Running In Circles A Hillarian Tale

Chapter 1

The Letter

The Waterview Bakery

Hillaria, Ireland

Dear Sir or Madam:

Our attention has been drawn to your exquisite bakery in the town of Hillaria, Ireland. We are pleased to announce the imminent arrival of our most revered feature food writer, Mr. Michael White.

Fancy Food & Pastries magazine has decided to highlight a story about the Waterview Bakery as well as use your photo for the cover of our special July issue representing novelty chefs in foreign lands.

We hope this is of interest to you. Mr. White will arrive on Friday evening April 1st and stay in your lovely town throughout the weekend, departing on Sunday night.

Sincerely,

Blythe Crenshaw

Editor

Fancy Food and Pastries Magazine

New York City

Well now, Riley McDougal said. He ran one hand through his thick reddish-blond hair and then chewed thoughtfully on his right index finger. Liam Burke, Riley’s best friend stood open mouthed and speechless by his side in the 200 sq ft enclosed office space of the Waterview bakery. Both men looked down at the deceased body of Patrick Kilarney, town baker. Riley took a deep breath and then reread the letter he had taken from the dead baker’s hand.

While Liam listened intently to every word Riley uttered, he unconsciously scratched his unshaven whiskers. He was proud of the existence of some hair on his face, because the lack of healthy locks on the top his head made him somewhat insecure about his appearance. While Riley was strong, self– assured, and cleanly pressed, Liam often came off as his goofy sidekick, with his sparse brownish/red hair on the top of his head and wrinkled clothes. He and Riley had been co – owners of Lumberjax, the local carpentry business, since they graduated high school and even though they were equally adept at their jobs, Riley had always seemed to be the one in charge.

Riley finished the letter and turned to Liam. What’s the date today? he asked.

What? Liam responded.

The date today, what is it? Riley repeated.

Twenty-seventh March, Liam replied.

Five days, Riley said.

Five days? Liam asked.

Until this fellow from the magazine arrives in Hillaria, Riley said.

After a moment of silence, Liam shrugged his shoulders and said, I guess someone should call and cancel.

Another hushed stretch followed. Riley read the letter one more time and looked around the room. He noted the cake pans that were still in their proper places, and the wooden spatula he had bought Patrick as a birthday gift many years ago. A moment of overwhelming sadness took over his body, then a determination. With conviction in his voice he stated, No.

No, what? Liam asked.

We will follow through with this visit, Riley replied. It’s for the good of Hillaria.

What? Liam responded, giving Riley a look of disdain. "What good will this visit do? Why the hell do we care if Fancy Food & Pastries Magazine wants to come and try some baked stuff?"

Liam, Riley said as he grabbed his friend’s arm. Think about the mess Hillaria has gotten itself into. Maybe this visit will solve all our problems. Maybe Patrick can save Hillaria, even if it is from his own grave.

Have you lost a cog? Liam stated as he once again looked down at the body. "Our town baker has passed on. This food critic from, what is it, Fancy Food and Pastries Magazine? He is coming to try freshly made desserts… handmade desserts… created by a baker. Have you forgotten so quickly, we don’t have a baker? Liam exclaimed, pointing to the dead man who lay face down on the linoleum floor at his feet. And a little respect here might be nice. We have just lost a friend."

I know we lost a friend, Liam, and a good man at that, but I think there might be something bigger here that we are supposed to be doing. You know, make an emerald out of a piece of stone type thing.

What’re you talking about?

There is a time for mourning and a time for action. Now is the time for action. Even Patrick would agree with that.

I’m afraid to ask, Liam said under his breath.

"We will dupe the writer from Fancy Food Magazine," Riley said in a determined tone.

What? How the heck do you plan to do that, for God’s sake? He’s a savvy businessman from a big city. How are we supposed to pull the wool over his eyes? He’ll nail us, then everything will be worse than it is now.

How can everything get worse than where the town is now? If we have to we can fool him the old fashioned Hillarian way. Riley said in a confident tone.

What’s that? Liam rubbed his eyes.

Alcohol, Liam, we have lots and lots of alcohol here in our town.

Liam shook his head. This isn’t right, Riley.

We will have a sit down at the mayor’s office, Riley said as he stepped gingerly over Patrick Kilarneys dead body, picked up the phone in the small bakery office and called for the morgue cab.

Chapter 2

In the City

W hat’s the name of town you are going to? Mr. Michael White’s assistant editor Zef Gardener asked as he peered inside the glass office door of the esteemed food and travel writer for Fancy Food & Pastries Magazine.

