Hemlock at Vespers

Fidelma saw that the woman was serious.

“You heard this? When and where?”

“It was three days ago in the barn. I was tending the goats that we have there, milking them to prepare cheese when I heard the whisper of Mugrán’s voice. I swear it was his voice. It sounded all around me.”

“Did you search?” Fidelma asked.

“Search? For a spirit?” Monchae sounded shocked. “I ran into the inn and took up my crucifix.”

“I searched,” intervened Belach more rationally. “I searched, for, like you, Sister, I look for answers in this world before I seek out the Otherworld. But there was no one in the barn, nor the inn, who could have made that sound. But, like you, Sister, I continued to have my doubts. I took our ass and rode down into the valley to the bothán of Dallán, the chieftain who had been with Mugrán on the shores of Loch Derg. He took oath that Mugrán was dead these last six years and that he had personally seen the body. What could I do further?”

Fidelma nodded slowly.

“So only you, Monchae, have heard Mugrán’s voice?”

“No!” Belach interrupted again and surprised her. “By the apostles of Patrick, I have heard the voice as well.”

“And what did this voice say?”

“It said, ‘Beware, Belach. You walk in a dead man’s shoes without the blessing of his spirit.’ That is what it said.”

“And where did you hear this?”

“Like Monchae, I heard the voice speak to me within the barn.”

“Very well. You have seen a dead raven, heard pipe music from far off and heard a voice which you think is that of the spirit of Mugrán. There can still be a logical explanation for such phenomena.”

“Explanation?” Monchae’s voice was harsh. “Then explain this to me, Sister. Last night, I heard the music again. It awoke me. The snowstorm had died down and the sky was clear with the moon shining down, reflecting on the snow, making it as bright as day. I heard the music playing again.

“I took my courage in my hands and went to the window and unfixed the shutter. There is a tiny knoll no more than one hundred yards away, a small snowy knoll. There was a figure of a man standing upon it, and in his hands were a set of pipes on which he was playing a lament. Then he paused and looked straight at me. ‘I am alone, Monchae!’ he called. ‘Soon I will come for you. For you and Belach.’ He turned and…”

She gave a sudden sob and collapsed into Belach’s embrace.

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at her.

“Was this figure corporeal? Was it of flesh and blood?”

Monchae raised her fearful gaze to Fidelma.

“That is just it. The body shimmered.”

“Shimmered?”

“It had a strange luminescence about it, as if it shone with some spectral fire. It was clearly a demon from the Otherworld.”

Fidelma turned to Belach.

“And did you see this vision?” she asked, half expecting him to confirm it.

“No. I heard Monchae scream in terror-it was her scream that awoke me. When she told me what had passed, I went out into the night to the knoll. I had hoped that I would find tracks there. Signs that a human being had stood there. But there were none.”

“No signs of the snow being disturbed?” pressed Fidelma.

“There were no human tracks, I tell you,” Belach said, irritable.

“The snow was smooth. But there was one thing“

“Tell me.”

“The snow seemed to shine with a curious luminosity, sparkling in an uncanny light.”

“But you saw no footprints nor signs of anyone?”

“No.”

The woman was sobbing now.

“It is true, it is true, Sister. The ghost of Mugrán will soon come for us. Our remaining time on earth is short.”

Fidelma sat back and closed her eyes a moment in deep thought.

“Only the Living God can decide what is your allotted span of life,” she said in almost absentminded reproof.

Monchae and Belach stood watching her in uncertainty as Fi-delma stretched before the fire.

“Well,” she said at last, “while I am here, I shall need a meal and a bed for the night.”

Belach inclined his head.

“That you may have, Sister, and most welcome. But if you will say a prayer to Our Lady…? Let this haunting cease. She needs not the deaths of Monchae and myself to prove that she is the blessed Mother of Christ.”

Fidelma sniffed in irritation.

“I would not readily blame the ills of the world on the Holy Family,” she said stiffly. But, seeing their frightened faces, she relented in her theology. “I will say a prayer to Our Lady. Now bring me some food.”

Something awoke Fidelma. She lay with her heart beating fast, her body tense. The sound had seemed part of her dream. The drop-ping of a heavy object. Now she lay trying to identify it. The storm had apparently abated, since she had fallen asleep in the small chamber to which Monchae had shown her after her meal. There was a silence beyond the shuttered windows. An eerie stillness. She did not make a further move but lay, listening intently.

There came to her ears a creaking sound. The inn was full of the creaks and moans of its aging timbers. Perhaps it had been a dream? She was about to turn over when she heard a noise. She frowned, not being able to identify it. Ah, there it was again. A soft thump.

She eased herself out of her warm bed, shivering in the cold night. It had to be well after midnight. Reaching for her heavy robe, she draped it over her shoulders and moved stealthily toward the door, opening it as quietly as she could and pausing to listen.

The sound had come from downstairs.

She knew that she was alone in the inn with Monchae and Be-lach and they had retired when she had, their room being at the top of the stairs. She glanced toward it and saw the door firmly shut.

She walked with quiet padding feet, imitating the soft walk of a cat, along the wooden boards to the head of the stairs and peered down into the darkness.

The sound made her freeze a moment. It was a curious sound, like something soft but weighty being dragged over the bare boards.

She paused staring down the well of the stairs, into the main room of the inn where the eerie red glow of the dying embers of the fire cast a red, shadowy glow. Shadows chased one another in the gloom. Fidelma bit her lip and shivered. She wished that she had a candle to light her way. Slowly, she began to descend the stairs.

She was halfway down when her bare foot came into contact with a board that was loose. It gave forth a heavy creak which sounded like a thunderclap in the night.

Fidelma froze.

A split second later she could hear a scuffling noise in the darkness of the room below and then she was hastening down the rest of the stairs into the gloom-shrouded room.

“If anyone is here, identify yourself in the name of Christ!” she called, making her voice as stern as she could and trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart.

There was a distant thud and then silence.

She peered around the deserted room of the inn, eyes darting here and there as the red shadows danced across the walls. She could see nothing.

Then… there was a sound behind her.

She whirled round.