The Fairy Mound

by Rory B. Byrne

  She removed the dirk from the jacket pocket. There was no interest in the weapon. The old lady dropped it on the shore and dipped my jacket into the hot spring.

  “Um, hello?” I said.

  Small hands with swollen knuckles stopped scrubbing the nylon jacket in the water. Milky gray eyes scanned the water’s surface from under a cowl of frizzy gray hair.

  “That’s my jacket,” I said. I wanted to sound non-threatening. The lady lifted the jacket from the water as if to show me. Her fists twisted with rheumatoid arthritis. “Can I have it, please?”

  “It is filthy,” she said. Her voice was almost dusty with age. But even with the thick accent carved around the words, I still understood her. “This is blood.”

  “I know, yes.” I smiled and moved closer to shore. I saw her eyes dart to the sheathed dirk to her right. She had access to my clothes, the deerskin blanket, and the water bladder.

  Perhaps it was a local custom to wash a stranger’s clothes. She let the jacket stay in the water for a few seconds as I moved closer to shore. I was embarrassed by my nakedness, even though she was a woman, and I didn’t have anything she hadn’t seen before. Still, I felt vulnerable. As far as I saw, she was alone with me. Even naked, I thought I could take her in a fight if it came to that.

  “It’s not some custom around here that you’re claiming my clothes because you thought I abandoned them on the shore, is it?” Stranger things, as I was well aware, had already happened.

  There was a hint of a smile from her leathery face. Thin, pale lips stretched wide over the toothless mouth. I saw the shriveled, fuzzy face watching me climb out of the water. I reached for the shirt.

  “It is my pleasure,” she mumbled. “None to wash for now.”

  The old woman lifted the jacket from the water. I felt the bite of nighttime Scottish air. She held the coat out to me. I took it to put it on. And I stopped.

  It was dry. It was spotless, the bloodstain from my wounds completely gone.

  “Wait, how did you do that?” I asked.

  Without answering, the old woman pulled my hooded sweatshirt from the pile and dipped it in the pool. At the water’s edge, she continued to work, her hands scrubbing the material of the long-sleeve shirt, water soaked into the material. I pulled on the jacket. It felt as if fresh from an electric dryer.

  I squatted near the rest of my clothes. I reached for the dagger, but she didn’t stop me from picking up the weapon. The woman concentrated on the sweatshirt. I knew the property of a cotton sweatshirt. It got incredibly dense when wet. I knew that from wearing it for days. It stank like sweat and campfire. Washing clothes meant water, soap, and a little elbow grease when done manually. She had two out of three, and I thought it counterintuitive to wash something only to have it pull free of the pool dry and warm.

  “This is impossible,” I said. There was a look of extreme satisfaction on her face. She handed me the sweatshirt. I brought it close to my face and inhaled. Bone dry, warm to the touch, it had a scent like the world around me—clear, uncluttered with pollution. “How is this possible?”

  I smiled at her waiting face.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She continued with the rest of my clothes. Even my underwear and socks, it didn’t matter to her. It was as if it was her purpose to wash and dry my clothes through some weird earthly magic.

  “My name’s Harper,” I said.

  She nodded. “Of Clan Biel,” she added.

  “Wow, you guys have some social media network around here I don’t know about?”

  There was another smile. “I am called Bean Nighe.” A hand with permanently curled fingers touched her bony chest with the words. The fingernails were stark white, long, and sharp. “It is my pleasure.”

  “You speak excellent English,” I said. I put on the clean, warm sports bra, the sweatshirt, and the jacket. I pulled on the underwear and socks. I had to wait for my jeans.

  “It is my pleasure,” she said.

  I drew closer to Bean Nighe and saw more age deformities. Her arms were small, half the size of an adult. The hunched back under the thin gown left outlines of the spinal nubs with clear definition. The motion of Bean Nighe scrubbing made her back and shoulder movement appear organic, which somehow didn’t incorporate the bones under the garment.

