SEAMUS AND THE GREEN SPIRIT
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Eighteenth century Indian folklore tells the story of blind people touching a distinct part of the majestic elephant. It is a wall, said one. Oh, no, said another, it is a tree, only to be challenged by another who insists that it is a snake hanging from a tree. So it was for The Green Spirit, the camper home of Seamus McCarthy.
Old Mrs. Catchment swore it was an apparition, born in a swirl of dust and cloud. Part truck, part castle, with a green elf as fat as a boiler pig atop a three-layer wedding cake, swinging his arms in the wind. Homer Fudge could not suppress laughter toward the widow, believing she had mentally followed her poor deceased Mr. Catchment into another world. He insisted five men from North Carolina pooled all the junk from their garages, and could not stop until they had affixed each piece to another. As for the boiler pig, he had no comment. It was Pierre Knowles who spoke with the authority of having met Seamus McCarthy, stating yes, he was fat, but more like a red-faced dumpling in a green raincoat. He further claimed that old Seamus shipped the stately coach from Ireland as it was an inheritance from a deceased uncle with a questionable reputation. Mrs. Knowles howled with laughter and quoted her favorite line regarding Pierre as she took his pulse, considering it a test for sanity. “Often wrong but never in doubt.”
These, and many other stories, would float back to Seamus, providing great mirth for the wizened old man. He remembered once being called a banshee and needed to correct the drunken sailor that a banshee was a wailing old woman, but would not offer further proof of his manliness.
As is often the case, there is a bit of truth in most stories, and Seamus felt he could pull a few words from each, and get pretty close to the truth. It was a garden, not a garage where the odds and ends had been stacking up. The building project was not a ghostly manifestation, neither from Ireland, nor North Carolina, but Breezy Point near Jamaica Bay in the borough of Queens. It was also true he was rather red-faced, but due more to his Irish ancestry than his love of a cold Guinness. He withheld comment on physical stature, but always wore a green Peaky Blinders cap over a thick mop of reddish curls. Seamus was a lover of fine literature, and once challenged himself to read one hundred famous novels. He was at number fifty-nine upon opening Don Quixote, that the dream of a Green Spirit appeared in his mind. He had no Rocinante to gallop, nor lance to joust at windmills, but a fanciful steed of rubber, wood shingles with windows could also defend the helpless and destroy the wicked. Seamus mused to himself, “Like Don Quixote, am I not also awkward, past my prime, and engaged in a task beyond my capability?” The answer was a resounding yes, and a dream became a plan for action.
The Spirit would consume most of his waking hours if properly built for the intended righteous endeavors. With pencil and paper in hand, design ideas flowed freely from his vivid imagination. Often, he would pause, stroll through the garden, uncover new pieces of potential contribution, and return with a renewed burst of energy.
On a brilliant, but muggy Tuesday morning, with a hot wind wafting across the bay, Seamus flicked the switch that brought the motor to life. He pulled the floor shift formed as a miniature lance back while releasing the clutch, and the Green Spirit sprung into action.
What mortal needs saving, what wrong to avenge. Positioned high above the wheels in a turret that could rotate 180 degrees, Seamus looked like an elf popping out of a three-layer cake. With such a majestic view, he could scour the roads and back alleys. While looking hard to his left at a suspicious gathering, the carriage careened to the right, jumped a curb, and knocked the top off a fire hydrant, releasing a gusher of water forty feet into the air. Within seconds, children of the neighborhood were dancing around the fountain, squealing with delight in their new-found water sprinkler. Ah, thought the Irishman, a good deed well done, now off for good fortune, or perhaps a damsel in distress.
It suddenly occurred to our hero he needed a Sancho to ride on the engine hood and serve as a proper companion. He must have a joyous manner, a way with words, a man of reason, thought Seamus. The Spirit entered a park with vast lawns, pools of water, and towering trees. A man sat on the sidewalk attempting to fix a broken bicycle. The coach came to a stop. “Might your name be Sancho Panza?” The peasant-looking man lifted his head toward a strange voice emanating from what surely must be a circus wagon. “If you might be Don Quixote, I would happily play the part,” was the reply.
With the bicycle tied to the front bumper of the camper, the tall, razor-thin companion found his assigned seat, received instructions, and, throwing both hands forward, signaled Seamus to proceed. Farther down the road, an aspiring operatic student was singing Mozart’s stirring Queen of the Night aria to a circle of geriatric men from the local assisted-living home.
“Hark,” cried Seamus, “The wail of a banshee warning death to these noble warriors of old.” The Spirit stopped in the middle of the road as the two clambered to the ground. The one now dubbed Sancho looked at the trees with the expectation of a hidden cameraman. Several of the men leaned too far backward to observe the pair and tumbled from their lawn chairs. “Quick, my skinny but big-hearted man, grab the fire extinguisher while I’ll duel the wench with Come Out, Ye Black and Tans.”
