Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  “This is bullshit,” he said. “Pure and utter bullshit. And who, exactly, would my mother be willing to sacrifice for my ability to walk again?”

  “I think any mother would give their own life to give the best to their child. Don't you agree?”

  A silence hung between them for what seemed like hours. Patrick knew the conversation to be ludicrous. But something deep down stirred, all the same. What harm could it do, to go home and check? He could say he forgot his keys when he saw his mother, because, of course, she'd be there. Then he could go find this Godly man again, and smack him on the head for ruining his first walk in three years. That sounded like a reasonable plan.

  “You're going to go check on her, aren't you?” Justin asked.

  “Of course.” Patrick shook his head. “She's my mother. If anything has happened to her, I swear to God, I'll find you, and you'll be sorry.”

  “No I won't.” With that, Justin Godly started up the Green Road. “You'll find me by the Faery Tree. I'll wait there for an hour. If something's happened to your mother, I'm sure you'll be there. If it hasn't, forget I ever mentioned it and let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Patrick turned and left. With his back to Justin, his skin crawled. Something about the man unnerved him. To Patrick, he had that look in his eyes, one usually reserved for fundamentalist Christians. It seemed to infect new-agers, too, he'd noticed. A look that made you wonder if they had a hatchet behind their back.

  Justin called after him. “I will wait for one hour, Pat.”

  Patrick ran. The muscles in his legs cried out in ecstasy with each stride but his mind was filled with anxiety. Halfway across the football field, he picked up speed, like a car grinding up through its gears, not seeming to go fast enough. He wanted to move like lightning, to use every ounce of strength within his newly working legs to full effect. His heart punched at his chest and sweat beaded down his face as he shot through the field and out into the estate. The place stood still and empty as Patrick zipped through. He climbed the driveway, fumbled with his keys, and finally opened the front door.

  The lingering scent of tobacco from his father's cigarettes welcomed him home, but the house sat in silence. Patrick called out for his mother.

  No response.

  Quickly, he went from room to room. In the spare bedroom, his father's art canvas and paint sat alone by the open window. A half-finished watercolor of the Round Tower in Gleannloch was in the works. Patrick spared it a glance before noticing a notebook and pen nearby. Without overthinking, he snatched them from the table and stuffed them into his back pocket. If worse came to worse, he had a plan.

  Knocking on his parents bedroom door, he didn't wait for a response before entering. The bed was mussed and empty, as was the walk-in closet. The curtains were drawn and the room was clothed in darkness. A clock ticked too loudly on the wall.

  Patrick's stomach knotted as he spied his mother's sewing machine with a piece of beige material still inside of it. She never left a project unfinished.

  It's all right, he told himself. She just stepped out to go to the shop. That's all. Probably needed milk or bread. Maybe she dropped by a neighbor's place?

  An idea hit Patrick like a slap. Bill Montague! He'd said he was dropping by for a chat. His mother must have gone next door for a cup of tea and a talk, that's all!

  “Up yours, Mr. Godly,” Patrick said to the empty house. “Stick your black magic up your hole.”

  Patrick made for the Montague house next door. Bill lived there alone, ever since he and his wife divorced nearly five years ago. He liked to keep to himself, and Patrick thought of him as kind and quiet. He had an impressive science-fiction paperback collection, and had loaned many to Patrick over the years.

  Patrick knocked on the door.

  “Come on in.”

  The house smelled unmistakably of cannabis smoke. Old Bill must have been onto his afternoon toke already. Patrick closed the door behind him and made his way through the hallway. The walls were painted a faded green, the floor covered with faux wood floorboards. In the living room, Bill sat half-sunken into a beanbag, the sound of an old John Lee Hooker album drifting from a nearby stereo. Smoke danced in the sunlight of the open window.

  “Bill, you okay?”

  The man shook his head. His eyes looked red and puffy. “Your mother, Pat…”

  The world seemed to spin on Patrick just then, and not because of the smoke in the room.

