by Jess Smith
Fear of what might be shifting behind her back lifted her up. ‘Stop!’ she screamed, and threw herself directly into the path of the oncoming horses.
‘Megan, we nearly killed you, what in the name of heaven are you doing running about in this freezing weather?’ Her rescuers were Stephen and Bridget.
‘Some idiot dressed like a banshee frightened the life from me! I ran off the track, got lost. He’ll die for doing this to me, the stupid, senseless fool!’
Seeing the raw wound in her hand and the blood-soaked coat sleeve, Bridget jumped off her horse and examined the injury. ‘Our house is round the corner, that splinter is deep, it would do no good if frost got into the wound. I’ll soon have it cleaned and dressed. Now, who would be out on a day like this, trying to put the terrors on you? A thousand curses on his black soul, whoever he is!’
Stephen promised to get the fiend. ‘He’ll get my riding whip across his back when I find him, for frightening a solitary colleen.’ The Irishman spun around his horse and quickly trotted into the desolate, grey mist.
‘I’m worried about leaving Mother Foy any longer. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll clean my hand back at the wagon. Would you take me, Bridget?’
‘You’re going nowhere until I’ve given that hand a good clean with iodine, we’ll be round at the farm in no time. Anyway, we’ve left Nuala playing on her own with her toys. We don’t want to leave her longer than planned.’
‘Isn’t Michael with her?’
‘Well now, here’s a strange thing, this morning me brother, fine boyo that he is, up sticks and left.’
The icy air stung into the wound, but it was Bridget’s news that drained the colour from her face. ‘I must have chased him away,’ she thought, with a rush of panic. ‘Where’s he gone to?’ She tried to disguise her obvious disappointment by adding, ‘I hope Stephen chases that cloaked demon away.’
Before Bridget could answer her husband cantered back, saying he’d seen nothing.
She didn’t ask a second time about Michael’s departure, in case her interest caused Bridget to imagine she’d something to do with him leaving. Yet how she longed to know where he’d hidden himself. ‘Poor Michael,’ she thought, ‘it’s my fault.’
Nuala copied her mother by bandaging a dolly’s hand, and asked Megan how Mamma Foy was keeping.
‘She’s coming on, but very slowly,’ was her answer to the inquisitive child.
Bridget had donned a white apron and was looking every inch the caring nurse. Pointing to a small three-legged stool she said, ‘Sit down here and put your hand on this table.’ The table was covered in yellow gauze. ‘I’m going to try and remove as much of this jagged splinter as I can, and it might hurt’ She produced a large set of pincers, and after wiping the injury with orange-staining iodine, proceeded to remove a bloodied piece of rotten wood. ‘Would you take a look at the size of that,’ she proclaimed, holding the pincers and the offensive splinter so Nuala could examine it.
‘I didn’t feel a thing, you have a touch of gentleness about you.’
Stephen curled a hand round his wife’s narrow middle and said, ‘that’s because she is a trained nurse. She gave it up to take on me and our Nuala.’
The child grinned, agreeing with her father.
‘My mummy is the best nurse in the entire world. When Uncle Michael was sick, she stayed up all through seven nights until he was better of a bad fever.’
At the mention of his name, Megan’s memory picked up the threads of what had passed between them. Should she ask where he’d gone, and why? Her unspoken questions were answered by the little girl. ‘Mummy, when will Uncle Michael be back from Wexford with my pony?’
‘He didn’t say, pet.’
‘Sorry, Megan, in all the commotion I didn’t answer your question—my brother has gone home to Ireland. He seemed depressed and worried about something. He’d promised to spend New Year with us, still that’s him all over, can’t make up his mind about anything.’ Bridget then noticed for the first time the necklace around Megan’s neck. Her tone changed, and she shot forward, eyeing the trinket. Angrily she asked how a necklace that hung over Michael’s dressing table should be draped around her neck, ‘Did you steal it?’