With an affecting manner of composure under stress, Seamus neared the circle while hitting the high and low notes dear to any fighting Irishman facing an uncertain outcome. The poor lass, aghast and underpaid, turned and fled in the opposite direction. With red curls drooping under the green cap, Seamus bowed before the bewildered men, saluted to each, and waved his companion back to the Spirit.
“Ah, dear Sancho, we are all mortal, living this transitory life. Our selfless acts of courage are reward enough, I say.” A cloud of smoke belched from the exhaust as the castle-on-wheels moved further down the road. Looking up from the hood toward the turret, and now concerned with the extreme eccentricity of his fellow actor, the bony man clung tightly to the raised headlights and pondered his escape.
The carriage gained speed as they descended the hill toward Jamaica Bay. Seamus, certain that need lurked at any turn, rotated the turret from full left to full right. At an approaching busy intersection, he spotted old Mrs. Catchment holding a large bag of groceries, ready to cross the street. Taking his hand off the steering wheel to stand as tall as possible, he flailed both hands like a windmill, then warding off any notion of a supernatural appearance, took his pulse in full
view of the gawking woman.
The Green Spirit wove back and forth as if it was trying to joust every corner building or lamppost. Sancho, holding on for dear life, nodded to a large sandlot ahead and pleaded for the contingent braking option. “Thank you, my noble friend,” cried Seamus above the rush of wind. “Only you would consider the sand and water. Of course ocean life calls out its need.”
Stalled, the engine switch would not engage. Seamus looked down from his perch as Sancho, with shaking hands, fumbled to untie his bicycle. “Good idea” called out the ingenious gentleman. “Your earthy wisdom once again prevails, yes, we can continue on your Dapple.” The rawboned accomplice could only muster a good Catholic cross over his chest as he dragged the broken frame toward a nearby repair store.
Left alone, and unsure how to fix the Green Spirit, Seamus reached for his next novel. A sentence stirred his mind as he read, “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” Yes, he thought, frozen in sand, I can turn this crusade into a boat for children’s play.
Each day, back in his garden, Seamus would arrive with a different costume to stir his imagination. He was Rat, Mole, Toad, and sometimes Badger. Immersed
in nature, and thinking like a child, his new creation took form.
The morning walk up to the sandpit would consume a good portion of daily energy, and often, Seamus could only sit and offer suggestions to the children on what roles they could play. More often than not, they would prefer to gather around the elfin man to hear him read the story again and again.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Eighteenth century Indian folklore tells the story of blind people touching a distinct part of the majestic elephant. It is a wall, said one. Oh, no, said another, it is a tree, only to be challenged by another who insists that it is a snake hanging from a tree. So it was for The Green Spirit, the camper home of Seamus McCarthy.
Old Mrs. Catchment swore it was an apparition, born in a swirl of dust and cloud. Part truck, part castle, with a green elf as fat as a boiler pig atop a three-layer wedding cake, swinging his arms in the wind. Homer Fudge could not suppress laughter toward the widow, believing she had mentally followed her poor deceased Mr. Catchment into another world. He insisted five men from North Carolina pooled all the junk from their garages, and could not stop until they had affixed each piece to another. As for the boiler pig, he had no comment. It was Pierre Knowles who spoke with the authority of having met Seamus McCarthy, stating yes, he was fat, but more like a red-faced dumpling in a green raincoat. He further claimed that old Seamus shipped the stately coach from Ireland as it was an inheritance from a deceased uncle with a questionable reputation. Mrs. Knowles howled with laughter and quoted her favorite line regarding Pierre as she took his pulse, considering it a test for sanity. “Often wrong but never in doubt.”
These, and many other stories, would float back to Seamus, providing great mirth for the wizened old man. He remembered once being called a banshee and needed to correct the drunken sailor that a banshee was a wailing old woman, but would not offer further proof of his manliness.
As is often the case, there is a bit of truth in most stories, and Seamus felt he could pull a few words from each, and get pretty close to the truth. It was a garden, not a garage where the odds and ends had been stacking up. The building project was not a ghostly manifestation, neither from Ireland, nor North Carolina, but Breezy Point near Jamaica Bay in the borough of Queens. It was also true he was rather red-faced, but due more to his Irish ancestry than his love of a cold Guinness. He withheld comment on physical stature, but always wore a green Peaky Blinders cap over a thick mop of reddish curls. Seamus was a lover of fine literature, and once challenged himself to read one hundred famous novels. He was at number fifty-nine upon opening Don Quixote, that the dream of a Green Spirit appeared in his mind. He had no Rocinante to gallop, nor lance to joust at windmills, but a fanciful steed of rubber, wood shingles with windows could also defend the helpless and destroy the wicked. Seamus mused to himself, “Like Don Quixote, am I not also awkward, past my prime, and engaged in a task beyond my capability?” The answer was a resounding yes, and a dream became a plan for action.
