End
by
Gerard O’Keeffe
Copyright Gerard O’Keeffe 2012
gerardokeeffe.com
Flowers End
“Come,” said Math, son of Mathonwy, “let us try, with our magic and enchantment to conjure up a wife for Lleu out of flowers.” Now at that time Lleu was a grown man, the most handsome who had ever been seen. However, he had vowed to marry no mortal woman. Thus, they took the flowers of the oak trees, broom flowers and the flowers of the meadow-sweet, and fashioned the fairest and most perfect girl that man had ever seen. And they baptized her by the binding sacred rite they used in those days, and called her “Blodeuwedd” (A Celtic Miscellany)
Not for the first time, student Emily Barton reflected on the mixed blessing of her family’s fixation with genealogy and their family forebears. For her, it was more of a hobby while for her father it was more like an obsession.
Since her mother had disappeared when Emily was young, his trusty computer had become his lifeline to the outside world: the source of great joy in his uneventful life. He took pride in just how far back his family studies had taken him to date. He had started with discoveries of “cobbler” and “labourer” back a few generations of Bartons. Later, he had delved deeper and discovered the likes of “sheep stealer” or “reever”, before running out of leads around 1666. That was when many records literally went up in smoke, in the numerous fires of that era. After being frustrated there, he had turned his attention to the branch of the family represented by his missing wife, to keep his pet project alive longer. And it was with the Duweis branch of the family that Emily found herself occupied today, to keep him happy.
Her trip from Northampton along the A5 through Shropshire to a remote Welsh valley had taken her longer than she had expected. It was mid afternoon by the time she had passed the remote Welsh hamlet of Llanpollen, taken the overgrown sunken lane to her left to drive cautiously for miles along the rutted sheep track that would take her to her ancestral home.
Finally, she dismounted from her old grey scooter and removed her crash helmet as the lonely trail petered out at the edge of a wide but shallow ford. Relieved to be free of the helmet that had made her hot, she pushed herself and her two-wheeler across this final obstacle of water and pebbles to find herself on the welcoming green bank on the other side. As she looked left, she saw the hidden family cottage she had been seeking these past hours.
As she moved towards her goal, an old woman appeared from the doorway. Emily assumed this countrywoman must be the writer of the old fashioned letter that had invited her to this place in the mountains. The large, spidery handwriting had covered a single sheet of yellowed paper and given rambling directions, confirming that the Deweis line was indeed still alive in those parts. In writing back, she had agreed to the visit but had not specified a date, but chose to leave it in the lap of the gods, as she had put it.
“Croeso!” came the high, bird like voice, before its owner remembered herself and switched to the less familiar English tongue. Her relative was old, her face a map of wrinkles. “You are most welcome, daughter of the Duweis, daughter of the dawn! Welcome to my valley! Welcome to Flowers End! I am Ceri Duweis.”
Emily had never been good at school or described as remotely academic by any of her teachers. But she did have one special gift. She was blessed with a remarkable visual memory. This meant that once she had seen an image or picture she never forgot it. Several times a week a certain scene, person or place would prompt a flashback to particular images from her world of books, pictures or the internet, something seen once and stored forever in her photographic brain. This was what happened now as she studied the stranger.
Ceri Duweis reminded her of nothing so much as a strange portrait by the sixteenth century Italian artist Archimboldo, whose paintings were made up entirely of fruits and natural objects. The image she had in mind was composed entirely of fruits and vegetables of late summer, with gourds, pods and berries representing the human features. Ceri’s pumpkin face and courgette nose resembled this picture to Emily. The ears were its small, dark pears. Her sunken cheeks were the pock marked, russet apples. Her lips were a runner bean.
With lightning speed, the old lady’s liver spotted hand shot out. Instead of shaking Emily’s hand, the fingers closed around the scooter handle. She wheeled it up the final slope with ease. Half skipping and half dancing, the athletic old woman covered the remaining distance so quickly Emily had to break into a trot to catch up with her. Soon, the scooter had disappeared into a shed.
