Teeth and Bone
This was written for a specific anthology so... since it wasn't accepted, I can post it here.
It's rather longish.
Teeth and Bone
Fall retreated from winter’s cold kiss and the winds of County Armagh were heady sweet with the scents of earth and water. Dusk was only a few hours away but the gloomy drop of an Irish mist forced flickers of light from the windows of the village, curls of turf smoke rising from rugged stone chimneys. Coming over a ridge, Tadhg spotted the squat cottages of Creggan and sighed with relief. It had been hard going after a rock fall forced him to round the hills until finally he found the road again, a league or so out of the village.
“’Ware,” a man called out from inside the fog bank.
A border collie bounced out of the foamy air, its ruff bristling when it saw Tadhg and it barked to warn him off the flock of sheep ambling behind it. The low call of pot metal rang from the lead ewe, a dull grey bell hanging from a thin leather cord around her neck and it tolled with her gait. Working the back of the flock, a rough-faced man tapped at the hind of stray with a long twisted ash stick, the sheep momentarily lured off by an outcropping of grass. The light smack sent it along after the rest and the shepherd raised his staff in greeting, jostling the dead lamb hanging in the crook of his arm.
“You look to be lost,” the man said. “Looking for Creggan?”
“Ah, not lost so much as walking towards Dundalk,” Tadhg replied. “I’m looking for work there but I wouldn’t say no to a stop in Creggan. I’m frozen down to the bone from the wind.”
“Well, that’s a good place to go then. If you’ve a mind to stay the night, this one will be supper at the inn.” Hefting the lamb’s body over his shoulder, the man continued along his way, the sheep pouring around Tadhg’s legs, nearly pushing him to the ground. “Best get you going then before they push you to the ground.”
Avoiding the run of sheep, Tadhg followed, weary and road-sick. Creggan was larger than his own homestead, big enough to have its own kirk and its pebbled round looked to be a place for feasts and funerals. His own village of Killen was lucky to get a wandering priest come by once or twice a year, his beard run to stink from mead drippings and mutton fat.
The shepherd called through the open door of the inn, scraping the mud from his boot on a stone by the stoop. “Líoch, we’ve got a guest!”
“I’m right here, Bran, No need to bellow down the place.” A round woman with wind-blistered red cheeks came out from what Tadhg assumed was the kitchen, her hands chapped and raw from washings. She limped as she walked and her smile was a welcoming beam, yellowed and as bright as the sun.
“Hello, we don’t get many guests this time of year!” She motioned him in with plump fingers. “Come in out of the cold and get some of the heat in you.”
“Here’s our supper. Fell down the hill this afternoon.” The man tossed the lamb’s inert body at her and she clapped her hands over its flailing legs, swinging it around to place on a broad table. “It was out of season anyway.”
“I’ll make tied roast from it. Shouldn’t take long with the meat so tender.” Eyeing the lamb, she turned it over, feeling at its body. “It’ll be thin going for anything else but that and soup.”
“Whatever you think is best,” The shepherd replied, doffing his hat at the woman. “I’ll be putting these ones up and going for a wash.”
“Be careful if you’re taking a dunk in the river. It’s nearly the red moon. She’ll be out tonight.” Líoch lifted the lamb up and limped back into the kitchen, telling Tadhg to make himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “You’ll stay up in the attic room,” Líoch said, stropping a kitchen knife against a length of shiny brown hide.
“I’ve nowt the money for it,” he said. The few coin he had in his purse would go to seeing him set up in Dundalk if he couldn’t find his uncle who lived there. Tadhg only hoped he was still alive and amenable to having an unknown relative squat on his doorstep.
“No money from you for it. It’s not the season for travelers and an empty room does me no good. Besides, the road won’t be safe for a few days.” Skinning the lamb, she worked a short knife tip under its pelt and slit cuts along its legs. “Sit at the table and rest your feet.”
An hour later, Tadhg heard the shepherd coming in. Bran shut the heavy wooden door behind him and the collie from the road slunk into the kitchen, snuffling at the floor as it looked for scraps to steal.
“Bran, you’ll not be bringing that dog in my kitchen,” Líoch said, snapping a towel at the collie’s head.
“He’s the one who brought us our dinner. It’s only right that he get something from it,” Bran said. “Do you have a bone we can be giving him?”
“Take one of the shanks from the pot over there but he’s to eat it by the hearth. I’ll not be cleaning up fat from my floor anywhere else.” Her glower was fierce and Tadhg hid his grin at Bran’s contrite smile. “I’ll just be putting the meat on. Shouldn’t take too long to cook seeing as it’s lean.”
Bran settled at one of the wooden chairs at the worn kitchen table. Set for family, the plates were chipped and unevenly worked, the edges battered from being dropped on the hard floor. Leaning back, he reached for the bottle of black-flecked whiskey sitting on the sideboard, pouring himself a measure before offering one to Tadhg. He took it gratefully, tasting the fire of the alcohol on this tongue.
“You mentioned the road not being safe at night.” Tadhg worried at the sip of whiskey on his tongue. Its potent bite numbed the roof of his mouth and he wondered if he’d even make it to dinner following the glass. Setting down the mug, he sat sideways so he could see both the shepherd and Líoch. “Are there robbers about?”
“Oh, no robbers,” Bran laughed. “Líoch is worrying over the White Lady. She hunts travelers along the long road, from Crossmaglen to past Mullaghbane. She runs them down and drowns them in the river.”
“Aish, you’re just saying that to tease me,” Tadhg took another sip of whiskey, dismissing the tale as country rubbish. “It’s a good story to get people to stay and sup.”
“No, boy,” Líoch corrected him sharply. “It’s the truth. Every full moon and a day before and after, she comes. We can tell when she’s found another by the crows in the air. If there’s a black cloud of birds, we know that the White Lady has gotten another and we should be looking for a dead man on the shore.”
Scratching the collie’s head, the shepherd laughed. “I was fifteen when I ran the road all the way. The others said that they could see her behind me but I didn’t hear anything.”
“The road is dotted with her bloody footprints, bare and blackened red under the moonlight,” Líoch added with a soft whisper. “If you’re lucky enough to have her already gone, her path is bright on the road. If you have misfortune… well, then you’d see her feet themselves.”
“My mum said the only thing that’ll save you is if you pour a snort of whiskey on the circle of stones by the river.” Bran leaned his head back, letting the potent burn his throat. “And that’s only if you’ve got some on you and you can run faster than she does.”
“They sing,” Rising to her feet, Líoch pushed off against the table, favouring her shortened leg. “The stones, they sing when you pour whiskey on them. If you hear them singing, then you know you’re safe.”
“Waste of good whiskey, it sounds like,” Tadhg grumbled into his glass, his words already tinged with a faint slur.
