first to notice something protruding from the unusually large pile of manure and called the deputies who had the unpleasant assignment of digging through that mess that had been left quite near the location of the London Bridge.
Then, when the Department of Wildlife came back with a report on the identity of the suspected animal involved, they found some finely ground human bone fragments along with the DNA of a not quite but human-like profile in the excrement itself. “Don't tell me Big Foot made it to Lake Havasu” joked one of Manny's officers.
The “craziest” part of the feces was that whatever animal, or human or otherwise, dropped its load it seemed to have digested everything (or person) it ate but couldn't seem to digest synthetic cloth or any form of stone or metal. And what little bone fragments remained had barely a trace of marrow. Manny scratched his head and murmured to himself that, “Maybe this could be the work of the Chupacabra.” but Manny, unlike his superstitious parents and uncles, didn’t really believe in fables like that.
So, when he got home and tried explaining the inexplicable, his wife said, “You're right Manalito, there isn't anything like a Chupacabra out here. Or Big Foot either. This is obviously alien abductions.” They both laughed but Manny didn't realize that he wouldn't be laughing very much more for a very long time.
Sheriff Garcia was annoyed when the FBI finally showed up and went over the facts of the case to date. Some of the Feds suspected that perhaps a couple of Manny's deputies had pulled one over on both him and the mayor's office, because the findings were so unbelievable. Special Agent Willis Watson led the Federal team and laid out his suspicions.
“Listen, Sheriff Garcia, you can't be serious about some sort of supernatural creature is actually the person of interest here, now, are you? What do you think it was? The Windego? Maybe a werewolf? Let me remind you that we don't have Sculley and Mulder to consult with. The X-Files was just a fucking TV show, so what do you really think? Is this Rolex being found in a big pile of shit just an in-house hoax because you jerk-offs can't locate the missing Limeys, or what? So, your buddies here just salted the turd stack with some jewelry?”
Manny looked at Watson and said sarcastically, “How do you explain the bone fragments? DNA testing showed them to be human. Maybe some big-assed bear ate up these folks and there ain't no bodies left to ransom? Perhaps, it is that elementary, my dear Watson.” Special Agent Watson winced at the old Sherlock Holmes line that he must have heard more times than he could count since joining the Bureau.
Manny continued his disparaging rejoinder, “Of course you might be right! My deputies just loaded up a big pile of crap with a fifty-thousand-dollar Rolex and several diamond rings maybe worth more than the goddamn Rolex. And they just so happened to have that sort of stuff laying around in their desk drawers instead of being locked up in our properties room and shoved it all in a big turd pile as if that would solve this crazy case! What the hell is the matter with you guys?”
That's the way the conversations went for most of the evening. The bickering and insults between the Feds and local law enforcement started up again the next morning. That continued until around noon when Vincente Limone walked into Manny's office to file another missing person's report.
Limone was the contracted chauffeur for a British rock group who had been entertaining at the casino. Their last gig was finished at 2:00 that morning and Vincent had been instructed to pick them up at 3:00 in front of the casino. He waited. He called them. He waited some more and called around and looked around and....nada. So, he came to see his cousin, Manny. “I packed up all their suitcases and musical instruments, including their passports. They wouldn't just leave without all that valuable stuff. I packed it all up so they wouldn't miss their flight. And of course, they missed their flight and I'm missing my passengers. So, something ain't right here.”
Agent Watson, seemingly unruffled by this latest event, just remarked, “Well, you know these stoned-musician types. They're probably passed out at some groupie’s apartment. No need to panic just yet.”
“Yah, that's what I figured might have happened too,” replied Vincente, “but now it's way past the time they were supposed to be flying home. And no phone calls. No nothing. So here I am.” replied the honestly concerned chauffeur.
(2:15 A. M. that morning)
Pete Kraft, the leader of the British rock band, wanted to take a gander at the old transplanted London Bridge. And their chauffeur wasn't scheduled to pick them up for forty-five minutes to catch the early-bird special at the airport. So Pete had an idea. Both he and his mates were pretty drunk, and they all thought it would be great sport to see if they could raise a little hell.
“Come on, now boys, we should go check out that old spooky story about the thing in the bridge we used to hear about when those older kids wanted to scare the bejesus out of us. Let's have a look! The story goes that the ugly bugger used to only come out in the dead of night when he was roamin’ about Ireland before he was captured, brought to London and stuffed under the bridge. So now would be the time to have a chat with the old chap!”
To a group of cocky young men, fortified with too much booze and cocaine, this seemed like an epic and eminently historic and very amusing idea. So, they grabbed a cab for the ten-minute trip to the Bridge. They paid the driver and decided they'd call their contracted chauffeur to pick them up at the bridge after they'd had their few moments of fun. Then they walked nearer to that ancient icon that would soon be the place of their last few moments before personal oblivion.
Pete shored up his courage and his curiosity with another nose full of cocaine and the other three drunken members of the group did the same and followed merrily along. A couple members were a bit wary of this venture, but they wanted to either humor their leader or because they too, were more than a bit curious about all those silly fairy tales they'd occasionally heard during their childhood. So, they advanced toward their doom.
A few minutes after they got nearer to the under-structure of the large support columns of the bridge, one of the other members of the band, Reggie Cleves, leaned over the railing and ran his hand along the bricks, then suddenly stopped and put his ear closer to the wall and shouted to his friends as he pretended to hear something. “Quiet! I think there’s something in there!” Pete and the others stopped and stared at Reggie for a second. Then Reggie jumped back and feigning fright turned around and said, “I'm sure I heard the evil Mick spook moanin' and groanin' and callin' for his mum to make him a sandwich!”
