by G D Sheehen
“C’mon. What’s the harm in it?”
“I don’t want to piss him off. He’s gonna be our teacher this year.”
The gate creaked open as Rodge ignored Philip’s protestations and went straight in. Philip submitted and stepped in after him. He thought he sensed a sharp cool breeze scrape across him and speak words of warning, the syntax of which he couldn’t quite decipher, but quickly put it down to his overactive imagination playing tricks on him again.
The garden was much better tended then they’d expected and only looked overgrown from the outside. A black and white iron picnic table set was on one side, surrounded by blooming flowers of all colours and a single swing stood on the other side of the garden. They walked along the curved driveway to the house. The house was a large grey Georgian manor, bigger than they’d ever imagined. Ivy clawed its way up several sections of the walls, many shades of green swaying in the light breeze. Four large white sash windows adorned the ground and first floors and broke the gloominess of the ancient cube, and two chimneys soared into the air on either end.
They both noticed a netted curtain moving in an upstairs window but saw nobody behind it.
“Let’s just go, Rodge. There’s no need for us to be here.”
“They’ve seen us now. It would be weird if we walked away.”
Rodge went up the three steps and knocked on the large red door. The brass knocker was cold and heavy and echoed around the property. Philip scanned the whole front yard and could now see why it was so difficult to see the place from the outside. A dense tangle of pine and birch trees were double-lined along the high walls, huge, full and impenetrable, and the front gate was angled so that it faced slightly away from the house. Despite his unwillingness to be there, he knew Philip had a great new setting for one of his stories. He had written about the place before but got the description completely wrong.
“I think there’s no one home.”
“But we just saw the curtain move,” replied Rodge.
“Maybe it was the wind or the ghost of all the dead famine children.”
“Ah, shut up with that shit. Wait. Someone’s coming.”
Mr Richards opened the door and greeted them with all the joy of a parent seeing their own child after a distant sojourn.
“Boys. How are you? For what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Mr Richards looked just like he did when he was at school, wearing brown corduroy trousers and a sleeveless jumper over a short-sleeved shirt.
“Hi, Mr Richards,” said Rodge trying to peer past him and get a glance of her. “We were wondering if you needed any help cutting the grass or clearing out the leaves or anything.”
“Is that right now?” He examined the boys closely, a tight-lipped smile on his face.
“We’re trying to earn a little extra pocket money.”
“Ya. We’re going on a trip to Dublin with my mother before school starts again,” said Philip.
“I’m afraid the leaves will remain on the trees for another few months,” he said and chuckled. “And the grass has just been cut. But why don’t you come in anyway, for some afternoon tea? You both look like you’ve had a jolly old tumble around the fields.”
“We don’t want to trouble y-”
“Thanks, Sir. That’d be smashing,” rejoiced Rodge, barging in the door past Philip.
Richards gave Philip a look that unsettled him a little and beckoned him in with a twitch of his head. He was a medium a height man, stocky with a receding hairline but to Philip, he loomed large and imposing, like a castle guard defending a forbidden doorway.
Philip stepped in and the door clunked shut behind him. He and Rodge were dumbstruck by the splendour of the foyer in which they found themselves. Unlike the dullness of the outside, it was bright and spacious with pale blue walls, white detailed mouldings and woodwork lining the doors and windows. A shiny round wooden table held a vase of yellow flowers in the centre and a statue of a head stood on an intricately carved wooden stand in the corner. A grandfather clocked ticked on one side and a leather chest sat on the floor opposite it. Philip thought the chest could easily fit him and Rodge inside with space left to turn around.
“Welcome to my home, boys. The ladies of the house are in the city purchasing silks and perfumes. So, just us for now.”
Rodge was visibly disappointed by this new.
“Philip. I hear from your teachers you have a great imagination and are an avid storyteller?”
“Not really,” said Philip dropping his head to his chest.
“Come now. Don’t be modest,” Mr Richards said with a wink and a brief flash of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s proceed to the drawing room and you can see some of the family collections.”
He led them down the hall to their right and into the last room. The room had two windows that went from floor to ceiling, flanked by impressive golden curtains. Rodge was immediately drawn to a model replica of the house in the corner of the room. He was astonished by the detail and likeness of the house.
“Did you make this yourself, Mr Richards?” he asked.
“I most certainly did. Took me an entire summer, a few years back.”
Philip couldn’t take his eyes off the floral design wallpaper. He swore he could see characters weave and dash around the gaps between the white and gold. Scenes of country folk from centuries past tending to the land. It can’t be happening.
Richards invited the boys to sit on the sofa while he leafed through some old looking notebooks on the bookshelf. He gasped in self-congratulation after finding the one he was looking for and sat on the black leather armchair facing the boys.
“I think you’ll like this one. It’s a local legend. Maybe you’ve heard of the Dearg Due?”
Rodge stared blankly, losing interest quickly. “Did you write it yourself, or something?”
“No, I’m afraid not. These notebooks were handed down through generations.”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Philip. “Was she a princess who became a vampire?”
