“Where?”
No reply. He'd gone. And so she went to find Jack. The looming, grey structure of the fortress cast a long, dark shadow over the grass. It gave her bad vibes. She shivered. When she placed her hand on the solid oak of the door it vibrated against her palm. I really don't want to go in. But she pushed the door open and took a tentative step forward, calling Jack's name. Her voice bounced back at her from the walls. He wasn't there. The air inside was icy cold. The flesh on her forearms puckered with goosebumps. Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach as the door swung too behind her and the sunlight from outside faded to dullness. The scene unfolded before her as if she were sitting there with them.
Four men sat around a wooden table. Three banged their tankards down hard on the unvarnished timber. It shuddered with the force of the blows. They glared in unison at the finer dressed table guest. One of them spoke out. “It's my rent you'd be wanting, you say. The honourable Burke wants O'Flaherty's rent? Ha!” The man swept his forearm across his mouth. The sleeve of his jerkin came away darkened by a stain from his drink. He laughed out loud. It was a harsh cruel bark which sent shivers down Brigitte's spine.
“Away with him, lads.” The men rose at his command. One grabbed their visitor by the frilled flounce of his shirt front. Brigitte heard it rip. They dragged him away from the table and three against one, hustled him to the floor. O'Flaherty stood and grabbed the sword hanging from the back of his chair. “So it's rent you'd be wanting, is it?” He unsheathed his weapon. There was a glinted blur of metal as he swung it up in an arc over his head. The blade swept down and in one swift blow he'd severed the head of his victim. "”Now tell 'em. O'Flaherty's rent is paid.” Blood pumped from the crumpled body and pooled in a dark puddle. One of the men lifted a wooden hatch in the floor and with his booted foot kicked Burke's head through the opening. There was a faint, distant splash as it hit water.
O'Flaherty stood, hands on hips and swaying on his heels. A grim sneer opened wide on his face. He bent and ran his finger through the pool of blood before raising his hand high, index finger extended. “I'll drink to you, Burke.” He toasted the dead man by sucking his life-blood from his finger.
Jack caught her just as the world faded to blackness and she collapsed in a faint. He carried her unconscious form out into the courtyard and laid her gently on the grass. He was fanning her with a pamphlet on the castle's history when she came to with a start, clutched her stomach and groaned.
“Oh my God, they chopped his head off! I think I'm going to throw up.”
“Take a few deep breaths.” he said, and wafted the leaflet harder.
The colour started to seep back into her cheeks and the sick-feeling in the pit of her stomach faded to an unpleasant acid taste on the back of her tongue.“What was that all about?”
“I'm sorry, I should have warned you, but it slipped my mind.”
“It slipped your mind I might see somebody get decapitated live? I mean dead... I mean... I don't know what the hell I mean.” She was almost screaming.
“Residual energy...”
“Energy! Muscles what he needed to sling that sword about. Did you see the size of it? Oh my God.” Brigitte was bordering on the hysterical and clasped her head in her hands. “The noise it made was disgusting.” She went pale again and started muttering to herself. “Don't think about it. Don't think about it.” The sound of a resounding slap echoed across the courtyard. “How could you forget?” It was a scream.
Jack rubbed his chin. “Did I deserve that?”
“Yes, you bloody well did.” She'd stood up breathing hard. There was no stopping her once she got started. Her nerves were out of control.
“I've seen it so many times.” Jack shrugged. “It's like a piece of the furniture. I've just got used to it over the years. Violent death almost always leaves its mark. Residual energy, like I said, and it'll pop up known and again to trip you over. You'll find that you get used to it after a while.” He wasn't taking any notice of her tantrum. “Now what we need to do is find a ley line which will let me get past it and maybe I'll be able to go further back. It could be what's been blocking me from finding anything else. Aughnanure might mean field of Yews in the old Gaelic, but the O'Flaherty's cut down most of the trees for weaponry and firewood or we could have tried there.”
“That man and his cutting edge have got a lot to answer for.”
