Timulty had something there. Everyone had to paw everybody and admit it.
“Do you find any other resemblances?” asked Finn, heavily, glowering.
“I do,” said Timulty, with a judge’s manner.
There was a still more fascinated indraw of breath and the crowd drew nearer.
“They do not mind a drink now and then,” said Timulty.
“By God, he’s right!” cried Murphy.
“Also,” intoned Timulty, “they do not marry until very late, if ever at all! And—”
But here the tumult was such he had to wait for it to subside before he could finish:
“And they—ah—have very little to do with women.”
After that there was a great clamor, a yelling and shoving about and ordering of drinks and someone invited Timulty outside. But Timulty wouldn’t even lift one eyelid, and the brawler was held off and when everyone had a new drink in them and the near-fistfights had drained away, one loud clear voice, Finn’s, declared:
“Now would you mind explaining the criminal comparison you have just made in the clean air of my honorable pub?”
Timulty sipped his drink slowly and then at last opened his eyes and looked at Finn steadily, and said, with a clear bell-trumpet tone and wondrous enunciation:
“Where in all of Ireland can a man lie down with a woman?”
He let that sink in.
“Three hundred twenty-nine days a damn year it rains. The rest it’s so wet there’s no dry piece, no bit of land you would dare trip a woman out flat on for fear of her taking root and coming up in leaves, do you deny that?”
The silence did not deny.
“So when it comes to places to do sinful evils and perform outrageous acts of the flesh, it’s to Arabia the poor damn fool Irishman must take himself. It’s Arabian dreams we have, of warm nights, dry land, and a decent place not just to sit down but to lie down on, and not just lie down on but to roister joyfully about on in clinches and clenches of outrageous delight.”
“Ah, Jaisus,” said Flynn, “you can say that again.”
“Ah, Jaisus,” said everyone, nodding.
“That’s number one.” Timulty ticked it off on his fingers. “Place is lacking. Then, second, time and circumstances. For say you should sweet talk a fair girl into the field, eh? in her rainboots and slicker and her shawl over her head and her umbrella over that and you making noises like a stuck pig half over the sty gate, which means you’ve got one hand in her bosom and the other wrestling with her boots, which is as far as you’ll damn well get, for who’s standing there behind you, and you feel his sweet spearmint breath on your neck?”
“The father from the local parish?” offered Garrity.
“The father from the local parish,” said everyone, in despair.
“There’s nails number two and three in the cross on which all Ireland’s males hang crucified,” said Timulty.
“Go on, Timulty, go on.”
“Those fellows visiting here from Sicily run in teams. We run in teams. Here we are, the gang, in Finn’s, are we not?”
“Be damned and we are!”
“They look sad and are melancholy half the time and then spitting like happy demons the rest, either up or down, never in between, and who does that remind you of?”
Everyone looked in the mirror and nodded.
“If we had the choice,” said Timulty, “to go home to the dire wife and the dread mother-in-law and the old-maid sister all sour sweats and terrors, or stay here in Finn’s for one more song or one more drink or one more story, which would all of us men choose?”
Silence.
“Think on that,” said Timulty. “Answer the truth. Resemblances. Similarities. The long list of them runs off one hand and up the other arm. And well worth the mulling over before we leap about crying Jaisus and Mary and summoning the Guard.”
Silence.
“I,” said someone, after a long while, strangely, curiously, “would like . . . to see them closer.”
“I think you’ll get your wish. Hist!”
All froze in a tableau.
And far off they heard a faint and fragile sound. It was like the wondrous morning you wake and lie in bed and know by a special feel that the first fall of snow is in the air, on its way down, tickling the sky, making the silence to stir aside and fall back in on nothing.
“Ah, God,” said Finn, at last, “it’s the first day of spring . . .”
And it was that, too. First the dainty snowfall of feet drifting on the cobbles, and then a choir of bird song.
And along the sidewalk and down the street and outside the pub came the sounds that were winter and spring. The doors sprang wide. The men reeled back from the impact of the meeting to come. They steeled their nerves.
