FOR THE LOVE OF LILLIAN
"Listen Phil! — if I don't have those reports on my desk Monday evening at the latest, then we may as well all start looking for another job. Do you hear me! Every month you put me through this; how I haven't had a heart attack in the last ten years God only knows. Sort it Phil, please — even if it takes you all weekend. I'll see you on Monday."
The figure turned sharply, too annoyed to face him, then slammed the door behind him as he left.
His boss was right, Phil thought; it had been nearly ten years since he joined the accounts department of Saatchi and Wohl. Ten years ago he had been a 25-year-old office trainee — one among a hundred. Now he was the financial director accountable to the board and the ever-stressed Mr. Grimes, his boss. How things had changed. Or not, as the case had seemed lately.
Tossing his pen across the desk, he exhaled slowly. Resigning himself into the folds of the chair's leather, Phil spent a moment in silence, extracting what measure of comfort he could from his tenth-floor office, surveying the magnificent Manhattan skyline through the large window.
He had been hoping to get away this weekend; to escape somewhere quiet. The boredom of late had been squeezing his mind tighter than normal and he felt almost ready to explode. He needed a vacation. No chance of that in his current employment, though.
The last ten years had also seen the rise of the company to the status of being a major international internet banking provision; if not the biggest. Dedication and sacrifice on the part of key employees made the difference. Astute and foreseeing employees such as Phil. Yet, despite the benefits that came along with his meteoric rise up the career ladder, it didn't seem to make much difference; he was still overworked and unappreciated. His last vacation had been five years ago, and that only came about when he split with Maria.
He cast his mind back. They had been together a long time and many looked at them as the perfect couple. They never seemed to argue and marriage was deemed a certainty by all, including the in-laws. What was the guy's name she left him for? Geoff or Greg, or something. Not that it mattered anymore. It had done him a favor really — it just didn't feel like that then.
Despite not loving Maria, the rejection had hurt. Phil liked things to be comfortable, not being one for effort. It meant that he would have to rebuild his life and, unlike his friends who were always striving, he had been brought up in the countryside where nature took its course and humans meandered along in harmony with it. And so, he had plowed himself into his work, most nights spent at his desk browsing the financial websites while chewing on takeaways.
A tiny shard of the late evening's summer sun eased its way across his desk, highlighting the corner of the picture frame that took center place there. The mahogany surround glinted at the corner, catching his eye as it refracted. He stared at the photo — at the lone black and white figure it projected. The figure of him. Slowly he felt an emptiness, a tight vacuum in the base of his stomach, that grew, leaving him nauseous inside.
"Well! — you heard the man," he shouted, turning to the image of himself in the photograph. "Better get to it. No good sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."
Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, he reached down for his briefcase. As soon as it contained all the reports, his tie, and a dozen CD-ROMs, he flicked the light switch.
"See you Monday, Phil!" he voiced, turning the key, then proceeded in the elevator to the carport in the basement.
"I'm sorry Mr. Flannigan, I can't bring you your BMW; it has a flat tire," the carport attendant said apologetically. "But, if you give me a minute or two, I'll change it for you, sir!"
"Oh that’s just great!" screamed Phil, his voice projecting his incredulity. "No, that's okay, James. I haven't got around to fixing the spare from the last one."
"But Mr. Flannigan sir — that was three years ago now!" James looked perplexed.
"I know how it feels James, believe me, I know how it feels! Don't worry, I'll hail a cab. You have a nice weekend. I'll see you on Monday."
"You too, sir. Thank you, Mr. Flannigan, sir. By the way, you realize it's Friday evening, sir — good luck with the cab, Mr. Flannigan."
James was right, Phil thought as he surveyed the sidewalk; not a chance of a cab on a Friday evening, and even if he was lucky enough to catch one, the traffic sat bumper to bumper. Pondering what to do, he looked east up East Boulevard. He could always call in O'Reilly's bar, although he had spent enough time there of late. He looked west along West Boulevard, towards home, feeling the same indecision. Then, a scuffle on the sidewalk across from him brought his attention back and he noticed the park straight in front of him.
