Serpent Flu

An entry for the Friday Challenge.

The early evening crowd, dressed in predominately earthen colors, buzzed around the pub with a quiet cheerfulness that promised a rousing night once a few more pints had been filled and emptied. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, and darts thunked into the corkboard. Sinead the Leipreachan leaned back in her booth, took a sip of cider, and squeezed the warm, hairy hand that lay beside her on the padded bench.

“Cheers,” Cranjellywart said, lifting his stein and taking a long draught. A foam mustache covered the fur over his upper lip when he replaced the mug onto the moisture-ringed table top. “Any news, then?”

Sinead retrieved her hand from under the table and knitted her fingers together. “No. And it’s worrying me.”

“Well, sometimes these things give us a break, skip a year.”

It was early, yet, for the serpent flu, but past time that the seasonal virus should have been identified and a vaccination/cure made up for international distribution on the seventeenth. She knew Cranjellywart was right. As the Dwarf archivist, he had searched the records and discovered that the serpent flu did occasionally skip a year. But Sinead had a feeling deep in her bones that this was not that year.

On the other side of the pub, the scent of burned charcoal and lavender wafted in from the open door. Sinead couldn’t see over the heads of the crowds, so she contented herself with catching Glowfeather’s eye. The Pixie, perched on a shelf above the fireplace, glanced toward the door and nodded. She kissed her boyfriend, a particularly blue Water Sprite, and fluttered to Sinead and Cran’s table.

Downwhiffenspit, leaning heavily on a cane carved from the fingerbone of a Madagascar dragon, hobbled across the room. A short, neatly cropped beard mostly hid a long scar across one cheek. As regional Paian Council representative, the Dwarf commanded respectful attention from the Hobbits and Leipreachan’s sitting at the bar—and nervous ogles from the Far Darrigs slumped under it. As head of Wee Folk/Biggun Relations and the Counselor’s chief agent, Sinead knew they were all warranted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sinead said as the Dwarf neared her table. “What brings you out this evening? Nothing distressing, I hope.”

Downwhiffenspit’s green eyes, always lighter than Sinead remembered, sparkled. “Ah, then, Sinead. It’s March Madness and I’m away from my telly. I’m afraid it’s nothing good.” A young Hobbit placed an Irish coffee on the table. Downwhiffenspit nodded and took an appreciative drink. “It’s come. Early this year. But making up for it. It’ll be a brutal one.”

Sinead thought a very bad word in her head. Cranjellywart muttered it under his breath.

“Any reports in, yet? How widespread? Do we have a vaccine?” Sinead asked. But if the answers were easy, Downwhiffenspit wouldn’t be here. “Glow, round up the agents.”

The Pixie, an uncharacteristic grave look on her face, snapped her fingers and disappeared.

“They’re trickling in,” Downwhiffenspit said, shifting her weight. Sinead would have invited her to sit, but knew the back injury, caused by a particularly cantankerous dragon, actually eased up when the Dwarf stood. At least she got a nice walking stick out of it. “I suspect it’s just the calm before the storm, though.”

“We’ll recall all agents, even those on leave. Keoni’s been after me for more responsibility—he can cover the Western Hemisphere. Cran?” She turned to the ever-patient Dwarf, hopeful the regret showed in her tone. “I need data. Why did it stay dormant? Is there a pattern?”

“Of course, Sinead. Should have done it before.” He grouched out of the booth.

Sinead sighed. Her boyfriend was too hard on himself and her agents were too lax.

Downwhiffenspit set the empty coffee glass on the table with a shaky hand. Sinead wondered if she shouldn’t have gotten decaf.

“I’ve alerted the Thusser guard,” the Dwarf said. “They’ll be standing by for your word.”

“It’s that bad?”

“I trust you to get a handle on things. Best to be prepared.” Downwhiffenspit shook her head. “Not that they believe there’s a problem.”

Sinead glowered into thin air. “Just because you’re too stubborn to admit it affects you…”

Downwhiffenspit gripped Sinead’s upper arm. “Let me know if you need anything.”

**

When Sinead reached the clearing outside her tree-bole office, a dozen Wee Folk milled around, chattering in high, nervous voices.

Sinead stuck four fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. “All right, then, people. We have a time of it. As you may have surmised, the seasonal serpent flu has finally hit, and with a vengeance. What have we got, then?”

Twelve voices rose into a clamor. Sinead lifted her hands for silence.

“Blimey, one at a time!” She pointed at Kitsune, the Japanese fox.

“Sinead-San,” he said, bowing his head. “My sources tell me an increasing number of Kobakama are being particularly affected. One small tribe has chartered a weather balloon to tour Mt. Fuji. Another has taken up BASE jumping in downtown Tokyo.”

Sinead rubbed her forehead. “Blast. Soon as they recover and see how high they are, they’ll freeze, be sick, and faint all at the same time. All right. Rent a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Top floor. Invite them for…an informational meeting on space travel. Keep them there! When they show signs of recovery, shut the curtains and let them go home.”

