Publisher’s Note: We have been associated with Bree Donovan for some years, and we consider her a very good friend. We recently published Blackthorns of the Forgotten, a wonderful historical urban fantasy, and to celebrate this Bree has kindly provided a recently completed short fiction piece, well aligned with the Holiday season, and we are proud indeed to publish it here for your reading pleasure.

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Dedicated to the Facebook Irish-American Club and Boru O`Domhnail

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“Running spikes,” Dylan said, his voice carrying the faint trace of an odd accent.

He had been born in Norway, his mother’s homeland, a place he barely remembered. Dylan was four-years -old when his Norwegian grandparents died suddenly.  Consumed by grief, Dylan’s mother urged her husband to move the family to Ireland. Dylan’s father had shared many a story about his beloved Eire.  I suppose the idea of the Emerald Isle offered solace to Dylan’s mother.

With nearly translucent skin and eyes the color of the sea, Dylan quickly became something of a mystery to those around him, more spirit than flesh. Whispers spread, and some began to suspect he was of the fey, a creature not bound by the rules of this world. This belief was not shared by the nuns of St. Dymphna. Sister Augusta was particularly devoted to Dylan’s adherence to the Catholic ways. 

She now challenged Dylan’s two word answer to the question she had posed. “Pardon me, Mr. Byrne?” Sister Augusta clutched at the hefty silver crucifix suspended from her neck as if Dylan was a vampire she was trying to ward off. 

It was early November and Sister thought it necessary for us to decide upon a Christmas gift that was not merely a selfish desire of our mortal hearts, but one that would glorify Christ. In other words, I gathered, she was asking the impossible. What could we expect to find under the tree that would be good for us and God? I hardly thought my burning desire for Scalextric racing cars would do much in the way of peace on earth, but I’d be infinitely happy.

I turned to look at my best friend Dylan, or Lan as he was called and wondered if Viking blood was the reason for his strong will. He always spoke his mind, no matter who was on the receiving end of the conversation. I’m sure if the Pope himself had asked Dylan the same question, my friend’s answer would not have changed. And his face would have still possessed that infernal, mischievous smile to boot!

Dylan dialed up the volume a notch in case the ole gal was having trouble registering his response.  “I SAID RUNNING-”

“I heard you, Mr. Byrne.” Sister Augusta snapped. “I’m simply astounded by your ignorance.”

“Oh no, Sister!” Dylan protested. “I understand the question completely.” His smile remained. 

The rest of my fellow eleven-year-old classmates were too afraid to look up. Sister was about to impart on Dylan her particular brand of wisdom, which usually involved a quivering, open palm and a wooden ruler.

 “And you believe your request for…running shoes-”

“Spikes.”

“Would glorify our blessed saviour?”

“Yes, Sister.”

I stole a glance at Sister Augusta who had an itchy trigger finger like one of the gun slingers in the American Westerns we sometimes watched at the cinema on Saturday afternoons. 

“I’m a spot on runner, Sister. And, I love it. So wouldn’t Christ be happy if I was doing what I love most and what I do best?  I’m making good use of my God- given gift. Isn’t that what you mean?”

You could have heard a pin drop in that draffy autumn classroom.  All eyes were now glued to Sister Augusta’s face. Her eyes were like two pointy black darts aimed at Dylan who was as clueless and innocent as a cherub. He was, after all, speaking the truth. 

Sister abruptly turned around and strode to the blackboard. “You will all write an essay on the importance of keeping Christ in Christmas.” 

I looked again to Dylan. When our eyes met this time, neither one of us could stifle the giggles that so often betrayed our efforts to behave. 

“Mr. O’Keeffe,” Sister thrust her arm towards me, and then aimed her sights on Dylan, “Mr. Byrne, to your corners.” 

We took to the east and west of the room, like evil witches banished to Oz. We stood facing the dingy wall until lunch time. We were brothers that way. 

I knew what I must do. I had to find the means to get Dylan his treasured running spikes for Christmas. The year was 1962 in our small costal village of BallyGlen, County Donegal, Ireland.