The other members of the band, along with Reggie, burst into laughter. That was before they saw the shadow of something very large moving toward them and moving very fast.
At 2:28 in the morning in Lake Havasu there probably would have been no one to hear them scream but they didn't have a chance to do much of that. The thing they saw, for just an instant, was enormous and its features distorted. It stood a good three meters or more and its jaws opened like a hippopotamus or an anaconda. It simply bit Reggie in half, ground up his bones in a few seconds and gulped down the rest of the victim in a swallow or two. The next to disappear was Peter. Of the other two, one chap was frozen with fear and could not immediately cry out. He was gone a moment later. The fourth member, witnessing the devouring of his mates, started to scream but a huge hand powerfully crushed his skull and held him fast while the creature crushed his bones before swallowing the last bits of the final member of the band. The whole business didn't take very long at all.
Special Agent Watson thought about the evidence and was sure of one thing. Whoever or whatever left the remains and the prodigious amount of manure was some big son of a bitch. And it sure wasn't human, and those were the only things about which both he and Sheriff Garcia agreed.
Federal agents scoured the city interviewing the groundskeepers who had originally found the pile with the bones, Rolex watch and the jewelry. They also interviewed any other residents who might have seen or heard anything and the agents especially harassed Vincent Limone in one of the sheriff's station's interview rooms. Watson headed up the team grilling Vincent.
“Now, Mr. Lemon,” Watson began by deliberately mispronouncing Vincent’s last name. “Tell us everything you can recall and remember this most of all.” Here Watson paused for effect to enhance his caveat, “It is a felony to lie to a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“The name is Limone. You pronounce it like Lee Moan. And why the hell would I want to lie to you guys?” replied Vincent.
The racist agent just stared at Vincent for a few seconds as he thought to himself how much he hated these “beaners” but since Vincent was the sheriff's cousin, he went a bit gently on the driver. He tossed a folder at him and asked him to open it up. Vincent knew what it was and said so. “So, you got my rap sheet. So what? I was just a kid then and that was a long time ago, Jefe.”
Watson responded disparagingly, “I ain't your Jefe and I ain't your cousin and I am definitely not your friend, so just look through your record and ask yourself this. If you were me and I were you and I had that kind of record wouldn't you be a little suspicious about the story I just gave you?”
Vincent Limone opened the file and started getting nervous.
Chapter 3
Ireland 1175 A.D.
All the Irish chieftains feared the worst as they observed the results of the combat just ended. The battlefield was again strewn with many more poorly trained and equipped Irish “rebels” compared to the few fallen soldiers of the English King Henry's powerful army. This was just the latest of many one-sided conflicts that always started with great courage and bravery by their fellow warriors but also always gave way to English might.
Most of these Celtic and Gaelic kings, tribal leaders and warlords feared the unthinkable. The unspoken conclusion was that they might indeed have to sue for peace before there were simply not enough lads left to raise their swords against the bloody, brutal and merciless British invaders.
There were, however, more than a few among them determined to continue the struggle. Both sides agreed this impasse must be soon addressed by a gathering of all the elders from each remaining tribe and a vote was to be taken. Surrender seemed unthinkable but annihilation was an even worse option.
While that gathering was still in the midst of forming, all were astounded to see a strange group of women approaching on horseback. Their bodies were nearly naked except for the proliferation of tattoos covering their skin and an array of deadly weapons slung over their shoulders and hanging from their sides. They were the legendary Banshee Warrior Women that most of the Celts had heard about though never believed existed. But now, here they were, and they immediately made the reason for their appearance very clear.
The leader of these women was an impressive sight indeed. Besides her Runic tattoos and very formidable weapons, around her waist was a belt holding the recently severed heads of five English soldiers. She claimed her name was Morgan le Fay. That name was attached to another Celtic legend. It had been rumored that the original Morgan who also spelled her last name le Fay was supposed to be the immortal bastard-sister of Arthur Pendragon and responsible for the death of this same brother of hers, the great King Arthur of Camelot, himself. It was also part of legend that she was the lover of the necromancer, Merlin the wizard. But what was she doing in Ireland?
These Arthur of the Round Table myths had never been proven to exist but many among the Irish had always wished that a noble English king had once existed since they had never seen any such British monarch as noble as the Arthur of legend. As to the legend of his half-sister, Morgan le Fay, that too was never considered more than a myth or a fairy tale. But now, here before them stood the purported myth.
She was either that or, most likely, simply a deluded and angry female who expropriated another legend's name to enhance her own imagined self-importance. The men present thought the latter was the case, but they soon discovered she was neither a myth nor an impostor. She meant to join forces with this assembly, and this is what she said and did.
“I suppose most of you gentlemen are surprised to look upon such women as you see before you. Those tales about us just staying in the Castle of Shadows in the Valley of The Mist, hiding there because of our fear of man's treachery, is partly true enough. But we remained there not so much out of fear of you lads but of indifference to your gender. Except of course when we had occasions to kidnap a few of your lot for breeding purposes.”
Morgan chuckled disdainfully at the expressions of the men gathered about her as she went on. “We have remained there in our Castle for centuries untroubled by the goings on of your kind. That was well and good until the damnable Englanders encroached.” Morgan then smiled as she patted the head of one of the English soldiers hanging from her waist.
