by G D Sheehen
When he got to the site it was devoid of life. If not for the fire, tents and waggons it would be like no one had ever stepped foot in this space. Smoke floated through the black chimney where he met the old lady the previous night. He walked over quietly, not wanting to wake anyone and have to face them in this state.
Before he reached the waggon the door swung open but no one came out. He was even more impressed by the intricate designs by day than when he saw them in the dark. Great craftsmanship went into every detail of the waggon. Many of the designs were recognisable as Celtic symbols whilst others he had never seen before but seemed vaguely familiar.
He faced the open door and the old lady just looked at him. The pains in his legs were exacerbated by the climb up the four steps. She asked him to close the door behind him and he hesitated at first but then closed it. The lady struck a match off the box and lit several candles from her sitting position on a back seat that likely opened out to a bed.
The candlelight was unexpectedly warm and comforting and the earthly scents helped clear his head a little.
“Have a seat, please,” she said in a tender voice that was much younger than her appearance. She nodded towards a small wooden stool under a table at the side of the waggon wall.
“I see you’re very troubled. What is it you’re looking for?”
“I’m not quite sure, but I could do with something to eat,” he said making her chuckle.
She leaned forward catching her face in the candlelight. This time she looked like a much younger lady and Philip brushed it off to the beautification such a light often casts on people, or possibly some lingering effect of the mushroom concoction from the night before.
“I have something in the pot there for you. It’ll be right in no time.”
He looked across from where he was seated and saw a tiny cast-iron stove, its chimney rising up the back wall and out the roof. A black pot with a lid emitted a delicious scent that made his stomach rumble and filled him with anticipation.
“Smells like my mother’s stew.”
“When was the last time you had your mother’s stew?”
He lowered his head, dejected and almost whispered, “Many years ago, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I hope I can live up to it?” She took the lid off the pot with her bare hand and stirred the soup, sending even more of its tantalising fragrance around her capsular home.
“Why was that dangerous man chasing you?”
“Maximus didn’t tell you the story?”
“I want to hear it from you. How am I to know your fate without hearing it from the horse’s mouth?”
Horse. An image of the beastly creature that haunted him the night before entered his mind and made him shudder.
“I see I’ve touched a raw nerve. Did you see something you shouldn’t have out there last night? This forest is inhabited by millennia of creatures. They roam at night doing as they will. That’s why I never leave my little home after dark. And I never invite anyone in, no matter who they are.” She laughed, a throaty laugh that now made her seem her advanced age. “Some of them take many forms. One moment a majestic hawk can soar above the forest, every creature and soul within its grasp, whilst the next thing it can swoop down and take the form of a half man half horse with eyes of fire.”
As much as he tried, Philip couldn’t hide his anxious reaction to this.
“Oh, I see. To be expected, I suppose. One look at you and it’s obvious a spirit is in disarray and up for grabs. Sometimes it can bring great wisdom and counsel to those it encounters, whilst other times… Maybe it’s best I don’t paint a clear picture.”
“I’m going to leave soon. I don’t want to bring any trouble to you nice people. Maximus and Sally really helped me out yesterday. I’d like to thank them before I go.”
“I think trouble is already on its way, but there’s not none of us who can block the momentum of destiny no matter how dark or cruel it may be.”
She took off the lid and stirred the stew again and declared that it was ready to eat. She spooned out a healthy portion into a wooden bowl and left it on the table beside Philip. Her instructions to leave it cool for a while went unheeded. He was overcome with hunger and burnt his tongue and the top of his mouth with the first spoonful. It was worth it, he thought to himself. The stew was delicious, full of vegetables, mushrooms and potatoes, with no meat. He blew on the next spoonful and enjoyed it immensely. They sat in silence whilst Philip gorged the stew. The old lady sat there smiling.
She reached behind him and pushed open the wooden slatted window. Light poured in and revealed even more stunning detail on the inside than the outside of the waggon. Red velvet curtains, embroidered blankets and cushions, trinkets from around the world. And the wood, carved with symbols and inscriptions that looked like a lost language, a language that told great stories at one time, now only preserved by the few who could utter its sounds and bestow its wisdom.
When he finished he was full of praise for the meal and reluctantly turned down another helping, seeing there was barely half left in the pot.
“Now, let me look at that cut. It’s filthy with the dirt. It’ll get infected and then where will you be? Well, you’ll not get to see your sister and friend, that’s for sure. Because you’ll be in the emergency room lying on a waiting trolley for forty-eight hours with the gangrene kicking in. Then you’ll be a one-handed fugitive with a bag of heroin burning a hole in your pocket.”
How the hell does she know about the smack?
She leaned in closer to him and poured some hot water from the brass kettle into a small bowl. She took various packets and vials out of a small drawer under the table and carefully added them to the water, stopping to make calculations in her head before each one.
“How is the man who did this to you?”
“I don’t know. He was stabbed several times by a girl he was attacking. I don’t know if he lived or died.”