I had my mission.

~~~

We all knew how much Dylan loved to run; by we, I mean our entire village. We knew this because he ran no matter if rain was blowing in sideways from the great Atlantic, or if the fiery sun stretched across a rare cloudless July sky, or if the golden moon embedded in the starry heaven lighted the hilly terrain Dylan traversed.

Oftentimes Dylan would climb out of his bedroom window while his parents believed him to be asleep. It was as if some siren of the hills beckoned to Dylan, and he had to make his way as quickly as possible to answer her call. But Dylan was too strong a character to be held captive by any force other than his own free will-and it was by his own free will that he ran. At age eleven he wasn’t one of the tall, lanky boys. Dylan was a slight lad really, but his spindly legs propelled his small frame much like a miniature locomotive. It was with that kind of force and power Dylan ran. Those who may have doubted his ability were soon true believers in ‘the little boy that could.’ Dylan could outrun any kid in Donegal. Both he and I were sure that someday he would outrun any man in the world.

~~~

“Hey Jimmy, hurry up!” Dylan was yelling for me outside my house. 

“Lan, dear, would ya like to come inside and have some tea while ya wait for our James?” 

My mam was at the door in an ill-fated attempt to lasso the wind. “No thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. I had breakfast.” 

I took a peak out the window just long enough to catch Dylan flashing my mam his sly grin.

I yelled down to him, “Ya could still give me a few minutes to have mine then!”

“James O’Keefe, close that window! I’ve got the fire stoked against the chill,” mam ordered. “And stop screeching out of windows as if I taught ya no manners at all.” 

I was verging on knocking over a lamp in my hurried attempt to gather my books. I hoped my mother wouldn’t notice my wet hair. I’d gotten caught in the early morning rain. How had Dylan managed to have his dried and neatly combed? I knew full well he must have been out running no more than an hour before. I grabbed two slices of toast, jostled my books, almost making it past my younger sisters without comment…almost.

“Jimmy, where were ya this morning?”  Iona spoke loud enough so that my mam would hear. 

I bit into the slightly burned bread to give myself a moment to create a defense if necessary. Thankfully the combination of the restless Dylan at the door, and my other sister feeding the dog from the table, rendered Iona’s question insignificant to my preoccupied mother. 

“Off with ya now.” She kissed me on my head, not even registering the damp hair – except to offer me a wool cap. 

“Have a good day, boys.”

“You too, Mrs.O’Keefe,” Dylan waved with one arm, whilst pulling me outside with the other. 

I continued to chew my rushed breakfast, wishing for some tea to wash it down. 

“Have a glance at these!” Dylan pulled a picture torn from a mail order catalogue. He pointed at a pair of scarlet red running spikes. 

“These are bang on, right?” 

I gulped one last piece of dry bread, my eyes widening seeing the price of two pounds listed underneath the picture. 

Dylan slowed his pace slightly. “What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing.”

His dark eyes probed mine suspiciously. “What did Iona mean? Were you out this morning? What was she on about?”

I couldn’t blow my cover this early on. I still had three more weeks to earn the two pounds for the spikes. I had taken great pains in making sure to choose a lake to fish that wasn’t on one of Dylan’s morning running routes. So far, I had earned 15 shillings selling the cod I’d caught. At this rate it didn’t seem as if I could make the entire sum with my meager earnings at fish mongering. I’d need another plan.

Dylan had come to a full stop and demanded an explanation. “Well James?” 

My friend could be exasperating in that way. The very thing I admired about him; his total honesty was also the one thing that was most annoying. Dylan could sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. 

“Well, what?” I countered lamely. “Ya gonna believe what goosey Iona has to say? Ya know she’s always tryin’ to tattle on me for stuff I didn’t do.”

Dylan shifted his stance.

I resumed walking. “Come on. We’ll be late. I’ll tell Sister Augusta it’s your fault!”

