by Douglas Draa
“So what happened? Come on, Dennis, I’m not one to blab about things. Tell me about it.”
Dennis took my money and rang up the till, weighing his words carefully. “Well, it was a bad business. We had a hard winter. Lot of black ice on the roads. O’Riordan’s wife was as sensible a driver as anyone, but she took a bend that bit too fast, slid into the ice and before she knew it, rolled the Land Rover. She was unlucky. Nine times out of ten she’d have got off with a few bruises, a broken arm, maybe. Instead, she hit her head and she was killed outright. A thin skull, apparently.”
Dennis wasn’t looking at me, as if he’d spoken out of line, cruelly perhaps. I was the last person who’d want to know about someone’s wife dying.
“O’Riordan took it badly. The only thing that kept him going was his dog. He had one of those huge beasts—an Irish wolfhound. Man, that was some animal. It stood three feet tall, a grey, shaggy hound that filled the shop whenever O’Riordan came in. A force of nature, but friendly! Jeeze, when that beast licked you, you were just about bowled over. Big softee, he called it. He said it was unusual for its breed because they were usually stand-offish with strangers. Cuchulainn, he called it, after the Irish hero. On the other hand, O’Riordan said if anyone upset the animal, the dog was terrifying.
“After his wife’s death, O’Riordan kept to himself a lot more and he was never seen without the dog. Maybe her spirit attached itself to the dog, who knows?”
“I suppose it explains why he’s a surly bugger,” I said. Like me?
“He was okay while the dog was alive. A year or so ago, it died. It was getting on in years. Went peacefully, but you can imagine the effect it had on O’Riordan. It was pretty devastating. Hard to understand if you’ve never had a dog of your own.”
I had never owned a dog, but I got the idea. And it explained a lot of the old man’s moroseness. I felt a slight emotional tremor , as though I could empathise with him, even though he was a complete stranger. However, my own inner despair quickly swamped it, as if O’Riordan was some kind of harbinger, a shadow from the future.
“I’m sorry,” said Dennis, genuinely, unsure what else to say to clear the air. He probably wanted to say I was a fine one to talk. If anyone saw through my forced bonhomie, it was him. I knew my anger—fury—at what had happened to Kathy, had made me short-tempered and irritable.
“It’s how things go, isn’t it?” I said, a bit caustically.
“I must say, I miss that dog, too. It was a monster, but it gave you a warm feeling when it greeted you. And I lost a good account—the amount of food it ate!”
We laughed, but it was a little hollow, not quite easing the tension. I picked up my stuff and waved as I left. Out on the street I glanced in the general direction of O’Riordan’s place, about half a mile away. Was that what I was destined to become, once Kathy passed on? That oncoming darkness was inescapable. It took me a while to shrug off the mood. By the time I got home, I had just about put O’Riordan and his tragedies from my mind.
Three days later, in the evening, I was watching something on the television, not taking much in, my thoughts tangled, as they often were at this time of day, after I’d helped Kathy to bed. She retired early now, her strength ebbing almost daily. I’d read her to sleep, holding back the tears that always came until I left her, such a frail form, curled up in our bed, like a child. She still managed to smile.
I was startled by the doorbell. Visitors at this time of the evening were rare. I had even more of a surprise when I opened the door. The old man, O’Riordan, was standing there, an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” he said. There was a trace of Irish brogue in his voice. “Would it be possible to have a few words with you?”
The October air was cold and I didn’t want it to invade the warmth of the house, where my central heating kept the temperature at a steady, comfortable level. “Of course, come on in.”
As he crossed the threshold, he seemed bigger than I remembered him, well over six feet and unusually broad. He exuded a natural strength that was mildly disarming. I ushered him into the living room and to an arm chair. Kathy would be fast asleep by now, so we wouldn’t be disturbing her.
“Mr O’Riordan,” I said, sitting opposite him.
