by Ronald Kelly
His boredom left him -- rather abruptly -- that night at supper.
As he sat among his brethren in the great dining hall, the troubled thoughts that had plagued him increased tenfold, bringing about an experience of horrifying proportions.
He sat at his designated place at one of the long, oaken tables. At first, he felt no desire for food. His appetite had waned considerably during the past couple of days. Ian sat there, almost despondently, staring down at his bland meal of warm tea and shepherd’s pie.
But as he regarded his food, something peculiar happened. The crust of the pie began to move of its own accord. Amazingly, it rose and fell, and, with it, echoed the distinct beating of a human heart.
He looked around the dining hall, expecting to find a startled reaction from his fellow monks. But they seemed utterly oblivious to what was taking place. They ate heartily, trading conversation and anecdotes among themselves.
Again, he returned his eyes to the Shepard’s pie. The crust rose and fell with a steady rhythm and the pace of the heartbeat began to quicken, like the pounding pulse of a man subjected to some great distress. It grew louder and louder, thundering in Ian’s ears.
Why don’t they hear it? he wondered. It is nearly deafening!
The young friar took his fork and, hesitantly, probed at the oven-browned covering of the meat and vegetable pie. The tines pierced the crust…drawing blood.
Horrified, he watched as a crimson trickle escaped the opening, forced outward by the pulse that seemed to beat from within. Ian hooked his fork into the pie and slowly peeled back the outer crust. Soon the nature of the mysterious sound and motion was revealed.
Within the shell of the pastry was a human heart. A living heart that somehow beat of its own accord. It pulsated within a pool of swirling blood, the dark veins throbbing, the inner chambers sucking and spewing its life’s fluid.
Ian looked up. None of the monks seemed to notice that anything was out of the ordinary. They continued to eat and talk, their own pies holding none of the horrors that his possessed.
He looked down at that awful organ once again. Its rhythm grew more agitated, the beating growing to such a thunderous crescendo that it drowned out the conversation of those who sat around him. It twitched and bucked in its chamber of pastry so violently that it caused the table to shudder and the silverware and goblets to rattle noisily.
I have gone mad, Ian told himself, his eyes clenched tightly. He was certain that those awful dreams had pushed him beyond the restraints of sanity.
Then he opened his eyes and that oppressive veil of terror and despair lifted. He stared down at that horrid heart and felt not repulsion, but desire. A great, aching hunger blossomed deep in the pit of his belly, causing his mouth to salivate and his nostrils to flare at the delicious coppery scent of fresh blood.
Before he could stop himself, his hand plunged downward and tore the heart from its cradle. It beat frantically within his fingers, spouting blood, scattering fine droplets upon those around him. But Ian would not surrender to its struggle. His eyes sparkled wildly as he brought it toward his mouth.
“The most succulent prize of all!” he shouted triumphantly. But it was not his own voice that passed his lips. Instead it was something deep and bestial, like the rumbling growl of a mastiff.
Then, just as his tongue caressed pulsating tissue and his teeth tore the meaty sack asunder, the booming beat of the heart ceased and the normal den of surrounding voices returned. Ian looked down into his hand and found the palm cradling the contents of his shepherd’s pie; lamb, gravy, carrots, and potatoes. There was no disembodied heart, no jetting spouts of blood.
Brother Seamus stared strangely at him from across the table. “Whatever is the matter, Ian?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
Ian looked at him, stricken. His mouth worked silently, unable to form words. He stood abruptly, overturning his stool. Then he turned and quickly left the dining hall, leaving the ruins of his supper lying scattered upon the tabletop.
“Poor Ian…he has not been himself lately,” Seamus told the others. Then they thought nothing more of it and continued their fellowship together.
“Pardon me, but may I have a word with you?”
Father O’Shaughnessy looked up from his desk and regarded the young man. He was shocked at the pallor of his face. It was as pale as candle tallow.
“Most certainly, Brother Ian,” said the headmaster, motioning him to enter. “What has happened? You seem beside yourself with distress.”
