by R J Darby
“I see the look of concern on your faces, but worry not. As time passes slower for leprechauns than it does mortals, it is even slower here. You must take your time. Eat and drink. Be rested for the journey ahead. You will need all of your strength if you are too gather all of the treasures.”
Naimh's wood carved bowl hit the floor with a bang. “You know what it is that we need?”
A crow fluttered in, turning into the most beautiful woman after landing. “I would be careful how you phrase things, that could be taken as a statement or a question.”
“Of course,” the female leprechaun gave the nod while her husband smiled. That was him out of the bad books for putting his foot in it earlier.
“We know many things because of our various blessings. Indeed, they are blessings, even though I often feel like a curse. I think that you know this.”
Rowan had come to believe the stories about her blood. How could he not? Regardless, her head lowered slightly, and strands of red cover day blush. It was still an old thing to be talking about in front of him. The validation of it only made her feel odder than ever.
“I have thought about this, yes,” she admitted.
The banshee with the porcelain skin sat down beside her. “I wish that you would eat more, so that we may tell you more about your culture. Then we will direct you to what you require. Then and only then.”
The banshee joined together in a song. It's sweet and lamenting rhythm had both leprechauns feeling tired. Rowan was out cold on the floor with his jacket to his side by the end of the first verse. As for Naimh, she took in every word, falling asleep on the last line, only to be woken hours later by a familiar horror.
We are banshee of the land
An ancient culture only we understand
People do not take likely to us
But we do what we do because we must
We are creatures of an ancient note
Shapeshifters of bat, cat or stoat
We may appear as a withered old hag but do not yet put up a white flag
Our duty is dark and arcane
Once touch by us you'll never be the same
This is not a decision we take
And life or death is not ours to make
We are the messengers sacred and old
Letting you know what you need to be told
Our warning is done out of love
By blessings given from above
Do not fear the death of which we sing
Focus on the joys that we bring
A warning lets you have your time
Cherish the moments like the sublime
We know, but you panic when our cry is heard
But your logic is simply absurd
We let you know, but you must count every second
Especially when soles have been beckoned
We are not the ones that take your kin
This is a bad light we have been painted in
Although we a day to the cycle of life
It is not our intention to cause you strife
O’Bryons, O’Conners, O’Gradys, Kavanaghs, O'Neil
These families know we are real
And that we mean them no harm as we dredge:
Clothes soaked in blood at the river’s edge
This is a sacred vow you see
Something of which we can never be free
If you're hear our scream, then you will fall
But this is not our fault at all
We are not the monsters that they think
We are just a conduit or a link
To let them know to enjoy the day
Because sunset is coming their way
In the forest of phantoms here we reside
Feared because of rules we abide
This is a duty be on the understanding of man
So to help we do what we can
If you see us washing clothes in the river
Come along in mind that you do not deliver
There may not be long for your friend
And you should enjoy both moments before they end
But for peace of mind, we will let you know
Who the name is of the person to go
On top of this, I will let you ask me
Anything you want but in questions three
Really do we want anything from you
That is simply something we do not do
We are just a living omen of the land
This we hope you can understand
What we do is not pleasant for our kind
But we aim to give you peace of mind
We are blessed and proud banshee
And each has a home within these trees
If the world would show you darkness and hate
Remember that it is never too late
To return to your family right here
Now dream and let this message become clear
The vision came to her in a way that it had not before. Perhaps her love, the husband she had known these many years, was powerful enough to water down the banshee blood within her. The vision came to her in a mix of images that seemingly made no sense. Yet, like those speaking a language that was created before words themselves, she understood the meaning, though she wished she had not.
A tree grows tall in the center of a lake, perched on a small island. Not a single living things around it, and there is only dirt at its roots; a slimy and algae-covered scum makes for a frame for the island. No grass grows. No flowers. Not even weeds. The earth is as black as if it was made of charcoal.
Yet in the middle stands a most verdant green tree. Tree is rowan, and it does not take a genius to work out the symbology of that. Red berries cover the tree almost entirely, the very fruits of its life - of his life. They are clustered together in bunches like tiny ruby grapes, and there are so many that the branches begin to sag under the weight. What blessing this harvest will be! This tree will provide goodness and nutrition for many, but how can it be that search fertility comes from the unhallowed ground?
All that is well and good seems to have been sucked in by the mighty tree, leaving the rest of it to world a dark place. The mound of soil which it sits on is perfectly circular, something which usually means protection. It does not feel safe, however.
One of the juicy rowan berries falls, bouncing before finding a place settled into the moist earth. Another follows. Then another. And another. And this goes on until it looks as though the tree is raining blood.
Droplets of red hit the ground as hard as hailstone. Many bursts, spreading their juice and having it look like a battle had taken place.
