Her brothers uneasily agreed with the logic of her argument. The next morning the local constable helped them decide when he suggested, “It must have been a lunatic, escaped from some asylum.” Then he added, with great authority, “He is not likely to return.”
So they stayed at Croglin Grange. But Andrew and Emma switched rooms. Emma kept her shutters closed fast at night, and each of her brothers kept a loaded pistol in his room.
The winter passed uneventfully enough, but the following March, Emma was suddenly awakened by a dreadful scratching at the shutters. Looking up, she saw the same brown, shriveled face staring back at her through the one pane at the top of the window left uncovered by the shutters.
She screamed as loud as she could, and her brothers rushed out of the house with drawn pistols. They spotted the creature loping away across the lawn. Andrew fired and hit it in the leg, but it got away, scrambling over the graveyard wall. This time the brothers reached the wall quickly enough to see the dark form disappear into a neglected vault.
The next day, in the presence of the tenants of Croglin Grange, the constable, and several other local authorities, the vault was opened. Inside they discovered that all the coffins had been broken apart and their contents scattered across the floor. Only one coffin lay intact, though its lid was loose.
Andrew and Gordon, at the constable’s direction, raised the coffin lid. Then Emma gasped, for there, inside, was the brown and withered figure that had twice appeared to her at the Grange. Further investigation revealed that one leg of the corpse had been damaged by a pistol shot.
Though no one said the dreaded word “vampire” aloud, by common agreement they did the only thing that can lay such a creature to rest: They burned the body to ashes.
After this there were no more disturbances at Croglin Grange.
The Yara
(Brazil)
That part of Brazil called Amazonia, where the city of Manaus now stands and that is spanned by the Manaus–Caracarai Highway, once belonged to an Indian tribe. Jaguarari, son of the chief, was handsome and lithe as the spotted jaguar. He was fearless in the face of an enemy and was a bold, skillful hunter. When he paddled his canoe upon the Amazon River, the prow, lifted like a bird’s wing, hardly seemed to touch the water.
At the celebration that marked the raising of youths to the status of warriors, everyone remarked on Jaguarari’s pride of bearing, keen eye, and strength. His long arrow never failed to bring down the fleeing peccary or the bounding ocelot, while his blowgun dart dropped the preying hawk to the ground.
The young women dreamed that he would one day choose them for his bride; the old men boasted of his exploits; and his comrades sang songs that foretold how Jaguarari, on some distant day when his life was over, would climb the Blue Mountains, where the greatest heroes live for eternity.
Nothing pleased the young man more than guiding his canoe through the green shade along the river shore as he went fishing for tucunare, the slippery soapfish. He loved the solitude, when his only companion was a white-necked heron standing on a sandbar, or a flame-red parrot calling from the shore.
Jaguarari had always returned to his village at dusk, but there came a time when he began to stay on the water until midnight.
One night, after this had been going on for some time, his worried mother sat watching until she saw her son tie up his canoe. Then she followed him to his palm-thatched hut. There she found him sitting listlessly in his hammock, his legs dangling, his elbows on his knees. His eyes, dark-circled from sleepless nights and filled with sadness, were fixed on the black waters of the river.
Gently his mother asked him, “My son, what kind of fishing keeps you out on the water so late? Only evil spirits prowl the night.”
But Jaguarari just sighed, and would not take his eyes from the river’s edge.
“Son,” the woman persisted, “what has made you so unhappy?”
Again, she got nothing but a sigh and a shrug for an answer. In the pale moonlight she saw that he had become as thin as a man suffering from a wasting disease or stung by a scorpion.
Deeply troubled, she left him as she had found him, his dark eyes locked on the equally dark river.
Jaguarari was soon spending all his time on the river. He refused to accompany his father, the chief, on a tapir hunt; Jaguarari often abandoned his comrades when they set snares for wild birds or cast fishing nets. They would watch him paddle his canoe up the river until he was out of sight, hidden by the tall trees draped with vines. Sometimes they would call to him, asking where he was going, but he never answered.
