by Tom O'Neill
Scorm unwrapped his tail and lashed her with it, speaking to her in Carman’s voice: ‘Lazy bandraoi, get back to work’. This made Vera shiver with fright, in the way a harsh ex-teacher’s voice always brings back fear. All bandraois who had ever been through Carman’s schooling knew better than to cross her. Vera reluctantly agreed to put on her old cloak and to get back to looking for opportunities to bring bad luck to the people of Cenél Lugdach.
So went Scorm’s mission. Some of the retired bandraois were quite happy to get back to work. Others swore and spat at him.
On the day that Matha heard him sitting beneath a bush singing love songs to his beloved far away, he was counting his little brooms and telling Carman how much bad work he had done for her that day.
Matha tried to quiet the terror he felt. He tried to silence the ancient instinct, the instinct of a deer at the sight of a hound, the voice that was yelling inside him to flee. He tried to tell himself that the grumpy hog-like man that emerged from the bushes dusting himself off was probably no more than a disturbed priest, one of Dreoilín’s druids.
Scorm did not attack or attempt to eat Matha straight away. Luckily for Matha, Scorm was also not completely used to all the types he might meet in these parts. At first he thought he might have found an accomplice. He made a crooked attempt at being friendly. ‘I can sense you’re a young man of magic,’ said Scorm. ‘Could you show a poor traveller how he might get to the west?’
Matha then realised that this fellow was no more a druid than he was himself. The look in his one working eye left Matha in no doubt that the stranger was merely trying to assess whether it would be less effort for him to recruit Matha or to kill him directly.
Scorm assumed that anyone with magic would be on the same side as himself. He had never heard of magic being put to good use. By way of further efforts to befriend Matha he said in a sneering accent, ‘Terrible the kinds of work our superiors expect us to do for them, is it not?’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Matha with a cough, trying to stop his voice from shaking.
‘Yes. My lady has me out here trawling the country calling on snotty old hags trying to sweet-talk them into going back to work. If she had trained them right in the first place they’d need no encouragement. What do you think of that statement, young sir? Is it the truth I speak or what?’
This wasn’t the first person Matha had met who had decided he had magical powers. One old woman recently pleaded with him to put his hands on her dying husband. Lacking the heart to tell her the truth, he had obliged. When the old man decided at that moment to sit up, the poor lady had gone on her knees thanking Matha. There were men who asked him to find missing cows and women who asked him to touch their infants with a sprig of hawthorn, as if he could add to the luck it would naturally bring. The explanation was simple enough, he thought. The sense of magic powers that people imagined they saw in him was actually emanating from the little piece of crockery wrapped in wool and kept inside his tunic. It made him ever more certain that the heron had been right and that the little bowl would solve all his problems. Just as soon as he divined how to use it. That was the only question that mattered.
He certainly had no intention of revealing to the creature in front of him that he was only a defenceless young lad. While the ogre was still confused, Matha’s fear turned to recklessness. He risked trying to trick some more information out of lumpy head. ‘My own stupid mistress is worse than that, bad ciss on her,’ he said, clearing his throat and trying to sound rough. ‘You know I’ve been sent by her to look for a bowl that will attract scattered life. Though of course I’d rather be scattering life than collecting it. I suppose you have seen such things in the place you come from?’
The ogre was looking at him with a developing frown.
Matha took in a deep breath as he prepared to take a wild guess: ‘You know the things you only have to spit on to get them working?’
‘The blood bowl? There is only one such bowl in the world,’ said Scorm slowly and now clearly very suspicious, ‘and spit is not the fluid you rub on it. What kind of dumb fool of a wizard are you anyway?’
As the cloud of uncertainty about the working of the bowl disappeared it was replaced by a cloud of danger gathering over Matha’s head. Luckily, thoughts were slow-forming things with Scorm. The obvious facts about Matha had not yet solidified in his head when Matha said, ‘My friend, let me show you the way to the west.’
Though with every step he grew more suspicious, Scorm allowed Matha to escort him to the turn on the road.