There are so many that the island becomes overfull and they begin to pour into the water, bobbing along its surface like fishing weights, except the good people of a kingdom are the fae and underneath these traps are barbed hooks.
As quickly as a rain shower in summer, the rowan berries stop falling. The tree is left completely bare, naked in the face of all elements.
With time that passes all too quickly, the berries rot on the floor, turning to a putrefied goo.
A baby deer that has been caught in the flow of the tide and has injured its leg staggers on to the island, famished and soaking. Fermented fruit surrounds it, and desperately it eats it; fur stained red. Starvation or poison is the choice because nature is a cruel mistress and no mistress is crueler than Caoranach. Her hand extends even here, touching the land from the waters in which she dwells.
The deer, knowing little of life, is soon taken from it. With a pained cry, it falls back into the water and floats away, a corpse.
The tree begins to bend its roots upwards, like ties holding down a tent that snap in the wind. It does not want any more of this land, which will only feed it everything that makes it what it does not want to be. The tree would rather die than see evil added more to the world.
There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide.
Before its roots can leave the patch of land entirely, they appear to be pulled down, forced to grip tighter still — the tree fights. Rowan fights.
A thick root is snatched away from the grasp of the land and as it breaks sap sprays from it. Amber drips from the gash.
On the other side of the tree, where it is more deeply sunk, a black begins to travel its way up slowly. Looking like it has been burnt, one would expect a flame, but this rotting is coming from the inside. The trunk and branches become dry and brittle. A clicking sound fills the air after small pieces of bark and debris tumble from it.
The tree is gasping for air, quite literally. It expands from its middle with a not opening wildly and closing again — each breath shedding more of its skin, of its very being.
A crack forms in the center as if a bolt of invisible lightning has hit it directly.
The tree cannot take anymore, so it's branches hangs like loads of dry grass.
It is dead.
There is not a pretty word for it. It is not passed, all moved on, or in an eternal slumber.
It is simply, dead.
A light wind blows in from the West, taking the tree with it as it breaks it down into black sand. The sand, hot and dry, dances on the wind, scattered across the world, grain by grain.
Chasing down the river for many miles, a moth comes into view. Its body is a soft fur and its wings a delicate white. In fact, all of it is white with the exception of its eyes. It looks like a cotton ball, as soft and innocent as a newborn baby. It moves away from the water, flapping its wings and showering more pollen than it could possibly carry on to the land. These golden spores blossom immediately, giving the moth a trail of succulent wildflower in a myriad of colors, looking as bright as sunshine through stained glass and smelling so sweetly not even a human would stop to inhale their perfume.
As each bud in the flowery trail opens, a small white ball is revealed. Unfurling themselves, these too are moths, each one of delicate as the seeds blown from a dandelion. After a wiggle of their antenna and tentative flutter of the new wings, they fly in all directions. With them, color streaks the land.
Tulips. Daffodils. Daisies. Chrysanthemums. Roses. Crocuses. Bluebells. Hyacinths. The colors were endless, and the crops bountiful. They grew out and out and out, forming a magnificent blanket across the land. The hills were covered, valleys filled, and fields seemed to be no more. There were only flowers and creatures. Young bunnies playing and bees busily buzzing with their legs coated in gold, showering yet more pollen as they flew around; zipping between flowers with so much choice that even a child in a sweet shop could not be so happy and overwhelmed.
The flowers spread all the way back round to the riverbank where they could not reach the dead tree's island monument. Nothing remained but a stump, central and alone.
As if salted, the land remained infertile in its unholy ring. Any pollen which was scattered that way lost its glimmer as it landed.
Only one molecule managed to find sanctuary on that Island, nuzzling within the crack of the stump. By some miracle, a flower grew, a single one in the middle of darkness.
This flower with a pale blue with fragile petals and a delicate, which could be snapped by something as small as a careless mouse running into it. This flower was a forget-me-not.
The flower seemed bigger and bigger as if a person was nearing it for an inspection.
Seeing into the head of each of the forget-me-nots, there were no moths. In one was a drop of dew, barely held by the petite petals, which curled around it a chalice.
Within this droplet was another scene.
Rowan stood on the edge of the lake. His green jacket torn and becoming soaked in blood. He looked exactly as he had done a month before, except for the addition of a few grey hairs and the crow's foot wrinkle pulling at his eye, from the stress, no doubt. Something was different about him though. He was hard to read, most certainly not the man that Naimh had known. It was almost as though he was missing something, like a part of him had been taken away.
Nevertheless, it was Rowan. Whatever had been taken away had been replaced with a gift. From the look in his green eyes, it did not seem much like it had been a fair trade. The golden sword in his hand said otherwise. Its sheen was so brilliant that it had its own aura of the most opulent gold which was even brighter than the blade. Rowan held this sword.
