A Celtic Darkness
Supernatural Tales Of Ireland
By Eoghain Hamilton
Copyright 2010 Eoghain Hamilton
Published by Martin Owens at Smashwords
This book is available in print online.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part or in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.
Though some of the locations in these works are real, the characters and events portrayed in these stories are purely fictional. Any resemblance to any living person is purely coincidental.
Contents
Introduction
In West Cork, there is an old saying meant for anyone meeting a fairy woman on the road at night. “Bíodh an Lá agatsa agus an oíche againne” – “You have the day and we have the night”.
It is wise advice to the inexperienced traveller who may have wandered inadvertently into the path of something strange. It tells us to leave well alone. That the night belongs to the spirits of the Otherworld and we humans are unwelcome. The country people in Ireland believed in such things as Banshees and Ghosts and creatures of the night. Many still do.
I have often found myself walking the country roads in Cork at all hours of the night. On the road you are alone, alone with your thoughts, your feelings and more often than not, fears. These fears are heightened by the uncertainty of being abroad on a deserted road. Each moonbeam casts a disturbing shadow. Each movement from the night-creatures in the hedgerows leaves the silence shaken and sets your mind ablaze with images of some terror lurking just beyond your vision. Your body responds, you can feel your heart beat. The back of your neck tingles and all the while you doubt. The darkness casts doubt over everything.
This collection of short stories was born in that moment of doubt. That dreadful feeling of uncertainty that walking at night on an Irish country road can bring, an uncertainty that casts a myriad of “what ifs” in your mind. Walk the road with me a while, I could use the company. Together maybe we can find out if “they” really do have the night.
Acknowledgements
Nothing is ever achieved on one's own. This collection of short stories couldn't have been created without a lot of help, encouragement and outright love from a number of people. Thanks to my wife Mary Hamilton for just being you, the greatest Anam Cara a man could wish for. A heartfelt thank you to Eileen Margerum for some fantastic support and suggestions, this collection would never have seen the light of day if it was not for your steadfast belief in me. To Professor Rod Kessler for helping me learn the craft and providing editing skills over and above any call of duty. Thanks also to Nancy Skarmeas for being patience personified in her role as primary editor. To Martin Owens for amazing cover art and design, you have forgotten more about graphic art, design and computers in general than I could hope to remember. A big thank you to Tom Fitzgerald and Paul Bailey at Cló Litriocht for getting this project to final publication. To my family and friends and anyone else who has helped along the way, thank you so very much. I should also thank the land that inspires me. Ireland, my homeland across the sea. Your haunted landscape, lonely bohreens and ancient ruins never fail to whisper new mysteries to my ear. Long may you continue to do so. Finally, this collection is dedicated to my son Fionn Hamilton, the "fair one" you are the light in this Celtic Darkness.
Eoghain Hamilton
April 2011
Auld Lang Syne
I’ve been this way for many years. When I was growing up in Ireland during my teens, my father bought me a racing bike and I cycled to the movies on Friday nights. I loved the night, the darkness a velvet cloak that covered everything as I cycled the country lanes into town. The night is a blank canvas where anything and everything is possible; at night things are different, new.
I didn’t bother with the lamp my father gave me to light my way. He had insisted on my using it and, while I had no wish to do myself any harm, I reckoned I could “see” more when I had it switched off. You see “seeing” is what I was looking for. I’ve always wanted to connect with what was out there in the mystery of the night, proof if you like that I was not alone in the world.
Cycling through the Irish countryside at night inspires a certain wonder, a fascination that can take over your thoughts. It did mine. It fed my yearning for the supernatural. I came to believe that some night, through some fortunate turn of events. I would have my proof after all.
As I grew older, I spent more time searching for the supernatural in the darkness. I walked at strange hours in all weathers, in old villages and towns, old graveyards and castle ruins to find out if “something” was out there. Often I had the feeling that something was with me; in fact, every time I wandered, I was sure I did not walk alone. Sometimes I was scared, sometimes strangely comforted. Yet, I never saw anything or found any proof that I was anything else but alone.
That was in my youth. Marriage, family and the day to day responsibilities of life have long since dulled my appetite for the Otherworld, and yet I felt the old yearnings once again as I crossed the bridge below my childhood home for the first time in many years.
The old house, the house where I had grown, was silhouetted against the night sky, a two-storied square construction, with a grand design like the Irish country houses of the aristocracy. A large portico at the front stood proudly overlooking the long driveway. Many of its rooms had windows that overlooked the river valley below. The house had been built in an attempt to blend in with some of the older houses in the vicinity, and yet it had never matched their splendour. Instead my old home had a uniqueness that demanded attention day or night.
