by Matt Hayward
“Don't talk about food.”
Henry's eyes shot open. What had he said?
George squinted. “What's that, now?”
“Nothing.”
George and Douglas exchanged a look, George arching an eyebrow. “We're going to Millington. They've set up some sort of safe zone for anyone who makes it. Some sort of government protection area. Say they might even be flying all survivors out of the US. All of Tennessee's been put under quarantine.” George banged on the dirty plate of glass that separated the cab from the bed with the stock of the gun. “Here's good. Stop it here, Jerry!”
The jeep screeched to a halt. The engine cut.
“Take off your shirt, Henry.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take your shirt off.”
Henry's stomach dropped. “Please, don't make me—”
“We need to see if you've got the marks. See if you've been bitten. Can't be bringing you along if you're carrying, can we? And I'm not talkin' lice and the butt-tonne of extra weight! Come on now, Henry. Take your shirt off.”
Henry stood and began to slowly remove his shirt. He couldn't think straight. Something felt wrong. The cold air prickled his skin as the two men began to laugh.
“Shhh,” George said. “Shut up, Doug. This is serious, now. We need to-,” The sentence cut with a snort of laughter. “We need to see if Henry here has any marks.”
Henry wasn't embarrassed about having his shirt off. Didn't mind at all. His mind went elsewhere. His mouth salivated, and he swallowed.
“Turn,” George said. “Give us a twirl, Chunky.”
Henry did, his bones aching. He imagined the taste of something salty, something creamy. Something firm like ripe yogurt. He laughed. So did George and Douglas.
Suddenly warm and comfortable, Henry closed his eyes and swayed. Then something hit his face. Henry's eyes flew open.
“That's the third time,” George said. “You ain't with it.”
Third time? Had he been smacked three times? How had he not felt that? Henry noticed he'd been drooling. He chuckled. It was kind of funny.
George shook his head. “You're delirious, fat boy. I asked you a question.”
Henry didn't speak. George's voice came in and out like bad radio reception.
“I'm only going to ask you one more time, fat ass,” George said. “Are you hungry?”
Henry smiled. “Of course I am.”
The Faery Tree
“It's a miracle,” Patrick's mother cried. “A God's honest miracle. Do it again, please…”
With a grunt, Patrick hoisted himself from the wheelchair, his legs quivering. He placed one bare foot onto the floor, slowly followed by the other. He continued to hold onto the arms of the chair for support, his face scrunched in pain. When his feet had purchase, he released his grip from the chair and raised his hands up above his head. He breathed in short, tight bursts.
“See?” He said. “I'm standing. I'm actually standing! My legs are working, Mom.”
“A miracle,” She repeated, shaking her head. “I just can't believe it. How do you feel, Pat?”
“That's just it, isn't it? I can feel! Something, anything! I swear, my legs just tingled all morning. I was calling out for you, but you weren't home. I felt cold on them, I could actually feel temperature. I mean it. I prodded them for hours with my fingers, I couldn't believe it. I never thought I'd feel again…”
With that, Patrick squeezed the bridge of his nose and cried. The tears came hot and fast, heating his cheeks. His mother scuttled forward and held him tight. They stayed that way for a long time, until she finally brought him back to arms length. She pulled his hands away from his face and looked him in the eye.
“No more wheelchair, Pat. No more medical bills, no more physiotherapy. It's done.”
Pat sniffled. “I just don't understand how it's possible.”
“God works in mysterious ways. That's all there is to it. You're a very special boy.”
The door burst open, and Patrick's father stumbled into the room, red-faced and panting. At the sight of Patrick, his eyes fluttered.
“No… It's not real…”
“It is real, Dad.” Patrick raised his arms. “Ta-da.”
“Oh, sweet mother of… I think I'm going to faint. Pass me your wheelchair would you? You don't need it anymore, but I think I will!”
