Even now her voice was full of indignation.
“Time passed. Seasons came and went and I struggled to keep the inn going. Then, when the snows of winter were clearing, a messenger came to me who said a great battle had been fought on the shores of Loch Derg and my man had been slain in it. They brought me his shattered pipes as token and his bloodstained tunic. Cano, it seemed, had been killed at his side, and they brought me a bloodstained cloak as proof.”
She paused and sniffed.
“It is not use saying that I grieved for him. Not for my man, Mugrán. We had hardly been together for he was always searching out new, wild schemes to occupy his fancy. I could no more have tethered his heart than I could train the inn’s cat to come and go at my will. Still, the inn was now mine and mine by right as well as inheritance for had I not worked to keep it while he pursued his fantasies? After the news came, and the bó-aire confirmed that the inn was mine since my man was dead by the shores of the far-off loch, I continued to work to run the inn. But life was hard, it was a struggle. Visitors along these isolated tracks are few and come seldom.”
“But what of the inheritance Mugrán had left in the inn that would keep you from want?” asked Fidelma intrigued and caught up in the story.
The woman gave a harsh bark of laughter.
“I searched and searched and found nothing. It was just one of Mugrán’s dreams again. One of his silly fantasies. He probably said it to keep me from complaining when he left.”
“Then what?” Fidelma pressed, when she paused.
“A year passed and I met Belach.” She nodded to her husband. “Belach and I loved one another from the start. Ah, not the love of a dog for the sheep, you understand, but the love of a salmon for the stream. We married and have worked together since. And I insisted that we rename this inn Brugh-na-Bhelach. Life has been difficult for us, but we have worked and made a living here.”
Belach had moved forward and caught Monchae’s hand in his. The symbolism assured Fidelma that Monchae and Belach were still in love after the years that they had shared together.
“We’ve had five years of happiness,” Belach told Fidelma. “And if the evil spirits claim us now, they will not steal those five years from us.”
“Evil spirits?” frowned Fidelma.
“Seven days ago it started,” Monchae said heavily. “I was out feeding the pigs when I thought I heard the sounds of music from high up on the mountain. I listened. Sure enough, I heard the sound of pipe music, high up in the air. I felt suddenly cold for it was a tune, as I well remember, that Mugrán was fond of playing.
“I came into the inn and sought out Belach. But he had not heard the music. We went out and listened but could hear nothing more than the gathering winds across the mountains that betokened the storms to come.
“The next day, at the noon hour, I heard a thud on the door of the inn. Thinking it a traveler who could not lift the latch. I opened the door. There was no one there... or so I thought until I glanced down. At the foot of the door was ...” Monchae genuflected hastily. “At the foot of the door was a dead raven. There was no sign of how it met its death. It seemed to have flown into the door and killed itself.”
Fidelma sat back with pursed lips.
She could see which way the story was going. The sound of music, a dead raven lying at the door. These were all the portents of death among the rural folk of the five kingdoms. She found herself shivering slightly in spite of her rational faith.
“We have heard the music several times since,” interrupted Belach for the first time. “I have heard it.”
“And whereabouts does this music comes from?”
Belach spread one hand, as if gesturing toward the mountains outside.
“High up, high up in the air. All around us.”
“It is the lamentation of the dead,” moaned Monchae. “There is a curse on us.”
Fidelma sniffed.
“There is no curse unless God wills it.”
“Help us, Sister,” whispered Monchae. “I fear it is Mugrán come to claim our souls, a vengeance for my love for Belach and not for him.”
Fidelma gazed in quiet amusement at the woman.
“How did you reckon this?”
“Because I have heard him. I have heard his voice, moaning to me from the Otherworld, crying to me. ‘I am alone! I am alone!’ he called. ‘Join me, Monchae!’ Ah, how many times have I heard that ghostly wail?”
Fidelma saw that the woman was serious.
“You heard this? When and where?”
“It was three days ago in the barn. I was tending the goats that we have there, milking them to prepare cheese when I heard the whisper of Mugrán’s voice. I swear it was his voice. It sounded all around me.”
“Did you search?” Fidelma asked.
“Search? For a spirit?” Monchae sounded shocked. “I ran into the inn and took up my crucifix.”
“I searched,” intervened Belach more rationally. “I searched, for, like you, Sister, I look for answers in this world before I seek out the Otherworld. But there was no one in the barn, nor the inn, who could have made that sound. But, like you, Sister, I continued to have my doubts. I took our ass and rode down into the valley to the bothán of Dallán, the chieftain who had been with Mugrán on the shores of Loch Derg. He took oath that Mugrán was dead these last six years and that he had personally seen the body. What could I do further?”
Fidelma nodded slowly.
“So only you, Monchae, have heard Mugrán’s voice?”
“No!” Belach interrupted again and surprised her. “By the apostles of Patrick, I have heard the voice as well.”
“And what did this voice say?”
“It said, ‘Beware, Belach. You walk in a dead man’s shoes without the blessing of his spirit.’ That is what it said.”
“And where did you hear this?”
“Like Monchae, I heard the voice speak to me within the barn.”
