ENDA BOYLE - CONOR AMOUNG THE BUDDA-CELTS

Enda Boyle was born in County Derry Ireland in 1994. He was educated at The University of Ulster and Queen's University Belfast. His short fiction and poetry has appeared in several  small journals.

Conor Amoung The Budda-Celts  
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   Conor O’Kane was a hard-arsed realist, sharp as a tack he had razor-like critical facilities he was a no bull-shit rationalist. A sworn enemy of the fuzzy and the woolly-headed his podcast had listeners numbering in the hundreds. Now for his two-year anniversary, he was taking the fight directly to the other side. Conor was driving to Donegal to do an expose on one of the last great seventies era communes. The Budda-Celts, older than God’s Gardens crazier than the Primal Screamers. As far as Connor could work out, they were Ireland’s first hippies, already ten miles away from their compound he imagined he could already smell incense, cannabis and all the other smells that followed the beard and bead crowd wherever they went. Making these people look like fools were going to be extremely fun and profitable. This was big time important debunking; everything was going to change after this. No more sitting in the audience seats of regional T.V studios waiting to ask a self-processed medium awkward question only to have them cut from the broadcast. No more live streaming form Catholic shrines were his witty and succinct explanation of the dynamics of mass hysteria was interrupted by a teenager from Alabama calling him a fa--- in the comments due to his slight lisp and the fact that a blonde hair had fallen out of his beanie.
   As he approached the Budda-Celts compound Connor saw something he did not expect, a man in a well-tailored tight-fitting blue suit was singling for him to pull over, this couldn’t be one of the lentil munchers could it? He pulled over and opened his window.
“Is everything ok sir?”
“Are you Connor O’kane the podcaster”?
“I am indeed.”
“Cool. Listen man my name’s Eliot The Community have asked me to greet you outside our village to get a few things clear before we welcome you in. Over the next day and night, we are going to give you a tour, grant you a few interviews and yet you sit in on our ceremonies.”
“Really, that’s a lot more access than I was expecting”.
“The only nice thing is we are going have to ask you not to wander off on your own.”
“No worries as long as you don’t burn me alive in a large wicker statue at the end of my day I will play by the rules”.
“Cool, we screened that movie last week it comes across as funnier than you expect when you spend some time in a place like this. Now come on I still think we have time to grab some dinner.”
   The compound was nothing like Connor was expecting, it was almost disappointing were where the phalanxes of hairy wastrels chanting along with the guru?  Not an orgy in sight, no drugs for god’s sake. Sitting in the dining room they could have been in the canteen of a tech start-up. Connor was sounded by women in business casual skirts and men in scrotum-bustlingly tight chinos. The only thing that lived up to his imagination was the cultist’s accents. Every one of them spoke with the same flat-vowed transatlantic accents (why do far lefty times always try to sound they like come from nowhere?) Conor was sat at a large round wicker table, at first, he tried to engage the cultists in conversation, it soon became clear that they had been extensively coached on how to talk to him. After a few conversations he decided to just sit and eat his meal. Admittedly the dinner was delicious, they had served him a large bowl of rich spicy vegan stew with hearty seeded bread.
   Dinner had finished and Conor was waiting for Eliot just outside of the dining room when a woman with a clipboard walked up to him.
“Mr O’Kane my name is Maggie, I’m the social media manager for the community. I understand that you have been speaking to Eliot today.”
“Yes, he got me to sign the NDA and all that.”
“awesome, so you won’t mind if we take a few photos for the Instagram  feed.”
“I suposse that would be fine”.
“Cool” 
She then proceed to pull a selfie stick out from the inside of her blazer. Conor leaned into the photo.  Moments later Conor’s phone pinged in his pocket he opened his apps. P.R girl had tagged in the cult’s Instagram post. She had placed a filter on the photo which gave him devil horns the caption read ‘Today we had a unique visitor to the compound podcaster Conor O’Kane has come to give a live interview with our leader in one hour today. #Greatdebate, #allthingsfoldin.
  Conor could feel familiar subtle unwelcome dampness form beneath his shirt, no one had told him that his interview was to be conducted in front of an audience. These people were much better organised than he had expected. At the other end of the corridor he could see a fire door, maybe he could make a quick exit upload what he had and claim that his questions had been too hard hitting for the community and they had asked him to leave early. He made his way over to the door, pushed it open and heard a polite cough behind him.
“Taking a short cut man”?
“No, no I just hoping to jump out for a smoke”. Conor reached into his pocket only to realise that he had left his e-cig at home.  
“Sorry dude, no time now the chief wants to carry out your interview”.
“Very well lead on then”.
Eliot turned around without comment, on top of everythnig else no one in the cult picked up on liteary references, maybe they were not such formidable opponents after it would all, everything now rested on their leader’s performance.  
