Balor eased himself onto the bench and took a beat to enjoy the heat on his face as parting clouds allowed the sun centre-stage. Dusting fluff off his Harris tweed waistcoat, he reached across his broad chest for his pocket watch. Holding it to his ear he deemed it dead, but time was a plentiful resource. Master of all he beheld, he happily surveyed his surroundings and bent down to collect a can of cider where his browned bare feet sank into the moss underneath his wooden throne.  One deft twist of the pull-tab released that glorious fizzing sound and holding the tin to his mouth he relished the juicy cold nectar running down his throat.  Ahhh, life was good, here in his little kingdom.

The King’s peace was soon punctured by distant feet. He was so finely attuned to his surroundings that he knew the sound, albeit faint, of hunted prey.  Sensing fear, he soon saw the source.  The quarry was panting and outnumbered on the other side of the bridge.  Balor did not believe in interfering with Nature’s laws, but there was something about the lad’s unseemly gait and his back-satchel lurching from side to side as the mob of equally young lads gained on him.  Sighing at the pathetic nature of it all, he roused his lumbersome 6 feet 5 inches to a height and pounded towards the pedestrian bridge. Lifting a large branch high in the air he threw his head back and let a bellow out with such force it sent murders of crows forest-wide caw-cawing from treetops.  The boys in pursuit froze, turned and fled.  Balor sauntered, spent, back to his park-bench and resumed his drinking. 

Alas, the peace was not restored as the prey was now crossing the steel footbridge towards him, fringe flopping and thumbs tucked under his bag-straps.  “Thanks for that,” he said, between asthmatic wheezes, as he sat himself down uninvited.  His demeanour was collegial, and his nose twitched under oversized glasses giving him a rabbit-like appearance. 

“Y’know rabbits learn to smell a predator before they see him,” Balor remarked, not looking at the boy-shaped frame now ensconced on his living room bench.  “Might be a skill worth honing.”  He slugged the cider.  

“I’m Rory, what’s your name?” 

A stony silence ensued but sensing the boy’s myopic eyes trained on him he conceded and grunted “Balor” followed by a loud burp. Rory had never met a Balor before. 

“Were you born a Balor?” he asked.

“I was born a Bastard,” the man said.  Opening up another can he queried, “Have you no business of your own to be minding?” 

“We just moved here so I don’t really know anyone”, Rory shared.  

Balor’s hand was still swollen from last week’s punch at the chapel wall. “Don’t suppose you can roll cigarettes?” he asked, and the boy shook a head no.  

“Didn’t think so. Well, coast is clear and you’re making the place look untidy so off you go.”

The Boy’s chirpy “See you around” hung awkwardly in the air as he rose and made his way back to the housing estate he was now supposed to call home.  There was something other-worldly about the giant man he had just encountered.  He had never met someone with one eye before and hoped the other eye hadn’t noticed when he was staring at the patch of skin in the socket where the eyeball should be.  The converging red scar-lines looked like the wink emoji face on his mother’s WhatsApp.  The three-piece suit on the large frame with trousers made for a shorter man looked odd above the bare feet.  His bushy grey-copper beard and wild head of curly hair reminded Rory of the folk band album cover his Granda used to listen to.  He missed his Granda. 

The next time he met Balor was in the local library. Rory spent a lot of time here as it was a nice, safe space.  He greeted the big man with a friendly “Hi!” that was not reciprocated.  Balor was at the desk arguing with the librarian. 

 “I’m just saying that the last books you took out were returned in a very sorry condition, Mr. McCabe.…Again.” 

“The condition of being read?” Balor retorted angrily.  “Unlike most of the books you have here.  Is that what you mean?” 

Rory popped himself beside Balor in solidarity.

“No Balor, you know very well what I mean… they were damp. Damaged. Dirty.  And I told you before that the only leaves we want in our books are the pages…not half of Connolly’s Forest! There was bird excrement on one of our Penguin cloth-bound classics!”  

“Well, I do apologise for that. My raven companion, Chekhov, he is not a Tolstoy fan…” and turning to Rory he added; “Goddam moralizing realists, Rabbit. The nib of a pen deserves much better…” in a “you-know-yourself” type way.

