Host of the Unforgiven

by G D Sheehen

  He was warming up now and in full story mode, the place in his mind where he could put himself in the world of the stories, stories he thought Mr Richards could tell better than anyone.

  “Rodger, you missed the Legend of the Banished King story I shared with Philip the last day. I’m sure he filled you in on all the gory details.”

  “Actually, no Mr Richards. He hasn’t told me the story yet.”

  Mr Richards looked to Philip. “Well, I see you upheld your end of the bargain, Philip. You’ll be handsomely rewarded later.”

  This excited Philip, although he couldn’t quite place why.

  The boys sat on the couch as usual and Mr Richards assumed his position on the armchair.

  “The Sluagh,” he began intentionally deepening his voice for effect, “is the single most feared of all the faerie demons that roam the night skies. For not only is it a creature bound by the fading life of its victims, but it is also destined to hold siege to their souls for eternity. Spoken of for thousands of years, the form it takes is still argued and debated by those who claim to have encountered it and those who maintain they have escaped its clutches only to descend into a paranoid delusional fantasy world. But the most common versions of the myths are that it appears out of the depths of darkened skies, shadows moving purposefully where none previously existed, taking the form of a rabid murder of crows, hunting their prey with ravished red eyes.

  “Some referred to it as the Sluagh whilst others gave it the moniker, The Wild Hunt, with more yet calling it, my favourite one of all, The Host of the Unforgiven Dead.

  “Whatever name it goes by, its wickedness remains unchanged. It appears in search of souls near to death or comes for those so afflicted by loss and sorrow that they willingly give themselves up to it in exchange for eternal escape from their despair of the physical world. Some say it was created by a merging of the banished souls of the most foul and treacherous faerie who bound together in a union of merciless savagery seeking out the souls of the ones their destroyer serves to protect. The resistance from the virtuous faerie was long ago quashed, leaving the Sluagh to run amok, drifting along westerly winds to ravage their prey. This is the reason why many people of Ireland, through the ages, have kept their west facing windows tightly locked at night, especially if one of their own is on death’s bed.”

  “Like I said, the Sluagh comes not only for those on the verge of death but also those so sunken in an existence of sadness, they call on the host through an earnestness to abandon earthly feelings.”

  “Like a suicide,” said Rodge with a rapt look on his face.

  “You could say that. But don’t be fooled into thinking it can only come for those stricken by maladies of the body and the heart. Because the Sluagh has also been known to hunt those of high spirits and sprightly vitality. Perhaps as a result of the combination of all the wickedness that made it be, it sometimes hunts for the pleasure of hunting. And although this drains it of a lot of energy, it nonetheless revels in the chase.

  “So lads, if you happen to be walking home one night and you see a murder of crows in the distance, crows larger than you’d expect them to be, then it would be advisable for you to quicken your pace. If it gets you in its sights the only escape is to put another in its path, an exchange if you will, a decision I was once cursed to make.”

  “Really, Mr Richards? What happened?” said Philip

  “You saw the Sluagh? What did it look like?” said Rodge.

  “When I was a young man, half a dozen or so years older than yourselves, I was returning to this very house after departing some friends in the village. My hands in my pockets and whistling a tune, I was in the best of spirits. Nothing could break my good mood, or so I thought. From behind me, I heard an awful sound. It was as if a thousand people were falling over a cliff at once, a guttural savage screaming that permeated every empty inch of the black night sky.

  “I turned to see a dark shadow twist and fold into the black beyond and soon emerge as a murder of frantically flapping crows. I thought, how unusual it was for there to be crows out at this hour and then I remembered the story of the Host of the Unforgiven Dead my grandfather had once told me. Sanctuary in one’s home is enough to ward off the Host, but I was too far to make a run for it. I turned, and with the stubbornness of youth, stood my ground an awaited my fate.

  “See, what I haven’t told you yet, boys, is that the Sluagh can take on a human-like form, also. Well, human to the degree it stands upright and is as tall as the tallest of men. But instead of arms, it has wings, the feathers turned to black leathery skin and form a cloak that wraps around its shrivelled body. It has long claws as fingers and toes and its body is sinewy and gaunt-looking, like one who’s been malnourished for years and craves to feast on a single morsel of human flesh. Its head had a beak-shaped nose, red eyes and a mouth covered in loose skin with shining white fangs protruding.

  “It outstretched its wings and revealed a brown-skinned body covered in a myriad of cuts, cuts that pulsated and echoed the cries of the souls trapped within. About to enfold me in its grasp, I remembered my grandfather told me that one could escape its capture by offering up another in his place. I didn’t have to think for long about who I was willing to sacrifice. Tom Brophy.”

  The lights in the chandelier overhead flickered and the wind picked up and beat furiously off the walls and windows. The boys winced at the sudden disturbance which brought a smile to Mr Richards’ face. Philip felt shadows flicker on the walls of the drawing room around him. His imagination was hyper-charged and this is what usually happened. From a young age, he could feel and hear and see his place in every story. He assumed by now that this was what gave him a love for writing stories. It wasn’t so much escaping to the world of the story as it was bringing the world of the story to him.

