by John Coyne
Six
Conor Fitzpatrick kept on the lookout for the boy. He stayed away from the castle, worked near the stables and paddock. There was little hard work to be done. Only a few horses remained on the estate, and no one rode them anymore. His only other regular responsibility was going up to the main kitchen once a day to pick up the meals, but that he usually did in the evening. Most of his days he spent in the tackroom, sitting by the open doorway that looked east from the building. In the horseshoe valley beyond the river, farms and houses made a patchwork pattern of green and brown. He found it a comfort to sit in the sun and look across the river toward the horizon. The sight reminded him of Ireland, of when he was a lad growing up on the shores of Lough Mask. He felt in his trouser pocket for the pebbles. When all five were gathered in his palm, he shook them out on the dirt before the tackroom door, letting the stones cast their own spell. The old man smiled, then sat back in his chair and watched the afternoon sun cross the valley. Before nightfall, the stones told him, the lad would come, find him waiting in the blacksmith shop below Ballycastle.
"Did I ever tell you about Sluagh Sidhe, lad?" Conor asked. He went back to the forge to pick up a small ballpeen hammer and worked it over the metal. With evening it had begun to rain and Scotty had moved inside the open barn door. It was warm there by the forge fire, and he knew he was safe. His mother would not come looking for him in the barns. "The what?" Scott asked. "The Sluagh Sidhe of Ireland. The people of the hills." Conor paused to glance over at the boy. He never looked directly at him but kept glancing sideways, always on the sly. "I told you I don't believe in leprechauns, or fairies or wee people," Scott answered, grinning. "Ah, well, and that's a shame, for the Sluagh Sidhe are a true enough people, so help me God, but they live in the hillocks, you know, not in the barrows." He paused as he went back to work, banging out the hot metal on the forge fire. The ballpeen hammer struck with a clean, clear hit like a clapper striking a bell. "It's just a story," Scott laughed. "There's no such thing as wee people. No way!" Scott liked the old man and his strange tales of Ireland. Of all the people at Ballycastle, Conor had been the only one to spend time with him, to be nice and listen to him. They were alike in some ways, Scott knew. They shared the same love of Ireland. "Well, now I wouldn't be so sure." The small man kept working as he spoke, moving around the forge, handling the hot iron with a long pair of tongs. Scott had found a place to stand behind the forge, deep in the shadow so the fire flickered on his face and made him sleepy with its heat. "I was only thinking that this game of yours is full of goblins, and so you might be curious about the Sluagh Sidhe." Conor peered up at the tall teenager for a moment, then went back to his work, moving the length of metal off the forge and quenching the hot iron in a bucket. The metal sizzled when it hit the cold water. "Hobgoblin is just a game," Scott said at once. He was used to defending himself. "You know there's nothing real about it. You just imagine the characters." "Aah, well, I don't know about that. The Sluagh Sidhe are real enough. I saw them once myself in the old country. I was hardly a child myself." He nodded once, then gathered the peak of his cap and reset it on his head, twisting the peak as if corking a bottle. He did not go back to the forge, but set the long tongs aside and walked to the wide doors of the shop, stood there looking toward the fields. Away from his tools, he seemed less sinister, fragile almost, as if he really wasn't fit for work. "What about these Sluagh Sidhe?" Scott asked, following the old man. "When did you see them?" He was curious, and also he wanted to be nice to Conor. "Well, I was only a child as I said, and though many's the time I remember hearing about the wee people, I only saw them once, on Slieve Gullion. They were no further away than that brook. They'd lit scores of fires and there were hundreds of them; I saw them plain as yourself right here. Some of them were mounted and rode their horses straight through the flames, I swear to God. But there's stranger tales than that," he went on, not pausing to let Scott question the story. He sat down in the chair by the open doorway and Scott pulled a small stool over, closer to him. The two sat looking out into the cold fall rain. "There was a story I heard as a boy, much younger I was than yourself, told to me by Liam MacMathuna, an old grave digger in our village. It was a story about a man who crossed Slieve Gullion one night, before my time of course, and before Liam's time as well, I am sure. This old crony lost his way and wandered for hours up in the hills before he saw a big house, bigger than this here Ballycastle, and all lighted up, with the doors open and people going in and out. "Well, he went inside, you see, to find out where in the hills of Gullion he was. And what did he see but scores of grand ladies and gentlemen in silks and satins and velvet, and all the tables and chairs and dishes were of gold and silver, shining fit to blind you, and there was grand food and drink all set out. It was as if Himself were alive today up at the castle having a grand party. "He walked right