“Very well. You have seen a dead raven, heard pipe music from far off and heard a voice which you think is that of the spirit of Mugrán. There can still be a logical explanation for such phenomena.”
“Explanation?” Monchae’s voice was harsh. “Then explain this to me, Sister. Last night, I heard the music again. It awoke me. The snowstorm had died down and the sky was clear with the moon shining down, reflecting on the snow, making it as bright as day. I heard the music playing again.
“I took my courage in my hands and went to the window and unfixed the shutter. There is a tiny knoll no more than one hundred yards away, a small snowy knoll. There was a figure of a man standing upon it, and in his hands were a set of pipes on which he was playing a lament. Then he paused and looked straight at me. ‘I am alone, Monchae!’ he called. ‘Soon I will come for you. For you and Belach.’ He turned and ...”
She gave a sudden sob and collapsed into Belach’s embrace.
Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at her.
“Was this figure corporeal? Was it of flesh and blood?”
Monchae raised her fearful gaze to Fidelma.
“That is just it. The body shimmered.”
“Shimmered?”
“It had a strange luminescence about it, as if it shone with some spectral fire. It was clearly a demon from the Otherworld.”
Fidelma turned to Belach.
“And did you see this vision?” she asked, half expecting him to confirm it.
“No. I heard Monchae scream in terror—it was her scream that awoke me. When she told me what had passed, I went out into the night to the knoll. I had hoped that I would find tracks there. Signs that a human being had stood there. But there were none.”
“No signs of the snow being disturbed?” pressed Fidelma.
“There were no human tracks, I tell you,” Belach said, irritable. “The snow was smooth. But there was one thing....”
“Tell me.”
“The snow seemed to shine with a curious luminosity, sparkling in an uncanny light.�
�
“But you saw no footprints nor signs of anyone?”
“No.”
The woman was sobbing now.
“It is true, it is true, Sister. The ghost of Mugrán will soon come for us. Our remaining time on earth is short.”
Fidelma sat back and closed her eyes a moment in deep thought.
“Only the Living God can decide what is your allotted span of life,” she said in almost absentminded reproof.
Monchae and Belach stood watching her in uncertainty as Fidelma stretched before the fire.
“Well,” she said at last, “while I am here, I shall need a meal and a bed for the night.”
Belach inclined his head.
“That you may have, Sister, and most welcome. But if you will say a prayer to Our Lady... ? Let this haunting cease. She needs not the deaths of Monchae and myself to prove that she is the blessed Mother of Christ.”
Fidelma sniffed in irritation.
“I would not readily blame the ills of the world on the Holy Family,” she said stiffly. But, seeing their frightened faces, she relented in her theology. “I will say a prayer to Our Lady. Now bring me some food.”
Something awoke Fidelma. She lay with her heart beating fast, her body tense. The sound had seemed part of her dream. The dropping of a heavy object. Now she lay trying to identify it. The storm had apparently abated, since she had fallen asleep in the small chamber to which Monchae had shown her after her meal. There was a silence beyond the shuttered windows. An eerie stillness. She did not make a further move but lay, listening intently.
There came to her ears a creaking sound. The inn was full of the creaks and moans of its aging timbers. Perhaps it had been a dream? She was about to turn over when she heard a noise. She frowned, not being able to identify it. Ah, there it was again. A soft thump.
She eased herself out of her warm bed, shivering in the cold night. It had to be well after midnight. Reaching for her heavy robe, she draped it over her shoulders and moved stealthily toward the door, opening it as quietly as she could and pausing to listen.
The sound had come from downstairs.
She knew that she was alone in the inn with Monchae and Belach and they had retired when she had, their room being at the top of the stairs. She glanced toward it and saw the door firmly shut.
She walked with quiet padding feet, imitating the soft walk of a cat, along the wooden boards to the head of the stairs and peered down into the darkness.
The sound made her freeze a moment. It was a curious sound, like something soft but weighty being dragged over the bare boards.
She paused staring down the well of the stairs, into the main room of the inn where the eerie red glow of the dying embers of the fire cast a red, shadowy glow. Shadows chased one another in the gloom. Fidelma bit her lip and shivered. She wished that she had a candle to light her way. Slowly, she began to descend the stairs.
She was halfway down when her bare foot came into contact with a board that was loose. It gave forth a heavy creak which sounded like a thunderclap in the night.
Fidelma froze.
A split second later she could hear a scuffling noise in the darkness of the room below and then she was hastening down the rest of the stairs into the gloom-shrouded room.
“If anyone is here, identify yourself in the name of Christ!” she called, making her voice as stern as she could and trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart.
There was a distant thud and then silence.
She peered around the deserted room of the inn, eyes darting here and there as the red shadows danced across the walls. She could see nothing.
Then... there was a sound behind her.
She whirled round.
Belach stood with ghastly face on the bottom stair. His wife, Monchae, stood, peering fearfully over his shoulder.
“You heard it, too?” he whispered nervously.
“I heard it,” confirmed Fidelma.
“God look down on us,” sighed the man.
Fidelma made an impatient gesture.
“Light a candle, Belach, and we will search this place.”
The innkeeper shrugged.
