Bansi O'Hara and the Bloodline Prophecy

by John Dougherty

  Gingerly, Bansi raised her head just enough to see her stomach. A large, soft bulge marked the animal’s movements under her fleece, torn where the wolf’s teeth had ripped it. She watched the bump under the fabric move closer to the hole, and held her breath in the desperate hope that whatever it was would emerge, and fly or crawl or scuttle away.

  And then something – its head, she guessed – began to show through the hole. It was red; or at least the tip was, although, as it continued to squeeze through, the red colour gave way to a grey, hairier surface – almost as if the thing was wearing a hat of some kind, Bansi thought. Then came arms: green, with grey paws – no, grey hands, she realized, and with that realization came the idea that this was some kind of little man. She let her breath out in a sigh of relief.

  The little man turned, showing a bearded grey face with cherry-red nose and cheeks. He froze, his little bloodshot eyes widening with surprise.

  ‘Oh – ah – um – oh, heavensh be praised, you’re alive!’ he blurted guiltily. ‘I was just, um . . . I was just looking for a pulse, that’s it, yes . . .’

  ‘I don’t normally keep my pulse in my belly,’ Bansi observed dryly.

  ‘Ah, well, that’d be it, glad to help, I’ll be off then,’ he gabbled, trying to squeeze his own little round belly through the hole without success. ‘Umm . . . you couldn’t give me a hand out of here now, young Bansi, could you?’

  Bansi started. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Do I? Oh, yesh, so I do. Very important things, names. Pleashed to meet you, by the way. You can call me Flooter. I’m a cluricaun,’ he added proudly

  ‘Um . . . yes, pleased to meet you, too, Flooter. But how do you know my name?’

  ‘Oh, that. Pogo told me.’

  Bansi sat up, causing Flooter to sway dangerously and pop out of the hole, landing in a heap on the forest floor. ‘Pogo? Do you know where he is?’

  The cluricaun sat up unsteadily. ‘Let’sh see, now . . . an hour or so ago, he was way over that way shomewhere, in some old ruins.’

  ‘Can you take me there?’

  ‘No point, so there ishn’t. He’s not there any more. Gone off looking for you on the back of a swan. Courshe, it’sh not really a swan, it’sh a púca . . . Never trust a púca . . . Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes, even if he was shtill there it’d take you all day to get to him.’

  ‘Then how did you get here so quickly?’

  Flooter got to his feet. Swaying erratically, he looked up at Bansi and leaned closer. ‘Nobody knows how the cluricaun travel,’ he said, tapping his nose conspiratorially. He leaned in closer still, and lowered his voice. ‘Not even,’ he added, ‘the cluricaun.’ He tapped his nose again. On the third tap, he missed, lost his balance and fell over.

  Bansi sighed. She was beginning to find Flooter a little exasperating.

  ‘How did you find me, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, well,’ the cluricaun replied, sitting up again and taking out his little bottle, ‘that’sh easy. I just thought that if you were in trouble, someone ought to look after the key to your wine cellar. Er . . . er . . . I mean, not that I was looking for it or anything, you undershtand, but . . .’

  Bansi looked at the suddenly blushing Flooter. Understanding was beginning to come together in her mind; and with it, an idea.

  ‘My . . . wine cellar,’ she said slowly. ‘So what you’re saying is: even though you didn’t know where I was, or what I looked like, or, well, anything, really, you were able to find me because you thought I had the key to a wine cellar?’

  ‘That’sh it, Bansi, that’sh how it ish, and a very fine cellar I’m sure it . . . um, you do have the key, don’t you?’

  ‘Well – no.’ The little man’s face fell, and Bansi hurried on. ‘I expect you need to speak to Pogo about it.’

  ‘What? You haven’t entrushted it to him, have you? Don’t get me wrong, Pogo’sh a fine fellow, but never give a brownie something like that to look after! They’re not relia-bia-biable, so they’re not!’