  “What about my mother?” He asked.

  “She went through with it. She actually did it.”

  “Please, please don't tell me you're talking about that stupid Faery Tree?”

  Bill's eyes widened. “You know?”

  “I don't know anything!” Patrick's lips tightened to a slit. “I'm fucking confused as hell right now! I can walk, for God's sake! What the hell's going on? That guy who runs the holistic place up by the church stopped me on the Green Road. Told me about it. But, I mean, it's bullshit, of course, yeah? Come on.”

  Apprehension crept through Patrick like a burglar. He wanted Bill to start laughing and tell him it was all a joke. His mother was just using the bathroom. She'd be out in a moment. Instead, he began to cry. “Gleannloch is a magic place, Pat. That’s—”

  Patrick interrupted. “I've heard all this before. Too many times.”

  “Then it would do you good to listen. You know that's why so many unique people come here. You must have noticed. Artistic types, religious types, the musically gifted. Because they know the powers this place holds. They can feel it.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Ask any of the older folk about The Faery Tree and they'll all tell you the same thing. Stay away from it. Bad things have happened here, and all because of that damn tree, and the creatures that own it.”

  “The faeries?”

  “They live in the mountains, Pat. In the mountains. Have you ever been to it before?”

  “Of course I've walked by it, but it's always been roped off. Being removed because it's a hazard is what I heard.”

  Bill laughed. “A hazard? That's poetic. It's roped off during tourist season so that no one will put a wish on its branches. Not only that, it's watched by some of the more extreme locals day and night. But that didn't stop your mother getting to it and making a wish.”

  “If this is all for real, Bill, I don't think I'll be able to handle it. This is crazy talk.”

  “So is you being able to walk.” Bill leaned forward. “Listen. She did it. She made a bargain with the faeries. Your mother wouldn't have a bad bone in her body to do those monsters’ bidding, so my guess is she made a sacrifice. Have you heard that before?”

  Patrick nodded and repeated what Justin Godly had told him.

  “Right. I went over to your place just as you left, but she was already gone. The faeries are sneaky, crafty little things. They wait until no one is around to do their work. That's when they took her.”

  Pat shook his head frantically. “Took her where? Why didn't my father stay with her? He must have known.”

  “Oh, I'd say he knew something once he heard the news that you were walking. And I doubt he went to Lynch's to spread the good news. My guess is he shot off like the wind to the Faery Tree to try and catch those little creeps before they made off with your mother, before they take her to the Otherworld.”

  “I've got to get up there, I've got to try and save her.”

  “The deal has been made.” Bill began to get up. “You're walking and they've got Helen. What's done is done.”

  “Then I'll make them another deal.”

  Bill's eyes widened. “Pat, no!”

  But Patrick had left before Bill could object. Leaving the front door open, he sprinted back towards the Green Road. Bill's calls echoed after him.

  Thoughts fell around inside his head like loose items in a moving truck. Faeries living inside the mountains of Gleannloch? Taking his mother to some other dimension where mystical beings and deities resided?
That was the stuff of folklore, and folklore was nothing but campfire comfort. Cautionary tales. Not real.

  The forest blurred past as Pat pumped his legs. Some agitated rooks took flight from a nearby tree, but other than that, the road stood quiet. Patrick watched the birds fly ahead, thinking to himself about a childhood story of how rooks, ravens and crows were messengers from the afterlife.

  “Going to the Otherworld, are you?” He shouted after them. “Tell them to be fucking expecting me, then!”

  Rounding the final corner of the dirt path, the Faery Tree rolled into view. Yellow plastic tape stretched around four trees surrounding it, squaring the Faery Tree off from access.

  His lungs burned from exhaustion and his legs screamed in pain but he kept moving. Two figures stood just outside the tape, seemingly deep in conversation. Patrick could tell it to be his father and Justin Godly. They looked to him as he ran.

  A wooden sign reading NO ACCESS was planted at the side of the road and Patrick slapped it as he passed.

