Ghosts of Ballymagaleen
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
The Educated Apparition of St Príomhsheans’ School
Executed in 1916 for the crime of resemblance, the Reverend Mr Leonard was mistaken by a British firing squad for Countess Markiewicz on account of his cassock, his rifle, and his enthusiasm for target practice. His last words were, reportedly, “You’ll regret this when you realise she can shoot back.”
Since then, he has lingered kindly about St Príomhsheans’ School, where his ghost manifests during moments of crisis or rare competence. He smells faintly of turf smoke and cordite, quotes Byron and Shelley to steady the nerves of exam candidates, and occasionally assists with handwriting lessons.
Once a curate, once a schoolmaster, always an outdoorsman, Leonard is the archetype of the benevolent spectral pedagogue — a reminder that even the executed may continue to mark homework.
Maol Archaidh
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
The Cellarman of Eternity, Guardian of Dooley’s Vaults
A sixth-century monk who brought the secret of distillation to the west coast, Maol Archaidh died face-down in a vat of his own experiment and ascended (briefly) as vapour. His mortal remains lie under the cellar of Dooley’s Pub, where he continues to move the oldest bottles, muttering the ancient benediction “Aqua Vitae et Aeternae.”
On still nights, the faint sound of corks sighing and Latin hiccups rise through the floorboards. Shebeen Dooley swears the ghost ensures that no whiskey ever truly goes off — it merely deepens in theology.
Patron spirit of brewers, poets, and those who mistake revelation for fermentation, Maol Archaidh embodies the principle that holiness and hangovers are matters of dosage.
Focalán Tobrach
The Reverend Mr William Leonard
Focalán Tobrach
The Word in the Water — Spirit of St Pierian’s Well
Neither monk nor man, Focalán Tobrach is the whispering intelligence beneath St Pierian’s Well, where the waters cure ignorance if taken to excess. He speaks in bubbles and consonants, fertilising the hazel that overhangs the holy pool and, through its nuts, the minds of poets.
He is custodian not only of the sacred Trout of Doubt but of the peninsula’s psychedelic mushrooms, which he tends like punctuation marks sprouting in the grass. Animals who sample them achieve brief linguistic enlightenment: foxes quote Spinoza, cows hum in trochaic metre, and pointers point at the ineffable.
To drink or dream near the well is to risk contact with him — a Wittgensteinian ghost who insists that meaning is what survives grammar.