A squalid sky enshrouds the ancient summit in a bid to prove that the glaring exuberance of a bright summer’s day can lose out to dark fury within the blink of an eye.
“Oh, for crying out loud, it’s starting to piss rain. Bet you they went up there in shorts and dainty sneakers. Gobshites.”
“Stop whinging, Mark, you’re just pissed off that the call came in before your wife fed you your Sunday roast. They’re part of an ensemble, due to perform at the harvest festival tonight. Mary says they left the B&B after a full Irish this morning. One of them asked about the ringfort, so she reckons that’s where they went. They should have been back by now, but no sign of them, so she rang it in. She’s a fan, apparently.”
A thunder growls at the two men from the mountain top. The younger man skids on the wet limestone and curses while he struggles to regain his balance. Not far from the top now, the ground is getting rockier and the rain is turning what little patches of soil there are between the rocks into slithery muck.
“It’s going to be a nightmare to get them down in this.”
“Shush, did you hear that?
“The thunder? Of course, I heard the thunder.”
“No, the music. Listen, sounds like someone’s playing the cello up there. Did these idiots haul their instruments up there?”
<to be continued>
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2017