  “Pat,” His father said. “Stay back, we need to think about this.”

  Patrick eyed the two of them, sneering. “There's nothing to fucking think about.”

  Swooping below the yellow tape, he stumbled towards the Faery Tree. Dark moss mottled the trunk. Here and there, thick bark splintered away like dead skin, revealing dry, grey wood beneath. The tree's branches were scrawny and long, like the legs of some giant, dead spider. Each one had colored ribbons attached, and tied to those ribbons were folded pieces of paper.

  Wishes, Patrick thought. Frightened people's wishes. People with nowhere else to turn.

  Patrick yanked one from a nearby branch, making the limb bob and sway. From behind, Justin Godly cried out as if Patrick had ripped wax paper from the man's own skin. Patrick glared at him before unfolding the paper and beginning to read.

  Please, take these tumors from my Willem and take me instead. He has so much to live for, and all I want is to see him happy. Yours, ever faithfully, Killian Barns.

  Patrick's father screamed. “What the hell is that thing?”

  Lowering the paper, Patrick's legs nearly buckled. A creature unlike anything he'd ever seen stood before him. It looked to be about three feet tall, its head bulbous and bald. Its skin looked to be the same texture as porridge, dark grey and splotchy. A potbelly mercifully hung enough to cover its genitalia. Its three-fingered hands ended in long black nails and were disproportionate to its arms. Its head cocked from side to side like a curious dog, two beady black eyes studying him.

  “Pat, don't move,” His father warned. “Stay still.”

  Patrick didn't. He turned. And his breath froze in his throat.

  Behind him were three more, while another two crawled from the well beside the tree. They moved slow and clumsily, but a dangerous intelligence burned in their eyes. Patrick slowly backed towards the yellow tape, but the first creature shuffled after him as if it wasn't done with its examination. When the tape pressed into his back, Patrick ducked and kept moving, backing up towards his father and Justin Godly.

  “They're here,” Justin said. “They're real…”

  The faeries shuffled about the tree, inquisitively looking at their surroundings like newborns. They seemed fascinated by everything. One of them plucked a wish from an overhead branch and studied it, the motion slow and purposeful.

  “Do you think they understand the words?” Patrick's father asked. His voice sounded like gravel.

  “Maybe they just get the intention,” Justin offered. “The feeling of what's been asked. I have no idea.”

  “I need to sit down,” Patrick said. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

  Patrick's father reached for him but Patrick shook his head. He wanted to be alone. Besides, he had a plan.

  Patrick slowly made his way to one of the trees that secured the tape. There, he leaned against it and removed the paper and pen from his back pocket. Deep down, he'd known he would do this from the start. He just didn't want to admit it. Not to his father or Justin Godly, and not to himself.

  His hands shook. Patrick took a deep breath and wiped the fresh sweat from his forehead. Then he began to scribble on the paper.

  Insurance, he told himself. So neither of them can change this. This is my choice.

  Patrick made his way back to the tree, his legs seeming to move by themselves. If he paused for thought, he knew he wouldn't be able to follow through.

  “Pat,” His father shouted. “What are you doing? Those things could be dangerous.”

  Patrick didn't reply.

  “Pat!”

  The creatures stumbled towards him, their tiny feet lurching through the fallen leaves on the forest floor. They circled him with their heads curiously lolling from side to side. Giving them a proper look, Patrick noticed something new. A growth poked from each of their backs, like two weak bones protruding from the skin. Patrick guessed they must have been wings at some point.

  “Move aside, you little creeps.”

  Patrick waded through them towards the tree, his father and Justin Godly watching silently. The creatures parted, letting him pass. Their little claws flexed, and although their hands were small, the black nails clicked sharply, sounding as if they could shred through skin as easily as a knife through cream. One of them made a mewling noise, deep in its throat, and Patrick got the impression it was trying very hard not to take a swipe.

  Maybe they don't know what to do with me…

  Reaching for the nearest branch, Patrick pulled it towards him. It was cold and slimy, like a decomposing limb. Two more faeries began making that mewling sound, but still made no attempt to attack.