“It was all that saved me,” Pulling up the hem of her long skirt, Líoch bared her calf for the young man to see. The muscle twisted in around itself, long raking scars a violent pink over her pale skin. “My first husband, Brocc, held her off long enough for me to reach the stones. I thought once they started to hum… we would both be safe but she’d already…”
“No need to go on, Líoch,” Bran said, reaching for the bottle and tipping it to fill her glass to the brim. “No finer man than Brocc… what with him saving you that night.”
“She dragged him into the mists, Brocc screaming and then, it swallowed them both.” She returned to the table after poking at the roast, sending streams of glistening fat into the fire. It flared, crackling over the meat and seared the lamb’s flavours in. “Her hands is what did this to me, that and take my husband. So, if you’ve a mind to continue along your way tomorrow night or the next, you’d at least take some whiskey with you and I’ll pray for you. Because if she’s not one of the Wicked, then I don’t know what is.”
*
The next day started cold, its bite sharp against Tadhg’s shaven face and the clouds hung low in the sky, silver hard edged knives against the hills. He’d listened to Líoch’s dire warnings the entire time he washed his face, turning a deaf ear when he repacked his rucksack.
“You ask me, Brocc might have loved his whiskey too much. That Lady that hunted them down? Nothing more than a pack of hungry wolves he couldn’t outrun because he was drunk. Líoch was out of reach, standing on the henge but there’s no telling her that,” Bran said, seeing Tadhg off, whistling for the collie to herd a ewe in. “If you stick to the road, you’ll reach a small woodcutter’s shed; maybe an hour or two past the stone circle. Spend the night there.”
Mud made the going hard and the road foundered after a few miles, turning to a slush from the torrential nightly storms. Tadhg kept his head down, wiping at the rain dripping into his eyes while trying to keep the wind from shredding apart the skin on his face. It whipped about him and more than once, he wondered if he shouldn’t turn back to Creggan.
“You’ll never make it to Dundalk before winter, if you do.” He reminded himself. “No sense trading one small village for another. Keep your feet moving, Tadhg.”
Night crept in as he plodded through the country side, the dark rising quickly and consuming the watery silver light. The full moon shone through the clouds, piercing the veil with its pale glare. Despite the pitch of the sky, it illuminated the country side, casting long grey shadows around the valley’s wind swept trees.
The wind shook with a keening, one that chilled Tadhg’s spine. The high sound drowned his heartbeat as it rolled through the hills, a living, breathing thing that drove the silence to the ground. Under his clothes, the hair on Tadhg’s skin prickled, rubbing into his clothes.
His terror grew, blooming under the torrent of sound raining down on him. Chilled, the air crackled in his lungs when a long shadow stretched for him, malevolent dark in the bright moonlight. Looking up, the cold wind became ice, stabbing Tadhg with each breath he took.
She stood above him on the rise, a willowy figure silhouetted against the full moon. A shift of her feet brought her face up to the light, the wildness of her looks stoking the terror stuttering in his chest. The tatters of her dress fluttered around her thighs, the pale, bleached fabric bloody with hand prints, some dried black and others glistening wet and a breath of wind caught up her hair, copper strung long around her triangular face. There was a hint of hard death to her face; sharp, proud cheekbones and wide eyes slanted up at the ends. Her cracked lips were too full to be pretty and looked ill-suited to laughter.
From the look the White Lady gave him, laughter appeared to be the farthest thing from her mind.
The hill’s long grass bent under her feet, blood speckling her toes a robin’s breast vibrant red. It splashed up around her ankles, shreds of skin flapping over the tops of her feet from where she’d run them raw. Despite the painful appearance of her feet, she slipped carefully down the hillside, placing each step with the grace of someone born to the rambling Irish valleys.
She was a nightmare, walking on raw feet and hungry and Tadhg feared he would soon be her next meal.
Darker shapes appeared on the rise behind her, skulking canine forms with hunched shoulders and long legs. Their rangy bodies were too scrawny to be wolves but their withers were nearly the height of the woman’s hips. They flowed around her, the leader’s teeth snapping at the air, tasting Tadhg on the wind.
One of the canines lifted its head up, throwing back its muzzle to sing to the moon. The warble cut through Tadhg’s shattered resolve and he turned away.
And ran.
He forgot about the ache in his thighs and the strained tendons tightening his knees. With his breath pounding out of his lungs, Tadhg ran hard, hoping to reach the sanctuary of the woodcutter’s shed. Not sparing a glance to the howling pack behind him, he pumped his legs hard, barking his shin on a stretch of stone blocking the path. Tumbling, Tadhg cried out, cradling his head when a dark furred shape catapulted over his head. Leaving his rucksack lying in the middle of the road, he picked himself up, concerned only with the enormous slope-shouldered dog loping towards him.
It was then she screamed, calling the hounds to hunt and the slap of her feet on the road tempered his fear with its hammering pace.
She echoed through the valley, cresting over the hounds’ bellows. Their joined cries echoed the cracking of planks of a boat during a ferocious storm and the rush of lightning across a sulphurous sky. The air swelled with the scent of smoke and despite the rain, Tadhg wondered if she could set the hills on fire with her terrible rage.
His chest burned as he cleared the road, nearly falling over when he spied the circle of white stones jutted up from the moist round, their surfaces cracked and thick with black lines of lichen. Despite the threat of night, a trio of crows squatted on a lintel top and the largest of the three scraped its hooked beak under a thread of vegetation, pulling it up and tearing it loose. Behind the scatter of stones, a river flowed, its blackness moving too quick to reflect the sky.
Two intact pillars propped up a flat lintel, the topping stone high enough to keep him out of reach of the hounds. Desperate, Tadhg ran for its safety, pulling himself up. Pitted with marks and gouges, the stone bore long digs, the furrows giving Tadhg somewhere to grip. Digging his bruised palms against the rock, he strained to lift himself as one of the dogs reached his heel and he screamed when it bit, the creature’s long teeth piercing through his boot.
Flopping on the cross-stone, his belly scraped raw from climbing the slanted stone, Tadhg gasped and found the White Lady standing at the other end. Her long tangled hair thrashed about her skinny body and he blinked, realizing his eyes were level with her bloody feet. Tadhg’s chest rattled with the effort to draw in air, his throat closing when she took a step towards him then another. The stone was long enough for a full grown man to lie on but it still was much too short for his liking.
Walking on the rough stone with her raw feet, she left red, wet footprints, the lengthy threads of scored flesh flapping outward from her soles. The tangled vines choking the pillars and lintel tightened, coming to life as they were fed by her blood. Up close, her face was uneven, run ragged by time and starvation and the high cheekbones he’d glimpsed back in the hills were sharp; cutting slices of bone that looked to cut her pale, gleaming skin. She seemed unaffected by the run, her breathing even and her face a serene mask and for some reason, that terrified Tadhg more than the hounds snapping beneath them.
“Run,” The words she spoke were rusted with layered meanings, an older Irish leaving its stain. His great-grandmother hummed with the same accent, a battered iron tint on each word. “Run when hunted.”
