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Fiction, © Copyright 1999, Jim Loy
While visiting Ireland, my family and I found the little-known Melerick Castle, which is now a rather large museum with many rooms. My mother and I entered a small but very tall room, with a bed at one end. It was very dark. The only light was coming through the open door. On one wall we could just barely see a huge painting of a man dressed in red. I remembered having seen an impressive photograph of the painting. I recalled that the man in red was dressed as a cardinal. I wanted my mother to see the painting. And I wanted to see the painting. I wondered if we could turn on some lights. I could see no light switch. I thought I should ask permission to turn lights on anyway. So I ran off to the gift shop, to ask about lighting.
At the gift shop, I talked with a beautiful red haired girl, who had green eyes, and the most amazing Irish accent. I was instantly in love. Her name was Mary. I asked her about turning on the light. She showed me in to an adjoining room where two men and a woman sat talking around a huge wooden table. Mary introduced me to them. They were Mary's mother, father, and older brother. She told them that I was "enquiring" about turning on the lights in the "cardinal's room."
Her father said, "There is a wee problem with that, son." To my shock, I found that Mary was holding my hand. Her father continued, "Since my father died, ten years ago, no one has been able to turn on those lights. We are considering tearing down the wall panel, and installing a proper switch." He went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file card box. He opened the box and pulled out a small key. "This is supposed to be the key to turn on the lights. The light switch seems to be two paces from the painting. You are welcome to try it, young man." He handed me the key.
As Mary and I hurried along a hallway, I looked at my watch. To my shock, I saw that I was late. We were supposed to fly back to Montana the next day. We had to drive to Dublin this same night. My family would be frantic. I ran ahead of Mary. As I ran, I wondered why they couldn't turn on the lights. Mary's father had said that the switch was "two paces from the painting." Maybe the switch was two paces from some other painting. Maybe it was two paces from the painting, in the middle of the floor.
I rushed into the dark room. My mother had apparently left. I looked around. There was a course tapestry. There were two swords on the opposite wall. And I wondered, "What did a cardinal have to do with swords?" There were various ornaments, a table, a chair, and the bed. But there was no other painting. I examined the wall, and there was a well-worn slot where a key might fit. I inserted the key, and the lights came on.
I collided with Mary as I rushed out the door. I handed her the key and said, "I'll be back tomorrow." And I ran off. I hadn't even looked at the painting.
My family was waiting by the rented car in the parking lot. On the long drive to Dublin, I had time to think. When I had told Mary that I would be back tomorrow, I had fully intended to skip our flight. I had dreams of coming back to Mary, who of course was my true love. And we would get married and live happily ever after. But on further reflection, I saw that this was sheer fantasy. I didn't know Mary. She didn't know me. She probably had a boyfriend. Maybe she was married. I hadn't looked to see a ring.
The next morning, I phoned the castle and talked to Mary. I explained that I wanted to stay, but I had to leave for Montana in a few minutes. I told her, "The back end of the key goes in the slot." I had figured that if no one had been able to turn on the lights for ten years, maybe the key fit in the slot in some other way, some trick or joke by one of Mary's ancestors. My guess worked the first time. I said good bye to Mary. And my family and I drove to the airport. And we flew back to Montana.
Mary and I have written many times since. She thinks that I am some knight in armor who was on a quest to perform a miracle. She has taken my denials as a kind of attractive modesty. We plan to get married. She is perfect, except for the fact that for ten years she failed to turn on a light switch.