She didn’t reply and unwrapped the towel from around his hand very carefully. It stuck to the cut so she poured some of the liquid over the wound and it came off without ripping the scar. She washed his hand with the ointment. It stung a little but mostly made his hand feel cold and painless. When the wound was clean she took out a green malleable leaf.
“What’s that?” Philip asked.
“Seaweed. Better than any bandage you can buy.”
She wrapped the seaweed around his hand then took out a regular bandage and said, “Well they still have their use.”
She had done a great job in making it look like he’d been to the local hospital or a doctor. He thanked her and she offered him to lie down and have a rest for a while. Reluctant at first to take any more of her time, she soon went out and left him alone. The bed was surprisingly comfortable and he nodded off right away.
24
It was the last Friday before the end of the summer holidays. Philip and Rodge felt an excitement about restarting school that they’d never experienced before. That was because this year their new ally and confidant would be their teacher. Things would surely be easy for them, as they discussed between themselves. Rodge insisted that the blood ceremony would make them equals with Mr Richards whilst Philip maintained it was only a playful thing friends did to make the stories more interesting.
They called to Mr Richards’ house that day with more confidence and purpose than the previous days. They now felt like they belonged in the old house.
“I wonder why we haven’t seen Eve there yet,” said Rodge without as much fervour as his previous desire to meet her.
“I saw her the time I went alone.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me that part?”
“I didn’t think to say anything. It was nothing really.”
“Where did you see her?”
“After the story, he took me to her bedroom. She was in bed, sick, and he read her a story about a trapped princess haunted by visions. It was a bit weird but no big deal.”
“What
was weird about it? The story?”
“No, not the story. He got into the bed with her to tell it and they were both moving around a lot. It just looked kind of strange. But I tried not to stare. But then he told me to look.”
They turned onto the road and the Richards’ house came into view.
“Did you talk to her? What did she say?”
“No. We didn’t speak. It was like she didn’t even know I was there.”
“Maybe she had a high temperature or something. Does that ever happen to you? When you have the flu it feels like you’re in another dimension and you don’t really notice anyone around?”
“Ya. That happened to me on my last Christmas holiday. And I was having these really crazy dreams and it felt like I was awake having them. Then I’d wake up into another dream. It happened for ages. It was fuckin’ freaky, man.”
“I guess that’s what was wrong with Eve. Hey. Maybe she’ll be at the ceremony today. That’d be sweet, wouldn’t it?”
“You never know. Maybe.”
They entered the gate of the grey Georgian manor and headed up the gravel path. The trees swayed gently in the breeze but the day was otherwise calm and bright. The black dog whimpered over to them and craved some petting. Rodge loved dogs and played with him like he’d known him forever. He found a chewed up tennis ball in the garden and threw it towards the back of the house for the dog.
“Do you think we’ll have to put a big cut across our palms like they do in some films,” asked Rodge wincing at the thought of the blood.
As tough as Rodge was, he was always shocked by the sight of blood. He could break a bone and laugh it off but if he got a tiny cut he’d freak out.
“I think Mr Richards was probably exaggerating when he called it a blood bond. He probably just means it symbolically.”
“Ooh. Symbolically! There’s a word for you. You’ve been reading too much when I’m not around. Next you’ll be telling stories like Mr Richards’ in the schoolyard. Anyway, have you got your story prepared?”
They approached the front door and before they knocked Philip said, “Look. If it’s anything too strange in there today, let’s just leave.”
“Ah, don’t think too much. One thing I know is, today will make our year in sixth class a lot more pleasant.”
Rodge gave the door three loud raps of the knocker and the door swung open almost instantly. What confronted them made their hearts flutter and fall in love at the sight of her. Eve stood before them in a pale blue dress with her blond hair platted to her head in some impossible way. The smile across her face filled the boys with wonder and awe.
“Hi, Rodge. Hi, Philip. Daddy said you were coming over. I’m so happy you’re here.”
“How’s it going, Eve,” said Rodge edging past Philip to get closer to her. “I haven’t seen you all summer.”
“Oh Yeah. I was in England with my aunt for most of the holiday,” she said, lowering her head and biting her bottom lip.
“Are you looking forward to sixth class? It’ll be strange having your father as your teacher, no?”
“Daddy’s been my teacher all my life, so it should be very normal for me.”
Philip stepped in and she closed the door behind them.
“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room. I believe you know where it is.”
“Will you be joining us?” asked Rodge. “Philip is gonna tell one of his stories.”
Philip’s face lit up a bright red and he elbowed Rodge in the side.
“What’s wrong with you, boy? Your stories are bloody great. Everyone will love them.”
“Don’t listen to him, Eve. Maybe I’m not even gonna tell it. It isn’t finished yet, anyway.”
“Oh, but Daddy is really looking forward to it. He’s been on about it all week. I’ll be upstairs preparing the ceremony so I won’t be able to hear. Daddy can tell me all about it later.”
This made Philip relax a little and Rodge couldn’t keep his eyes off her as she ran to the stairs and skipped up the first few steps.
She turned to them and said with a smile Philip found oddly unsettling, “You’ll never forget what he has in store for you, boys.”