“O.K.” Dylan tucked the magazine page into his jacket pocket. “But we’ll have to run!”

~~~

“Ya mean that little spitfire of a thing who comes chargin^’ through me field at all hours?”  Mr. Lahey sucked on his cherry pipe. The yellowish tint to a fading red beard betrayed his love of nicotine. I took his incredulous response to mean my grand scheme would be a difficult sell.

“Yes sir. That would be Lan.”

“Ya know he scares the tar out of me sheep. He even got the dogs chasin’ after him one mornin’. Didn’t stop ‘em though. He was back the next day, runnin’ even faster.”

“Mr-”

“Other than that, he’s a polite young lad I suppose.”

I waited for the man to process his thoughts.

“Always waves to me, calls out a greetin’. Strange boy.”  His sharp blue eyes rested on me. “Yer his friend then, are ya?”

“Yes sir. He’s me best mate. And I was really hoping ya might be able to help me.”

“So he can get a pair of expensive clodhoppers to tear up me field?”

“Well, Mr. Lahey, maybe if Lan gets his spikes, he’ll take up some new routes.” I offered.

“Ha!” The man’s laugh was as large as himself. “I wouldn’t believe that lad could be persuaded to go anywhere other than where he set his mind to. I know that much about him.”

“So, you’ll help me.” I said it more as a foregone conclusion rather than a desperate plea.

The man who stood taller than me own da returned his pipe to the pocket of his tweed jacket and tugged on his cap. “Since ya seem as persistent as yer best mate, I don’t see as I have a choice.” He rested a calloused hand on my shoulder. “It’s a good thing yer doin’, helpin’ the lad like this. Just tell him to tread a little lighter if possible.”

Without either one of us saying so, we knew that would never happen. We laughed in our unspoken bond.

Mr. Lahey put me to work mending some fences and since he was a widower, I even had to darn a few pairs of tattered socks. I worked for about a fortnight every day after school doing my best to keep my family and Dylan in the dark about my odd jobs. It wasn’t easy. After school Dylan would press me about kicking around the pitch with some of the other lads from our class. I must admit, it was tough for me to say no. I enjoyed a good game of football as much as the next boy. Dylan and I paired up on a team were pretty intimidating as well. 

I’d usually spend no more than a half hour with the gang, then I would offer some excuse as to why I had to get home; “mam needs help with the girls, da wants me home studying,” etc. 

I was fairly certain Dylan only half believed me, but much to my surprise and relief he left my excuses go unchallenged. After all, I had done odd jobs in the past so that I could raise the funds to buy new cars, or additional pieces of track. It was always a source of great delight to lay down my newest offering to our steadily expanding raceway. Neither of our families was well off, so we had to work for our little treasures. 

This was an entirely different experience for me. If I didn’t come up with the money, I felt it wouldn’t be Dylan who would be disappointed, but me. No one deserved those spikes more than he did. With one week until Christmas I was still 10 shillings short of two pounds. 

~~~

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’m so close.”  I displayed my half-filled jar to Mr. Lahey as we sat at his table sharing afternoon tea.

“I have an idea, James.” 

“Ya do?”

“I’ve been considerin’ it for the last two days.” 

He set aside his cup and traced a pattern with his long finger onto the wood table. “Ya see, like me, most people in the hills out here,” he identified the other farms on his imaginary map, “have seen Lan many a day runnin’ his heart out. He may give some people reason to scratch their heads, but I’ll wager none doubt his passion for his sport.”

I nodded my agreement.

 “Ya go to them. Knock on their doors and tell them what you mean to do. We take care of our own here, James. And Lan, he’s turnin’ out to be someone special among us now, isn’t he?”

“Ya really think they will contribute?”

“Well, ya convinced me and I was all but ready to run him off me fields with a pitchfork!” 

I rose from the table with newfound hope. Tomorrow, right after super, I would begin to make my rounds. 

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Lahey.”

“’Tis’ nothin’, James. Ya helped me get a lot accomplished.  I’ve enjoyed yer company. You be sure to bring Lan round in his new running spikes.”

“Ya won’t come after us with that pitchfork, will ya?”

“If I did, I’d have to catch ya, and I’ve not the energy for that anymore. Ya just see to it yer friend doesn’t do too much damage.”

“Yes sir!” I promised. 

~~~

“You’ll not have supper with us tonight, James?” Mrs. Byrne inquired in her melodic accent. Whenever I heard her speak, I pictured frozen tundra and sleigh rides with folks bundled up in layers of warm blankets. Bells jingled as a horse-drawn sleigh glided under a darkening sky, cutting two perfect lines into the fresh, soft snow. Donegal was the only place I’d ever known. I’d not even gone much past my own County. Dylan’s mother was the embodiment of exotic to me.

“No thank you, Mrs. Byrne. I should be gettin’ home now.” 

“What have your parents asked of you tonight?” Dylan eyed me with definite suspicion placing his car- a highly coveted, 1955 silver Porsche Spyder Avus on the plastic track. He looked like Chief Black Hawk (we learned about him in our American History class), with his powerful legs folded underneath him. Dylan’s serious stare was quite intimidating. 

“Oh, I dunno. I think da wanted me to help Iona with her mathematics.”

“Uh-huh.” Dylan crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

“Yeah, ya know, I gotta make a good impression for Christmas.”  I reasoned. 

“You are sneaking something, James O’Keefe. Do you trade cars with Brian McCloud?”

Brian McCloud was a year ahead of Dylan and me in school. He was also a member of the wealthiest family in our village. They relocated to Donegal from Scotland. Brian’s favorite pastime was creating new ways to make others feel inferior. Dylan had a few choice words for Brian. No one liked the way he made it a well-known fact that his parents could buy him anything he wanted, but only Dylan had the guts to say so to Brian’s face. 

“Get away!” I snapped. “You’re just pissed because Father Quinn gave you the task of carrying the baby Jesus to the manger at Midnight Mass.”

“Is an honor!” Dylan countered looking deeply insulted.

“Yeah, but he picked you, because Sister Augusta told him it would be good for yer black hearted soul!’”

Dylan cracked a smile. No matter what slight offense might pass between us, we could never stay miffed for too long. We were too much alike. 

“I think Sister Augusta is taking shine to me.”

“Goodnight, Lan. I think ya need to rest your fevered brain.”

“I’ll be examining your cars next time. I hope no Scottish models are among them!”