I had been summoned from America where I had moved years earlier, by the strangest of events, a phone call in the middle of the night that woke me from a troubled sleep. I answered but the line went dead. The caller I.D placed that call from my parent’s house. I thought this strange, since the house was empty, my parents having died a few years before. The next day I called my sister. She told me that the house was in between tenants, and as I expected, empty. So who had called? Who had reached out across the Atlantic to wake my feverish mind and arouse my old curiosities once again?
So I booked a flight to Shannon. My wife was annoyed since our plans for New Years Eve were disrupted, yet she understood. She always does with me.
I arrived on New Years Eve and decided not to tell my sister. An old house key that Dad had given me when I was in my teens let me in. The house felt cold; it had that damp unlived in smell which turned my nostrils. I got to work quickly and built a roaring fire, then turned on the heating, saying a short prayer that some oil left was still in the old fuel tank outside. Da had always been a miser with the oil in winter.
I made up a bed in my parent's old room. It was a room of memories. It had been many things, including my mother’s death bed. Now, it would be a place to sleep – I hoped its memories would somehow comfort me.
A few hours later, I sipped cocoa and stared into the roaring log fire while I rang in the New Year. Mam was on my mind. I could almost hear her singing in the kitchen as she cooked a winter’s meal on what seemed like many lifetimes ago. Then the disease struck her, and the house itself seemed to grow sick. It mirrored her deterioration, ceiling cracks and leaks all to the tune of the feverish illness of my dying Ma. My thoughts were interrupted when the house phone rang and my wife and I spent the next fifteen minutes wishing each other a happy new year. I twisted the cord as we spoke. I was restless, anxious to get back to the fire and my memories. I said goodbye and returned to the living room. In the nearby village, fireworks were cracking and illuminating the night, their loud bangs interrupting my flow of thoughts again. Afterwards, my mind cleared and I soon dozed by the fire.
A crackling spark from a smouldering log brought me back to my senses; I drove my heel against it, sending a cloud of its brothers up the flue. With a sudden tingle on my neck, the night called to me as it had so many times before. The old thrill was rising to greet me again. Was this the night? After all these years would some truth be revealed to me? I decided to see.
I switched off the lights and, closing the front door, stumbled on the newly formed ice on the patio. Luckily, I held my balance. I took a walk down the lanes around my home. It was one o'clock on a freezing New Year’s morning. The newspapers had been right – snow was general all over Ireland, and a brilliant moon lit the frosty bohreen ahead. It shone with an eldritch incandescence that I hadn’t witnessed in years. Moonlight is an endangered substance in the orange afterglow of the man-made cities of North America. But this moonlight was special, its brightness illuminating everything in view. I had a clear road ahead, so onward I walked, into the night.
Back in college I had read a lot about Celtic mythology. The Celts believed that at certain times of the year the veil between this world and the next grew thin and the Otherworld could be experienced in our own. Such festivals as Samhain and Bealtaine had always fascinated me. According to Celtic belief, on these nights the spirits of the dead had free reign over the earth and came back to haunt the living. I wondered if New Years and Christmas and all their trappings were something similar. According to Dickens, Jacob Marley seemed to think so.
I walked on, lost in the memories of long ago. I thought of magical Christmases spent with my uncle’s family, the two families gathered round the table on Christmas day. I thought of the happy memories of youth, wandering for hours with my friends over the fields and fishing along the riverbank. My first love, Brenda, came to mind and our first kiss on a night not unlike tonight. My father’s delight when Seanie the postman brought the letter of my acceptance into university. I can still see Seanie coming up the driveway, a happy skip in his step and a knowing grin. I was a lucky man to have such memories.
A breath of cold wind brings me back to the present and I continue. The air is still now and an unusual feeling of dread comes over me. I feel dizzy, lost in my thoughts. It feels like a hidden purpose lies behind all this. A planned series of events has led me here to this junction.
I look around me for the umpteenth time for the sight I have waited for for so long. But nothing jumps from the darkness, no spirit or wraith comes forth – and yet I am tinged with sadness. A dog howls in the distance, a strange forlorn howl, I think, “You and me both, mate.” A little later the road becomes icy, and I have to watch where I walk. I walk on the grassy verge of the road, and my feet crunch the frosty grass underneath making, a hollow scraping sound.
A gust of wind touches my face. I'm not far from home now, I seem to have wandered full circle on the ring road that loops around my home. It is time to get out of the cold. Besides, nothing mysterious has revealed itself to me. It is always the same. There never is anything out here in the dark, only unfulfilled promise.
