by Chantal Tseng

A Ghost Story for Xmas Eve amidst a Global Pandemic

“Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead...” – Charles Dickens, “The Chimes”

CAT SCRATCH FEVER, A WINTRY TALE

I wake up with a start.

Something is amiss.

My cat is staring at me. Not in his usual location, I might add. He is right in front of me as I sit up, staring with the look of someone who has been staring for quite some time. Borderline creepy, but then again, he could just be hungry. It’s a strong possibility. And yet, it’s only 7 am, I think. It could be night time. What is time anymore?

Something is clearly amiss.

My cat was not the instigator to my rude awakening, I should add. He was just there observing, likely playing witness to the climactic scene on my face just when dream jolts razed the furrowed lines of my uncertain stark reality. Consider it a furry metaphor for a long 9 month+ experience, watching from within and afar, as the world grows smaller and smaller. The quarantine from the current pandemic had started off as one hell of a beast. Then it morphed slowly into a kindred creature with tentacles that sucked away one’s will to do laundry. Then in true changeling form, it transitioned into a third bleak entity, a fourth and quite frankly, it may or may not now be a creeping shadow somewhere between my corner closet and the dark crack that formed from one side of the window to the dresser. I’ll have to get back to you on that. It’s anyone’s guess at this moment.

No, not my cat. I definitely had a nightmare. Trouble is…it’s slipping away quickly. A banshee screaming maybe? No, not quite. Just your standard shrieking and overwhelming sense of dread. A scant image of free-falling with ice spires waiting at the bottom of a drop so far one must whistle through not one but two cloud formations. That feeling when you can no longer scream because the situation has normalized after a passage of time and your throat has hallowed out.

I amble out of the covers into the chill of the stark dawn or possibly night air. I generally keep my windows open to varying degrees. Air flow is healthy and it can get stuffy with the ongoing multiple radiators I’ve code-named “Wild Dragon #1,” “Surreal Fire Beast,” and “Hot Stephanie.” I use the feminine so that every now and then I might cry out to no one in particular, “Thar she blows!” when the hissing gets a bit eccentric.

Now this is odd. The corners of the bathroom windows are crystallizing on the outside at an unusually fast pace. Why is this familiar? This can’t be science. It seems a bit fast. Then again, I’m not a scientist. Outside I make out a single dark cloud seemingly out of place from the rest of the sky. It almost looks two dimensional. Maybe I’m just seeing spots. There is no sound. That is, there isn’t until my cat jumps up into the sink expecting the faucet to magically turn on. Distraction is an orange furry ball with legs and static electricity. 

meow.

Ah yes, thirst. Good point. I make my way into the small kitchen by the water pitcher. Then it hits me. “The Day After Tomorrow”

It’s that scene when the air is so cold it crystallizes the surroundings. Everything freezes in mere seconds and the characters have to run to find shelter and fire or else freeze to death in faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

Huh. Also, why is my leg itchy? Cat scratch? But when & why?

I look up at the kitchen windows. They seem normal so I head back to the bathroom again. No crystals. Gone. Like they were never there. Perhaps I’m still dreaming in and out of things. I should head back to bed. It’s too early. Sun’s barely yawning. Now where’s my Neosporin at?

My cat is staring again. But, now this is unnerving. Speaking of changelings, he looks so unlike himself. Almost like he is pouting, as if on the verge of tears.

“Aww…what is it B? This scratch ain’t so bad.”

The most subtle of details shifts and he no longer looks sad. I am pretty sure I’ve never seen this expression on my cat before. It’s eerie. My skin starts to crawl and my limbs are going stiff. But rigor mortis is for dead people and…wait, what on earth is that?

A shadow grows unfathomably grandiose. It’s in my mind, I think. It might not be? A grumbling and then a cold icy voice “You need to get out.”

Confusion addling my brain, my first thought shoots to my vitamin D tablets. I have been taking supplements to make up for the lack of natural sunshine in my quarantine life. 

“What, like in the sun??” I ask to the flickering darkness that is no longer in the dark corners of my head. It grows like shadowy ooze absorbing the walls into what can only be described as a heartless void.

My stiff limbs slowly creak backwards until my back is against the bedroom window. Wild Dragon #1 is raging while a chill gust of outside air teases the nape of my lower back. That singular sensation is fighting a losing battle called consciousness. I am a dead end. My mind is a pointilist painting of fuzziness, light headed and indistinct. This isn’t good and is headed to worse. A flinty scent reminiscent of scrap metal burning amidst a trash heap. My lungs gasp. The foul air is seeping away, but so is the rest.

I can’t breathe. 

Something is pushing me.

No no no no no

There’s barely a week till 2021.

I am so close.

So powerless and fuzzy. 

I grasp at the sill.

A single furry paw.

