Something made me lean forward and call to the driver. “Stop! Turn back and take me to my consulting rooms at Clontarf.”
He turned the car without a word, and in a few moments it slid to a halt outside my office in Marino Crescent.
I went in and switched on the light.
I took out the sample of blood that I had taken from the corpse before it had degenerated. It was still normal and had not decomposed like the body. Perhaps removing it from the body had preserved it? I worked quickly. I began to go through every blood test I knew. I found its composition curious. A strange mixture that defied analysis. It seemed to combine all the qualities of A, B, and O blood groups and yet was like none of them at all. It was as I was making the final tests that I discovered that the blood was contaminated by a virus. I had seen the strain of virus many times before, the virulent sort that gives hepatitis B and can be fatal. The toxicity that I was observing was enough to kill an ox, let alone a man.
I put the samples carefully in the office refrigerator, making sure that I labeled them POISON. As I stood up I was aware that I was exhausted. I realized that it was long past dawn and, just as I became aware of the time, I heard a key turning in the outside door of the offices. It was Bríd. She was surprised to see me. I made an excuse about working through the night on some samples and told her to cancel all my appointments and take the day off herself. There was no way I could work that day. Then I asked her to call a taxi and went home to Chapelizod. Even in my fatigued state, my mind was still working. If what I suspected was reality, then I had no words to express my horror. It could not be true. Yet what other explanation was there for what I had seen? And the sample of contagious blood—that was certainly real enough.
If it were true, then it meant that I had to accept what I had previously dismissed as ancient legends, quaint old folklore, and old stories to scare children with. Dún Droch Fhola, the castle of evil blood, in the Kerry mountains. The Deamhan Fhola, the bloodsucking demons of western Ireland. The great vampire himself—Abhartach. If this were true, then the world must be in deadly danger. But who would believe me? To whom could I turn with such a tale?
I took out the heavy gold signet ring and stared at it as if it would provide the answer.
It was genuine enough. No one, unless they had money to burn, could have such a priceless trinket made up just to sustain a joke. No one.
I fell into my bed. Sleep overcame me immediately.
About midafternoon there came a telephone call. To my surprise it was Ronayne. He seemed calmer,more like his old self.
“You will forget everything that you saw last night, Sheehan,”h e said in a confidential manner. “Everything. It was just a joke. Right? A joke in very bad taste. You know what people in showbiz are like.”
“I know what I saw,”I replied, feeling that I was confirming the truth. “I want an explanation. I don’t believe it was a joke.”
“Believe that no one will believe you. No one,”his voice snapped back sharply.
I felt impotent. He was right.
“It’s not a thing I want to spread around, Ronayne,”I said. “Just for my own peace of mind, however, I should like to know the truth.”
He hesitated for a moment. Then his voice was matter-of-fact.
“I suppose you are entitled to that truth since you cannot use it without looking a fool. Between ourselves, then, I shall not deny what happened. You are intelligent enough to work it all out. The company was a means of supplying young girls for his nourishment, the Master’s nourishment. Something went wrong. He is dead. They are now UnDead. He is gone, but they will live forever.”
Having my fears confirmed as reality did not help my nerves. Foolishly, I could only say, “You are mad!”a nd switched off the phone. Then I lay back, still exhausted yet trying to figure out the implications of the test results. It was thus that I fell back into a troubled sleep.
I was awakened by a sound at the front door.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts and saw that it was already evening and dark.
I went to the top of the stairs, my befuddled mind trying to remember the events of the last twenty-four hours.
“Who’s there?”I called nervously into the darkness of the hall.
“It’s only me!”Étain ”s cheerful voice came up the stairs. “Don’t tell me that you were in bed at this hour?”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Étain,”I cried, hurrying down the stairs. “What the devil are you doing back so soon. I thought that you were going to be in Australia for months.”
“Australia? It’s a long story.”Sh e turned to me and smiled. It was then that the streetlight outside our house flickered on abruptly and shone through the glass panels of the front door, flooding the hall with a shadowy pale light. I had never seen her lips so red, blood red and thin. The teeth so white and sharp. The skin so pale.