“So if they built this structure over the old pagan grounds....” Jack paused to look around him, as if not sure where to start. “Which happened quite a lot as the original sites were good fortifications, well situated.” He ran his hand through his hair. He was talking to himself again. “Follow me.” And he was off. It took her all her strength to put one foot in front of the other. Her legs were still trembling from the shock. Jack was muttering, The river. We should start at the river.” He strode out of the tower house and across the open green toward the bank of the river.
He was hard work to keep up with. They'd got as far as the riverbank when Brigitte decided she'd had enough. “Jack, will you slow down. I can't keep up.” She was tired and sat down under the shady spread of the branches of a willow tree. The ground was damp and covered with a thick spread of old, accumulated foliage. She pressed her back against the tree's mossy trunk and closed her eyes.
Jack came and sat beside her. “All too much for you?”
“Just a bit, I think I need a few more minutes to recover.”
They sat there, under the tree, side by side looking at the river. It hardly flowed. The air was warm and thick with the soft, buzz of flying insects. Everything felt wrong. It startled her when Jack sat up straight.
“Would you look at that?” His gaze was fixed at a spot in front of them. “Can you see him?”
“Who, what and where?” She just wasn't in the mood for any more ghosties.
“He's there, on the other side.”
“No. I can't see anything...” But I can feel him. He's like the smell of something bad in the fridge. Acid indigestion or a chronic colic griping at my insides. Her lip curled up in distaste. “I don't want to see him, Patrick, missionary of the blessed saints, again ever.”.
Jack grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Let's go. We've got to follow.”
“No.” She wanted to run in the opposite direction. “I'm not going back while he's there. The well. I want to go to the well.”
Jack ignored her and dragged her after him. Brigitte heard the clop of hooves on the planks of the wooden bridge. She wanted to hide. “He's on a horse.”
“He is. He's riding under the arch. Hurry up. I want to catch up. Whatever happens write it down or try.”
“There's no arch, Jack.” Brigitte had started to feel faint and her heart was pounding. “I really don't think I can do this. It's making me feel sick.” It fell on deaf ears. They'd reached the castle grounds again and Jack stopped short on the grass in front of the tower. He looked about him, searching for something. Brigitte was exhausted and collapsed down onto the turf. “I want to go home. Now.” He wasn't listening. She squinted and tried to focus on him. He had the strangest expression on his face. Though it could have been the way the light was shining which changed his features. His nostrils had narrowed to thin slits and he held his head high and proud. In one swift movement, he turned on his heels, appraised the grounds, then strode over to the wall where she'd smelt the roses. “Jack?” He ignored her. The missionary of the blessed saints is here again. The thought echoed in her head. A flutter of panic ran through her. Jack was acting very strangely. She had to think twice before she realised what he was doing. She wasn't quick enough in grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. She looked away. Too late. He was unzipping his trousers. “Jack for heaven's sake... what are you doing?” She didn't really need to ask.
“There that'll water the roses of the pagan bitch.” He said before he swung around and headed toward the castle entrance.
She ran after him as he strutted across the open ground from wall
to door. With long impatient strides, he covered the inner courtyard and was at the main building before she could catch up with him. She hoped he'd zipped his trousers.
Jack barged through the wooden door of the tower house as if he owned the place. It thumped heavily against the thick stone jambs as he pushed them aside.
There’s nothing like making an entrance. “Jack,” she shouted after him. “I’m not going back in there.” Jack didn't take any notice. Brigitte closed her eyes, covered them with her hands and hoped the O'Flaherty's would be gone when she opened them. She followed him into the grand hall. The air was thick and musty. It hadn't smelt like that before. It was the middle of day, but it was really gloomy inside. An old man, smothered in sheepskin wraps, sat slumped on a heavy wooden settle by the fire. Where did he come from?
Jack stood behind him, hands on hips, peering into the four corners of the room. The old man coughed. Jack spun round to face him.
“Ah Dagda, there you are!”
Brigitte didn't like the way Jack'd puffed his chest out and stood with his right palm clasped to his chest. It was, she thought, a bit of a Napoleonic pose. The old man coughed again, hawked noisily and then spat into the fire. Brigitte cringed.
“What is it you want of me today, missionary? Can you not leave an old man to die in peace?” The authoritarian voice vibrated in her inner ear.
