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by Geoffrey Hart
Previously published as: Hart, G. 2021. The Mighty Quinn. Polar Borealis 18 (May 2021):18-22.
The reporter walked the hundred yards from his B&B and entered what he hoped would be the last pub in a long series of dashed hopes. He paused inside the door, resigned to the inevitable head to toe inspection, and when the regulars finished and returned to their quiet conversations, he walked up to the bar.
The barman looked up from polishing a glass. “Evening. What’ll you have?”
“Jameson, no ice.”
The barman pulled a nearly empty bottle from the shelf and splashed some into a tumbler. “So what brings you to this part of Ireland?”
The reporter swirled the glass, took a deep sniff, and saluted the barman. “Slancha!” He took an appreciative sip. “Believe it or not, I’m here in search of the Mighty Quinn.”
The bartender snorted. “You and everyone else.”
“Do tell.”
“Nothing to tell. The Quinn’s a legend, and about once per year, someone comes looking for the truth behind the legend.”
The reporter cocked an eyebrow. “Do they ever find him?”
“Most find something.”
“How might I become one of them?”
The bartender poured himself a stiff drink of the Jameson’s, then poured the last of the bottle into the reporter’s glass. “Slancha!” He downed half the whiskey in a single gulp, then met the reporter’s eyes, appraising. “You’re staying at the B&B?” The reporter nodded. No need to specify; there was only one, a short stroll across the moorland. “Then my best advice would be to turn right out the door in the morning, and continue up the road. The Quinn’s usually out working the fields in the morning. It’s not a sight you can miss.”
“I’m grateful.” The reporter downed the remainder of his drink, coughed, and laid a few euros on the bar. “I wish you a lovely night.”
“And you a lovely morning on the morrow.”
The next morning, the reporter set out on his quest. It was a sunny morning, dew still sparkling on the vegetation and the aroma of greenery, and within a few minutes, he was out of sight of his B&B. It wasn’t long before he came to a field littered with boulders ranging in size from waist-height to Stonehenge-tall standing stones. In the middle of the field, a small red-haired man was moving the boulders. His arms were too short to tuck the stones beneath, so instead he pulled them from the dense sod, balanced them on his head and carried them that way to where he was building a wall. Then, with a bounce of his knees and tilt of his neck, he propelled the stones onto the growing pile.
The reporter was amazed at this feat of strength, and stopped, pleased by his good fortune. Surely this was the Mighty Quinn! He shouted to the farmer. “Sir! Excuse me, sir, might you have a moment?”
The farmer threw the current stone on the pile and approached. “And a very good morning to you sir. How might I be of aid?”
“I’ve come in search of the Mighty Quinn, and wondered if you might be him.”
The farmer blushed, turning red as his hair. “Bless you for your kindness, Sir, but I’m not the Quinn. I’m the Finn. The Quinn’s strong! But if you continue on up the road, you’re sure to find the Quinn out working in the fields.”
The reporter thanked the man and continued on up the road. After a time, he came to another rocky field. In it, a medium-sized farmer was tilling the soil with a single-moldboard plow that he was pushing through the soil while an ancient and enormous draft horse stood by, watching. The man’s bald head gleamed in the sunlight. The reporter nodded. As the first farmer had said, it was easy to recognize the Quinn.
He shouted to the farmer. “Sir! Excuse me, sir, might you have a moment?”
The farmer held up an index finger, indicating he needed a moment. As he did, the horse ambled over, nuzzling at the reporter in hope of an apple. When the farmer had completed his row, he left the plow and strode over. Finding the horse between him and the reporter, he slid a hand under the horse’s belly and lifted him out of the way.
“How might I be of service to you this fine day?”
“I’ve come in search of the Mighty Quinn, and wondered if you might be him.”
The farmer smiled. “Not to gainsay your kindness, Sir, but I’m not the Quinn. I’m the O’Brien. The Quinn’s strong! But if you continue on up the road, you’re sure to find the Quinn out working in the fields.”
Shaking his head, the reporter thanked the man and continued on up the road. The sun had risen higher, and he soon found it necessary to remove his jacket. After a time, he came to another farmer, this one enormous—7 feet tall if he were an inch, with a mane of glossy black hair bound into a queue and flowing midway down his back. Under his left arm, he held a dozen thick fenceposts, each as long as the reporter was tall. With his right hand, he plucked a post from under his arm and pushed it into the rocky soil. Then, with a blow from his fist, he pounded it a good yard deeper. Noticing the reporter, he laid down his poles and approached the road.