A cold horror seized me. Suddenly, it all became clear.
“You killed him?”I whispered aghast. “It was you who contaminated his blood and killed him.”
She chuckled coarsely.
“Droch Fhola! Bad blood! Ironic, isn’t it? The victim becoming the slayer. You passed me as medically fit, in spite of the hepatitis. You knew all about it. You knew that Art Moledy had infected me and made me a carrier. Yet you didn’t mention it in your report to Ron-ayne. You gave me a clean bill of health.”
I held my head in my hands.
It was true. Art Moledy had been a carrier of the viral infection, which produced malignant hepatitis B. Étain had been ill with it for a long time and near death. She had recovered but, in turn, she had become a carrier. That was why she had shunned most male friends after Moledy. Moledy had disappeared, leaving her to fend for herself. I knew all about it; knew that was why Étain had seized the opportunity that I had presented to get herself passed as fit for Averty Enterprises to endorse her on the singing tour. And I had done so willingly.
What was it Ronayne had said? The company was just a front to supply the Master with fresh blood for his nourishment. I had been like some glorified food inspector and had passed young girls as fit to be consumed.
I had passed my own sister to him.
She was smiling, as if she had followed the process of my thoughts.
“Oh yes. I was forced to go to him. He drank long and deep . . . and died. He died because of my contaminated blood, and now I am UnDead. Only fresh blood can sustain me. The great Neamh- Mhairbh is dead and I am now Neamh-Mhairbh. Bloody ironic, isn’t it?”
She burst into a peal of terrible laughter, which ended abruptly.
She was staring at me. My own sister. Staring deliberately at the pulsating artery in my neck.
I realized that the crucifix was still in my jacket pocket. But my jacket was in the bedroom. She was only a few feet away from me, smiling speculatively with those awesome canine teeth. I would have no chance at all.
Long the Clouds Are over Me Tonight
BY CECILIA DART-THORNTON
Straight and strong was Oisin, the son of the Chieftain of the Fianna. Like a sword of pale bronze, his body was hard and lean. Clean-sculpted was his face, and his eyes were midnight pools from which a startling flash could leap as swiftly as lightning.His hair was a swath of shadow; blackness starred with lustrous reflections, cascading down wide shoulders to the middle of his back. Oisin, the handsomest youth in Ireland, was twenty winters of age when he witnessed an amazing spectacle.
On that morning the young man and his father, Fionn mac Cumhail,1 went out hunting in the company of many warriors of the Fianna. The sky was the breast of a blue bird, plumed with wisps of white cloud. The custom of the Fianna was first to climb the bluff and look out across the Atlantic Ocean, so that they could scan the watery acres for any sign of approaching invaders. As the huntsmen reached the cliff tops of Kerry, the waves pounded on the rocks below, the gulls screamed, the wind came careering cold and fresh, to rush up the precipice. Miniature mosses and
sea pinks were clinging in crevices of ruined stonework—some ancient fort had once stood on the headland. The men were clad in shirts of linen, tunics of moleskin, and boots of leather. The salt breeze ruffled their hair as they laughed and chaffed one another. Eagerly, the hounds coursed the ground, their tongues lolling between their fangs and dripping with desire for the chase.
Below the cliffs the sea boiled like gooseberry wine. Scalloped were the waves, and netted with a delicate, filmy lacework of foam that continually tore and reknitted, only to fray again. The water was lucent, as green as cats’ eyes, marbled with foam and woven with lank streamers of kelp, begemmed with beads of bubbles. Far below the swirling and the rushing of the waves threaded a distant plaint: a song, perhaps, or was it only a trick of fancy, a plucking of aural nerve endings by the shameless fingers of the wind?
As that famous band of Irish warriors scanned the ocean, they were discussing past exploits. Oisin said, “Centuries from now they will still be singing songs about us. For there have been none like ourselves. The Fianna were but fifteen men, but we defeated the king of the Saxons by the strength of our spears and our own bodies, and we won a battle against the king of Greece.”