In desperation, his mother came to him and said, “My son, evil spirits surely have poisoned the air you breathe. Your father has decided to move the village far away from here, so that you can breathe good air and be healed.”
But Jaguarari only whispered, in a voice so low that she had to bend close to him to hear his words, “Mother, I saw her, floating among the water lilies in a distant lagoon.”
“Son, who have you seen?” his anxious mother asked.
“She has no name,” Jaguarari said, like one speaking from a fever dream, “but she is as beautiful as the moon. Her eyes are green as the skin of the aruana that swims at the mouth of the creek, and her hair is as gold as the morning sun shining on the river. She sings to me in a voice that is sweeter than any bird. My ears do not understand what she is singing, but my heart knows. Once, she made the water part, and showed me where she lives below. Someday I want to go there with her. Whenever I leave her, I want to see her again. I want to hear her song once more.”
At this his terrified mother cried out, “My son, that is the Yara! You must promise you will never go back to that place. Death waits in her green eyes and her song!”
But her son only turned his face away, and would not speak to her any longer.
All the next day Jaguarari remained in his hut. His mother and father visited him as he lay listlessly in his hammock. But he would not answer his father’s questions, or touch the smoked fish and fruit his mother left for him.
That evening his parents were suddenly drawn to the river’s edge when a group of young women, who had gone to fetch water, cried, “Come, everyone! Come and see!”
The villagers stared open-mouthed as they saw Jaguarari, his canoe aimed at the red disk of the setting sun, standing upright in the prow. His arms were outstretched like a bird about to take wing.
Beside him was the figure of a beautiful woman. Her golden hair streamed out behind her, while her arms, as pale as moonlight, were clasped about Jaguarari. She sang a haunting song in an unknown language that momentarily stilled the twilight cries of birds and howler monkeys. Her song lingered in the hearts of all who heard it, long after the sweet voice had passed out of earshot.
“The Yara!” sobbed Jaguarari’s mother, turning her face to her husband’s chest. And though the chief and his warriors tried to follow, and searched the river and every lagoon and tributary for days to come, they found no trace of Jaguarari or his canoe.
“Me, Myself”
(British Isles—Scotland)
Off the western coast of Scotland is a group of islands called the Hebrides, or “Western Islands.” One of the largest is Islay, and near it is a smaller island, Orsay. For many years Orsay was used only for grazing cattle. These belonged to a laird, or landowner, on Islay, and were ferried across by boat, a few head at a time. The crossing was mild enough when the weather was clear and the sea was calm. Sailors knew to be careful of the fearful tides around the island, and only a foolhardy soul would attempt crossing the sound in bad weather.
Old stories said that Orsay was sometimes visited by kelpies, or water horses. These might emerge from the sea in the shape of horses or in the form of hairy, clumsy-looking men. People said that they could hear the kelpies wailing loudly near the island just before storms.
But the grass on the island was sweet and thick, and the laird would not let old stories keep him from fattening his herds.
When all the cattle had been sent across, he hired a young man, Duncan MacPhee, and his new wife, Fiona, to tend his cattle. The two were very much in love, and needed only each other’s company to be happy, so they got along quite well on the lonely island.
Duncan was a big, powerful man, with a handsome, weathered face dotted with freckles. Fiona was tall and fair-haired, with flashing blue eyes. At night, when the cattle were safe in the byre, or cowshed, they would close the shutters of the one-room stone cottage the laird had built them. Then they would sit by the peat fire that burned on the hearthstone in the middle of the dirt floor, talking softly, while the wind howled outside the thick stone walls and rattled the roof slates.
One afternoon, while they strolled along the rocky beach, Duncan was delighted to discover four large eider duck eggs. Fiona was far more excited when she found a handful of “fairy eggs” nestled among the seaweed and shells. These hard, light nuts, something like flat chestnuts, were gray, black, and brown.