“Not quite Philip, but close.” He opened the book and began. “Twas a time before the great hunger, when farmers were poor sods but had the humble makings of an existence. The local parish was the centre of all life in these days and a stingy crooked farmer, despised by all his neighbours, soon became the envy of the village. For his wife, succumbing to the mortal dangers of childbirth, left behind her a girl whose beauty became a thing of legend for miles around.”
This intro even regained Rodge’s undivided attention and the boys leaned forward in their seats awaiting the fate of the beautiful child.
“The girl, whose name is lost in the ravages of time, had skin as white and soft as the freshest sheet of snow. Lips full and red as summer roses, cheekbones sharp as daggers. And hair as black and free-flowing as wild horses at full pelt. A girl of few words, she rarely made eye contact with strangers, but when she did they were held prisoner in a hellish trance that would only be lifted if she would be theirs. Rumour had it the old farmer cherished her for himself and would only release her to the noblest and moneyed of suitors. But the girl, being stubborn and independent of mind, became romantically involved with a local farmhand. A handsome young man who could fell a tree with only a few swings of his axe.
“When her father found out he was furious, and the only thing that prevented him from beating her black and blue was that he didn’t wish to damage his most valuable and treasured possession. He took her miles away to a neighbouring parish and introduced himself to a rich landlord. Locals warned him away from the wealthy man, with stories of terrible cruelty and horror bestowed on those he viewed as his enemies. The conniving old farmer cared not an ounce as long as the price was right, and on sight of the fair beauty, the landlord became obsessed.
“The farmer and the old landlord came to an agreement that would see her father comfortable for the rest of his days. And so, they were to wed. Before long her wealthy husband began torturin
g and tormenting his delicate young wife for his own amusement. He held her down and made incisions into her soft skin, just to see such a powerful shade of red trickle over her pale skin. He confined her to the house and humiliated her in all kinds of depraved ways. She tried to reason with her father about getting away from there but her words fell on the ears of a man only interested in his own newfound status as a small landowner. She longed for her first love to come and rescue her and rekindle their pure love, but even after getting word to him through one of the local farmers, he never arrived to set her free. Amid growing suspicion that she was plotting an escape, her husband kept her locked in an old tower joined to the house. Some say his ancestors used it as a cell and torture chamber. She sensed the spirits of the misfortunate souls who occupied it before her and made the decision to end her suffering once and for all.
“And here is where the story gets a little dark, boys. Shall I stop it there?”
“No,” said the boys together, inching more forward in their seats.
“What happens to her Mr Richards?” asked Philip.
“By now the twisted old man, who was paralysed by jealousy that she was saving her love for another, was only feeding her the bare minimum to survive. When he wasn’t having his way with her and she was locked in the tower, he would give her but a morsel of food to sustain her. The young girl, having now given up all hope of rescue, decided to end her own misery and discarded all the food, slowly starving herself to death. Her husband was furious at this betrayal and immediately stopped all payments to her father. He had her body dumped at the edge of the village, not even giving her a proper burial, so that her soul may find some solace. The locals took pity on her, however, and found a huge oak tree to bury her under, a tree that later become known as Strongbow’s Tree.”
“Wow. I’ve heard of that tree,” said Rodge.
“Ya, me too. It’s over near Lynch’s farm,” added Philip.
The boys were now completely entranced by the story.
“As was the tradition and belief at the time, a person who died from an act of cruelty, whose soul suffered immensely, should be buried under a pile of stones, so that their ghost may not come back and seek revenge on those around it. For some reason, the villagers decided not to line the top of her grave with stone. Maybe out of guilt or fear of being the one to prevent her from seeking out those who wronged her? This would be the undoing of many.
“That very night the lass arose from her grave. The snowy skin, luscious lips and flowing hair remained the same, but her once hazel eyes were now darting spheres of the blackest black, and her movements, once graceful and mannered, now took on the menace of a horrid apparition, swift and jagged, tilted slightly forward, as if floating on air. Her memories were cloudy and her purpose as a lost soul in the world of the living was unclear, but there were two images imprinted on the core of her darkness.
“She first made strides to her father’s house and made known her presence. The mean old man, frightened and appalled by what stood before him, granted her entrance. Twas this open invitation that gave her the power over him to strike on his own domicile. He pleaded with her but to no avail. She sunk her teeth deep into his chest and sucked him empty of air. Her father dropped to the floor like a shrivelled mass of mouldy skin, his eyes displaying the pure horror of what had befallen him. An unforeseen consequence of her punishment was the aftertaste of the warm blood smeared on her lips. She licked it clean and felt drunk with vitality.
“This is scary stuff lads. Maybe I shouldn’t go on.”
“Please do, Mr Richards,” said Philip, “We want to know what happens.”