~~~

By the time I reached the fourth house, the Murphy’s, the coins in my collection jar were beginning to jingle like the sleigh bells I associated with Mrs. Byrne. I knocked with conviction. It took a few moments for someone to answer. I could hear the excited voices of children and a baby crying. 

A woman with curly red hair twisted into a long braid which hung over one shoulder greeted me with a bothered look. “What’s yer business?” 

 “Evenin’ Mrs. Murphy. I’m James O’Keef from the village, and I attend St. Dymphna’s school with me mate, Dylan Byrne. You might have noticed him runnin’ through the hills here.” I motioned to the open space of land behind me. 

The baby continued to cry from a back room of the cottage, and Mr. Murphy was calling for his wife’s assistance. She appeared about to dismiss me when a look of recognition swept across her pale face. 

“Ya mean the blonde fellow who comes out here most mornings before the sun has a chance to rise?” She was smiling now.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Regina!” Her husband called.

“Hush a moment, Christopher!” She waved a hand behind her back. “Now what about the lad?” 

Two red-headed children joined her at the door. I smiled at them and continued my rehearsed plea. “I’m takin’ up a collection…”

“Collection?” She clutched at her children in a protective gesture.  Is he ill?” 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I thought to myself. She thinks Dylan is dying! I was an eejit now asking for money. 

“No…Uh, no mam. He…He uh…well, he needs a pair of racing spikes.”

“Racing…glory be to God!” she laughed. “I should say he does at that!”

“Whatever you can give, Mrs. Murphy. It doesn’t have to be much.”

“Wait here.”

She shuttled her children back inside and closed the door. The baby was no longer wailing.  I was just about to turn and go, thinking she had been intercepted by an angry Mr. Murphy, when himself opened the door. Standing next to his wife, the man extended his hand to me. 

“I hear you’re trying to get some spikes for that runner.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy.”

“My wife told me how he helped her one afternoon. Our three- year-old, Nora decided on a walk about.  The boy offered to find her. He did just that too, with Nora only a few feet from the lake.”

I could imagine the panicked Mrs. Murphy pleading with an already sweaty Dylan to run the parameters of her land to find her daughter. Of course, he would have done it. 

“Here ya go then.” Mr. Murphy dropped four shillings into my jar. 

“Are ya sure, sir?” I knew they didn’t have that much to spare.

“Not too many lads your age give a toss about helping others. The world… Ireland is a scary place these days. You and yer friend are the rare ones.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murphy, Mrs. Murphy.” 

As I took my leave, I realized, more profoundly than ever before, that Dylan and I were truly fortunate to have each other.”

~~~

“Wha…Where did you get these?” Dylan handled the pair of spikes as if they were bars of gold. 

“Ya like em?” 

I couldn’t wait any longer to make my grand presentation. I purchased the spikes through Doyle’s shop. This would hardly be considered a department store by today’s standards, but it was the largest variety store in our town. Mr. Doyle ordered the shoes from Donegal proper.  They took a few days to arrive. By the time Christmas Eve came round and school let out for the holiday, the shoes had becomes like hot coals in my hand. I had to give them to Dylan, or risk ruining my surprise. I slipped unnoticed from my house while my boisterous family prepared for Midnight Mass. Once at the Byrne’s, I offered my greetings to Dylan’s parents and his little sister, Lorena who repeatedly asked her mother why they had to go to church instead of staying home to await St. Nickolas’s arrival.

My heart pounded as I took the steps two at a time to Dylan’s loft-room. I found him wrapping a colorful tie around his neck. I never saw him so decked out before. A dark blue suit coat fit perfectly over a crisp white shirt. His grey trousers were neatly pressed, and his usually fly-away hair was combed down neatly to one side.

He stood before me now dumbfounded. “I love them!” His blue eyes lit up like the lights on our tree. “But how did you afford them?”

Not only had I collected the sum necessary to purchase the spikes, but a pound to spare. Mr. Lahey was right about the folks of the hills. They did indeed take care of their own. And Dylan was special to them.

“Let’s just say ya have friends that ya don’t even know about.” 

I took the extra pound from my pocket. “What do ya think we should do with this?”

Dylan reluctantly took his eyes from the prized footwear to look at the offering in my hand. His marked silence reflected he was giving my question considerable thought. “We should do somethin’ nice for these mysterious friends.”

“Yeah,” I smiled thinking of Mr. Lahey, the Murphys and the families who had given so generously. “We’ll do somethin’ smashing for them.”

“Jimmy.”

“Shut up. We gotta get to Mass.” 

Dylan was never one to hide his emotions. He placed the spikes on his bed and hugged me to him. “Takk, thank you.”

We quickly stepped away from one another. “Yer welcome, ya sod!” I punched his arm. “I’ll see ya in church!”