Hillaria, Mr. White responded with a smirk on his chiseled face. He removed his reading glasses and his bright blue eyes pierced through the young editor’s smarmy attitude. Mr. White was a somewhat dapper looking man, clean-shaven and proper. His jet-black hair was neatly coifed by a swath of expensive hair gel and a quick pass of hairspray to keep it from moving. He was a confident man, yet one could see a bit of hidden nerdish quality in his personality.

Where the hell is Hillaria, and more importantly, why are you wasting your time going there? Zef sneered as he shook his unruly mop of blond curly hair.

See this? Michael White picked up a copy of a glossy magazine and threw it at his friend’s feet.

Zef picked it up to view the cover. Yeah, so?

"Scott Raymond, flipping writer just out of college writes an article for the Polished Palate."

I can see that. What’s that got to do with you and Ireland? Zef yawned.

He won all kinds of awards for the darn thing and it was his first time out. Can you believe it? Open that up to page 45, his article was about a Podunk fishing town in the deep recesses of Alaska. Population 30 or some such ridiculous number.

Yeah, I remember it. He found this recipe from the locals there dating back like 400 years, mudfish or something, right? So what. Zef scratched his nose and rolled his eyes.

So what? It became the must-have dish in New York for a while. They all went gaga over the family traditions angle, small town history, survival of a village for 400 years with nothing but flippin’ mudfish to eat. He even got his own reality show out of it.

Hmmm, Zef yawned again.

Yeah, hmmm. Well, I can do that too, Michael White, said with an air of superiority.

You want your own reality show? The assistant editor scrunched his face into a prune-like expression.

No, recognition, awards, I want a Pulitzer and now I have the angle to get one, Michael White retorted matter-of-factly. He was, after all, a very self-assured man.

You mean this Hillaria place? Zef laughed.

Yeah. Michael White’s eyes twinkled.

I don’t get it. Zef shook his head.

Small town in northern Ireland, population 200. It’s a fishing village with a great history. The town is filled with hard working locals. People who have high moral character, honest people steeped in Irish customs. The stuff people get all warm and fuzzy about reading. The town baker wakes up every morning and bakes all the delicacies from scratch. Doesn’t even own a freezer, that’s how fresh the products are. Who does that nowadays, who has that kind of time?

That’s your angle? Zef asked.

I’m writing about integrity my friend, ethics, a culture of people raised on honesty. Local boy or girl follows a lifelong dream and excels at it. This baker probably could have moved on to the big time instead of choosing to stay in his hometown and spoil them all rotten. This baker is the story, my friend. Without him, they are nothing to me. Apple flippin’ pie, my friend. Heartwarming, you don’t see that much anymore. The readers will eat it up, no pun intended.

Interesting, Zef replied.

That’s what I’m hoping for.

They will love the publicity an article about their hometown hero will bring the town. I know I will. I will put them on the culinary map with a simple touch of my quill to paper.

The assistant editor rolled his eyes and said, Your electronic quill, that is. Anyway, how do you know about this place? You’ve never been to Ireland.

I was at a party couple of weeks ago, ran into a few people who had been there on a trip to Derbin. One specialty of the baker is something called ‘Blarney Bread.’ He snickered.

Blarney Bread? How totally Irish. Is it shaped like a four leaf clover?

They both laughed.

I think they pour dark lager into a hole in the center of it, so it soaks in. Mr. White shrugged his shoulders.

Sounds disgusting. Zef made a gagging gesture.

Yeah, kind of, doesn’t it?

Want some company? Zef offered.

Sure. It’ll be your own dime though. I could barely get corporate to pay for my trip. All they are giving me is the weekend. Fly in Friday night, get my story Saturday and Sunday, fly out Sunday night. Not that I’d want to stay any longer in a little fishing village, anyway. Michael retorted.

Forget it then. Have fun, it actually sounds pretty dull. Zef said in a disgusted tone of voice.

Boring is predictable and predictable is money in the bank. Michael White put his glasses back on and continued working on his computer.

Zef shrugged his shoulders, mumbled Blarney Bread and left the room.

Michael White smiled to himself. This was going to be the human-interest story of the year. Besides, who in the culinary world wouldn’t be charmed by an Irish baker, especially one that makes Blarney Bread? He picked up the phone to call the Hillaria town bakery. He wanted to be sure the letter announcing his arrival had been received. He let it ring for a few minutes. There was no answer. This was the second time he had tried to call. It seemed that no one was ever there. He imagined the lone baker rushing around the store trying to get everything done. He would try again the next day. He was sure the man or woman was too busy to chat anyway.