  “Who’s Tom Brophy?” Philip asked as things settled back down for the story to continue.

  “He was a vile man who wronged many an innocent child in his day.”

  “What did he do to them?” asked Rodge.

  “Plenty of time for that later. First, I had to convince the Sluagh that I had something better to offer him than the soul of a young virtuous and fit man like myself. You see, I was a prize catch for the Sluagh and he truly had me cornered. I was unsure if simple human reasoning would suffice in these circumstances, but what other choice did I have?

  “I told him the story of Tom Brophy, of how he sought out and defiled children with his twisted ways. A scout leader, he abused his position with the ones who trusted him most of all. Left nightmares and horrific childhood trauma in his wake. And put such a spell over those young ones that they dare not utter his misdeeds in public, manipulated as they were to hold their silence, oath-bound to protect their abuser.”

  “Did he beat them up, Mr Richards?” asked Rodge, whilst Philip tensed up at hearing the story take such a realistic turn.

  “Amongst other things. The Sluagh was intrigued by what I was telling it and became enticed by the prospect of taking one so evil and deceitful into its fold. It agreed to spare me if I could deliver Brophy up to it. And I knew from the stories I had heard in my youth that it would not leave my sight until I delivered on my offer.

  “While I was hatching my plan I could feel the Sluagh’s presence everywhere I went. During the day I was constantly followed by crows and by night the shadowy figures watched over my every move. Sleeping became an involuntary journey to the otherworld where I was shown the misery suffered by the hunted souls, their pain and regret at not finding death in a place of eternal chaos.”

  Rodge jumped when the rumbling came from the leather chest in the corner, but Philip was a little more prepared for it this time.

  “What the fuck is that?” he said and immediately regretted such an indiscretion in front of his principal and teacher.

  “Don’t worry. The chest has magical powers at holding dark secrets safely in its depths,” he said and winked at Philip. “Isn’t that right, Philip?
”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with a smile.

  Rodge was startled and kept glancing back at the chest.

  “You can just ignore it. Nothing gets out of there once it’s locked.”

  “What did you do about Tom Brophy?” asked Philip, now deeply invested in the story and admiring his teacher even more for how he weaved himself into it. A skill Philip was hoping to acquire in time.

  “It wasn’t easy, as Brophy and I were not exactly what one might regard as chums. I had confronted him on numerous occasions about his bad behaviour but he was resolute in his insistence that he had done nothing wrong. I hatched a plan to make him think some of the patrol leaders would come to my house for orientation purposes. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist meeting them away from the watchful eyes of others. And so he came to my house one autumn evening before the real chill of winter was upon us.

  “I brought him to this very room, where in place of the young boys I had given the Sluagh my full permission to enter the house, for it would have been unable to cross the threshold without prior consent. Brophy entered a dimly lit empty room and angrily questioned the truth of the situation he had found himself in. I beckoned him to that very leather chest and asked him to look inside for his awaiting gift. He pushed me aside, unamused at my chicanery. He pulled open the lid and slammed it against the wall.

  “The shadow rose from the chest and filled the entire room, blinding us to anything but the sight of pitch-black. It then took its human-like form and stood before Brophy, its arms spread wide, skinned wings hanging down, claws stretched and ready. Brophy, who was a much bigger man than me, cowered under its darting red gaze. The Sluagh grabbed his head with his long hands and lifted him straight up, eye to eye with his new eternal companion. It spewed forth a deafening shriek that scattered all the nearby birds from the trees outside these windows. The room shook, the chandeliers swayed and several panes of glass cracked with a teeth grinding scratch. The Sluagh embraced Brophy, pressing him close to its body and absorbing him into its fading form, skin ripping and bones cracking until it vanished into a black shrinking cloud that left a residue on the lock of the chest.”

  “What happened? Didn’t people look for Tom Brophy?” Rodge asked, bemused by what he’d just heard.

  “I talked to Philip the last day about the oath of trust we must keep about all we hear in this house, Rodge. I hope you’ll be as committed to keeping these stories to yourself, and any other unmentionable images you may see in this house.”

  “I’ll never say a word Mr Richards, I promise.”

  “Neither will I, Sir. You have our word.”

  “Excellent. And I can tell you are honourable young men.”

  The boys looked at each other and smiled, an intriguing and forbidden world presenting itself for their mutual enjoyment. Philip thought to himself that even if the story wasn’t true, it’s still a great way to weave these old folktales into the modern world, just as he endeavoured to do.

  “Brophy had hung his jacket on the hanger by the front door, and taken off his shoes, just as I request everyone to do upon entry to my domicile. I cycled a few miles along our majestic Copper Coast and found the highest point that dropped to the sucking rough sea below. I left his shoes on the edge of the cliff and threw his jacket into the raging waters.

  “After a couple of days missing from his family home, the search parties were sent out. On the eve of the first day, people from all the surrounding villages assembled, his shoes were found and his jacket spotted on some jagged rocks below. Nobody second guessed what had happened. It was long since rumoured about his devious ways and many assumed his conscience had finally got the better of him.”

  “Is all that true, Mr Richards?” asked Rodge.

