The Other of One
Book One
Brian Burke
Copyright © 2014 Brian Burke
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Evolution. Ever since the beginning of creation there are portions of the physical being which, over the process of time, have adapted to the world around them. Science knows this as evolution.
Like life, there is also a particular art which has its own unique form of evolution. It has manifested itself alongside the coming of man. From its earliest existence, mankind itself has helped this art to evolve, and has aided in its harmonization for the oncoming changes of the world. Throughout this period, it has brought joy and sorrow to our hearts; inspired us when all hope was at a loss, and delivered to us a true means of self-expression.
Subconsciously, it delves deep into our souls and draws out feelings we would otherwise be happy to repress. We have elected its certain styles to represent the very pride and honour of our nations. Theatre has built performances based entirely around its impressions, whilst religion has summoned its purity to express our devotion to worship.
In itself, this ancient art is a living entity, so deeply immortal in its existence that it carries itself through the ages and beyond, never losing any of its potency. Era to era, century upon century.
The most magnificent aspect of all is its ability to makes us come in contact with our emotions, with our true selves. How it bellows so vibrantly during those times of triumph and accomplishment, blending in so seamlessly that all consciousness has no other choice but to give in to it and sail for greater plains. Likewise, it can guise itself so subtly that it’s as if it isn’t even there.
It is utilized as a symbol of strength, of glory, and of hope. It is one that tells many different tales.
It is the eternal power of Music.
—Brian Burke
Table of Contents
Chapter One - Home is Home
Chapter Two - Bylan’s Detention
Chapter Three - Cursed by his Past
Chapter Four - The Sadness
Chapter Five - The Glogish Way
Chapter Six - A Familiar Face
Chapter Seven - Exploring the West
Chapter Eight - Horrors upon the Trail
Chapter Nine - Days into Dark
Chapter Ten - Twisty Cups
Chapter Eleven - Stronghold of Sin
Chapter Twelve - A Stranger’s Realm
Chapter Thirteen - Secret of the Banádh
Chapter Fourteen - Insight to the Wrythus
Chapter Fifteen - The Duel
Note to the Reader
- Chapter One -
Home is Home
Something other than he was walking in those woods. A bitter winter’s night, beyond the twelfth stroke, is a dangerous time for a travelling cobbler to be wandering those elderly maples alone, regardless of how many times he’d done it before, or how skilful he thought he was with an oaken staff.
Children went missing around there, ‘twas said, and who’s to say that many an adult had not done so too, under the mistaken belief that they’d skipped town over an unpaid debt or to elope with a mystery lover? Who knows? Maybe they had. This time, however, it was different, and these were the bitter doubts that muddled our cobbler’s mind when he heard those strange noises lurking all around him.
First they tramped, if somewhat innocuously. The cobbler was even comforted, initially, to think he wasn’t the only one taking the old trail that night. It was only when they galloped, dog-like...no, ox-like...did he turn to survey. The paws stilled. The cobbler grew ever nervous. All the graver still when he peered up into that wintry darkness, then through the trees, to see heavy puffs of frosted air panting back at him. The moon was clear enough to brighten those pale breaths before its nightly robes. Suddenly the shadows stirred, and two white dots stared right into the traveller’s squirming soul with a baring of reddened teeth.
The cobbler’s last shriek could be heard from the village inn, two and a quarter miles south...
* * *
It was the earliest years of the twentieth century, and the small village of Ballycongraggon lay just off the western headlands of Ireland. Vast changes and some few titles have befallen this village since it was first founded all those years ago. I myself can’t help but feel somewhat upset when I think about what it has become this day. What a crying shame that such rustic villages have become less common, and are otherwise being overthrown by horrible, smoggy places of industry and business. Very unfortunate indeed.
For now, I will refrain from discussing that, as it has no immediate relevance to this story which I am about to tell you.
Our tale revolves around a time when the wilds of Ballycongraggon flourished into the very deepest parts of the west. It was a place of special magnificence, a countryside teeming with nature in its fullest blossom. Orchards bloomed out in season, the rich fields were always ripe for the harvest, and the lakes were ever crowded with fish of all kinds. Miles of scattered woodland were nestled amongst the green hills and peaceful meadows. A simple lattice of stone walls and hedgerows then dwelt throughout the entire course of the distant countryside, giving it a truly rural feel.
You could but dream of how stunning it was, had you not known it, with its inlaying streams and magical rivers coursing through the body of land, like they themselves were acting as Ballycongraggon’s own little veins of life.