They all laughed. Patrick's father ran to him and squeezed him with enough force to cause his vision to blur. He buried his face into Patrick's neck, his beard ticklish and his hair smelling of tobacco smoke. He nuzzled his head back and forth. “You're back, Pat…”
Patrick laughed. “I never went anywhere, Dad.”
“No, of course not. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“You'll be able to play basketball again. You'll be able to ride a bike. You can do anything you feckin' want!”
“I guess so.”
Patrick's father released him from the hug and looked to his wife, still rubbing Pat's shoulder with one strong hand. Patrick got the impression that his Dad never wanted to let him go.
“Helen,” his father said. “Can we talk?”
Helen's eyes darted around the room, then landed back on Patrick's father. “What, now?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “Okay, Dennis. Let's go to our room, though. All right?”
Dennis nodded then turned back to Patrick. “You're a wonder-child. I always knew you were.” Then he and Helen left the room.
In the fireplace, a warm orange-bellied fire blazed. Patrick walked, actually walked, over to it, and warmed his legs. The cotton material of his grey sweatpants slowly grew hot, pressing against the smooth skin of his thighs. He sighed, savoring the feeling. If this were three years ago, he'd most likely have worn a pair of shredded jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, but ever since the car crash, he hadn't seen the point in looking how he wanted anymore. He hadn't felt like himself, so why bother look it? For those three awful years, Patrick stuck to grey sweatpants and a comfortable Aran sweater. It was easier that way.
Closing his eyes, Patrick's thoughts drifted to the accident.
He'd been sixteen.
The weather forecast had called for snow on the radio of William's brand new Honda Accord that night. The two boys had listened to the report before switching the channel to 100.5, the only classic rock station in Ireland. AC/DC blared from the speakers, and they sung along at full volume. They were driving through the Wicklow Mountains after a short trip to Dublin to try out the new car, a present for William's eighteenth birthday from his father.
Patrick had been secretly jealous of William for his present. The boy's parents were rich, unlike his own family. Patrick's father worked six days a week but still the family barely managed to scrape by. Patrick had hunted for a job for nearly five months to try and help out, but he’d found little work since the recession hit. He'd gotten some odd jobs at a local garage, but his father had told him to keep the money and spend it on himself. After all, he'd earned it.
“Think the snow'll catch us?” Patrick had said, peering through the window at the thick clouds in the night sky.
“We'll be back in Gleannloch in the next half-hour, so I doubt it.”
What William hadn't taken into account, however, was the ice.
It glistened on the patch of illuminated road ahead, shining in the headlights like diamonds on grit. AC/DC had given way to Pearl Jam, and they sang along with that too. They rounded a sharp corner, and that's all it took.
Patrick remembered an invisible hand, like that of an angry God, flipping the car in slow motion. He'd heard stories of when you believed you were going to die, your life flashed before your eyes. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the entire process had gone very slowly, as if time warped. The car landed on William's side, glass shattering and raining down on them. Their screams mangled together with a wailing guitar solo on the radio and the crunch of busted metal. The car screeched as it slid
on its side, sending them towards a ditch.
Patrick could remember hearing a crack, which he later found out to be William's head as it slapped the road through his non-existent window. Then all had turned black.
In hindsight, William considered himself lucky that he'd been knocked unconscious from the disaster. That way, he'd never felt a thing. Not even when his face had scraped along the cold earth and peeled like an onion.
The next day, a trail of red had painted the road for more than ten feet.
“…There? Patrick?”
“Huh?”
Patrick's mother eyed him from the living room doorway. She pulled her blouse tight across her chest. “I asked are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“The heat from the fire…” She nodded towards it. “How does it feel?”
“Wonderful.”
She smiled then, her eyes puffed from crying. “Your father just stepped out. He's just so overwhelmed, you know? Probably gone to tell the lads at Lynch's the good news. Scrounge a couple of free pints out of them. You know, if you went up there some night, you'd be drinking free for at least a month.”