~~~

Our small church was a numinous place with white candles set in the frosted windows.  Statues extended open hands to the congregation. What exactly were these icons pleading for? The space smelled like pine. I closed my eyes and imagined we were like the ancient Celts gathered together in the forest to celebrate the winter solstice. The air was clean, the sky imbued with stars, and the moon welcomed us to his kingdom. 

Instead we were packed into narrow pews like sardines. During the prolonged service, the singing of hymns, scripture readings and prayers, I longed to be outside in that forest. I squirmed in my seat. In unique moments such as this, I understood completely why running was so important to Dylan. He was one with nature out there and the folks who lived among the tress and hills appreciated that more than anyone. 

I glanced across the aisle to where the Byrne family sat. Lorena was asleep in her mother’s lap, and Dylan was trying hard not to fidget, his furrowed brow a sign of his effort at concentration. Believing I had supernatural powers, I willed him to turn his head. In a few moments he was making goofy faces, rolling his large eyes and sticking out his tongue, just like in school. The laugh that issued from me bounced off the walls cast in shadows and candlelight. My mother gripped my hand with surprising strength while admonishing me through pursed lips. Mrs. Byrne had Dylan in a similar fashion. 

Some people stared at us in disapproval, but some good souls smiled, remembering what it was like to be eleven- years- old on Christmas Eve. Father Quinn paused during his extended holyday homily to cast the required look of priestly displeasure. 

After the exasperated priest picked up the thread of his sermon, Dylan turned to wink at me and then returned his attention to the alter.

My mother bent down so that her lips touched my ear. “James Matthew O’Keefe…”

“I know mam, sorry.” I whispered smiling in satisfaction. I had completed my mission.

The end of the service marked our parish’s Christmas tradition. A child from the school was given the task of carrying the baby Jesus; a porcelain likeness of the infant to the nativity scene in the small churchyard. 

The people filed out singing,  waiting  in the crisp December air for Father Quinn to descend the aisle and hand the small statue to Dylan who would carry it to the manger. 

The priest made his way from the alter with layers of robes rustling behind him. His attitude was most somber as he deposited his offering into Dylan’s outstretched arms. Father joined the assembly around the straw filled manger.

All eyes were on Dylan as he stepped from his pew and into the aisle. His feet made contact with the plank floor like a step dancer. At first few noticed the curious clacking, but by the time he approached the open double doors everyone heard those brand-new spikes pattering over the wood. The sound echoed off the bare church walls like the laughter of fey in the glen. 

People quizzically turned to one another. My mother made the sign of the cross. I met Dylan’s wide-eyed grin as he proudly made his way to the manger, genuflecting in reverence, he laid the baby into the make-shift crib. 

He stood and faced the congregation with a dignified air. Even Sister Augusta’s mortified stare could not mar the magical moment. 

I located the faces of most of the families who had given to the cause, and that of Mr. Lahey standing next to his sheep at the manger. They all were smiling at the blonde boy who was brushing a sweep of renegade hair from his eyes. Father Quinn placed an arm around Dylan before calling us to one last prayer. 

“Dylan, I want to thank you for your assistance on this holiest of nights. I reckon your unique offering will stay with us for many Christmases to come.”

Relived for the permission to release their amusement; everyone did so in appreciative waves of laughter. Dylan innocently stared up at the man. “I did what Sister Augusta told us, Father. I made my offering with love.”