The Selkie Girl of Cael Cuith

The Selkie Girl of Cael Cuith
by
Edward M. Sledge

         The fog was a thick, gray curtain hanging close to the sea, muffling the crash of the waves on a not too distant shore. Overhead, a gull wheeled and screamed into the pale morning sky before landing on the upper rail of the ferry. Andreas stood at the short, rounded bow of the sturdy ship, listening to the slap of the water on the hull and the rumbling chug-chug of the big diesel engine. The bitter wind cut through his long coat like a knife, and he gathered the black leather collar about his neck, hunching his shoulders to keep warm. Squinting his watering blue eyes, he stared ahead at the cold gray water, waiting for the dock to appear out of the fog.

         “We be nearing Tair Skerrie,” Captain O’Malley called, leaning out the window of the deck house. “Any selkies today, Bran?” The wiry young deckhand dropped his mop and leaned over the port rail, peering into the mist. The ghostly outline of a black rock slab rose out of the water. Upon it lay three white seals, their huge, liquid eyes following the ferry with unnerving intensity.

         “Aye, captain, we be graced by the maids of the Thaeddryn tribe today,” Bran said, doffing his cap to the snowy seals. He laughed and went back to his bucket and mop. Andreas watched the seals until they were swallowed up by the fog once more. Leaving the bow, he stumbled over to the deck house, grabbing the edge of the window as the ferry lurched forward.

         “Hang on there, Mr. Andreas,” Captain O’Malley said, holding the wheel with one hand and a cup of coffee with the other. “Don’t want to fall into these waters, to be sure. You’d freeze t’death in a minute.”

         “It’s just Andreas, and are we almost there?” Andreas turned his back to the bow, trying to get his eyes to stop stinging, and the keening wind whipped his shoulder-length hair into his face.

         “Don’t like the sea, eh?” the red faced Captain asked.

         “Not really.”

         “Don’ worry, that bell off t' starboard marks the channel. We’ll be t’the dock in ten minutes.” Andreas nodded and started to return to the bow, then looked back at Captain O’Malley.

         “Those seals, you called them selkies.”

         “Aye, selkie is Gaelic for seal, is all. Been a long time since selkie meant anything else.”

         “Oh?” Andreas asked, pushing his hair back behind his ears.

         “Legend talks about seals that can shed their skins and walk about as humans. They call them selkies, too,” Captain O’Malley said, setting his coffee cup down to scratch at his grizzled beard. “My gran swore for fifty years that she saw a selkie dancing on the shore one night. To her grave she swore it was true.”

         “And did you believe her?” Andreas asked, looking out over the pewter gray water and then back at the captain.

         “She was my gran,” Captain O’Malley said with a shrug, “but I never seen anything more than them beasts on that rock back there.” Andreas nodded, then staggered away.




         The dock emerged from the fog like a road to nowhere. Old, black timbers creaked as the ferry rode the swells, the rotting tires lashed to the edge of the dock protecting the hull of ship. Andreas leaped from the deck to the dock, his head spinning as the world suddenly stopped rocking. Bran carried Andreas’s trunk down a narrow gangplank and set it on the dock with a thud.

         “A lad from the village will pack it across the island for a shilling,” Bran said, rubbing his red, cracked hands together to warm them up. “Was nice meeting you, Mr. Andreas.” He reached out to shake Andreas’s hand, but Andreas drew away.

         “Forgive me, but I never shake hands. It was nice meeting you as well.” Grabbing the trunk by one leather handle, he lifted it up on the edge between the bottom and one side. Small wheels rolled noisily over the rough dock as he turned and left Bran staring after him, his footsteps a hollow thunk on the weathered boards. The fog grew thicker where the waves hissed over an unseen shore, until Andreas could hardly see the dock beneath his feet. Only the sudden muffled fall of his steps gave away the end of the pier and start of land. The path, lined with large basalt blocks, climbed up a small hill. His breath puffing white, Andreas dragged the trunk behind him. At the top, he stopped to catch his breath. Off to the right side of the road stood a slab of stone as tall as a man and twice as wide. Chiseled into its pitted surface were the words: Welcome to Abrae. Beyond it, the mist gave up and the valley below lay like a picture postcard in the thin dawn light.

         Clustered between dark gray-green and heather-covered hills sat the village, its narrow, winding streets paved with cobblestones. White smoke rose from red brick chimneys and many windows glowed with a cheery yellow light. As the dawn swelled, Andreas could make out details that detracted from the idyllic setting. The roofs were covered with new gray shingles and the neat little houses had pale pink, blue, green or yellow siding. Power cables ran along poles grown up behind the houses, the source of the golden glow. Green trash bins sat in the street in front of the houses, waiting for the ancient garbage truck that now rattled out of a rusty aluminum-roofed garage at the far end of the town.