In the north, the mountains towered high, scraping the clouds from the belly of the pure blue sky. When dusk came, their faces would darken behind the sunset to cast evening shadows down amongst the small village below. Then, as night closed in, the blinking stars would be out to bless the land while the moon spreads its teal-blue shimmer far across the hilltops. ‘Twas a place that anybody could simply dream of living, in spite of how wild or how meek their personas may be.
Now, the word ‘big’ doesn’t come into my description of Ballycongraggon because it was very, very small, compiled of the residences of only a few dozen families, most of whom lived on the crossroads. The road northward was called Dimpler’s Way, which strayed off to the northern part of the country, then to other remote places. The western trail was called just that, ‘The Western Trail,’ and that led as far as the cliffs, where it stopped to gaze over the boundlessness of the perfect, blue sea. To the east was Baylor’s Bothaireen, which travelled east after the big green hill, right past the last lake cottage. Finally, to the south, Old Heral’s Walk wandered on, long past Fisher’s Lake, and then eventually into Doolin. All of these roads met up perfectly in the midst of the cobbled town square of Ballycongraggon, right up to the stone monument itself, which was set in the exact heart of the town; a wonderfully crafted Celtic cross, sparsely garbed by ages of moss and ivy as it stood proudly upon a stepped pedestal.
Within this cosy little settlement of Ballycongraggon there lived an ever so small community of hearty townsfolk. Chiefly fishermen and farmers, they ambled around mostly by cart, High-Nelly, or by foot. One must bear in mind that the invention called the motorcar was a sight seldom seen, except for in the bigger cities of distant lands. And even then it was just the wealthier people who had the luxury of them. Such gadgets were never for the likes of
the lucid Irish people. Their lives were simple, and they preferred it that way.
Everybody in the village knew each other very well, and coming into the later months, there was always a merry feeling about. All Hallows’ Eve was always an especially anticipated occasion. Everyone would muster in the nearby fields and drink the finest ale, tell old stories, and dance around the blazing campfires. Merry music played, with sparks and laughter drifting joyously into the night. Children ran about all dressed up as different things and, when they went to bed, the revelries of the grown-ups would linger on until early the next morning.
Ballycongraggon was very famous for its storytellers, it so happens. Come the night before All Hallows’ Eve, it was tradition for the families to congregate in each other’s houses to hear the chilling ghost stories told by candlelight.
Well, those stories frightened the children to bits, so they did. But they were just tales, for the most part, so everyone was quite safe.
But Ballycongraggon has one particular legend of its own, which I think you should know about. ‘Tis a blood-curdling myth of ghastly kidnappers, dark legends of a mysterious brotherhood who had terrible dealings far off in the north. Folk called them The Shadow’s Guild. People used to say that the leader of this fraternity was a mean old man, clad entirely in black, with a frighteningly hideous porcelain mask which guised his true self. He was supposed a reclusive sort, from what the locals guessed. Nor did anybody ever learn his true name. They simply called him “Furìn the Vile,” as that name possessed fiendishly miserable qualities. It was also simple enough to stick in the children’s minds and make them shudder anytime they heard it.
As the story goes, every All Hallows’ Eve this evil brotherhood would creep out in the dead of night to snatch all of the newborn children from under their parents’ noses, then disappear without a trace. It was suggested that they did this as a warning to those who dared to oppose them, whilst others said that they did it with the intentions of eventually decreasing the population, and extinguishing any chances of rebellious legacies. Then, when the time was right, they’d overrun the village and claim it as their own. But as I said, those were just stories...
All the same, on occasion you might still hear the people of villages alike, telling some of the bolder children to be aware of the Guild, should their tomfoolery ever get too much.
“Don’t you be gettin’ up ta no mischief!” they’d say, “Or the Shadows will have their eyes on you! Snatch you up before you could say boo!”
This may have worked on some of the younger children, but the older ones were well aware that there was very little truth behind the stories, if any. Still everyone, adults and all, enjoyed listening to these tales upon a crisp Hallows’ eve, when the creatures were out and night had closed in. Without a yarn or two it just wouldn’t have been the same, what with it being tradition and all; everyone huddled up, holding their piping hot mugs of sweet tea and warm lemonade as the stories unfurled.
So, now that you’ve gotten to know the village a little better, I think we should talk a little bit about the adventurer of this story. Adventurer? Now that’s a title that this person would never have imagined being branded with. Not in all of his wildest and most vivid of dreams. And there really is much to tell...
Away eastward, over the big green hill, through the Elder-grove wood and past the old moor, lay a splendid, sparkling lake where, at its edge, a tiny cottage hid. Charming as one might imagine, it was small and white, with a thatched roof and a tiny stone wall running all around it. Out front a quaint little garden grew, blooming with winter flowers. There it sat, all alone, peacefully away from the busyness of the village.