They balled their fists. They geared their teeth in their anxious mouths, and into the pub like children come into a Christmas place and everything a bauble or a toy, a special gift or color, there stood the tall thin older man who looked young and the small thin younger men who had old things in their eyes. The sound of snowfall stopped. The sound of spring birds ceased.
The strange children herded by the strange shepherd found themselves suddenly stranded as if they sensed a pulling away of a tide of people, even though the men at the bar had flinched but the merest hair.
The children of a warm isle regarded the short child-size and runty full-grown men of this cold land and the full-grown men looked back in mutual assize.
Timulty and the men at the bar breathed long and slow. You could smell the terrible clean smell of the children way over here. There was too much spring in it.
Snell-Orkney and his young-old boy-men breathed swiftly as the heartbeats of birds trapped in a cruel pair of fists. You could smell the dusty, impacted, prolonged, and dark-clothed smell of the little men way over here. There was too much winter in it.
Each might have commented upon the other’s choice of scent, but—
At this moment the double doors at the side banged wide and Garrity charged in full-blown, crying the alarm:
“Jesus, I’ve seen everything! Do you know where they are now, and what doing?”
Every hand at the bar flew up to shush him.
By the startled look in their eyes, the intruders knew they were being shouted about.
“They’re still at St. Stephen’s Green!” Garrity, on the move, saw naught that was before him. “I stopped by the hotel to spread the news. Now it’s your turn. Those fellows—”
“Those fellows,” said David Snell-Orkney, “are here in—” He hesitated.
“Heeber Finn’s pub,” said Heeber Finn, looking at his shoes.
“Heeber Finn’s,” said the tall man, nodding his thanks.
“Where,” said Garrity, gone miserable, “we will all be having a drink instantly.”
He flung himself at the bar.
But the six intruders were moving, also. They made a small parade to either side of Garrity and just by being amiably there made him hunch three inches smaller.
“Good afternoon,” said Snell-Orkney.
“It is and it isn’t,” said Finn, carefully, waiting.
“It seems,” said the tall man surrounded by the little boy-men, “there is much talk about what we are doing in Ireland.”
“That would be putting the mildest interpretation on it,” said Finn.
“Allow me to explain,” said the stranger.
“Have you ever,” continued Mr. David Snell-Orkney, “heard of the Snow Queen and the Summer King?”
Several jaws trapped wide down.
Someone gasped as if booted in the stomach.
Finn, after a moment in which he considered just where a blow might have landed upon him, poured himself a long slow drink with scowling precision. He took a stiff snort of the stuff and with the fire in his mouth, replied, carefully, letting the warm breath out over his tongue:
“Ah . . . what Queen is that again, and the King?”
“Well,” said the tall pale man, “there was this Queen who lived in Iceland who had never seen summer, and this King who lived in the Isles of Sun who had never seen winter. The people under the King almost died of heat in the summers, and the people under the Snow Queen almost died of ice in the winters. But the people of both countries were saved from their terrible weathers.
The Snow Queen and the Sun King met and fell in love and every summer when the sun killed people in the islands they moved North to the lands of ice and lived temperately. And every winter when the snow killed people in the North, all of the Snow Queen’s people moved South and lived in the mild island sun. So there were no longer two nations, two peoples, but one race which commuted from land to land with the strange weathers and wild seasons. The end.”
There was a round of applause, not from the canary boys, but from the men lined up at the bar who had been spelled. Finn saw his own hands out clapping on the air, and put them down. The others saw their own hands and dropped them.
But Timulty summed it up, “God, if you only had a brogue! What a teller of tales you would make.”
“Many thanks, many thanks,” said David Snell-Orkney.
“All of which brings us around to the point of the story,” Finn said. “I mean, well, about that Queen and the King and all.”
“The point is,” said Snell-Orkney, “that we have not seen a leaf fall in five years. We hardly know a cloud when we see it. We have not
