He smiled enthusiastically.
“That would be pretty sporting of you, lieutenant” (He pronounced it in the curious way that the English do as “left-tenant.”)
“When did your man disappear?”
“Nine years ago. Actually, exactly nine years ago on April the thirtieth” He paused. “You are staying at the pink-wash cottage near the point, aren’t you?”
I confirmed I was.
“Curiously, that’s where Captain Pfeiffer was billeted when he disappeared.”
The officials left the island later that day and I raised the subject with Brennan. I had been a little arrogant in assuming that because I had been born on the island, and was of an old island family, that I would be trusted any more than the officials from Dublin and London. I was an American, a stranger, and they certainly would not divulge the hidden secrets of the island to me. Brennan was diplomatic in answering my questions but the result was the same. No one was going to talk about the fate of the captain.
A few days later, I had almost forgotten Pfeiffer. Brennan and I went out fishing. We were after sea trout, breac, as he called it. Brennan took me out in his skiff, at least I describe it as a skiff. He called it a naomhóg, a strange very light boat which was made of canvas, spread over a wooden frame and hardened by coatings of pitch and tar. Although frail, the craft was very manoeuvrable in the water and rode heavy seas with amazing dexterity. A mile or two from the island was a weird crooked rock which rose thirty or forty feet out of the sea. Brennan called it camcarraig and when I asked the meaning of the name he said it was simply “crooked rock.” Brennan reckoned the sea trout ran by here and into Roaring Water Bay, close by. So we rowed to within a few yards of the pounding surf, crashing like slow thunder against the weed-veined rock, and cast our lines.
The fishing went well for some time and we hauled a catch that we could not be ashamed of.
Suddenly, I cannot remember exactly how it happened, a dark shadow seemed to pass over us. I looked up immediately expecting a cloud to have covered the sun. Yet it was still high and shining down, though it was as if there were no light coming from it. Nor were there any clouds in the sky to account for the phenomenon. I turned to Brennan and found him on his knees in the bow of the boat, crouching forward, his eyes staring at the sea. It were then that I observed that the water around us had turned black, the sort of angry green blackness of a brooding sea just before the outbreak of a storm, discoloured by angry scudding clouds. Yet the sky was clear.
I felt the air, dank and chill, oppressive and damp against my body.
“What is it?” I demanded, my eyes searching for some explanation to the curious sensation.
Brennan had now grabbed at the oars and started to pull away from the crooked rock, back towards the distant island shore. His English had deserted him and he was rambling away in eloquent Irish and, despite his rowing, would now and then lift his hand to genuflect.
“Brennan,” I cried, “calm down. What are you saying?”
After some while, when we were well away from the crooked rock, and the sun was warm again on our bodies and the sea was once more the reflected blue of the sky, Brennan apologised.
“We were too near the rock,” he said. “There is an undercurrent there which is too strong for us.”
I frowned. That was not how it had seemed to me at all. I told him so but he dismissed me.
“I was only fearful that we would be swept into the current,” he said. “I merely offered up a little prayer.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It seemed a powerful long prayer,” I observed.
He grinned.
“Long prayers are better heard than short ones.”
I chuckled.
“And what was the prayer you said? In case I have need of it.”
“I merely said, ‘God between me and the Devil, nine times and nine times nine’.”
I was puzzled.
“Why nine? Wouldn’t seven be a luckier number?”
He looked amazed at what he obviously thought was my appalling ignorance.
“Seven? Seven is an unlucky number in these parts. It is the number nine which is sacred. In ancient times the week consisted of nine nights and nine days. Didn’t Cuchulainn have nine weapons, didn’t King Loegaire, when setting out to arrest St. Patrick, order nine chariots to be joined together according to the tradition of the gods? Wasn’t Queen Medb accompanied by nine chariots and...”
I held up my hand in pacification at his excited outburst.
“All right. I believe you” I smiled. “So the number nine is significant.”
He paused and his sea-green eyes rested on mine for several seconds and then he shrugged.
That evening I went to Tomás O’Driscoll’s croft which served as an inn, or rather a place where you could buy a drink and groceries from the mainland when they came in by the boat. The place is called a sibin, or shebeen, as it is pronounced in English, which signifies an unlicensed drinking house. Several of the old men of the island were gathered there and Brennan sat on a threelegged stool by the chimney-corner, smoking his pipe. As I have said, everyone looked up to Brennan as the spokesman for the island and the old men were seated around him talking volubly in Irish. I wished I could understand what they were saying.
Two words kept being repeated in this conversation, however. Daoine Domhain. To my ears it sounded like “dayn’ya dow’an.” Only when they noticed me did a silence fall on the company. I felt a strange uneasiness among them. Brennan was regarding me with a peculiar expression on his face which held a note of... well, it took me some time before I reasoned it... of sadness in it.
I offered to buy drinks for the company but Brennan shook his head.
“Have a drink on me and welcome,” he said. “It’s not for the likes of you to buy drinks for the likes of us.”
They seemed to behave strangely to me. I cannot put my finger on it for they were not unfriendly, nor did they stint in hospitality, yet there was something odd—as if they were regarding me as a curiosity, watching and waiting... yet for what?