Just before the short hill to the house, I stop on the humped-back bridge to listen to the river flowing underneath. How often on Halloween I have stopped here and listened to what I thought was laughter from the swollen currents underneath. I envisioned Selkies come from the Otherworld to take me back to their abode. Is that the same laughter again? Is my mind making the same mistakes it made years ago? Is this the night? Why now after all these years? I’m listening, looking, yet no female face rises before me. The sound continues! It is joined by a strange keening that fills the night air. It seems to come from the very air itself. In the distance above my home, I hear the same animal’s lonely cry in the dark. I look up to my house aloft on the hill. There are lights on! I left no lights on when I came out for the walk! No cars passed me by on this the only access road. Someone was home.
So here I am, standing at the entrance to my childhood home – and inside every light is on, the house is ablaze with lights. They blind me and I squeeze my eyes shut. Against my retina I still see their glare, a circular yellow ball, set in a sea of darkness. But wait – the yellow is widening crowding out the black. One by one I see all the memories I’ve forgotten. Recovered memories, hidden pains that strike hammer like against the temple of my consciousness. Da, drunk and lashing the coal shovel off my brother's face, my sister and I screeching, crying with fright, cowering in the corner of our living room. Mam’s plaintive wail from as she begs Padre Pio to save Uncle Michael after his fall from the ruin of an old castle. Brenda silhouetted against a golden August evening, raging and telling me to go and kill myself, that she doesn’t care any more. James’s leering grin as he thrusts into her again and again in the back of his car. The two brothers from Limerick taking turns to smack my head on the pavement. My Dad, standing by my hospital bed and stubbornly refusing to do anything about it.
The unbidden memories explode over and over. They are here. The ghosts I’ve looked for. I no longer need to search the night for them. They walk with me, they surround me, they have followed me everywhere I’ve gone. And now that I know that they are here, they will always be with me. I am a haunted man.
I stand there, the driveway stretched out before me. The memories recede for now, yet they are still faintly visible in my memory.
The lights! The lights I had switched off are still on! They shine upon me, and the glare behind the curtains of our old living room helps me to see familiar shadows within. Their forms make familiar shapes, laughing, dancing even hugging one another. I can hear the murmur of conversation, a ripple of laughter. Someone is singing “Auld Lang Syne” above the din. I have waited so very long for this. It is time to go in.
The People of Peace
“A Leannan Sidhe, she said to me. Can you believe that, Brother Finn?” Father Donahue’s face was red from the effort. “I know I’ve dealt with some crazies before, and God knows the drugs being the way they are, we have plenty nowadays, but in all fairness, a Leannan Sidhe!”
“Did you get a look at her?” asked Brother Finn.
“I could barely make her out through the grill of the confessional,” said Father Donahue. “But what I did see was beautiful, and she in no way resembled the junkies and winos of the parish. If anything she seemed well dressed, well spoken – even timid.”
“So did you give her absolution?” asked the brother. The two men were strolling the outer perimeter wall of Mourne Abbey. It was a fine sunny evening in early May, and summer birds sang in the plush countryside of the valley below.
“I told her to get out. What else could I do? She was obviously a nutter, or high, or whatever. Either way, I’ve enough of that parish, I’ll tell you.” The priest shrugged his shoulders. “My time for dealing with Dublin’s lost souls is at an end.”
“Did she say any more?” asked Brother Finn. “Anything that caught your interest?”
“Her whole story caught my interest. That’s why I was so angry. She told me everything, from what exactly happened to what she was thinking during her ordeal.” Father Donahue sighed and sat on a low bench.
“It’s the absurdity of it all, Brother Finn. How could a story be so obviously false but still leave me feeling so, so frightened! I tell you, I can still feel the cold in that confessional. I can still hear her soft lilting voice, sweet – like velvet it was, yet it held a terrible sadness.”
“You know, this doesn’t shock me. You're not the first priest to come here telling tales.” Brother Finn knitted his eyebrows. “It seems that lately, I’m hearing nothing but strange stories. Anyway, you'd better tell me it all,” said Brother Finn, his voice serious.
The two men sat down. Below in the countryside a skylark called a plaintive song, the evening sunshine dimmed, and Father Donahue, in slow earnest rhythms, began his tale.
Jemma breathed in the cool night air and shrugged her sports bag over her shoulder. She walked out of her home down the driveway to the road outside; the Bohreen, or “little road,” glowed silver in the moonlight. The night was crisp and the sky clear. Above her, a three-quarter moon lit the countryside. Wood smoke carried on the gentle breeze. All evening the bonfires had been burning for the feast of St John. Jemma began her trek along the country lane; the sides of the valley to her left were littered with glowing red and orange dots coloured a deeper hue than the house lights beyond. Though it was near midnight, the fires still burned. ‘Bonfire night,” or “bonna night,” as it is known in Cork, brought back special memories for Jemma. But those days were behind her now, her youth having faded these last dozen years. Now she resolutely walked toward Liscleary graveyard, her mind made up. On this, one of her favourite nights of the year, she would end her life.