  ‘Really, Flooter? Oh, dear. Tell you what, why don’t you go and find Pogo, tell him where I am, and ask him where he’s hidden the key?’

  Flooter pouted. ‘No use asking Pogo for anything. He’s Mr Grumpy, so he is.’

  ‘But maybe if you tell him where he can find me, he’ll be more helpful.’

  Flooter’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now, young lady, that’sh a very very fine plan indeed. A sort of trade. I’m looking for something, and so’sh he . . . Grand! I’ll tell Pogo where you are, and he’ll give me the key, and I’ll look after it for you, sho I will . . .’

  Bansi blinked. Flooter had disappeared, and she wasn’t sure how; although she’d been looking straight at him, she felt as if she must have glanced away for an instant. She shook her head disbelievingly and gazed around the clearing again, wondering how to occupy her time until Pogo and Tam arrived. If they ever did. The cluricaun didn’t seem terribly dependable, but for now trusting him and staying put looked like her only option. Still, the glade was a pleasant place to be; the sunlight was warm and the chirruping of the forest birds was soothing. Standing, she checked the poker; it slid smoothly from her belt. She resolved not to worry; Tam and Pogo would find her sooner or later, and she’d be quite safe until they did.

  * * *

  Miles away, a great grey wolf paused and sniffed the breeze. It turned its head towards the distant forest, sniffed again, and broke into a run. Behind it, four warriors on horseback followed – three men and a woman, all young and lean and strong and beautiful, with black hair that streamed out behind them like victorious banners. Their faces, white and smooth and lovely, were wickedly set in masks of cruel merriment. In the sunlight, their jagged bronze weapons gleamed sharp and deadly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It seemed to Bansi as if she’d been waiting for ever. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, edging its way towards midday; the forest was still and peaceful. There was a distant chirruping of birds and, far off, the sound of a running stream, but in the clearing nothing was moving.

  She was bored.

  So it was understandable, when she heard the sweet sound of singing moving through the forest, that she decided to investigate.

  Keeping close to the trees and walking as silently as she could, Bansi made her careful way towards the sound. It was a beautiful, pure voice, and though she couldn’t make out the words it was singing, the melody was gentle and soothing. Something about it seemed almost to be drawing her, calling her, summoning her. She crept closer, following the sound of the song as it moved through the trees, until at last she peered round one great ancient trunk and saw the voice’s owner.

  It was a young woman – tall, slender and very beautiful. She wore a dress the colour of the sky, and her hair was silky and golden. Over her arm she carried a woven basket. She was moving with delicate grace along a forest track, pausing from time to time to pick mushrooms and wild herbs, singing as she went.

  Bansi kept herself pressed out of view against the tree trunk, watching. But the woman had only taken a few steps past the tree where Bansi was hiding when she stopped and looked around.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked. Her voice when she spoke was as clear and lovely as the song had been. ‘Who is it?’

  Bansi felt a sudden twinge of guilt, as if she had been caught spying.

  ‘Don’t be afraid!’ the woman continued, as if coaxing a frightened animal. ‘I know you’re there. I won’t hurt you!’

  Everything about the way she moved and spoke made Bansi feel sure she was friendly. And it would be nice to have a friend here, someone to talk to while she waited for Pogo and Tam . . .

  Almost without coming to a decision, Bansi stepped out from behind the tree. The beautiful woman laughed; a merry, rippling laugh like running water. ‘And what kind of elf are you?’ she enquired, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Oh, I’m not an elf,’ Bansi began, and then stopped, unsure how much she should say. She had never
been fearful of strangers, but her parents had always taught her to be wary, and here in this alien place she thought she should probably be on her guard all the more. On the other hand, how could this gentle lady possibly be dangerous?

  As she hesitated, the lady laughed again. She stepped towards Bansi, bringing with her the scent of a gloriously fragrant perfume. Bansi inhaled; the smell was intoxicating, magical. She felt her anxiety begin to drift away. ‘I’m not an elf,’ she repeated vaguely. ‘I’m a girl. A human girl.’

