Haunted Ireland
Beltaine (May Eve) was a festive, but potentially dangerous, time in the ancient Celtic world. Many Irish people observed numerous rituals to protect themselves as peasants did throughout Europe. Flower petals were strewn in front of doors to keep the mischievous faeries out, and bonfires were lit in hopes of increased fertility. The belief is that the thin border which separates our world and the other world is so weak on May Eve and Samhain (Halloween), that not only the superstitious, but also the wise, seek sanctuary in their homes behind locked doors.
Aunt Mary as Storyteller
Seamus O Faolain was among other things a gentleman and a curious fellah (but then
aren't we all?). He wanted to know about life after death (and who doesn't?). Seamus
had come to doubt the dog-matic version told by science and his religion (we're all guilty
of that now and again). But unlike most of us, Mister O Faolain did something about it,
on frightening May Eve no less, and worst of all ... he lived in haunted Ireland.
It was a time before motor cars and e-lec-tric-i-ty. The foot of man had not yet profaned the virgin moon, nor had people created ships that navigated beneath the ocean's waves to the depths of the sea. In short, the old ways still lived on, at least beyond the cities, onto the Southern coast of Ireland near the fabled village of Shamrock Cove where our story is set.
Seamus was almost dead certain ghosts lived only in the mind and not out on the foggy moor. Unfortunately, the testing of that particular point of view meant rising off his comfortable chair near the warm fire and going up and out the door.
He walked into the wet cold of night, slipping off the main road between Dungarven and Waterford, stopping only to light his pipe or to get his bearings within the thickening fog. It was almost the mid of night when he topped the hill beneath a full moon. In the valley below, the iridescent mist gave hints of muted lights rising up the hill toward him.
Now he could make out six short, very short, figures carryin' somethin' big and
heavy between them. Their torches flickered from one colour to another in the wind. Seamus could not help but think "six", the number of pall bearers at a funeral! There fell a shakin' on Seamus's bones, for he saw that whatever they were was coming to him fast. He saw the torchlight moving before he heard the whispery voices within the fog calling something out, but he understood them not.
Seamus
Oh, I'm afraid it's not English they're speakin'... or Irish either. Perhaps it's not a language known to any Christian soul. Oh, murder, sure it can't be the faery people that's in it. What's that they're sayin'? I hear Seamus O Faolain in it. Whatever made me doubt the good doctors and priests when it came to death? I'm liable to find out much more than is good for me. Am'ant I a great fool to go out on May Eve. I should have heeded the warning of that witch, Widow Haggerty.
Storyteller
When the little people reached Seamus, they threw the gruesome bloody thing they carried down on the path. It was, of course, a corpse. The nasty thing had but one eye ... one ear ... and half a nose. Five of whatever they were moved as if to the five points of the magic symbol, the pentacle. What should happen then but their dreadful leader stepped up to Seamus putting her torch to the terrified man's face.
Banshee
Care to know about death now Seamus O Faolain, isn't that right? Your infernal curiosity has drawn us to you like an iron needle points due north. Well, you'll see the like of which was never seen before by any living Christian soul. Now, lift that dead body!
Storyteller
Seamus felt not a single drop of blood runnin' in his veins. Every rib of hair that was on his body stood on end like the quills of a porcupine caught in a trap. Seamus fell down on the ground with fear, his face in the dust of the road, helpless with the terror that tore at his soul. No dog ever yanked at its chain with the savage will that fierce soul did ... but the body was not yet willing to let his life force escape.
The little people loaded the loathsome body onto Seamus's quivering back. The chest of the corpse was squeezed against his back and shoulders. The arms of the dead thing were thrown around his neck. Seamus arose, foaming at the mouth like a mad dog. He cursed and shook himself, thinking to throw the bloody corpse off his back. But to his consternation and eternal dismay, he found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own neck. The two legs were squeezin' his hips firmly.
Seamus
I swear to God and Peter and Paul, and of course Patrick, that I'll cut the curiosity out of
my heart with a pair of rusty scissors if only I can come clear out of this danger.
Banshee
Seamus O Faolain, you carry this corpse to the old abandoned church near Drum Hill.
Seamus
Never, if I don't live a day from this out.
Banshee
There make a grave in the middle of the church.
Seamus
That's entirely unlikely to occur.
Banshee
Maybe somehow the body won't be allowed to be buried. Maybe something else has the bed. And if so, it's entirely likely he won't share it with this savage thing.
Seamus
Not for a silver bowl filled with sapphires.
Banshee
If so, take then the corpse over by the fork that leads to Shamrock Cove, and bury it in the churchyard there.
Seamus
I'm not your man in this.
Banshee
You have but six hours till daybreak ... if you haven't this creature buried by that time, it's some other brute will load you onto its back! We'll kill you royally on this very hill. Then we'll drag you down to the bottom where we'll murder you entirely! So bad it will be, you'll be lucky to live more than a week.
Seamus
Never say it twice. Which way is Drum Hill?
Storyteller
Seamus thought to himself ... there was not a wet path, or a dirty lane or a crooked contrary road that he had not walked that night. When he looked over his shoulder, there behind him in the fog were the torches, and undoubtedly those who held them.
At last, through some withered trees, he saw the remains of the old church near Drum Hill. The trees were as dead as the being he carried. There was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. When Seamus reached the church door he found it locked.
Seamus
Now I have no more to do here ... the door is shut and unopenable.
Corpse
Search for the key on the top of the door.
Seamus
Who is that speaking to me?
