Father Declan's Uncanny Creatures: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery, #1

By Patrick Dorn

Uncanny Creatures in Father Declan's Supernatural Mysteries

 

Franciscan Father Declan O'Shea, with his spiritual gift of Insight, has encountered a variety of supernatural beings. His ministry of reconciliation and setting captives free most often involves releasing earthbound spirits.

 

But sometimes, the Irish friar finds himself assisting souls of an entirely different sort.

 

In this collection of six long-form short stories previously published individually, Father Declan helps a curmudgeonly leprechaun rescue a kidnapped kinsman, repels an invasion of malodorous peat faeries, finds himself and his pagan companion Morgan Delaney swarmed by zombie ghost rats, gets a little "gruff" with a Norwegian bridge troll, engages in silly spiritual warfare with mischievous Christmas imps, and helps tame a distraught werewolf.

 

The Father Declan stories are always upbeat and redemptive. Some are humorous, and others mildly horrific.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Mar 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201668570

Patrick Dorn

Patrick Dorn used to write weird westerns set in Old California, New Mexico, and Colorado, but then he visited Ireland. Now his supernatural fiction alternates between The West and The Emerald Isle, but is always, always weird. He's also an Anglican priest and a full-time chaplain. Check out Patrick's blog, stories, plays, musicals, children's books, and more at www.PatrickDorn.com. You can reach him at [e-mail]

Book preview

The Carlingford Leprechaun

A Leprechaun’s Afoot!

Moments before families and tourists in the attractive medieval seaside village of Carlingford Town head to the hills for the famous and fanciful National Leprechaun Hunt, an actual leprechaun asks Father Declan for help. He’s missing a kinsman…and there’s more than just a pot of gold at stake.

Chapter One

Father Declan O’Shea sat on the rainbow-painted slats of the Gratitude bench outside a medieval jail, willing the extra helping of oysters roiling in his belly to settle, and doing a bad job of it. Even his prayers to the apostle Timothy, patron saint of stomach ailments, went unheeded.

With his back to Carlingford Town’s tourist attraction known as The Tholsel, the Franciscan friar looked up and down the tidy lane. To his left was The Mint, the 15th century fortified limestone tower house, and beyond that the pale yellow Carlingford Arms, where he’d requested Just one more plate, if you please.

Now he repented of his gluttony. There would be no mention of the oysters in the Fantastic Faith and Folklore blog post he’d agreed to write in exchange for a few days of relaxation and hill-walking in the Cooley Mountains above Carlingford Town, an hour north of Dublin.

The lane and all the brightly painted shops and restaurants stood nearly empty at just after noon. He hoped everyone hadn’t locked up and joined the National Leprechaun Hunt on the slopes of Slieve Foy. If he needed a toilet in a hurry, he’d be in real trouble.

Father Declan closed his eyes, leaned forward, pressed his fists into his brown habit above the knotted rope cincture, and worked up a rumbling, slimy belch. An oily, fishy cloud enveloped his head. Disgusted with himself, he waved a hand in front of his face to disperse the odor of intemperance.

Are you unwell, Father?

Father Declan opened his eyes. Seated beside him was a little boy. He was reasonably sure the tyke hadn’t been there a moment ago. The wee lad looked to be five or six years old. He had peat-colored hair, and his sea blue eyes were deeply set over a defiant pug nose. He wore a garish shamrock green leprechaun suit, topped by a jaunty velveteen buckled hat. A bright orange beard hung under his chin, dangling loosely by an elastic loop draped over largish ears. Surprisingly, his filthy, largish feet were unshod.

The priest fervently wished to be left alone with his indigestion. Shouldn’t you be dashing all over the slopes of Slieve Foy? he asked. That’s where wee folk such as yourself are supposed to be found this afternoon.

Every second Sunday in May, each resident and hundreds of visitors to Carlingford Town believed in leprechauns. Today, excited mobs of tourists and their giddy hordes of children raced about the groomed trails of the Slieve Foy Loop in search of brightly painted ceramic figurines and €2,000 in hidden coins.

The inauguration of the Annual Leprechaun Hunt, perpetuated by a canny publican who’d dubbed himself The Leprechaun Whisperer, had been a boon to the town. Indeed, it was a blessing for the entire Cooley Peninsula, with a deluge of tourism and trade arriving from both nearby Northern Ireland and the Republic. Father Declan had counted himself lucky to secure lodging in Dundalk, 28 km away.

The youth’s mischievous smile spread across his face, revealing a row of unevenly spaced, blunt teeth. He waved a dimpled hand toward the mountain. Oh now, Father, isn’t that where everyone will be looking for me?

Hiding in plain sight. A wise and venerable strategy. And from a vantage point where you can observe the week’s best entertainment in all of County Louth. So what may I do for you…

I’m Carriag.

Do you need help finding your parents?

The boy shook his head.

I’m guessing it’s not about hearing your confession.

The boy shook his head again.