  The young woman laughed again. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I can tell, sweet one. But what are you doing out here all alone? Don’t you know these woods are full of danger?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m waiting for someone. A friend.’

  The lady smiled. ‘It’s good to have friends, isn’t it? But I can’t leave you here. It isn’t safe. Why don’t you come home with me, and wait for your friend there?’

  Bansi shook her head, which was feeling fuzzier by the minute. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I mustn’t. I need to go back to where he’ll expect to find me . . .’ Her voice tailed off as the woman stepped forward and took her hands in a tender, friendly gesture.

  ‘Oh, don’t refuse my hospitality,’ she teased softly. ‘A true friend will find you wherever you are!’ And then she started humming softly, the same sweet melody she had been singing before, and Bansi somehow felt that she must be right: if Pogo was a true friend he’d know where to find her . . .

  ‘Come with me,’ the woman said in an enchanting sing-song voice that somehow carried the tune on, unbroken, and Bansi thought how wonderful that would be, to go wherever this lovely woman took her and to stay with her always . . .

  ‘All right,’ she smiled, and allowed herself to be led off, unresisting, deeper into the woods.

  Chapter Fourteen

  High in the air and far away the swan circled, searching without success.

  ‘It’s no good,’ Pogo muttered anxiously. ‘She could be anywhere. If she’s even through the gate yet.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re going the wrong way, you know,’ a voice behind him slurred. ‘Oh – right way now . . . no, wrong way again . . . right way . . . wrong way . . .’

  Pogo turned with a scowl. ‘Flooter!’ he growled. ‘How did you get up here?’

  The cluricaun beamed merrily. ‘Nobody knowsh how the cluricaun travel,’ he observed, tapping his nose, ‘not even the cluricaun. Whoopsh!’

  Pogo grabbed him just in time.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Flooter continued knowingly, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. And then maybe you’ll have something to tell me, eh?’ He nudged Pogo meaningfully but inaccurately. Once more, Pogo caught him.

  ‘What are you on about?’ the brownie snarled impatiently, holding the cluricaun’s collar tightly in his fist. ‘And what did you mean, we’re going the wrong way?’

  ‘Ah, very wise, Pogo. Caution, that’sh the way.’ A thoughtful look came over him. ‘She’s awful young to have her own wine cellar, ishn’t she? I’d have thought she’d be older.’

  One hand still gripping the cluricaun’s collar, Pogo scanned the horizon distractedly. ‘You’d have thought who would be older, you drunken fool?’

  Flooter’s eyebrows crawled slowly up his forehead. ‘Why, Bansi, of courshe. Who elshe have we been talking about?’

  ‘What? You’ve seen her? Flooter, do you mean to tell me you know where she is?’

  The little cluricaun sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Dear me, Pogo, you’re a bit shlow on the old uptake today, aren’t you? Aye, she’s in the forest. You know, the big dark one, to the north, that’sh filled with all kinds of fearsome beasties . . . Now, about that key . . .’

  Pogo tightened his grip on Flooter’s collar as the swan wheeled to face north. ‘Where in the forest is she? It’s a big place.’

  ‘It is that, Pogo; powerful big. I’ll tell you, it’s sho big a wee girl could get terrible losht in there. It’s sho big it wouldn’t shurprise me if—’

  ‘So where is she, you stupid great fungus?!?’

  ‘Ah now, Pogo, no need to be like that. You’ll hurt my feelings, so you will. She’sh in a big clearing near the hunting ground of the Hag of the Dark Glen, that’sh where she is . . .’

  Pogo sucked in a huge angry breath. ‘The Hag of the Dark Glen, Flooter? You mean you left a mortal child, on her own, in an open space near the hunting ground of a creature that likes to catch mortal children, boil them up in a big pot and eat them? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘It is, aye,’ Flooter agreed cheerfully. He looked at the scowling, glowering brownie and something seemed to sink in to his addled consciousness. ‘Um . . . did I do wrong, Pogo?’