Standing with his back to the fire, so the glow from the hearth cast his face in shadow, Jack clasped his hands together. He looked as if he were about to preach a sermon, but he bent to whisper in the old man’s ear. It was impossible to hear what he said, but the old man's voice rang out loud and clear.
“If I burn, Breton, then at least I will be warm.”
You tell him.
Jack's features hardened into a sneer. “Where is Brigid?”
I'm here, but if you can't see me, I'm not letting on.
Jack had started to strut across the floor waving his index finger in the air. “I will find her and if I can't convince you then she will bend to my will.”
Who does he think he his?
Jack bent and pressed his face close to the old man's. “Convert heathen or there'll be more than your spit which burns when you reach the fires of hell.”
Brigitte had had enough and she kicked him hard on the shins. That brought him back and quick.
“You could be a bit more gentle, you know.”
“Sorry, but it was the only thing that came to mind. If it hadn't have been you I'd have given you a kick in the , well, you know whats.” His eyebrow went up and she knew he was really back.
Jack sat down in the chair, forehead beaded with sweat. Brigitte wondered if the old man was still there. Jack was pallid. “Sometime a spirit is so strong they take you over completely. It's all happened before you even realise what's going on. Now you've seen it once you'll be more aware. I'll teach you the procedure to follow to help bring me out of it in case it happens again. It's just as efficient as a kick.”“It's not a pleasant experience, you know.”
No, I don't know and I don't feel like finding out either. Brigitte decided a quick change of subject might distract him from the red mark he was inspecting on the bone of his shin. “I saw him, Jack, there in that chair. An old man huddled under some blankets or well, they looked more like animal skins.”
“Did you see Patrick?”
“No, just you shouting at the furniture.” She crossed her fingers and hoped he didn't ask what she'd written. The notebook was still in her handbag.
He looked at his watch. “I'm starving. Shall we eat the picnic.” She could, quite easily, have kicked him again. She'd had enough. She looked through the slit of a window at the world outside. There was still so much she didn't understand. A disturbing sense of uneasiness settled in her insides.
There's someone missing. I must go and look for them. As if in a trance and without a word, she walked out of the tower house and across the courtyard heading back toward the river. Jack let her go. Brigitte slipped her shoes off and wandered along the riverbank. The mud on the path oozed between her toes. Yuck, what a muddy mire to walk through. Then it came to her. I've got to find Maud. The long grass, dampened by the clinging mist rising from the river, is wetting the hem of my skirt. Soaked, it drags heavy and cold against my legs...
Lazy plumes of smoke are rising from the cluster of dwellings up ahead. They darken the already grey misery of a sky. No smoke spirals from the soot-blackened hole of the hovel which is Maud’s home. She has yet to set the fire. Worry hastens my step. She is too old to live alone. But like many, she carries in her the stubbornness of age and refuses to listen to reason or change the habits of her solitary ways.
Stooping to pass under the portal of her door, I search amongst the shadows in the darkness inside. There is no sign of life, no movement, inside this stone shell that has been Maud’s home for many years. There is not even the sound of her hoarse, raspy breathing within, just the lingering smell of an old and unwashed body.
“Maud!” The word leaves my lips in a croaked whisper. Tears prick at my eyes for I fear the worst. To death, I am well accustomed. It is but part of this life's natural progression. I have dealt with it often in the past few years. Many times they call upon me to accompany the dying. It is my given task as Ovate of the Western tribes to give solace to the spirit as it leaves its earthly body and begins the journey to the other world. I am unprepared for Maud’s passing. It is not time for there has been no whispered warning from the ancestors. I call again, but only silence replies.
The covers are heaped in a thick, unmoving mound on the small platform which serves for her bed.
“Maud?” Her name is a strangled cry which sticks like a bone in my throat. I draw back the covers to discover the misery they hide. The realization comes as sharp as a stinging slap on my cheek. The bed is empty. She isn’t laying there cold. A sob escapes me.