‘It seems to be getting damp underfoot,’ said Scorm, turning. ‘Are you sure this is the right road?’
Matha, of course, was gone. He had sneaked into the bushes and doubled back. He headed off at a fast pace, only stopping occasionally to tie knots in reeds and grasses stretching across the dangerous path. The ties would make other travellers fear that this was a pathway of the little people and would make them turn back before they hit the water.
Meanwhile, the bog had heard the talk and seen the approaching warty prey. The dark waters crept back up to greet Scorm as he slowly muttered, ‘Scorm gave that boy too much information about your work, Carman darling. Is he sure the person he gave it to is in harmony with the harsh evil force of life? No. Scorm is not sure. Could the person with the information in his running-away head now be a dangerous naïve believer in good? Yes, Scorm is sure.’ The water was lapping at his heels when he decided he would cut the head that contained the information off from the legs that might carry it away and spread it around.
As he tried to step back from the water with his dagger drawn and his mouth open wide, sniffing the air for Matha, one of his pointy feet sunk deep and he fell over, losing most of his hazel twigs. He got up but every step was very hard for him and he bleated magic spells so loud that Matha could hear them from miles further on. Scorm’s battle to avoid being enveloped by the swamp took him long enough that fleet-footed Matha was able to put a safe distance between them. And Matha took a few detours, just in case. He knew where he was headed. He was back on a pathway for Tara again. What else was there to do?
Before he was half way there, Matha encountered yet another peculiar spectacle. A delicate chariot that he hadn’t seen or heard approaching was almost on him when it stopped. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen. The steed was a smallish brown nanny goat. The coach was only up to his waist. He wouldn’t have been able to say whether the lady holding the grass rope reins was of the big people or the little – too tiny for one and too tall for the other. When she stood out of her chariot she held her short slender figure with great poise, like she was of nobility. Her hair was greying and around her shoulders was draped a fur stole, the tail of which almost reached the ground.
She looked up at Matha and without introductions or formalities said, ‘And where is it that you are headed for, son?’
Considering that she looked honest if rather highly strung, Matha saw no reason not to tell her.
‘Mac Cumhaill will not be got in Tara,’ she said. She waved her thin arm majestically. ‘He may be got back in his home place in the mountainy ground over by the eastern sea.’
She gave Matha detailed instructions of the way, on condition that he not share his information with any other being.
Matha thanked the woman and changed his direction. Within a day and night of constant travel he had made his way through icy high passes and stony hollows, reaching the Mac Cumhaill clan’s home grounds. When he arrived at the bottom of the hill, still following the directions of the woman, he was stopped by two men with their spears directed at his soft stomach. ‘Who are you?’
‘I need to talk to Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ said Matha.
‘How did you know to come here?’
‘I was given directions.’
They didn’t believe him about a woman on the pathway giving him directions, nor did their commander when they took Matha for questioning. Eventually Matha persuaded them that he had an impo
rtant message and they led him up the hill until they came to a ditch. In the dusk, the camp behind the ditch looked very ordinary.
Inside, he found there were many cabins. As well as the normal things in a farmstead, there were soldiers moving about. A strong-looking woman was outside feeding geese, and she came over to greet him. She introduced herself as Oonagh and took him out the back where there was yet another enclosed area.
Mac Cumhaill was standing with some of his clan around a large fire. Red hot stones were being rolled from the fire into a pit of water in which the remains of an old ram was slowly boiling. Mac Cumhaill looked like he was very contented, enjoying the good attention of his neighbours and the sounds of his own grandchildren running around with all the other children entertaining themselves, excited at the prospect of a feast, dancing, yarns, singing and merriment stretching far into the long night ahead. The older children had apples strung from the branches of an ash tree, preparing for the Samhain contests.
When he saw Matha he came over and welcomed him warmly. He too was curious about how Matha had found him. When Matha told him the story about the woman with the goat-drawn chariot, he didn’t dismiss it like the others had done. He didn’t confirm it either. He just laughed and said, ‘Come on over here and fill yourself with food and drink before you start telling me the business that brought you here so urgently.’