  “I feel like you’re doing this, but I don’t know how to repay you.” The encounter with Ghillie Dhu came to mind. If she was anything like him, then I wasn’t dealing with Clan Slora. “I come from another place. It’s a long way from here. But you probably already know that.” I spread my arms wide. “I think it’s a long time from here, too. I came looking for my Mom.”

  “There is much ahead of you,” Bean Nighe said. Her head bobbed a little with the statement. I saw her eyes mist over as she stared into the pool.

  The gray eyes looked bright for a moment, as clear as the water she submerged my jeans into. I looked at the pool and saw what appeared like blood flowing around my jeans underwater.

  Bean Nighe’s fingers swirled the coppery liquid in the pool.

  “Nicneven is displeased with men, the poison, and corruption.”

  “Who is Nicneven? Ghillie Dhu spoke of her, too,” I said.

  Bean Nighe looked thoughtful. I saw admiration pace over her face like serenity. “She is all. She is one.”

  A hint of a shriveled smile crossed her face—cryptic explanations, precisely what I expected from someone describing a deity.

  “It is my pleasure. You will meet her one day.”

  The swirl of blood came again around my jeans in the water. It was thicker, a darker crimson. In the campfire light, I saw black instead of clear water. The swirl drifted away and cleared. Bean Nighe lifted my pants from the hot spring. And just like that, the denim was as clean and dry and warm as everything else she touched. She handed me my pants.

  “You will be touched by the Black Hand of Nicneven.” That was a new one for me.

  “I don’t understand, Bean Nighe.” I shook my head. I stared at her.

  Bean Nighe shifted without moving as you expected from an older person kneeling on the ground for almost an hour. She wasn’t moving her hips or on bended knees. Her small frame glided into the water. The skirts of her gown swam around her. I couldn’t see her body through the clear water. I watched as the old woman slipped deeper into the hot spring. The water was up to her waist and her arms were spread across the surface. She glided deeper, further out, moving beyond the reach of the flames.

  “Take care, Harper of Clan Biel. The Black Hand of Nicneven is coming. It is my pleasure.”

  It sent a chill through me, despite the warm, clean clothes.

  “Well, yeah, of course.” I stared at the open and empty hot springs. And just like that, I was alone again. Well, almost.

  I looked at the black outline of the low trees and scrub brush.

  “You get all that?” I asked. I knew that Cat Sìth lurked somewhere out there, waiting beyond the firelight. I put more twigs on the campfire and waited.

  Airman Hillyard

  After my experience with Bean Nighe, I wasn’t as hungry the following morning. I lost my appetite, pondering about her magic tricks with washing and drying clothes. I walked some miles from the hot springs. All the while, I felt the company of my furry friend. It skulked outside my field of vision. Except for the occasional flick of a tail on the other side of the thicket between me and it, I didn’t see it.

  The topography changed as I followed the low trees leaving the pool. Eventually, I found taller pines. I followed the thin forest until it thickened. The longer I walked, the deeper the woods became. When I went around a giant boulder parked in the middle of the woods, that’s when I stumbled upon a cabin.

  It was an overgrown hut, stone base with pine logs, no windows, only one door. It was about the size of a mid-level box truck.
Its roof had grass growing from it. I breathed some relief and hesitated before knocking on the door. So far, in my experience, most of the people, or whatever you call Bean Nighe or Ghillie Dhu, were relatively helpful to me. Even Clan Slora decided to cast me out and let me starve on my own rather than kill me. I figured that dealing with whoever was on the other side of the door was better than facing more loneliness.

  No one answered. It didn’t have a doorknob, only a braided rope for a handle. When I pulled on it, the cable snapped. I pulled at the door with my fingers and got it open, wedging myself through the wooden door covered in lichen. The rotten pegs against the door broke, and it came free. The door dropped to the floor inside the hut.

  I peeked inside. It was a one-room shack with a rudimentary fireplace and a makeshift chimney. I saw a homemade shelf holding various items. The fireplace looked like it had been long cold and was now heaped with moldy ash.