The image was sealed; the dewdrop becoming its crystal self wants more, backed by blue. The forget-me-not swayed in the wind until the droplet rolled down the lower petal. The fragile flower could no longer hold its weight. Rolled over several other of the forget-me-not flowers before landing on the stump. The dew quenched the land, and very slowly, the tree appeared not to be so blackened.
There was a voice on the wind.
“Claíomh Solais. Claíomh Solais. Claíomh Solais.”
A breath which she had not known she had been holding forced its way out of her chest as she jolted upright.
With her chest rising and falling quickly, she looked about the woods in a cold sweat. Once more, her palms were clammy, and a shudder traveled across her lower lip. For some time her heartbeat was all that she could hear.
As it slowed, her own breathing came to her attention, twice the speed of her husband's, perhaps even three times. She extended her hand and placed it on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin being a comfort. A slight one, at least. He slumbered peacefully, something he had not done for a very long time, and never during one of her visions. It was almost as though the Sandman had come by and sprinkled magic drains into his eyes. Maybe it was an effect of the forest? There was still much they did not know about banshee magic. There were many things, she was certain, that none other than banshee would know anyway.
Tuning into this side of herself (an added bonus of being within the Forest of Phantoms), she was turning her head like a puppet towards its strings.
There that one of the banshee. She had a hag-like a form, but in no way was this appearance frightening. Her frizzled gray hair and azure blue eyes had something maternal about them. She was dressed simply in black with crow feathers forming a ruffle around her neck and on the cuffs of this long garment.
No words were needed, and so none were spoken.
The banshee gave a solemn nod. It was clear that they understood one another.
Naimh looked back at Rowan, though gods she did not want to! What an unholy blessing this gift (or was it a curse?) was to her.
His jacket, with remained at his side was soaked in blood.
She wrapped around it, so afraid, but not even a whimper escaped her lips as she held onto it tightly, pulling it towards her chest and holding it like a child with a comforter.
How unfortunate the lives of banshee were. How cruel that they must be judged so harshly as death omens. Did the humans honestly believe that they wanted to see these hideous events? Did they really think that they would want to know which of their loved ones would die next? Even the people they did not know how awful it would be to see death without any choice.
The injustice burnt her, forcing tears to swell in her eyes to dampen the fires within as she continued to clutch the jacket closer to her. It was not fair!
Her eyes opened when a soft touch swept across her cheek. The smooth yet nobly finger of the banshee wiped away her tears.
Together they stood, and like a mother taking her firstborn to their first day of school, the banshee leads her to a lake that ran through the forest.
It was time to wash her husband's clothes, to see the river turn red with the blood of this most beloved fairy.
Caoranach would be his end. There was no doubt about it.
Then what would life be worth living for her? What would she do? How could she possibly be alone?
The trickle of the lake brought her back to reality. She and the banshee sat together. Her hands were guided into the water. There was something refreshing about it. Something pure. Something wh
ich told her that this was who she was supposed to be and whom she had always been.
It did not stop the intense pain but caused the numbness throughout her body, stemming from her aching heart and overthinking mind. It did give her something to do, however, and watching the blood go along the water had some sort of piece to it, just like when they had released Jeremiah into the waterfall.
Water was a conduit. It had the ability to make portals for demons. More importantly, it has the strength to carry a soul on to its intended destination. At least Rowan would be reunited with their children.
Chapter Sixteen
A Rude Awakening
Dreams had melted away, though where they had gone to was quite the mystery. Rowan searched his brain for an inkling, but it was like pouring water through a sieve. He just couldn't quite capture them.
What was it that had stirred him?
It must have been something very loud to snap him from whatever that dream was, as it had seemed rather pleasant, or at least the feeling of it which lingered on made it feel like it had been quite good.
The leprechaun slapped his lips together, feeling quite dry. He deemed it necessary to go down to the river and take a drink. The water in the Forest of Phantoms was as it was in the Quiet Place, given that it was untouched by mankind, so it was left pure and clear with an almost sweet taste.
He sat up, noticing a nip in the air and took hold of his jacket. He pulled it around himself quietly, though not as tight as it had been before, given that he had been quite rotund before all of the stress. Still, he hoped that he might fill it out again soon. He certainly had not meant what he had said about his wife's cooking, and he was looking forward to getting back to a little normality after defeating Caoranach.
It felt as though they were already there. Almost at least. Under the rainbow, he and Naimh had managed to glimpse a bit of themselves that they had believed lost. It was a pleasant reminder that all things are cyclical and nothing ever truly ends. He did not know how he had not seen it so well before. There have been so very many clues, so many things to show them at this. Yet, it had taken me the magic of this particular forest to show him the truth.