“We took Magnus the great,”r ejoined Caoilte, “the son of the king of Lochlann of the speckled ships; we came back no way sorry or tired: we put our rent on far places.”
Faolan directed his attention to Fionn mac Cumhail. “Aye, and we fought nine battles in Spain and nine times twenty battles in Ireland; from Lochlann and from the eastern world a share of gold came to you, Fionn.”
“And of all chieftains you are the most open-handed, Fionn,”said Osgar. “You were generous with that gold; you gave food and riches, you never refused strong or poor, for your heart is without envy.”
“Now the ranks of the Fianna have swelled mightily,”Oisin declared with pride. “We have seven battalions of warriors to defend Ireland against invasion.”
“Fionn, don’t you wish you could be hearing those songs they will be making about the Fianna?”ask ed Caoilte.
“The poets will have much to be singing about,”r eplied Fionn mac Cumhail, “but I’d as soon hear the song of the blackbird in Leiter Laoi, and the very sweet thrush of the Valley of the Shadow, or the noise of the hunt on Slieve Crot. The cry of my twelve hounds is better to me than harps and pipes.”
“Save for the songs of Little Nut,”said Caoilte, laughing as he glanced toward the dwarf standing staunchly beside his chieftain, “for when he makes tunes he puts us all into a deep sleep.”
“I can guess what else you have a mind to be listening to,”Oisin said to his father, “the wave of Rudraighe beating the Strand, the bellowing of the ox of Magh Maoin, the lowing of the calf of Glenn da Mhail.”The young man turned his head to look out across the ocean, toward the band of white gauze where the water met the horizon. “The cry of the seagulls there beyond on Iorrus, the waves vexing the breasts of the boats, and the sound of the boats striking the strand.”
“You know the desires of my heart,”Fionn said to his son, “for they are the desires of your heart also.”
Oisin felt the benison of his father’s pride, and he thought his heart must split asunder with the swelling of the joy that was in it. The sun broke through the clouds to dance in glints on the water, and the young man considered that there was nothing more he could wish for on such a grand day, than to be striding at his father’s side in the company of his brethren-in-arms. The sea wind barreling up the scarp swept exhilaration into him, until his blood fizzed in its pathways, and he silently began to conjure lyrics, for he was as skilled at poetry and singing as at fighting.
The huntsmen descended the slopes of the headland until they were treading along the strand, among the ceramic fans of shells and the convoluted ribbons of cast-up oarweed.
It was then that the astonishing sight manifested itself.
Far away across the sea a tiny smudge evolved on the horizon. Presently, it became apparent that something was approaching, and as it came nearer to the land the blur coalesced into an unexpected form—that of a rider on a white horse. Closer still, and the Fianna could discern there was a girl seated on the horse’s back; closer yet, and they perceived she was the most beautiful girl any of them had ever beheld.
Her looks were stunning beyond imagination. The sight of her sent ecstasy piercing through the men; made them forget who or where they were, for a long moment, while their minds struggled to recover from the shocking thrill of witnessing a form, a face so enchanting the vision stifled breath.Hers was a beauty so wondrous it was almost terrifying; so rare beyond the beauty of the world they knew she could not be human.
Her gown seemed made of blossom and raindrops, while a slender band of gold encircled her head. Her hair outshone the gold. The long locks were so purely golden they seemed spun from fibres of sunlight. The wind, racing across the sea to the land, would have lifted its long strands and unraveled them, save that the swift pace of the horse equaled that of the air currents in the opposite direction.
Splendid was her steed, with his shining silken coat and burnished hooves. He traversed the water’s surface with no more trouble than a horse trotting on the land. Like a floor of jagged green glass was the ocean, yet the hooves took no harm, nor did the steed sink at all; not even a drop of water beaded the gown of the rider.
