The white turkey excuse.
You’ve heard of the legends of hunting the white Hart? That mythical creature of great beauty and mortal danger, a magical creature, that roams between Faerie and here?
Well in a more prosaic form I was hunting the white turkey – there are a number of white birds in the feral flocks around here, and I’d winged it… but it was still running through the dense twisted thickets of ti-tree, with me panting on its heels, down all the little ‘roo paths.
If only I’d had a noble steed and grazehound… But instead I had me and my two-walk-go-fetch gun (a joke just for Peter, and any other South Africans – a shotgun.) and my little hairy feet, and a great deal of panting, sweating and swearing. It’s a near impossible place to chase anything successfully though, or to use a shotgun in.
I did eventually succeed in getting the Christmas Turkey. But I did end up getting a stick in my eye as well. So instead of being home writing a thoughtful piece for you to enjoy, I spent a great deal of time providing entertainment for the medical profession. Yes, it’ll be fine. Yes it is sore and somewhat uncomfortable. On that excuse, I will offer a piece of Bolg and go and close my eyes.
I sighed. “I need clients with money in the bank Fintan.”
“Well, they have that. A plenty. It’s getting it back from the bank that they seem to have a problem with. I’m here at Mons Repose, and the old ducks have an issue with their nest egg that needs you.’
But did I need it? With Fintan Mac Bochra calling me, I almost certainly didn’t, but equally almost certainly wouldn’t succeed in saying no. It was something tens of thousands of bits of skirt claimed about the old man too, so I was in good bad company. Which was where I was heading, slowly, the Harley barely rumbling along out of town. I liked that bike. The sound helps me to think, so I did, about what little I knew of Fintan’s old friends. Forewarned is four-armed, which must make buying shirts tough, and didn’t help me a bit with what I had to deal with at Mons Repose. It was a lovely old house on the small hillock set in charming blue-bell woodlands… with a mad old boar rampaging around the place.
Now as far as I’m concerned boar hunting is a stupid pastime unless you do it from an armored car and with an M240, with lots of ammunition. Fortunately for me Hildisvini – that’s the old girl’s battle-boar’s name, thought my Harley’s sound the hottest thing since the sow in red lacy underwear. He nearly knocked me off trying to give the bike a suggestive nuzzle, and suitable set of boar pick-up grunts. Obviously the Harley’s rumble sounded like pig-talk for ‘hello-sailor-won’t-you-buy-us-a-drink’ from something very luscious to him.
A thousand pound boar is not something that takes suggestions that you may blow its brains out, if its amorous interest scratches the chrome, lightly. Actually, it didn’t take them at all, paying me no attention, but instead asking the bike if it would like to come upstairs and look at its etchings… or the piggy-grunt equivalent.
Freyja yelled at her boar from the balcony. I’ve been around for about eighteen hundred years, but she was an education. The boar put his head down, twisty tail out straight and slunk off in the opposite direction. I should have followed suite, but instead I went in to the house.
Fintan mac Bochra met me half way into the crowded hallway, as I made my way past the lovemaking couples, trebles, and more unusual combination, in flagrante marmor so to speak. I’ve never really understood erotic art. It always struck me a turning participation sport into a crowd-pleaser, but it takes all kinds, and you certainly could find them here.
“Freyja says Gersemi carved them from life,” said Fintan of the statues. “I always want to know how she got the models to hold still for that long. She’s got talent, the old girl.”
“Need to work on her proportions and reign in her wishful thinking,” I said, skirting my way past a faun’s derriere and further marble mammaries. “Now, what is this about Fin? I need to meddle in affairs of retired fertility goddesses the way I need to buy something on credit, especially goddesses that are broke.”
“Well now, doing a fertility goddess a favor might be a way of being grateful that you are someone’s posterity, and besides, it’s a case of their money is missing. If you can get it back you can get paid. Simple, really.”
Yeah. Dead simple. “My own money is missing and I can’t get that back. The upkeep on this place must be enormous, and they’ve been out of the goddessing business awhile.”
“Yes, but the old girl was in one of the more profitable arms of it. Money can’t buy you love, but it’ll let you rent a pretty a pretty good approximation,” said Fin.
“While the money lasts. And she made sure it didn’t last long,” I said, sourly.
“Well, that’s true. She got bored quickly. But a lot of the money oddly stayed with her. Besides, if she manages to get sad and upset enough, she can still cry tears of red gold. But she’s not easily moved.”
The reason, once I got upstairs, was obvious enough. She couldn’t be moved. It would have disturbed the cats. The place was a cat-house in the literal sense these days.