Kitsune nodded. “Yes, Sinead-san.” He was gone with a swish of his bushy tail.

“Coatl?” Sinead said, catching the glance of the Central American Alux. “How’s your region?”

“It’s all good, Boss, except I’m about strapped. Gotta cover North America, too.”

“Why? Where’s Ts’emek?”

Coatl gave her a big grin. “He found a new hobby. He got some plaid pants and a funny hat. Now he’s trying to register for the US Open.”

Sully, the Far Darrig, ambled into the clearing. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

Sinead felt the meeting, and the situation, float out of her hands. “What? Of course it doesn’t make sense that a Sasquatch would want to play golf. That’s what the virus does.”

“Nah, that he thought he could find clubs long enough.”

Coatl giggled. “I know, right?”

Sinead shook her head. “Sully, go with Coatl, help him out. This is epidemic, people. Keoni has jurisdiction over the Western Hemisphere. Go to him for emergency authorizations.” She stood on her tip-toes to find the Hawaiian Menehune, but he held up a finger and mumbled into his hand.

“I’ll tell him he’s promoted later, when he finds time to join us.” Sinead bit her lip at the unnecessary snark. “Glow, would you send Coatl and Sully on their way?” The Pixie dropped pinches of dust on the pair, and they disappeared.

A tall figure emerged from the darkening trees. “Sinead, what can I do?”

Sinead felt a sense of relief as Apple Turnerblossom, Hobbittess, rushed across the clearing.

“We need the vaccination,” Sinead said, looking up at her best friend. “Your da have a batch ready to go?”

“Yes. It’s almost ready. He was holding it in reserve for the seventeenth.”

“Check in with Cranjellywart, will you? He may have answers as to why this hit us so soon, so hard. Maybe he’ll have an idea which strain to look at.”

Apple rushed away while Sinead searched the crowd. “Where is Indlovu?” Not that the tiny Abatwa would be visible in the dark, in a field of grass far taller than he, but he should be audible.

Keoni stepped forward, sliding a cell phone into a pouch tied above his grass skirt. “That was Nala. She was down visiting her mom in Kenya, yeah? She said the Abatwa have it bad. They’re hangin’ out in Biggun’ bars, sellin’ der land to tourists for treasury bonds.”

“Well, considering everything else that’s going on, that sounds relatively minor. They’ll come out of it hung-over, embarrassed they let themselves be seen, and probably use the bonds for roofs.”

The Menehune smiled grimly. “Greek treasury bonds.”

“Greek?!”

“No worries, yeah? Nala’s got it handled. She’s got her ohana dressin’ up like Bigguns, catchin’ the Abatwa before they go in. She got that new Canon printer for Christmas. Even the little Abatwa can’t tell the difference between the real bonds and her fake ones.”

Sinead sighed. “Well, please thank your darling wife and the other Pigmies for their quick thinking. That’s very considerate of them.”

“No worries. But, since I got promoted, I better go, yeah? Glowfedder?”

The Pixie sprinkled the Menehune and he disappeared.

“Blast,” Sinead said to Glowfeather. “I meant to talk to him about Pele. First Haiti and then Chile?”

The Pixie tinkled.

“You’re right. Priorities. First let’s fight the epidemic, then we’ll deal with the menopausal lava spirit.” She looked over the crowd. Had it actually grown? “Who’s next, then?”

Every hand shot up.

**

Dawn was just breaking when Sinead sent her last agent away with instructions. Not that the Scottish Water Sprite could hope to accomplish much. When the far-reaching virus caused Nessie to overcome her shyness and play “water spout” with the local tourist boats, the tiny Fairy could only keep track of the victims and report their positions to the waiting Naiad emergency crews.

Sinead entered her office and heard the sudden stillness of a TV being shut off.

“Hello?”

Cranjellywart came in from the back room. “Hullo, Sinead. Thought I’d wait for you here. How’s the fight?”

“We’re still at it.” She went to her mini-fridge and pulled out a bottled frapaccino. “Vanilla?”

“Do you have a chai?”

Slightly puzzled at his choice, she pulled a chai from the door and tossed it behind her. It thunked on the floor. Funny. They’d never missed before. But she heard no broken glass, and he didn’t say anything. She opened her own coffee-sugar-frappe-yummy and took a drink. The caffeine coursed through her veins in a way that made her wonder why these things were still legal.

“How about you?” she asked. “Any luck?”

“Wily bugger, but we think we got it. Record from 1938, around New Jersey, reports an extraordinarily early outbreak. Even listed the virus responsible.” He sniffed and took a drink. “Old man Turnerblossom says he has a fungus that should cure it up. He’ll have the first batch ready tonight.”

“I hope that’s soon enough.”

He scuffled his feet on the worn floor. “I’m sorry Sinead. I shoulda been lookin’ sooner.”

Sinead reached over to the desk lamp and turned it on. “Your eyes are red. Have you been—”

“Old reports. Full of dust.” He sniffed again. “Gettin’ to my allergies.”