Rory tripped after Balor as the guards escorted him out of the library.  It took two of them to lead him down the steps. Balor was shouting that the land of saints and scholars had become one of corrupt civil servants and state sycophants and threatened to burn the building down.  Three local lads dressed in soccer tops on the way to the pub cheered and shouted, “C’mon Balor!!!!” 

The following week the boy pretended not to notice the librarian’s glare over her cat frames as he withdrew Flann O’Brien’s ‘The Third Policeman’ and ‘An Anthology of Anarchism’. Back home, he sellotaped them all into clear plastic freezer-bag jackets before heading off to the wood.  

Balor was pacing up and down when he arrived.  “You got them!”, he exclaimed with glee, seemingly bemused by the plastic covers.  He pirouetted gaily with a grace that belied his size, up and down the riverside, to silent music and threw his striped scarf over his shoulder with affectation.  Today’s attire was less salubrious than the first day they met, with a black elbow-holed blazer worn over a Simpsons T-shirt and jeans. A paisley silk pocket hanky added a touch of class to the ensemble.  

“You changed your suit” Rory observed, as he wondered silently if Balor’s ankles had ever met trousers.  

“Us animals shed many skins in our lifetime, Rabbit” Balor remarked.  “Besides”, he spoke with a staged whisper beneath a large grubby hand “the trees change their foliage with the seasons, so be rude not to”. He pointed over his shoulder with a conspiratorial nod at the red and yellow hues peeping out among the branches.  

Rory frequented the wood every week after that collecting and delivering books.  Sometimes he was received warmly, other times not, but the books were always welcomed. Balor appeared to be minding them better as they were never in too much disarray. Rory was not unfamiliar with the capricious nature of adults, but Balor’s range of moods and emotions were on another level. 

When Balor was in good form the boy stopped for chats.  He had told him about his Mum and stepdad, Seamus, who Balor called “Shameless”, but Rory corrected him saying that there was no ‘L’.  The town was on the news lately because a large derelict hotel on the outskirts was under renovation with a contract to house refugees. Protests were making headlines.  Diggers were stopped in their tracks. Construction workers pelted as they arrived at work.  Rory was happy about these developments as Seamus was very involved and it kept him out of the house, giving him another channel for his anger apart from Rory’s Mum. And Rory. Well, mostly.  

When he told Balor that Seamus said these men were coming to take their jobs and their women, Balor asked what “Shameless-With-No-L” did for a living. Rory explained that he was on The Dole. Balor laughed heartily and entreated some invisible entity in the sky with arms raised, shouting “O My Lady Banba…what sorry class of unedified FOOLS have you been spawning from your loins!” 

Rory never got to learn much about his new friend.  Any attempts at questions were angrily shut down.  Once Balor said to him gravely with a finger pointed in his face “I’m warning you now Rabbit! If you don’t stop poking your nose in other people’s business, you’ll end up with an auspicious career in the civil service.”

But Balor in good humour was entertaining, so Rory didn’t need to ask questions. Once Rory saw him cavorting wildly by the river.  “ You should dance with a butterfly every day of the week, Rabbit…and twice on Mondays!” he said gleefully. Another time, as they were walking, he lifted the black top hat he was wearing and bowed theatrically at a tall grey bird. “My Queen!” he formally addressed the heron on the opposite bank, who bent her knee seemingly in reply. 

Balor told Rory that the forest is a clan system. Tree parents live with their children and extended family. They all support each other as they grow, sharing nutrients with weaker or older trees and creating an eco-system that helps protect the whole group, which is why trees in woodlands grow older than solitary trees, who don’t survive as long. 

Another week Rory arrived unannounced and heard music emanating from the forest itself.  He had never ventured far inside and followed the sound.  He ploughed deep through thick undergrowth and rounding a corner, came upon a campsite. And there was Balor dancing, can in hand, while a dark-skinned smiling toothless man played a large accordion. Other men of various shades sat around the fire and the smell of cooked fish lingered in the air.  Balor stopped when he saw him. 

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly. Rory said he had to do a project for school on a senior citizen. “Well, you better go find one then, hadn’t you?” Balor shouted then shooed him out of the camp.  Rory’s legs ran as fast as the tears on his cheeks. 