In all his years of working for the company, he had never entered the park; he had known it was there but was always too busy to go in. He stepped off the curb, heading north.
After twenty minutes of walking, unaware of the glorious landscape surrounding him, his mind bogged with indecision, Phil stopped. The calming sound of a nearby waterfall directed his steps off the path to which he had subconsciously kept. He threw his jacket beside him and rested under the boughs of the enormous maple, just to the left of the river's bank. Kicking his briefcase from under his feet, he stretched, leaning back against the rough bark. His shoulders were knotted with tension and his neck ached. Phil closed his eyes, pinching his nose firmly at the bridge where it met his eye sockets. His face screwed into a distorted squint.
"Is you in pain? Only I has a snatching of rosemary in my trussock," inquired a voice from the hedgerow. "'Tis a good ailment for pain you know."
"What?" stammered Phil, looking up, before his eyes returned to the ground and the little figure that stood before him. "What do you mean? What's a trussock?"
It was only when he had completed the sentence that he realized what he was seeing.
"You means to tell me you don't be knowing what a trussock is when you be having one at your side — are you sufferings from the delusions too? Oh my, my! 'It is a good job I brought the rosemary."
"No-No-No, this is not happening, you're not real. What are you? You can't be real. I must be seeing things." Phil pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time shaking his head strongly. "Hobgoblins in the middle of a park in Manhattan," he voiced, under his breath; "this is not real, I'm losing my mind."
"Not real am I?" questioned the figure, moving closer from the confines of the hedge; his stubby legs shuffling side to side. "Then who is you talking too, because I is not seeing anyone else, which means perhaps I needs a snuffle of rosemary too. Oh it is worse than I thought — I hope we is having enough for the both of us. Perhaps, maybe, you has some in your trussock there?"
"No," shouted Phil, "just a lot of reports that need my attention. Which is why I can't waste my time sitting here talking to you." The thought of all the work brought Phil's temper to the fore. "What am I doing talking to a hobgoblin, gnome; or whatever you are. I must be going mad."
"Oh great Jippity, not the madnesses too. This is an absolute calamity. I never thought to be bringing any juniper essence, or balm weed, come to think of it. By the ways, I am not a hobgoblin, I is a Jodesian. I comes from a place called Jodesia, if you must be knowing. But that is not of importantment. It seems that they is important — these reports that you be mentioning?" The Jodesian's voice changed to a more concerned tone, seeing the despondency on Phil's face.
"Yes they are," said Phil calmly, trying to atone for his abruptness. "It's my work — my life I guess."
"That so."
The Jodesian moved closer, out of the shadows. Phil looked at him as he stepped into the orange of the setting sun, venturing to the spot at Phil's side.
"Always work to be doing there is, but that's why I'm here; why I came; why you be calling me. For years now I've been in service to the mighty Gallie tree, aiding those that sits with her, seeking me out."
Phil looked at the maple at which he sat. He had to admit it was indeed a mighty tree and somehow he felt that maybe the Jodesian wasn't wrong; there was a presence about it. The sound of the waterfall behind him and the green expanse of the surrounding land was quite breathtaking. It was as mystical as the land he had left behind in Tralee.
"But I didn't call you," Phil said, perplexed. "As far as I am concerned things like you don't exist. You're just something made up from a fairy story, aren't you? So why would I call something, or someone, that I don't believe in? I didn't call you."
"They all says that, but you'll soon be seeing that you did. You just don't realize it yet."
The figure seated himself next to Phil, and remained a good few feet lower, looking up at him. Phil examined his companion more closely. His clothes looked like the leaves of a chestnut and they appeared to be twined with vine. His waistcoat bore a resemblance to the maple's rough bark, but it was his face and eyes that held Phil's stare. His hair and beard were as unkempt as a thicket hedge; grey and spiky. His eyes were blue as the sky above, his cheeks as white and fresh as the cloud. For a moment, he almost thought that he caught sight of an eagle soaring in the black of his pupils.
"Tell me about it," soothed the figure, placing his chubby hand on Phil's.
