The Hounds of the Morrigan by Pat O'Shea Page A

nicer,’ said Brigit.
    They climbed over the wall into the field.
    As they walked along the little footpath, a wonderful feeling reached the soles of their feet from the earth, so that every step gave a marvellous tingle of pleasure. It came right through the soles of their sandals. The awful heat of the day seemed to lift and the air felt gentle on their faces. It was all part of the way the harp music called them. They began to hop, skip and jump along the path.
    Ahead of them, the track split in two directions. One way, turning right, led to home; and the other way, turning left, went to Old Mossie Flynn’s. As they approached this division, Brigit shouted exuberantly:
    ‘Why don’t we go to the glasshouse and peep in at the witches?’
    ‘Why not!’ Pidge shouted back, and that was strange from someone as cautious as Pidge. Neither of them gave the matter another thought but skipped along the left-hand way in obedience to the music.
    As they neared the glasshouse, they went on tip-toes, making it a game of spying. When they got closer they noticed the closed Venetian blinds,
    ‘They’ve got some of those slatted blinds, but there might be a place to peep in,’ Brigit said.
    Then they noticed the sign saying:

    and they burst into delighted laughter.
    ‘What you laffin’ at?’ said the frog as he sprang into view from behind an old up-turned bucket. Then he remembered that he was on guard and said:
    ‘Halt! Who goes dere? Friend or Foe?’
    Pidge and Brigit were astounded and delighted and they stared at the frog in happy disbelief.
    ‘You can’t talk,’ Brigit ventured after a while, her eyes wide and her voice full of doubt and hope at the same time.
    ‘You hear me awright,’ the frog said accusingly.
    ‘A frog just spoke to us, Pidge,’ Brigit whispered and she looked at him with a broad smile.
    ‘It’s wonderful! I don’t really believe it,’ Pidge answered with laughter breaking into his speech.
    ‘You did, didn’t you?’ Brigit asked, gazing down at the frog a little doubtfully.
    ‘I did, didden I? I’m doin’ it again,’ the frog asserted as though answering a slur.
    ‘How can you do it?’ Brigit asked in a conspiratorial way. She knelt on the ground beside him.
    ‘Same as you!’
    ‘But it isn’t possible,’ said Pidge, kneeling down as well for a closer look.
    ‘Doan tell me it izzen possible when da times are so queer,’ the frog replied tartly.
    Then Pidge asked:
    ‘What is it? Is it magic?’
    The frog looked wildly at the glasshouse before whispering:
    ‘It’s da queer ones, doan ask me any more.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Brigit whispered back.
    But the frog pretended not to hear. The children were waiting for an answer to Brigit’s question, and were perplexed when, instead, the frog said:
    ‘Well?’ loudly, and then nothing else.
    ‘Well what?’ Brigit demanded after a time.
    ‘Who goes dere? Friend or Foe?’
    ‘Neither,’ said Pidge and he laughed.
    ‘Doan know what to do about a Neither,’ said the frog looking baffled. Then he remembered that he was supposed to say something more.
    ‘Tress … um, tress … ah! . . passers! Tresspassers will be … will be …’ He forgot the rest.
    ‘What?’ asked Brigit.
    ‘Tresspassers will be kilt stone dead!’ the frog said brightly.
    ‘Oh really?’ said Brigit.
    ‘Yis!’ said the frog. ‘Thim’s fonda kids, mingled wit’ herbs in a big black pot wit’ onyins bilin’ in it. Thim’s not fonda frogs, thanksfully.’
    ‘Who do you mean?’ whispered Pidge.
    ‘Thim two in dere.’
    ‘Don’t you like them?’ asked Brigit.
    ‘Hate um. Dey is pisen—pure pisen. Hate um wit’ da whole strength of me back legs, so I do.’
    ‘Why do you work for them so?’ asked Pidge.
    ‘Cos of da mallet,’ said the frog. ‘Dey got it inside da door an “One False Move From You” dey said, an’ I get a crack on me pate.’
    ‘Well, if they’re like that, why are you working for them?’ asked