The Tale of Kitty Fitzpatrick

By Matthew Beyer

A long time ago, on a particularly damp and blustery morning in the green hills of County Cork, Kitty Fitzpatrick trudged through the muddy rural roads. She had just finished tending to the sheep and was adamant that she would arrive at the town chapel before the first bell had rung. In her haste, she had forgotten her coat and, aside from the galoshes she’d borrowed from her father, she wore her best black dress and cream-colored bonnet. She was a very handsome lady of 18 and highly respected by the town for her labor on the family farm and her steadfast dedication to her faith. Each Sunday, while her parents were busy tending to the fields or to house, Kitty permitted herself one hour to attend morning service, on behalf of the rest of her kin.

But unlike every other morning, the rains had come late the night before and the roads were swamped with muck. Each heavy footstep sent filth flinging into the air, though Kitty took special care that nothing would stain her Sunday dress. As she made her to the top of a hill, a sound of incoming hooves arrested her attention. Scaling the summit, she beheld a galloping steed and the master atop it; he was donned from head to toe in silver and orange dressage and had a presented himself with a puffed-out chest, as if he were a rooster. Kitty figured he wasn’t much older than herself.

“Good morning, ma’lady,” he said, taking her aback with his posh English accent.

“Good morning, sir,” she replied, nodding her head respectfully, for she was not well acquainted with English etiquette. The gentleman pretended to heed no mind.

“And to where would such a young lady be running off to at this time of day?” He inquired.

“I’m off to Mass, my good man, for my body and soul belongs to Him,” she said, pointing to the sky.

The man scoffed. ‘You poor, simple Irish girl. Looking to be fulfilled in immaterial objects.’

The man bit his tongue when he saw the girl’s gaze fall to the soil, so he softened his tone.

“Let me give you a ride. No point in getting your one piece of fine clothing dirty.”

Kitty was silent for a time, pondering on whether or not his intent was sincere. Then she remembered the chapel bells.

“I thank you for your gracious gesture,” she said. “But I will respectfully decline, as I’m sure I need my exercise.” The young man hoped she did not see him twitch.

“Very well. Enjoy your little romp through the rain puddles.” And he took off.

Kitty Fitzpatrick waded her way through the cesspool until, at last, she arrived at the chapel doors. Although she was late, not a speck of dirt stained her Sunday dress.

*

The next week, another Sunday morning, there was heavy knock at the Fitzpatrick’s door: It was the gentleman again, lounging against the doorframe.

“Hello, my dear. I was just taking a leisurely Sunday stroll through the countryside and thought you may like an escort on your way to Mass.” Kitty rubbed her eyes and pondered a moment.

“I suppose that would be fine.”

The two walked along the road, though not too close, for she grew visibly annoyed by the gentleman’s apparent clumsiness, as the juvenile would repeatedly trip and stumble into her backside.

After miles of walking, they two finally arrived in time for the first service.” As Kitty made her way to the front, the gentleman stood behind.

“Are you not going in? You came all this way.” The man shook his head. “It will take more than ash to satisfy me.” Then he looked up. “However, because you seem well-acquainted with charity and because I cannot help but admire your natural beauty-despite your low upbringing- I believe it to be only fitting that you provide me with a kiss for escorting and for offering transportation.” Kitty took a hard look at her apparent suitor standing across from her.

“Sir, I thank you for your courtesy, but I hardly know ye. And as I’ve said before: my body and soul belongs to Him only.”

The man bit his lip. “Very well,” he said at last, and turned the other direction before making one last remark: “I’m sure one day you’ll come to your senses.”

*

Yet another week passed without incident and Kitty was making her way out the door when she was interrupted by the sound of her father. She stiffened at the door, now fully aware of her internal stupor. Stepping back from the door, she approached her father in the workshop, were he had been busily smithing.

“Father,” she said. “I have a question. No, a concern regarding a certain British gentleman.”

There was a huff and sharp strike from the mallet. “When isn’t there, Kitty?”