  I saw folded blankets on the floor. It had been a long time since someone used the cabin. By the look of the fireplace, no one used it in forever. With the lichen grown over the door and the sod roof, it seemed like I was the first to step inside the cabin in ages.

  I pulled at the door and propped it against the wall. It was the only source for light from outside. Nighttime happened faster in the forest than on the tundra. I made sure the chimney was fully cleared before I started up a fire in the fireplace. I had plenty of tinder and kindling with a heavy supply of dry branches, leaf litter, and pine needles. I had an impressive blaze going before I closed off the rest of the forest. I used a large tree branch as a brace against the door.

  Finally, I had shelter again and wool blankets. I had a fire and water, but still no food. I watched the flames for a while before I began snooping at the leftover items inside the cabin.

  Strangely, everything appeared dust free. The place was empty, perhaps abandoned, yet the blankets were dry and clean. The few items on the shelf, including the rack itself, were clear of grime.

  I discovered a stack of stone bowls near the hearth. I found a cast-iron pot and carried it outside. I only had to walk a few feet from the front door of the cabin to dip the iron pot into the trickling stream that ran by the giant boulder and the obscured cabin.

  I carried the pot back into the cabin and barred the door again before clearing the hearth of ash. I found the dismantled iron spikes used for suspending the pot over the flames. It took a few minutes to figure it out. At least, I’d have hot water.

  I walked to the wall with the small shelf and gingerly went through the various items. It wasn’t my place. Lately, I had gotten myself into all that trouble by committing crimes, and I had gotten skilled at burglary and trespassing. I found a hand razor on the shelf. It wasn’t from old Scotland. It looked more like something from the late 19th century. I saw the steel bade inside the steel fastener at the head of the shaving razor. I looked at the wool blankets. They were thick and rugged. I squatted and examined the hem and the fabric. It wasn’t anything like the clansmen had made or worn. It looked industrial.

  When I moved the blanket, that’s when I found the haversack hidden under the folded blanket. I took a breath and carefully lifted the canvas pouch.

  Inside, I found a leather-bound journal and a wooden pencil with whittled tipped graphite. I held my breath when I sat on the floor and opened the diary. The handwriting was in cursive.

  Stewart Hillyard, Flight Sergeant, Royal Flying Corps, Larkhill. Third Squadron. Aged 24. Born 12 October, 1888.

  13 June, 1912

  I am alive, and so very lost. I woke from the wreckage of the modified Blériot XI. The single passenger aircraft redesigned for distance with a larger petrel tank. I knew immediately something was different. The flight plan put me over Scotland. We were on a routine test flight of the new configurations. It was supposed to last until midday.

  There was a storm, and we signaled to land before the lightning started. I don’t know what happened. I found a spot along the arm of a loch to land the plane. The gear caught a hidden rock and tore the fuselage. These Blériots are no better than matchsticks with paper wings.

  When I woke it was dark. There was a creature like I’d never seen before, half out of the loch, clinging to the shore. I shot and killed it before it escaped my sight.

  15 June, 1912

  It’s getting hard to tell time because I don’t have my watch. Lost in the crash. Cracked face and not worth keeping. I won it in a poker game and it was shoddy. I have no supplies other than what I salvaged from the wreckage. This is not what I expected when I landed. Something is different here. The creature I killed two days ago looked monstrous. There are things watching me at a distance.

  20 June, 1912

  I met a man today. He spoke Gaelic. I remember my grandfather teaching me some of the Celtic language when I was a lad. He was an old man who had a cloak that looked more like grass than wool. He was kind to me, shared a meal of porridge. He wasn’t able to tell me anything useful. I’ve been sticking to the sky, taking a good reading of the stars like they taught us in flight school. But I feel a failure because I am quite lost.

  24 June, 1912

  I was attacked today. A group of clansmen surprised me as I made my way along the river to another loch. I managed to get away. I emptied the rest of my bullets and now carry an empty revolver. I shot over their heads. One managed to stick me with a spear in the leg. I’m healing, but it’s slow.