“Whiskey. I need the whiskey,” Tadhg blurted out suddenly, patting his pocket for the small flash Bran filled for him from the inn’s reserves. The potent alcohol was meant to stave off the night’s chill but feeding Death’s bitch a charcoal-steeped blow would be better, he thought. The small metal flat held a few draughts and splashed wildly from its slender mouth, Tadhg’s hands shaking as he undid its stopper.
The alcohol soaked quickly into vines, swelling them until they lay bloated, black maggots writhing around him. The long ropes burst as they sucked in every drop seeping from the woman’s torn feet and amber liquid spurting from Tadhg’s flask. With loud snapping sounds, they broke, lashing out in the air and setting the three crows into the air, the birds cawing in offense at their ill treatment.
“You’ll not take me like you’ve taken the others,” Tadhg yelled, trying to make himself heard above the screaming birds. Below him, the hounds took up their chorus, singing to the hills and the moon until Tadhg’s ears rang with the echoes of their voices.
The wind caught up the whiskey’s scent, black and mossy, very unlike the heady-smoke richness of a properly cured snort. Tadhg reached out with a shaking hand, smearing a drop on the hard stone. It ran soft between his fingers with none of the thickness of a fine whiskey and Tadhg sucked his fingers dry, the peat water leaving a soft earthy bite on the tip of his tongue, tar-harsh and wet.
“Gods, there’s nowt a drop of whiskey in it,” He shivered. “Oh Bran, what have you done to me? What have you left me to”
Tadhg shivered under the sky, frozen in his crouch when lines of bright lightning woke the night, the jagged spears fighting with the round, swollen moon. The stones rocked and he gripped at the lintel, staring down at the soft muddy ground, wondering if he could survive the fall without breaking his leg. Pacing through the circle, the hounds dropped their heads, their eyes turned away from the crackling sky.
“That’s not the one who wants you,” Bran said, walking into the clearing. “That one can’t do nowt really but scream in the full moonlight. She’s not the one to worry yourself over, Tadhg of Killen.”
“You!” Tadhg growled at the shepherd, clutching at the edge of the stone. It swayed under him, his weight shifting the lintel on its perch. “Did you do this in fun? Having the village idiot run me down the hill? A bit of sport on the traveler? Or did you think to rob me? I’ve got almost nothing! Barely worth your trouble.”
“That’s not Creggan’s idiot, boy, and you’re more than worth the trouble.” The hounds were submissive now, slinking about Bran’s legs and showing throat as they passed. The lead stood firm, paws spread apart on the wet ground, watching Tadhg with narrowed eyes and raised hackles. “You see, She has need of you. I have need of you.”
“Morrígan!” Cupping his hands around his mouth, Bran called out across the river. “I’ve need of you, Wretched Phantom Queen.”
“There’s no laughter to this, Bran,” Tadhg called out, steadying himself when the stone shifted wildly. “Call off your dogs before I…”
His words were lost, driven like sheep by a rising hiss from the river. Bran called out to the Goddess again and the waters parted under a rush of steam, exposing the riverbed below. The mud boiled, bubbles of sulphurous air popping through and the stink of fish cooking in a foul silt overtook Tadhg and he gagged, retching his stomach up with a violent heave. In a flash, the dogs were on the sick, lapping it from the grass, fighting over the scraps of meat leftover from the lamb pie he’d eaten before taking leave of the inn.
If the White Lady was from a nightmare then terror and demons forged the woman stepping from the black waters. Hematite strands winking from the weight of her coal hair, flashes of purple and green peeking out from the depths as she moved under the moonlight. Her face looked carved from ice, haughty and regal, a gnawing cold that would numb a man to hallucinations before killing him slowly. There was pride in her sloe eyes, as if the world bowed to her as she walked and Tadhg fell fast, unbalanced at the sight of her.
Landing hard, Tadhg gasped and fought to regain his wind. His head throbbed where it struck another stone, the crack of his skull sending a soft reverberation through his teeth. A trickle of blood ran down his face, seeping into his shirt and turning the greying fabric a dull crimson.
Dizzy from the fall, Tadhg stared up at the terrifying woman, her bared toe nudging his ribs as one would use the flat of a palm to test a horse; seeing if it held its wind. She gripped a torn shirt in one hand and something dripped from it, landing on Tadhg’s face. He swallowed hard as splatters of harsh, coppery blood landed in his open mouth.
“You’re bold, Bran… calling me as if I’m some servant to fetch for you,” Her voice echoed in Tadhg’s ears. One of the crows screamed, winding around her head on spread wings before landing lightly on her shoulder. It nuzzled its beak into her hair, crooning joyfully with little chirrups. “What have you brought me this time, Bran of Creggan? Whose poor soul do you hope to exchange for your own freedom rather than lay with me in pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” Bran strolled over to stand besides Tadhg’s immobile body, the breath knocked from the young man’s chest. “Only a Goddess would think this life you’ve made for them is pleasure for a man.”
“You tear at them, pulling at their teeth and bones until they pour into the river, fattening the fish with his blood. I have no want to spend eternity as your lover, my marrow exposed to the sky so the rain and carrion birds can pick at me.” .Bran placed his hand flat on a stone, staring at his Goddess’ cold face. “Love this one instead. He’s comelier than the last one I gave, stronger and younger.”
“Give me one reason why I should take this one instead of you, kip-born whoreson,” Morrígan said, crouching over Tadhg’s prone body. Paralyzed with fright, he froze under a watchful crow’s gaze. The bird’s beak tip glistened and it flapped its wings, mantling when he blinked. After soothing the bird with a soft touch to its jutting chest, the Queen returned her attention to Tadhg, caressing strands of his hair in her fingers. “He’s prettier than you but you were the one the village gave to me. You’re the one I own, Cregganson. You were my sacrifice.”
“I’ve given you another in my stead. You have that one’s brother, the bard Ríordán,” Bran pointed to the filmy apparition standing at the edge of the clearing. The Lady flickered, turning transparent and she tilted her head back, her wailing soon joined by the hounds’ bawling cries. “You have them both.”
“No, Bran. You had her.” Glancing at the girl, Morrígan shushed her with a hiss, sending the Lady back into the moonlight that carried her along the road. “She’s been screaming since I took her brother in your stead. And she was screaming when you took your pleasure on her. Her virgin blood on your cock and life were sacrifices to you, not me. Ceara’s cries are to warn people off of you. She has no quarrel with me.”
“I’d do anything to shut her up if I could,” Bran snarled. “And I’ve continued to give to you although you have no right to claim anything else. You have someone from our village for tribute. You should be satisfied with him and not ask for any more.”
