Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon Page A

swirling inside with his accent and the effects of the dim lighting and way too much alcohol…
    “Over a thousand years ago, when druids did the work of magic, Erin was covered in green grasses, bold and deep as a polished emerald, and warriors ruled the land…”
    I hold up my hand. “Wait. Stop for a second. Did you say Erin? ”
    “Of course. This is a story about Ireland, lass.”
    “But you said Erin.”
    “Aye, I did. That’s the Irish word for Ireland.”
    My mouth drops open. “Oh my god. She never told me.”
    “Who never told ye?”
    “Erin.”
    “You’re expecting the island to speak to ye?” He turns to his friend. “She’s a witch. I knew it.”
    “I’m not a witch. I have a friend named Erin.”
    “Erin Mulligan?” Paddy asks.
    “No.”
    “Erin Greene?” William suggests.
    “No.”
    “Erin McClanahan?” They both say together.
    “No.” I’m trying not to laugh.
    Paddy frowns in confusion.
    William hits him on the arm. “Just ask her the name and be done with it.”
    “No, I’ll get it. Just give me a moment.” He taps his finger on his lips and stares at the ceiling. I see him sway in his seat.
    I decide to spare the poor leprechaun the headache. “Her name is Erin O’Neill. She doesn’t live here.”
    He scowls at me. “Well, why didn’t ye say so?”
    William pushes his friend sideways. “Ye didn’t give her the chance, ye old fool. Didn’t you have a story to tell?”
    Paddy has shifted to pouting. “Well, I did, but then I was interrupted.”
    “I’m listening now. I’m sorry.” I fold my hands over my knee and smile, nodding in the least-witchlike way I know how.
    Paddy sniffs. He might want to keep pouting, but it appears the lure of telling the story is too strong to resist. “Okay. So … as I was sayin’ … there lived in Ireland a hag who hailed by the name of Mal. At the same time, there lived a great warrior who hailed by the name of Cú Chulainn . He was one of the Red Branch Knights, the warrior band of the High Kind of Ulster, Conchobar mac Nessa …”
    I have to blink my eyes several times just in an attempt to keep all these Irish words straight, but I give up shortly after the hag’s name. I’ll have to do some Googling later to see what I can resurrect from this conversation. I encourage him with smiles and nods, pretending I’m totally comprehending every word.
    “… Cú Chulainn was said to be handsome and fierce, the kind of man all the ladies fancy. Unfortunately for him, he caught the attention of Mal the hag. She’s said to have fallen in love with him upon first sight and became dogged in her pursuit. She refused to take no for an answer. His only recourse was to run, and run he did, indeed … all the way to the edges of the Cliffs of Moher.”
    “Where are those cliffs?” I ask.
    “Just a skip from here, lass. You could go on foot and be there in less than an hour.”
    “Really?” I take a sip from my beer, suddenly very intrigued by the idea of a late-night walk by a cliff. I must really be drunk.
    “I wouldn’a lie to ye.” Paddy’s ready to be offended.
    “No, of course not.” I wave his worry off, anxious to hear the rest. “Tell the rest of the story.”
    “Right, so, he reached Loop Head at the mouth of the Shannon River and is said to have jumped from there to the Diarmuid and Grainne’s Rock.”
    “He tried to escape by jumping onto a rock? Was that just a short-term solution or what?”
    “It’s not a rock. It’s an island.”
    “Oh. That makes complete sense.” I have to battle not to roll my eyes.
    “Aye. But the problem is, this hag was veeerrrra determined. So she jumped too, and although she was a smaller sort, and bent over and stone-ugly as hags tend to be, the wind caught her skirts like the sail of a ship and sent her over to the island as well.”
    “Oh, bad news for that warrior guy,” I say. “Talk about a Survivor episode gone really wrong.”
    “I don’t folla ye.”
    “Never mind.