A Season in Carcosa by Pulver Joseph S

Author:Pulver, Joseph S [Pulver, Joseph S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Fiction, Collection.Anthology, Fiction.Dark Fantasy/Supernatural, Fiction.Horror
Amazon: B009XIIR64
Publisher: Miskatonic River Press
Published: 2012-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

April Dawn

By Richard A. Lupoff

There are no theaters in Kilkee. There are a couple of reasons for that. For one thing, Kilkee is a wee small town, hardly a hundred souls live there, and no businessman would think to build such an establishment, nor would there be customers enough to support it if someone got so foolish as to think of making the attempt.

For another, Father Phinean would surely be against it. I heard him deliver himself on the subject one time. Mr. Seamus Callaghan, our general merchant, had visited the metropolis of Dublin on a buying mission. When he returned to Kilkee he took himself to St. Padraic’s Church and told the Father that he’d been to the metropolis and gone to the Bijou Opera and seen a wondrous show with costumes and singing and great dramatic battles acted out right before your very eyes, and he wondered if Kilkee might be a good place to have such a thing as a theater of its own. There might not be enough actors and musicians in Kilkee to put on much of a performance, but there were companies that traveled around putting on their shows, Seamus Callaghan said, and they might come and put one on in Kilkee.

Father Phinean got red in the face. I saw this with my own eyes. I’d been hiding in the chancel and Father didn’t know I was there. He smote Mr. Callaghan a thwack aside his head. I was astonished. This was not some troublesome lad who stumbled over his catechism or made improper noises during Mass. This was Mr. Callaghan, an important citizen of Kilkee.

But Father Phinean was so angry, he dealt Mr. Callaghan that blow to the ear and Mr. Callaghan just stood there, getting as pale in the phiz as Father was red.

Then Father said, “Ye’ll do penance for a month for that, me lad.”

Mr. Callaghan is old enough to be Father Phinean’s parent, but Father called him “me lad” and Mr. Callaghan stood there and took it.

“We’ll have none of those wicked strumpets painting their faces and showing off their bosoms in this town, and filling our innocent faithful with lustful ideas! If we need music we’ve got the heavenly sounds of the Mass and if we need drama we’ve got the Passion of Our Lord. Now get on your knees, Seamus Callaghan, and bow your noggin and pray to the Virgin that she may intervene with her Son to forgive you for making that wicked suggestion and to clean your mind of the filth you have filled it with!”

That was long ago, back when I was a strapping lad and my darling Maeve, Maeve Corrigan, was still alive. Ah, I can see her now. A mere fifteen she was, but a woman already. Her hair was as black as Satan’s heart, her eyes as green as Ireland’s fields, her skin as white as New Year’s snow, her lips as sweet as bright red cherries, her breasts as soft and dear as heaven’s clouds.

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