Patrick laughed. “True. Should we call a doctor, Helen?” Patrick had always called his mother by name. If he didn't, she was inclined to smack him for a Mom, or Ma, or Mother. Not seriously, of course, but the message carried clear. “You know,” He said. “To make sure everything is all right?”
“Everything is fine, honey. You're standing, aren't you? You're walking. It's a miracle.”
“You know I don't believe in any of that. I'd like to know, scientifically, what's happened to me. Get a doctor's opinion.”
Helen smiled. “We'll call the GP on Monday, I promise. It's the weekend, they won't be open. Then we'll see what's happened, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I just can't believe it.”
Patrick shook his head. “Me neither. Can I… Can I go for a walk?”
Helen stayed silent for a moment. “Sure… Just promise me that you'll bring your phone with you, okay? I know nothing will happen, but just in case. Please. And call if you start to feel funny in any way. All right?”
“Of course.” Patrick chuckled. “Not much faith in action there, Helen, if you think it's going to be taken away from me just after being given to me.”
“Ah sure, God's a wanker sometimes. Now go on. I'm going to call your Aunt and tell her the good news… And Pat, I love you. You know that right?”
Patrick's chest tightened. He couldn't remember the last time his mother had said those words to him. If ever. “I love you, too.”
With that, Patrick left the house.
The first step outside felt overwhelming. The soles of his trainers pressed onto the hard concrete driveway, creating a welcome pressure in his calf-muscles. He'd expected some pain, some wobbling from lack of use, but his legs felt strong. How was that possible? There had to be some scientific explanation behind all of it, he thought. There just had to. Without walking for three years, surely his muscles would need to be trained back up to a point where he could walk without a problem?
But that didn't seem to be the case. He walked the length of the driveway just fine.
Bill Montague watered his garden next door, and when Patrick called out a hello, Bill smiled and nodded before returning to his chore. Then he dropped the watering can and stared, wide-eyed.
“You have to be joking me.”
Patrick laughed. “No joke, Bill. Helen calls it a miracle.”
“She says it's a miracle? Is she inside?”
“Yeah.”
“I'll drop into her.” Bill gave a smile that never reached his eyes. “I'll go in for a chat. This is… something else.”
“Sure… I'm going for a walk. An actual goddamn walk.”
And he did. He passed by the houses of the small council estate, each one a direct carbon copy of the last. He looked at the windows as he drifted by, wondering if the residents had any idea that Patrick Mulligan was walking outside, just like he used to three years ago.
He hung a right at the end of the estate, passing through the football field that lay beyond the row of homes. There, he removed his shoes and socks and worked his toes into the soft, wet grass. He sighed. Overhead, the sun shone down out with a glorious warmth and some birds sung from a nearby patch of trees. Taking his shoes in his hands, he pressed on, through the football field and onto to the Green Road that lay ahead.
The Green Road was a forest trail, carved by walkers and vehicles that passed through the dense woodlands. It stretched for three miles with nothing but forest to either side, eventually ending at the Visitation center of Gleannloch where tourist buses would park in the summer. In those months, Gleannloch would be swarming with visitors from all over the world, each of them hiking or sightseeing. The local businesses thrived and survived on them. But now, in April, the area sat in silence, exactly as Patrick liked it. Shimmying back into his shoes and socks, he entered the forest by the Green Road and listened to the birds.
“Hey! Pat!” A voice called to him. “Wait up!”
Patrick turned and watched as an old man jogged towards him. He wore a tie-dye shirt and sweatpants that made his fashion sense seem frozen in the sixties. His face was somewhat familiar, but Patrick had a hard time recalling where he'd seen him before. He waited for the old man to catch up.
“Pat,” the man said, leaning over to catch his breath. “It's true, you're walking. I just can't believe it.”
Patrick smiled. “Yes, I am… Sorry, do I know you?”
“I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. Justin Godly. I run the retreat center up by the church in town.”