Corpse
I'm just a corpse in this place, but I'm the Lord of the Dead ... in another place. Only the dead, the faery folk, and rare curiosity seekers are out and about on May Eve.
Seamus
So you can talk.
Lord of the Dead
Only now and again.
Storyteller
Seamus searched for the key and right enough found it on top of the door. He was too fearful to say more ... he just opened the old door and stepped inside.
Lord of the Dead
Light the candle.
Storyteller
Seamus took out a match, lit it and noticed a half a dozen old iron candlesticks. He found stumps of candles in them and lit them. The church was ancient, the windows was blown in and bits of old coloured glass littered the dirty floor.
Lord of the Dead
Bury me, bury me now and it's better for the both of us.
Storyteller
Seamus bent down, pried up the flagstones in the middle of the floor and dug with his bare hands into the clay beneath. After a few minutes, he felt somethin' soft but kept going, until somethin' grabbed his bleeding hands.
Bridget Crowley's Corpse
Hoo, hoo, hoo ... go, go, go ... or you're dead, dead, dead. Bridget Crowley needs her sleep, sleep, sleep! Leave me be or I'll bite your long nose off and craft it into a flute. Then I'll blow your nose as never you did, Seamus O Faolain.
Storyteller
The skeletal remains of the musician rose up from the grave, looked about, attempted to wink flirtatiously, and fell back in. Although Seamus recognized the decaying flautist as Bridget Crowley and a girl he wanst had a crush on, he needed no urging to cover the grave again with clay and hurriedly replace the flagstones. He skadaddled out of the church chased by shadows that tripped at his heels like dogs at the hunt.
Seamus (panting)
I suppose it's off to the fork toward Shamrock Cove, except I don't know the way in this cursed fog.
Storyteller
As soon as he uttered the word "cursed" the corpse stretched out its left hand and pointed to an old path behind the church. Seamus followed the bony hand out onto an old stone road which was in poor repair. When they came to a fork in the path later, the right hand of the corpse shot out showing Seamus the right way. When O Faolain turned his head, he saw the five torches following in single file like a chain of flame.
Many was the crossroad he turned down, and many was the crooked lane he walked with dogged persistence until he came to an old burying ground.
Lord of the Dead
Bury me, bury me in the old place now.
Storyteller
Seamus stumbled toward a gate in an old crumbling wall when he saw them. Dozens and dozens of ghosts of all genders, shapes and ages. They danced on the wall like little clouds caught in the whirl of the wind. He could see their mouths opening and shutting as if speaking or singing, but among them all he heard not a word ... noise ... or sound. Looking back he saw the five torches again arranged like a fiery pentacle.
Lord of the Dead
Bury me, bury me NOW! I need to return to the Land of the Dead.
Storyteller
Seamus felt the ghastly hands about his neck tightening, and the fog rose from about his feet to over his knees. No good could come of going forward or backward, downward or upward, or staying in the one place.
Seamus moved to the gate where the grisly ghosts gathered ... their spirits thick as the fog. And although not past fear, he was past worrying about the disembodied spirits.
Once through the gate, some powerful force he could not see threw him to the ground and bruised and shook him. Finally it carried Seamus through the air and dropped him at the foot of an open grave, the corpse still grimly squeezin' his neck.
Lightning began to flash about Seamus and thunder beat like a pagan drum. The fog crept off like a beaten dog. The false light of early dawn struggled with the darkest part of the night.
The lightning continued bright yellow and red with fluorescent blue streaks in it. The longer Seamus looked at it, the faster it fell, till at last it became like a bright shining ring of flame around the graveyard. Seamus O Faolain never saw so exquisite or splendid a sight as this. Down fell the red, yellow and blue sparks. At first, it had been no more than a thin, narrow line. It grew and grew until it was a great broad band throwing out even more brilliant sparks. There was never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that glorious fire. Lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so bold and so bright as that.
Seamus was amazed, and his spirit beat in time to the thunder drums. Each sound of nature echoed throughout his battered soul. Its rhythm now became his rhythm, his rhythm became his strength. He grabbed the one-eyed, one-eared, half-nosed Lord of the Dead, lifted the zombie above his head and threw it into an open coffin with the energy of a man possessed. Then he leapt down into the grave and slammed the coffin lid closed. Bloody hands and bruised feet rained soft clay down on the coffin ... burying whatever was within for once and all.
The sweet ring of day was appearing in the east ... and the grey clouds was catching a soft rose color. The moon had set, there were no stars, no torches outside the boneyard. May Eve had come ... and gone.
Seamus O Faolain should have been done in with alarm and panic, every bone shakin', each muscle a quiver. But his hair lay flat and as obedient as a tame dog. His bruised body no worse off then it usually was after a roarin' good fight.
Seamus set off for home, dog tired but whistling a tune about the sea through blood stained lips. Now many a wise man will form a year's judgement from the experience of but a single night. But with Seamus ... wisdom always walked eight paces behind his curiosity. He began to wonder how Bridget Crowley wound up in the church, and where at all was her flute? He began to wonder might he not see mermaids and sea monsters if he put out to sea in a small boat next Samhain.
So there it is; you must live life to bring it alive ... to ride it like a wild horse and not
corral life's mysteries in some library ... and saddle it in some book.
I know, I know ... you and I say we?re curious about many supernatural things when sitting by a warm fire with our dog at our feet. But unlike most of us, Mister O Faolain did somethin' about it, on scarifying May Eve no less, and best of all ... our hero lived in haunted Ireland.
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