It claws at my weak clinging fingers. Is this help or betrayal?

So many unanswered questions.

I fall.

There are 9 stories. 

I shouldn’t have named him Brutus. THE END.

Did you know that Charles Dickens wrote more than just one ghost story? Behold, my plans for the holidays: a re-read of The Chimes.

“…Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form and lives again, no man- though every man is every day the casket of this type of the Great Mystery- can tell.”
― Charles Dickens, The Chimes

Three years ago, I created a cocktail to pair with this novella. Stirred chilled and up: 1.5 oz. Isle of Skye 8yr. Scotch, 1 oz. Cocchi Torino Vermouth, .5 oz. Mirabelle Eau de Vie, a dash of Orange Bitters

by Chantal Tseng

Tisn’t the Season, nor Tiny Tim

“What’s gold to a man if he be too sick or too sad to enjoy it?” – Darby O’Gill played by Albert Sharpe

Ah if only more folks felt this way. But I suppose the great stain of our current civilization is the collectively addictive tendency to work towards accumulating wealth over health and prestige over happiness. Too Disney in sentiment perhaps? You’re not wrong.

Lately, I’ve started watching “The Crown” on Netflix, inspired by the life of Queen Elizabeth II. I have to admit, I never really cared much about the royal family, even though I grew up amidst the Lady Di → Princess Diana infatuation. I recall in particular, the comedic jabs from Christine Sullivan’s (played by Markie Post) devotion to Lady Di in Night Court. (1984-1992)

The 80’s was a uniquely special era for hair, a windswept marriage of feathers, oceanic waves and of course, hairspray. Perhaps some ozone defying Aquanet?

More than likely, this is why I recently started craving a more down-to-Irish-earth nostalgic piece that I loved as a child. Plus, it occurred to me that with the passing of Sir Sean Connery last Halloween, there are no longer any living actors and production members from this long-standing favorite film of mine, “Darby O’Gill and the Little People.” (1959) I’m part Irish, by the way. And for much of my childhood, I preferred to imagine that tiny fraction of Irish genetics from my mother’s family (an over-imagined stalwart within a mix of other ingredients, including a bit o’ French and a good dash of Native-Canadian) to be much grander than it actually is. I recall an embarrassing moment from my middle school days. The class assignment had been to select a celebrity who has the same background as ourselves and write a small essay on that background. As a minority in a small town school, I was basically the only person of color. The assignment felt a bit jarring. Being a child of mixed descent, I decided to write about my Irish background. And then because I was a bit dumb, I chose to write about Sean Connery. Like I said, dumb, but you know, I was a child heavily influenced by cinema and yes, Disney. Connery’s performance as Michael MacBride was the foundation of my flimsy case that he was clearly Irish (ya’ know, and not Scottish.) The teacher, Mr. V., was super kind to not point it out to me at the time and just sort of let me go with it. We all have our phases.

Not all films quite stand the many varied tests of time, but dare I say magic realism can always look back on Darby O’Gill with a nod of affection? I loved so much about this flick. It will always be a classic in my heart. I have a few silly, yet not necessarily absurd theories about myself because of it. Bear with me.

1- Even though I was born in the lucky year of the horse, there is a strong chance I never ever had the familiar childhood obsession with wanting to own a pony due to a certain distaste for the swarthy nemesis of this film, Pony Sugrue. His character is a dreadful bully and he even steals a shot of liquor from the town pub when he thinks no one is looking. (What a jerk.) Plus, his widowed mother is just downright creepy. (sorry Estelle)

2- I’ve always wished I had reddish auburn hair and green eyes for as long as I can remember. Just like the lovely (& sadly tragic*) Janet Munro, aka, Katie O’Gill in the film. So yes, I did eventually buy a red haired wig (although it ended up being magenta even though that wasn’t quite what I was going after) and green contact lenses at different points in my life. And also, yes, I completely realize what this says about my misguided white washing desires from youth. 

*Tragic because Janet only lived to 38 years, a victim of heart disease.

I was just a tad enamored of Katie O’Gill (Janet Munro). She had wit, a sunny disposition but was also a total firecracker. Also, Sheelah Sugrue (Estelle Winwood) was akin to a mild mannered shrouded death furie with blue eyes and silver wisps.

“Me second wish is a small wish indeed, for it means a lot to me. I want a big crock of potatoes.” – Darby O’Gill

3- I love potatoes, pretty much in every prepared form, from Curly fries to Dauphine to good old soup and stew filler.

Ok, those were a little absurd. I’ll pivot.

The storytelling of Darby O’Gill to this day holds itself golden. I’ve always had a penchant for mythologies and old stories of such. Pretty sure this movie contributed greatly to the stirring of my soul in curiosity of old celtic myths and wicked creatures like Banshees and Pookas.