Chapter 3

A Little History

The small seaport town of Hillaria sits on the ragged coastline of Northern Ireland. Its population boasts less than 200 people and there is but one two-lane road that takes you through the center of town and deposits you on the outskirts of the other side. It is called the straight shot by the locals. Pretty much everything that Hillaria has to offer is located on the southern side of this route where it is fairly flat and often quite sunny. To the northern side, only two miles farther, the road begins to wind and a thick fog sneaks in early every morning. The locals are fond of saying that one can always tell a southern Hillarian from a northern Hillarian by the tan that they sport.

In southern Hillaria, one will commonly see the townspeople riding their bikes to run errands, to head off to work, or to carry baskets of goods from Ol’ Stocky’s, a small food market in the center of town. The good folk of northern Hillaria know better than to ride into town, for though it can be a picturesque trip downhill on the dangerous, curvy, two-lane road, the return trip going up the steep grade can be grueling and only the most athletically inclined dare to test their endurance.

Most of the vehicles that are owned in the area are from the north part of downtown. As one ventures through the city, it is impossible not to notice the predominance of old red Volvo station wagons driving about. Aside from the one tan Mercedes sedan driven by the mayor, every other car in town is a red Volvo wagon. The only way the owners of these cars can tell them apart is by what is contained within.

Riley McDougal, the strappingly handsome, red-haired, green-eyed town carpenter, has 2x4s sticking out of the back window of his wagon. Through the windows of the red Volvo wagon that is used as the morgue cab, one can see a dark mahogany coffin. The wagon that belongs to the owner of the local pub has a keg of beer in the back, and the postmaster has bags of letters in his.

It may seem confusing to those unfamiliar with the general order of things, but to the titleholders of the cars it all makes perfect sense and they have learned to have a casual outlook when they find someone else sitting in their driver’s seat. The ongoing tradition in the city is that, should you end up behind the wheel of the wrong car, you must buy the true owner of that car a drink.

Along with the old red Volvos bumbling down the narrow streets, the town of Hillaria has a rich history behind it and a certain rugged charm all its own. The locals welcome strangers and often steer the newcomers in the direction of one of two pubs overlooking the coastline. Should there be any confusion as to the direction in which to go to find either of these, chances are a Hillarian will be more than happy to guide the visitor to the spot—and enjoy a drink with them, as well. It’s all very good-natured in Hillaria and as the locals say, You‘d best get on well with one another, for it’s a small town and word gets round if you don’t.

The local barrister, Sir Henry McHenry, a stout, well-manicured man of about the age of 50, has hardly ever managed a case in the town. Most disagreements are settled man-to-man and involve some kind of restitution, albeit minor. Usually a drink or handshake will solve the problem and all involved put their egos aside.

Through the years, Hillaria has been discovered by a smattering of tourists who wandered their way over from Derbin to see the magnificent Irish coastline. For a time the town became known as the in spot. Cruise liners would moor, sending dinghies full of curious and hungry passengers into the town. Each tourist would carry with them a heavily-laden wallet and empty it carelessly upon Hillaria’s shores. The little settlement was rife with money and possibilities for a rich future.

Hillaria’s cobblestone streets were lined with old stone buildings covered in moss, and hand carved shop signs drew attention to the merchants’ wares, along with the healthy green foliage that benefited from the moisture-filled air of the Irish coastline. The economy boomed and the city council was confident that they could make the town more tourist friendly. The council had even voted that since a predominance of Hillaria’s tourism seemed to come from European countries and the United States, the town would accommodate travellers familiar with driving on the right side of the road. The mayor even managed to ensure these driving privileges were in force as far as the city of Derbin. These were the good times in Hillaria and one could feel the pleasant touch of good fortune engulfing the town. Every Friday night The Ashmongers, the local three-piece band that played Ireland’s most popular tunes, held weekly free concerts with complimentary food and wine in the park, sponsored by the Hillaria town council. The locals were always optimistic and cheerful and every household did its part to support the local businesses with their own infusion of hard earned cash. Shop Local, Shop Proud was the town’s slogan. Hillaria was akin to paradise…until the day their luck ran out.