“Ach, what are ye goin’ to do with them sea nuts?” asked Duncan.
“I’ll string them on a bit o’ ribbon,” said Fiona, “to wear ’round my neck. My granny says they keep off the evil eye and other wickedness. And cure sick cattle, too.”
“Sure, they’re not keepin’ the kelpies away,” said her husband, pointing out to sea.
“Oh!” cried Fiona, clutching the fairy eggs to her chest. As she looked out across the water, a brown head and a gray head bobbed amid the waves. Two pair of soft, curious eyes met hers.
“Shame on ye, Duncan McPhee, for givin’ me such a turn!” she said. “Them’s nothin’ but two seals, wonderin’ what we’re about.”
“Ach, so they are. My mistake,” he said, laughing and taking her arm.
“Tease me so again,” she said, with just the hint of a smile, “and ye’ll not think it near as funny.”
At that moment, a fulmar gave a shrill, lonely cry, and Fiona turned anxiously to look at the sea. But even the seals had gone. There was only the empty expanse of bright blue water.
“Tomorrow I must row across to Portnahaven for supplies,” said Duncan as they climbed the steep path.
“Must ye?” she asked. “I feel a storm comin’ on.”
“There’s precious few oats and barley left,” he said, “and many other things we need besides. The weather will be fine, ye’ll see.”
Sure enough, the next day was mild, with calm and hazy sunshine over sea and land. Fiona rose early to cook barley bannocks. She wrapped the flat cakes of bread in some linen for Duncan to take with him. Standing on the bluff, she watched him rowing across the sound. Even as she gazed, she felt a wind rising, churning up waves. The little boat pitched and tossed, but Duncan was a skillful sailor, and he rowed on without mishap.
When she could no longer make out the rowboat, the young woman checked on the cattle, to be sure none was grazing too close to the cliff edge. Then she returned to the cottage, to feed the chickens and tend her little plot of turnips and potatoes. She kept busy, trying not to think of the changing weather. But when she stood up from digging in the garden, a strong, chill wind billowed her skirt and apron.
Looking toward the sound and the mainland beyond, she saw a heavy mist upon the dark blue sea. In a short time this gave way to a wind-driven rain. She prayed that Duncan would not be so foolish as to try to cross to Orsay in such foul weather.
When the cattle were secure in the byre, and the chickens in the hen coop, Fiona retreated to the cottage. She drew the shutters tight and prepared to sit out the storm, with a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea.
But while she was stirring the oatmeal with a spirtle, a wooden stick about a foot long, Fiona suddenly heard the sound of living creatures moving all around the house. “Duncan!” she cried, thinking for a moment that her husband had returned and brought some other men with him. But the wail of the wind reminded her that the storm was too strong for Duncan to cross the sound.
“Sure now, it’s the cows are out of their byre!” she exclaimed. She hurried to the nearest window and threw open the shutters. To her amazement, she found herself gazing into a pair of large, round, blazing red eyes that fastened on her own. The sight chilled her to the bone.
Gathering her wits, she pulled the shutters closed with a bang that set the dishes rattling on the shelf. In answer, she heard a low, whining laugh.
Too late, Fiona realized she hadn’t barred the door. She reached up to drop the bar, but the door burst open. In walked an unearthly creature. He was very tall and large, and covered with rough hair everywhere except his face. This was covered with a dark, bluish skin that looked like fish scales. His long fingers were tipped with bone-white claws.
He lumbered to the fire and stared at Fiona, who stood just across from him. Between them the porridge bubbled on the hearthstone.
“What is your name?” he asked in the old language that Fiona had learned from her gran.
She answered the creature as confidently as she could, “Mise mi Fhin,” which means, “Me, Myself.”
Suddenly the monster reached for her. But the brave young woman grabbed up the pot of boiling porridge with her apron and dashed it over him.
Yelling, the creature bounded through the door and into the rain beyond. Fiona heard a great babble of wild, growling voices asking in the old language what was wrong with their companion and who had hurt him.