“A young man has frequented the farm these past few weeks. He makes various…questionable gestures towards me.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick stopped his hammering and stared in silence. “Go on…”

“We don’t have much time. He’ll surely be here to call on me soon!”

The father rose from labor and made his way over to a bench, pulling out a drawer of a hidden compartment. He took out a small object and carefully placed it into his daughter’s hands.

“If you want to keep lurkers off our land, a good way to do it is to scare the devil out of them!”

As he finished speaking, the sound of thundering hooves carried over the quiet landscape. The man in orange had returned indeed. In one hand he grasped the reins, in the other was a small black box. Kitty had retreated and took watch from a window upstairs as the man gallantly strode toward her front door. He rapped once, then twice. On the third knock, he waited a moment, then checked for any passerbys, and crept towards the garden where the chickens were roosting. Kitty watched as the young man knelt down, whispering an inaudible phrase to the box before taking the lid off and placing it on the ground. For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence, then, what looked like thick, black cord began slowly weaving its way towards the coop. It’s eyes were like Bryony, it’s tongue like hellfire.

Before she knew it, Kitty flew down the staircase, slamming the garden gate open, freezing the young man with her unabashed appearance.

“You villain!” she cried. “He who does not belong here, you will not molest us with your presence any longer!” She then lifted a section of her skirt, revealing a slim and dashing dagger. She took a long step forward, raising the mighty blade in one hand while the other snatched at the ground towards the young man’s feet, tightening her grip around the serpent’s neck. The beast made several vehement lunges in her direction, though she evaded each attack. Extending her tightened fist, she came face-to-face to her newfound enemy. With one final lift, she clenched the mighty dagger with all her life and swung, slashing the head off the formidable serpent in one clean cut, with the head falling to her feet.

The young man, who had bore witness to the entire exchange, let out an enormous squeal that sent him toppling over the fence and scrambling towards the horse, riding as fast he could away from the farm, never to be seen again. Kitty then took the remains away and buried them, giving the fallen enemy a final prayer of mercy. Word of the event traveled to the rest of the town and, from that day on, the woman would be known as “Kitty Fitzpatrick: the sister who struck down the serpent.”

Writer’s Statement

What initially began as an evocation of Irish folklore slowly morphed into a more modern fairytale re-telling found in works by Oscar Wilde. The first piece of critical information regarding this story is the protagonist: Kitty Fitzpatrick. I chose this name as it translates into “Pure, Follower of Patrick” (as in Saint Patrick). The stories of St. Patrick are obviously very well known (and alluded to here) and I decided that this would be a good opportunity to explore the popularity of Catholicism that has made its prevalence very apparent in Irish history. Of course, when one is discussing Irish Catholicism, it is often put in contrast to the Anglo-Irish, (Protestant) ruling class, which is where the antagonist is situated, as a perverse and greedy character. Now, it should be made very clear here: I have no personal grudges or hard feelings against Protestantism or Protestants (ironically enough, I grew up Protestant and continue to practice). I wrote this story from an overt pro-catholic perspective, but the story is essentially a simulation of ideology, as opposed to a hard and fast belief in it, but I digress.

Religion and class are large themes here, yet I also tried evoking a more folklore-ish, oral story style. For example, the hero and the villain archetypes are very present and very recognizable. In addition, I tried to make the story feel as though it were a tale that could be retold if it were heard in a bar or next to a campfire (though whether or not it succeeded is up to the reader). But regardless of my attempt to evoke older Irish stories, I’m looking forward to hearing any subsequent feedback on whether or not the effect was achieved, as I loved learning about Ireland and Irish culture and I want my story to do it justice.

To conclude, this story is essentially about religion in Ireland, how it (like class and gender) clashes, and thus, drama ensues. However, despite my emphasis on religion, there are elements of this story that nod to older storytelling tactics and myths (in the lattermost example, a story of a nationalistic, traditional heroine).