         Around the eastern edge hunched old, dark cottages of stone, their thatched roofs falling through. Those were the dwellings Andreas had been expecting, though with new thatch and fires in the hearths. He sighed and started down the hill. It seemed that no place was safe from progress, not even a small, forgotten island.





         Trunk rattling over the cobblestones, Andreas walked down the middle of the main street. No one was about at this early hour, though faces appeared in windows, red and round, thin and drawn, all watching with the sleepy curiosity that small towns posses, where little happens, and nothing happens without everyone knowing about it. Needing directions, Andreas turned his steps toward the Laughing Banshee Pub, the only business along the street that was open.

         The flicker of firelight glimmered through the grimy pane and a small bell gave a timid chirp as Andreas pushed the door open. A cloud of pipe smoke billowed out, smelling of tobacco and some sweet type of herb. Coughing, he pulled his trunk inside and set it to one side of the door, below a stuffed elk’s head that served as a hat-rack. Smoothing down his collar, he turned toward the bar. Every eye in the room was on him. Some patrons sat with tankards halfway to the lips, their beer and ale forgotten.

         Ignoring them, Andreas cleared his throat and leaned against the brass rail of the old oak bar. The barkeep, a tall and lanky man of middle age with thinning red hair and intense green eyes, set down the newspaper he had been reading and grabbed a glass from behind the bar.

         “What can I get you, sir?” he asked, setting the glass on the bar in front of Andreas.

         “I just need directions,” Andreas said. The barkeep frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “I am willing to pay for them.” He set a stack of coins on the bar. Frown easing into a smile, the barkeep took the top coin and rubbed it with his thumb until the gold glowed. He slipped it into his watch pocket.

         “Where you headed?” he asked.

         “McCrea Castle.” A murmur ran across the room and Andreas looked back at the old men clustered around a small table. One of them made the sign of the cross and then spat on the floor. Turning back to the bar, Andreas gave the man an expectant look.

         “It’s easy enough to find,” the barkeep said, scratching the back of his neck. “Follow the main road out of town, then take the first right turn. It’ll go over the river. Winds uphill most of the way. The castle sits on a bluff looking down to the sea. Can’ae miss it.” Andreas took the rest of the coins back, then flipped another to the barkeep.

         “Thanks.” He held up a third one. “Know anyone who’d carry my trunk up there for one of these?” The barkeep pocketed his coin before speaking.

         “I’ll ask, but most wouldn’ae go near that castle for anything.” Andreas jingled the coins in his hand, then dropped them back in his pocket.

         “Never mind. I’ll take it myself.” Everyone watched as he dragged his trunk back through the pub door, the bell giving only a half-hearted tinkle before falling silent. He’d rattled only a few houses down from the pub when a young man stepped out of a pale blue house, pulling a heavy denim jacked on over his flannel shirt. His light steps seemed to dance down the porch steps and across the street.

         “Heard you needed a trunk moved?” he asked, stopping beside Andreas. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. A fleecy red-gold fuzz covered his chin and his brown eyes twinkled with youthful merriment.

         “That’s right,” Andreas said. “You want the job?”

         “I do. Grandfer said you’re offering a gold piece.” Andreas nodded. “It’ll cost you three, one now and two on delivery.” Andreas snorted and started walking again. The lad walked with him. “It’s nearly two miles, mostly uphill. Nobody in town will do it for less than five.”

         “So why will you only cost me three?” Andreas asked, switching the handle to his other hand. The cold leather was already chafing his skin.

         “I deliver groceries to the Count once a week. I’m nae supposed to go until tomorrow, but for three gold pieces, I can go early.” Andreas stopped and gave the kid another look. He had an honest face, honest, but shrewd. This was the best offer he was going to get.

         “What’s your name?” Andreas asked, digging into his pocket.

         “Shannon Douglas, sir.” Andreas flipped Shannon one gold coin.

         “I’m Andreas, and you’ve got a deal.” He set the trunk on the cobblestones and flexed his stiff fingers.

         “Thank you, Mr. Andreas,” Shannon said, also rubbing the coin until it glowed. They seemed to have that effect on people. “I’ll have it to you by this afternoon.” Shannon took the handle and began to drag the trunk toward his house.