He sat on the edge of the chair and eyed me keenly. He had a thick crop of hair down to his shoulders and it occurred to me he could have passed for the drummer of a 70’s rock band. He didn’t quite manage a smile—that seemed alien to him—but for once he looked less severe. “Bran,” he said. “Please, call me Bran.”
“Sure. I’m Phil.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen you about the town. You’ve been here nigh on a year. It’s a good place. A man can make a good life here.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just nodded.
“Forgive my presumptuousness, Phil, but I know about your wife. It’s a terrible thing.”
Again I nodded.
“Listen, I’m not here to offer you religious guidance, or to waste your time with empty words of condolence. I sympathise, as any man would do. But I can help.”
I felt myself going cold, as though that October air had slipped in here after all. Over the last year, I had been over this kind of ground too many times. The healers, the God squad, the mystics, the whole band of freaks who offered false hopes and hollow promises. What kind of god would allow this to happen to Kathy? She was twenty-eight, not even half way through her life.
“Bran, I’m sure you mean well, but I can’t do this. I’m not a man of faith—if I was, all that would have been kicked out of me by what’s happened. I just want to be left with my wife to get through this until she goes. It’s kind of you to think you can help, but really, you can’t.”
“There’s a way,” he persisted.
“A way?”
“To prevent it. She doesn’t have to die.”
I would have lost my temper and probably have let him have the rough end of my tongue, but, as I said, I’d been there before. Shouting didn’t do any good. I’d done it too many times and it just left me snarled up and even more frustrated. I just wanted to ease him out of the house before he spouted whatever line in mumbo-jumbo he had.
“Just hear me out for a few moments,” he said and there was something in his eyes that made me check. I felt an atmosphere that was deeply uncanny, almost as though we had shifted backwards in time and were sitting not in my living room but beside a campfire.
“In a few days, it will be Samhain,” he said. “What you probably know as Halloween. October the 31st.”
The way he spoke the word—he pronounced it ‘Sah-wen’—struck a chord within me, something very deep, a tribal memory, maybe. Whatever it was, it held me there, so I didn’t growl an angry dismissal and insist that he leave me.
“There will be celebrations,” he said softly. “At Samhain, the walls between our world and what lies beyond are very thin. Remember that, Phil. If you bring your wife to the festival, she can be saved. I promise you.” There were tears in his eyes and either madness or a powerful belief in whatever it was he foresaw.
I didn’t want to provoke him. “I’ll think about it,” I said, trying to claw my way back to reality, as if I’d been teetering on the brink of something way beyond my depth.
“Please do,” he said simply and rose. He was at the door and gone before I said anything further. I sat down and wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing, but there were a few leaves on the carpet, brought in by the old man’s shoes. I picked them up and dropped them in the litter bin.
Halloween, for Christ’s sake. Kathy and I usually locked the doors and hid ourselves away from the “trick or treaters” and we certainly didn’t carve pumpkin faces and put candles in them. Maybe if things had been different and we’d gone on to have kids. And now this! Take Kathy to the Festival? How bloody ridiculous. I cou
ldn’t imagine for one moment it would help her state of mind.
* * * *
The day came, a Saturday as it happened and I fussed around the house, cleaning, tidying, probably creating work, just to keep myself occupied. I’d tried to put my odd conversation with Bran O’Riordan from my mind, but it kept re-surfacing. Kathy was sitting in her usual chair in the living room, the back of which overlooked our garden. Although it was autumn, there was plenty for her to watch, and she sat quietly drinking it in, a small, pale figure. Occasionally she remarking on something, a passing squirrel, or a neighbourly cat stalking invisible prey in the beds.
“You know what day it is?” I said to her over a cup of tea. “Halloween.”
She smiled. “Are they celebrating locally? Isn’t there something happening on the Common?”
“I think so.” I was surprised she’d taken note of it. Maybe she’d read it in the local press. “Why—did you want to go?” The words were out before I thought about it.
“Yes, I think I’d like that.”
“You’re not just saying it to please me? We don’t usually go.”
“It’ll do me good. I can wrap up warm. And we don’t have to stay for long.”