Donnell O'Malley, spokesman for the council of elders, responded derisively, “What's that you were sayin' now? You'll have to be repeatin' yerself, darlin’.”
Morgan started to repeat herself, but Donnell deliberately interrupted her.
“I couldn't pay attention to the waggin' of yer tongue and the waggin' of yer teats at the same time!” This drew understandable laughter from many of the chieftains until Morgan le Fay moved.
It seemed like a blur, as she instantly sprang from her mount and let out a Banshee wail the likes of which none of these men had ever heard before and those who did had never lived to tell of it. The next second she had O'Malley prostrate on the ground. She sat upon his chest holding a dagger at his throat. With her other hand she was rubbing one of her breasts across his very surprised face. “Now have I got your attention boyo? And how do my extremities look up closely and all? You silly little man!” It was now Morgan's sister-warriors turn to laugh.
“Well, dearie,” chuckled the embarrassed O'Malley, “I can see yer point after you've made such a clean breast of things, so to speak!” This even made Morgan laugh as she helped Donnell O'Malley up and shook his hand.
Matters seemed to sort themselves out after Morgan's demonstration. Later, after the women had left to await the decision of the men, the real arguments began. One group of leaders was not the least bit interested in a bunch of supposed man-haters while another, smaller group, were eager to enlist any help available, especially from women displaying the skills of Morgan le Fay and her companions.
Donnell O'Malley, still a bit chastened by what had just befallen him, but very impressed nonetheless, was quick to realize the potential in an alliance with such warriors, “Consider this, lads. The English wouldn't know what to do with the likes of this Morgan and her wild women. Can you imagine that? A bunch of naked ladies rushing toward them. Why they wouldn't know whether to fight, flee or fuck! And while they were arguin' in their own noggins about what decision they should be makin', well by then, Morgan and her lady friends would have removed their goddamned heads. And that would save them British bastards from the trouble of ever thinkin' again as she hung more of their miserable skulls about her waist!”
Some of those with O'Malley laughed and cheered on the idea, but Ayden MacRonain, the leader of those opposed to such an unheard-of alliance had his say. “Rubbish, O'Malley! Have you lost yer mind or did Morgan's more than ample breast cast a spell on you? You do look a wee bit more stupefied than your miserable ignorant countenance usually displays, so perhaps that explains this awful idea of yours! What would those British soldiers think of us, the sons of the old sod, if they saw we needed mere women to do our fightin' for us?”
“Nothing mere about Morgan le Fay and her kind and they wouldn't be fightin' in our stead, but they would be fightin at our side. Hell, even if we lost the battle, what a sight the whole affair would be!” laughed Donnell O'Malley.
“Just what makes you think,” countered Ayden, “that those crazed bitches might not get bored with the gathering of British heads and next turn their attention toward our own?”
And so, the arguments and insults between the two groups raged through a good portion of that evening with no resolution to be had. The next morning the only thing the two groups agreed to was that, if their next meeting with the English ended in disaster again, they would revisit the offer made by the women from the Castle of Shadows in the Valley of the Mist.
Back home in that castle, Morgan and her confederates were having similar disputes. Megan, Morgan's youngest sister, was just as powerful as her sister and twice as stubborn. “I'm glad those stupid men didn't take you up on your offer!”
“They'll soon discover the error of their ways if they don't accept our help,” replied Morgan.
“So, to hell with them if they don't appreciate what we could bring to the battles ahead. Let them all die for all I care!” argued Megan
Many of Megan's closest friends cheered on her sentiments but Morgan would not hear of it.
“My dear darling sisters. I should be in agreement with you under any other circumstances but the times in which we now find ourselves are very different. If the English continue their decimation of our lands, they will spread across the entire country and it will be only a matter of time before a great host of those British devils find our valley and Englander steel and long bows will seal our fate. Remember that all of us are Irish now, even myself…. and like it or not, we've got to be together with the men of our island.”
One week later, word came to the O'Magnahain tribe that the British forces were moving toward them and were seen to be no more than a day's march from their villages. All normal routines and activities stopped, and everyone concentrated on preparation for the coming conflict. Donnell O'Malley pressed the issue to summon the Banshees but as before, he was over-ruled by the stubborn majority of many of the overly proud Irishmen led by the fearsome Ayden MacRonain.
Chapter 4
New York CitY—the Present day
Many would agree that Saint Patrick's cathedral, in Manhattan, is an even more iconic and certainly more beautiful and impressive structure than that of the London Bridge. Both historic edifices have had their share of scandalous secrets sooner or later revealed and the one currently most troubling to the Archbishop, Phillip Flannigan, was not another altar-boy scandal but the politically charged matter of a certain Father Cullen Boyle.
The very handsome and quite alcoholic “good” father was in a very difficult spot, as you would be too, if you had been caught in bed with the wife of the mayor of New York City. Boyle felt a bit guilty but not much. “After all,” he thought to himself, “this celibacy business just isn't natural. And at least I wasn't buggering some child.” But of course, none of that could be offered up as a defense, especially to Archbishop Flanagan. In Flanagan’s view, any public sin from one of his priests was one sin too many and Father Boyle's commission was a headline-grabbing scandal.
When the young Father Boyle appeared before his eminence, he was surprised to be handed a glass of single malt scotch. “Drink up Cullen and enjoy this, because the rest of our little chat will not be as pleasurable as this libation, randy fool that you are.”