Within that cottage there lived a young mother and her son. Her name was Deirdre Muldoon, and her young, thirteen-year-old lad was called William.
They weren’t the wealthiest family in the town. To tell the truth, they weren’t well-to-do at all. William’s mother kept food on the table and clothes on their backs by not working just one job but two jobs. During the day she worked quite contentedly with her best friend, Mary, as a washerwoman. Down by Donnelly’s stream was where they spent most of their days, and it was tough labour, to say the least. But they had a giggle to themselves as the days drew on, for big Mary was the bubbly, good-natured sort, who often coaxed out Deirdre’s fine spirit with her clever antics and sayings.
At night, Deirdre was a barmaid in the local inn, The Ghost n’ Calf. Four nights of the week she toiled in that inn, and while it may not have been quite as taxing as laundering, it remained very diligent and exhausting work. Poor Deirdre was always on her feet, and constantly kept going.
Sometimes William would drop by the inn for a few minutes on his way home. He always found it so amusing to watch the drunk folks carrying on, especially those who were trying to court. Funnily enough, the real fools (as he so put it) were always the ones who ended up walking out with the prettiest girls. William deemed this rather strange, as they were always acting like such toads towards them. Then again, what did he know about any of that stuff really? Perhaps it was what those ladies were after.
Aside from all that hustle ‘n’ bustle, Deirdre was a caring, kind-hearted mother, who loved William beyond all boundaries. She always tried her very best to put him before all else in her otherwise busy life.
As for Conor Muldoon, William’s father, he moved around quite a lot on business as a travelling cobbler. Whenever he returned from a trip he would never fail to bring home a bunch of the nicest flowers for Deirdre, along with a picture book of some sort for William, even though they couldn’t really afford it. Deirdre often teased him about this, saying he must’ve been up to no good on the road, and that it was a gesture of guilt. But he knew she was only messing, so it was no harm done. Besides, he loved his wife and only son very much.
One night years ago, in midwinter, Conor had picked up and left on business, and was never heard from again. His hat and carry-case were found in a tatter, speckled in blood, just north of Ballycongraggon. They were tangled in the branches of a gooseberry bush just shy of a maple wood near Dimpler’s way. William was little more than a toddler when it happened. Such a spell ago that he could barely remember. As for Deirdre, she could recall it painfully well, and was absolutely heartbroken because of it.
She endured many sleepless nights and searched for many months, with the help of some close friends, for her lost husband. Not before long, she fell ill from stress, thus stirring some concern amongst the villagers.
One grey afternoon, a small group of friends came to her house, all with their caps in hand. They pleaded with her, for the sake of her health and family, to give up her search. Eventually, exhausted as she was, she had no choice but to do just that, for she came to understand that she’d been neglecting William (unintentionally, you realise), and she didn’t want to abandon him any longer.
Alas, much to the Muldoon’s dismay, Conor was declared ‘at rest;’ a hardship which fell heavily upon everyone. Neither Deirdre nor William had ever forgotten Conor’s love. Nor did they let their love for him subside. But the boy...he never cried.
A story to thrum the heartstrings, no doubt. Specially when we consider how much we want our lives to turn out like those faerie tales of old, all perfect and cheery, William included. But the truth is, buried beneath the innocence of the world, no matter how much of it there is, no matter how pure it may be, reality will ever lurk. There is no escaping it. And where there is that, there is cruelty. But in cruelty, a pearl of hope can often grow.
The only possessions left to remember Conor by were some clothes, his rocking chair by the fire, his second pipe, and a set of nickel-plated Schofield pistols which he kept in a wooden case on top of his wardrobe. As a precaution he kept it locked up, lest William should ever sniff them out, which he did, once or twice, without his father knowing. He even fired one of them once; straight through the crotch of a pair of long johns on his neighbour’s clothesline, which William never owned up to.
Despite his tough past, William was a relatively happy and curious little rascal and, moreover, quite charming at times. In some ways he was also very intelligent, and very well-spoken, too...when he felt the need to do so, that is. A scrawny enough lad he was; not very tall, with longish brown hair and friendly blue eyes. He had an unusual attitude about him too, so you know.
You see, he was reasonably confident in whatever he did (apart from his studies, which I will get to later), but he never cared much for the likes of stature or popularity. Not that the rest of the people knew of, at least. This was considered quite odd, because one could only assume that any form of independence at such a young age, whether it be innocent or intended, would naturally come package ‘n’ parcel with some form of leadership qualities. Not with William, I’ll have you know. He kept to himself mostly, and he preferred it so. Always did.
The Other of One - Book One: The Lythiann Chronicles Page 1