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There is a feast this night: roasted boar and bull, honey-basted salmon, bread, cheese and curds, beer and mead. Your mouth is wet from the thick odors, yet the roasted meat is reminiscent of the flaming birds. It is hard to look at the crisp skin without feeling nauseous.
The priest closes his eyes. He clasps his hands and says a prayer to his strange weak god. Some surreptitiously stuff a piece of meat into their mouths. You slap Cuan’s hand harder than necessary when he does so. His eyes are the color of leaves about to turn and this time they look hurt.
It is called a feast, but there is little that is festive. There is only the bleat of the sheep and the low of the cows and the whisper of the wind. This is really a mourning, not for the man who died but for an innocence. It is impossible to say what you were once innocent of.
It is much past dark when everyone is drunk enough that there is laughter and flirting and the occasional sneaking away of a man and a woman into the darkness.
Then:
Dichu stands in his chair, but not straight. He will fall before the night is ended, and more than once. For now he says, “To Lommán: the boar’s thigh!”
Lommán claps as loud as the rest, for everyone is applauding Dichu, who nearly topples but catches himself on Lommán’s shoulder. Then there arises the cheer:
“Pádraig! Pádraig! Pádraig!”
Lommán is very drunk for he must stare too long at each face in the orange light of the torches, seeking the priest’s. When he finds it, after much noise and pointing of fingers, he slaps his wife’s leg. “If the priest wants some thigh he can claim it himself!”
Pádraig stands, though he is so much shorter than the others that standing he looks many in the eye. He makes a self-deprecating gesture. “If his wife needs this poor body, he is as great a lover as he is a handsome man.”
The crowd laughs. Some choke. Others slap their knees. Everyone approves. He may have only been a shepherd, but somewhere he has developed a wit. Though he smiles, you see it is an empty gesture.
Cuan snorts his mead through his nose much to Tadhg’s delight. He sits on his father’s knee tugging at his mustache. He leaps down and before he can run off you say, “Stay within the light.”
He starts to argue but Cuan says, “The demons like the dark. They’ll make you into one of them: long, dark and evil. And then I will have to slit your throat.”
The boy turns. “Would you do that?”
“Yes.”
The boy turns again but his step is much heavier and slower. He stops near the circle of light, peering into the darkness. It is easy to see dark shapes whenever the wind blows or a hound barks. Some of the older children are braving the night, but even they look grim beneath their smiles. One, a gangly boy on the edge of manhood, holds his knife so tight that his knuckles are a pale white. Another runs further than the others, then, when a loon calls, flees back to the safety of the torches so quickly he trips over a resting dog. When he rises, his face is dark from the mud and the other children tease him. Some have their knives out.
You turn away. It is too much.
Sparks from the fire drift above flickering into gray ash.
“It is only gray ash,” Cuan says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. What were you thinking of?”
“I would be happy to die with a sword in my breast. But I don’t want to become one of those things.”
His breath is soft and warm like a summer wind. “This is madness.”
“We need to do this to protect him. To protect the children. Tadhg. You would be mad as he is, if you had seen what he has.”
When he sighs his breath smells of mead. His lips are soft.
The feast is finally done. The fires have been banked. The scraps are given to the hounds. Tadhg walks between, his hand soft and small, so soft and small that it slips easily away when he swings his arm.
The moon is a cold and bright sliver, like the knives of many enemies.
“Mommy?”
“I’m fine.” Your cloak cannot keep out the chill no matter how you tighten it. “Just cold is all.”
Tadhg protests when you place him in bed but he is asleep even before the first verse is finished. His breath is so light it takes a mirror over his mouth to be certain he is still breathing. His cheek is covered in a soft down. You hang one cross on his window and another on his door. Through the smoke hole for the central kettle are the stars. They offer no comfort.
Cuan’s chest is thick with red hair starting to show white. His hands are behind his head. Sex tonight is quiet and intense. His eyes are a strange color: nearly all black but for the thinnest rim of green. His movements are practiced but the intensity is like those first few months of love, a passion that had dwindled with familiarity. Tonight is in many ways like that first night.
He sleeps easily. He is as hot as a fire when he sleeps.
The thatch overhead used to be comforting, a barrier between the elements but now it is a hindrance. One of them could be on the roof even now and, light as they are… You offer a few prayers to the gods, even the Christ, praying for a little rest.
But the gods are ever vigilant.
One glance out the window, nothing really, just a glance to see something different than the roof, and there is a tall black shape moving swiftly past. A hand over Cuan’s mouth is enough to keep him quiet. “I saw one. Get Tadhg, and rouse the others. But be silent. If it hears us, it will disappear.”
He nods.
It is difficult to find clothes in the dark, fumbling like this. The night is cold, very cold, and your breath, which is a radiant cloud in the thin moonlight, condenses on skin.
There is a path on the other side of the grain. Keep quiet, footsteps light on the ground like the first leaves of autumn, breathe easily. The grain shrinks away. Maybe it is the wind. Some turn black when it touches them. Did it invade the homes to the east before passing this way? Not likely, or why would it pass by?
It is headed somewhere. It comes suddenly where it is going, and you run quickly to the back side of Pádraig’s barn. The thing wants him before the rest because he was tasted and is yet free.
As light as its footsteps it is still possible to tell it has stopped. Its crimson eyes are visible through the stalks. Suddenly, like that moment between dreaming and waking, the world changes: the wind and the cold are absent; it is warm like a summer’s day.
The ground is cold now. The moon stares without feeling. Your heart is beating like branches in a summer storm.
The wind blows hard again. On the other side of the path there are thick trees in which to hide. It is easy to imagine dark shapes behind every branch.
The back of Pádraig’s barn is darker than elsewhere for the moon is low and this side is south. There is nothing but darkness around the side towards the path and then the thing falls from the roof.