Archbishop Flannigan was disappointed on two levels as he looked at the Roman-collared Casanova who stared back sheepishly. “I'm disappointed in you boyo, or should I say bozo?” Flannigan paused a moment and then let him have it, “There are six million women in this city, and you had to pick the mayor's wife? What in the hell were you thinking?”
Cullen tried to offer an explanation, “Thinking had nothing to do with it, and she sort of picked me.
And we thought we had taken care in the matter. And we were very discrete, or at least we thought we were.”
“Not discrete enough, obviously!” came Flannigan's dismissive rejoinder.
Cullen broke off the eye piercing stare emanating from the Archbishop and concentrated on sucking up the scotch and hoping that Flannigan would offer him another because he was sure he'd be needing a lot more as his chastisement was about to reach its conclusion. He anticipated quite correctly that his punishment would be both swift and severe. Whatever it was and though he felt he deserved it, he could never have imagined what came next from the Archbishop.
“Despite all the embarrassment you have brought to this cathedral, and yours truly, I'm going to miss you Cullen. And your history students are going to miss you even more. You've been the finest teacher of both Irish and British history and folklore that our academy has ever had.”
Flannigan stopped and seemed to chuckle to himself before he continued, “And I am sure the mayor's wife is going to miss your ministrations as well.” With that barb stuck in Cullen's embarrassed ego, the Archbishop stood up and poured them each another couple fingers of the single malt elixir. It didn't help a great deal because of what Flannigan next commanded.
Cullen was to be transferred, not just out of the parish or out of New York City or even New York State. He was being reassigned to the boondocks so that if his pecker got him in trouble, it wouldn't make the national news to the further embarrassment of either Flannigan, or more importantly, to St. Patrick's itself. That cathedral is the seat of the headquarters of the Archbishop of the Diocese of New York and considered the most prominent building representing Roman Catholics in the United States. Cullen's behavior had sullied its image, especially with the mayor's office. He just had to go and off he went.
Cullen Boyle was assigned to a quiet little town clear across the country. Father Boyle would now be the handsome, horny, assistant-shepherd of the little flock of parishioners in Lake Havasu, Arizona.
The archbishop smiled wryly as he said, “You'll be able to enjoy the climate and you'll be able to see that old London Bridge every blessed day if you like. I've had the pleasure of sitting in on some of your lectures and that particular bridge seemed to be the subject of your attention on more than one occasion.”
“Well, your grace, there's a lot of history there and a lot of legends as well,” replied Cullen.
Archbishop Flanagan halted his momentary remembrance and again spoke derisively as he ranted on. “I'm sure this sort of place should be able to keep the devil from unzipping your fly, my son, at least most of the time anyway. But when he does, keep in mind that there's some counties not far away, in Nevada that have legalized dens of iniquity. So, stay away from our parishioners! In any event, Arizona should be far enough away to keep you out of any big problems, certainly for me at least. Now then, slug down that fire water, Cullen, and get you and the devil out of my office. You leave for Lake Havasu in the morning.”
On the flight to Phoenix, Cullen Boyle read a curious story in USA Today concerning some missing British tourists visiting Lake Havasu. At the time, Cullen thought little of it. Quite soon that would be all he'd be thinking about. But for now, he entertained himself with those erotically pleasant thoughts of the mayor's soon to be ex-wife and whether she might be interested in visiting Arizona.
Cullen's flight landed in Phoenix with just enough time to scurry over to the shuttle that put him at the Lake Havasu airport at 2:05 on Sunday morning. By the time he got his luggage and caught a cab to take him to the parish house, it was nearly 4:00 A.M. He was quite tired, but he was looking forward to settling in and planning a visit very soon to that bridge he'd referenced to so often in his Celtic Legends history classes.
(New York City-- earlier this year)
The very handsome Father Boyle was amused and secretly flattered by the fact that some of the comeliest coeds in his History and legends of The British Isles course always fought for front row seats. The dashing cleric secretly stole glances at some of his “fans” as they flashed their crotches with sometimes less than demurely posed legs in the hope of getting his attention. “Front row seats indeed, more like flash snatch seats if you ask me!” he salaciously thought to himself. Cullen was just about to start his lecture when the door opened and in walked Mayor Blackstone and his much younger and gorgeous trophy-wife, Angela. “Sorry to interrupt your class, Father Boyle,” announced the mayor, “My wife, Angela, was very curious when she had heard that you have been recognized as such a preeminent scholar and excellent lecturer. And since I had to be in this building on city business, I thought it would be nice if she could sit in on one of your presentations concerning Irish folklore. Her family hails from the Emerald Isle you see. So, here she is. And please keep in mind, I checked with the Dean before we made our entrance, so I'm sure you will approve of our, or rather, her, impromptu visit.”
And with that, as the mayor left the room, his wife perambulated slowly to the front row. The woman's walk manifested a subtle undulation of the hips not unnoticed by Cullen Boyle.
With an obviously intimidating glance, Angela got one of Cullen's adoring student-fans to reluctantly surrender her seat. The mayor's better-half was an extraordinary beauty with light red hair, alabaster skin and big, blue, bedroom-eyes and no panties all of which the priest noticed and almost salivated over.