Father Declan’s stomach threatened to riot. He suspected three or perhaps seven of the oysters were mounting a rebellion. Then what is it?

A kinsman has gotten himself into a bad spot, and I beseech you to help me rescue him.

The priest was surprised by the boy’s response. He didn’t particularly sound like a little boy anymore. A little person, perhaps? He didn’t have any of the features associated with dwarfism.

If your friend is in trouble, you should notify the Gardaí.

The boy scowled. Don’t be an eejit, Father. The Shades don’t believe in me, do they? The boy’s voice dropped an octave. You’re the only one in Carlingford Town with the Insight, and my kinsman doesn’t have much time.

Father Declan’s stomach flipped, and it had nothing to do with oysters. He half-lidded his eyes, opened his Insight, and looked indirectly at the little boy in the ridiculous green velveteen suit. The lad’s appearance shimmered, and the glamour melted away.

Carriag wasn’t a little boy at all. He wasn’t even human.

Father Declan found himself sharing the rainbow bench with an actual leprechaun.

Chapter Two

Father Declan’s heart pounded wonder and excitement against his ribs. Leprechauns didn’t look at all like the comical, colorful, fanciful versions he’d seen in Darby O’Gill and other fictions. Carriag was swarthy, with rough cowhide-like skin, bushy eyebrows, and thickly-matted, brick-red whiskers. The priest felt that Carriag’s people, the Tuatha Dé Danann , were hardy enough to survive underground like the biblical Phrygians, even without their magic.

The priest had a thousand questions, but he pushed curiosity aside. Carriag had asked for help, and he resolved to do his best. Leprechauns were God’s creatures, after all. At least he assumed they must be.

Tell me about your friend, Carriag.

The leprechaun looked hard at Father Declan, then nodded, apparently reassured that he’d gotten the priest’s full attention. The glamour flowed up from the cobblestones and cloaked him once again in the guise of a costumed child at a St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Until a week ago, Dáire had a steady position pouring draughts at Ma Bakers Takeaway on Old Quay Lane. He’d come for the stout, stayed for the cod burgers and chips, but I think it was the kebabs that proved his undoing. He’s developed a dangerous appetite for exotic cuisine.

Father Declan devoutly wished the leprechaun would stop mentioning heavy food. What happened last week?

A human sitting at the bar ordered three bottles of Northern Monk and kebabs. He struck up a conversation with Dáire. Then he came back the next night, and the next, ordering Northern Monk and kebabs each time. The leprechaun waved his stubby arms in emphasis. If that’s not suspicious behavior, Father, I don’t know what is. Then, night before last, after Dáire closed up the register, he failed to make the deposit at the AIB ATM outside the Saints and Sinners.

The priest recalled the pub. Instead of being brightly colored like most establishments in Carlingford, the exterior was white, with the exposed wooden beams and trim painted charcoal gray. Even though it stood directly across from the Carlingford Arms, he’d elected not to go inside the Saints and Sinners for fear of finding too many of the latter and precious few of the former.

The leprechaun continued. No one has seen Dáire since. Now, it’s possible he might have relapsed and made off with the receipts, but it goes against his nature to abandon a pub where he’s actually welcome...and the stranger hasn’t been seen since Dáire disappeared.

Father Declan stroked his chin. I’m not sure that’s enough to suggest foul play. And you say you won’t go to the Gardaí. Can’t your own people help?

Carriag pointed to the wooded hills on the other side of Carlingford Lough. My clutch are all on holiday at Rostrevor Forest, staying well clear of the leprechaun hunters. That’s why I need a human. One with the Insight, and who won’t be tempted by my treasure. He cocked his head and searched for avarice in Father Declan’s eyes.

The Franciscan friar knew many stories about the dangerous allure of faery gold, recalled his vow of poverty, and shrugged. I’m not sure what I can do.

Come with me to Ma Bakers. Looking like a child as I do, no one will take me seriously. But a monk in full habit, you’re sure to command respect.

The Franciscan friar considered that the leprechaun was decades behind the times if he thought clergy were entitled to special favors. Still, he wanted to help Carriag, if only to spend more time with a magical species that existed in the thin spaces halfway between the dense corporeal world and the lighter, spiritual realms. He stood, and his stomach felt better.

Lead the way.

They headed up Tholsel Street, which was becoming more congested with gaily costumed tourists. The priest didn’t regret his decision until they approached Market Street, and he could smell the cooking oil at Ma Bakers from a dozen yards away.

The leprechaun hurried alongside Father Declan, taking three steps for each one of the priest’s. The fish and chips are a bit overrated, Father. But if you can wait until August, Ma Bakers’ seasonal oysters are to die for.

Chapter Three

Ma Bakers was a TripAdvisor 4-star favorite that had expanded beyond the takeaway portion, adding an upscale banquet area for hen and stag parties. A pretty teenage girl with a charmingly asymmetrical grin and green highlights in her walnut brown hair greeted them.