“No right? Ah, you think you are so above yourself that I cannot take what is mine?” The skies broke, crinkled with waves of light and booming sounds but Morrígan’s voice was pleasant, nearly the lilt of a young girl. The hounds eased back, falling and the White Lady broke apart, shattered into motes of light under a flash of lightning. Her howls faded with her, murmured shadows lurking at the edges of the circle. “That is what I think of your power over me, Bran of Creggan. Do you think I am as harmless as the hateful spectre you’ve created?”
The ground shook beneath Bran, tearing apart the henge. They fell, one by one into the gaps widening through the clearing, the startled hounds scampering to avoid the collapse. Knocked down in the turmoil, Bran struggled to stand but his legs were frozen, lodged into the softness of the earth. Horrified, he pulled at his thighs, sobbing loudly when his legs split lengthwise, tearing his braises apart. Naked from the waist down, Bran fought hard to clear the circle, clawing at the ground in a vain attempt to drag himself out by his fingertips.
Tadhg’s fear startled his mind into action and he rolled, moving out of the way before the chasm swallowed him. Avoiding a hound, Tadhg pulled back onto his rear, his heels digging in deep to leverage him away from the shattered earth. Staring into the abyss, he lost count of the dead that lay under the circle’s ground. There were too many to count but Tadhg could make out bodies, some to bone while others were pitch, preserved by the peat of the river’s shore.
From the cracked soil, skeletal hands rose, reaching for Bran and grasping at his wrists and ankles. They held him fast, trapped against the wet, moist loam. Eyeless skulls clacked their empty jaws at him, a bony laughter mocking his cries for help as fleshless fingers dug into him, scooping out the spongy white marrow from his thighs. Fountains of blood erupted from Bran’s chest, the spill of red misting in the air.
Bones and dried fingers crawled over the shepherd, scraping away Bran’s twitching body bit by bit. His rasps muted as he screamed his throat raw. Bran’s mouth foamed with rings of spit and he fought the hands dragged him down into the darkness below as he howled his rage at his uncaring Goddess.
The earth stood quiet for a moment, sighing with pleasure as the Phantom Queen breathed, feeling her power stretch to touch at Bran’s body, now buried far beneath her feet. Calling up her lust, she tore at him, breaking his bones into shards. Twisting her fingers, she poured her power into the ground, forging a new prison for the man she would have every full moon.
Red-veined stones rose from the earth, the dank dirt parting beneath their push and the ground sighed, giving up its prize to satisfy the woman who worked the boy loose from its grip. Suckling at his teeth and bones, the ground shifted, releasing long tendrils of vines and lichen to grow over the pillars, working deep into the splintered cracks along the flat surfaces, hoping to reach the tenderness of Bran’s soul trapped within the stone.
The river churned, frothing pink where Bran’s spilt blood touched its waters. Beyond, the thrushes whistled, caught in the wind’s fingers as it played through the grasses, carrying the shepherd’s scent on its kiss. The Goddess walked to the nearest stone, pressing her lips against its gritty surface and sucked at the drop of blood oozing from a crack.
Morrígan stood, silent and waiting, then with a flick of her fingers, cracked apart the fallen lintel.
The stone shattered under the force of her will, ruptures forming along its surface. Rumbling, the pillar answered the sky’s shout of thunder, splintering into rubble then crumbling, falling to dust at Morrígan’s feet. Peeking through the bruised clouds, the moon shone bright on the man born from the stone and dirt, his lean body run black with dried gore. He tried to stand, his legs giving way underneath his weight and Tadhg grabbed at his arms, dragging the unsteady man closer.
“I am always amazed at how beautiful you are, Ríordán, bard an Carraig.” She purred and Ríordán blinked, looking about him in surprise. “You’re being sent off. It’s time for Bran to take his rightful place as was promised.”
“Where is Ceara?” Ríordán asked, choking out the words. He spat out clouds of dust, coughing around globs of spittle. “Where is my sister, bitch?”
She struck Ríordán, slamming him into the ground with the back of her hand. Tadhg went with him, legs tangled with the bard’s and his wrist snapped under the other man’s weight, bent under Ríordán’s weight. Stars burnt behind Tadhg’s eyes as the pain shot up his arm and into the base of his skull. He heard Ríordán choke and then a splatter hit his face as the bard spat up blood and a piece of his tongue.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’d keep the rest of that pretty tongue of yours in your mouth, bard,” Morrígan warned. “And as for you, Tadhg of Killen, Bran was right. I’ve a taste for the likes of you. If I see the screaming whore run you down this road once more, I’ll grab you as well.”
“After all,” She smiled, stroking at the risen stones that imprisoned her lovers. “A Goddess can never have too many baubles to play with.”
*
In his old age, Tadhg spun tall tales in the comfort of the Dundalk Inn. His eyes were white and rheumy, the papery skin on his hands speckled with age spots but his voice remained strong and clear, perfect for crafting a story on a cold winter’s night. Younger men and children gathered around the hearth, listening to the wind howl through the valley and the sharp bark of a border collie admonishing the clouds for scaring it with its thunder.
Sipping a snort of whiskey, he let its bite numb his tongue before he spun a tale or two. But tell he did, until the coals of the fire burnt to grey and the soft grumbles of Smudge, his ancient collie, were drowned out by the snores of children.
With a few whiskeys in him, Tadhg could be coaxed to tell of Lonán an Carraig and the Lady who tended them. He spoke of her howls and the Hunt that followed her, imprisoned for eternity to drive men to the river banks where Morrígan, her Goddess awaited them. He told of the bodies found every rare full moon when the skies were frosted with ice, the shoreline cradling their bloated torn forms and their bones sucked as clean as one would a choice ham hock.
Then his voice would drop to a whisper when he got to her bloodied feet, raw from running, their flesh scored down to the bone and dripping with pus and gore. To see her footprints marked a man for her Hunt and if he were caught in her deathly cries, he could only escape if he reached the circle of stones by the river and tipped a bit of Creggan’s best into their cracks. The stones sang under the whiskey moonlight, their deep humming dirge driving the Lady back off into the valley to await the next full moon and unwary traveler.
The people of Dundalk would shiver despite the warmth of the fire but would laugh off their fears with a sip of brew and a walk through the crisp night. The tales were stories to warn children of being foolish and drunken near the water. Watch the river and tides, they would warn their sons and daughters or Morrígan will snatch you up when your back is turned. Tadhg would sit silent then, sipping his whiskey and stroking the soft ears of his dog.
In the morning, he would visit Dundalk’s henge with Smudge close on his heels. Its stones were pale and newly cut, their surfaces run thick with leathery vines. Hobbling to the clearing, Tadhg stared at the circle of stones near the shore while a trio of crows squatted on a tall pillar, their beaks making a fast breakfast from a belly-bloated fish. He often waited until they were done glutting on their day’s catch before approaching the stones, a flask of whiskey shaking in his ancient hands.
Spilling a few drops of whiskey onto the pillars, Tadhg closed his watery eyes and sang, a mournful lament of the Morrígan he served then cried silently as the Goddess’ stone-imprisoned lovers began to hum along.
