(S) Igor by Gabriel Lyster

Igor

Igor felt alone frustrated and fedup, as he stood looking out of the window in the

old derelict house overlooking the bay at Doncannon. The only other item in

the room was his trusty casket, although, he preferred to call it, the box. The

word casket sounded too American, it got on his nerves, and having lived in

Ireland for so long he felt like a local. So. Why should'nt he talk like a local.

But the box. Or casket, was everything to him. It was his bed. His home. His

friend. His only friend.

He looked at his watch it was a quarter to four in the morning. Time was

running out, it would be daylight in a couple of hours. As he listened, he could hear the

fishing trawler approaching the quay, everything was going according to plan.

He knew he would be on his way back to Transylvania by daybreak. It was

the only way Igor, or people of his type could travel.

He thought back to when he first left Transylvania, about two hundred and

fifty years ago. The month of may seventeen fifty four to be exact. He

remembered how sad he was to leave home. But how could he stay. His

uncle Bela, controlled the whole country. He got all the rich pickings, poor Igor

had to make do with the dregs. There was nothing for it but to leave.

His first stop was Vienna where he drank freely on the upper classes. From

there he went to various parts of Europe where he fed quite well. It was while

in Italy in eighteen forty two that he had the casket made. It was made by the

Stradivarius family, famous throughout the World for their violin making.

It took six months to make, and was very elaborate. It had some wonderful

carvings on the sides, and the lid had very fine and intricate marquetary work

on it. Grinling Gibbons, whom he had once met while in England. Said it was

a masterpiece, as did Charles Dickins, who frequented the same tavern.

Igor arrived in Ireland in nineteen hundred and six. Falling in love with the

place straight away. Ireland at the time was still occupied by the Brits. Igor,

being well versed in history understood the situation. Indeed he made use of

it and dined freely on the enemy regularly. You could say he was killing two birds with

the one stone. Igor had settled in alright, and was hoping to see out the last

seven hundred years or so of his life here.

Then that letter came on the fourth of december last year, calling him back to

Transylvania. It read. Uncle Bela had been staked, and it was his dying wish

that Igor, should take over at home. Igor, not wanting to go, thought. Surely

they could have offered the position to someone else, or even cousin

Vladimir. Vladimir is a fine fellow. He's intelligent. He's goodlooking. He's also got a fine

set of teeth, and a great sense of humour, but then, I suppose, being just only a

hundred and forty nine he's probably too young.

Igor, finally gave in, and here he was standing beside the casket.

He admired the woodwork again, and slid his hand along the lid as he

pondered about the future. Then he opened the box. Just as he was about to

get in. His thoughts wandered back to that last wonderful liquid meal that

would remind him of Ireland forever. It was a beautiful young T.V. presenter.

"Yes!. Grainne Seoige went down very well indeed?".

G Lyster 16-01-08.