Next time he saw him Rory was still smarting from the lack of hospitality, but Balor was in a playful mood and had a rod hoisted on his shoulder with a colourful net.  

“Were you fishing?”  

“No, why would you ask such a question?” Balor queried as he twisted the stick into the ground and patted the fishing net affectionately on the head before sitting.  He had his usual six-pack with him and was humming.  A navy wool cap sat atop his significant mane and this, along with his Aran jumper, lent him a nautical appearance.  A fat bee checked out his cider and Balor shook his head sadly. “You should be tucked up warm in a leaf and twig pile somewhere, Mr. Bumble” he told it and lamented the fact that humans were ruining the world with their need for speed, exotic holidays and deforestation to feed cattle so the whole world could be led into a burger-induced food coma of morbid stupidity.  

Rory told him that they learn about climate change in school. Balor remarked that it was a great advance in the pedagogy of wisdom when parents drive their children in big-engined cars twice a day to learn such important facts.  Rory agreed.  He said that his teacher said if the bees all died, we would all die too.  Balor poured a little cider puddle on the seat for his Bumblebee friend before sinking the remainder of his can and said “Indeed.” 

He told Rory about the beekeeper who died and was buried several miles away from home.  Mid-funeral service the beehive swarm converged on the chapel and lined the ceiling and walls. After the service, they returned to the hive.  Rory was somewhat suspicious of this, but Balor continued, stating authoritatively that it is customary for beekeepers to inform their hive of any major developments in the family status, like births, marriages or deaths. 

“Beekeepers inherently understand the symbiosis of all things, Rabbit,” he said. “And if the bees don’t feel like they are part of the family they will leave.  They are not captive. You must treat them like guests to keep them.  No living thing should be kept in captivity…. Even the Royal Beekeeper told the bees when the Queen of England died.”  

“Are they not in captivity if they have a beekeeper, Balor?” Rory asked.  

“The Royal Family? Why yes, of course. The Royal Family are most definitely in captivity.” Balor opened another can, said ‘Slainte’ to the bumble bee and guzzled thirstily.

“I didn’t like it when you shouted at me last week in front of your friends,” said Rory.  Balor looked weary. “Did you know rabbits have 360-degree eyesight except for a blind spot right in front of their nose?  But they have systems of communication to activate alarm.  Most animals travel in packs or learn how to camouflage. Discerning danger is a necessary survival technique.” 

Rory chewed on this. “So, the ‘forners’ are dangerous????” 

Balor sighed. “My experience is that dangerous men are inclined to pontificate about how they are protecting souls and/or women and children. And I have the Certificate of Scars for that hard-earned degree. But whether their uniform is a collar or a tracksuit, sartorial choices are irrelevant.  Words are their disguise, Rabbit, and the connectionless their prey.  The trees don’t discriminate but they can’t always protect either. Wandering about alone anywhere you don’t know is an invite to predators.  And crashing parties is just rude…in any man’s language.”  And with that he left.

Rory’s mother was in bed.  It had been a shouty night.  Rory had tried to cover up the noises with his pillow, but they seemed to burrow a way into his ears regardless.  He would have liked to stay in bed too and told Seamus it was a sleep-in Saturday when he ordered him up but Seamus was a man on a mission, and they were going into town. Seamus was always attacked by spasms of heroic generosity after a fight night and today was no exception. 

As they left Tesco’s laden with gifts and groceries, Rory noticed Balor’s pal Dimitri from the forest busking outside. He had been introduced to him on one of his book expeditions. Rory wondered before how he played the accordion when he only had three fingers and a thumb.  He also wondered was everyone in the forest missing a body part.  The humungous bunch of red roses Seamus had tasked him with carrying should have been adequate camouflage, but the thorns pricked his skin so he couldn’t obscure his face fully.  Dima gave him a wave without missing a beat of his polka and said “Zdrasdvuy!”  

Seamus shouted, “Who you smiling at, you fuckin cunt! Go back to your own country!” 

Rory made his way to the forest that afternoon.  Winter had snuck in, the days shorter and the weather colder so he wasn’t frequenting as much as before. The trees and ferns were tipped with frosty diamonds and his breath curled white from him as he crunched his way deeper through the trees.  Balor was holding court in his ‘office’, languishing prostrate on the bench with arms and legs outstretched like Christ on the crucifix.  