         “Hold up a minute,” Andreas called, chasing after him. “I need to get something first.” He flipped the two side latches and retrieved a key from his pocket to unlock the main catch. Flipping the lid up, he took a pair of leather gloves off the top of the pile and slipped them on. He dug down through the haphazard stacks of half-folded clothes until his hand closed on the blade of Haeddys. The steel burned, even through the gloves. Wrong end. Andreas dug in the opposite corner and found the hilt, where the metal was wrapped in leather. It lay kitty-corner in the trunk and barely fit. He eased the sword out from under a pile of blue jeans and cotton briefs, the silvery sunlight playing along the gleaming violet-blue blade.

         “Good grief, what’s that for?” Shannon asked. Andreas shrugged and lay Haeddys on top of the now unfolded clothes.

         “Just in case,” he said, feeling along the sides for the scabbard. He needed a bigger trunk. Or maybe just a case for his cutlery. He didn’t need to wear the daggers all the time either.

         “In case of what, man? Do you think you’re going to be attacked by leprechauns or something?” Shannon asked. Pulling the leather scabbard out, Andreas slid it onto his belt so that it hung at his left hip. He moved the second of his two daggers around next to the first on the right side.

         “Or something,” Andreas replied, sliding the sword into it sheath. “Seen any dragons around lately?” He tested his reach, drawing the blade halfway and putting it back. He move the scabbard and inch forward, then rebuckled his belt.

         “Dragons?” Shannon said, staring at him like he’d gone mad. Andreas laughed.

         “I was warned about the highwaymen.” He patted the hilt. “This is just for protection.”

         “So get a gun,” Shannon said.

         “I don’t like guns,” Andreas told him. “Besides, you need a permit for a gun.” He slowly drew the three foot blade from the scabbard and twirled it with a neat twist of his wrist. Shannon stepped back as the blade sang through the air. “See, nobody likes to mess with Haeddys. Most turn and run the other way.” He returned the sword to the scabbard and closed the trunk.

         “You call your sword Haeddys?” Shannon asked. Andreas nodded.

         “It’s full name is Luaigh Haeddys. Means ‘potato peeler’ in English.” He laughed at the look on Shannon’s face. "Amusing story, really. You see, the sword was found by my great-grandfather in the back of some cave. It was rusty, scratched, dirty. His mother said it wasn’t fit to peel potatoes. Once he cleaned it up, though, she changed her mind, but the name stuck.”

         “Potato peeler,” Shannon said, shaking his head. He took up the trunk again and Andreas turned back down the road. The sun had risen above the heather hills and the thin light cast long, faint shadows across the street. Housewives in bonnets and aprons swept their porches, men in caps and overalls sauntered to and from the pub, mothers in jeans and sweatshirts hustled their kids out the door to the little blue school house at the end of a winding dirt road. The faded, hand-painted sign proclaimed it Progress Avenue.

         After the absurdly ambitious Progress Avenue, the main street made a sweeping curve to the right, and houses gave way to several shops, a small restaurant, a bank, three more pubs and a quiet little whorehouse with lace curtains in the windows and a welcome mat on the front step. A few more run-down cottages sat back from the road, tall thistles and silky grass growing up around the foundations. The dark windows watched Andreas like blind eyes.

         The cobblestones petered out, and Andreas moved to the ouside edge of the road to avoid swampy wagon tracks and puddles of red-brown water. Right hand resting on one of his long daggers, Andreas made periodic sweeps of the area, checking more frequently as the village fell father behind him. He jumped as the harsh call of a crow rang out in the still morning. The hunched black bird sat in the top of a dead oak, beady black eyes fixed on something in the direction of the village. It glided away on wide, silent wings.

         Out of the corner of his eye, Andreas caught a flash of dingy gray as someone ran across the road. The figure disappeared into the open door of the last cottage before the forest. Drawing his dagger, Andreas stepped toward the ruined building, then stopped. Leaning out the window was a pale young woman, her dark hair swept back by a simple leather thong. The bodice of her white dress was spattered with dirt and blood, and one sleeve had been torn from her shoulder. She pointed up the road, terror in her huge sapphire eyes, then vanished like smoke in the wind.

         Andreas looked up the road in the direction she had been pointing. The ground sloped away to the left, leveling out into misty swampland. Stretches of water reflected the ashen sky and white-breasted swallows skimmed over the hillocks of black marsh-weed. Hills rose up to the right, dotted with stunted trees twisted by the prevalient ocean winds. The road forked, one path winding upward and to the right, the other tracing the edge of the swamp to the left. Looking back at the empty cottage window, Andreas returned the dagger to it’s sheath.