It's rather longish.
Teeth and Bone
Fall retreated from winter’s cold kiss and the winds of County Armagh were heady sweet with the scents of earth and water. Dusk was only a few hours away but the gloomy drop of an Irish mist forced flickers of light from the windows of the village, curls of turf smoke rising from rugged stone chimneys. Coming over a ridge, Tadhg spotted the squat cottages of Creggan and sighed with relief. It had been hard going after a rock fall forced him to round the hills until finally he found the road again, a league or so out of the village.
“’Ware,” a man called out from inside the fog bank.
A border collie bounced out of the foamy air, its ruff bristling when it saw Tadhg and it barked to warn him off the flock of sheep ambling behind it. The low call of pot metal rang from the lead ewe, a dull grey bell hanging from a thin leather cord around her neck and it tolled with her gait. Working the back of the flock, a rough-faced man tapped at the hind of stray with a long twisted ash stick, the sheep momentarily lured off by an outcropping of grass. The light smack sent it along after the rest and the shepherd raised his staff in greeting, jostling the dead lamb hanging in the crook of his arm.
“You look to be lost,” the man said. “Looking for Creggan?”
“Ah, not lost so much as walking towards Dundalk,” Tadhg replied. “I’m looking for work there but I wouldn’t say no to a stop in Creggan. I’m frozen down to the bone from the wind.”
“Well, that’s a good place to go then. If you’ve a mind to stay the night, this one will be supper at the inn.” Hefting the lamb’s body over his shoulder, the man continued along his way, the sheep pouring around Tadhg’s legs, nearly pushing him to the ground. “Best get you going then before they push you to the ground.”
Avoiding the run of sheep, Tadhg followed, weary and road-sick. Creggan was larger than his own homestead, big enough to have its own kirk and its pebbled round looked to be a place for feasts and funerals. His own village of Killen was lucky to get a wandering priest come by once or twice a year, his beard run to stink from mead drippings and mutton fat.
The shepherd called through the open door of the inn, scraping the mud from his boot on a stone by the stoop. “Líoch, we’ve got a guest!”
“I’m right here, Bran, No need to bellow down the place.” A round woman with wind-blistered red cheeks came out from what Tadhg assumed was the kitchen, her hands chapped and raw from washings. She limped as she walked and her smile was a welcoming beam, yellowed and as bright as the sun.
“Hello, we don’t get many guests this time of year!” She motioned him in with plump fingers. “Come in out of the cold and get some of the heat in you.”
“Here’s our supper. Fell down the hill this afternoon.” The man tossed the lamb’s inert body at her and she clapped her hands over its flailing legs, swinging it around to place on a broad table. “It was out of season anyway.”
“I’ll make tied roast from it. Shouldn’t take long with the meat so tender.” Eyeing the lamb, she turned it over, feeling at its body. “It’ll be thin going for anything else but that and soup.”
“Whatever you think is best,” The shepherd replied, doffing his hat at the woman. “I’ll be putting these ones up and going for a wash.”
“Be careful if you’re taking a dunk in the river. It’s nearly the red moon. She’ll be out tonight.” Líoch lifted the lamb up and limped back into the kitchen, telling Tadhg to make himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “You’ll stay up in the attic room,” Líoch said, stropping a kitchen knife against a length of shiny brown hide.
“I’ve nowt the money for it,” he said. The few coin he had in his purse would go to seeing him set up in Dundalk if he couldn’t find his uncle who lived there. Tadhg only hoped he was still alive and amenable to having an unknown relative squat on his doorstep.
“No money from you for it. It’s not the season for travelers and an empty room does me no good. Besides, the road won’t be safe for a few days.” Skinning the lamb, she worked a short knife tip under its pelt and slit cuts along its legs. “Sit at the table and rest your feet.”
An hour later, Tadhg heard the shepherd coming in. Bran shut the heavy wooden door behind him and the collie from the road slunk into the kitchen, snuffling at the floor as it looked for scraps to steal.
“Bran, you’ll not be bringing that dog in my kitchen,” Líoch said, snapping a towel at the collie’s head.
“He’s the one who brought us our dinner. It’s only right that he get something from it,” Bran said. “Do you have a bone we can be giving him?”
“Take one of the shanks from the pot over there but he’s to eat it by the hearth. I’ll not be cleaning up fat from my floor anywhere else.” Her glower was fierce and Tadhg hid his grin at Bran’s contrite smile. “I’ll just be putting the meat on. Shouldn’t take too long to cook seeing as it’s lean.”
Bran settled at one of the wooden chairs at the worn kitchen table. Set for family, the plates were chipped and unevenly worked, the edges battered from being dropped on the hard floor. Leaning back, he reached for the bottle of black-flecked whiskey sitting on the sideboard, pouring himself a measure before offering one to Tadhg. He took it gratefully, tasting the fire of the alcohol on this tongue.
“You mentioned the road not being safe at night.” Tadhg worried at the sip of whiskey on his tongue. Its potent bite numbed the roof of his mouth and he wondered if he’d even make it to dinner following the glass. Setting down the mug, he sat sideways so he could see both the shepherd and Líoch. “Are there robbers about?”
“Oh, no robbers,” Bran laughed. “Líoch is worrying over the White Lady. She hunts travelers along the long road, from Crossmaglen to past Mullaghbane. She runs them down and drowns them in the river.”
“Aish, you’re just saying that to tease me,” Tadhg took another sip of whiskey, dismissing the tale as country rubbish. “It’s a good story to get people to stay and sup.”
“No, boy,” Líoch corrected him sharply. “It’s the truth. Every full moon and a day before and after, she comes. We can tell when she’s found another by the crows in the air. If there’s a black cloud of birds, we know that the White Lady has gotten another and we should be looking for a dead man on the shore.”
Scratching the collie’s head, the shepherd laughed. “I was fifteen when I ran the road all the way. The others said that they could see her behind me but I didn’t hear anything.”
“The road is dotted with her bloody footprints, bare and blackened red under the moonlight,” Líoch added with a soft whisper. “If you’re lucky enough to have her already gone, her path is bright on the road. If you have misfortune… well, then you’d see her feet themselves.”
“My mum said the only thing that’ll save you is if you pour a snort of whiskey on the circle of stones by the river.” Bran leaned his head back, letting the potent burn his throat. “And that’s only if you’ve got some on you and you can run faster than she does.”
“They sing,” Rising to her feet, Líoch pushed off against the table, favouring her shortened leg. “The stones, they sing when you pour whiskey on them. If you hear them singing, then you know you’re safe.”
“Waste of good whiskey, it sounds like,” Tadhg grumbled into his glass, his words already tinged with a faint slur.