 The small group around him were wearing Hi-Viz vests. One man was taking his blood pressure. “Would you not go in this year, Balor?” he asked as he pulled the velcro tight across the large arm. “Your peripheral neuropathy is only going to get worse. Outreach will still do the soup runs of course but soup can’t prevent frostbite.”

“My, my, how many years is it now that you have been disrespecting the eremitic way of life and trying to impose your medical straitjacket on me?” Balor asked the Doctor.

“I hear you are not hermitting now, Balor,” the doctor replied.

“Ah, you mean the Formorians,” and as he spotted Rory Balor added with an overt politeness, “Do excuse me, the mobile library has arrived.” 

The Doctor said, “And what about the drink, Balor? “

“If you say so Doctor,” said Balor and produced a can of cider from his inside pocket.

The town became shiny and sparkly for Christmas and one Saturday evening Rory spotted a large figure in a Santa hat zigzagging across the town square.  He ran to catch up with Balor but quickly discovered he was far from communicative, and he left him on a bench head back, eyes closed, singing. Dusk was drawing in early. A makeshift stage on the back of a lorry was lit up by generator lights. Men Rory didn’t recognise were shouting rallying cries into microphones sparking cheers from the gathering crowd. “Ireland is Full” and “House the Irish First” signs were paraded around the place like holy crosses.  

Late January, Rory was sitting in the TV room of their yet-another new home with his Mum when the evening news came on.  A neon ribbon with “Violence erupts at Refugee Camp” ran across the bottom of the screen as groups angrily clashed on a smoky night.  Faces were obscured with balaclavas and scarves, but it was the other group Rory’s eyes were fixed on. Their leader loomed large on the screen, a giant one-eyed figure wearing a Cossack hat, wielding a hurley stick and followed by other men, some of whom Rory recognized. They appeared to be defending the campsite from flaming bottles and burning timber. 

The forest was on fire.  Trees ablaze.  Fire engine lights flashing.  Rory wondered if the trees could feel pain. If they died would the other trees be sad. Can they see their loved ones burning, stuck to the ground, powerless to help, he wondered. But the thought brought other sad thoughts, so he stopped. The women in the TV room were jazzed up with the news. 

“I’ve no sympathy,” Rory’s mum said, “It’s the likes of them that has us in homeless accommodation.” 

A thin black-eye-linered lady sucked her vape and cooed, “You’re in here because your man bate the livin’ daylights out of you, loveen, same as the rest of us.”

Even though he couldn’t see him, Rory thought he could smell Seamus edging his way back into their lives. He wondered if his mum had a blind spot in her vision like the rabbits Balor spoke of.  

The forest was cordoned off and he didn’t know where Balor was. He had no idea that he was badly injured until he met the librarian in Spar. “I’ll have to replace that Dickens hardback.”, she said unhappily as she bagged her groceries. “And Himself won’t be back anytime soon by the sounds of things.”

The boy’s legs were aching by the time he reached the hospital.  It took a lot of being chased out of various wards before he found him. The sight of Balor so bruised with his arm and head wrapped in white sheet bandaging and attached to wires was shocking. He tried to hide his feelings as he strained to hear what Balor was saying. 

Balor’s one good eye was bruised and could barely open as he turned his head toward him. 

“Chekhov came to see me Rabbit,” he said. “He sat there, on the sill, looking in.  D’ya know what he said?” 

Coughing and breathing chestily now.  

“He said captivity is no place for a living being.” 

Trying to catch his breath.

 “And I said you’re right”. 

His eye was closing when a nurse came in, annoyed to find an intruder.  

She asked Rory to leave.  

He didn’t want to be there anyway.  

Seeing him like that.

As he turned to the door, a husky whisper stopped him in his tracks, “Rory?” 

The child stood to attention at the sound of his real name.  

“Yes Balor?”

More wheezing. 

And a raised finger.

“Don’t forget to tell the bees.”

Rory ran down the bright white hall….

Ran down the stairs. 

Ran into a trolley. 

Ran around another.  

Ran down the steps. 

Ran out into the evening air.

And he ran. 

                                And he ran. 

                                                                     And he ran.