         “You’re dead,” he called. “Go into the light. You have no place here.” The icy wind keened through the staring windows and Andreas pulled his coat back up around his neck. The woman was probably just a phantom image, not an earthbound spirit, but better safe than sorry. If she was still hanging around since the eighteenth century, as he’d guess by her dress, then it was high time she went on to her family.

         Andreas crossed the road to walk in the shelter of the hills, where the wind couldn’t quite scour the flesh from his cheeks. Delicate flowers of palest silver grew up along the roadside ditch, dancing on thin, springy stems among the waxed ferns. The road began a slight upward pitch and water ran in streams down the deep wheel ruts. A single line of wagon tracks now separated from the others and began to turn to the right. It had to be the path to the castle. Andreas glanced up to find a red buck climbing out of the ditch on the other side of the narrow muddy track. It stopped at the edge of the road, scenting the wind. It looked at him, ears flicking back and forth, then began to pick it’s way across the furrowed road. Holding absolutely still, Andreas watched the deer disappear over the bank into the swampland. Smiling to himself, he turned up the right-hand path.

         “You don’ want to be going up there,” called a thin, reedy voice. Back across the main road, a man leaned against a pale barked birch, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His skin was golden brown, his eyes like dark honey, and his hair and beard glowed with the warmpth of copper and gold. Andreas eased his hand toward the hilt of Haeddys.

         “Who are you and what business is it of yours?” he asked. The man shrugged.

         “I’m Kenwarren Dandri,” he answered, taking his right hand out of his pocket to scratch at his beard, “and it’s none of my business, I suppose.” A ring of soft silver glowed on his finger, catching the faint sun and reflecting a soft, muted light. “I just don’t think you know where you’re headed for.”

         “I’m looking for McCrea Castle,” Andreas said. “I was told it lies at the end of this road.”

         “You were told right then,” Kenwarren said, shoving his hand back into his pocket. “What do you want with the cursed McCrea boy?”

         “Angus McCrea asked for my help,” Andreas said, wanting to be clear as to which McCrea he was talking about. “Other than that, I don’t know why I’m here.”

         “I could tell you why,” Kenwarren said with a snort, “but you wouldn’ae believe me.” Andreas frowned as Kenwarren pushed himself away from the tree and began walking down the road toward Abrae. “Hurry along now, there’s a horse waiting for you at the bridge,” the strange man called back. “She’s a nice little filly.” He laughed as he disappeared around behind the hill. Andreas forced his hand away from the hilt of his sword, but it found it’s way to his daggers instead. Kenwarren had left him with an uneasy feeling. The wind was laced with a heavy, cloying scent that Andreas couldn’t help but try to brush away from his face. He shivered, but left his coat hanging open. He wanted to have Haeddys within easy reach.




         At least the biting wind had stopped. It was the only upside Andreas could find to this trek through the woods. A twilit gloom hung thick beneath the reaching branches that arched over the winding path. Long, trailing swathes of gray moss hung from every gnarled, crooked branch, drifting in the damp breaths of ocean air that managed to wend their way through the trees. The path was mud from one side to the other, churned up by the hooves of a large horse. He couldn’t make out the wagon tracks that he’d been following, but it wasn’t like there was a wrong turn for him to take. The trees grew so close sometimes that Andreas had no choice but to slog on through the muck. His jeans were wet from mid-calf down, the bottom two inches stiff with sticky red mud.

         “He is not paying me enough for this,” he muttered under his breath, having to stop and retrieve a stuck shoe for the second time. Somewhere up ahead, the river roared, lending a deeper chill to already damp air. He couldn’t help but wonder if Kenwarren was telling the truth about the horse. He wanted him to be. Certainly, he didn’t want to walk the rest of the way. Still, something about the man’s demeanor struck Andreas as devious.

         As he rounded the final bend in the road before the river, the forest opened out for a space, allowing a carpet of thick clover, grass and heather to spring up alongside the path. Feeling guilty for his muddy footprints, Andreas stayed to the very edge of the verdant little park, where the footing was firm enough, but he wasn’t tromping down the greenery. He stopped at the river and looked down at the surging brown water. It wasn’t big as far as rivers went, around fifteen feet from one bank to the other, but the water looked deep and cold, slapping against the crumbling bank and rotting timbers of the little wooden bridge. Tiny golden mushrooms grew in mounds along the outside edges of the bridge and pale pink lichen lay like wet limoleum over the rough planks. The left handrail was missing and the right was draped by more lacy gray moss.