“Okay. I think Glowfeather has some confiscated Sudafed in the cabinet.”

“I’ll be all right.”

The Pixie burst through the open window with a frantic explosion of tinkling.

“Slow down, Glow,” Sinead said.

“What’s she sayin’?” Cranjellywart asked.

The Pixie landed on the desk and panted, then resumed jingling at a more deliberate pace.

“It’s Sully,” Sinead said. “He was gathering up some Hobbits who were chopping down trees in the Adirondacks—what?”

Cranjellywart whistled. “They must have it bad.”

Glowfeather planted her fists on her hips and glared at them.

“Sorry, Glow,” Sinead said. She continued translating. “There’s a monastery there. Sully tried to take orders.”

Sinead reached back for her cloak. “He’s at the Paian Council, now. I’ve got to go get him. Bloomin’ Thussers don’t believe in the virus. They’ll probably send him to prison.”

“Nah, won’t he just get probation?”

“Last time they tied a Kobakama officer to his ankle, he whizzed on it. I don’t think probation is an option.” She turned to her boyfriend—the word still sounded new enough to give her delightful chills. “Cran, would you be so good—”

“Right. I’ll tell Turnerblossom the first batch goes to those Hobbits. I’ll get the remaining priorities from Downwhiffenspit.”

“Don’t forget to save some for here. You do realize Downwhiffenspit was drinking an Irish coffee last night?”

“Was she? I thought she was an ale-totaller.”

She kissed Cran on the cheek just to watch his face glow red. And because she liked to kiss him. “Come on, then, Glow. Off to Oslo to save our boyo.”

**

Eleven hours later, Sinead, Glowfeather, and a very contrite Sully popped into the town square. Glowfeather waved listlessly and collapsed under the nearest bush.

“Ooooh,” Sully said, holding his head. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in me life.”

Sinead put a hand on the Far Darrig’s shoulder. “Not when you shaved the manes off all the Lipizzaner stallions?”

He shook his head.

“Or when you snuck into the formal dinner at the American’s White House?”

He pursed his lips. “Good eatin, there.”

“How about the time you stood outside the Japanese princess’s room with a boombox held above your head playing ‘In Your Eyes’?”

“I thought, if she believes in aliens…” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Nooo. A monastery? Really? What was I thinking?”

“You were sick, Sully. That’s all.”

He straightened up and looked her in the eye, with only half a leer. “And you were brilliant. Bleedin’ Thussers, thinkin’ they know everything.”

She bumped him with a shoulder. “No worries, Sull. I think they’ll be ‘round soon enough, asking for the cure. I reckon you infected the whole lot of them.”

“I surely hope so.” He let out a long sigh. “I think I’ll turn in early. Get some shut-eye.”

Sully going to bed before he was passed out? Sure sign he was still sick.

“Let’s go ‘round to the pub, first. My treat.”

Even a dead Far Darrig rarely refused free beer. Sinead watched him long enough to make sure he’d drained the mug Old Man Turnerblossom pulled for him. Shortly after, her hard-working/harder-playing agent was snoring on the countertop.

Sinead swished the dregs around the bottom of Sully’s glass. “Why green?”

Old Man Turnerblossom shrugged. “’Tisn’t. ‘Tis blue. Has been ever since St. Patrick found the fungi that cures the virus. Course it was us Hobbitses who thought to put it in beer. Nasty stuff otherwise.” He set a mug in front of her.

She took a drink. “Cranjellywart been in today?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

She drained her glass in one long pull. Blech. She much preferred stout to ale. “I’ll need one to go, then.”

**

Her tree-bole office was dark save for the flickering light of a TV screen. This time it didn’t shut off when she quietly opened the door. She crept to the entry to the back room and took in the scene.

Cranjellywart sat on the old couch, huddled under an afghan, his socked feet perched on a green and orange doily on the coffee table. Sinead swallowed a snort. Edvard had given her that doily. After the grief he’d given her today, she could think of few places she’d rather see the thing beyond under Cran’s sweaty feet. Maybe Sully’s loo. But, if she was right, Edvard would soon be suffering enough. She wondered what effect the virus would have on the Thussers. Might give them a personality.

DVD boxes littered the rest of the table top. Tissues surrounded the afghan. Used tissues. Puzzled, Sinead finally took in the TV.

“The Notebook?”

Cranjellywart’s head jerked up, his red, swollen eyes staring at her in surprise. “I—he—” He pointed a shaky finger at the TV. “I don’t think she’s going to make it.” He burst into sobs.

“Oh, Cran.” Sinead snuggled next to him on the couch. “It’s all right.”

“It’s just so sad!” The Dwarf pulled out another tissue and blew mightily. “It’s not fair.”

“Here you go, then,” Sinead said, handing him the covered stein. “Maybe this will help.”

He drained the mug, set it down, and was snoring in moments.

Sinead shut off the movie and leaned her head against Cran’s shoulder. “Happy St. Paddy’s Day, love.”