“If you insist. The taste of blood still lingering, she glided purposefully through the countryside until she came to the road that snaked towards her former prison. As luck would have it she happened upon her husband stumbling home drunk after a night of drowning his deepest sorrow at the loss he had just suffered. Paralysed by fear at the sight of his young bride of the Otherworld, he put up no resistance when she grabbed hold of him and pierced the throbbing vein of his neck with her protruding teeth. She sucked him dry, savouring every drop he had to offer. Before he breathed his last breath she held his head before her, gazed into his soul with her dead eyes, dug her fingers into his neck and ripped his head clean off his neck.”
The boys looked aghast as Richards spoke these words. Rodge glanced at Philip to see his reaction. Philip was enthralled.
“The body was found the next day but the head was never to be seen. The locals guessed correctly what had become the old landlord and were stricken with a mix of relief and dread. The girl got the revenge they knew she deserved but what if she sought more from the very people who remained silent when they heard screams of pain coming from the old tower. No one in the village ever saw the girl again but from time to time stories of a most distressing nature would reach their ears. Young men from neighbouring towns and villages would go missing and were sometimes later found fully drained of blood, bite marks on their necks. On occasion a man would escape the clutches of the otherworldly beauty and tell of how he was enticed by a lost girl who asked for help but soon transformed into a horrid beast, thirsting for his blood. The ones who escaped often went crazy and spent their lives hearing voices and seeing shadows and dark creatures appear out of nowhere.
“So, now boys. Remember. Should you be taking a walk through the countryside and encounter a rare beauty such as she, don’t accept her invitation and don’t offer to show her the way.”
Philip was exhilarated and asked for another one and Richards promised he would share more of the stories with them another time.
The front door opened and a few moments later Evelin Richards popped her head in the door. A woman of unrivalled beauty in the village, she was slender and petite, with shoulder-length blond hair, and radiant blue eyes. She was very surprised, and even a little flustered to see the boys sitting on the couch talking to her husband.
“Oh, hello there. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s quite alright,” replied Mr Richards, “the boys were just about to leave.”
“That’s nice. I’ll go to check on Eve.”
“Eve’s here?” blurted out Rodge, instantly regretting his eagerness.
“Yes. She’s not feeling well, so is taken to bed for a few days.” said Mrs Richards.
“You may go now sweetheart,” Richards said back to his wife, still stuck at the door, awaiting his permission. She faded back gently.
“Maybe next time I can hear one of your stories, Philip. My sources tell me you have a penchant for the macabre.”
“My stories aren’t that good,” he said squirming a little.
“Yes, they are. I couldn’t sleep last night because of one of them,” declared Rodge.
“Is that right? Well, I look forward to hearing that one.”
The boys left Mr Richards’ house and barely spoke a word on the mile walk home. Rodge was thinking how close he got to Eve and Philip was planning what story he might tell Mr Richards. Both of them were intermittently reminded of the Dearg Due and considered the possibility of one day bumping into her on these very roads.
5
Philip had almost reached the halfway house after his visit to Paul Walsh when he remembered Declan had told him about the charity shop nearby. He needed new clothes for work and also for general wear. He only had the black jeans, grey shirt and denim jacket he wore the day he was handed his sentence and his own smell was beginning to unnerve him. After twenty minutes of wandering around the rain-swept streets of Drumcondra, he found the shop. The shop had a small redbrick front with black wooden trim and looked tiny from the outside. He entered and was surprised by how deep the space went towards the back. The shop was chock full of stuff, mostly clothes, but also books, toys and small household items. The air was musty and specks of dust floated around a thin shaft of light that beamed in the window.
He went straight for a rack on the left side wall and rumm
aged through some shirts. He instantly found a maroon chord shirt with grey floral designs he thought would look good on him. He looked around but couldn’t see any shop assistant at first. Strolling down to the end of that side of the shop, he spotted a small table in the corner, surrounded by shelves, at which a girl sat, buried in a book.
“Excuse me. Can I try this on somewhere?”
She looked up from the book and he involuntarily smiled at how cute she was. A thought of how long it had been since he was with a woman flashed across his mind and he became a little nervous.
“You can go in the back there and close the curtain,” she said and returned the smile.
She had black curly hair with a round face and high cheekbones, a touch of weariness in her eyes, but exuded humour enough not to let it drag her down.
“I think that one will suit you.”
“Ya. Thanks. We’ll see.”
He went to the small back room that was full of boxes and bags of donated stuff and tried on the shirt. He told himself to play it cool and try to talk to her when he went out. He looked himself in the eye through the mirror and headed back to the front room.
“I really like this one. I’ll take it. And I need to get a few more things as well.”
“Okay, take your time.”
“Have you any steel toecaps?”
“I think there’s some out back. Let me have a look, I won’t be a minute,” she said with a smile.
She went out the back brushing off Philip as she passed. “Sorry, I’ll just squeeze past you there.”
“No bother. I’ll have a look around while I’m waiting.”
“You do that,” she said with a mocking smile, detecting his shyness.
Philip found two pairs of pants that would be perfect for the building site and began looking for a jumper and jacket he could wear. The reality of starting a new job suddenly hit him and he felt a mixture of nerves and excitement.
“Hey, what size are you?” she shouted in from the store room.