“There is no purpose, Sister. We have heard such noises before and made a search. Nothing is ever found.”
“Indeed,” echoed his wife, “why search for temporal signs from a specter?”
Fidelma set her jaw grimly.
“Why would a specter make noises?” she replied. “Only something with a corporeal existence makes a noise. Now give me a light.”
Reluctantly, Belach lit a lamp. The innkeeper and his wife stood by the bottom of the stair as Fidelma began a careful search of the inn. She had barely begun when Monchae gave a sudden shriek and fell forward onto the floor.
Fidelma hurried quickly to her side. Belach was patting her hands in a feeble attempt to revive her senses.
“She’s fainted,” muttered the man unnecessarily.
“Get some water,” instructed Fidelma and when the water had been splashed against the woman’s forehead and some of it nursed between her lips, Monchae blinked and opened her eyes.
“What was it?” snapped Fidelma. “What made you faint?”
Monchae stared at her a moment or two, her face pale, her teeth chattering.
“The pipes!” she stammered. “The pipes!”
“I heard no pipes,” Fidelma replied.
“No. Mugrán’s pipes... on the table!”
Leaving Belach to help Monchae to her feet, Fidelma turned, holding her candle high, and beheld a set of pipes laying on the table. There was nothing remarkable about them. Fidelma had seen many of better quality and workmanship.
“What are you telling me?” she asked, as Monchae was led forward by Belach, still trembling.
“These are Murgán’s pipes. The pipes he took away with him to war. It must be true. His ghost has returned. Oh, saints protect us!”
She clung desperately to her husband.
Fidelma reached forward to examine them pipes.
They seemed entirely of this world. They were of the variety called cetharchóire, meaning four-tuned, with a chanter, two shorter reed-drones and a long drone. A simple pipe to be found in almost any household in Ireland. She pressed her lips tightly, realizing that when they had all retired for the night there had been no sign of any pipes on the table.
“How are you sure that these are the pipes of Murgán?” she asked.
“I know them!” The woman was vehement. “How do you know what garment belongs to you, or what knife? You know its weave, its stains, its markings....”
She began to sob hysterically.
Fidelma ordered Belach to take the woman back to her bed.
“Have a care, Sister,” the man muttered, as he led his wife away. “We are surely dealing with evil powers here.”
Fidelma smiled thinly.
“I am a representative of a greater power, Belach. Everything that happens can only occur under His will.”
After they had gone, she stood staring at the pipes for a while and finally gave up the conundrum with a sigh. She left them on the table and climbed the stairs back to her own bed, thankful it was still warm for she realized, for the first time, that her feet and legs were freezing. The night was truly chill.
She lay for a while thinking about the mystery which she had found here in this desolate mountain spot and wondering if there was some supernatural solution to it. Fidelma acknowledged that there were powers of darkness. Indeed, one would be a fool to believe in God and to refuse to believe in the Devil. If there was good, then there was, undoubtedly, evil. But, in her experience, evil tended to be a human condition.
She had fallen asleep. It could not have been for long. It was still dark when she started awake.
It took a moment or two for her to realize what it was that had aroused her for the second time that night.
Far off she could hear pipes playing. It was a sweet, gentle sound. The sound of the sleep producing súan
-traige, the beautiful, sorrowing lullaby.
“Codail re suanán saine... ”—Sleep with pleasant slumber ...
Fidelma knew the tune well for many a time had she been lulled into drowsiness as a child by its sweet melody.
She sat up abruptly and swung out of bed. The music was real. It was outside the inn. She went to the shuttered window and cautiously eased it open a crack.
Outside the snow lay like a crisp white carpet across the surrounding hills and mountains. The sky was still shrouded with heavy grey-white snow clouds. Even so, the nightscape was light, in spite of the fact that the moon was only a soft glow hung with ice crystals that produced a halo around its orb. One could see for miles. The atmosphere was icy chill and still. Vapor from her breath made bursts of short-lived clouds in the air before her.
It was then that her heart began to hammer as if a mad drummer were beating a warning to wake the dead.
She stood stock still.
About a hundred yards from the inn was a small round knoll. On the knoll stood the figure of a lonely piper and he was playing the sweet lullaby that woke her. But the thing that caused her to feel dizzy with awe and apprehension was that the figure shimmered as if a curious light emanated from him, sparkling like little stars against the brightness of the reflecting snow.
She stood still watching. Then the melody trailed off and the figure turned its head in the direction of the inn. It gave vent to an awesome, pitiful cry.
“I am alone! I am alone! Monchae! Why did you desert me? I am alone! I will come for you soon!”
Perhaps it was the cry that stirred Fidelma into action.
She turned, grabbed her leather shoes and seized her cloak, and hurried down the stairs into the gloomy interior of the main room of the inn. She heard Belach’s cry on the stair behind her.
“Don’t go out, Sister! It is evil! It is the shade of Murgán!”
She paid no heed. She threw open the bolts of the door and went plunging into the icy stillness of the night. She ran through the deep snows, feeling its coldness against her bare legs, up toward the knoll. But long before she reached it, she realized that the figure had disappeared.
Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries Page 14