“That's it, the retreat place. I knew I recognized your face.”
The pamphlets, Patrick thought. The ones posted through the letterbox each month with your beaming face on them. That's where I know you from. The holistic healing center.
Patrick could see the green and yellow paper of the pamphlet all too well. Become a Reiki Master for €500 on a two week course, it claimed. Laugh yourself better with Madam Hughes' positive energy Fridays. Reflexology training from €50 a week. Crystal balls and tarot cards and energy rocks for sale and in stock.
Ludicrous, Patrick thought. His father had put it perfectly, saying, “Simply replace the word God with the word Universe and you've got yourself an industry. Religion for the non-religious.”
The Green Road called out to Patrick. “Mr. Godly,” He said. “I don't mean to offend you, but I really need to go for a walk.”
“Of course, of course.” He nodded frantically. “But Pat… I think your mother did something terrible.”
Patrick cocked his head to one side. “What… What are you talking about?”
“Your father, he came to Lynch's to spread the good word. The place was overjoyed, of course. But I'm just glad I caught you in time.”
“Caught me in time? Mr. Godly, you're worrying me here. What's going on?”
“Your mother came to me,” He said. “Seeking advice on how to make you better. This was some time ago and —”
Patrick interrupted, “First off, I didn't need to be made better. I was still me, even in that chair. And secondly, are you talking about holistic healing?”
“That's what I thought she wanted, too, of course. But no, what your mother wanted was my personal insight into other areas.” Justin Godly paused. “Black magic.”
Patrick snorted a laugh. “Okay. Sure. Black magic.”
“Pat, for God's sake!” The change in the man's voice sent a shiver down Patrick's spine. He stepped back. “There's a reason so many people travel to Gleannloch each year,” Justin said. “Not just because of its beauty, no. This place is magical, you know that, you grew up here, you've heard the stories from school about the monster in the lake and all the rest. Mystical stuff. The healing that happens here.”
“The monster in the lake, right.” Patrick nodded. “I forgot about that one. A Saint befrien
ded it and wowed the locals, right? And that Faery Tree that's at the end of the Green Road where people hang their wishes for the faeries to grant, too.”
“That's exactly what I'm here to talk to you about.”
Patrick arched an eyebrow. “The Faery Tree?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh for Christ's sake. Mr. Godly…”
Without warning, Justin firmly grabbed Patrick's arm. “Your mother made a wish to the faeries. Against my warnings, I might add. But I never thought she would go through with it. I told her again and again, the hidden forces of Gleannloch are not to be taken lightly. They are ancient and powerful. They're not good, not bad. They simply are, and for that they must be respected.”
Patrick sighed. “So, what? You're saying that my mother placed a wish onto the Faery Tree, and that wish was for me to walk, and now I can?”
“Exactly.”
Patrick stayed silent a moment, studying the man's face. “Look, Justin, you might be able to con stupid American tourists with your pseudo-scientific crap, but I won't be tricked.”
“This is not about my beliefs, Patrick. This is about black magic. Something I do not practice, nor do I advise.”
“But you study it?”
“As an interest. Like some atheists might study the bible, just to broaden the mind and have both sides of the argument on file, so to speak. How long have you been out of the house, Pat?”
“Like, five minutes?”
Justin's face fell. “It could already be too late.”
“I've had enough of this.”
“Go home, Pat. If the faeries have had a hand in granting your mother's wish, they'll be after their payment.”
“Hold on,” Patrick said, holding up a hand. “What do you think their payment is?”
“I don't think I know what their payment is, I do know. Celtic mythology dictates that in return for a granted wish, the faeries demand a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. That, or a job gets done on their behalf. The jobs are usually something unspeakable, and most people don't ever agree to the terms. So, to my logic, a sacrifice would have been your mother's choosing.”
Patrick's mother's voice ran through his mind, speaking those three words he'd never heard her say before.