Good afternoon, Father. Can I draw you a pint? She looked down at Carriag and smiled. And a blackcurrant cordial for the adorable wee leprechaun?

Hoping to get a lead on the mysterious stranger, Father Declan ordered a Northern Monk.

The lass opened a bottle for the priest and then poured out a sweet berry drink in a small glass for Carriag.

Carriag took in a breath and was about to speak when Father Declan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Carriag deflated, sipped his cordial, and scowled.

Northern Monk ale was brewed in Leeds, West Yorkshire, and tasted like the industrial revolution. As a matter of principle, Father Declan didn’t generally care for British beer, but he drank it in solidarity with the Yorkshire Cistercians at Fountains Abbey, who, prior to their dissolution in 1539, were revered for four centuries as producers of sixty barrels of strong ale every ten days.

Father Declan took an interest in the girl at the bar, and struck up a friendly conversation. Carriag squirmed with such impatience on his stool, the priest feared the leprechaun would wear out the seat of his velveteen trousers.

Fiona Corrigan wasn’t really a bartender, she was just filling in for Dáire, don’t you know. She took online courses in accounting and bookkeeping through Learning Cloud Ireland, which had a hub here in Co. Louth, not that it mattered since all the lectures were accessible on her laptop anyway. Except that she had visited their offices on Peter Street in Drogheda, then purchased a takeaway lunch at the kebab shop next door, and convinced the owner of Ma Bakers to add seasoned meat on a stick to the menu. So she had introduced a whole new product line for Ma Bakers. And did you know they have a live DJ on the weekends?

Carriag perked up at the mention of kebabs, but Father Declan suspected a red herring. Or maybe kebabs had been the bait to trap a magical being. This realization drew the priest back to the purpose for their visit.

Fiona, if you don’t mind, I was wondering if you might tell us about the night your Dáire closed up the till. He took a pull on his ale.

Her brown eyes peered up and to the left. There’s not much to it, is there? She shrugged her shoulders. Dáire closed up, as usual, took the receipts, but never made the deposit. Are you friends of his?

Wee Carriag here looks up to him like a big brother, and wonders where he might have gone off to.

The leprechaun kicked Father Declan in the knee.

Haven’t a clue, have I?

And you didn’t contact the Gardai?

No. She leaned forward. The owner says Dáire’s a troubled spirit, on account of his disability.

Carriag bounced on the stool, his face growing redder than the cordial. Disability?

Because he’s so uncommonly short, and all. The owner said if we wait, Dáire will eventually come back on his own, all repentant like, and pay back what he took out of his wages. He says the differently-abled should be treated differently than everyone else.

Father Declan wanted to keep Fiona talking. He feared Carriag might escalate into a full-fledged tantrum. And you don’t think anything might have happened to him? Waylaid by robbers on the way to the ATM?

Oh, no, it’s just around the corner, isn’t it? And things like that don’t happen in Carlingford Town, do they?

The leprechaun slapped his forehead, knocking his buckled hat askew. He pursed his lips and made a blurbering sound.

Besides, he left a note for us, didn’t he?

Carriag’s head jerked up. He left a note?

Fiona opened the till and pulled out a scrap of paper. Of course it doesn’t make any sense, does it? It may not even have been Dáire who wrote it. Maybe it was that rasta hippie who ate kebabs at the bar. She handed the scrap to Father Declan. Carriag jumped up and snatched it away, but the priest had already seen the note, and it contained just one word.

Barnavave.

Chapter Four

Carriag spun and ran out of Ma Bakers, clutching the scrap of paper in his differently-abled fist. When Father Declan tried to pay for their drinks, he discovered an oyster shell lodged between the side slit of his tunic and his trouser pocket. He shuddered, vowing to keep it as a receipt for the wages of sin. Fiona Corrigan waved him off, grinning asymmetrically and saying, If you catch a leprechaun, share the pot of gold with me.

Father Declan, who had just watched one escape out the door, tried not to let the irony show in his smile, then followed after the only genuine leprechaun in Carlingford.

Outside Ma Bakers, the lane had become crowded with eager treasure seekers, young and old. Many wore costumes in honor of the event, most of which were left over from St. Patrick’s Day. The priest looked right and left for Carriag, without success. He decided to work his way toward the Slieve Foy trailhead.

In preparation for his hill-walking excursion, Father Declan had mapped out the path that led up the slope. After passing Savage’s Mill and cresting a low rise, the trail split in two directions. To the right was the Slieve Foy loop, where the leprechaun hunt was set up, and beyond that the off-limits area.

To the left, the trail followed a ridge overlooking the scenic glacial fjord on one side, and Windy Gap, the hidden valley where Queen Medbh’s army of yore camped, on the other. This was the Barnavave Loop.

The note had said Barnavave, so that’s where Carriag would go in search of Dáire.

Father Declan found Carriag at the trailhead. Unfortunately, he was being restrained by a solidly built, female uniformed