From the doorway, there is tremulous laughter and Maud’s stocky frame is silhouetted by the entering light. She holds a milk pail, still steaming warmth, clasped in her hand and as impish as any child, she trembles with amusement at the scene she has caused. “It is late you rise this morning, child. See,” she holds the pail high for my inspection. “I have already finished with the milking.”
Hurrying to embrace her, I hug the softness of her broad shoulders and kiss the papery, thin skin of her cheek as if we have been parted for longer than the hours of nightfall. “Oh, Maud, the worry you've caused me.” My words are meant to scold, but the moment of fear has passed and with it the anger at her unthinking. “You’re an evil old witch.” It is but a tease. We link arms and I reach to take the burden of succour from her hand before we begin a steady walk back to the ring-fort.
We make slow pace in our return for Maud struggles in the clinging mud. We tread with care for fear of slipping and pause to rest often as the cold steals the air from her lungs. “Look there, Brigid.” She calls my attention to a cluster of yellow flowers sprouting in the long, tangled grass of the path-side. With a gentle push she urges me toward them. “Take a golden rod and rid me of this ugly rankle on my hand.”
I linger to pull a few of the plants by the roots from the soft ground. It will give her time to recover from her laboured panting. The plants will be boiled for our meal later in the day. The fresh greenness of the leaves is a favourite of father’s and he will be pleased to see them served at the table. The roots I will hang to dry for cures. Nearby, there grows a tall patch of stinging weed which I think to take, but they are long grown and with no burdock close by they are better left to stand. I want not to suffer their burning pricks with no remedy close at hand.
Maud leans heavy on my shoulder and watches as I nip the dark yellow flower from amidst its greenery. We wait until the white sap begins to bleed from its fleshy stem and then, when the milk seeps forth in tiny, thick droplets, I dab the stalk to Maud’s wart. Her hand trembles in mine. I chasten her. “Hold still, woman, or it will be me cover
ed with the brown stain and you left with the wart if you quiver so.”
“And little harm it will do you, for your hands are far too clean for an Ovate. Look at mine.” She holds out her dirt smeared hand for my scrutiny. The skin is puckered red from the constant cold and the broken nails are rimmed by a ridge of black. “As wrinkled and as tanned as the hide of the oldest cow and as scarred by this life as the feet I walk upon. Is there no remedy for old age and hardship you have stowed in your pocket, Brigid?”
For that there is no reply. I can do no more than hug her to me and hold once more the strong shoulders which have carried me throughout my life.
A curving wall of turf clods marks the outer boundary of the fort and as we reach it, Maud’s limping gait becomes more pronounced. She is tired from the walk. Her breathing short from the effort. I know she is in pain, but she does not complain. A lift of her skirt shows me her swollen ankles and the mottled red skin on her thickened calves marked with weeping sores. Later, when we are alone in the kitchen, I will tend them the best I can. It is with a struggle we climb the slight rise to enter through the outer wall. Her knees stiffen and refuse to bend. It saddens me, even with all the cures I know, there is little I can do to help her. We draw closer to the main building and the babble of voices interspersed with the insistent shrilling of small children who have woken hungry assails my ears.
The place which has been my home from childhood is, this morning, a hive of activity. Father is holding council today and two of the outer-lying tribes have come to air their disputes and await his judgement on their affairs. They will be common problems carved by this life of hardship. For many, these visits are but a short escape from the everyday toil. The women will pass the day in idle gossip while the men enclose themselves in the great hall and waste the hours in tedious arguments. My father is a judicious leader. He listens with patience to their petty squabbles and arbitrates justly. The people accept his decisions without question. He is a wise and gentle man who is well loved by all.
Raised voices carry through the closed door of the hall and it is plain to hear the day’s meeting is already well under way. Maud and I pause before the door to eavesdrop. The voices are full of anger. One shouts so loud it is enough to make the ceiling timbers tremble. I imagine father is seated, away from the blaze of the fire, behind the long wooden table at the far end of the hall. He says if they are too comfortable then the more they tarry in their complaining. Father's deep, rasping voice speaks forth and the muted thud of his fist slamming against the table carries to our ears. “Enough,” I hear him call, calming the fracas, before Maud and I move away. I know not how he can suffer such tedium.