Suddenly Phil was overwhelmed. The energy flew from one hand to the other in a sharp exchange. Sensations began to surge throughout his whole body, recharging him, igniting him. He felt alive. His mind raced to the quickening that he felt and he no longer sat beneath the maple. He was spirited away, back to the farm in Ireland, a small boy sitting on his grandma's lap watching the evening sun fade across the distant landscape.
He could feel his Nanna's pulse, taste her breath as she exhaled; the smell of the marigolds staining the back of his throat as the breeze eased its way through the fields, across the porch where they sat, before settling down to hear her wild adventures with him. Her words came rushing back, the stories she told with such excitement, such fervor. He was again the wide-eyed boy hanging on every word, as she recounted her days as a child, riding through the woods on the back of her favorite horse.
"Tis worse than I thought," spoke the figure, bringing Phil abruptly back. "There are no herbs to be curing this ailment. No, it is no surprisement that you calls me and a good job you did too. This is calling for the most powerfullest of magics and it's not easy. I needs your help if it is to work. Only you can save yourself, but what I give to you is the most precious of all things. But, and you must promise, that you will not be losing it again. I am going to gives you back what you have lost."
With that, the figure rose expediently. Gesturing forward with his hands he mumbled some incantation, then touched Phil in the center of his forehead. Before Phil could even logically rationalize his circumstance — the strangeness of such a bizarre meeting, the recollections of Nanna, and all that he felt when the figure had touched him the first time — he looked up, helpless and dejected, only to find his companion no longer there. He had left him it seemed; disappeared. Vanished right before his eyes! He had not even asked him his name. The figure remained an enigma.
Phil remained quiet and seated for a good time afterwards, trying to rationalize whether he had fallen asleep and dreamed the whole incident. Slowly the sun began to set, the darkness taking hold of the late hour.
Phil caught a cab home that night and throughout the weekend his mind was preoccupied with the reports; so much so that he presented them first thing Monday morning to his much-delighted boss. The air around the offices remained calmer for a while and the week slowly passed, giving him time for reflection. Having come to accept that the meeting did in fact occur led Phil to a multitude of questions that, it seemed, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake.
His sleep became troubled, images of his yesterdays screamed at him through the silence of the office walls, until he decided he would have to return to the park. He must seek out the Jodesian if he was to regain any semblance of sanity. He had to know what it was that had been done — what he had given him, for truly he felt that he had been deceived. The more he examined things, the muddier they became. Whatever cure had been bestowed on him seemed more in tune with being cursed.
He felt no better; in fact, if anything he felt worse. The longing and the loneliness had increased to the point where he felt almost suicidal and the truth was his life just carried on as before. Only now he couldn't bear it any longer. In his pent-up frustration, he even began imagining that he had in fact stolen something from him. His heart was so empty he wasn't even sure that he had one any more. Perhaps it had been that which had been taken, leaving him with some empty husk — devoid of any feeling.
He would lunch in the park today; after all he had apparently called the figure before. He would do it again, demand that he returned whatever it was that he stole. Lunch it was.
The first hour passed slowly, the sun taking the temperature somewhere near the nineties, even in the shade. He sat beneath the Gallie tree, as the Jodesian had named it, having called him again in his mind and while the birds sang around him and the fish surfaced occasionally in the river behind — the sounds of their leaping reminding him of children and puddles — he waited.
After a time, his mood relaxed. The fresh smell of cut grass and the cool breeze from the water's edge gave him a more even perspective. It made a change from the stuffy air conditioning and for a moment he felt almost content. A half smile crossed his lips as he reclined further down the base of the maple, his thoughts momentarily forgotten.
Suddenly, to the left of him, he heard a commotion, a frantic voice calling out. A lady's voice.
"Oh Lillie, do come on — I haven't got time for games. Where are you?"
Lillie — that was a name he hadn't heard in years; that was Nanna's name. Although in truth it was Lillian, but she had liked it when he called her Lillie.