Nuala stopped her. ‘Mummy, Uncle Michael asked me to put the necklace into one of my little trinket boxes as a Christmas present for Megan. He said what a sin she should not get a present. Remember we gave Granny’s shawl to Mamma Foy? Yes, you do. Well, poor Megan didn’t get a thing. That’s why he gave her the necklace. Shame on you, Mummy, for thinking it was stolen.’
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise, forgive me.’ A blind man could see she was genuinely distraught.
‘Forget it, I’m a tinker and it’s not the first time I was blamed for stealing. First day I went to school the teacher said it was me who pinched her purse from her handbag. I was only six years old and wouldn’t have known what a purse was, but I can’t read nor write to this day because I was too afraid to go back. So don’t fret, but thank you once more for your charity and tending my wound. I’ll have to rush off now; Mother Foy’s been too long on her own.’
Bridget ran off to the kitchen, returning with a large wicker basket bulging with eatables. Her clumsy attempt at covering her obvious sense of guilt caused her to drop things, prompting Megan to say, ‘Why don’t you visit with the old woman, give her those yourself. I’m certain in a day or two she’ll be ready for visitors.’
Bridget for the second time felt her face blush with embarrassment, ‘Nuala would love to. You can tell her what Santa brought.’
‘Yes, Mummy, I can’t wait to be inside the story wagon again.’
Stephen spoke. ‘Every time Mother Foy had Nuala to herself she’d sit her on a wee stool near the wagon stove, and tell stories of princesses, toady men, shape-changers and the likes, she just loved the tales.’
‘I knew another Irishman who when drunk would shout on the toady men and the little green goblins to get out of his tent. But he wasn’t surrounded by bairns, it was just the amber liquid sliding down his throat.’
Stephen and Bridget laughed.
Just as she was about to leave, the necklace came back to mind. ‘This isn’t yours, is it, Bridget? What I mean is, he didn’t give it me knowing it wasn’t his to give?’
‘Dear me, no, a man owed him money for a horse. He could only scrape half of what it was worth, so paid him the rest with some jewels. I’m glad to see a part of them round a female neck rather than in a box in his bedroom. It’s just that I saw that one and thought he was planning to give it to someone—I didn’t think of you. He spends his life with horses, it’s good to see him spend time with a pretty colleen, for sure.’
Dare she ask when he might be back? The question was already formed in her mind, but she thought it best to show little interest, and bade them goodbye.
Soon the buggy with brown leather seats was hitched, and she was being trotted back to the wagon in the gorse field. The creepy cloaked one had drifted into the innermost regions of her mind. ‘It must have been a dafty—some simpleton from a nearby village out to make a nuisance of himself,’ she thought. It was certainly nothing to bother about.
The wind rose and lifted the fog. Sleepy sunshine covered the wagon with a yellow glow. Her old friend had slept on and off, and happily had encountered no one.
Stephen popped in to say his hellos and how-are-yous to the old woman before departing. Promises to bring Bridget and Nuala drifted on the wind as he hurried away. Mother Foy answered Megan’s query as to why the Irish folks, with their obvious affection for her, didn’t visit as much as she predicted they would. ‘The part of Ireland where they come from is steeped, not just in superstition, but in the best manners you are ever likely to encounter,’ she said. ‘They’ll not come unless I invite them.’
‘But I have invited them, twice.’
‘But this is my home, they wait on my invitation, not yours, it’s their way. You have ways of doing things in
Scotland, don’t you?’
‘Aye, but we can hardly send out invitations for a-coming to the tent. We don’t all live in fine varda wagons. If folks chance by they either get a welcome cuppy or a hard stick. All depends on why they stop.’
Her comments made the old lady laugh. ‘It’s a tonic you are! Now, how did you manage to hurt that hand? Bridget has done a fine job of rolling it in muslin strips, but if you want it cleaned right, get them off. Tell me now, did you find time to speak with Michael?’
‘No, he’s gone off to Ireland, and I know it was because of me. Will he come back?’ She asked un-ravelling the bandages from her hand.
‘He has the foal to fetch over, else little Nuala’s parents won’t get a minute’s peace. You haven’t told me how you got such an injury.’ The expert hands of the old woman were busy rubbing a concoction of dried nettles and a vile-smelling paste into the wound that Bridget had cleaned so well with iodine.