    Zeb Smith the Buda-Celt leader’s head was a phrenologist’s dream, it was narrow at the top before widening at the bottom with the roundest chin Conor had ever seen. His neck was so thin that his head seemed in constant danger of falling on to the desk in front of him. From the waist up he seemed perfectly circular. At last an honest to God freak this was more like it. They were sitting opposite each other in an elevated stage overlooking an open-air arena in the most westerly part of the compound.  Conor was fumbling with his recording equipment while Zeb looked at him with blue, wet honest-to-god sincere eyes.
“Would you like a hand?”
“I have set up this mic several hundred times before and I will be perfectly fine doing it again, thank you.”
Zeb smiled at him exposing bleach-white teeth
“If you’re sure just remember the clock is ticking.”
At last the green light on Conor’s mic flashed on, he was ready to deliver his well-rehearsed opening monologue. He took a sip of water took a deep breath, looked down at his notes. This was it Conor was in the zone, he had always thought of himself as an intellectual prize-fighter and he had just entered the ring. As he was rising from his chair Zeb placed his hand his shoulder and picked up the mic.
“Welcome one and all, at our last EMG several of you raised the issue of outreach. At the time I car parked it needing time to integrate into our long-term modernisation strategy. Then when I was overseeing a teambuilding exercise, I had a brainwave. Many plugged in young people listen to podcasts I realised I should invite a content creator to come and see us. I chose Conor O’Kane because he was completely off brand, this guy is working on a more materialistic vibe than we are here. I therefore thought that a rap section with him would be the best way of spreading our ideas to sceptical markets. So, before we begin I think we should give it up for Conor one of the few guys brave enough to come to us here”.
      Conor tried to keep smiling as he rose, he had to concede that Zeb was a master. His voice was deep, resonant and reedy, his adress was generous and somewhat witty. He was now playing a guest role in in the Zeb show. He would have to try and enjoy it.
“R-right just a second sorry Okay. As you have just heard I am still here with the Budda-Celts, their leader Zeb Smith is just about to grant me an exclusive interview for your listening pleasure. You will have had all of the necessary background from earlier in the episode so I will just begin. “
Zeb nodded in agreements.
“Excllent, Am I correct in believing that you did not found the Budda-Celts?”.
“You’re right that honour goes to my great friend and mentor, a once in a genration visionary Mr George Doyle.” The audience began to applaud on hearing this name. “That’s right we cannot praise him highly enough.”
“And yet some elements of your setup here strike we as somewhat discordant with Mr Doyle’s vision. Your use of technology for instance.”
“Look George was obviously a profit you have seen everything he built here yourself. But do you know what he could not have foreseen? The microchip revolution, personal PCs the god dammed internet. George had his vison on O'Connell Street Dublin in 1964, Forty years latter Zuckerberg had his vison in Harvard. When he asked me to take care of things here, I realised that I had to synergize these two visions if the Budda-Celts were to flourish in the 21st century.”
“That is all very well, but would you say that Doyle’s message is still intact?”
“The message is all about unity, unity between humanity, the natural world and the Divine. But we were in danger of breaking our unity with the modern world. The back to the Earth phase is over we had to adapt as well.”
“No that simply will not do, what do you mean by ‘unity’?”
“The kind of unity we are trying to create here can’t be simply explained, you just sort of have to tune in to it take in the vibe. That’s why you’re here to experience it.  Anyway, it was great that we could have this conversation, but our time is up. I have to take a skype call I look forward to seeing you at tonight’s ceremony.”  Zeb took a bow and left the stage.   
   Later that evening Conor sulked on a craved log on the edge of a bonfire, his teeth felt like he had just sunk five cans of red bull. The Budda-Celts had outwitted him at every point that day. He had learned nothing, seen nothing and most uncovered nothing.  Ironically the very sence he had came to the compound to capture was playing out before him. Groups of Budda-Celts were dressed in grey-blue habits and were dancing close to the fire. In the distance he could just about make out Eliot coming towards him carrying two cans of beer.
“Hi man, I take it today did not go as you had planned.”
“No, I feel as if I have just done a day’s free P.R for you.”
“Nah, don’t start thinking like that. Did you ever think you were asking the wrong questions?”  Eliot then handed Conor his beer, winked then walked on.
   Conor took small sips of his beer (he had never really gotten used to the taste.) He took a look at the slowly dying bonfire before him. At the rows of lamps leading up to the meeting house, at the last few Budda-Celts taking part in their after-worship party. Conor had spoken to many people that day, never once had he asked any of them why? What was it about this community that made people devote their lives to it? Conor got up from his log and called to Eliot “Excuse me, do you have time for one more interview?”