Ian took a chair near his master’s desk and buried his face in his hands.
“I am cursed, Father!” he wailed. “Lucifer has taken possession of my soul!”
O’Shaughnessy placed a strong hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. “Now why would you say such a thing, Brother? What has taken place to put you in such a sorry frame of mind?”
Tearfully, Ian told him of the horrible dreams he had suffered, as well as the terrible vision of the beating heart earlier in the dining hall.
“What am I turning into, Father?” Ian demanded, at the end of his wits. He raised the loose sleeves of his gray robe, revealing arms clawed and scarred. “Am I a lunatic…or an animal?”
“Neither, my brother,” O’Shaughnessy assured him. “Perhaps the pressures of your work are affecting your senses. I have been cracking the whip upon you fellows to press onward with the manuscript. Perhaps it is my fault that you have come to such a state.”
“But what of the words that I scrawled upon my dressing mirror?” asked Ian frantically. “What of that strange inscription…Arget Bethir?”
At the very mention of the words, Father O’Shaughnessy’s ruddy face seemed to pale a shade or two. An odd expression possessed his eyes; a mixture of suspicion and, yes, fear.
“So there is something to it!” said Ian. “Please, tell me, why does it upset you so?”
The priest shook his head and laughed, but Ian knew that his amusement was a falsity. “Ah, tis nothing more than an old wives’ tale… a story to frighten wee lads and lasses. Arget Bethir… the Silver Beast… tis a Celtic legend and nothing more. A boogeyman with no more validity than a banshee or a leprechaun.”
Ian searched the elder man’s eyes. “But you believe it to be true.”
“Of course not! After all, ’tis the eighth century. We Irish are not as ignorant and superstitious a people as we once were.”
“Tell me of this legend,” urged the young friar. “For my sake.”
Reluctantly, the priest began. “It involves a fellow of the lineage of McManus, centuries ago,” said O’Shaughnessy. He tried to make light of the old story, but his voice was low and hushed as he spoke. “It was said that he traded his soul to the Devil himself for power and riches, but was thwarted in the bargain. Along with great wealth, he was cursed with the visage and hunger of a wolf with each coming of the full moon.”
“A werewolf?”
“Aye, that it is said, but tis pure nonsense, I tell you. The Lord Almighty created men as men and wolves as wolves. ’Tis not his intention to combine the two.”
“Nay, but perhaps it was Satan’s doing, if the story be true,” said Ian.
Father O’Shaughnessy said nothing in reply. He sat, deep in thought, for a long moment. Then he turned sympathetic eyes back to the young man. “I think the best balm for your soul, Brother Ian, is for you to leave this place and the tremendous task we have taken on here.”
Shame filled Ian’s eyes. “So…you are casting me out of the order?”
“Nay!” assured O’Shaughnessy. “Heaven forbid that I would do such a thing to such a loyal servant. Nay, young Ian, I merely suggest that you take a sabbatical from this place. Return home for a fortnight and ease your mind. You hail from Ballyvaughan on Galway Bay, do you not?”
“That I do,” admitted Ian.
“And you have a sister there?”
A gentle smile crossed the young man’s face. “Aye, Katherine.” His eyes lost a
portion of their torment. “Katie.” He thought fondly of the freckle-faced redhead with the lilting laughter and a fierce Irish temper when provoked.
“Then go to the village of your birth,” urged O’Shaughnessy. “Visit your kin and forget about these accursed dreams. You may take my horse and, with it, my blessing.”
Ian considered his offer, then nodded. “Aye. I believe I shall go to Ballyvaughan. It has been a long time.”
Father O’Shaughnessy helped him up from his chair. “Then go and may God be with you on your journey.”
Ian left the man’s chamber and returned to his own. Although darkness had already fallen, he was anxious to leave the abbey. He did not wish to sleep another night there, lest his dreams be haunted by images of the beast once again.