‘I fell against a rotten fence post in the thick mist. What the hell is that, it stinks like dung?’
‘I dunno what dung is; this is Beth’s shite!’
Megan drew away her hand, but it was already covered in the muck. ‘Let the air dry the thing, keep those bandages on and the wound will stay wet and rot. My stuff will put a hard scab on it. It’ll heal from the bottom up. Now don’t argue with me!’
She didn’t. It was dark outside; the cloaked figure that had caused her accident began to concern her.
‘You seem afar off, is something bothering you?’
‘Nothing at all, except...’ she stopped for a moment, wondering if she should tell her about the thing in the cloak.
‘Except what, girlie?’
Just then a low eerie rumble of wind followed by heavy sleet spitting hard against the windows brought back the earlier encounter. ‘What if he decides to come a-creeping round us?’ Megan thought with a shiver. The spooky vision she had seen earlier in the mist ushered in new fears. ‘Strange, that one day a merry dance of passion is followed by another of hidden terror. Better lock up early, just in case, but before I set the wagon for the night, I’ll take my old mate outside to pee.’ Mother Foy would not have this, however.
‘No, not even a cat would squat in that weather. Bring in the bucket, the one I fed Beth with; we’ll both use it in the night. Anyway, me warm bed would freeze if left empty for a time. Now what did you start to say earlier?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve fetched the pail.’
As she opened the door, the pitch darkness filled with wind and sleet engulfed her like a dance of ghosts around gravestones. ‘God bless me, if this is not the dreichest weather,’ she said, groping for the wagon steps. The bucket was hung on a broken branch of an old tree trunk. Pulling her coat over her head and shoulders, she rushed into the gale and retrieved it. Gripping the pail tightly, she turned and forced her steps back up the wagon stairs. At the top, movement amid the nearby bushes stiffened her. Forgetting the old woman and still shaken by her earlier experience, she screamed out, ‘I swear, bastard, no way will I run from you again.’
Who was this person? Feelings of vulnerability and a sense of worthlessness battled within her head. If she’d mistakenly imagined someone was watching and trying to put the fear of death in her earlier, then all doubt now vanished as the figure of the cloaked phantom stepped out of the shadows, pointed a finger once more and said, ‘Hell comes, Megan!’
Fingers closed tightly around the metal handle of the bucket, as the weird words crept inside her ears and chilled her brain. The creature threw something. It landed at her feet, then rolled heavily down the steps. If fear could be measured her earlier encounter was tiny in comparison with what she felt at the vision of the dead hedgehog dropping onto the bottom step! The animal had been dug out of hibernation, to prove that Bull Buckley was here!
She threw the bucket, a rook squawked somewhere, then she flew into the wagon, locked the door and piled baskets, cooking pots and anything not bolted down against it.
Old Mother Foy was sitting up and one look at Megan told her trouble was afoot. ‘I fell asleep for a moment, did I hear a scream?’ Megan’s whiter-than-snow face and staring eyes were enough to tell her how serious the situation was. ‘Girlie, last time I saw such terror was on the face of a rabbit before I throttled it. Quick now, and tell me what’s wrong.’
With eyes darting from one dark corner to another, mouth curled down at the corners, lips trembling, she just managed to squeeze out the words, ‘We’ve a visitor.’
‘This has to do with what ailed ye before, isn’t it?’
Megan sat close and draped a blanket over the old woman. ‘It’s him!’
The elderly lady laid her hand on Megan’s. ‘For several days I’ve smelt the murderer, he has an unholy presence, has the Bull. But calm down, ’cause he lives on fear, he does.’
No sooner were the words spoken, when out of the black night a bloodcurdling scream was followed by mad laughter, which sent both women into a corner of the wagon to huddle like rats. ‘Did this swine do that?’ Mother Foy was pointing at Megan’s hand.
