Hemlock at Vespers

The woman looked agitated, chewing her lips as if she would draw blood from it.

The door opened abruptly with a wild gust of cold air, sending snowflakes swirling across the room and a stream of icy air enveloping them.

Belach stood poised a moment in its frame, a ghastly look upon his pale features and then with a sound which resembled a soft moan, he entered and barred the door behind him. He still carried the sword as a weapon.

Fidelma watched him with curiosity as he threw the bolts.

Monchae stood, both hands raised to her cheeks.

Belach turned from the door and his lips were trembling.

“I heard it!” he muttered, his eyes darting from his wife to Fi-delma, as though he did not want her to hear. “I heard it!”

“Oh Mary, Mother of God, save us!” cried the woman, swaying as if she would faint.

“What does this mean?” Fidelma demanded as sternly as she could.

Belach turned, pleading, to her.

“I was in the barn, bedding down your horse, Sister, and I heard it.”

“But what?” cried Fidelma, trying to keep her patience.

“The spirit of Mugrán,” wailed Monchae suddenly, giving way to a fit of sobbing. “Save us, Sister. For the pity of Christ! Save us!”

Fidelma rose and went to the woman, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and leading her to the fire. She could see that her husband, Belach, was too nervous to attend to the wants of his wife and so she went to a jug, assessed its contents as corma, a spirit distilled from barley, and poured a little into a cup. She handed it to the woman and told her to drink.

“Now what is all this about? I cannot help you unless you tell me.

Monchae looked at Belach, as if seeking permission, and he nodded slowly in response.

“Tell her from the beginning,” he muttered.

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the woman.

“A good place to start,” she joked lightly. But there was no humorous response on the features of the innkeeper’s wife.

Fidelma seated herself before Monchae and faced her expectantly.

Monchae paused a moment and then began to speak, hesitantly at first and then more quickly as she gained confidence in the story.

“I was a young girl when I came to this place. I came as a young bride to the brugh- fer, the innkeeper, who was then a man named Mugrán. You see,” she added hurriedly, “Belach is my second husband.”

She paused but when Fidelma made no comment, she went on.

“Mugrán was a good man. But often given to wild fantasies. He was a good man for the music, an excellent piper. Often he entertained here in this very room and people would come far and wide to hear him. But he was a restless soul. I found that I was doing all the work of running the inn while he pursued his dreams. Mu- grán’s younger brother, Cano, used to help me but he was much influenced by his brother.

“Six years ago our local chieftain lit the crois-tara, the fiery cross, and sent his rider from village to village, raising the clans to send a band of fighting men to fight Guaire of Connacht in the service of Cathal Cú cen máthair of Cashel. Mugrán one morning announced he and young Cano were leaving to join that band of warriors. When I protested, he said that I should not fear for my security. He had placed in the inn an inheritance which would keep me from want. If anything happened to him, I would not be lacking for anything. With that, he and Cano just rose and left.”

Even now her voice was full of indignation.

“Time passed. Seasons came and went and I struggled to keep the inn going. Then, when the snows of winter were clearing, a messenger came to me who said a great battle had been fought on the shores of Loch Derg and my man had been slain in it. They brought me his shattered pipes as token and his bloodstained tunic. Cano, it seemed, had been killed at his side, and they brought me a bloodstained cloak as proof.”

She paused and sniffed.

“It is not use saying that I grieved for him. Not for my man, Mugrán. We had hardly been together for he was always searching out new, wild schemes to occupy his fancy. I could no more have tethered his heart than I could train the inn’s cat to come and go at my will. Still, the inn was now mine and mine by right as well as inheritance for had I not worked to keep it while he pursued his fantasies? After the news came, and the bó-aire confirmed that the inn was mine since my man was dead by the shores of the far-off loch, I continued to work to run the inn. But life was hard, it was a struggle. Visitors along these isolated tracks are few and come seldom.”

“But what of the inheritance Mugrán had left in the inn that would keep you from want?” asked Fidelma intrigued and caught up in the story.

The woman gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“I searched and searched and found nothing. It was just one of Mugrán’s dreams again. One of his silly fantasies. He probably said it to keep me from complaining when he left.”

“Then what?” Fidelma pressed, when she paused.

“A year passed and I met Belach.” She nodded to her husband. “Belach and I loved one another from the start. Ah, not the love of a dog for the sheep, you understand, but the love of a salmon for the stream. We married and have worked together since. And I insisted that we rename this inn Brugh-na-Bhelach. Life has been difficult for us, but we have worked and made a living here.”

Belach had moved forward and caught Monchae’s hand in his. The symbolism assured Fidelma that Monchae and Belach were still in love after the years that they had shared together.

“We’ve had five years of happiness,” Belach told Fidelma. “And if the evil spirits claim us now, they will not steal those five years from us.”

“Evil spirits?” frowned Fidelma.

“Seven days ago it started,” Monchae said heavily. “I was out feeding the pigs when I thought I heard the sounds of music from high up on the mountain. I listened. Sure enough, I heard the sound of pipe music, high up in the air. I felt suddenly cold for it was a tune, as I well remember, that Mugrán was fond of playing.

“I came into the inn and sought out Belach. But he had not heard the music. We went out and listened but could hear nothing more than the gathering winds across the mountains that betokened the storms to come.

“The next day, at the noon hour, I heard a thud on the door of the inn. Thinking it a traveler who could not lift the latch. I opened the door. There was no one there … or so I thought until I glanced down. At the foot of the door was…” Monchae genuflected hastily. “At the foot of the door was a dead raven. There was no sign of how it met its death. It seemed to have flown into the door and killed itself.”

Fidelma sat back with pursed lips.

She could see which way the story was going. The sound of music, a dead raven lying at the door. These were all the portents of death among the rural folk of the five kingdoms. She found herself shivering slightly in spite of her rational faith.

“We have heard the music several times since,” interrupted Be-lach for the first time. “I have heard it.”

“And whereabouts does this music comes from?”

Belach spread one hand, as if gesturing toward the mountains outside.

“High up, high up in the air. All around us.”

“It is the lamentation of the dead,” moaned Monchae. “There is a curse on us.”

Fidelma sniffed.

“There is no curse unless God wills it.”

“Help us, Sister,” whispered Monchae. “I fear it is Mugrán come to claim our souls, a vengeance for my love for Belach and not for him.”

Fidelma gazed in quiet amusement at the woman.

“How did you reckon this?”

“Because I have heard him. I have heard his voice, moaning to me from the Otherworld, crying to me. ‘I am alone! I am alone!’ he called. ‘Join me, Monchae!’ Ah, how many times have I heard that ghostly wail?”