An Diabhal sa Fear Ciúin
by
Paul Freeman
Long ago,
there lay a village at the foot of the Mountains of Mourne. A collection of
drab, white-washed cottages topped with yellow and brown thatch, long since
swallowed by the marshy earth and mists of time. One day a stranger rode into
town on a tall black horse.
“The name’s
Flanagan,” he said in an exotic Yankee drawl, as he stooped to enter a smoky
hostelry. He had returned to the old
country in search of his relatives, he told the assembled patrons. None had
heard of any Flanagan’s living locally. Save for one old boy, but he kept his
whist, drained his whiskey and slunk out the door.
He had a
memory of a Flanagan alright, Mary Flanagan. He was but knee high to a
grasshopper at the time, but he still remembered vividly the night they dragged
her, spitting and cursing from her cottage. Witch and Devil’s harlot they
called her. His face was pressed to his mother’s skirts, lest he witness the
black deed done that day. But he still remembered her screams and the thick cloying
scent of burning flesh in his nostrils.
“Can I buy
you boys a drink,” the tall Yank asked three local lads.
“Aye, sir.
That’d be grand.” The three supped the pints of porter and small balls of
golden malt presented to them.
“Do ye like
a game o’ chance?” they asked the stranger, winking at each other, for they had
a quare way of dealing a hand of cards, in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains .
“Why I like
nothing better,” the stranger grinned, good naturedly, as he stroked grey,
drooping whiskers.
With
neither a curse nor a frown the strangers pile of Yankee dollars crossed the
table, while the boys drunk his black ale and gut twisting whiskey. “Well
you’ve plum cleaned me out, I’ll grant ya that. I’ve not a dime left.” he said.
The local
lads had done well, but greed is an awful thing and the accumulation of wealth
is as frustrating to a young man as chasing its tail is to a dog.
“Have ye
nought left to wager, what about yer watch?” said one
“Or yer
gold cufflinks?” said another.
“Well I do
have one thing,” the stranger grinned, fishing a gold sovereign, thick as your
thumb, from his waistcoat pocket. “What would you boys stake for this little
ol’ thing?”
The three
young men gawped, they’d never seen its like, doubted anyone within sight of
the mountain, or the whole county even, save maybe the Lord Lieutenant, had
cast their eyes on such a prize as was presented to them by the strange
foreigner.
“Would you
bet your immortal soul?” the man asked. The three boys, blinded by greed and
coveting the treasure like nothing they had ever wanted before failed to notice
the sly look cross the man’s dark eyes.
The old
villager who ran from the inn reached his cottage just as a wind wailed across
the rocky peaks, he shivered at remembered tales, from his youth, of banshees
and malign spirits, ghosts of aggrieved ancestors riding the mountain winds.
The
stranger put down his cards, four aces. The boys put down there’s one by one.
All their cards were blank, not a mark, not a symbol. The man began to laugh,
not the good natured rumble of before but a harsh, mocking cackle. The three
young men of the village covered their ears with their hands, but nothing could
drown the demonic howl.
The old man
heard laughter in the air, a woman’s laughter. An image of Mary Flanagan’s
dour, hard face came unbidden to his mind, sending a shiver of icy fear and
feeling of doom piercing through him, chilling his veins.
This is my choice. It's a clever twist on an old theme.
ReplyDeleteBruce Hesselbach
I vote for this one. Very good !
ReplyDeleteJason L. McPherson