Ahead, the lights of Cork Airport and from the city beyond turned the sky a deep crimson, contrasting starkly with the clear, moonlit sky behind. An aircraft screamed a plaintive wail over the field to her right and continued on its final approach. Soon Jemma passed a farmyard. An angry sheep dog ran out and snapped near her ankles. She didn’t care. In fact, she barely noticed. She just continued her steady pace until the dog turned away.
From Jemma there were no tears now. She felt hopeful, hopeful that this disaster she called a life would soon be over, hopeful that this pain would soon end. No one cared anyway, she thought, “It would be better if I hadn’t been born.” Years before she mightn't have believed this, but now it always felt like she was facing an overwhelming wall of hurt, a cloud of sadness that never passed, a black valley that never ended. But an old memory, on tonight of all nights, reminded her that once she had felt otherwise.
She remembered a bonfire night years before, her cotton dress of pale green billowing in the wind around her, and ‘Da,’ the father she had loved so much. The laughter in his eyes mixed with her cries of excitement when he lit the bonfire. She had squealed in delight as she’d jumped over the flames, dancing around the fire and calling for him to do the same. He did and caught her in a bear hug and whispered softly in her ear, “My lovely Jemma, you shine where you stand.”
Not long now, she thought. I’ll be with you soon, Da. Will you swing me round the fire like you did before? Jemma wondered if there really were anything beyond, if she’d ever see him after all these years. She missed him, she knew that much.
She could remember the exact time the sadness began – the night her father had held her aloft in his arms and kissed her goodnight. “If you’re good,” he said with a smile, “I’ll bring you back chips after the pub.” And with that he had turned to her mother and promised to be home soon. But he hadn’t. Instead a drunk had run him over while he was walking home, and Jemma had never seen 'Da' again.
Now she remembered the counsellors, the doctors, the drugs and of course, the boys. It wasn’t long before Jemma was known in the village as the fast girl, a reputation that suited her just fine. Men always played a role in her life, right up to her latest disaster with the very married Mark. Good old Mark, always the life and soul of the pub. The centre of every joke, of every childish prank, and always the “go to” guy when there was a scandal. Good old Mark, who let his kids go to school dressed in rags while he drank in the pub, who slapped his wife around a few nights a week. Good old Mark who was in with the Guards, hence their lack of interest when he had decided to give Jemma a taste of his wife’s medicine.
In the distance the graveyard came into view, its wall a darker shade of navy blue than the sky beyond. Inside, two tall pine trees stood sentinel, forever keeping watch to the west. The air glimmered ahead of her, surrounding the cemetery and casting a glowing tinge on the velvet sky. The air straddled a line across the road and reminded Jemma of the edge of a rain belt, except she could see this even though it was dark. She stood in the centre of the road admiring this sight. Whatever it was, she thought, it was something in between, neither rain nor air, neither dark nor light. As she approached, the tall headstones became visible over the boundary wall. At the back of the graveyard stood an ancient ruin. Once the “Lios of the Clerics,” the church of the white friars, it was now no more than a gable wall and a pile of stones. At the front, silhouetted against the night sky, were several large white and grey limestone Celtic crosses, silently monitoring Jemma’s approach.
Here lay family graves that housed generations of Ireland’s dead, graves etched with names that Jemma could make out in the moonlight – Shields, O’Brien, Murphy and Leahy – local people who had seen it all and who had lived out their lives. Natural selection, thought Jemma. She entered the graveyard and headed for the back, behind the ruins of the ancient chapel. Here, in the oldest section of graves, stood an old oak tree, its limbs wizened and gnarled from the unforgiving wind roaring down the Owenabui valley, its deep girth fed on the dampness of the soil and nourished on the human flesh beneath.
Jemma sat and opened her bag. She pulled out the bottle of Vodka and the vial of sleeping pills and wasted no time in swallowing four or five, washing them down with a swig from the bottle. The liquid burned her throat, but she ignored the discomfort and did the same again, this time swallowing a fist full of pills. The hard part was next. She gathered her strength and then resolutely she reached in and took the Swiss army knife from her bag. Rolling up her coat sleeve, she opened the knife and, as quickly as she could, made a horizontal cut into her wrist. She grimaced in pain, then felt a hot gush as her veins opened and the blood spilled onto on her knife hand. It flowed in a fast stream down into the soil, where it would mingle with what lay beneath. And now, she thought, some blessed relief.