Phil eased himself onto his side, trying to fathom the noise coming from the hedgerow, just as the frantic lady wandered into his view. Her expression was one of grave concern, bordering on tears, but even in her state of obvious despair, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
"Oh please come out Lillie, we must be going," she called out again, stopping in her tracks as she almost stumbled over the outspread figure of Phil before her. "Oh I am so sorry — a thousand apologies. I didn't mean to disturb you. You haven't seen Lillie, have you? She's my dog and I'm having trouble finding her. Her name is really Lillie-Beth, but I call her Lillie for short. She chased something in the bushes a moment ago and now I've lost her."
"Err, sorry, no I haven't," spluttered Phil, unable to take his eyes off the woman before him. "But I'd be more than happy to help an Irish girl like you look."
"And how might you be knowing that I'm an Irish girl then?" said the woman in a rich Irish accent, her mood changing at the unexpectedness of his remark. A smile creased her lips.
"Oh it's surprising what you learn sitting under the mighty Gallie tree," he said. "But that's another story. You're in a hurry and some distress too by the look of it."
"Well it doesn't look like I'm going anywhere until I find my dog, so I may as well join you and wait — if that's okay with you?"
"Sure," said Phil, his heart racing as she sat at his side; the scent of her perfume filling his nostrils. "I don't suppose the hobgoblin, or whatever he was, will show now anyway."
"Mighty Gallie tree, hobgoblins... now only a true Irish boy would believe in such things," she replied. "But to speak of these…"
Brilliant, thought Phil, blushing; here he was sitting with the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on and he was talking gibberish about magic trees and hobgoblins. "Oh. I'm sorry — I meant…"
But she didn't allow him to finish whatever excuse he had planned; she simply said, "Oh that's okay." Then, placing her hand lightly on his, she looked at him, exclaiming, "Tell me more… it seems I have time until my dog reappears."
He looked deep into her eyes, not knowing where to begin. A power surged inside him and for a moment he almost thought he saw the face of the hobgoblin in the darkness of her retinas. Then the small figure of a terrier dog leapt at them from the hedge behind, disturbing him before he could start.
"Oh Lillie, Lillie," she cried, overjoyed at the dog's return, "Where have you been? Mummy was worried, running off like that."
"Listen," said Phil, rising, more than a touch embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."
"Lillian," she responded. "Lillian Pember!"
"Listen, Lillian," continued Phil, the smile etched on his face as he spoke her name. "I don't mean to spoil the reunion but I really must be getting back to work myself now, and I'm sure you want to get on, so maybe another time. It was nice meeting you, Lillian!"
"When?" she questioned, catching him unaware.
"When what?" he asked, totally bemused by her response.
"What other time?"
Phil stood — caught off guard, unsure of what to say. His pulse raced through his veins, sending a bolt of energy up the entire length of his spine. Before he could think about what it was he was going to say — he had said it.
"O'Reilly's bar… tonight… 8 o'clock?"
"I'll be there; and you can tell me all about this hobgoblin of yours," she replied, her eyes full of gypsy promise.
With that, she turned, picked up the small figure of the terrier and disappeared up the path, leaving him alone under the boughs of the Gallie tree. Phil stood there for a moment, taking in the feeling; the beating in his chest that he had not felt for a long time. The euphoria of feeling alive again. He was just beginning to understand what the Jodesian had meant when a voice from the hedgerow disturbed his thoughts.
"And don't you be forgetting again. You promised. I won't be able to be curing you if you do. No matter how much rosemary you keeps in your trussock. Be remembering!"
The voice trailed off into the background as Phil turned towards the path.
"Rememberings!"
"I will," he muttered to himself. "Thank you; I will."
Somehow he knew he would never forget, but right now his thoughts were of Lillian. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and began to whistle the tune of "Danny Boy" as he walked, eagerly, back to his office.
The figure smiled from the bush, watching him go.
"Humans," he mumbled. "Madder they is than a pocketful of pixies. One day they'll be learning — one day. Now the dog, smart animal the dog. Not much good at hide-and-seek though; took him ages to be finding me it did. Still, I managed to keeps me rosemary. Never know when you might be needing good rosemary."
With that, Grandabill melded into the shadows, where he would continue picking his herbs until the next time he was to be called. Phil hadn't been the first to call him in his appointment of service to the mighty Gallie Tree, and he wouldn't be the last.
And so the story continues….