Chapter 44 #2
The warriors of the Féin were enraptured, their minds swimming in glory. They talked. Some discredited its validity, others claimed to have seen the peak. Others, still, professed to be as mighty as Cárthsíarna himself.
“An axe that could fell any foe? That would be a treasure, indeed,” said the Vaich.
“And I’ll bet you think it ought to be yours.”
“Who else could claim it?”
The men laughed and teased. By then, the storm was well in its way, and a svelte voice danced upon the thunder. “I have a story of my own,” said Hirí, her eyes alight with mischief. “The tale of the Faerie Queen.”
“The Faerie Queen?” they asked in wonder, and the druid prickled at her words.
“They say she is Queen of land and fog. And calls the wicked and the damned. All will be at her command—the lady of the Fae. Long ago, she walked, and her voice called out across the veil. Through it came the wild and wonder that we now know as They. And on Samhín, when the world thins, we see them now and again—little lights and wisps and queer things, a-dance within the mist.”
The druid scoffed. “There’s no such thing as faeries. And those stories lead men astray.”
It was the faerie stories that had birthed false gods and gave reason to unexplainable things. A lack of knowing only breeds ghosts, is what his fíor had said.
“No?” Hirí beamed. “The ísthmhach shall come two winters hence. Then, what will you say to that?”
“The ísthmhach?” asked Cían.
Hirí giggled. “The day the veil shall open—and let the faeries in.”
The druid said, “The ísthmhach is no more than the joining of the stars upon the sky. The day the Thae meet the moon—Oín, she once was called.”
Cían grinned. “The druids were knowledgeable about the stars and the seasons! Surely, the queen has many stories! Why don’t ye tell one, Majesty?”
“Aye,” said Old Borrach.
“Aye!” said the men.
“Come, boys,” said the Vaich with a smile. “The queen is spent and wishes to sleep.”
“You’d like a story?” asked the druid, glancing from face to eager face. Perhaps it was the mood, perhaps it was the drink. Whatever it was, they looked at him with excitement, and he, sure and sober, could not deny them. “Very well.”
The Vaich seemed surprised, but did not speak in rejection and did not demand him away. All the men drew quiet, waiting for the druid’s word.
“I have been to many a village here in the highlands. Now, I recall there was one…” His voice was soft beneath the crackle of fire, and the warriors drew closer to hear.
“Yes, it was a quaint place just like this. Bréchart, it was called. I had come after Mírach—it had been an unforgiving cold and their stores had run low. A woman and child had taken ill and died, and the widower lived aside the forest. He spoke to no one and was rarely about, only to chop wood in the yard. They said he’d become bitter having buried his ilk, and could sometimes be heard in the wee hours of the morn, weeping for their graves.
It would be eight months before my travels led me back, but the Bréchart I had known was no longer. ”
Cían asked, “Had things gone amiss?”
“It did not appear so… at first,” said the druid.
He let his thoughts swell between rumbles of thunder.
“But as I walked, I realized… The children were not playing in the yards, the animals had been put to barn. There was no one about but an old haggard maid, and I came down and asked what had happened. It had begun in the spring, said she. The widower had gone off, though spoke nothing of his going. But with his vanishing, something had come in his place.”
The room had become heavy. The men were mute, their eyes fixed upon the druid. Even the Vaich had gone still beside him, and dared not speak as he continued.
“It started with the hens… then the cocks… scattered and bloodied at the edge of the wood. Not eaten, but torn. The nights grew foul. They’d hear scratching at the walls, as though an animal trying to recall how to come inside.
Some nights, there came footsteps of a great heavy thing in the dark, and if one drew near the door, they would hear a rattling breath rasped between its hinges. ”
Even the strongest amongst the Féin had grown pale, and others shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
The pause was pregnant with morbid curiosity and the druid’s eyes trailed to the fire.
“One by one the villagers vanished. Like the widower, no trace of them was ever found. But of the few who remained that autumn, they warned of the hideous sound. It speaks… as if human, in voices that seem familiar. The voices of their friends… the voices of their neighbors… the voice of a most troubled man. And always it begs… let… me… in.”
The story ended, but no one spoke. There was no laughter, nor jeering, only the gentle roar of the hearth. Finally, Nacht broke the silence. “I’ve never heard such a telling.”
“Nor I,” said Rask.
“Seems our queen has a knack for bardry,” said Jor, followed by mutterings of praise.
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” said Cían.
“He could tell another?” asked Alak.
“Perhaps another night,” said the druid.
There was some disappointment, but most bid goodnight, and the druid turned to the Vaich. He found those molten golds upon him, filled not with anger, but something more unsure. The druid said again, “If it please you, I will take my leave.”
The Vaich stirred. “Of course.”
“Then good night to you.”
“Yes,” whispered the Vaich. “Good night.”
The druid stood, the crowd parting for his passage, and off he went to bed.