She swivelled back and trotted up the remaining steps and slammed the door shut to the room she entered.
“Wow. She’s like some sort of magical fairy, like the ones in all these stories I keep hearing.”
“I think she likes you too, Rodge,” said Philip with a snicker.
“Ah, get lost, will you?” he replied and punched Philip in the arm. “You’re always taking the piss, you are.”
“I’m serious. I saw the way she was looking at you. You-”
Mrs Richards appeared from down the hall, pale as a ghost and moving in a slow rhythm and pace. Her eyes all bloodshot and sad as if she’d been crying, she stared at them pitifully.
“Mr Richards is waiting for you boys,” she said and drifted past them and out the front door, leaving it ajar.
They looked at each other, confused about the strange behaviour of Mrs Richards.
“I think it must be true what people say about her,” said Rodge.
“There’s definitely something odd about her,” replied Philip, then nudged him forward and they both headed down the dark hall to the drawing room.
The curtains were drawn and the room dimly lit by a single antique wall lamp. Mr Richards was nowhere to be seen. The boys glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“I thought he was already here waiting for us?” said Philip.
They sat at their usual place on the couch. The light cut out and the room turned impossibly dark for early evening in late August.
Getting used to Mr Richards’ way, they expected this to be part of the show. Eerie organ music filled the dark air and a sharp creak rose up from behind them. They turned to see a shadowed figure emerge from the leather chest. As their eyes adjusted, they could make out his outline but there was a black sheet draped over his entire body.
He stepped out of the chest, still not revealing his face behind the cape. He circled around the room and dashed in their direction. The boys clenched with a start when he lowered his hand and revealed his unrecognisable face. Heavy white make-up covered his face whilst his lips were blood red, a drop coming down either side for added effect. His eyelids were blackened, accentuating his piercing blue eyes and his hair was slicked back.
Brilliant, Philip thought. Just like Count Dracula, who, he had recently read, was thought to be based on Irish bloodsucking demons of the night, told of in stories Bram Stoker heard from his mother as a sick child in Dublin.
“Welcome to the secret crypt of beguiling tales of horror and pain, my young accomplices. Tonight we become the stories.”
The music came to an abrupt stop.
“Let’s waste no time with earthly chat. Philip. Let the stories commence.” He sat on his usual armchair, upright, ear cocked.
Phillip cleared his throat and took a few deep breaths.
“It was a rugged, stormy night and Colm Caoimh ran through the village, still in his bedclothes,” Philip began and Mr Richards clenched his fists as if rejoicing at the sound of the words.
“He was running from the nightmares that came to life in his room each night and tormented his young life to the point of madness. His intention was simple. Dive off the cliff to the jagged rocks or the raucous sea below. Either one would do as long as it took away the nightmares.
“He stood on the cliff edge, panting, out of breath from the two-mile run he had just done. The clouds were curling into one another and long arms protruded from them, trying to grab him before he could escape. White foam shone on top of the many crashing waves below, landing on the rocks and soaking in to become part of millions of years of ancient life. Soon he would be absorbed into the rocks too. Sucked into their coarse lifeless existence.
“A hand grabbed his shoulder and he could barely bring himself to turn around to see. He swivelled his body without moving hi
s feet but saw nothing behind him. More madness sent from hell to haunt him, he thought. He turned back to make his peace with the rocks but was stunned to see a creature, half horse, half man, hovering over the sheer drop underneath.
“Its mane spiked up and shot random sparks of red and orange light. Its eyes were fiery balls that dazzled Colm to look directly at. It had the face of a horse but a human mouth. A long black muscular body made it look like the action man Colm had received for Christmas.
‘“What do you want?”’ shouted Colm, tears of anguish flowing and spit spraying from his mouth.
‘“Despair not, my boy. You ought to see these things not as a sign of madness or weakness, but as a portal into the Otherworld. Only when you learn to control it can you learn its true potential and fulfil your destiny, to hunt down the wicked demons of this land’, it said with a deep layered echoing voice that was youthful yet thousands of years old.
“The creature floated forward. Colm was ready to give his life in whatever way he needed, whether it was the jump or going hand to hand with the vile beast before him. He stepped back to lunge with as much force as his young body could muster but stalled when the beast held forth a sword glowing blue with electrical pulses. Colm was mesmerised by its sheer beauty, the intricate carvings, the ancient script he couldn't decipher but felt its meaning, nonetheless.
‘“This belonged to the last Cloudcrawler before you. Now it is yours.’ He handed it the Colm and the static hum shut off in an instant leaving a cold wooden sword in his hand. ‘Why has it stopped glowing?’ he demanded. ‘Because you have not yet accepted who you are and what you are capable of.’
“In the weeks to come, Colm met the horseman at the same time and place to carry out his training as a demon slayer. The more time passed the closer he came to bringing the sword back to life, making blue sparks shoot from it. The horseman also told him great stories of countless monsters who would come for the new Cloudcrawler as soon as word got out that members of their side were meeting their demise.