Classic wailing Banshee on the left, Pooka in the form of Cleopatra, the horse, and the Cóiste Bodhar, a trio of incandescent Irish spooky badassness if ever there was one.

“A Pooka is a shapeshifter and can take any form it chooses. Usually, it is seen in the form of a horse, dog, rabbit, goat, goblin, or even an old man. Traditionally a Pooka is seen as a dark, sleek horse with a long wild flowing mane and luminescent golden eyes.”

Incidentally, throughout the entire reel, it occurs to me now, that no one aside from our title character ever actually witnesses the existence of leprechauns and other darker storied phenomena including the trio above. Darby’s imagination and keen storytelling nuance makes him a village favorite. But is it all in his head? When given a chance to view the Leprechaun king in his sack, Michael and the townsfolk only ever see a rabbit. We assume Katie had a run in with the same Pooka scheming horse from before, and yet we never witness this on screen. And perhaps the grandest query of all, especially with regard to the end of the film, is that of the shadowy Death Coach.

“The Cóiste Bodhar (pronounced coach-a-bower) in Irish folklore is a silent death coach that makes its appearance in the event of someone’s death. It’s driven by the Dullahan, the headless horseman and pulled by four black horses. Summoned by the wails of the Irish Banshee the Cóiste Bodhar will rumble through the streets of villages and where it stops is an omen of death. The coach must return with at least one soul on-board and that soul cannot escape its final destination.”

*SPOILER ALERT since I suppose not everyone has seen the film 20-30 times like myself.*

Darby, in a beautifully tragic climax, demands of King Brian of the Leprechauns to let his 3rd wish be one of self sacrifice. He insists on taking his daughter’s place in the fast approaching Death Coach. Soon afterward, Brian masterfully tricks Darby into making a 4th wish which, in regards to the rules of the film, negates all his previous wishes.

“Three wishes I’ll grant ye, great wishes an’ small! But you wish a fourth and you’ll lose them all!” – King Brian

Darby’s life is suddenly spared and he is quickly shot out of the carriage without having even a second to accept his new freedom. But what happens to the King? Just how much magic does he wield with the dark powers of the underworld being so grand? Did he take Darby’s place and die? The trickery is just so full circle perfect. The film proceeds with no true acknowledgment of this possibly secondary sacrificial move and yet, I am uncertain. After all, there are no other on screen interactions with our mythical friends to follow.

“Ah, it’s better for the old to die than the young. In the end, we all have to go.” – Darby O’Gill to King Brian (who happens to be 5,000 years old, by the way)

Think on that one, BUT ALSO, allow me to wax poetic in honor of some of the secondary characters. While they don’t get a whole lot of screen time, they have some pretty inspired performances.

1- I’ve already mentioned the Widow Sugrue, Sheelah, mother of Pony. Her misguided manipulations portrayed with a mildly witchy overbearing soul are all the more forceful with her chilly steely blue gaze. With her cracked words to her son like gentle poison, she could be a long lost opposite of fairy godmother to so many cinematic dark mothers from Carrie’s mom to Cersei Lannister. She basically gives a bad name to all the old biddies lurking about minding their own kind business.

2- Father Murphy is a total hustler. His first entry into the story is a strong one. He enters the main amphitheater of the film, the local watering hole, “The Rathcullen Arms” and proceeds to guilt Darby on a physical errand with the payment of only “The song of the bells.” He lays it on real thick, having just previously heard Darby banter about fooling the church with a gift of leprechaun gold, (the dark spirits association making the entire gesture quite unholy.) 

3- Tom Kerrigan the Bartender-Owner is all heart but Molly Malloy is the only one on screen pouring drinks and behind the actual bar. She wins a scene for me early on with one particular pro-move. Pony tries to order another whiskey and Tommy tells him he is cut off but can stay if he sticks to a stout. At first, Pony is indignant but eventually caves. The moment he does, Molly hands him a ready poured Guinness as if she knew all along…because well, she does.

4- Ginger the cat is masterful when he/she is sic’d on King Brian at the will of Darby. The leprechaun king is quelled into acquiescence at the lustful furry, err, I mean fury of Ginger and I will always appreciate that cinematic moment. Not quite as strong a performance as the cat in Captain Marvel, but you know, certainly up there.

Ginger sets those lustful eyes on no other than the likes of King Brian Knocknasheega of the Leprechauns and delivers a worthy feline foe oscar perfomance. So ahead of his time he was.
A “Cameron’s Kick” Cocktail for to steel your soul from the Banshees and otherwise shrill talking miscreants of unnatural realities: 1 oz. Scotch, 1 oz. Irish, .5 oz. fresh lemon juice, .3 oz. orgeat, shaken into a frenzy. Shrouded in sage leaves and a lemon peel is a single preserved cherry.