  Patrick removed one of the wishes tied to the branch, one secured with faded-yellow shoestring. He unfolded the paper and dropped it to the earth, causing one of the creatures to shuffle forward and sniff it. When Patrick looked down, the creature darted away with a high yelp.

  “Pat, stop!” His father ordered. “Get out of there.”

  Ignoring him, Patrick popped the shoestring through the top corner of his own wish. He tied the string tightly around the branch, yanking it to make sure it felt firm. Satisfied, he held the branch for a moment and looked around. The creatures were closer to him now, one close enough to touch. They were getting too comfortable. He needed to get out of there, and fast. His father and Justin Godly watched anxiously.

  Patrick let the branch go, causing it to flop back up and sway. The faeries scattered away from the noise, bunching together at the edge of their well. Patrick saw the opportunity, and took it. He darted for the yellow tape and ducked beneath it, back to his father and Justin.

  “What have you done, Pat?” His father asked. “We should have talked about this. You can't go taking matters into your own hands!”

  “Someone should have told Helen.” Patrick looked his father in the eye. “I was fine in my wheelchair, you know. I accepted it. That was not her choice to make, and if you had any sense you should have tried to talk her out of it. Both of you. You should have told me.”

  Clearing his throat, Justin asked, “What did you wish for, Patrick? What did you write?”

  Patrick smiled. “Simple. Bring my mother back.”

  With that, he collapsed, sensation suddenly swiped from his legs.

  At the same time, something lurched from under the tree. Something stinking of soil and rot. Something with an all too familiar face.

  King Of The Gypsies

  “So, you're really going to do it?”

  Michael drained his second pint of beer and wiped his mouth. Even though it was only ten in the morning, the stale scent of smoke and vomit still hung in the pub from the night before. Thin Lizzy played quietly on the jukebox as a lone bartender went about setting up for the day's business.

  “Of course I'm going to do it,” Michael said. His voice was low and steady. “What other choice do I have?”

  Henry nodded. “I know. You have to do it.”

  Henry had always been
a good friend, an understanding friend, and the only one who'd support Michael in a decision as ridiculous as this. The idea was foolish, but Michael saw no other choice. With a baby on the way, he needed the money.

  “How long ago was it?” Henry asked. “The last one, I mean. When it happened.”

  Michael's brow creased, his callused fingers drumming the wooden tabletop. “Ten years, give or take. '85, I think.”

  “Jaysus.”

  Looking out the window of the pub, Michael watched the light drizzle fall in the sunlight. A summer shower spat down on Dublin city center. Good weather for a fight.

  “I remember it like it was yesterday,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Still remember the Connollys trying to blame the mud for him slipping the first time he went down, even though he was clearly pissed. Sure, I could even smell the whiskey from where I was. All hell broke loose, man. Jaysus. Still have a scar on my ribcage from where Patrick Connolly smashed me with a bottle.”

  Michael remembered that night. Of course he remembered. “Horrible,” he said flatly.

  Far up the Wicklow Mountains, a two-hour drive from Dublin, through back roads and steep inclines covered in nothing but forests and woodland, lay The Ring. At least, that's what it was known to the bare-knuckle boxing community. The Ring was a clearing near the top of the Sally Gap, a place where gravel crunched beneath your feet and the sound of harsh wind tore by your ears. Up there, there was no interference. And on that night, ten years ago, Michael wished there had been. If there was, things might be different. The young Brady Connolly might still be alive.

  The Garda had gotten a tip-off, and raided The Ring back in 1992. The news covered it extensively. The entire country had spoken of nothing else for weeks but the traveling gypsy families who staked money on fist fights for a living. That was, until something better came along. Some bigger news always did. What didn't get publicized, though, and only because they were never discovered by the media, were the VHS tapes that made big money down on Moore Street. His tapes sold door to door. Michael the Mountain Rourke was something of a celebrity.