The adventurers of Betty Bhua – A recipe for Easter

It is said that there is more than one way to skin a very unfortunate cat, which, although true, nevertheless harbours a quite harsh distinction. Doubtless, much adored pet-cats would not meet such dreadful faith and even the sharpest tool would have to restrain itself to grooming.
God bless the strays; concluded Betty, while her steps adopted nervous pacing. Undeterred she strode out towards the promontory at the end of the lough, but whatever the reason, she seemed to be unable to pass beyond the boulder burdened strand at Father Hegarty’s Rock, as if her desired destination strolled into its own voyage instead. She turned to the slopes, navigating around the saffron induced thicket of the fast spreading gorse, following forlorn stones, as she came to a walled outcrop of rock, accommodating one cauldron.
“What are you doing?” inquired Betty.
“I hold the waters of the four skies,” answered the vessel. “I boil and then order them onto the dome you call horizon.”
“It seems crooked today,” was Betty’s concern.
“The eastern sky escaped,” came the reply. “The wheel cannot turn and no new life will flood again until it is mend.”
“So we are stuck for now with what we have?”
“Not really,” stated the cauldron. “The eastern sky must ascend, and when it does, the firmament will be covered with the waves of the rising moon and the blood of the rising sun. With no siblings on its side, the earth will yield beneath its fall.”
“Is there anything that can be done?”
“Perhaps,” came out of the pot. “Taste me.”
“You are empty,” echoed Betty into its belly.”
“What do you expect,” hissed the cauldron. “You didn’t put anything in.”
“Fair enough. What do I need?”, was the rather defiant response.
“What can you give?”, shoot it from the void.
“I have an oversized pot to spare.”
“Make my day,” squeezed the hollow; “and burn the cradle that bears you.”
“Why did the eastern sky leave?” needed Betty to know.
“You ate it. So I pushed its meagre remains over my bar-less rim, that it may carve a row for what is to be. Mend it or be gone.”
Betty rose and as she reached Buncrana, she gathered the shadows over every light, bondage-buttons from the faint, the lushes weeds from count-lost friction, a full set of double-tongued spoons, nails from a suffocating past, the council‘s only door and Cahir the Coat’s eternally filled bottle.
To Buncrana’s past went the shadows to shed light. The rush-like weeds, once cut, work rather wonders and many doors were grown. There was a future for coffin nails in frictions. The spoons found use as two way streets while the council still swims against the tide inside a bottleneck.
As she returned to the cauldron, she found it full.
“ I see, you can hold your waters.“ said Betty.
“For the time being,” mumbled the cauldron; “for the time being.
Meanwhile, Cahir the Coat took rather well to his new buttons and still can been seen, bright and early, parading his streets, each time the horizon announces its journey in the east.