  03 July, 1912

  I’m counting with a notched walking stick. I don’t know if the days are right, but it helps me think straight. I ran a fever for days and am trying to find food. I made rope from braided grass but haven’t managed to catch anything. The loch is a few miles from me. I stay away from the water because there are more creatures in the black waters. I saw a stag dragged into the water by a creature hidden just below the surface. The stag drank from the loch and was pulled to its death.

  09 July, 1912

  I am running out of space to notch my walking stick. I miss my mates. I miss me mum. I know I am in Scotland because we learned to read the stars. But it is not the Scotland of my youth. There is nothing here that makes me believe I can get home again.

  1912

  I have built a fortified shelter. I am quite proud of myself. The walls are thick with mud and stacked stones and logs. The door is wood with tongue and groove with pegs. I am going to make more furniture soon.

  There is running water, and I have been able to catch rabbit or two. There are other animals here that I am unfamiliar with. Things that I cannot begin to describe. There are many, and I am one.

  1912

  It has been, as far as I can tell, almost a year. The snows are upon me. I am thin and hungry every day. I have water but very little to eat. I must venture further for food. It is very cold here. The few people I saw I am afraid to ask for help. After the clan earlier in the year, I reason it is better to stay hidden.

  1912

  I am going to seek food at the river where I first landed. I fear venturing close to the loch. There are deer all around but they are impossible to track and kill with a spear. I feel I will have better luck with fishing.

  1912

  Something came in the night when I made camp. I escaped, but it was large and had long claws and teeth. I fear there is more than one. Once I got away from the beast, I heard movement on the moors. They are stalking me. I spent two days marching back to the shelter. I feel safe inside, like it is a home. But it is not my home. Tomorrow I will have to look for more food.

  Visitors in the Night

  At the end of the entries, I sighed with anxiety. That was the fate that awaited me. A pilot from World War One managed to fly into the same place that claimed me. Stewart Hillyard didn’t make it out. What were my chances? Is that what happened to Mom?

  I sat on the floor, and for the first time since I arrived in this strange place, I
cried like a lost little girl.

  Rainwater dripping through the sod roof woke me from an uneasy sleep. Droplets splashed near my head in the dirt. Tiny pools of rainwater collected in various parts of the shack, muddy divots in the floor. My head hurt and my stomach cramped. I struggled to the fireplace and tossed more twigs into the flames.

  The journal sat on the blanket where I napped. It had been over 135 years since Airman Hillyard arrived in that place. If time was linear, then he was long dead before I took over the cabin. The journal was incomplete. He left for food and never came back.

  I stared at the fire. I had already lost too much time to start making notches in a walking stick. I didn’t see the point. I was too focused on myself and the forever search for food that I forgot the reason I ended up in this place. I came looking for Mom. I found a whole new world that wasn’t anything like what I expected of the past. If I traveled in time, things like people disappearing in the ground weren’t a thing. Or an old lady who was a phantom dry cleaner, these things didn’t exist in the history I knew.

  At least, I had a handful of reed to clean the film from my teeth. The gusting wind picked up, making the logs of the cabin creak. The roof continued to leak, splashing on the dirty floor. The fire was warm. Then something slammed against the door and ripped me from depression.

  I sat frozen, watching the door, waiting for it to crash in and for someone to brain me with a mace or cleave me with a sword or ax. Instead, it was quiet, dead quiet.

  I pulled the dagger from my jacket and unsheathed it. I held the knife in a shaky hand and removed the log bar on the door. I tripped and fell inside the cabin. I kept the door with my shoulder and peered out at the black night. The thud against the door was singular, not something knocking. I saw something big and furry lying in the mud at the doorstep and leaned over for a closer look. I saw long ears, a dead eye staring up at me. It was an enormous, very meaty rabbit. The poor cousin of the Easter bunny, dead at my doorstep.