I returned back to the croft early that evening and noted that the wind was blowing up from the south, across camcarraig and towards the headland on which the handful of cottages on the island clung precariously. Oddly, above the noise of the blustering wind, stirring the black, angry swells which boomed into Roaring Water Bay and smacked against the granite fortresses of the islands, I heard a whistling sound which seemed less like the noise of the wind and more like the lonely cry of some outcast animal, wailing in its isolation. So strong did the noise seem that I went to the door and stood listening to it just in case it was some animal’s distress cry. But eventually the noise was lost in the howl of the wind from the sea.
There is some ancient proverb, I forget how it goes. Something about “out of the mouths of babes and sucklings...” I was reminded of that two days later when I happened to be fishing from the high point beyond my cottage, where the seas move restlessly towards the land from the camcarraig. It was a lazy day and the fish were not in a mood for taking the bait. Nonetheless I was content, relaxing, almost half asleep.
I was not aware of any presence until I heard a voice close to my ear say something in Irish. I blinked my eyes and turned to see a young girl of about nine years old, with amazing red-gold hair, which tumbled around her shoulders. She was an extraordinarily attractive child, with eyes of such a bright green colour they seemed unreal. She was staring at me solemnly. Her feet were bare and her dress was stained and torn, but she had a quiet dignity which sat oddly on the appearance of terrible poverty. Again she repeated her question.
I shook my head and replied in English, feeling stupid.
“Ah, it is a stranger you are.”
“Do you speak English?” I asked in amazement, having accepted Brennan as the only English-speaker on the island.
She did not answer my superfluous question for it was obvious she understood the language.
“Dayn’ya dow’an?” I asked, trying to approximate the sounds of the words. It was the same expression which had been used in the shebeen a few nights ago. “What is that?”
“Musha, but they are the Fomorii, the dwellers beneath the sea. They were the evil-ones who dwelt in Ireland long before the coming of the Gael. Always they have battled for our souls, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. They are the terrible people... they have but a single eye and a single hand and a single foot. They are the terrible ones... the Deep Ones—the Daoine Domhain.”
I smiled broadly at this folklore solemnly proclaimed by this young girl.
She caught my smile and frowned. Her face was suddenly serious.
“God between us and all evil, stranger, but it is not good to smile at the name of the Deep Ones.”
I assured her that I was not smiling at them. I asked her what her name was but she would not tell me. She turned to me and I saw an abrupt change in her expression. Abruptly a sadness grew in her eyes, and she turned and ran away. That left me disturbed. I wondered who her mother was because I felt I ought to go to the child’s parents in case they thought I had deliberately scared her. I should explain that I meant the child no harm in case she was afraid of something I had said or of some expression on my face.
I was packing my rods when Brennan came by. I greeted him, and my first question was about the child. He looked mighty puzzled and said that there was no child on the island who could speak English. When he perceived that I was annoyed because he doubted my word, he tried to placate me by saying that if I had seen such a child, then it must have come from another island or the mainland and was visiting.
He offered to walk back with me to my cottage and on the way I asked him: “Who exactly were the Fomorii?”
For a moment he looked disconcerted.
“My, but you are the one for picking up the ancient tales,” was his comment.
“Well?” I prompted, as it seemed he was going to say nothing further on the subject.
He shrugged.
“They are just an ancient legend, that’s all”
I was a little exasperated and he saw it for he then continued: “The name means the dwellers under the sea. They were a violent and misshapen people who represented the evil gods in ancient times. They were led by Balor of the Evil Eye and others of their race such as More and Cichol but their power on land was broken at the great battle at Magh Tuireadh when they suffered defeat by the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the gods of goodness”
“Is that all?” I asked, disappointed at the tale.
Brennan raised a shoulder in an eloquent gesture.
“Is it not enough?” he asked good humouredly.
“Why are they called the Deep Ones?” I pressed.
A frown passed across his brow.
“Who told you that?” his voice was waspish.
“Were you not talking about the Deep Ones in the shebeen the other night? Daynya Do’wan. Isn’t that the Irish for Deep Ones? And why should you be talking of ancient legends?”
He seemed to force a smile.
“You have the right of it,” he conceded. “We talk of ancient legends because they are part of us, of our heritage and our culture. And we call the Fomorii by this name because they dwell in the great deeps of the sea. No mystery in that.”
I nodded towards camcarraig.
“And they are supposed to dwell near that rock?”
He hesitated, then said indifferently, “So legend goes. But a man like yourself does not want to dwell on our ancient tales and legends” It was as if he had excluded me from my ancestry, ignored the fact that I had been born on the island.
Then he would talk no more either about the girl or the Deep Ones—the Fomorii—or the Daoine Domhain.
Two nights later as I was eating my supper in the main room of the tiny two roomed cottage, I felt a draught upon my face and glanced up. I was astonished, for there standing with her back to the door was the little girl. The first thought that filled my mind was how quietly she must have entered not to disturb me. Only the soft draught from the door, supposedly opening and shutting, had alerted me. Then I realised that it was curious for a young child to be out so late and visiting the cottage of a stranger. I knew the islanders were trusting people but this trust bordered on irresponsibility.
