Shenanigans

By Deborah Bainbridge

I can’t believe I landed my red breeches in detention again.

“Dia dhuit!” Mrs. O’Grady, a plump fiery-haired lady, walks past a row of my classmates and removes my green top hat by its gold buckle. “Third time this year, isn’t it, Skylar? You’re seventeen and as mischievous as the next leprechaun. Haven’t you learned how to avoid this by now?” She taps my boots, a reminder to remove them from the seat in front of me. “What sort of trouble brings you here today?”

I grin and stroke my red chinstrap beard. “During recess, my little brother and I fetched water from the stream in Carlingford Cavern. I told ím a sheepdog was headed straight for us. He shot down into the cave like a shrieking banshee was after ím.”

“That poor, wee lad. I bet you frightened the shamrocks out of ím! I’m surprised you didn’t say it was a banshee.”

“Good idea, Mrs. O’Grady. I’ll use that one next time.”

My classmates snicker.

Mrs. O’Grady adjusts her red spectacles and throws me a stern look. “You excel at hiding gold to fool humans, but we never prank fellow leprechauns. They won’t trust us again.”

“You’ve been saying that for years, but I’ve fooled Rowan loads of times. Leprechauns are tricksters! I’m just improving my craft.”

“Rowan’s eleven. He may be naïve, but he’s not stupid. Farmer O’Hare has several Atlantic Sheepdogs. Mark my words, Skylar”—she points her finger at me—“one day, your little brother won’t believe you and you’ll be wishing he had. Mind you keep those tattered black boots on a straight path.”

She addresses the class. “Repeat the Leprechaun Rules after me. One, tell the truth to all leprechauns. Two, deceive any human or beast who poses a threat to our kin. Three, evade capture at all costs.”

She opens a canister and the air fills with sweetness. The one good thing about detention: Mrs. O’Grady always sends us off with something sweet afterward.

I savor my cookie as I walk through the weathered cavern passageways. Our small cottage is located near the narrow opening to the fjord, Carlingford Lough. I tiptoe through the back door and nearly jump out of my boots when I see a short figure in a tartan dress watching me.

“Mam!” I clutch my vest. “Have I told you how that dress brings out the blue in your eyes?”

“As a matter of fact, you have.”

“Dinner smells delicious! What are we having?”

“Roasted potatoes and cabbage.” Mam’s eyebrows arch. “I’ve told your brother never to trust you again. Go apologize. And feed your ladybird. You were almost late for dinner; she’s hungry.”

“One thing about me, Mam: I’m never late for dinner.”

I rush to feed Scarlet, my seven-spot ladybird, but stop short at Rowan’s bedroom door. He doesn’t look up when I enter.

“Rowan?”

He traces the shamrocks on his quilt.

“Ah, come on, Rowan. It was just a bit of fun.”

His red freckled face gets even redder. “You lied to me again, Skylar. I trusted you.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I just can’t resist a good prank.”

Rowan scowls.

“Let’s go feed Scarlet together, yeah?”

“All right.” Rowan follows me outside reluctantly. “Someday, I want a ladybird that rides on my shoulder and delivers messages for me, too.”

“Then, we best find one for you to bond with.”

Rowan’s face lights up with a beatific smile.

At sunrise, we journey to Farmer O’Hare’s rose garden—an aphid buffet. Rowan stealthily approaches a beautiful ladybird resting on a pink, velvety rose. He rests a finger on the black spot that adjoins her wings and holds her gaze for three seconds. Her antennae click and the bond is complete. She lands on Rowan’s shoulder and he beams with delight.

“I’ll name her Rose.”

“Spectacular!” I look past Rowan at a large, dark form in the field and freeze. Rowan glances up at me. Seeing terror on my face, he stills. “Run,” I whisper urgently. In a flash, his little legs dash like lightning bolts toward home.

Trickster extraordinaire! I double over with laughter. When I rise, I notice the grass shift. The hair on my arms stands. The dark form across the field is missing. Where did it go? I gulp.

A low growl emanates. I can’t breathe. Eyes peer through the grass and I dart toward the nearest tree. Scarlet latches onto my coat. She flutters her wings, attempting to help me climb. I hear a jaw snap as I lift my foot onto the branch. My throat closes as a howl reaches me from the base of the tree.

“Any idea where your brother is?” Mam asks Rowan. “Skylar’s a prankster, for sure, but he’s never been late for dinner. It’s fifteen past.”

Rowan glances up from his plate of roasted potatoes, the color draining from his face. “I thought it was another trick.”

“You thought what was another trick?”

“Skylar sent Scarlet with a message saying he was treed by the farmer’s sheepdog. Do you think he was actually telling the truth?”

“A dose of his own medicine may be the just thing to teach ím a hard lesson. But, no matter the shenanigans, he may need help.” She tosses her apron onto the table. “Rowan, send Rose with an urgent message to Skylar. Tell ím I’m sounding the warning bell.”

Loud chimes echo throughout Carlingford Cavern, calling the clan to action.

Considering my fate, a chunk of sap stuck to my pants is the least Mam will scold me for. Shaking as I clutch a tree limb, a potato catapults through the air above me. Then another. I spy my clan in the distance.

They’re using the spud-launcher to lure the fur-beast away!

I thank my lucky clovers that I live in Ireland where even sheepdogs love potatoes. I climb down to embrace Mam and Rowan.

“I promise I will never be the leprechaun who cries sheepdog again.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Bainbridge is a Christian, wife, and mother who enjoys running, traveling the world, writing short stories, and cookies. She is always ready for an adventure! She dedicates this light-hearted story to her brilliant, spectacular son, Skylar, who sported a red chinstrap beard in high school and is filled with good-hearted leprechaun shenanigans. She is thankful to her family and friends for their encouragement, feedback, and inspiration.

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