Father Boyle had a large blackboard behind his lectern upon which he had written four ancient words and their definitions. The words read:
Fee...Food
Fi...Tasty
Fo...Good
Fum.... Hunger
Cullen Boyle gestured to those words and began, “These iconic ancient slang-words are found in King Lear, but they originated in Celtic fables. Those fables and myths included, of course, Jack and the Beanstalk also called Jack the Giant Killer, whose original etymology can be traced back to a tale nearly 5,000 years old. And it is that work that gave birth to the supposed utterance that the giant greeted Jack with when he climbed that stalk and that creature's memorable expression which you see on display here,” as he pointed to those words on his board.
A couple of student-groupie-fans in the front row were heard to whisper as their eyes shifted between the clerical object of their affection and the words he had put on the chart, “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, Fuck.” came whispered tittering shared by all who heard the comment. Cullen, trying not to smile when he heard them, did his best to ignore it and went on.
“The original, roughly crafted stories germinated from the Slavic sections of Europe that bordered modern day Norway. It is presumed that these tales eventually insinuated themselves into later Viking legends. And, you will remember, the many Viking incursions and invasions are quite thoroughly documented throughout the long history of the British Isles. Therefore, it would be only a matter of course that certain legends from both cultures would have become entwined in the re-telling of them. And in their recounting, certain Gaelic slang such as you see here represented part of the story. But this story or fable may, like other such tales, contain parts of possible actual events lost to the historical record.”
The handsome lecturer with a young-George Clooney-good-looks, paused for a moment, made brief contact with those inviting eyes of the mayor's wife, and then continued.
“The underlying foundation in the facts of many fairy tales, and even some nursery rhymes, contain elements of proven historical record. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockleshells and pretty maids all in a row, is a good example. That little ditty was a very sanitized metaphor for the persecution of Protestants by Bloody Mary Tudor, daughter of Henry the VIII. She was the Catholic Queen of England and the half-sister of Elizabeth I. But I digress, let's get back to Jack and that strange Giant that he confronts when he climbs up the beanstalk.”
Stealing another subtly lecherous glance at Angela, the horny Father Boyle proceeded. “As I mentioned earlier, according to researchers at Durham University and Nova University in Lisbon, they have traced the “Giant Killer” story to the Viking invasions of Slavic territories and then to as far back as the late-Neolithic folklore starting around 4,500 years ago or earlier.” On and on, the alcoholic, over-sexed historian, preacher and teacher went comparing and connecting certain elements of legends and fairy tales to actual historical events.
After the lecture hall had cleared, Angela remained and made it very apparent that she was planning to bed Cullen Boyle. That proved easy as pie. Hair pie, one might say. She handed him a card from the Plaza Hotel. On the back of the card she had written “Room 609. Time: 9 tonight” Cullen gladly accepted her plainly stated invitation. What Cullen didn't realize at that very moment was that he would, of course, end up by not simply screwing the mayor's wife but screwing himself up… big time.
That night, in the Plaza Hotel, Cullen Boyle met his match when it came to elaborately adventurous and unusual sex play. And Angela got more than a couple of dandy orgasms. She also got another Gaelic history lesson from the “good” father.
“I never seduced a priest before. It was fun.”
“God bless you my child, but I thought I had seduced you.”
“Don't be flattering yourself, Cullen Boyle. I can easily pick out a willing boy-toy whenever I fancy one. But let's put ego and semantics aside and let's just agree that we screwed the hell out of each other. And the night is still young,” smiled Angela as she started tinkering with his privates for the third time.
Later, as the two lovers started dressing, Angela said, “I was really enlightened by your lecture on the connections between the historical incidences behind so many myths and fairy tales. Tell me some more before we have to go.”
So, for the next few minutes, Cullen Boyle told her about Billy Goat Gruff and the Troll and how it was a bastardization of the legend of something much more terrible called the Toll. A story with real teeth.
“According to my instructor, Professor Fitzwilly, at Dublin College, where I took my master's degree, the actual histories of these tales were concocted to disguise a legend concerning a fearsome creature entombed under the infrastructure of the London Bridge. Over the centuries it became a sort of Brothers Grimm-like reconstituted silliness. But this one eccentric historian, my old mentor, Professor Fitzwilly, suspected it might represent one of the greatest cover-ups in English history. That is, of course, if you can believe there was such a creature in the first place. I had the pleasure of having been taught by that professor who insisted that this rather obscure legend had every possibility of being true. Professor Fitzwilly persisted, despite the derision he received from some of his peers for ever having suggested the likelihood of such a thing!”
“Stubborn Irishman that Professor Fitzwilly. A common trait of our people,” commented Angela. Cullen agreed with her observation and continued.
“He insisted that this Toll creature might be based on a forgotten part of actual medieval British and Irish history.”
“Really?” said Angela. “Tell me more and I'll give you one more blow-job for the road.” Cullen was more than happy to accommodate such a willing and generously attentive “student.” As he explained.
“According to Professor Fitzwilly, the story of the Toll started in 1175 in Ireland and the tale ends a few years later in England with the creature's supposed extradition to England and entombment by King Henry in his version of the London Bridge that was then under re-construction.”
“And this creature, according to legend, still lives? It's immortal?” she laughed.
“As my old professor's story goes, it can be killed but only if its life-force is destroyed and that resides apparently in an impenetrable place called the Castle of Shadows in a region called the Valley of the Mist somewhere in Ireland.
“Castle of Shadows? In the Valley of the Mist? How poetic!” laughed Angela again.