“It was all that saved me,” Pulling up the hem of her long skirt, Líoch bared her calf for the young man to see. The muscle twisted in around itself, long raking scars a violent pink over her pale skin. “My first husband, Brocc, held her off long enough for me to reach the stones. I thought once they started to hum… we would both be safe but she’d already…”
“No need to go on, Líoch,” Bran said, reaching for the bottle and tipping it to fill her glass to the brim. “No finer man than Brocc… what with him saving you that night.”
“She dragged him into the mists, Brocc screaming and then, it swallowed them both.” She returned to the table after poking at the roast, sending streams of glistening fat into the fire. It flared, crackling over the meat and seared the lamb’s flavours in. “Her hands is what did this to me, that and take my husband. So, if you’ve a mind to continue along your way tomorrow night or the next, you’d at least take some whiskey with you and I’ll pray for you. Because if she’s not one of the Wicked, then I don’t know what is.”
*
The next day started cold, its bite sharp against Tadhg’s shaven face and the clouds hung low in the sky, silver hard edged knives against the hills. He’d listened to Líoch’s dire warnings the entire time he washed his face, turning a deaf ear when he repacked his rucksack.
“You ask me, Brocc might have loved his whiskey too much. That Lady that hunted them down? Nothing more than a pack of hungry wolves he couldn’t outrun because he was drunk. Líoch was out of reach, standing on the henge but there’s no telling her that,” Bran said, seeing Tadhg off, whistling for the collie to herd a ewe in. “If you stick to the road, you’ll reach a small woodcutter’s shed; maybe an hour or two past the stone circle. Spend the night there.”
Mud made the going hard and the road foundered after a few miles, turning to a slush from the torrential nightly storms. Tadhg kept his head down, wiping at the rain dripping into his eyes while trying to keep the wind from shredding apart the skin on his face. It whipped about him and more than once, he wondered if he shouldn’t turn back to Creggan.
“You’ll never make it to Dundalk before winter, if you do.” He reminded himself. “No sense trading one small village for another. Keep your feet moving, Tadhg.”
Night crept in as he plodded through the country side, the dark rising quickly and consuming the watery silver light. The full moon shone through the clouds, piercing the veil with its pale glare. Despite the pitch of the sky, it illuminated the country side, casting long grey shadows around the valley’s wind swept trees.
The wind shook with a keening, one that chilled Tadhg’s spine. The high sound drowned his heartbeat as it rolled through the hills, a living, breathing thing that drove the silence to the ground. Under his clothes, the hair on Tadhg’s skin prickled, rubbing into his clothes.
His terror grew, blooming under the torrent of sound raining down on him. Chilled, the air crackled in his lungs when a long shadow stretched for him, malevolent dark in the bright moonlight. Looking up, the cold wind became ice, stabbing Tadhg with each breath he took.
She stood above him on the rise, a willowy figure silhouetted against the full moon. A shift of her feet brought her face up to the light, the wildness of her looks stoking the terror stuttering in his chest. The tatters of her dress fluttered around her thighs, the pale, bleached fabric bloody with hand prints, some dried black and others glistening wet and a breath of wind caught up her hair, copper strung long around her triangular face. There was a hint of hard death to her face; sharp, proud cheekbones and wide eyes slanted up at the ends. Her cracked lips were too full to be pretty and looked ill-suited to laughter.
From the look the White Lady gave him, laughter appeared to be the farthest thing from her mind.
The hill’s long grass bent under her feet, blood speckling her toes a robin’s breast vibrant red. It splashed up around her ankles, shreds of skin flapping over the tops of her feet from where she’d run them raw. Despite the painful appearance of her feet, she slipped carefully down the hillside, placing each step with the grace of someone born to the rambling Irish valleys.
She was a nightmare, walking on raw feet and hungry and Tadhg feared he would soon be her next meal.
Darker shapes appeared on the rise behind her, skulking canine forms with hunched shoulders and long legs. Their rangy bodies were too scrawny to be wolves but their withers were nearly the height of the woman’s hips. They flowed around her, the leader’s teeth snapping at the air, tasting Tadhg on the wind.
One of the canines lifted its head up, throwing back its muzzle to sing to the moon. The warble cut through Tadhg’s shattered resolve and he turned away.
And ran.
He forgot about the ache in his thighs and the strained tendons tightening his knees. With his breath pounding out of his lungs, Tadhg ran hard, hoping to reach the sanctuary of the woodcutter’s shed. Not sparing a glance to the howling pack behind him, he pumped his legs hard, barking his shin on a stretch of stone blocking the path. Tumbling, Tadhg cried out, cradling his head when a dark furred shape catapulted over his head. Leaving his rucksack lying in the middle of the road, he picked himself up, concerned only with the enormous slope-shouldered dog loping towards him.
It was then she screamed, calling the hounds to hunt and the slap of her feet on the road tempered his fear with its hammering pace.
She echoed through the valley, cresting over the hounds’ bellows. Their joined cries echoed the cracking of planks of a boat during a ferocious storm and the rush of lightning across a sulphurous sky. The air swelled with the scent of smoke and despite the rain, Tadhg wondered if she could set the hills on fire with her terrible rage.
His chest burned as he cleared the road, nearly falling over when he spied the circle of white stones jutted up from the moist round, their surfaces cracked and thick with black lines of lichen. Despite the threat of night, a trio of crows squatted on a lintel top and the largest of the three scraped its hooked beak under a thread of vegetation, pulling it up and tearing it loose. Behind the scatter of stones, a river flowed, its blackness moving too quick to reflect the sky.
Two intact pillars propped up a flat lintel, the topping stone high enough to keep him out of reach of the hounds. Desperate, Tadhg ran for its safety, pulling himself up. Pitted with marks and gouges, the stone bore long digs, the furrows giving Tadhg somewhere to grip. Digging his bruised palms against the rock, he strained to lift himself as one of the dogs reached his heel and he screamed when it bit, the creature’s long teeth piercing through his boot.
Flopping on the cross-stone, his belly scraped raw from climbing the slanted stone, Tadhg gasped and found the White Lady standing at the other end. Her long tangled hair thrashed about her skinny body and he blinked, realizing his eyes were level with her bloody feet. Tadhg’s chest rattled with the effort to draw in air, his throat closing when she took a step towards him then another. The stone was long enough for a full grown man to lie on but it still was much too short for his liking.
Walking on the rough stone with her raw feet, she left red, wet footprints, the lengthy threads of scored flesh flapping outward from her soles. The tangled vines choking the pillars and lintel tightened, coming to life as they were fed by her blood. Up close, her face was uneven, run ragged by time and starvation and the high cheekbones he’d glimpsed back in the hills were sharp; cutting slices of bone that looked to cut her pale, gleaming skin. She seemed unaffected by the run, her breathing even and her face a serene mask and for some reason, that terrified Tadhg more than the hounds snapping beneath them.
“Run,” The words she spoke were rusted with layered meanings, an older Irish leaving its stain. His great-grandmother hummed with the same accent, a battered iron tint on each word. “Run when hunted.”