The Spirit would consume most of his waking hours if properly built for the intended righteous endeavors. With pencil and paper in hand, design ideas flowed freely from his vivid imagination. Often, he would pause, stroll through the garden, uncover new pieces of potential contribution, and return with a renewed burst of energy.
On a brilliant, but muggy Tuesday morning, with a hot wind wafting across the bay, Seamus flicked the switch that brought the motor to life. He pulled the floor shift formed as a miniature lance back while releasing the clutch, and the Green Spirit sprung into action.
What mortal needs saving, what wrong to avenge. Positioned high above the wheels in a turret that could rotate 180 degrees, Seamus looked like an elf popping out of a three-layer cake. With such a majestic view, he could scour the roads and back alleys. While looking hard to his left at a suspicious gathering, the carriage careened to the right, jumped a curb, and knocked the top off a fire hydrant, releasing a gusher of water forty feet into the air. Within seconds, children of the neighborhood were dancing around the fountain, squealing with delight in their new-found water sprinkler. Ah, thought the Irishman, a good deed well done, now off for good fortune, or perhaps a damsel in distress.
It suddenly occurred to our hero he needed a Sancho to ride on the engine hood and serve as a proper companion. He must have a joyous manner, a way with words, a man of reason, thought Seamus. The Spirit entered a park with vast lawns, pools of water, and towering trees. A man sat on the sidewalk attempting to fix a broken bicycle. The coach came to a stop. “Might your name be Sancho Panza?” The peasant-looking man lifted his head toward a strange voice emanating from what surely must be a circus wagon. “If you might be Don Quixote, I would happily play the part,” was the reply.
With the bicycle tied to the front bumper of the camper, the tall, razor-thin companion found his assigned seat, received instructions, and, throwing both hands forward, signaled Seamus to proceed. Farther down the road, an aspiring operatic student was singing Mozart’s stirring Queen of the Night aria to a circle of geriatric men from the local assisted-living home.
“Hark,” cried Seamus, “The wail of a banshee warning death to these noble warriors of old.” The Spirit stopped in the middle of the road as the two clambered to the ground. The one now dubbed Sancho looked at the trees with the expectation of a hidden cameraman. Several of the men leaned too far backward to observe the pair and tumbled from their lawn chairs. “Quick, my skinny but big-hearted man, grab the fire extinguisher while I’ll duel the wench with Come Out, Ye Black and Tans.”
With an affecting manner of composure under stress, Seamus neared the circle while hitting the high and low notes dear to any fighting Irishman facing an uncertain outcome. The poor lass, aghast and underpaid, turned and fled in the opposite direction. With red curls drooping under the green cap, Seamus bowed before the bewildered men, saluted to each, and waved his companion back to the Spirit.
“Ah, dear Sancho, we are all mortal, living this transitory life. Our selfless acts of courage are reward enough, I say.” A cloud of smoke belched from the exhaust as the castle-on-wheels moved further down the road. Looking up from the hood toward the turret, and now concerned with the extreme eccentricity of his fellow actor, the bony man clung tightly to the raised headlights and pondered his escape.
The carriage gained speed as they descended the hill toward Jamaica Bay. Seamus, certain that need lurked at any turn, rotated the turret from full left to full right. At an approaching busy intersection, he spotted old Mrs. Catchment holding a large bag of groceries, ready to cross the street. Taking his hand off the steering wheel to stand as tall as possible, he flailed both hands like a windmill, then warding off any notion of a supernatural appearance, took his pulse in full
view of the gawking woman.
The Green Spirit wove back and forth as if it was trying to joust every corner building or lamppost. Sancho, holding on for dear life, nodded to a large sandlot ahead and pleaded for the contingent braking option. “Thank you, my noble friend,” cried Seamus above the rush of wind. “Only you would consider the sand and water. Of course ocean life calls out its need.”
Stalled, the engine switch would not engage. Seamus looked down from his perch as Sancho, with shaking hands, fumbled to untie his bicycle. “Good idea” called out the ingenious gentleman. “Your earthy wisdom once again prevails, yes, we can continue on your Dapple.” The rawboned accomplice could only muster a good Catholic cross over his chest as he dragged the broken frame toward a nearby repair store.
Left alone, and unsure how to fix the Green Spirit, Seamus reached for his next novel. A sentence stirred his mind as he read, “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” Yes, he thought, frozen in sand, I can turn this crusade into a boat for children’s play.
Each day, back in his garden, Seamus would arrive with a different costume to stir his imagination. He was Rat, Mole, Toad, and sometimes Badger. Immersed
in nature, and thinking like a child, his new creation took form.
The morning walk up to the sandpit would consume a good portion of daily energy, and often, Seamus could only sit and offer suggestions to the children on what roles they could play. More often than not, they would prefer to gather around the elfin man to hear him read the story again and again.
RICHARD SWAIN