After he had eaten a little, Matha started with the tale of the peculiar man and his talk of getting hags back working.
‘Once again, son,’ said Mac Cumhaill, ‘you seem to have a peculiar knack of bringing me the missing piece of a puzzle that has been starting to form in my mind.’
Mac Cumhaill explained to Matha that he had been hearing stories of dark doings and curses being enacted on harmless people up in the north west. Now that made sense. He expressed his apologies to all present but said he would have to leave immediately as every night he delayed in the comforts of his home would mean a few more people would be deprived of the same comforts by the actions of these re-invigorated brokers of bad luck. He insisted that Matha stay and rest, as he had been travelling so long. But Matha had become more interested in seeing this magical drama conclude than in resting his bones. Besides, he was now sure he knew how to use the bowl. The ogre had called it the ‘blood bowl’. If spit was the wrong fluid then blood was surely the right one. So this would be his last chance to travel with Mac Cumhaill and his friends before he headed home to fix his horse and to rest for the remainder of his days in his own comfortable little valley.
He overheard Mac Cumhaill complaining to his wife as he gathered his things inside in their home.
‘Bad scran to them all,’ he was saying to her. ‘Why can’t a man ever be left in peace.’
‘Don’t be talking raiméis to me,’ said Oonagh. ‘Grumpy though you are with being asked, there’d be no living with you if Conán and the others went on a mission without you. It would be like living with a caged wolf. Go on with yourself now and be careful of those women.’
Mac Cumhaill hardly noticed what she was saying. Not because he didn’t respect her views, but because his head was full of thoughts about how to tackle this situation. He was gone within a minute, off to call Conán from some nearby mountain top. Matha was running behind him.
Mac Cumhaill sat talking with Conán that evening. ‘To tell the truth,’ he said, ‘it is Agnes I am a bit worried about. Whatever damage the others may do will seem little compared to what will happen if she gets a visit from this little ogre.’
‘A bit worried?’ said Conán sarcastically. ‘Isn’t it late that some of us come to our senses.’
Matha had heard the name Agnes before, always spoken with hushed fear or by parents threatening calamity on disobedient children. He had thought she was not real. He looked at them for an explanation. Eventually Conán glanced at Mac Cumhaill and said, ‘She’s one that definitely should have been killed according to the King’s instructions. She should not have been let stay on in this world. Everyone with a sound head knew that.’
‘Killing her would have compounded the wrongs done to her,’ said Mac Cumhaill defensively.
‘And what about the wrongs she does while she continues to breathe?’ asked Conán. Then he turned back to Matha. ‘You see, she was not like others who are driven merely by a pleasure in doing bad turns. She’s driven by a deeper force: a great pool of love that turned sour and curdled into bottomless hatred and vengeance. That makes her always dangerous. She has no self-interest and no care for her own health, so she is immune to threats and flattery.’
‘And she might not have turned that way if our boys had behaved themselves.’ Mac Cumhaill just looked into the black distance.
Conán waved his hand dismissively saying, ‘Let Mac Cumhaill give you the romantic explanation.’
‘It’s only the truth, Conán,’ Mac Cumhaill said. ‘It does us no good to shy away from it.’
He explained to Matha. As a young woman, Agnes had been remarked on by everyone in her area for her astounding beauty and her warm nature. She was open and kind, choosing to see only the good in everyone. Unfortunately she fell in love with a man, Skehan, who had spent a short time with the Fianna. He was a lazy man not much good for anything but sweet talk and deception. He was sent to lead a group of other useless men as coastal lookouts. He wasn’t even any good at that. But he boasted of famous battles fought and great acts of heroism. He showered Agnes with attention and told her that she was his first love. That he would die for her. Agnes in her goodness opened her heart to him.