“Whiskey. I need the whiskey,” Tadhg blurted out suddenly, patting his pocket for the small flash Bran filled for him from the inn’s reserves. The potent alcohol was meant to stave off the night’s chill but feeding Death’s bitch a charcoal-steeped blow would be better, he thought. The small metal flat held a few draughts and splashed wildly from its slender mouth, Tadhg’s hands shaking as he undid its stopper.
The alcohol soaked quickly into vines, swelling them until they lay bloated, black maggots writhing around him. The long ropes burst as they sucked in every drop seeping from the woman’s torn feet and amber liquid spurting from Tadhg’s flask. With loud snapping sounds, they broke, lashing out in the air and setting the three crows into the air, the birds cawing in offense at their ill treatment.
“You’ll not take me like you’ve taken the others,” Tadhg yelled, trying to make himself heard above the screaming birds. Below him, the hounds took up their chorus, singing to the hills and the moon until Tadhg’s ears rang with the echoes of their voices.
The wind caught up the whiskey’s scent, black and mossy, very unlike the heady-smoke richness of a properly cured snort. Tadhg reached out with a shaking hand, smearing a drop on the hard stone. It ran soft between his fingers with none of the thickness of a fine whiskey and Tadhg sucked his fingers dry, the peat water leaving a soft earthy bite on the tip of his tongue, tar-harsh and wet.
“Gods, there’s nowt a drop of whiskey in it,” He shivered. “Oh Bran, what have you done to me? What have you left me to”
Tadhg shivered under the sky, frozen in his crouch when lines of bright lightning woke the night, the jagged spears fighting with the round, swollen moon. The stones rocked and he gripped at the lintel, staring down at the soft muddy ground, wondering if he could survive the fall without breaking his leg. Pacing through the circle, the hounds dropped their heads, their eyes turned away from the crackling sky.
“That’s not the one who wants you,” Bran said, walking into the clearing. “That one can’t do nowt really but scream in the full moonlight. She’s not the one to worry yourself over, Tadhg of Killen.”
“You!” Tadhg growled at the shepherd, clutching at the edge of the stone. It swayed under him, his weight shifting the lintel on its perch. “Did you do this in fun? Having the village idiot run me down the hill? A bit of sport on the traveler? Or did you think to rob me? I’ve got almost nothing! Barely worth your trouble.”
“That’s not Creggan’s idiot, boy, and you’re more than worth the trouble.” The hounds were submissive now, slinking about Bran’s legs and showing throat as they passed. The lead stood firm, paws spread apart on the wet ground, watching Tadhg with narrowed eyes and raised hackles. “You see, She has need of you. I have need of you.”
“Morrígan!” Cupping his hands around his mouth, Bran called out across the river. “I’ve need of you, Wretched Phantom Queen.”
“There’s no laughter to this, Bran,” Tadhg called out, steadying himself when the stone shifted wildly. “Call off your dogs before I…”
His words were lost, driven like sheep by a rising hiss from the river. Bran called out to the Goddess again and the waters parted under a rush of steam, exposing the riverbed below. The mud boiled, bubbles of sulphurous air popping through and the stink of fish cooking in a foul silt overtook Tadhg and he gagged, retching his stomach up with a violent heave. In a flash, the dogs were on the sick, lapping it from the grass, fighting over the scraps of meat leftover from the lamb pie he’d eaten before taking leave of the inn.
If the White Lady was from a nightmare then terror and demons forged the woman stepping from the black waters. Hematite strands winking from the weight of her coal hair, flashes of purple and green peeking out from the depths as she moved under the moonlight. Her face looked carved from ice, haughty and regal, a gnawing cold that would numb a man to hallucinations before killing him slowly. There was pride in her sloe eyes, as if the world bowed to her as she walked and Tadhg fell fast, unbalanced at the sight of her.
Landing hard, Tadhg gasped and fought to regain his wind. His head throbbed where it struck another stone, the crack of his skull sending a soft reverberation through his teeth. A trickle of blood ran down his face, seeping into his shirt and turning the greying fabric a dull crimson.
Dizzy from the fall, Tadhg stared up at the terrifying woman, her bared toe nudging his ribs as one would use the flat of a palm to test a horse; seeing if it held its wind. She gripped a torn shirt in one hand and something dripped from it, landing on Tadhg’s face. He swallowed hard as splatters of harsh, coppery blood landed in his open mouth.
“You’re bold, Bran… calling me as if I’m some servant to fetch for you,” Her voice echoed in Tadhg’s ears. One of the crows screamed, winding around her head on spread wings before landing lightly on her shoulder. It nuzzled its beak into her hair, crooning joyfully with little chirrups. “What have you brought me this time, Bran of Creggan? Whose poor soul do you hope to exchange for your own freedom rather than lay with me in pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” Bran strolled over to stand besides Tadhg’s immobile body, the breath knocked from the young man’s chest. “Only a Goddess would think this life you’ve made for them is pleasure for a man.”
“You tear at them, pulling at their teeth and bones until they pour into the river, fattening the fish with his blood. I have no want to spend eternity as your lover, my marrow exposed to the sky so the rain and carrion birds can pick at me.” .Bran placed his hand flat on a stone, staring at his Goddess’ cold face. “Love this one instead. He’s comelier than the last one I gave, stronger and younger.”
“Give me one reason why I should take this one instead of you, kip-born whoreson,” Morrígan said, crouching over Tadhg’s prone body. Paralyzed with fright, he froze under a watchful crow’s gaze. The bird’s beak tip glistened and it flapped its wings, mantling when he blinked. After soothing the bird with a soft touch to its jutting chest, the Queen returned her attention to Tadhg, caressing strands of his hair in her fingers. “He’s prettier than you but you were the one the village gave to me. You’re the one I own, Cregganson. You were my sacrifice.”
“I’ve given you another in my stead. You have that one’s brother, the bard Ríordán,” Bran pointed to the filmy apparition standing at the edge of the clearing. The Lady flickered, turning transparent and she tilted her head back, her wailing soon joined by the hounds’ bawling cries. “You have them both.”
“No, Bran. You had her.” Glancing at the girl, Morrígan shushed her with a hiss, sending the Lady back into the moonlight that carried her along the road. “She’s been screaming since I took her brother in your stead. And she was screaming when you took your pleasure on her. Her virgin blood on your cock and life were sacrifices to you, not me. Ceara’s cries are to warn people off of you. She has no quarrel with me.”
“I’d do anything to shut her up if I could,” Bran snarled. “And I’ve continued to give to you although you have no right to claim anything else. You have someone from our village for tribute. You should be satisfied with him and not ask for any more.”
“No right? Ah, you think you are so above yourself that I cannot take what is mine?” The skies broke, crinkled with waves of light and booming sounds but Morrígan’s voice was pleasant, nearly the lilt of a young girl. The hounds eased back, falling and the White Lady broke apart, shattered into motes of light under a flash of lightning. Her howls faded with her, murmured shadows lurking at the edges of the circle. “That is what I think of your power over me, Bran of Creggan. Do you think I am as harmless as the hateful spectre you’ve created?”
