Free Flood by James Heneghan Page A

doughnuts.”
    That evening Vinny stayed home with a newspaper called
The Sporting Life
, which he appeared to be reading without any of the problems he’d mentioned earlier about failing kindergarten, and even though the print was very tiny and the light was bad from the small bulb hanging shade-less from the center of the room. The back page of the newspaper had a picture of a horse race.
    Vinny soon became restless and fidgety, smoking one cigarette after another and constantly jumping up to make tea, strengthened with a drop or two of whiskey. Except for the swish of traffic, the occasional diesel roar of a bus in the main street, and the tattoo of rain on the fire escape, the place was quiet.
    There was nothing much for Andy to do in this bare room; there were no books, comics, or magazines, and the light was a bit dim for reading anyway. Andy lay back on the sofa, bored. “A TV would be nice,” he said. “Or a CD player, or a radio so we could listen to music. Don’t you like music, Father?”
    Vinny didn’t seem to be listening.
    â€œMy friends in Vancouver are probably surfing the Internet and listening to music. Or watching a video. Why’s there no phone?”
    â€œIt’s ten o’clock,” said his father, peering at his wrist-watch. “What time do eleven-year-olds go to bed in Vancouver?”
    â€œI’m in Halifax now,” he reminded his father, “which means I come under Halifax rules. What time do kids of eleven go to bed here?”
    â€œHmmn. I’m not sure. I’d think they’d be well away by ten, don’t you?”
    Andy gathered his new toothbrush and toothpaste, and washed in the kitchen. Then he spread the blankets over the sofa and climbed under. “You could tell me a story if you like.”
    â€œI don’t know any stories.”
    â€œYou used to tell me stories of the Little People, don’t you remember?”
    â€œYou’re too old for stories, Andy. You’ll soon be old enough to vote.”
    â€œNo. I’m still a kid, Father. Tell me a story like when I was little.”
    Vinny sighed. “Just for a few minutes, then.” He carried his chair over to the sofa and sat beside Andy with his tea and cigarette. “I don’t know if I remember any of the old stories.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Anything will do. And would you mind not smoking while you tell it? Secondhand smoke is deadly, didn’t you know that?”
    The rain played a riff on the window.
    Vinny stubbed out his cigarette. “D’you remember the story of Tir Na n’Og?”
    â€œThat’s the place where the Little People come from. The place you get to on a white horse. I remember it.” And Andy did. It was coming back to him. Actually, part of it had never gone away: he often dreamed of white horses galloping over the ocean waves. “But you can tell me again if you like.”
    â€œTir Na n’Og is the land of youth and immortality.”
    â€œImmortality is when nobody ever gets old or dies, right?”
    â€œThat’s it. They live forever and beyond. It’s a place of great beauty, with trees and lakes and rivers to beat anything you ever saw. Those who know say Tir Na n’Og is in the back of beyond. Humans and gods and the Sheehogue live there, side by side, in peace and harmony, with no death or sickness or pain.”
    â€œSheehogue is the proper name for the Little People.”
    â€œThat’s it. Or the Sidhe, the fallen angels from heaven who were not good enough to be saved but not bad enough to be lost.”
    â€œHow do you get to Tir Na n’Og?”
    â€œAh! That’s the difficult part first there must be moonlight. Then you must find a thorn tree where there’s a faery ring — ”
    â€œWhat does a faery ring look like?”
    â€œA circle of shamrock, or stones, or mushrooms, or buttercups, or the grass growing a certain way so it