         “I don’t think so,” Andreas said. He turned around, but the thought of fighting through all that mud again was as unappealing as crossing the bridge of death. He looked around for another option. Standing in the edge of the forest, munching happily on the clover, was a beautiful black filly with one white sock on her left hind leg. She wore a delicate golden bridle and a simple leather saddle over a dark green blanket. Raising her head, she stared at Andreas with huge brown doe eyes and slowly chewed her clover. Andreas grinned and shook his head. No wonder Kenwarren was laughing.

         “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Andreas said, walking across the meadow toward the horse. She nickered and took a step forward. He reached out and rubbed the soft hair on her forehead, his hand sweeping back through her forelock and along her mane. Tangled in the silky hair behind her ears was a damp strand of pale green waterweed, the kind that thrived in deep water. “My, my, whatever is this doing here?” he asked. The filly looked at him with her big, innocent eyes and he grabbed the bridle close to her head. She bared her teeth and laid her ears back, her tail snapping like a whip as she lashed it from side to side. “Nice try, but I’ve met your kind before.” She stomped her hooves and snorted.

         “What do you want?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. Her voice was ground down to an irritated growl, but he could still detect the natural sweet and bubbly tone of it.

         “Tell me, is there another bridge, or is this the only one?”

         “I’m nae gonna tell you anything,” she spat, jumping back and beginning to buck. Andreas yanked hard on the bridle, almost pulling it off, and she stopped dead, legs quivering. “All right, all right, I give. There’s a bridge up by Coirahn Hollow, and another across Red Fern Road, and two near Craver’s Village, and -- What!?” she asked as Andreas gave the bridle another sharp jerk.

         “I’m not looking for every bridge on the island,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I want to cross here. Now, is this bridge safe, or is there another way across within half a mile?”

         “Why didn’ae you say so before?” the filly asked. “Yes.” Andreas shook her by the bridle, but she just blinked smugly at him.

         “Yes what?” he demanded. “Yes, the bridge is safe?”

         “Yes,” she said again, pawing at the ground.

         “Fine,” Andreas said. He started to release the bridle, but stopped. “What’s your name?” She blinked at him again, but the look was more surprised this time, as if no one had ever asked before.

         “Caeldhanie an Ranog,” she answered. “If you must call me, call me Dhanie.”

         “Thanks for the help, Dhanie,” Andreas said. He let go of the bridle and patted her on the shoulder. She snapped him with her tail as she walked away.

         “Bite me,” she said over her shoulder. Andreas chuckled and headed for the bridge. The filly trotted to the riverbank and splashed into the swirling brown water. Looking at the fungus encrusted bridge, he would have sworn she was lying, but kelpies did not lie, not once you had them at your mercy.

         Taking a deep breath, Andreas stepped onto the bridge. The lichen was even slimer than it looked, and his foot shot foreward. He grabbed at the mossy handrail, and it snapped off, falling into the river with a splash. Arms flailing wildly, Andreas slid out onto the bridge. It was like ice skating for the first time, except with the very real danger of drowning. The boards creaked beneath his feet and he made a rather ungraceful shuffle toward the far side of the river.

                   “Watch your step, it be slippery!” Dhanie called, her black head bobbing upstream. Her mane swirled around her in the current.

         “I though you said this was safe,” Andreas said, taking a tenative step forward.

         “Oh, it is,” the kelpie said. “Ants be running across it all day long. Mice, too. Why, I saw a fox go scurrying over it just yesterday.” She laughed, braying like a donkey. “You never asked if it were safe for you, though!” Andreas clenched his fists.

         “Laugh now, demon, but I’ll get you for this,” he said.

         “If you survive,” she called, drifting under the bridge. She rolled over and kicked at the underneath side of the boards with her sharp hooves. The bridge shook and Andreas slid sideways toward the edge. Whole planks crumbled and splashed into the water. Andreas leaned toward the middle of the bridge, arms waving, balanced on one foot as the other hung out over the raging river. His foot shot out from under him. The swirling, muddy water rushed up.

         Dhanie leapt up out of the river and he landed across her back, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. The saddle was gone and her skin was cold and wet, but not as cold or wet as the river would have been. She landed on the bank. “Saved your life,” she said and then bucked him off. He landed on his shoulder in the deep mud of the road.

         “Why did you do that?” he asked, fighting to his feet. His left side was completely caked with thick, red mud.

         “You’re heavy,” she said. “Besides, I can’ae stand the feel of man-flesh.” She flopped down in the deep grass and began to roll about.

         “I meant, why did you save me?” She got up and shook the clover from her coat.