“Mise mi Fihn! Mise mi Fihn!” he kept screeching. “Me, Myself! Me, Myself!”
At this, there arose a great shout of laughter. The rough voices taunted, “If you hurt yourself, then you must heal yourself.”
Again there was brutish laughter. At this the girl rushed out and hid in the byre. She lay, sheltered by one of the cattle that had its back to the entrance. She touched her string of fairy eggs, hoping they might help keep her safe. Then she drew a circle around herself in the dust and prayed an “Our Father” in a whisper.
For a long time she lay shivering, hidden by the cow. Outside, the storm raged, and she heard the comings and goings of heavy footsteps. Several times she thought that one or more of the creatures had entered the cowshed, but she dared not peep around to see. She lay scarcely breathing.
As the storm grew wilder, the sounds outside turned to loud laughter, then fighting, as though the creatures had started a brawl among themselves. Fiona prayed that they would forget all about her.
Gradually the sounds of wind and rain and wild screeching began to fade. By the time that the first gray light of morning showed through chinks in the byre’s rough stone wall, all was silent outside.
Making the sign of the cross, Fiona rose from her hiding place. She discovered that, though the consecrated circle had kept her safe, the cow that had protected her was dead; its back bore the marks of many claws.
The sea was calm and bright under the rising sun. Looking across the sound, she saw Duncan’s rowboat on course for the island.
Her garden had been trampled by countless brutish feet, ripping up her turnips and potatoes. Half-eaten remains were scattered all around. Inside, the spilled porridge was the only sign of the night’s adventure. Shuddering, she drew on a shawl and hurried down to meet Duncan.
Though they were always on guard after this, and kept the shutters and door tightly barred after sunset, they were never again bothered by the kelpies.
Island of Fear
(North America—Seneca tribe)
There was once a young boy, Hatondas, whose parents had died. He lived with his grandparents deep in a great wood. Though they were loving and kind in many ways, they were always stern when they warned him, “When you leave our wigwam, do not go west.”
Now, Hatondas was a good child, and for a long time he would explore only those forest paths that ran north and east and south. He would never venture into the dark shadows of the woods to the west.
But as he grew older, he became curious to know what might be found to the mysterious west. At last he decided to see what lay in this forbidden p
lace. So, one morning, while his grandparents slept, he set out along the brush-choked trail that led west.
For a long time he could only advance very slowly, because the underbrush was too thick. Not even deer or other animals had worn paths through the wilderness. After a long, difficult journey, he came upon the banks of a broad, swift-flowing river.
“Is this what my grandfather and grandmother did not want me to see?” he asked himself. “Surely they have grown foolish in their old age.”
He sat down very close to the water’s edge to rest and to watch the shining river.
Suddenly he heard the bushes crackling behind him. Then someone called out pleasantly, “Hai, Hai! Is this not a beautiful sight?”
Turning, Hatondas saw a handsome young warrior, his hand raised in a peaceful gesture. “Yes,” Hatondas said to the newcomer, “I have never seen it before.”
“Oh, then you must come with me to my canoe, not far from here,” said the stranger. “I will take you to visit one of the islands nearby. We will return in a short time, and you will have seen many sights worth talking about.”
Finding the young man pleasant company, Hatondas agreed. Together they walked to where a splendid birchbark canoe lay on the sandy beach of a cove. When they stepped into the canoe, the stranger gave a shove with his paddle and sent them into the current. With swift, even strokes, he quickly carried them far from shore.
Soon, a short distance ahead, Hatondas saw a small, pretty island with a dense clump of trees at the center. When they arrived on the beach of sparkling sand they both climbed out, and the stranger drew his canoe up on shore.
Beyond the beach grew masses of tall plants with blossoms as yellow as the sun. For a moment Hatondas drank in their beauty. But when he turned to look for his guide, the young man had vanished—and the canoe was no longer beached where they had left it. Amazed, Hatondas spotted the canoe far out on the river, halfway to the distant shore.
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