In truth of course, Skehan loved only one person. When his wife threatened to stop feeding that person, himself, he turned away from Agnes. He stopped visiting her at their secret meeting place. She couldn’t understand it. At first she was terrified that he’d been killed in some glorious battle but when she heard that he was still hale and hearty, she was sure there must be some other noble explanation. She came to his camp one night, still certain that he would be able to explain everything. She fancied that maybe he was sacrificing their love to spare her from some curse. She didn’t even get a chance to put her innocent questions to him. At first sight of her Skehan panicked because his wife was not far. He whispered fiercely, ‘Didn’t I tell you, girl, never to come to my home!’
She pleaded with him, ‘I just wanted to tell you that I will endure any hardship to be with you ...’
Skehan started shouting at his men to chase her away, saying she was a mad woman. They were confused, so he told them that Agnes was part sí and that she had come to bring misfortune. The men under him were all young and ill-disciplined. They came at her and she ran. They got excited at the chase. They brought hunting dogs with them and they followed the poor crying girl through the woods like she was a buck or a hog. As the morning broke, the dogs were almost on her. She was exhausted. She gave one last desperate leap and was even more amazed than the hooligans to find that she didn’t come down. She could fly. What Skehan had said was true, even though neither he nor Agnes knew it: Agnes’s grandmother was of the sí. She rested high in an oak tree as the dogs, upset at a breach of nature, whimpered and their owners retreated, not thinking it was all so funny anymore.
It was there in that tree that Agnes’s broken heart began to fester. In her pain, she began to admit thoughts about the world that were not kind ones.
She was a clever girl and she didn’t act rashly. She began to plan and measure out her new life. She nursed and nourished her grievance as carefully as if it was a new-born baby. At first, no doubt, her only obsession was with getting revenge on those who had wronged her so badly. She wasn’t heard of again for a while, as her plan included a lot of learning. Learning about all her powers and how to develop them. Only a part of that was the time spent under Carman’s guidance. She learned elsewhere too, from people whose names are best not said.
When she was ready she went to wait in the trees outside Skehan’s camp. She waited three days until she saw him come out alone. She
approached him dressed in the plain white tunic she had worn when she first met him, her new black shawl thrown aside for the minute. She walked onto the path ahead of him and said, ‘I’m an honest poor girl looking for the love and protection of a great warrior.’
Skehan was so greedy that he didn’t even hesitate. He came out and put his arm around her shoulder saying he was the man she sought and that he felt she might have been sent by the Gods, as he was in search of true love. She offered him a kiss and in the shadows he still didn’t recognise her even as their faces came close. Then as his lips touched hers and he saw the hurt that was hardened into her eyes, he cried out, finally realising. She laughed. He became enraged and called his men again. They didn’t come. His bones were changing shape and he was in a state of agony that was more true and pure than anything in his life.
After an eternity of pain, he was a young boar. When he fully understood, he turned and ran back to his camp. She followed him and there she found his men. Skehan ran from one to the other squealing and squealing, trying to tell them what had happened. Eventually his wife came out of her cabin to see what the commotion was. Agnes told them innocently that when she saw the young boar she ran him into their camp, thinking that good people like them might appreciate a meal. They didn’t need further advice. The soldiers began trying to catch the wriggly animal. But, wanting the biggest share, Skehan’s wife was quickest. She grabbed the nearest tool she could find, a sickle. She brought it down again and again on the neck and head of her husband. Agnes, still not recognised by anyone else there, told them that since she had run the pig into their camp, she was entitled to share the meal. They didn’t agree.
They were so busy skinning the pig and preparing the fire that they didn’t stop to think how strange it was that the visitor they had just insulted so criminally with their refusal of hospitality, had then asked politely to stay merely for the pleasure of watching them eat.
Not an hour later, with Skehan not even properly cooked, she stood watching the impatient hooligans and the wife savaging the meat from his bones. As they finished, Agnes started laughing and her laugh grew louder and louder until it pierced an ear and eye on one side of each of their heads. She told them who she was and watched them also turn into fat little pigs who wouldn’t survive a winter in the woodlands, hunted by hungry farmers. The only one of their company that she spared was the youngest soldier, whom she left with a bleeding ear and a bleeding eye. She ordered him to tell what had happened that day to everyone he met. And to spread the name of Agnes.