         “Now you owe me a favor,” she said, “and I will come to call. Besides, I wanted to see you try to cross that bridge again.” Laughing, she kicked up her hooves and bolted into the river. Andreas grabbed a glob of muck off his coat and threw it after her. She had put him on the same side from which he had started. He stood in the grassy clearing and scraped most of the muck off his coat and out of his hair, not feeling guilty in the slightest for fouling the kelpie’s meadow. She taunted him by trotting back and forth across the bridge.

         “You’d make an excellent cart horse,” he said.

         “You’d make a terrible ballerina,” she shot back. He squatted in the meadow and closed his eyes. Reaching out, he and plucked a clover at random. He looked down at it and sighed. Four leaves. Always four leaves. “Hey, don’t you be stealing my clover!” Dhanie called. Andreas threw the clover to the ground and stalked toward the river. He hated doing this.

         “I’ve had just about enough of you,” he said. His hands began to tremble as he neared the bank. He’d have to do this fast. The smell of burning leaves filled the air. Dhanie stopped halfway across the bridge, her ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring. As Andreas reached the edge of the river, he exhaled onto the water. The river stopped flowing. At least, a small section of it did. The water downstream drained out, leaving a deep trough filled with stranded waterweed and gray-green bones. On the upstream side, the water began to backbuild, rising quickly.

         “You’re ruining my river!” Dhanie cried as he ran across the walkway of still water. It was bouncy. “Stop it!”

         “As you wish,” Andreas said, once again reigning in his energy. The river thundered down into the empty channel, ripping up plants and washing the carpet of bones downstream.

         “No! My bones! Look what you did to my bones!” the enraged kelpie shrieked. “Do you know how long I’ve been collecting those?”

         “I told you I’d pay you back for your treachery,” Andreas said, as his nervous hands played with his collar and tried to rub the drying mud off his neck. Damn jitters. Dhanie paced and fumed and stomped her hooves on the bridge. She finally gave a great sigh and hung her head.

         “All right, cousin,” she said, plodding over to stand beside him, “you got me. I’m sorry I tricked you, okay?” She shook herself and the saddle appeared on her back again. “Want a ride?”

         “First off,” Andreas said, “we are not cousins. Second, I know your kind too well.” He started walking up the road toward the castle. “I’d be the first in your new collection.” He could hear her stomping her hooves and tearing up the ground, but he didn’t look back.

         “Fine,” she called after him, “walk for all I care. Ever think I might try to be nice once and while? Especially to family?” Andreas ignored her and after a moment she splashed back into the river. Shivering in his damp and muddy clothes, Andreas hugged himself and heaved an exasperated sigh. Kelpies. Damnedable water demons was all they were, and no relation of his.




         If he thought the forest before the river was dark and gloomy, it now seemed positively sunny compared to this. The ground had firmed up a bit and the trees, larger, older and farther apart, no longer crowded the road, but it was darker than the inside of an acorn. The tracks of the horse ran up and down the path, but Andreas couldn’t find a single trace of wheel ruts. What, did Shannon make the rest of the trip on horseback? It would make it very hard to deliver a trunk. Of course, now that he thought about it, he didn’t see how a cart was going to make it over that shambles of a bridge anyway.

         A sound rose up, what he first though was thunder, and he groaned aloud. That’s all he needed was rain on top of everything else. But the sound didn’t die away like thunder usually did. It swelled steadily, growing until Andreas could feel a tremor in the very ground beneath his feet. It was hoofbeats, galloping fast. He looked up the road and back the way he had come, but the twists of the path obscured everything after only a few feet. The horse was coming too fast to be Shannon, even if he wasn’t pulling a cart. No one galloped a packhorse along a winding mud track.

         “Dhanie.” The word was a curse, and Andreas stepped to the middle of the road. He drew Haeddys and wiped the mud from the crosspiece. If that damned kelpie hadn’t had enough yet, he was going to have to make a point. Anger still shuddered through him, at what she had done, and what she had forced him to do. Watching his sword tremble in his shaking hands was enough to fuel his rage for a long time. He would feel no remorse for taking a few stabs at her. It wouldn’t kill her, to be sure. Kelpies can’t die by sword alone, but the steel blade would burn her faerie flesh like acid.

         He face back toward the river and waited, feet apart in a fighting stance, the hilt gripped with both hands. As the span of several breaths passed his arms began to tire and his hands shook worse than before. The thunderous hoofbeats echoed from the trunks of trees and shook leaves down onto the road. Any second and she would show her black head around the corner.