Cullen continued, despite being orally stimulated as he lectured on. He obviously had more than a bit of difficulty concentrating on the subject matter, but, devoted teacher that he was, he sallied forth as best he could. “Nobody's ever found this Castle, if it exists at all. And go a little slower please, you've given my little pal a pretty serious workout.”
“You know, Cullen, I think our relationship is going to be a real time-saver for me. I can cheat on my husband and go to confession at the same time!” laughed Angela.
Cullen didn't know whether to laugh or climax, so he did both.
Lake Havasu
(The Present)
Cullen's visit to the London Bridge would have to wait a bit. By the time he'd awakened the housekeeper, since he had no key yet, and after he’d gotten through her icy greeting, as if she had just been disturbed by Hugh Hefner or the like, he realized his reputation had preceded him. Worn out from the long plane trips, he just partially unpacked and fell asleep. His alarm went off at 7:30 and he knew it would soon be time for him to make his formal, dreaded appearance before Monseigneur Emerson Fisk, the stuffy chief prelate of the only Catholic Church in this city of nearly sixty thousand souls. Cullen was mildly amused by the irony of the church's name: Our Lady of the Lake because it reminded him of the Arthurian Legend surrounding the fable of The Lady of the Lake.
After the frigid meeting with the Monseigneur was over, Cullen clearly understood Fisk's intention was to keep him on a short leash and this particular fellow-prelate made it very clear that he was just as wary of scandal as had been his previous boss at St Patrick's.
Duly warned, Cullen retreated to his room. He took a short nap and then he changed into civilian clothes, found his whiskey flask and took a cab to the London Bridge. He spent several hours there sipping from his container of Irish whiskey and thinking about the enormous history and the many mysterious legends attached to this ancient structure. After enough alcohol had worked its way into his brain, he tapped playfully on one of the rails over the supporting columns and whispered toward the stones, “Well, Mr. Toll, can you hear me? Are you still in there? Or have you left your prison and are now keeping busy roaming the night and looking for someone tasty to eat?”
Cullen laughed at what he considered to be his silly ruminations even as he thought about the story in the paper about those missing British tourists. Again, he laughed at himself for entertaining such fantasies. “But,” he thought’ “this is that same old bridge and there are those ancient legends. And if those Brits are still missing? Well you never know.” Cullen soon tired of arguing with himself and got ready to head back to the parish house.
That is when he noticed the red-haired woman with the facial tattoos. She seemed to be interested in two things. The first was the bridge at which she seemed to have been directing her chanting. The second thing she did was to stare right at Cullen O'Boyle. He would not perhaps have even noticed the woman's appearance or behavior until she had let out several wails that reminded him of the stories of the sorts of sounds described as only coming from those made by Banshees.
Cullen took a few shots of the woman with his iPhone and hoped he might be able to speak with her. Other visitors were startled by her curious behavior and theatrical outbursts. So, they made fun of her wailing and Cullen glanced in their direction. As he turned back to the red-haired weirdo she seemed to have disappeared. “Just another nut-case drawn here by the spooky stuff attached to this old relic,” Cullen thought to himself as he walked the length of the bridge once more, but this time with a certain degree of uneasiness about that red-haired wraith or whatever she might be. He was soon to find out the reason for his apprehensions.
Finally, bored with his musings but still curious about the scarlet-haired damsel, he left the bridge and, realizing his flask was empty, he stopped in at a neighborhood saloon. The bar was good for a few snorts before heading back to his new residence. Light-headed from all the booze, and still exhausted from his cross-country exodus, he stretched out on his bed and tried to fall asleep. As he lay in his room in Our Lady of the Lake parish house, his mind recalled a lecture he'd given to his former Celtic history students concerning The Lady of The Lake just this past semester. This is what he remembered telling his class:
“It is a curious coincidence that so much of early Celtic and Gaelic mythology coincided with both British history and legends emanating from the same time periods between the first through the fifth centuries. That was the period, especially the fourth and fifth, when the Arthurian Legends arose. When you consider this in light of the fact that early Christian monks and other historians seemed to have incorporated even earlier facts with folktales and myths, it eventually evolved into legend. Then, there was a bit of a mad scramble to chronicle these mostly pagan tales into at least a pseudo-history of early ecclesiastical stories.”
“But, as was often the case, eventually most of these tales seemed to have been purged from the official cannons of any acceptable Church records. So, with all those comingling of myths, ancient legends and sacred superstitions, it has been very difficult to tell what parts, if any, might be true. No one has ever been able to prove which of these stories contain even a scintilla of actual reliably verifiable historical sources. But it does make fascinating story-lines.” Cullen remembered having paused for a moment to catch a glimpse of a crotch shot from one of his groupie students and then went on remembering the lecture despite his lecherous musings.
“Let me refer to the Lady of the Lake's supposed myth versus what we've been able to glean from recorded histories. Although she is the subject of relatively recent historical fictions from Sir Walter Scott and others in the nineteenth century, this Lady of the Lake had been referenced in writings as early as the fourth century. And some iterations take her story back to the first century A.D. and her supposed connection with Queen Boudicca of the Celtic Iceni tribes.”
And then Cullen Boyle fell asleep and dreamed the most terrible sorts of dreams; the one's he'd always feared might just someday come true. The ones with teeth and crushed bones and blood.
When he awakened, he realized he needed something more to drink even though it was now 3:00 in the morning. He rummaged around in his still unpacked luggage but could find no extra stash of the source of his sustenance. Cullen called a cab and went to the only place in the city to be able to buy a drink at that hour.... the only 24-hour casino in Lake Havasu.
