Rundimahair: A new hero for a new adventure by Larry Forkner (dark books to read .txt) 📕

cherry trees were already in bloom, and their violet and white blossoms were lovely.

“This is absolutely breathtaking,” Sean said, as he stood in the parkway and looked up and down the river. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a waterfront as tranquil and beautiful.”

“If you look a bit farther down, you can see the harbor where the fishing and pleasure boats are moored. That is a fine sight to see, if you love rivers and boats as much as I do,” Ashling said.

“So this river runs to the ocean?”

“Indeed it does. Many of our town folk make a fair living with their fishing boats,” Ashling said.

“Not for the first time, I am absolutely blown away by the beauty and unique charm of your town, Ashling. It must be full of tourists all summer long.”

“Not so much as you might think. The truth is, we don’t really seek out the tourist trade here. We like our little town just the way it is and wouldn’t want it turned into a tourist trap that some coastal towns are.”

“I agree that many of the towns along the Oregon coast have become over commercialized and it has ruined the charm that made them worth visiting in the first place. Still, I can’t believe you’ve been able to keep Rundimahair such a well-kept secret over the years.”

“Just the luck of the Irish, I suppose.”

Sean was going to say more on the subject, but he could sense that same guarded unease from Ashling, which he’d felt earlier. It was in his nature to get answers to his questions, sooner rather than later, but he didn’t want to offend his tour guide again.

“Shall we head back to the house for a bit of lunch? Ashling asked.

“Sounds good to me. I’m starving and as much as I hate to admit it a little worn out.”

“Perfectly natural for someone recovering from an accident and injuries like yours.”

The next few days passed by too quickly from Sean’s point of view. He had enjoyed every moment of his time in Rundimahair, and in particular the wonderful people who lived here. He hadn’t seen much of Ashling, since she seemed to make a point of being up and gone long before he would drag himself out of bed.

He’d been very surprised by the way he slept deeply each night and usually didn’t wake up until nine or ten each morning. This was very atypical for him, since he’d always been a light sleeper and an early riser. Eamon assured him it was just his body’s way of healing and recovering his strength after his accident.

Sean had used his free time to wander around the town, taking in the sights and sounds of small-town life. He’d driven out of town on several occasions to look over the beautiful countryside and farmlands that surrounded Rundimahair.

The unusual layout of this community continued to fascinate Sean. Once he passed through town and into the more rural area, there were only gravel or dirt roads to travel by.

Stranger still, there were no signs of telephone or electrical poles carrying wires to the farmhouses. Now that he thought about it, there were no overhead power lines in town either. He could believe that they had underground power in town, although most rural towns still used overhead power lines.

There was no way they had underground power running to the farmsteads, which were spread out and separated by miles of open farm and range land. It wouldn’t be economically feasible to have underground power ranging so far and wide.

Despite the lack of visible power lines, the few homesteads he’d visited had electrical power. They had electric lights and plugin receptacles, even if they looked a bit old fashioned.

Sean was anxious to ask about this apparent mystery, but he couldn’t bring himself to question the families who’d welcomed him into their homes. Each family he’d met was kind and full of hospitality for a complete stranger.

The other strange pattern that continued was that each family or individual he met had Irish accents. Some of their accents were so strong he struggled to understand most of what they said. Others only had a trace accent.

Even in a small community like Rundimahair, it seemed extremely unlikely that every single person was of Irish ancestry. Even if that were possible, how had they maintained the pleasant, strong accents over the generations. It was true that some had less accent than others, but they all had Irish accents.

These, and many other questions, were piling up in Sean’s mind. There were so many strange and seemingly unexplainable incongruences surrounding the odd but beautiful Rundimahair.

Sean’s train of thought was interrupted when he drove over a hill and saw a man and woman trying to rescue a cow from a muddy quagmire at the bottom of the hill. The dirt road was dry for as far as he could see in both directions. Somehow the valley at the bottom of two hills was a muddy quagmire.

Sean drove down the hill within about fifty feet of the muddy mess in the base of the valley. When the man sitting on an old horse-drawn wagon turned to look at Sean’s Cadillac, Sean could see he was quite old. Ancient was the word that came to mind. This was a scene right out of an old black and white western.

The woman he’d seen sitting in the back of the old buckboard now appeared to be more of a girl- perhaps seventeen or eighteen. She had dark auburn hair and fair skin. Like many of the females he’d seen during his visit so far, this girl was unusually beautiful.

“Hello,” Sean called out as he walked down the hill. “Can I be of any help?”

The old man didn’t appear to be unfriendly, but it was safe to say his expression was guarded. The teenage girl’s attitude was completely opposite, as she jumped out of the rugged old wagon and smiled brightly.

“It would be a kind and generous fellow who would offer us