Ali in Ireland, Ali in Northern Ireland

(Ye be warned dear visitor, herein you'll find little but deceit and slander. Aye, and more nonsense than is right for honest living.) Check yourself before you wreck yourself, sprightly people of the ancient forests! Though your bearded pines and oaks, birches and beeches are no more, but were long ago cut down to make way for the masticating ungulates on which progress depended, your souls are still of the forests and it is in its vague emblems you must crouch and hide. Today marks the day of Saint Patrick, that Welsh missionary whose tastes for roasted barley stouts, hatred for snakes and nearness to God knew no bounds. He strolled the ancient forests of Ireland and noticed that they needed more God and less serpents, and told people so. And he bashed the snakes dead. Then he told everyone about God. Succeeding in this endeavor, he did not rest on his laurels but rowed a boat across to England. And as the sea rhythmically lapped against his humble wooden vessel, he imagined the sound to be snakes clamoring to slither aboard, and he cursed them and thought of all the ways he would snuff them if they managed it. When the going was calm he listened to the patterned sounds of the oars and meditated on the incorrect perceptions of those around him. Sweet Irish folk, throw your spears and mumble incantations at thine enemies, trap them in labyrinths and drive them into a frenzied stupor with the primitive twang of your ageless harps.

When he arrived on shore he quickly jumped out of his boat and began thrashing at the earth, beating it and stabbing it with his oar. The people farther inland heard the commotion and gathered at the shore to see what was causing it. And Patrick looked up at them and approached them, taking a carefully preserved clover out of a pocket hidden underneath his robes. "Look on this small plant," he said to them, and one man blurted out, admittedly to the embarrassment of his wife standing just behind him, "Looks what me mum put in the pot for supper." And he laughed, but Patrick did not laugh but scowled at the man and furrowed his brow as a token of his profound irritation. "This is a holy sprig for it tells us of the nature of God," and pointing to each of the three leaves in succession he said, "here is the father, here the son, and here the holy ghost. Look on the clover and know God." The people listened to what Patrick told them and they took the clover to peer more closely at its sinews and veins, looking for a sign that the tiny plant really was as special as the invisible snake slayer claimed. From time to time, Patrick's long bony finger would appear in their field of view and would tap lightly at one of the tiny leaves. "Look on this carefully dear sister, for it is upon the eyes of Jesus that you are gazing," or "here is the binding essence of the trinity, it is the immaterial spirit which entwines the father and son." And the locals blinked and shrugged but finally accepted the strange Welsh-Irish monk into their midst.

But Patrick had to leave. The slithering and hissing filled his ears like no sound on earth and his heart was filled with purpose. He left the English people and rowed his boat to France, for it was there, he told them, that the serpents were gathering en masse, to sleep in cool places under rocks or in the crotches of trees. He furiously paddled his boat over to Europe and again raced on shore, thrashing at the earth in the hope of striking their small skulls. Again the people came down to see what was going on, and again Patrick showed them his holy clover and amazed them with tales of its oracular powers. "Tabarnak, cela étant un trèfle magnifique!" thought one in the crowd, and he was then struck by a vision of a great river across the ocean to the west and a settlement of his people. The land was filled with clovers and their were few snakes but that kept to themselves and did not beguile and charm the people. And he heard music being played there and it was heard across the land, the musicians were called Vous Deux and they sang about lost causes and glass-infested playgrounds. Patrick knew what the man had seen and whispered in his ear, "Get on your boots," and the man in turn knew of what he spoke and put on his boots. But soon it was like before and though the people had accepted Patrick among them, he moved on for the snakes had snuck out of the country, infesting new lands which had not yet beheld the power of the clover. So he departed, his oar whittled down to a proper thrashing stick, and in his pocket the holy clover. And he professed the trinity with his learning aid and beat at the snakes that were always slithering against his legs and hissing in his ears.