Being new in town and dressed in civilian clothes, Cullen hoped he might get lucky with some school teacher from Nebraska, or whomever, and achieve some sort of a “comfort-woman” escape from the thoughts about a fearsome monster still swirling around in the back of his mind that had so recently haunted his latest dream. That is when he caught sight of the red-haired, wailing woman that he'd seen at the bridge. But this time, instead of disappearing, she walked right up to him.
“I see we have some common interests, boyo” said the red-haired beauty. And she was indeed very comely, despite the strange tattoos across her forehead and neck. “My name is Deidre, what might yours be?”
“The name is Cullen, my dear. Cullen Boyle. And just what common interests are you speaking of?”
“Bridges and casinos for starters, since those are the only two places in which we have seen each other. So far that is,” came the coquettish reply from the tattooed woman.
“And what other places shall we meet?” came Cullen's lust-fueled inquiry.
“My room would be the next place, but I don't have one. I don't need one. I prefer doing my business out in the open. Both my profession and my religion are heavily involved in nature. Woodland spirits and the like,” came her strange reply.
Cullen, hoping to have hit on an opportunity for a roll in the hay, was taken aback by this unanticipated remark so he tried to recover. “And just what sort of business are you in? And I'll be happy to get you that room if you'd like.”
Deidre laughed and said, “Father Boyle, you haven't been paying attention to what I've been saying! Instead you've been thinking about screwing me. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Cullen was startled that she knew he was a priest and an obviously horny one at that. He offered to buy her a drink, but she said she was just leaving to meet someone at the bridge. She also said she would be seeing him soon. This time she didn't disappear but simply took out a business card, handed it to the frustrated priest and simply walked away.
The flustered Father Boyle looked at the card, it read:
Deidre Mack
Visiting Professor
Department of Archeology
University of Nevada Las Vegas.
There was a cell phone number but no university e-mail address on the card, so it looked like a phony card to him and he just didn't think that university, or any other, would hire someone who looked like Deidre Mack, if in fact that was even her real name. Cullen watched her as she left the casino.
He wondered about three things as he admired her backside. The three questions in his mind were: “Does she also have any tattoos on that beautiful behind of hers? Why was she wailing away when he had first noticed her carrying on yesterday afternoon? And who in the hell meets people at the London Bridge at 3:00 in the morning?”
Several hours earlier, Manny Garcia started to leave the police station. He was exhausted by the frustration of dealing with all these disappearances. No bodies. No ransom calls. Why diamond rings and a Rolex in a big pile of crap? And no suspects? And pressure from City Hall! This whole thing was beyond him and the suspicions of something supernatural at the heart of this mystery were laying waste to his own sense of reality, especially now with the missing English musicians.
Then, there were those insufferable FBI people, especially that bastard, Watson, who continued to belittle Manny's suspicions that something far from normal was afoot. He needed some distractions and some tequila. He went back into the police locker room and changed from his uniform into a nice suit and headed for the casino.
Cullen, still recovering from his latest run-in with the weird and enigmatic Deidre Mack, decided to hunt for other game. Not finding any stray or professional women, he realized he really needed a snoot full of schnapps even more than any immediate female company. So, he headed over to one of the many bars and sat next to a nicely dressed Latino gentleman who was slugging down some sort of a tequila concoction in a very large glass.
Figuring this guy for a likely native or at least a regular customer, Cullen assumed the man might give him the “lay of the land,” so to speak, as he said, “Pardon me, sir but where are all the wild and crazy women who should be hanging around this fine establishment?”
“What kind of woman you looking for, Gringo? Tourista? Professional Puta or what?” asked the amused Sheriff Manny Garcia. Unbeknownst to Cullen, of course, the Sheriff figured to have a little fun. “So, gringo. I can take care of you. What kind of senorita you need?” asked Manny in his best pimp-like imitation and at the same time trying his best to hold back a grin.
“I don't care. I just need some sort of distraction. And a woman seems most likely to do the trick, I hope.” answered Cullen.
The sheriff turned toward Cullen and eyed him up and down before he spoke again, “I haven't seen you around town before this evening. Just vacationing or on business or what?”
Cullen chuckled bitterly and said, “On business you might say. But I'm not visiting. Got a new job assignment in town and, if I behave myself, I’m here for a long time, I fear.”
“And just what is it you fear, stranger?” asked Garcia.
“Fear is just a matter of expression in my particular circumstances. I mean I'm afraid that this little city is going to bore me to death. I just got here from my hometown, New York City, you see. Quite a difference in the pace of things, the vibrancy and all sorts of excitements, as you can well imagine.
The sheriff smiled and said, “My name's Manny, can I ask what you call yourself?”
Cullen extended his hand and shook Manny's as he answered. “You can call me dumb-ass, because that's the reason I'm here in Havasu, but Mr. Boyle will do I guess.”
“Mister is it? Kind of formal, don't you think?” replied Manny.
“I just don't warm up to strangers too easily, so, no offense but let's just say I'm not looking to pal around with anybody I just met. I just need some direction in the er...entertainment department.”
Manny chuckled as he said, “Don't wanna pal up with no stranger, unless that stranger has a pussy, you mean, eh Gringo? But that's a good practice, Mr. Boyle, you never know who you might be talking to. Especially in a casino bar. Places like this seem to draw all sorts of characters. Hell, I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
Cullen laughed and said jokingly, “Now that I think of it, you do look a little like a serial killer.”