So it was agreed. For some reason I felt slightly relieved.
Later, after we’d had tea, I got her into a thick coat and wrapped a blanket around her in her wheelchair and we made our way down the street towards the Common. It was going to be something of a precursor to Bonfire Night, with a few fireworks. People had already set to work hanging up pumpkins, triangular eyes glowing with candle-light, and numerous children ran around, some shrieking with excitement, others wide-eyed and fascinated by events as the time to light the fire drew near.
There was a beer tent, and apart from the alcohol on sale, including a local punch and some mulled wine, there were hot drinks for those who preferred them. I was surprised at the turnout—it was quite a gathering. Fortunately the weather was okay—dry, if crisp and cold. The sky was cloudless, so the stars were in bright evidence, which added to the occasion. Kathy was clearly enjoying it, huddled down in her blanket, but wide-eyed for once. I caught glimpses of the girl I had known in those eyes and had to fight back the anguish of knowing it would be fleeting.
As I stood at her side in the fire-light, watching the flames devouring the heaped branches and stacked wooden crates, I felt a movement beside me. Bran O’Riordan stood there.
“You brought her,” he said. “That’s good.”
I didn’t mention our bizarre conversation at the house, just nodding. “It’s a nice enough night.”
“Perfect,” he replied. “Would you and your wife like something to eat or drink?”
“Let me get them,” I said, a little too quickly.
“I’ll keep my eye on her for you.”
I would have refused, but the beer tent was no more than a few steps away, and it would only take me a couple of minutes to get something. I spoke to Kathy, who didn’t want anything. I fetched a couple of beers, came back and handed one to O’Riordan.
I kept expecting him to broach the subject of Kathy’s illness again, but he was his usual taciturn self, just watching the fire and some dancing that had broken out among one group. I could hear the strains of violins and a drum, so a band must have been engaged, unless it was entirely impromptu. I checked my watch—it was nine pm. I decided to give it an hour before taking Kathy home. She seemed very content. For once I felt a little relaxed.
The night had closed in around the festivities, the far end of the Common blocked off by the doubly dark expanse of woodland there, a natural border to this part of the town. I found myself wondering if this sort of scene had been enacted way back down the centuries, long before modern religions had taken a hold. I could understand people’s affinity for the outdoors and the elements, and how they could have imbued them with spiritual powers. Something in that concept tugged at me.
Whether it was the strong beer, a particularly rich brew, or the music and general swirl of activity around me, my mind must have wandered, slightly hypnotised—lulled—by it all. A couple of loud bangs and accompanying sizzles of firework and laughter made me snap back from my reverie. I turned to speak to Kathy, leaning down to her wheelchair.
She wasn’t there. The chair was empty.
I looked around, shocked and baffled. People were smiling, laughing, some pointing at the fireworks. I dropped the glass beside the empty wheelchair, panic flooding over me. There was no sign of Kathy. She couldn’t have got up on her own. I barged my way through the nearest people, though they took no notice. I found an open space where I had a better view around me, but there was still no sign of Kathy. I didn’t see anyone I knew, so I felt impotent, unable to ask those close to me if they’d seen her.
I ran a few steps in one direction and then back-tracked. I was getting desperate, when I saw a movement at the far side of the clearing, beyond the still blazing fire. A tall figure, no more than a shadow, carrying a smaller shape. O’Riordan? Could it be him? Carrying Kathy? It made no sense, but I wasn’t in a rational mood. I rushed around the fire.
Beyond the last of the gathered onlookers was the woodland, Blackwalk Wood. It was a wall of darkness, silent and suddenly forbidding. I looked for O’Riordan, but couldn’t see him. I studied the impenetrable trees and for a moment thought I’d seen movement. Hurriedly I made my way into the first of them, sure now that something had come this way. Within minutes the bonfire and the crowd were behind me, blotted out as though they were miles away. The night and the chilling air curdled around me. I had no torch with me, but there was a well-worn path.
