On Your Feet

“Where’d he go?” Sean asked. He and Connor were staring at the flagstone floor of a tiny cottage where a man had stood a moment before.

“There must be some kind of trap door,” Connor answered, then proceeded to stomp on the floor with his boots, dislodging a few nuggets of mud. His eyes darted around the room, scanning under the table and chairs, looking for any sign that might belie the hiding place of the man who appeared to have disappeared into thin air.

“He won’t be under there,” Sean said, “He were small, a proper midget, but not that small.” Connor shook his head.

“Ye denna call ’em midgets any more,” he said, punctuating the air with his forefinger, “They like ta be called Little People.”

“Well, I’m calling this one a Little Bastard,” Sean spat, “I gave him a fiver for the heather beer that he claimed to have brewed, but it’s gone along with him.”

“Oi’d rather be called a clurichaun, ef it’s all the same ta you,” a tenor voice sang from behind them. “Here ya go,” he handed Sean a clay mug.

“Whae about me?” Connor asked as he watched Sean take a long sip from the mug and nod with appreciation. “And where’d you disappear to? Tae the cellar? Is that where you’re keeping this rare brew?”

“Where’s yer nicker, lad?” the clurichaun asked as he stuck a small pipe in his mouth.

“I thought Sean was paying for the both of us,” he nodded towards his friend who was enjoying another satisfying swallow.

“Every soul must pay the price, one way or t’other.”

“Fetch me a pint,” Connor replied, “I’ll show you my money.” The clurichaun looked him in the eye, danced a jig and disappeared. A moment later his reappearance was announced with the clickety-clack of his heels on the stone floor.

Connor held out a five-pound note that was so soft with age that it fell across his fingers like an old rag. The clurichaun smiled and held out a cup of the heather beer which Connor snatched with his left hand while simultaneously pocketing the money with his right. It was Connor’s turn to smile.

“Ye cheap bastard!” he toasted the clurichaun before draining half his cup in one gulp, followed by an enormous belch of victory.

“I tried tae give it tae him fer a fiver,” the clurichaun told Sean sadly, jerking a thumb towards Connor. “I hope ye were neigh close.” The next words he spoke were to Connor.

“Ye’ve had yer drink. Now it’s time fer yer dancin’ lesson.” He took Connor by the hand, danced a jig, and they both disappeared.

Sean didn’t see Connor again for seven years. He looked worn and haggard.

“Where have you been, you old cunt?” Sean demanded.

“On your feet!” Connor said with a glint in his eye. He grabbed Sean by the hand and danced a jig. His indentured servitude would end with a replacement.