The ground shook beneath Bran, tearing apart the henge. They fell, one by one into the gaps widening through the clearing, the startled hounds scampering to avoid the collapse. Knocked down in the turmoil, Bran struggled to stand but his legs were frozen, lodged into the softness of the earth. Horrified, he pulled at his thighs, sobbing loudly when his legs split lengthwise, tearing his braises apart. Naked from the waist down, Bran fought hard to clear the circle, clawing at the ground in a vain attempt to drag himself out by his fingertips.
Tadhg’s fear startled his mind into action and he rolled, moving out of the way before the chasm swallowed him. Avoiding a hound, Tadhg pulled back onto his rear, his heels digging in deep to leverage him away from the shattered earth. Staring into the abyss, he lost count of the dead that lay under the circle’s ground. There were too many to count but Tadhg could make out bodies, some to bone while others were pitch, preserved by the peat of the river’s shore.
From the cracked soil, skeletal hands rose, reaching for Bran and grasping at his wrists and ankles. They held him fast, trapped against the wet, moist loam. Eyeless skulls clacked their empty jaws at him, a bony laughter mocking his cries for help as fleshless fingers dug into him, scooping out the spongy white marrow from his thighs. Fountains of blood erupted from Bran’s chest, the spill of red misting in the air.
Bones and dried fingers crawled over the shepherd, scraping away Bran’s twitching body bit by bit. His rasps muted as he screamed his throat raw. Bran’s mouth foamed with rings of spit and he fought the hands dragged him down into the darkness below as he howled his rage at his uncaring Goddess.
The earth stood quiet for a moment, sighing with pleasure as the Phantom Queen breathed, feeling her power stretch to touch at Bran’s body, now buried far beneath her feet. Calling up her lust, she tore at him, breaking his bones into shards. Twisting her fingers, she poured her power into the ground, forging a new prison for the man she would have every full moon.
Red-veined stones rose from the earth, the dank dirt parting beneath their push and the ground sighed, giving up its prize to satisfy the woman who worked the boy loose from its grip. Suckling at his teeth and bones, the ground shifted, releasing long tendrils of vines and lichen to grow over the pillars, working deep into the splintered cracks along the flat surfaces, hoping to reach the tenderness of Bran’s soul trapped within the stone.
The river churned, frothing pink where Bran’s spilt blood touched its waters. Beyond, the thrushes whistled, caught in the wind’s fingers as it played through the grasses, carrying the shepherd’s scent on its kiss. The Goddess walked to the nearest stone, pressing her lips against its gritty surface and sucked at the drop of blood oozing from a crack.
Morrígan stood, silent and waiting, then with a flick of her fingers, cracked apart the fallen lintel.
The stone shattered under the force of her will, ruptures forming along its surface. Rumbling, the pillar answered the sky’s shout of thunder, splintering into rubble then crumbling, falling to dust at Morrígan’s feet. Peeking through the bruised clouds, the moon shone bright on the man born from the stone and dirt, his lean body run black with dried gore. He tried to stand, his legs giving way underneath his weight and Tadhg grabbed at his arms, dragging the unsteady man closer.
“I am always amazed at how beautiful you are, Ríordán, bard an Carraig.” She purred and Ríordán blinked, looking about him in surprise. “You’re being sent off. It’s time for Bran to take his rightful place as was promised.”
“Where is Ceara?” Ríordán asked, choking out the words. He spat out clouds of dust, coughing around globs of spittle. “Where is my sister, bitch?”
She struck Ríordán, slamming him into the ground with the back of her hand. Tadhg went with him, legs tangled with the bard’s and his wrist snapped under the other man’s weight, bent under Ríordán’s weight. Stars burnt behind Tadhg’s eyes as the pain shot up his arm and into the base of his skull. He heard Ríordán choke and then a splatter hit his face as the bard spat up blood and a piece of his tongue.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’d keep the rest of that pretty tongue of yours in your mouth, bard,” Morrígan warned. “And as for you, Tadhg of Killen, Bran was right. I’ve a taste for the likes of you. If I see the screaming whore run you down this road once more, I’ll grab you as well.”
“After all,” She smiled, stroking at the risen stones that imprisoned her lovers. “A Goddess can never have too many baubles to play with.”
*
In his old age, Tadhg spun tall tales in the comfort of the Dundalk Inn. His eyes were white and rheumy, the papery skin on his hands speckled with age spots but his voice remained strong and clear, perfect for crafting a story on a cold winter’s night. Younger men and children gathered around the hearth, listening to the wind howl through the valley and the sharp bark of a border collie admonishing the clouds for scaring it with its thunder.
Sipping a snort of whiskey, he let its bite numb his tongue before he spun a tale or two. But tell he did, until the coals of the fire burnt to grey and the soft grumbles of Smudge, his ancient collie, were drowned out by the snores of children.
With a few whiskeys in him, Tadhg could be coaxed to tell of Lonán an Carraig and the Lady who tended them. He spoke of her howls and the Hunt that followed her, imprisoned for eternity to drive men to the river banks where Morrígan, her Goddess awaited them. He told of the bodies found every rare full moon when the skies were frosted with ice, the shoreline cradling their bloated torn forms and their bones sucked as clean as one would a choice ham hock.
Then his voice would drop to a whisper when he got to her bloodied feet, raw from running, their flesh scored down to the bone and dripping with pus and gore. To see her footprints marked a man for her Hunt and if he were caught in her deathly cries, he could only escape if he reached the circle of stones by the river and tipped a bit of Creggan’s best into their cracks. The stones sang under the whiskey moonlight, their deep humming dirge driving the Lady back off into the valley to await the next full moon and unwary traveler.
The people of Dundalk would shiver despite the warmth of the fire but would laugh off their fears with a sip of brew and a walk through the crisp night. The tales were stories to warn children of being foolish and drunken near the water. Watch the river and tides, they would warn their sons and daughters or Morrígan will snatch you up when your back is turned. Tadhg would sit silent then, sipping his whiskey and stroking the soft ears of his dog.
In the morning, he would visit Dundalk’s henge with Smudge close on his heels. Its stones were pale and newly cut, their surfaces run thick with leathery vines. Hobbling to the clearing, Tadhg stared at the circle of stones near the shore while a trio of crows squatted on a tall pillar, their beaks making a fast breakfast from a belly-bloated fish. He often waited until they were done glutting on their day’s catch before approaching the stones, a flask of whiskey shaking in his ancient hands.
Spilling a few drops of whiskey onto the pillars, Tadhg closed his watery eyes and sang, a mournful lament of the Morrígan he served then cried silently as the Goddess’ stone-imprisoned lovers began to hum along.