in, you see, Scotty, and not one of them fine ladies and gentlemen seemed to see him, so he thought he'd take a rest and watch them for a bit, and he did, sitting quiet in a corner. And he helped himself, would you believe, to both the food and drink, and it wasn't long before he fell asleep. And the next morning when he woke the house was gone, and so were the people, the fine ladies in their silk gowns and the beautiful gentlemen, and he was lying in the fern up on the very top of Slieve Gullion." Conor stopped. He had been leaning forward in his chair, whispering as he told the tale, and now he simply nodded and sat back, looking again out into the driving rain. "And you expect me to believe that?" Scott demanded, embarrassed that he had listened to the story so raptly. "That's nothing but bull-" He stopped as the old man stood and hitched up his trousers. "Well, don't be too sure, lad." He sounded disappointed. "Liam MacMathuna was a fine man, God rest his soul." He went back to the forge and stirred the coals again, brought up the flame quickly and began to work on the metal bar. "Strange goin' ons happened in those mountains. And they happened here at the castle as well." "Like what?" "Well, I'm not sure I'll not just be wasting my time telling you stories. You think you know it all." Scott moved closer to the forge, watched the old man hammer on the hot stake. "I don't think all stories are fairytales." He was afraid he had hurt Conor's feelings but wasn't sure what he should say. He never knew when to apologize to adults, or how to say he was sorry. "Hey, Conor, what sort of thing used to happen at Ballycastle?" He tried to sound eager to know. For a moment the old man kept working, shaping the metal, hammering it, and then without a word he quenched it in the water and set aside his tools. "It was years ago, of course-before you were born, long before, and Himself was very much alive. It was a grand place in them days, Scotty. Ah, you wouldn't believe it. I was only new to Ballycastle myself and caring for the horses. I had forty horses in the stables then, pacers and jumpers, and ponies too, for the children. "We had nearly a thousand acres of farm land in them days. We had two hundred milking cows, a dozen plow horses, over a thousand chickens and ducks. We grew three hundred tons of hay on the land and enough vegetables to sell through the market down in town. "And there were over a hundred of us doing the work-all from the old country, too-taking care of the animals and the lawn and running the farm. Twenty people worked in the greenhouse. Himself had over six thousand different types of orchids, two thousand of the azaleas. Ah, it was a lovely sight in the spring what with the flowers blooming." He stopped for a moment, remembering, looking out over the valley as if trying to draw back to mind the past. Scotty had seen him get this way before. He seemed lost, as if his mind had slipped permanently into another age. "What else?" Scott asked, trying to bring the old man back to his story. "Down there by the river," the old man said quietly, continuing, "Himself had built a glass ballroom, would you believe. It's gone now. Those Foundation people tore it down because some lad from hereabouts fell through the roof and killed himself, but that's another story. And besides the ballroom there once was an indoor swimming pool, and a lifeguard worked twenty-four hours a day, keeping it open so guests could swim at any time and in any weather. And would you believe, the po
ol was so big the lifeguard used a rowboat in the water." He wasn't smiling. He didn't wink and nod knowingly. It was a true story, Scott could tell. "We had telephones everywhere, in every building. From one place to another. One extension here, of course, connecting the barns with the castle. An extension, as well, at the gatehouse, in the carriage houses, the superintendent's home-Mr. Burley, a fine man, God rest his soul-and a phone down at the pool, one in the guest house where you're staying, one even on the boat mooring on the river. "You could summon help, you see, quickly, for there was always trouble here, prowlers and burglars and people from town who would come up and hide in the shrubbery, just to see what was going on. "Himself had his own people, of course, to guard him. Oh, it was a common enough thing, you know, for someone of his wealth during the Depression. The times were full of anarchists, bombthrowers. "So we couldn't be too careful, none of us, for Himself or ourselves, if the truth be known. Those left-wingers could have killed all of us with one of the bombs. And especially because of Himself owning so many companies without trade unions." "You mean the fairies of Ireland were after Fergus because he didn't run a union shop?" Scott smiled wryly. "Come on, Conor, what's all this got to do with those Sluagh Sidhe?" Conor thrashed the air with his open hand, silencing the boy. "I'm tellin' you lad, but I'm tellin' you in my own way. Now did I stop you when you were tellin' me about Hobgoblin?" "Okay! Okay!" Scott sighed. He had gone through this before with Conor and knew he couldn't rush the old man. Conor would tell the story his way, wandering from point to point. "There was a party up at the castle, a grand party," Conor went on, picking up again. "We were always having parties, of course, when Himself was at home, and