  Pogo shook his head angrily and looked hard at the cluricaun. ‘I tell you what: if that wee girl ends up in the Hag’s pot, I’ll boil you up for soup myself.’

  ‘Ah, Pogo, you wouldn’t do that, would you . . .?’

  ‘I would! And I’d do it gladly! Now here’s what you’re going to do, Flooter me boy: you’re going to find Bansi and you’re going to keep her safe till we get there!’

  ‘Ah – right you are, Pogo. Find her, keep her safe and then I’ll get the key. Got it . . .’ And without even Pogo quite being able to see how, he disappeared.

  Pogo turned grimly. Ahead of them, in the far distance, he thought he could just make out the edge of the great forest.

  ‘Fast as you can, Tam,’ he muttered. ‘Fast as you can.’

  All the way along the forest path, the young woman held Bansi’s hand gently in hers and kept up a merry stream of chatter. Bansi smiled, vaguely thinking how nice this was. She had a nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she was supposed to be meeting someone, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember who, or why. Anyway, she was looking forward to seeing her new friend’s house.

  ‘It’s a delightful little cottage,’ her friend was saying. ‘When we get there, you can lie down and have a little sleep . . . before it’s time to eat.’

  And suddenly, Bansi felt that a little sleep would be just what she needed. She yawned, and allowed herself to be led further along.

  ‘Here we are again!’ Flooter called cheerily as he tottered at full speed into the clearing. ‘Now, what were we here for?’ he added. His face took on a crafty look. ‘Oh, aye . . . the key to the wee girl’s wine cellar. And the wee girl is . . . nowhere to be seen. Right. So to get the wine, I need to get the key; to get the key, I need to make Pogo happy; to make Pogo happy, I need to find the wee girl and keep her safe. Right. Here we go, then.’ He shot off into the undergrowth, muttering to himself, and vanished.

  ‘There it is!’ the young woman said, pointing along the track to a parting in the trees just a little further ahead, where her home stood.

  Bansi looked dreamily at the cottage. It was indeed delightful, like something out of a fairy tale; enormous roses grew around the door, and a white picket fence enclosed it. How nice it would be, she thought, to stay there always; to never, ever leave. Again she yawned, looking forward to a peaceful rest in the lovely lady’s house, and sleepily she turned her head, thinking how beautiful her new friend looked.

  ‘What should I call you?’ she asked drowsily.

  The lady smiled. ‘Annis will do, if you must call me anything.’

  Suddenly, the tranquillity of the morning was broken by an unearthly howling sound which seemed to come from the trees just ahead.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Annis called. There was no answer but another tortured howl. ‘Who’s there?’ she called again. She let go of Bansi’s hand and stepped forward.

  Bansi’s hand fell lazily to her side. It brushed against the poker which still hung from her belt. She blinked; the dreaminess of her mood suddenly evaporated as if a dark heavy cloud had lifted from around her. She rubbed her eyes and dropped her hand to her side again, clutching the cold iron.

  Instantly, the view ahead of her changed. Where Annis had stood, young and beautiful, now a wrinkled, twisted old ha
g leered hideously into the trees. ‘Who’s there?’ she croaked, as another howl came. ‘Show yourself!’

  Horrified at the transformation, Bansi looked further along the track to the cottage; and what she saw chilled her. It had become a wretched hovel, ramshackle and disgustingly dirty. The pickets of the fence were long white bones.

  And no roses grew around the door. Instead, it was framed with human skulls, discoloured horribly with dried blood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hidden in the undergrowth, Flooter chuckled drunkenly to himself and blew again across the neck of the open bottle. The bottle howled like a soul in torment.

  ‘Heh!’ he sniggered. ‘Cluricaun magic!’ He peered at the Hag through the greenery; her sharp old eyes were still searching far above his head. Glancing at Bansi, who was staring in horror, he noticed approvingly that she was clutching the poker.