He packed a bag with clothing and necessities, then slung his bagpipes over his shoulder. He was heading down the outer corridor, toward the stables, when he heard the slamming of a wooden door. He turned to see Father O’Shaughnessy. The man seemed agitated and in a great hurry as he left his own chamber and headed off in the opposite direction.
Toward the center courtyard…and the meditation garden.
Although he knew it was morally wrong to do so, Ian could not resist the urge to follow the man and see what was troubling him so.
Quietly, he shadowed his master, keeping at a distance. When he reached the entranceway to the courtyard, he paused and regarded the place. It was a circular chamber with high granite walls and tall archways bearing ancient statues of the Saints. At the far end, stood a tall, broad wall of intricately-chiseled stone covered with thick, green ivy. From a spout at the top, water cascaded downward into a wide basin bearing Gaelic symbols.
Ian watched curiously as Father O’Shaughnessy knelt before the fountain and prayed. Then the man stood and, thrusting his hand into the center of the fountain, felt for something hidden within the waters. His hand emerged an instant later, clutching a small iron box.
Once again, the old priest knelt. He opened the box and withdrew an object from inside. A moon – three quarters full – beamed down from the open ceiling of the sanctuary. It revealed the object to be a Celtic cross made of polished stone and, in its center, was set a smooth red gem.
Ian watched in amazement as the gem abruptly took on an unearthly glow of its own, bathing O’Shaughnessy’s face with crimson light. Then it began to run a gamut of colors; from red to orange to yellow to green to blue.
Finally, color gave way to a blackness as deep as that of a sealed tomb. Although it was not yet winter, the priest’s breath filled the air around him with a frosty plume.
“Beasties,” rasped O’Shaughnessy softly. “There be beasties about.”
Ian continued his vigil, quietly, undiscovered. His master placed the stone talisman back into its iron box, then returned it to the place behind the fountain’s waters.
“May the Saints preserve us all!” he said with a desperation that Ian had never witnessed in the man. The young friar ducked into the shadows as
O’Shaughnessy walked past, unaware, and traveled the corridor back to his chamber. The priest seemed much slower – and much older – than he had an hour before.
For two days, Ian Danaher rode across the breadth of sweet Erin, relishing the lush greenery and tall stands of tanglewood that lined the dirt road toward the sea. Small fields of cattle and potatoes, divided by low rock walls, lay across the gentle slopes of grass and clover, and, every now and then, a stone bridge would cross a clearwater stream teaming with trout and pike. Ian had been an avid fisherman as a youth and it stirred his sportsman’s blood to see such prime spots in which to cast a line.
It was late in the evening when he finally reached Ireland’s western shore and the place of his birth and upraising. He reined O’Shaughnessy’s horse at the edge of the high, stony cliffs and breathed in the salty sea air. He expected it to sooth him and welcome him home, but there seemed to be a nasty tint to every breath he took. He looked down upon the seaside village of Ballyvaughan and saw that no lights gleamed from its thatched huts or outbuildings.
A great evil has befallen them, he thought to himself. The gray steed seemed to sense it also, snorting and shying away from the steep pathway that led precariously down to the level of the ocean. Ian had to spur the animal sharply to draw its obedience. Slowly and cautiously, horse and rider made their way downward to the dark settlement.
Once upon the solid footing of the seashore, both should have breathed easier. But they did not. Taking the road that led through the center of Ballyvaghan, man and animal were nearly overcome with a sensation of dark dread and fearful expectation.
The cottages and buildings of the seaside town were deserted. Their windows bore no glass and many of the doors had been battered in or torn asunder. No lamplight could be seen…none except that which shown from the stone and thatch cottage of the Danaher family.
“Katie!” exclaimed Ian in alarm. He dismounted his horse and ran up the pebbled pathway to the gaping hole that had once been a secure door of sturdy oak and iron.
He stepped inside, his eyes squinting against the flickering gleam of an oil lamp. “Katie?”