it was in the summer of the year. "I had some horses grazing in the north fields, beyond the woods, and coming back in the late evening from looking after them, I could follow the music from the ballroom, hear the women laughing, even the sounds of silverware and glasses clinking together. "It was a lovely night, I tell you. A real joy to be out in the woods. I hadn't a torch with me, but there was no need. I could find my way across every inch of Ballycastle, and besides it was a bright night, what with the moon shining on the path through the birch woods. "And up there on the hillside I could see the glass ballroom and the castle itself, all lit up and blazing. The doors and windows were open, and the light spread across the lawns. You could see the guests as well, the women in beautiful gowns, and men wearing white suits. It was like a movie, you know, one of those grand Hollywood affairs with hundreds of actors and actresses. The dancing had spread onto the terrace off the ballroom and when I got to the river I stopped to watch a moment, standing in the dark there beyond the boat mooring." He stopped to point toward the birch woods beyond the river. "It was a thing I'd often do," he said, then paused, staring down at the river, at what was left of the wooden mooring, the scattered posts and planks still remaining in the muddy water. "Ah, it was a wonderful life we had in them days, and I enjoyed myself listening to the music, watching them dancing on the stone terrace." He stopped again, his voice sliding into silence. Scott glanced over at Conor. He was staring off, his eyes now wet and glazed. There were tears on his face; they slid down the old man's rough brown cheeks and Scott looked off, embarrassed at seeing Conor cry. He looked across the fields, toward the river and the birch woods. A fog had moved into the valley with the cold late afternoon rain. It was a dismal day. He had to go home, he realized. His mother would be searching for him soon, and he had homework waiting to be done. Without looking at the old man he got up and said nicely, "Hey, Conor, I guess I better be getting home. I'm late, and Mom will only get after me." Conor did not respond. He was remembering evenings spent with Carmel Burke on the mooring. It was dark there at that end of the landing and they would dance to the ballroom music carried across the estate on waves of wind. "I had only been there a moment, you understand," Conor continued, picking up again the loose thread of his story, "when I saw them." Scott sat back on the stool. "Saw what?" he asked impatiently. "I wasn't sure, you see, at first. I was standing in the dark of the woods, leaning against a birch tree and looking across the river, up toward the castle. The ladies and gentlemen were coming out on the lawn, carrying glasses of champagne down to the river where it was cool. And then a dozen yards from me, I saw something move in the shrubbery " Conor paused, turning away from the river to fix his gaze on Scott. His eyes were bright and alert, as he went on with the story, speaking louder now to be heard over the driving rain. "I thought at first it might be one of the lads, out like myself to watch the party. I couldn't see the figure clearly, you see, what with them being in the shrubbery. "Then I realized it wasn't one of us, and I thought it was prowlers, anarchists for God's sake, and I tell you, Scotty, I was frightened, thinking of how I was in danger. "Yet I couldn't tell for sure. The bushes were thick at the river, and I was, to tell you the truth, too frightened to get closer. I couldn't move at all. Sure as God is in His heaven, they would have seen me run from the trees, killed me before I reached the telephone at the mooring. "I was frightened for them across the river, too. They were close enough that I could hear them whispering to themselves, as people will, thinking they were alone by the river's bank. Whoever was out there could have killed them without even coming out of the bushes. If you look yourself tomorrow, go down to where the mooring was, you'll see they were that close. "But Himself was up at the house, so I figured they'd want to go to him and there wasn't but one way to do that. There wasn't a bridge nearby except at the mooring, and they had to come by me to get there. I said to myself, `Well, so help me God, if they do come this way, I'll have a go at them.' In my day I wasn't bad with the fists, you know. "To this day I don't know how long I stayed flat against the birch trees, but, my God, it felt like an eternity. Then one by one they came out of the bushes, pushed their way into the clear and stood by the river in plain sight of me." He stopped and stood, going over to the forge where he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out, lighting it from the hot coals. "Who was it?" Scott demanded, jumping up so quickly he overturned the stool. Conor puffed rapidly on the cigarette, as if it were poorly packed and he couldn't light it. Then the end was glowing, and he coughed from his inhaling. "Come on, Conor! Who was it? Stop teasing me!" Conor walked to the open barn door and stood looking out at the rain. Scott followed, leaned against the doorjamb and watched the old man. "It's hard to see at night, you know," Conor started up again, beginning casually, taking his time, "unless your eyes are used to the dark. Well, by