Its skin is like black cloth fluttering as it falls. There is only bone, almost no muscle, but it is incredibly tall, as if the process of changing converts girth into height. This time its malevolent eyes are within sword length. You think, for just a moment, of killing it and then the images are there:
Days and nights pass by, the sun rising and falling with inhuman speed. Years pass by between one heartbeat and the next. The great cauldrons of the Tir na n-Og are filled only with dust and they melt like mud when the rains come. There are angels dressed in white but they only laugh and mock themselves before turning to black tatters. They swarm around like carrion. You embrace like old friends.
Nostrils are thick with the smell of copper and iron, and there is a wetness around your lips. Prey is only just beyond the next dark rise, asleep and unknowing. They are so vulnerable, so easy to kill. So ripe with life. So filled with blood, like ticks. It is not theirs. It is yours.
There is a sharp pain beneath the ear. Then: nothing. No, not nothing, but a gentle ecstatic pleasure that slowly builds. You embrace like old friends.
“Good,”
it whispers. It sounds like a summer breeze through the high grasses. It smells of worms. “Do you remember me? Yes, I am Meallán. Good. We used to be friends. We can be so much more now. Good.”
You let the blackness slide over your arms, but you see the priest between its bony, black and thin arms and its chest, its ribs straining against a blackness like charred cloth. He must be screaming. There is spittle flecking his lips. His mouth moves but there are no words. It is a relief.
It has a lisp. “Yes,” it says. “Words are only lies. The truth lies elsewhere.”
Its embrace is renewed. There is a sudden surge when it wraps its arms tighter, the way Tadhg does when he is frightened. Like the first time Cuan loved you.
Cuan. Tadhg. What of them? “Words are only lies.”
It is tall but weighs no more than a large child. Its skin feels like charred flesh. Its teeth tear your skin. Somehow, it is on the ground. Your sword is through its right breast. It lies pinned, screaming, fluttering in the wind like ragged black cloth.
Its eyes are soft and hurt.
From far away Pádraig says, “Look away!”
There is a feeling like soft, wet fingers beneath your ear. Swatting at it, it is the priests’ face. Sound returns with a suddenness: heavy boots, naked swords, shouts of “Here!” and “Kill it!” and “Aoife!”
This last is Cuan. His arms are tight. His kisses are hard.
The priest scurries away like a… like a rat, yes, like vermin. He returns with a pitcher and pours something over your neck. There is a horrible sound, like a tortured animal. Everyone is glancing this way, and they look as if they had seen a demon rise from the ground.
“—water,” says Pádraig. “It should burn out the poison. If we caught it in time.”
“Don’t kill it.”
“What?” says Lommán. His sword is poised over it.
“Don’t kill it,” you repeat. “We can interrogate it. Torture it. Learn something.”
The huge man does not waver. “Or maybe you will let it free, later, now that you are one of them. I should kill you too.”
Cuan’s sword is out, now. The priest moves toward Lommán, putting his hand on his arm. “She is right. We might learn something.”
Lommán’s face is twisted into a snarl. “Both of you are their slaves.”
“No,” says Dichu. “They are both right.” He bends over the black face.
“No!” screams Pádraig. “Don’t look at it!” He pushes Dichu into the dirt, then holds out his hand. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know. They entrance you with their eyes. It is how they paralyze their prey.”
There is a chill colder than the night in Dichu’s eyes. He stands before the priest. “If I was not certain you had saved my life, yours would have ended.”
The smaller man hangs his head. “Ask Aoife. She knows, now, how these things master you.”
What is there to say? A nod is all the answer needed. Head in hands, you bare your teeth for an instant.
Dichu says, “Take it into the priest’s barn.” People do so.
Lommán turns. There is a sudden thrill of fear when he catches your eye, knowing, suddenly, what his thoughts are. He says, “How do we know you aren’t one them?”
“We don’t,” says Pádraig. “Not until sunrise.”
“Then we shall wait until then.” He sits facing east with his sword across his knees.
Staring while he does, there is a strange fear: what if the magic water didn’t work? The priest said the sun consumes them like a fire consumes a bit of kindling. A flash and they are gone. Do the demons live long enough to feel the heat?
Tadhg comes from a dark corner and buries his head in your chest. His touch and smell bring tears. His heart beats steadily. Can anyone else hear it? It sounds loud, like oxen walking on the frozen ground. His words carry a weight no child should bear when he says, “I’m not afraid of you.”
His hair is soft and tangled.
“Can you feel their heartbeats?” says the priest. “Strong, aren’t they? It is like a call to battle.” He pauses. “You are afraid. That is good. It means you probably aren’t one of them. I felt what you feel. There are some chained to walls, fed off of but left alive enough to recuperate until the next feeding. I know their fear. It fades, sooner or later. Their fear.”
“What of the other thing?”
“That too.”
No one moves for a very long time. The wind whispers, the cold sometimes stronger than others, but warmth all around. And the steady twin thump-thump, thump-thump of their hearts. Tadhg’s is the quickest. You can feel it against your chest, like when he was an infant, but he sits by himself. No one says anything for a long time. Small clouds form with each breath.
Then, Tadhg points. “Dawn.”
The first tinge of pink against the darkness is barely there. Your own heart races like a wild horse. Cuan’s arm is heavy and tense around your neck.
The light arrives slowly spreading across the ocean first, then the small islands, and then the shore until it touches skin. You twist away but it is only the sudden brightness.
Tadhg’s hug is tight. “I knew it, Mommy.”
His heartbeat is no longer hearable.
Cuan’s kisses are hard.
So are Lommán’s words: “You would have done the same.”
You touch his hand so that he knows you bear no ill will. He nods, turns, is gone.