‘Like a witch of the mist he appeared, I should have realised when he called out “Hell”, but my mind was full of Michael. When Stephen assured me that it could be some dafty I didn’t bother. Will this madman do away with us?’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I have a feeling he’s playing cat and mouse. If that really was him in the mist, he’d have throttled you, if that was his plan. Now, quiet your tongue and keep your strength, for it could be a long night.’
‘He’ll not linger long in such cutting air—in no time his balls will be stone hard.’
Mother Foy stifled a laugh and said, ‘Them things were kicked flat years ago by a horse.’
Both smiled at the idea as they huddled close under a large quilt, waiting on a far-off dawn. Each agonising minute slowly ticked down, as they strained their ears, listening. Just like mice in a hole, they knew that he, cat-like, was out there in the dark, but they didn’t know if and when he’d strike. Exhausted and thirsty after a long night, the terror-struck couple, one young, the other old and sick, gave grateful thanks for a glint of daylight at last. Cats sleep most of the day, but would the one from hell?
They looked at each other as sounds drifted to them in answer. A knife being dragged across the wagon side turned them to jelly, followed by, ‘I’m off now, but keep your eyes in the back of your heads. Oh Megan, I’ll take the high road and you take the low, ha, ha, ha!’
Ribbons of light coming through the curtains shone fully on her face. ‘This beast insults my land,’ she stood up and shouted to her companion. ‘That’s a song of my countrymen, I’ll kill the pig.’ Her mood turned instantly from cowed terror to anger. That flea-carrying low-life had used a song written for her countrymen. Who did he think he was?
‘I’ll rip the bastard’s tongue from his throat,’ she hissed, tearing away boxes and baskets from the door.
Mother Foy shouted a warning, ‘That’s what he wants, girlie.’
Too late, her Scottish fire was now kindled. She wrenched open the door, iron poker in hand, and bounded down the steps, screaming. Two hoodie crows shrieked skywards without breakfast. ‘Listen, you horny fiend, don’t ever use words unfit for your shit-pitiful mouth. That song was for Scottish soldiers who never came home to their loved ones, decent people. Come and do your worst, you pus-filled maggot. See if I care. Never again! Do you hear me, never again will I shiver in fear of you or the whole breed of you.’ Taking two steps at a time she was back inside, smiling reassuringly at her friend and brandishing the poker. ‘He’s gone, and I reckon won’t come back near us, or I’ll cave in his skull with this.’
‘Oh girlie, you stupid thing. He’s not human, the Bull.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss, that’s the last time I spend a night in fear of anybody. Now let’s get out and relieve ourselves.’
‘Put me coat on, girl, and mind the prickly holly.’
It had been a horrible night, Buckley had seen to that, and showing flames of anger would not deter him. The old woman was aware of this, and when Megan cooled down, she knew it too.
Breakfast was a solemn affair, as the wooden mantel clock standing over the stove on a narrow shelf ticked louder than it had ever done.
‘Listen, Megan,’ said Mother Foy in her sternest voice, ‘without argument or protest go to the farmhouse and invite my friends. Ask them to come for the day. Tell them I’m well and want to see them. If he’s lurking nearby, maybe the sound of others will send a message that we’re not as alone as he thinks.’
‘Better I tell them of what he’s done.’
‘No, I wouldn’t put it past the beast to terrify the child. He’s got no soul. It’s our problem. We’ll wear it out. But I’ll tell you one thing, my pain is back today, and its worse than ever.’
‘The pain you suffered on Christmas Day?’
‘Yes, blast it.’
Mid-morning saw her running the mile to the stud-farm, but not before she had checked and rechecked every nook and cranny before securing the wagon door, locking it from the outside. Clear skies and no wind made it a fine pleasant journey, yet every step found her darting frightened eyes in and out of the bushes that from time to time lined the way. Her new-found courage, like a spurt of steam from a boiling kettle, had gone, vaporised. If he did return, how could she defend them both? This thought, coupled with her concern for the old woman’s deteriorating health, slowed her pace. In time, though, the farm outhouses appeared and she felt safe. One short visit to Beth in her barn, and then she was knocking on the doorstep, jumping nervously.