then my eyes were. I could see as well as I might at midday, or else I wouldn't have believed what I did see, by God." He moved closer to Scott, as if about to share some great secret. Standing beside the boy, Conor looked smaller, an old man needing help. Scott had to bend down to hear his whisper. "There on the banks of the river, as sure as there are saints in heaven, I saw half a dozen Nuckelavees." "What?" "Ah, and I had only been told stories of them in the old country, but thanks be to God up to that moment I had never seen one my self." "Conor, what are you talking about?" Scott slapped his thighs, frustrated by the old man and his long story. "You don't know?" Conor cocked his head, glanced sideways at the boy. "Why, the Nuckelavees are the foulest hobgoblins of them all." He shook his head and moved away, shuffled his feet in the dirt of the barn door. "They weren't but three feet high...matted hair all over their bodies, and pale, flat eyes. And they smell, you know, the odor of dead pigs. Why, to this day I can still choke on the memory of the stench. "I had never seen one, as I told you, but I knew at once they were Nuckelavees, what with their heads like men, only ten times larger, and pig snouts for mouths. "They were as big as dwarves, and I could have knocked the lot into the river with a backhanded slap, they were that near to me, but I didn't dare move, not a muscle. And, good God, I was frightened I might sneeze or cough, for I would have been a goner for sure." "Why?" Scott asked, caught up unwillingly in the old man's story. "Well, they say in Ireland that if a Nuckelavee sees you spying on them, you'll be cast into stone, for the Nuckelavees have a
real affinity for stone and rock and crannies. And I've seen those stones myself in Connemara, shaped they were like human figures." "Come on, Conor, how could there be Nuckelavees here? This isn't Connemara!" The old man stepped back from the boy and pointed off to the house, the castle up on the hill. His thin hand was only a shadow in the glow from the forge. Scott moved out of the cold and closer to the fire, away from the blacksmith, as the old man spoke softly, his thick brogue full of warning. "Oh, 'tisn't Connemara we're in, more's the pity. But I told you those evil hobgoblins, those Nuckelavees, are partial to rocks, to cold stone, to the cracks and crannies of old castles." He cocked his head and turned slowly, looked back at the boy. "And where do you think Ballycastle comes from, every rock and stone of it, but from the mountains of Donegal, from Erin Isle, and who would be there living between the rocks, but such a thing as evil hobgoblins like those I saw on the river years ago, with heads ten times the size of yours or mine, and only pig snouts for mouths?" Scott shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The old man had kissed the Blarney stone, that was for sure. Yet Scott wished he had gone home when it was daylight. Before the fog crept in. Before the rain enveloped them. Now every flickering shadow on the shop walls was a monster figure from his Hobgoblin bestiary. "Do you believe me now, lad?" Conor asked, thrusting his face forward, as if into the flame. Scott nodded, unable to speak. "That night long ago, a woman was killed on the banks of the river. The blood was sucked from her veins. I know that for a fact, I found the girl myself down by the mooring. "Ah, it never made the papers. Himself saw to it. It was an Irish girl, one of the maids from Donegal. Her name was Carmel Burke. A lovely lass, I recall, but when I found her that day, at dawn, she looked as if she had been attacked by the devil. Her body was like stone, and may the devil rob my mother's grave if that isn't the truth. I saw it all. I was there. And I'm the only one left who remembers the day." "I've got to go home," Scott whispered. Over the hot flame his hands were trembling and cold with fear. The old man nodded. "Your ma'am will be out searching, and it's not safe, you know, being out after dark about here, especially if you're as young and pretty as your mother is. The hobgoblins, you know, they love a lovely lass." "Conor, stop!" Now Scott's body was trembling. "You have nothing to worry about, lad, they won't touch you." He winked at the boy. "Off with you now and tell your mother she's a fine lady. I'll be bringing her some soda bread once I get time enough to make a few loaves." He had Scott by the arm, moving him toward the barn door. "You'll have to run the whole way, lad, it's a real downpour," and with that he shoved the boy forward, out into the driving rain. "Keep away from the river, though." Then he rolled the barn door closed and the light of the forge disappeared, leaving Scott to find his way home in the dark. For a second, the boy blinked in the darkness, groping for his bearings. Then he took a deep breath and ran, first up toward Ballycastle, then down across the lawns and formal gardens to the guest house, bursting into the kitchen. "My God, what is it, Scotty?" Barbara asked, jumping up from the table at the sight of her son, soaking and trembling with rain and fear. Scott shook his head, still unable to speak. He could sense the hobgoblins around the house, peeping into the windows, crawling into the stone walls, hiding in the crevices of the rock foundation. "Hobgoblin," he whispered and fell into his mother's arms.