“Well, teased Manny, “I know that I ain't no serial killer, but I have a confession to make to you.”
Playing along with his bar-mate, Cullen assumed a dignified tenor in his voice and mannerisms and said, “I don't usually hear confessions in gambling establishments.”
Manny leaned back and said, “Huh?”
Cullen, still feigning solemnity, went on, “You mentioned you needed to make your confession, so you can call me Father Boyle, if that makes you feel any better. So, what is it you need to confess, my son?”
Still not believing this “Mr. Boyle” was a priest, Manny continued his part of the game. “My confession is, Mr. Boyle or er ah Father Boyle, that I've been playing' with you. Lying to you sort of. See I am not no pimp.” And then Manny, doing his best impression of that iconic line from The Treasure of Sierra Madre said, “But I do have this stinking badge.” And with that said, Manny pulled out his I.D. and Cullen almost fell off the bar-stool.
Manny couldn't help chuckling at the embarrassed look on Cullen's face as his mind raced in panic mode, “Fuck me! If this cop busts me for trying to get laid even before I've unpacked my bags, the Catholic Church is gonna send me to an even worse place than this backwater burg!”
The sheriff just patted him on the shoulder and said, “Forget it amigo. I'm not going to bust your sorry ass for attempted solicitation or some such thing” Manny said as he patted Cullen's shoulder again.
“But I would advise you, Mr. Boyle, as a new member of this community, that it isn't wise to solicit the names of working girls from the damn Sheriff.” Manny grinned as Cullen seemed to relax, but only a bit.
“I guess we're both really in the confession business, Sheriff,” replied Cullen.
“How so, compadre?” queried Manny.
“My name isn't Mr. Boyle. It really is Father Boyle. Cullen Boyle, the black sheep of St. Patrick's in New York City.”
Manny looked surprised as Cullen went on.
“And you're sure to find out about my scandalous history sooner or later, so I might as well get that cheesy sordidness out of the way right now.”
For the next few minutes, Cullen explained to Manny how his predilections for both booze and booty had gotten him transplanted from the Big Apple to this little town in the middle of the Arizona wastelands.
“You had some cojones by screwing the mayor's wife, padre mio. Goddamn! What made you think you wouldn't get caught? Nailing such high-profile pussy! Which is what happened. You are kind of a dumb-ass. But here we are. And you get a chance to get a new start, but it seems to me you haven’t changed your playbook too much. However, you won't get in trouble with the wife of the mayor here because she's a guy! Unless you swing both ways,” joked Manny.
“Nope. Not my cup of tea,” laughed Cullen.
“You got to admit,” said Manny, “it's kind of funny the way we met. Both of us out of uniform, so to speak. If even just one of us weren't in civies this whole conversation wouldn't have taken place.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cullen, as Manny answered.
“You wouldn't have mistaken me for a pimp, if I was in my blues and I wouldn't have played you if you were all collared up in your black with white collar costume. You could write a song about this called I got the Black and Blue Blues! Funny huh?”
Cullen, still recovering from his embarrassment, didn't particularly appreciate Manny's corny jest.
“I guess the jokes on both of us. Can I buy the next round?” said Cullen out of gratitude or relief or both.
“Nah, forget that. I'll buy. But just one more round and then I've got to get some sleep. You wouldn't believe the case I'm working on, Mr. Boyle, I mean.... Father Boyle.”
“The name's Cullen to you, Manny. Can you tell me about the case? But, wait! Let me guess first. It's about those missing English tourists isn't it?”
Manny looked very surprised by Cullen's correct assumption and said half-kiddingly, “Yes but how did you know? You told me you just got into town. Maybe you are that serial killer after all!” Both men laughed.
After Cullen explained he'd read about the disappearances in USA Today and then gave Manny his scholastic background on British and Celtic history and legends, things got interesting. Maybe it was all the booze that they had both consumed, but Cullen figured it would be fun to get even with the sheriff for his recent ruse by spooking him a bit.
He figured it would be amusing sharing with Manny his “crazy” theory that the English visitors’ disappearances might have something to do with the London Bridge and whatever critter might have been inside that might have been recently set free. Cullen didn't really believe this stuff, but the booze made him think it just might be possible to pull Manny's chain just the same.
Manny wasn't sure of what to make of Cullen's theories, and the tequila was doing its work on his brain as well, so he shared the information about the missing English rock-band that had not made the papers yet. Both the Mayor's Office and the FBI didn't want a panic starting.... bad for business and all, so everybody was supposed to button up. But he did flap his lips and Cullen Boyle started to feel a tiny sensation of having just opened a can of metaphysical worms. Then Cullen, drunk as he was, tried to push such ridiculous fears from his rattled brain.
“Let's call it a night Manny. I've got to say early Mass in the morning.”
“It's already morning, dude.”
“Cullen looked at his watch and said, “Ah hells bells!” as he again tried to pay the tab. Manny insisted on taking care of the bar bill with the promise from Cullen that they would meet again and soon. They both knew they needed to further explore the “impossible” theories these two new and very drunken friends had been kicking around about the London Bridge. Manny suspected that when he sobered up all this would sound even more impossible than it did already.
As Cullen hurried out to catch a cab back to the parish house, Manny called after him, “Adios padre! See you in church!”
…