“Bide a moment... fencebuilding’s thirsty work in this hot sun.” With that, he seized a pole and grasped it in both hands. Then he lifted it above his head, and wrung it like a rag until water ran out and filled his mouth. “Ah! Much better. So how can I help you?”
“I’ve come in search of the Mighty Quinn, and wondered if you might be him.”
The farmer smiled, and offered the reporter a second fencepost, which the reporter politely declined. “Away with your flattery! I’m the Ó Branáin, not the Quinn. The Quinn’s strong! But if you continue on up the road, you’re sure to find the Quinn out working in the fields.”
Shaking his head, the reporter carried on up the road, beginning to wonder whether he’d ever find the elusive man. After a time, he came to a field with a woman sitting beside it on a blanket, under a parasol, with a picnic basket open beside her. Her black hair flowed down her spine in a gleaming river, and her eyes were the blue of a mountain lake at sunset. In short, she was breath-takingly lovely. The reporter approached, wondering whether she might know the whereabouts of the Quinn. “Begging your pardon, Madame, but I was wondering if you might know where I could find the Mighty Quinn.”
The woman appraised the reporter from head to toe. “And why would you be wanting the Quinn?”
“I’m writing a story for a major American magazine.”
“Ah. Well, if you promise that this chat will be off the record...?”
The reporter thought a moment. “Agreed.”
The woman nodded. “Then I’m the Quinn.”
The reporter felt his jaw drop. He examined the woman, noted her slender arms and uncallused hands, and shook his head. “That can’t be. The Quinn is strong—stronger even than the scarcely credible feats of strength I’ve seen all along this road.”
The woman shook her head. “Nay, it’s all a misunderstanding. One spurred by a phonetic error. The word you’re looking for is queen. The lad who spread all those rumors was Spanish, and one of you Americans just assumed he was mispronouncing Quinn. The rest, as you Americans say, is history.”
“And yet the Quinn is supposed to be mighty. No offence intended, but you hardly look mighty to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
The reporter was tired and frustrated, and so less civil than he might otherwise have been. “Undeceive me, then, Madame.”
The woman pursed her lips, and took a deep breath. Then, in a voice that shook the earth, she called out: “Finn! O’Brien! Ó Branáin! Get your masa down here.” From her basket, she took an iron kettle and two teacups. As she set them on the blanket, a dust cloud arose on the road, and before it could begin to settle, the three farmers the reporter had met earlier were standing before the blanket, hats in hand.
“Finn! I want tea. Fresh tea.”
The redhead looked at the angle of the sun, made an angle between his thumb and pointer finger, adjusted his facing, and ran off so fast that wind tore at the woman’s hair.
“O’Brien! Fresh cream. Swiss cream, mind you.”
The bald man repeated Finn’s gesture, and struck out north of the redhead’s trajectory, off like a shot, sun gleaming from his bald pate in the noon light.
“Ó Branáin! I’ve a craving for strawberries. American strawberries.”
The giant man looked at the angle of the sun, looked west, and sighed. Then he fled westward, black hair blown horizontal behind him from his speed.
The woman clucked disapprovingly. “Have you any Irish blood in your background?” she asked.
“Yes. My great grandparents came from Ballymoney. Left some time after the famine.”
The woman nodded. “A common tale of woe.” Before she could continue, O’Brien was back, a cap of melting snow on his head and a silver pitcher, condensation dripping from it, in his hand.
“We’ll need boiled water, O’Brien.”
Without a word, O’Brien set to rubbing his hands together so fast the eye saw nought but a blur. When smoke began rising from his palms, he placed his hands on either side of the kettle, and steam soon began rising from it. By the time the kettle was whistling, Finn had returned, clutching what looked to be a tea bush in one brawny grip and a take-out tray of samosas in the other. He held the bush out to the woman, who inspected it closely, then plucked a small handful of leaves and threw them into the teapot. After a few moments, she poured the water and began nibbling on a samosa.
By the time the tea had finished steeping, Ó Branáin had returned. He was dripping, an eel had become tangled in his fine black hair, and he stank of brine, but in one mighty fist, he clutched a basket of strawberries. The woman poured some of the cream into a bowl, neatly beheaded a handful of strawberries with a tiny paring knife, and dropped them into the cream.
“Will you have some tea with me, Mister...?”
“O’Connor. Yes, ma’am, I’d be delighted.”
“And have you learned anything today?”
O’Connor thought about it a moment. “The legends clearly didn’t lie. The Mighty Queen?” The four men exchanged glances, then spoke simultaneously: “She’s strong.”
Masa = Irish for buttocks. The Irish side of my family does indeed come from Ballymoney, but this O’Connor’s no relation so far as I know.
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