She guided her mount into the shallows, and the men, watching in silent awe, heard the splashing as he came up the beach, and the crunch of pebbly sand. The damsel walked her horse up to the spellbound band of hunters and drew to a halt, and all the men who looked upon her were seized by love.
It was Fionn mac Cumhail who first recovered his voice.
“Lady,”h e said wonderingly, “who are you, and from what place do you hail?”
She answered in a low sweet voice.“My name is Niamh Chill Óir, and my father is Manannán mac Lir, the king of Tír na Nóg.
“Tír na Nóg?”r epeated Fionn in puzzlement. “If I am not mistaken, that name signifies ‘The Land of Youth.’An unusual title.What kind of country is it?”
“It is the land of delight and happiness, where no one ever grows old,”sh e said. “In Tír na Nóg the trees are constantly laden with ripe fruit, and flowers bloom all year round.”
The Fianna was astounded by her description, but they could only believe it, because they had seen her riding over the water.
Then Fionn said, “Niamh, daughter of Manannán mac Lir, you are welcome to Ireland. Never have I seen you here before.”
She replied, “It was not possible for you to see me, but I have seen you many times Fionn mac Cumhail. Many times I have visited Ireland to watch you and the Fianna”—she turned her radiant eyes upon the young man at Fionn’s side—“and your son Oisin.”
When he heard her speak his name Oisin trembled like an over-tuned harp string, and a furnace spilled hot embers over him from head to toe. The Fianna perceived that she knew the names of their chieftain and his son, even though they had never encountered her previously, and it occurred to all of them that when she spoke Oisin’s name her melodious voice adopted an even more mellifluous quality.
“What is the name of your husband in Tír na Nóg?”inquir ed Fionn.
“I have no husband,”sh e said, and at her words there was a stirring among the Fianna like sudden gusts through a field of barley. “Many are the lords and princes of Tír na Nóg who have asked to wed me, but none have I accepted.”
“Then unfortunate indeed are the gallants of Tír na Nóg,”said Fionn. “It is a pity for such a beauty as you to withhold your love from all men.”
“Not from all men,”sh e replied. “Only from the immortals of Tír na Nóg.”
A hush descended upon the gathering, and even the wind faded to stillness. The gulls ceased their mewing, and the sound of the waves on the shore receded, as if to the farthest corners of a misremembered reverie.
“Lady, what is your meaning?”Fionn asked softly, emptying his words int
o the stillness like water into a profound well.
Once again the comely damsel bent her gaze toward Oisin. His sight was edged with shadow, and her beauty shone at the core of the shadow, and he could not look away.
“I love a man of Ireland,”Niamh of the Golden Hair said simply. “I have traveled here to ask if he will wed me, and return with me to Tír na Nóg.”
She smiled at the son of Fionn mac Cumhail. The embers of passion melted him as if he were a figurine of wax, and his sinews flowed with fire. Her smile had struck through him like a blade, straight to the heart. Then she leaned down from her saddle and kissed him on the mouth. He did not know whether he stood still or fell through some dizzying gulf, whether he had been smitten by outrageous bliss or unbearable torment. It came to him at that moment that he must go with her or die; that neither the love of his father, nor the friendship of his companions, nor the excitement and adventures of the Fianna were enough to keep him in Ireland.
“Ride with me on Capall Bán,”Niamh invited.
Without hesitation he vaulted onto the majestic horse behind the faerie damsel, and clasped his arms around her iris-stem waist. At the sensation of enfolding her in his arms, and the caress of her blowing hair across his cheek, his pulse surged. He looked down at his father and the warriors of the Fianna standing on the wave-rinsed shingle, and he saw them raise their hands in a valedictory gesture.
They understood.
“Farewell, my father,”said Oisin. “Farewell, my friends. I am sorrowful at our parting, but I would go with Niamh to Tír na Nóg, and make her my bride.”
A light of sorrowful acceptance shone in the gaze of Fionn. “You have chosen well, Oisin,”h e said. “She will make you a good wife. I am glad for you, yet sadness is on me, that we must part. It is long the clouds will be over me tonight.”
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