One For St Patrick’s Day (belated)
A Craic in the fabric of Space-Time gentlemen please.
The wooden sign creaked as the breeze wafted it to and fro. It stood amid a cluster of palm trees by a small farm settlement. It had been there centuries; a tall, burnt out wooden post, almost perpendicular, supported the sign that hung there from a rusted brittle chain.
The paint on the sign had faded beyond recognition under the blistering sub-Saharan sun. When it moved back and forth in the wind, it twinkled as the last traces of golden paint caught the light. The sign had once borne the picture of a harp styled with curlicued Celtic patterns. It had announced the presence of the only Irish pub in this part of Africa. The city around it, Mombasa, had also fallen to rack and ruin. But the fate of the city wasn’t their concern.
Dermott Malley, dark skinned, blue eyed officer of the regiment of the Blarney Stone stepped down from the transport pod. His uniform bore the insignia of a De Valera class starship. He stopped before the sign and admired it for a brief second before barking orders into his intercom. It was the real deal. One of the last remnants of the Atomic Age Irish diaspora.
An excited Lieutenant Malley had found it. A relic of a time before the world wars (IV, V and VI) that had reduced the world to rubble leaving only Ireland to take humanity beyond the confines of a sick blue planet.
“Feck!” he said in reverential tones as he was joined by the Guinness (an old-style priest with black robes and a white head). After his blessing, two slaves – from the ancient caste of English navvies – cut down the sign and carried it back to the pod. Now it would be restored, placed in one of the grand museum collections dedicated to the millennia of Irish culture and history. Perhaps even to the very place where Irishness itself began: to the ancient city of Liverpool.