         The sound crystalized, no more a bouncing echo, but straight from the source, coming from behind him. Andreas spun around, raising Haeddys in a defensive move to protect his head and neck. Between the blade and his arm, Andreas caught a glimpse of a massive red animal bearing down on him. White fangs gleamed in the gloom. With a cry of surprise, Andreas threw himself to the side, rolling until his back slammed into the base of a tree. Gasping for breath, he looked up in time to see the matted black tail of a huge horse vanish around the corner. The hoofbeats faded away into silence.

         “What the hell was that?” Andreas asked, picking himself up off the ground. Now all of his coat was smeared with dirt. Burrs clung to his hair, tangling tighter the more he fought to get them out. “Dammit!” he shouted, kicking the trunk of the tree next to him. He slammed his sword back into its scabbard and stalked up the road, shaking hands clenched into fists and a scowl etched into his face. He was certainly not being paid enough. Not by half.




         The forest ended at the base of a rocky promontory, but the road carved into the granite, doubling back on itself twice as it forged up the steep slope. Dark ferns and those tiny silver flowers sprang up in every crack and crevice, slowly wearing the bluff down. The wind again assaulted him, cutting through his clothes and numbing his chilled flesh. He could hardly feel his fingers. Teeth chattering, he began the long trek up the hill.

         The wind smelled of the shore again, of salt and decay. The beach was the only place where dead and rotting plants and fish was an appealing odor. It helped that it was mingled with the wild scent of sea spray, of course, but it was intoxicating none the less. He was probably biased, as he had not been to the shore in a lifetime, but just the smell of it eased his jitters. When the road flattened out to double back, he stopped a moment, even in the biting wind, to stare down at the frothing waves as they crashed upon the rocks below.

         The soft hiss of the waves upon the stretch of sandy beach to the left was almost impossible to hear over the roar of the breakers. Andreas squinted into the wind, staring down at two white shapes stretched out on a flat black rock sitting halfway out into the ocean. The wind carried their cries up to him, and he was shocked by their plaintive tones. After a moment, first one, then the other, slipped off the rock and swam out to sea, their heads bobbing on the incoming swells.

         Turning his back to the wind, Andreas hunched his shoulder and bowed his head, keeping his eyes on his muddy shoes as he doggedly put one foot in front of the other. He stopped to rest on the next switchback landing, overlooking a sweeping valley with a long, black loch nestled at the far end between gentle hills and dark forests. Small ponies of brown and dappled gray grazed in lush green fields of timothy and clover. Andreas took a deep, cleansing breath. If he wasn’t so wet, dirty and cold, this would be one of those perfect moments that you stumble onto now and then.

         He turned and stared up the final leg of the switchback. Just a little farther, he told his leaden limbs, and began to climb. The clouds, which had been so dark and heavy all day long, now began to break up, showing patches of pale winter sky. Off over the forest through which he had ventured, the dying clouds were painted gold by the sinking sun. Andreas stopped and stared, frowning at the western sky. It could not possibly be evening already. Dawn had hardly arrived as he stepped off the ferry not three hours ago. He pulled back the cuff of his sleeve and the edge of his glove, tilting his wrist to catch the light. His watched said ten after nine, but the hands weren’t moving. Cursing under his breath, he began to climb again.

         “I should never have left Arizona,” he muttered, his breath pluming out white in front of him. He shook his head. None of this made sense, even to him. And where was Shannon Brady? Even if the kid waited until full afternoon, he would have overtaken Andreas by now. Of course, he could have gotten stuck in the mud, or turned back at the bridge. Perhaps Dhanie or that wild red horse had delayed him, or worse, killed him. Andreas groaned. He was never going to see his trunk again.

         At last the road crested the promontory, and Andreas got his first look at McCrea Castle. It was a real honest-to-god stone castle, with turrets and towers and a gatehouse with a portcullis and those little windows that arrows could be shot out of. Pennants of gold and black fluttered from the high towers, snapping in the wind. With a hearty sigh of relief, Andreas headed for the gatehouse. The portcullis was up and Andreas could see the deserted courtyard beyond. Stone benches sat around a dry fountain carved with the lithe forms of dancing women. It should have been beautiful, but in the failing light, the sight of the women, frozen forever in the semblance of life, was just eerie.

         Andreas stopped as something in one shadowed corner of the gatehouse raised its head. Eyes reflected green as the creature rolled to its feet and lunged toward him. Andreas leaped back as the shaggy black wolfhound charged into the light. It hit the end of its chain and fell back, but immediately jumped to its feet and began barking and snapping, toenails scratching the stone ground as it struggled against its chain.