  “Truth and lies have no place in the flesh of a terrifying story,” he said and looked at Philip knowingly. “Isn’t that right, my young writer friend?”

  “I suppose so. Yes.”

  “Next time we meet here, I think we should hear one of Philip’s stories. What do you think Rodge?”

  “Ya. Definitely. Their dead scary, Sir. He’s kept me awake on countless nights with some of them.”

  “My stories aren’t ready yet. And they’re stories to be read, not told.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe my ears,” Richards said and laughed. “The telling of our stories is the most important thing, Philip. We read so that we may know, we tell so that we may own.”

  Philip lit up at this description and Rodge was excited at the prospect of making this a regular thing.

  “But again boys, secrecy is of vital importance. You’ll be in my class soon and we can’t have everyone thinking I’m choosing favourites, now, can we?”

  “No sir,” they said in unison.

  “When I was young we had a ceremony to declare our loyalty to our friends. It involved a small blood promise but it bound us together in trust for the rest of our lives. I still trust the men I shared this bond with to this day. Next time, I would like to share this ancient ritual with you boys.”

  “That sounds great,” said Rodge.

  “Ya, let’s do it,” said Philip.

  The storm had begun to pass by now, so the boys soon put their T-shirts back on and left Mr Richards’ house, already excited about returning as arranged a few days later.

  18

  The bus cruised along the M9 passing sleepy villages like Kilcullen and Crookstown along the way. Philip was wary of the bus driver’s attention and tried to look as casual as possible. The bus had only about ten passengers most of whom were lost in devices, some staring out the window watching the green fields and colourful houses along the route.

  Philip had all but ignored the technology boom of recent years and never owned a mobile phone but now he wished he’d had one. He wished to talk to Paul Walsh and explain to him why he couldn’t come to the session that day, leaving out the part about Dan getting stabbed and taking heroin of course. Walsh had encouraged him to make contact with his sister and even visit her to clear the air.

  The bus got off the motorway to enter Carlow town as it always had before. He remembered there would be a ten-minute rest to go to the toilet or smoke a cigarette. The first thought to come to Philip was to shoot up but he quickly wiped it from his mind and promised himself he’d keep clean from now on. It was only a matter of time before Razor Ray caught up with him and he needed some bargaining power.

  The girl in the shed came to his mind and he wondered if she’d been found by now. It made him think of all the people he’d seen overdose through the years. Between them and the people who had succumbed to the elements of living on the streets, he was all too familiar with death’s unwelcome appearance. It often baffled him that he’d made it this far.

  The bus pulled into Carlow Coach Park near the Mill Stream, and the brakes let out a loud gasping sound to signal the stop. Philip scanned the area before attempting to get off, in case there were any gardaí waiting for his arrival. When he realised it was clear, he waited for the passengers behind him to disembark first before getting up. The driver was on his mobile and Philip passed slowly to listen in on the call. Unaware of his presence, he heard the driver mention ‘Busaras’ and say the words ‘dodgy looking fucker’ before he spotted Philip in the mirror and fumbled with his phone.

  A stout bald man, he awkwardly said hello to Philip and told him to be back in ten minutes or he’d be left in the ‘wild west’ that was Carlow town on a Monday afternoon. He chuckled a throaty phlegm of a sputter that turned Philip’s stomach.

  Philip pressed his hands down on the side rails and leapt down out of the bus in the way he used to down the stairs in his childhood home, testing himself to see how many steps he could skip. The act set off a pang of nostalgia that bubbled in his cheeks and activated his tear ducts. High emotional empathy. The heroin must be wearing off.

  After the bus driver’s comment, he knew the last thing he needed now was to get back onto that bus. It was far too risky
. He went to the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion by heading straight across the road in view of the driver. After relieving himself, he rounded the building and hopped across the stream and bolted through the car park of Aldi. He went into the supermarket to get something to eat. Although he didn’t feel like eating, he hadn’t had a bite since Saturday night with Sharon and, from past experience, knew he would be flat out on the ground somewhere soon, be rushed to hospital and wake up with a garda looking down on him, or worse still, cuffed to the bed.

  He bought three sandwiches and a hot coffee in a cafe next door. The coffee scalded his insides at first but was a much-needed refreshment and the ham and cheese sandwich made him feel half human again. He followed the stream until he reached Carlow Castle. More of a wall with a tower on either end, he enjoyed a walk around it nonetheless. Imagining the battles fought there and the savage marauders who attacked with varying degrees of success, took his mind off the events of the last couple of days, if only for a couple of minutes.

  A bus would make a pit stop in the same place every hour so he decided to take a walk along the River Barrow Track and find a nice place to sit and have a rest and board a bus an hour or two later. He walked for half an hour but couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed. Whispers rattled up from the whirling breeze and hurt his head.

  He doubled back and crossed a footbridge into Carlow Town Park. Some old people sat on the benches that were lined facing the river. He eventually found one that was free and was relieved to take the weight off his feet for a while. Is this a stupid place to sit when there’s possibly a manhunt on for me, by Ray and his men or the gardaí? God, I’m tired.

  “You look troubled, sir. What brings you to these parts?” came the voice as soon as Philip rested his eyes for a moment.