Jemma sat back again and felt the life drain from her body. A sense of calm shrouded her. A soft wind caressed the graveyard and gently swayed the high growth of midsummer. She surveyed the ancient ruins one last time, then looked up into the night sky. Billions of stars sparkled in the clear air. Their beauty gave Jemma a sense of hope. She felt the first pangs of drowsiness and inwardly smiled. It was beginning.
After a time, the stars began to shift and move, first one, then many, until finally cascades of stars shot through the heavens. They ran and ran across the night sky, leaving a trail of light behind them. Jemma was attracted into their movement as the lights of billions of dancing stars dipped and changed, moving both swiftly and slow. Her mind was tugged towards them, a mental reaching to touch the universe. She felt a pull in their direction, something drawing her toward them.
The lights continued to shimmer and change. Then they began to gather; first a tiny star joined another at the centre of the sky, then another and another, slowly building up into one large star. The star continued to grow, filling the night sky and bathing the graveyard in light. Jemma was warmed and touched by the light, and she smiled at its beauty and comfort. The light was blinding, but still Jemma looked on. From somewhere deep within the light three small figures walked toward her. Eventually, Jemma distinguished three female forms. The figures came closer, their forms blurring and changing and merging into one. An old woman finally stood within the light before Jemma. She held an ornate cup in her hand, and with a faint smile on her wrinkled, kindly face she offered it to Jemma.
“Drink this and live forever,” said the kindly old woman.
Jemma lifted the cup and smiled, and then she drank deeply. The liquid was delicious. Its coolness seemed to calm the ache in her soul. Then ecstasy flooded through her. Her ears were filled with the sweetest music. Her mind flooded with luscious poetic thoughts. She looked around her and felt the beauty in this ancient graveyard and throughout the land beyond, its energy hitting her like a giant pulse. She looked for the old woman, but in her place stood the most beautiful young woman she had ever seen. Jemma rose, tears cascading down her cheeks. “Thank you, our lady,” she sobbed, “Thank you for this release.”
The young maiden took Jemma by the hand and turned her to face the north. Instead of the Owenabui valley, a giant grassy mound with a narrow stone-cut entrance lay before her.
“Come with me, my child,” said the figure. “I have much to show you.” They walked hand in hand inside, Jemma’s consciousness still swimming at what she was seeing. The mound was hollow, and it opened up into a wide hallway where what seemed like thousands of people waited to see the two enter.
The maiden spoke again. “Behold, my child – the people of peace, generations of Ireland’s dead since the dawn of time.”
Jemma looked at the thronging crowd of white-faced people and thought she recognized faces she knew from the village in her youth.
“These are my children,” said the maiden. “Some served me well in the older times.”
Jemma looked around the figures she was now beginning to recognize. There was uncle Michael! And Timmy Lyons, the old man from the corner shop. But where was her father?
“Some of my children,” the woman continued, “I have asked to die for Ireland.” The woman’s features grew older before Jemma’s eyes. “Some of my children,” the woman spoke again, her features becoming older and more corrupted as Jemma gazed on, “I have asked to leave my land so that the name of our island would be known forever.” The woman became a creature now rotten and decrepit, flesh peeling from her face, skin falling in folds and dropping to the floor at her feet. Jemma backed away. She turned toward the crowd and caught a sight she had not seen in years. A tall well-built man stood with his back to her, but she knew that hair.
“Da, Daddy, it’s me.” She reached through the crowd grasping for the father she loved so much. “Daddy, turn ‘round! It’s your Jemma.” The man began to turn. From behind, Jemma heard the rotten creature call.
“But you, my child, my child who has suffered, who has lived in sadness and without hope, you will FEED for Ireland.”
Hundreds of arms reached out and took hold of Jemma. They grabbed every part of her in an iron grip. She fought as much as she could, stretched her arms forward and screamed, “Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
The man in the crowd turned and recognition flooded his face. He reached towards her but she was carried aloft among the crowd and back towards the entrance of the mound. Through the blizzard of arms and faces of the dead she saw her father mouth the word “Jemma.”
Jemma woke in the graveyard, the creature standing before her. Her body felt the coldest she had ever felt in her life, her wrist throbbed and her heart ached for the father she loved; yet she began to sense new things. She heard a rustling in the field beyond and instantly knew it was a field mouse. She could smell the decayed flesh in the earth. From a house a few fields away came the most wonderful smell. It drew her and called to her and made her body shiver. It gave her the most incredible thirst she had ever felt.