Mr Carnovan's Little Shop of Dreams, Part 3a of 5

‘Now, where were we in our story?’ Michael’s father pulled a chair up to his son’s bed and sat down.

‘Grandmother had just waved goodbye to the ogre. But I’ve been thinking, Da. The ogre couldn’t sing and so he couldn’t teach the three tenors a song, but why didn’t the Guardian Spirits teach them? They put up with that noise for three centuries, and some of them even moved out of the valley with the bridge just to get away. It doesn’t make sense. And besides, there had to have been someone in all that time who walked along the path to Lansby who knew a song and could have taught it to the tenors. And why didn’t the ogre warn Grandmother about the giant and the knight? He let her walk off without telling her. That wasn’t very nice after all the help she gave him.’

From his perch on Michael’s desk, Lú leaned forward. ‘Good questions, lad,’ he thought. Beneath the bed, The Murphy smiled to himself. ‘Exactly what I was thinking. Those were gaping holes in the story, as any proper storyteller would have seen. Let’s see how the man gets out of this.’ And he twitched both of his ears forward.

‘Michael, you are forgetting that the Guardian Spirits allow only certain humans like your grandmother and Mr Carnovan to see them. They hide away from most of us. So they couldn’t have taught the three tenors. Besides, the Guardian Spirits are notoriously reluctant to teach humans their songs.’

‘And quite rightfully so,’ thought Lú. ‘The humans can’t sing our songs, and all their attempts to do so are so painful that it makes all the hair in one’s ears jump out and run away just to escape their howling.’

‘Thank heavens,’ thought The Murphy. ‘Otherwise we cats would have to listen not only to that out-of-tune caterwauling that humans think of as singing but also to humans attempting to reproduce the awful cries of the Guardians. Could there be anything worse?’ The thought so distressed The Murphy that his whiskers quivered and his fur on his back rippled and shook two or three times.

‘And you are right,’ Michael’s father continued, ‘that many people passed by the bridge who could have taught them a song, but the noise was so loud that every person who came near covered his ears and ran over the bridge as quickly as he could. As difficult as it may be to believe, not once in three centuries did one person stop and offer to help. It took someone as kind-hearted as your grandmother to put an end to everyone’s misery.’

Michael folded his arms across his chest and looked out the side of his eyes at his father. ‘Not one?’

‘Not one.’

‘Perhaps the ogre frightened them as well. They thought he might eat them.’

‘Now that is good thinking, Michael. I must admit that that thought had not occurred to me. But, now that I consider the matter, I think you must be right. Between the awful din of the singers and their fear of the ogre, all the passers-by probably ran as fast as they could and never stopped to ask if they could help. But why do you suppose the ogre didn’t tell your grandmother about the giant and the knight that lay ahead on the path to Lansby? You are right in saying that it was poor payment for all the help your grandmother gave him. Perhaps he was so happy that he simply forgot.’

‘No. He didn’t forget. He didn’t know. And why didn’t he know? Because, Da, his job is to guard the bridge and make sure that no one steals the emeralds and sapphires, and so he can’t leave. He’s been there for years and years. He’s never followed the path all the way to Lansby. So he doesn’t know what’s waiting for the traveller. And all the other people ran by the ogre so fast that they didn’t stop to tell him about the giant and the knight. So he never heard of them, and he doesn’t know that they exist. That’s why he didn’t warn grandmother. That’s what I think.’ And Michael uncrossed his arms and smoothed out the blankets. He ran the tips of his big toes back and forth under the covers so that they traced a straight line under the blankets near the bottom of the bed and looked at his father out of the corner of his eyes because he knew that sometimes storytellers didn’t like it when you told their story for them, especially when your version was better.

The Murphy pranced out from underneath the bed and jumped up beside the boy. This was unexpected. It was as delightful as having your own piece of juicy roast chicken to eat and not having to share it with anyone else. The Murphy seldom if ever found as much reason to be delighted as he found that night. Not even his cousin in Gouldavoher near Luimneach was half that clever. To reward Michael for his ingenuity, The Murphy arched his back and allowed Michael to pet him. He even blinked his eyes open and shut slowly several times and purred to show his appreciation. The Murphy was so proud of his success in educating the lad that he waltzed back and forth, putting his left paws in front of his right paws and then turning around in a circle with his tail curled forward in pleasure, up and down the bed, before coiling himself near the pillow, where he looked at the man out the corners of his eyes.

Lú na Micniai was so surprised and delighted that he jumped up and danced a jig so that the bells on the tips of his shoes rang. He resolved that as soon as the story had ended and everyone in the house had gone to sleep, he would step quietly downstairs and put a charm on all the food in the kitchen so that everything Michael ate tomorrow would taste like chocolate.

From outside the window came the sound of applause as the trees put their leaves together and clapped. Mr Adams next door, who was not always as nice to his neighbours as he should have been, looked away from his telly and out his window, and wondered if a storm was coming up, what with all the noise the wind blowing through the trees was making.

And what of Michael’s father? Well, to say that he was delighted would be to tell a lie. The man was thunderstruck, gobsmackerelled, thrilled, and astonished, not to mention tickled purple and pink. His lips quivered with pride. ‘Michael, me lad, you have the makings in you of fine storyteller. You are right. You are absolutely right. That’s just what happened.’

Michael glowed within to think that he had pleased his father and The Murphy and everyone else who might be listening. But there were more important matters to be settled that night. ‘But what happened after Grandmother waved good-bye to the ogre followed the path into the next grove of trees?’

‘Well, now, that is the subject of tonight’s tale.’ And everyone, both visible and invisible, settled back and held his or her or its breath.