         “Hamlet, be quiet!” called a feminine voice from within the courtyard. The dog stopped barking, but continued to growl and show its long white teeth. Andreas stood back and waited for Hamlet’s mistress to appear. “Hello,” she said, appearing out of thin air beside the dog. “Are you Andreas?” He stared at her for a moment, in her simple green peasant’s dress, blue and purple frog slippers, and Mariners baseball cap. Her hair was a mass of tight red curls frothing below the hat and her vibrant green eyes glittered coldly from beneath the bill. “Would you like a picture?” she asked politely. Andreas blinked and looked away.

         “No. I’m sorry,” he said. “You just...startled me. Yes, I am Andreas.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

         “Well, thank God. Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, then waved her hands, negating the question. “Never mind. Come on, Angus needs to talk to you, now.” Her face held a bleakness Andreas knew well. “He’s not doing very well today.” She grabbed Hamlet’s collar and the three of them started toward the gatehouse. “My name is Raelien, by the way. I’m the family --.” She stopped as distant crack echoed off the castle walls. Andreas turned toward the sound.

         “What was that?” he asked. Hamlet growled again, then pulled free of Raelien’s hand and ran into the courtyard, tail between his legs.

         “Oh no,” Raelien whispered. “Not yet, please not yet.” Andreas walked toward the western edge of the promontory, expecting to find a sheer cliff, or at least a rolling, rocky slope. What he found was another switchback road, this one complete with guardrails on the hairpin corners. Flying up the road was a horsedrawn carriage.

         “Is that Shannon?” Andreas asked. “He’s coming awful fast.” Indeed, the carriage was travelling so quickly that sparks flew from the wheels, igniting the roadside grass and nettles with a blue-green flame. The vehicle careened around the corners, scraping along the guardrails with more showers of sparks. The driver raised his lantern and cracked his whip again, driving the horses onward at an unearthly pace. It wasn’t Shannon. It was the Dullahan.

         As the carriage rounded the last corner and charged up onto the bluff Andreas got his first good look at the horses. Both were black as coal and neither had a head. Clouds of white breath plumed out of their bloody neck stumps. They were harnessed to the carriage by straps cut from their own hides, the ends still attached to their bodies. The driver, the Dullahan, cracked his whip, the lash cutting deep into the flanks of one horse. The man also had no head, at least not on top of his neck. Instead, the head dangled by its hair from his left fist, glowing with a pale luminescence. Andreas leaped back as they thundered past him. The carrage slid to a stop in front of Raelien.

         “Please,” she cried, “please don’t. I can’t bear to loose another one, not yet.” The Dullahan raised his head and peered down at her. Andreas hastened forward, reaching for his sword, as the Dullahan opened his mouth to speak.

         “Angus Edwards McCrea,” the ghost thundered in a hollow voice. Raelien fell to her knees, sobbing brokenly. The Dullahan turned his carriage around and then caught sight of Andreas. The ghost raised his head and looked down at Andreas, who couldn’t help but stare back. The flesh covering the head was like old, watery cheese and the eyes, shriveled back prunes that they were, darted around in the eye sockets like flies. The Dullahan curled his waxy lip up in a snarl and lashed out at Andreas with his whip.

         Andreas raised his arm instinctively to protect his face, and the lash struck his forearm, wrapping around it several times. The Dullahan tried to pull his whip back, but it was caught on Andreas’ arm. With a sharp jerk, Andreas tore the whip from the ghost’s hand. Face twisted with rage, the Dullahan slapped the reigns against the horses’ rumps and they took off, though at a much slower pace. Andreas watch the carriage wend its way down the hill, then looked down at the whip tangled around his forearm.

         The lash was braided leather, but a strange, pale peach leather Andreas had never seen before. He unwrapped it from his arm and coiled it in his hands. The handle was formed from the spinal column of some creature. Cartilage still filled the spaces between the bones and shriveled blood vessels dangled from the end. Andreas held it up and examined the size, number and curvature of the bones. It appeared to be human. He dropped it and, even with the gloves on, wiped his hands on his coat before he turned back to Raelien.

         She still knelt on the rocky ground before the gatehouse, but her cap and slippers had disappeared. Her green dress was now faded and torn, stained with dirt and blood, and a long gray cloak trailed from her shoulders. Her hair hung lank and listless to her waist, no longer red, but a yellowed gray. Hand still on Haeddys’s hilt, he walked toward her. Wailing, she rose to her feet and began to wring her bony hands. He face was pale and drawn, her green eyes flat and red-rimmed from crying. She wandered away from the castle, her voice rising and falling in a keening wail of deepest misery. Andreas watched her go, then headed into the castle.