A few hours later, with the sun setting and storm clouds rolling in, Emily emerged from the unlit farmhouse to study the rain drenched ring of hills. Her student’s stomach was full of stale fruitcake and over-sweetened tea, but she had got what she had come for so her fretful father would be happily employed on his project for many weeks to come.
Emily had teased out family stories and biographical details from her bird like companion. Ancient scraps of parchment had passed from old Ceri’s hands into her own. Faded newspaper cuttings had appeared from the ancient kitchen dresser. Sepia photographs had been dusted off and inspected. As she took in the scene, the success of her day was being threatened by the weather that worsened over the jagged peaks of the nearby black mountains.
With rising alarm, Emily realised she might not be able to re-cross the river ford that stood nearby. What was worse, there was no mobile phone signal from this valley so she was completely cut off from the outside world. Her father would be getting worried. Ceri did not have a phone in the house.
A wild river had taken the place of the sluggish ford, its banks swollen by rain streaming off the hills overhead. Noisy water boiled with a floodwater’s ferocity and the depth of the river had increased to several feet or more, making it wider than a city street and impassable.
The small, old lady tugged at her elbow. “The river has risen so we must fall back. There will be no crossing tonight. You must stay over, cousin.”
Indoors, Emily was not taken to the kitchen as before but conducted through the warren like cottage to an inner sanctum. A traditional Welsh Parlour materialised in the darkness at the back of the house.
“We use this strictly for high days and holidays.”
Emily was shown into it. This pristine parlour was a cross between a doll’s house and a Victorian junk shop. The furniture was bible black. Grimy grey lace covered most surfaces. Stuffed birds in dusty glass domes dotted the room while a collection of pincushions with coloured glass bobbins gleamed in the gloom. After she had adjusted her eyes to the lack of light, Emily asked her hostess about an imposing glass cabinet standing at the back of the room whose quaint contents were displayed on faded pink satin. Dozens of beautifully wrought miniature floral wreathes could be seen glowing inside a massive display case. No two were exactly alike.
“Why those are my flower amulets, my dear. Woven from the finest flowers of the Welsh valleys and something of a family speciality. But don’t you mind them. They’re not for the likes of a modern girl like you, are they? Here, have some more cake!”
Much later, a clap of thunder woke Emily after midnight. She jumped up from the heavy green eiderdown that swaddled her in her tapering bedroom at the rear of the cottage.
Standing watching her curiously from the foot of her bed was a glistening apparition, the silent figure of a shimmering skeleton cloaked in layers of faded flowers, the glowing outline of a youthful human form.
The spirit was clearly female and slender, whose grinning skull reached almost to the roof of the room. Emily stifled a scream as she studied the spectre. It flashed into her photographic mind as an evil, rotting version of Botticelli’s Primavera flower girl, only this figure had the evil rictus of death on her face, not a beckoning smil
e. Swags of dead flowers and monstrous garlands hung off her dancing bones as she drifted towards the bed, floating in the air.
Emily could only watch in horror as the liquid skeleton moved like mercury and stretched its flower clad bones over her as she shrank back further into the sheets. It sniffed the air above her through the hole that was its rotting nose. The skull grinned happily at what it encountered, cavorting gleefully in the moonlight while sick and fetid blossoms rained down onto the girl’s body. The student tried to scream but no words came out.
Dried buds and desiccated seeds twirled in the air above her head before thudding noisily onto the bedclothes. Writhing tendrils and bloody plant tips burst from the ghost’s insides and caressed her missing limbs in loving detail. Meanwhile, veins and arteries of thick briars and brambles bloomed forth and formed capillaries over her growing breasts and stomach. Bright blue flowers popped through her empty eye sockets, one by one. Quickly, a growing mat of flowers moved across the floor like angry worms, creeping up the poles of the iron bedstead.
A glowing, fleshless finger of Rue and Meadow Sweet inched forwards to touch Emily’s own shrinking fingers, which recoiled immediately from the blistering touch.