“I am here, my brother,” answered a familiar voice. But it was without the usual warmth and welcome that normally greeted his return home.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the spare light, he saw his older sister sitting on the bench before the cold and empty hearth. She was facing the door, wrapped in a shawl his mother had knitted long ago, before the untimely event of her passing.
Ian was shocked by what he saw. Katie’s face shown, pale and forlorn, in the glow of the lamp, her freckles standing in dark relief against her pasty flesh. Her lush flow of copper tresses looked matted and unkempt. And her eyes, once as brilliant as emeralds, now seemed like sunken stones in the pits of her brows.
“What has happened here, sister?” he asked her. “What has become of the good folk of Ballyvaughan?”
“The fiery embers of Hell itself were rained down upon our heads,” she said listlessly. “Everyone you knew is dead…except for me.”
“But what took place?” he demanded. Though, deep down inside, he believed that he knew.
A great hatred suddenly blazed in sweet Katie’s haunted eyes. “It was the Beast that called upon our humble home,” she hissed in disgust. “He and his legion of mangy rabble!”
“The Beast?”
She nodded, her eyes locking with his own. “Arget Bethir.”
Ian mouthed the words silently, before finding his voice once again. “But how do you know of the Silver Beast?”
She laughed a humorless laugh. “Do you not remember the murderer of our saintly mother? Or the one who tormented our poor father to an early grave?”
“But I do not understand,” Ian said. “Mother died during childbirth.”
Again, laughter. A sordid mirth that belied tragedy. “I must tell myself that I am the only one privy to the truth now. You were much too young to remember what took place. You were only two years of age, my brother, while I was nine.”
He stood there and waited for her to continue.
“The child that Mother carried was not of our father’s siring,” Katie explained. “She was walking home late one autumn night, having delivered the Neeson’s seventh boy, when she was set upon by a stranger. Not one of human form, but that of a wolf. Oddly enough, the only harm that befell her was her defilement. The beast left its cursed seed within her womb…and she carried it for nearly nine months.”
Ian was stricken with horror at the awful truth, but he could say nothing. He simply stood there and listened as she told the tale.
“Then came the dark days before the baby was due,” said Katie. “Dear Mother was wracked with agony and fear, knowing that what she nurtured was not of this world. Then, during the crowning of a full and perfect moon, the thing within her took unholy form. I watched, horrified, as the hellish offspring tore her belly open, from the inside, and made its bloo
dy escape. It snarled at us savagely – half infant and half wolf cub – then sprang through the cottage window. Our father knew what it was, though. He seized a silver carving knife from Mother’s service and pursued the awful thing. He caught it before it could reach the darkness of the forest. Father carved the thing to bits with the knife. Oh, I recall those hideous cries…torn between the screaming of a tiny babe and the shrill howling of a wolf.
“After the deed was done, Father buried the dregs of the cursed fiend in the garden behind the house. From that time on, nary a potato or cabbage would grow in that tainted earth.” Tears gleamed in Katie’s eyes. “Mother’s remains were interred in a cemetery far from town. Far from the demon that had brought about her death.”
“But why did Father not tell me?” wailed the young man.
“Because of the horror and the shame, I suppose,” she replied. “He never had an easy moment afterward. Don’t you recall how he would sit before the hearth and drink of an evening? Drowning his sorrows in whiskey and rum?”
Ian nodded dully. “And he would sing…a strange and peculiar song. In the language of the Irish.”
Mournfully, Katie began to sing the words in Gaelic. “The Devil’s deal taken, for silver and gold…for power and glory, the story is told…So take the silver and a prayer…and run her through Arget Bethir.”
Ian turned and looked over the front doorway. A knife with a long, silver blade hung there, as it had all the knowing days of his life. “And when he would finish his singing, Father would take the knife down and hone its edge once again.”
“He waited patiently to exact his vengeance, but the Beast never came to Ballyvaughan again…or at least not in our dear father’s lifetime.”
“Then this savagery…” began Ian, motioning to the dark homes and shops that lined the cobbled street outside.