She was staring at me with the same sadness that I had seen in her eyes when she had left me on the cliff top.
“What is it?” I demanded. “Why are you here and who are you?” I recalled Brennan had claimed there was no such girl on the island. But this was no apparition.
“You have been chosen,” she whispered softly. “Beware the feast of the Fires of Bile, god of death. The intermediary will come for you then and take you to them. They are awaiting; nine years will have passed at the next feast. They wait every nine years for reparation. So be warned. You are the next chosen one”
My mouth opened in astonishment, not so much at what the girl was saying but at the words and phraseology which she used, for it was surely well beyond the ability of a nine-year-old to speak thus.
Abruptly as she came she went, turning, opening the door and running out into the dusk of the evening. I hastened to the door and peered into the gloom. There was no one within sight.
I have strong nerves, as well you know, but I felt a curious feeling of apprehension welling in me.
That night I was awakened by an odd wailing sound. At first I thought it was the noise of the wind across the mountain, whistling and calling, rising and falling. But then I realised it was not. It was surely some animal, lonely and outcast. The cry of a wolf, perhaps? But this was a bare rock of an island and surely no wolves could survive here? It went on for some time before it died away and I finally settled back to sleep.
The next morning I called by Tomás O’Driscoll’s place and found Brennan, as usual, seated in the little bar-room. Once again he refused to accept a drink from me and instead offered me a glass of whiskey.
“Brennan,” I said, my mind filled with the visit of the young child, “you are frugal with the truth because there is a little, redhaired girl living on this island. She can speak English”
His face whitened a little and he shook his head violently and demanded to know why I asked.
I told him and his face was ghastly. He genuflected and muttered something in Irish whereupon Tomás behind the bar replied sharply to him. Brennan seemed to relax and nodded, obviously in agreement at what Tomás had said.
“What’s going on here?” I asked harshly. “I insist that you tell me.”
Brennan glanced about as if seeking some avenue of escape.
I reached forward and grabbed him angrily by the shoulder.
“No need for hurt,” he whined.
“Then tell me,” I insisted firmly.
“She’s just a tinker girl. She and her family often come to the island to lift the salmon from the rock pool at the north end of the island. They must be there now. I swear I didn’t know the truth of it. But that’s who she is. Tinkers are not good people to be knowing. They say all manner of strange things and claim they have the second sight. I wouldn’t be trusting them.”
He looked down at his glass and would say no more.
All at once I had a firm desire to quit this island and these strange people with their weird superstitions and folk ways. I might have been born on the island but they were no longer my people, no longer part of me. I was an American and in America lay reality.
“Can I get a boat to the mainland, to Baltimore today, Brennan?” I asked.
He raised his eyes to mine and smiled sadly.
“Not today nor tomorrow, Mr. Hacket,” he replied softly.
“Why so?”
“Because this evening is May Day Eve. It’s one of our four main holidays.”
I was a little surprised.
“Do you celebrate Labour Day?”
Brennan shook his head.
“Oh, no. May Day and the evening before it is an ancient feastday in the old Celtic calendar stretching back before the coming of Christianity. We call it Bealtaine—the time of the Fires of Bile, one of the ancient gods.”
I felt suddenly very cold, recalling the words of the tinker child.
“Are you saying that tonight is the feast of the god of death?”
Brennan made an affirmative gesture.
The girl had warned me of the feast of the Fires of Bile when some intermediary would come for me and take me to... to them? Who were “them”? The Deep Ones, of course. The terrible Fomorii who dwelt beneath the seas.
I frowned at my thoughts. What was I doing? Was I accepting their legends and folklore? But I had been born on the island. It was my reality also, my legends and my folklore as much as it was their own. And was I suddenly accepting the girl’s second sight without question? Was I believing that she had come to warn me... about what? I must be going mad.
I stood there shaking my head in bewilderment.
I was going mad, even to credit anything so ridiculous.
“Have a drink, Mr. Hacket,” Brennan was saying. “Then you will be as right as ninepence.”
I stared at him for a moment. His words, an expression I had frequently heard in the area, triggered off a memory.
“Nine,” I said slowly. “Nine.”
Brennan frowned at me.
But suddenly I had become like a man possessed. Nine years ago to this day had Captain Pfeiffer disappeared from the very same cottage in which I was staying. The girl had said something about them waiting every nine years for reparation. Nine was the mystical number of the ancient Celts. The week was counted by nine nights and nine days and three weeks, the root number of nine, gave twenty-seven nights which was the unit of the month, related to the twenty-seven constellations of the lunar zodiac. Nine, nine, nine...! The number hammered into my mind.
Was I going crazy?
What was I saying? That every ninth year these people made some sacrifice to ancient pagan gods whom they believed dwelt in the depths of the sea—the Daoine Domhain—the Deep Ones? That the English army captain, Pfeiffer, had been so sacrificed nine years before, nine years ago on this very night?
Shadows Over Innsmouth Page 28