‘Now, the birds had awoken your grandmother as soon as the light was a hint in the east. And the ogre had fed her a fine breakfast of brown bread and butter and orange marmalade and then a big dish of red strawberries so sweet they needed no sugar. After your grandmother had turned down the ogre’s offer of more strawberries for the third time (for ogres always think we humans don’t eat enough), he unzipped one of the pockets in his knapsack and pulled out a smaller knapsack, which he proceeded to pack full of food in case your grandmother felt in need of a snack on her way to Lansby. He put in a chicken roasted dark brown until its skin was crisp and the meat was all juicy, a whole ham with the white knuckle sticking out the small end, and a glass bowl of beet salad and then a big loaf of white bread and a smaller one of brown bread and a ball of golden cheese covered in red wax, and an apple or two in case she needed a nibble of something mid-morning. Then he thought some more, and he added a bunch of green grapes and some purple plums and a tin of shortbread and a thermos of coffee and a thermos of tea. But no matter how much he put in the knapsack, there was always room for more. So he threw in three extra large bars of chocolate wrapped in gold foil and a sack of peppermints with red and white stripes. Then he held the knapsack up so that your grandmother could put her arms through the carrying straps. She thought it would weigh a ton what with everything the ogre had put in it. But strange to tell, Michael, the knapsack didn’t weigh anything. It was as light as a kind word, and your grandmother soon forgot it was on her back.

‘She crossed the bridge and when she got to the first grove of trees, she looked back and waved. And the ogre waved back. It was still quite early in the day, and your grandmother was confident that she would be in Lansby by noon and back in her own house before tea time. She walked along the path and enjoyed the pattern the sunlight made on the ground as it shone through the leaves of the trees, which quivered just to make the shadows dance.

‘After a bit the path started up a hill. It zigged to the left and then it zagged to the right until it reached the top of the hill. And just over the crest of the hill, the path did the oddest thing. What do you think that might be?’

Michael thought and thought and then he shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ It was hard to imagine what a path might get up to.

‘It split in two. One path led to the right into a dark grove of trees, and one path led to the left through a meadow bright with flowers and butterflies. And there, where the path split was a fingerpost. The sign pointing to the right to the path through the dark grove of trees said “The Longer Path to Lansby”. Underneath was something written in much smaller print, so small in fact that your grandmother had to take her reading glasses out of her pocket and put them on. “In other respects, this is the shorter path to Lansby, although it is dreadfully dull.” And the sign pointing to the path on the left, the one through the meadow bright with flowers and butterflies, read “The Shorter Path to Lansby”. Beneath this was something written in much, much smaller print in very faint letters. So small and faint that it was almost impossible to read. Your grandmother had to squint to make it out. “In other respects, this is the longer path to Lansby, but it is filled with adventure, and you will enjoy your walk to Lansby much, much more if you take this path.”

‘Your grandmother looked down the path to the right that led through the dark grove. Right before it entered the grove there was a large puddle of water, and the ground was all black and muddy. Your grandmother glanced at her shoes, which to her mind were far too dusty from all the walking she had been doing. She didn’t much care for the thought of getting them muddy as well. Just at that moment a raven flew overhead and it croaked, “This is the right path.” Then it did what ravens often do, and it deposited a big white dropping right there on the path.

‘Now, the path to the left that crossed the sunny meadow bright with flowers and butterflies was covered with a fine coating of small brown and white pebbles that sparkled in the sunlight and kept it dry. Just at that moment a little yellow bird like a canary flew overhead and it chirped, “Totheleft-eft-ef. Totheleft-eft-ef”. And it hopped onto one twig and then another a bit further on and then still another still further on until it had hopped out of sight.

‘Well, your grandmother thought and thought. She knew that the inhabitants of Lansby were not above playing tricks with the fingerposts to misdirect people. Both of the paths might lead to Lansby. Or the path to the right might lead to Lansby and the path to left lead to somewhere else. Or vice versa. Or it might even be that neither path led to Lansby.

‘When your grandmother has closed the door to her house and walked out to the road and closed her gate, she had planned to be in Lansby by 10:00 in the morning, finish her shopping, and be back home in time for the Late Mid-Afternoon Show on the telly. Now she had already spent a day trying to reach Lansby, and she wasn’t even there yet. It had been a pleasant evening, a most pleasant evening, with the ogre and his friends, but she wanted to get to Lansby and get back home so that she could eat the cold supper she had left in the fridge yesterday morning.

‘ “Well, I am not getting anywhere just standing here,” she thought. And she looked at the path to the right that led through the dark grove of trees, and it did look right nasty. And she looked at the path to the left that led through the meadow, and she smelled the fragrance of the flowers and the grasses. She looked at the sign that read “The Shorter Path to Lansby” and without thinking about it, her right foot stepped onto the path to the left and she started walking through the bright meadow.

‘About a hundred yards further on, she came to another sign. You know the signs you see when a road is being repaired?’

Michael nodded his head yes. And The Murphy closed his eyes and then opened them again to show that he too was acquainted with these signs.

‘This was one of those signs. A big yellow sign with large black letters that read “Traffic Advisory: It’s not too late to turn back and take the path to the left. Although longer, it is also shorter”. But once you make a commitment to a path, it’s hard to turn back. And your grandmother can be stubborn some times, as you no doubt know, Michael. So she ignored the sign and went on. A bit further on when the path rounded a curve, there was another sign and your grandmother hardly gave it a glance. She looked at it only long enough to see that it said, “Too late. You can’t turn back now. Now you’re in for it. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

Continues