I almost tripped as I plunged on, shouting Kathy’s name. A deep hush had dropped over this enclosed world, muffling my frantic calls. Again I thought I saw movement ahead, a stooped figure. I wanted to believe it was O’Riordan and yet the thought of him abducting Kathy terrified me. She would be far more affected than me, completely helpless.
The darkness had closed in one me like a fist and I had to pick my way more and more carefully through undergrowth that was still waist high, in spite of the season. Brambles tried to snare me, ripping my clothes. I saw vague light ahead, through the packed trees, flickering as if someone carrying a torch was moving away from me. I pushed harder against the raking tendrils of undergrowth, realising I must have come a good half mile into this wood. Whatever I was going to have to deal with, I would be alone.
There was a clearing, a smear of moonlight overhead. That dancing light came from a burning torch—a firebrand—set in the ground at the far side of the open ground. The undergrowth in the clearing had been flattened, unnaturally I thought. My breath steamed in front of me in a white cloud as I panted from my exertions. The figure I had been chasing was in the clearing, standing stock still, head raised to the heavens. I couldn’t see more than shadows, but it was big enough to be O’Riordan. And there was something at his feet, laid out on the woodland floor. Christ Almighty—Kathy?
I was about to cry out in rage, ignoring the weird surroundings, and rush forward, but another blur of movement to one side of me snagged my attention. Something among the tree boles had slipped in and out of the darkness. It remained invisible, but I heard a deep-throated growl. It had to be a dog, and a big one. I was certain that it was watching me and I froze. I had no weapons to defend myself with if it attacked. As I waited, I heard a sound further away in the night, partially obscured by distance. I wasn’t certain, but I thought it was the sound of baying.
I forced myself to move forward, almost tripping over a fallen branch. I bent down and tugged it free of the growths. I would have felt ridiculous hefting it, but I needed something and the branch was long and weighty enough to do as a makeshift weapon. I felt slightly less vulnerable clutching it. Whatever had made the sounds among the nearby trees was still there—I could feel its presence even if I couldn’t see the thing. Mercifully it h
eld back.
“O’Riordan!” I called as I reached the open ground.
The big man turned slowly, his face masked by the darkness.
“What the fuck is going on?” I challenged him.
“It’s all right,” he called. “I told you she’d be okay.”
Was he mad? Dragging Kathy out here into the middle of nowhere! How could she possibly be okay?
Ignoring whatever was skulking in the trees, I shifted forward and stood within a few feet of the old man, although he seemed far too large and powerful to be old—in this grove he had shed his years. I could see that it really was Kathy at his feet, curled up in her blanket, asleep or unconscious, as if readied for what—sacrifice?
I was about to launch an abusive verbal attack, but suddenly I felt the ground tremble, vibrating as though a fast train was passing nearby, except that we were miles from a railway line. There was a distant drumming, coming from the same direction that I’d heard the baying. The sound ebbed and flowed, partially obscured by the forest.
“They’re coming,” said O’Riordan.
I clutched the branch more tightly. “Get away from my wife.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, holding up a hand. As he did so there was more movement among the nearby trees, where several shapes hovered on all sides. If the idea hadn’t been ludicrous, I would have said it was a wolf pack. I might have stiffened to inactivity through fear, but my concern for Kathy overrode all that and I pressed forward. It was obvious that O’Riordan was not going to step aside. Whatever he intended was either insane or unsavoury.
I swung the branch, my meaning clear. There was more baying, excited now, accompanied this time with shouts, again distorted by distance, though not so far away. Riders? Was this some bizarre element of tonight’s festivities?
“You mustn’t interfere,” O’Riordan protested. I couldn’t understand his expression, which seemed to be of deep anxiety. Anger flooded me and I stepped in, striking hard with the branch, landing a blow to his forearm that brought a cry from him. There were echoing snarls in the trees and I wondered if I’d unleashed a pack of dogs on myself. O’Riordan rode the blow. I was committed—I struck again, once to his shoulder and again to his side, blows which brought him to his knees. He put his hands to his head, knowing I’d do some real damage if I landed a blow there.
