"The Serpentine Savior" by Dave Fox

When a group of high society Londoners gather to revel in the legends of St. Patrick's Day, a storyteller spins a fanciful yarn about the famous saint's mythical conquest over the serpent deity Crom-Cruach for the spiritual soul of Ireland...but are there still lingering whispers of the pagan past that refuse to be silenced?

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Transcript

The Serpentine Saviour

By Dave Fox

It was the eve of the seventeenth day of March, that most auspicious of dates when the Emerald Isle prepares to paint the towns emerald in commemoration of her admired patron. In the drawing room of Lady Pentonville's estate, a small but distinguishing gathering was underway to properly revel in the traditions of the season.

"More whiskey, my dear fellow?" bellowed Sir Malcolm Acheshon, proffering a crystal decanter across to Lord Dunridgely. The two gentlemen, draped in their finest evergreen dinner jackets, sat ensconced in the plush confines of high-backed chairs.

"Don't mind if I do," replied Dunridgely, permitting a healthy pour. "Though pray tell, what is the occasion for this little soiree? Not that I require much prompting to enjoy the fruits of the Emerald Isle's finest distilleries."

"Why, have you quite forgotten?" interjected Lady Pentonville, executing a graceful pirouette to ensure her shimmering jade gown caught the light most flatteringly. "Tonight, we pay homage to that most venerable and illustrious of Irishmen, St. Patrick himself!"

"Ahh yes, the ever-popular eminence who drove out all of Ireland's unpleasant...slithering houseguests," recalled Sir Malcolm with an indiscreet wink.

"Snakes, Sir Malcolm!" Lady Pentonville gave an airy trill of laughter. "One refers to them as snakes. Though I confess, storytellers through the ages seem to have taken certain...artistic liberties with the details."

At this proclamation, all eyes turned to Mr. Parnell Harrington, dear friend to the tails of folklore. A modest sort, he gave an obliging sigh and began to recount the fabled tale they had gathered to hear.

"As we know, St. Patrick was originally born Maewyn Succat, son of a Roman civil servant in what is now Scotland..."

"Not Ireland?" Lord Dunridgely arched an incredulous eyebrow over his glass.

"Patience, my lord," replied Harrington. "Our daring hero's path first took him eastward, into the hands of Irish raiders who spirited him away across the sea to tend sheep as an enslaved youth. It was then, amid the lonely hillsides and mountains, that he first discovered the ineffable beauty of our fair isle's landscapes.

"More importantly, as the years wandered by, the young Maewyn cultivated a devoted spirituality that deepened with each passing season. Until one fateful night, when he was visited by a divine messenger with instructions to depart immediately."

"How extraordinarily convenient," remarked Sir Malcolm, his tone edged with disbelief.

"But I plunge ahead," said Harrington, undeterred. "Maewyn did indeed escape, trekking for days until he reached the coast and a ship that bore him away to the bosom of his British homeland. Yet however grand the comforts that awaited him, his heart remained fastened to the Irish shore."

Here Harrington paused to allow the weight of his words to linger, permitting the baptismal flicker of flames in the hearth to dapple shadows about the room. When he continued, his voice had taken on a hushed, conspiratorial air.

"For years thereafter, Maewyn prepared, studying relentlessly until his mind had become an immaculate vessel for Scripture. It was only when he was bestowed with the noble identity of 'Patricius' that he deemed himself worthy to reattempt the earthly paradise that first awoke his spirit so many years prior.

"Upon returning to Ireland as the newly-minted Patriarch, Patricius encountered a rural populace still steeped in the traditions of their pagan forebears. Why, snakes and serpents were said to be revered with an almost religious ferocity!"

"How dreadfully uncivilized," clucked Lady Pentonville, shuddering delicately.

"Quite," Harrington agreed. "Thus began the great spiritual reckoning that birthed the Christian Irish nation we know today. Patricius traveled the sprawling hills and vales, sharing his teachings and converting tribe after tribe with his miraculous eloquence.

"Yet there were those who clung stubbornly to the old ways, wizened druid elders who sought to preserve the ancient serpentine customs. It was from their ranks that the most formidable adversary arose to test Patricius' devotion - the terrifying serpent titan, Crom-Cruach!"

A frighted titter escaped Lady Pentonville's lips, which she hastily transformed into a coquettish laugh. "Surely you don't expect us to lend credence to some fanciful serpent beast?"

"Whether borne of scale and fang or merely metaphor, the legend preserves their epic clash for the soul of Ireland," said Harrington, his eyes glittering. "For forty days and forty nights, Patricius and Crom-Cruach met in mystical contest, wielding naught but their formidable disciplines.

"When at last the battle culminated on the Hill of Slane, it was said every serpent, snake and lap-dog within mighty acres had converged to witness their duel. Patricius faced them brandishing only a humble staff of ash wood, yet beams of miraculous light were seen emanating from its crown, illuminating the entire hill with divine radiance!"

Enraptured, the three nobles leaned in with rapt attention. It was into this breathless hush that Harrington declared: "Therefore it was on that hallowed ground where St. Patrick delivered his legendary feat - banishing Crom-Cruach and every last serpent from the Emerald Isle with a mighty triumphal blast upon his glorious bell!"

Sir Malcolm started, sloshing his whiskey with an inelegant clank. "You mean to say he literally rang all the snakes out of Ireland? With a mere bell?"

"Oh indeed!" proclaimed Harrington with relish. "The pealing resonance was said to have been caught up by the winds themselves, rippling across the forests and valleys in an inescapable tolling that forced every cold-blooded beast to flee west in terror across the high seas to their final refuge!"

For a dazed moment, the room was clouded by a thoughtful silence as each envisioned the wondrous, unlikely scene. Finally, Dunridgely piped up with a sly grin.

"Well then, I propose a toast to the inimitable St. Patrick - clearly a man who gave slithery new meaning to the term 'snake charmer'!"

A peal of laughter answered his witticism as four crystal glasses clinked together in salute. For theirs was a companionship forged by an appreciation for the unapologetic convictions of rhetoric over reason, and the tall tales that have shaped a nation's identity more profoundly than any historical accuracy.

As Harrington basked in their adulation, he caught a glimpse of something shimmering faintly through the parlor window. There, in the blue-black soaked shadows of the gardens, a pair of unblinking amber eyes seemed to glare back at him from the shrubbery in wordless rebuke.

But no, surely that was merely a work of fancy spawned by the revelries and candle-dimness of the evening. With an airy chuckle, Parnell Harrington lifted his glass to promotional spring breezes, and drank deeply to sever ties with such uncoiled musings.

For on this most sacred of Irish nights, the triumphant tone had been firmly struck - and any lingering hisses of pagan allegory were destined to remain silent, shouldered into the thickets of history once more.