Within seconds, Emily’s affected hand had discoloured and fallen away from the bone like Autumn leaves. Within seconds, the spectre’s writhing creepers and runners were wrapped around her body, encasing it in a choking web and filigree of greenery.
For what seemed like hours, the exchange of lifeblood took place between them, Emily’s disappearing flesh and blood bringing forth a new, young body from the wraith. In the silence, thick suckers and sharp edged thorns sucked at Emily’s frozen open mouth, drew out her last breath as she emitted her first and last cry. The sated spirit drew away, dressed in a tapestry of stolen flesh. On the bed, Emily’s essence seemed to desiccate and shrink until it had reduced to almost nothing. Her triumphant visitor filled the room with a perfumed presence, taking on the final form of a tall and beautiful woman. She stood naked and glistening with frog spittle and dew on her skin as silver moonlight fell through the window panes.
The next morning, Ceri rose early from her settle bed in the kitchen, next to the embers of the dying fire. With reverence she opened the door to the guest bedroom. She advanced slowly into the room to pull the curtains aside, revealing a glorious late summer morning.
With a small inward smile, old mother Duweis looked outdoors, raising her hand in an involuntary gesture of welcome to the tall and slender figure, outlined in gold, who lingered at the far end of her long garden where it bordered the wild mountain side.
Old Ceri stepped back to the recently disturbed bed. She picked up the fragile knotted amulet of dried flowers lying there, kissed it softly and conveyed it away to its allotted place in the great glass casket. She placed it next to that of Emily’s mother, out of respect for the women of the family.
End
About the Author
Gerard O’Keeffe was born and brought up in the Midlands and studied Irish and American literature in London before qualifying as a teacher. He switched careers to business and marketing across the charity sector, where he worked with leading social enterprises, cultural and educational providers. He continues to work in consultancy, education and on creative projects with new talent.
Coming from a family with Irish roots, he has written and painted since his teenage years, as have his siblings. In his writing he often changes genre but is particularly interested in themes of trauma, silence and salvation. Much of his fiction has its basis in fact and he uses research and real events as the springboard for his work. He lives with his family in Cambridge where he enjoys collecting contemporary art, working with other writers and attending arts events.
For free stories, downloads and to learn about his upcoming novels, visit his website and blog at https://www.gerardokeeffe.com.
Other works by Gerard O’Keeffe
The Third Horseman
Based on a true story: A haunting tale of hope born out of despair...
At the height of the Irish Famine in the 1840s, a landowner, George Henry Moore, watches helplessly as the cruel policies and wilful ignorance of English overlords result in the deaths of masses and despair for millions.
As starvation and disease sweep Ireland, a desperate George Henry sells his family possessions to buy food for his tenants until little remains at his disposal, and even the unprepossessing racehorse Coranna is on the point of being sold. There has been no salvation.
But help comes from an unexpected quarter: the peasants Frank Butler and his sister Caitlin, who bring a new hope of life to the stricken Mayo community...
The Third Horseman is available for Kindle, Nook, iPad and other e-readers from www.gerardokeeffe.com.
The Statue and the Stones
A family quest that spans two generations comes to a dramatic conclusion on the Canary Islands in the present day...
1975: Jewels belonging to the Virgin of the Pine disappear from the Teror basilica on the Spanish island of Gran Canaria. The perpetrator is never found.
2011: An innovative young chef Gregory Sheridan is delighted to land himself a new job on Gran Canaria. He loves the climate, the people, the culture and the language. But when he tells his mother back in England the good news, he is shocked to learn that his own unspoken family history may be tied up with that robbery.
Was his father really a gangster, as Gregory had always been told? Was he responsible for that terrible crime? What really happened on that hot Sunday night in the Canary Islands?
The Statue and the Stones is available for Kindle, Nook, iPad and other e-readers from www.gerardokeeffe.com.
For a selection of other writings, including short stories and essays, visit Gerard O’Keeffe’s website:
www.gerardokeeffe.com
Contents
Flowers End
About the author
Other works by Gerard O'Keeffe