Chapter 4

The Day the Magic Disappeared

It was really nothing to take note of, just a minor quiver that barely made the wind chimes sing. Had the epicenter not been located directly beneath the main water well, no one would have bothered to think twice about it.

Unfortunately, the fissure created by the rumble underground was to impact Hillaria’s main water well. The water system was never one of Hillaria’s strongest components. The long-term plan of the council was to drill a deep well to assure the potential future development of the city. As documented by Marmi O’Ryan, the town historian in the Port Museum archives the future of Hillaria, Ireland, changed dramatically at 9:00 a.m. April 1st, 2010. The day of The Quaker. Though geologic surveys have since re-designated the cause of the rumble down below as merely being caused by earth settling, a sinkhole of sorts, the locals still like to refer to it as an earthquake for mere dramatic effect.

On this day the townspeople of Hillaria were getting ready for the influx of tourists that had arrived by cruise liner the night before. The Java Hut was making sure that they had enough espresso beans to give everyone their morning jolt. Patrick Kilarney, the town baker, was just putting the last bit of dark chocolate in his handmade éclairs and the aroma of his famous Blarney Bread, a sweetened loaf with a hole in the center for a shot of lager to be poured in, wafted out toward the street. The restaurants and bars were cleaning all their silverware and glasses until they would hold a shine. Everything was going along smoothly until the ground began to move.

The next day, as the coffee flowed freely into the Java Hut’s I was in Hillarian Heaven mugs, visitors and locals alike took note that it had an awful, foul, lingering taste. The normally clear water that streamed from household faucets turned a greenish/brown shade. Shiny, freshly-scrubbed porcelain sinks developed dark grimy rings that would not diasappear, even with the use of Rancid’s Acid Cleanser, Ireland’s best known and harshest cleaning solution.

Within a few hours, tourists and locals flooded into the town’s one medical office complaining of nausea in addition to persistent diarrhea. Every public access restroom that Hillaria had to offer was not only occupied, but had a line. Toilet paper became a scarce commodity. The Hillaria town doctor, Randolph McSheely, a short and fidgety middle-aged man with a sharply arked nose, and his assistant, nurse Mary McClary, a petite blond with an open, honest, and appealing face, were entirely overwhelmed by the incident. They had no choice but to send the masses of sick people over to Derbin’s medical hospital, where the group was treated over the span of a week for non-potable bacteria ingestion.

The cause of the illness was the contaminated water from the Hillarian well. Hillaria only had one main water source and now it was ruined. Fixing the leak in the water well was an enormous undertaking of both economic and construction capabilities. The tourists fled, the cruise ships disappeared, and almost overnight Hillaria’s revenues turned sour. What money the town had earned was being spent on water trucks arriving from Derbin and lawsuits filed by unhappy tourists.

Reimbursement checks for medical bills and travel costs flooded Swoosie Knaulson, the Hillarian town treasurer’s office. The New York Times travel section warned potential vacationers to steer clear of the not-so-pristine Irish coastline and gave fair warning that if you absolutely had to go to Hillaria, you should pack a large stash of toilet paper and a two-gallon jug of Pepto Bismol.

The town grew despondent as the months passed, they could not believe how their fortunes changed overnight. After all the outgoing expenses from the disaster, Hillaria had neither the monetary sources to spend nor the know-how to repair the problem. Time passed without a solution. For over two years Hillaria had to dig deep within its financially ruined pockets. When those went dry, the city borrowed what it could from other sources to pay for their water delivery. There would come a time, the town knew, when Hillaria would simply go broke.

One day an offer was placed on the table to save Hillaria from impending bankruptcy. It was from a large power company called Robust Incorporated Power (or R.I.P. as their customers commonly referred to them when opening their overinflated bills). Robust was known for their cuthroat business takeovers, and the ironic part about their offer to the town was that the woman who was at the helm of the negotiations was a born and bred Hillarian named Adrienne Landis, a sour seed as the locals liked to call her. She had once lived the simple life in the village working for her father’s fishing charters. Up until the time she turned 22, she had always been happy chartering his boats for daily fishing excursions.

Adrienne began to resent the small city life she had been born into. When her father passed away, she closed the small charter service and swore she would never filet a fish again. The locals say she sold out her values, dumped her childhood boyfriend, one Riley McDoughal, a young, strapping, honest man, and left for the allure of big money in Derbin. Once there, she was quickly swept into the web of easy money and status by the owner of the Robust Incorporated Power Company.

The owner of Robust had long wanted to build a plant in