by R J Darby
The Forest of Phantoms, however, was not done teaching him lessons, not done in the slightest.
A scream cut through the air so harshly, but it was like a knife planting itself within his heart. It seemed as though the chill from every area in the county absorbed into him in one instant. Frost prickled at him, and for a moment, the ice that held him had him firmly rooted in his position. He could not move, more so he could not believe what he had heard.
That was the scream of the banshee, but not any banshee, a descendant screaming her own name, screeching it as if she would never have lungs to shout again.
His heart stopped beating, truly. A light-headedness came over him before it restarted.
Finally, the invisible ice began to thaw, taken over by something else.
He leaped to his feet and ran, as fast as any leprechaun ever had, towards the source of the sound.
"Naimh!" he called out, but on like her mystical powers, his voice was lost somewhere in the foliage.
Across the forest, not so far away as it felt, a scene had just played out, carving out inevitable darkness.
Naimh was now to be in sitting on the riverbank. She had been watching Rowan's jacket for a very long time, simply letting it wishes in the tide of the gently flowing stream. She had not noticed that it had left her hand, and even if she had, it was unlikely, but she would have believed it to be back in its rightful place. Though indeed it was.
Her emerald gaze had been lingering, at nothing in particular. Or at least that is what she had thought.
A shadow had seemed to be forming itself in the gaps between the trees, rippling as it cut away the light in various patches.
Something had tugged on her arm, feeling like fingers and old bone, but it had not sunken in. Naimh was watching as the shadow moved into a clearing, which was when the hand let go and released her from her company. There had been a sound. Naimh knew that. She could not remember what it was saying though, and it would feel like trying to recall a word while your head was underwater. Something had been spoken.
What was it? Hmm. Curious that she would not remember.
“A warning, perhaps?” She asked herself.
Too late.
The shadow had moved forward, completely into the clearing then, and it was a most twisted sight, one which she could not steal her eyes away from, even with the light-fingered nature of a leprechaun.
Her mouth parted, lips falling open, and a sound like choking came out in a breathy wheeze.
There, in the clearing, stood of the most beautiful horse. Its onyx fur was an even cut all over, and its long mane flowed in a way that seems to create its own wind. The light strands of which told her this was not a Pooka. Often those with transform into creatures, dragging children into the water with their perpetually sticky mane, which were notably marked with the shimmer of water. This with entirely different; ethereal and enigmatic. Even its eyes, which were surrounded by long lashes, gave the illusion of black diamonds, perfectly polished and without any fractals.
What rode this mighty stallion was an altogether more insidious affair.
The man, perched upon it's bareback and built in a strapping way, wore a clock that was even longer than the beautiful horse's tail. It flowed behind him in a most regal manner, matched in style by dark gloves and the boots of the finest leather with buckles which were also black. He would have been a fine specimen, if not for the lack of his head.
Yes. The rider was quite headless.
A Dullahan.
The presence of the creature gripped Naimh, having only ever seen one but once, and knowing that it was important to look away. The Dullahans, like the other dwellers of the forest, were a death omen.
Naimh had already had the vision in which her husband's life passed away. Looking at the headless rider, this was not what currently preoccupied her fears.
The Dullahans were not to be looked at under any circumstance. It was a disrespect they did not take kindly to. To look a Dullahan's way for too long would be met with severe punishment.
Perhaps Naimh could look away, she pondered. After all, catching a glimpse of the Dullahan was not an insult. Maybe it had not seen her staring?
But something was staring back at her. She had been spotted. And she would be punished.
The Dullahans, though lacking a head to go on top of its neck, carried 1 in its hand. That had its eyes locked on the leprechaun, a grin - evil incarnate - on its pale face. Blood no longer drips from its neck. That would have ceased years ago, proved further by the clotting mass of black, which embellished the cut-off point.
Naimh swallowed. The audible gulp reached the head, which hung from a gloved hand by a lock of matted hair. Displeasure rolled down its face, forcing a smile to droop like hot wax running from a candle.
The freehand took hold of it to whip.
Naimh I have never felt so small in her life, not even next to the gigantic humans. She was a proud woman, not used to feeling small in any regard; before the Dullahan, she felt minute in all ways possible. Like a petrified child waiting for a beating they had not really earned but were going to receive anyway, she sat quite still.
There were two ways, but this punishment could go, both involving a whip. The one that was looking around his hand and that he let go, straightening out to lie on the floor as he continued to move his hand around the only part of the weapon that would not lacerate. The firm handle would only add bite to whatever came next.
Either she would be whipped until she bled profusely, or she would lose an eye by his precision beating. That was the way of the Dullahan. Perhaps her banshee blood would have saved her some pain, but it did not flow through every single cell. Naimh was merely a target.
Her own death came to her in a flash; no vision needed to see it. The whip of a Dullahan would not kill. Not alone, anyway. So much had already been beaten out of the brave little leprechaun that what was left to take the lashings was not going to hold.
Her mouth opened to give out one last cry, the true cry of a banshee, her own name damned to death.
That was what the husband had heard.
The whip came down as harshly as a rainstorm, continuing in an unrelenting hail.
She fell.
Her voice box shattered from the scream; she could do nothing but whimper and drag herself.
Lash! Lash! Lash!
Crack! Crack! Cry!
Fat tears beaded down her cheeks, matched only by the ruby droplets that rained down her back. Slits appeared in her skin as fast as sinkholes, barely split before the whip came down again.
Is better I am to die? She thought. Her nails cut through the dirt as she helplessly tried to drag herself away.
No such luck.
His whip latched around her ankle with pain as hot as being buried under coals from a still-burning fire. Her Achilles split, spewing blood.
With a wrench of the whip's crude leather, she was dragged back into her position, mud splattered on her chin and filling her nostrils.
As she spat, clearing her mouth and nose in one, he administered his last smack.
The pain was so great that she had a ringing in her ears as the leather lay perfectly down the length of her spine, showing nodules of bone at every vertebra.
Again there was sound like she was underwater. The hooves the worst rotting away, and there was shouting.
Was that her name which she heard?
It was ever so familiar.
What was this voice that spoke to her with as much connection as the very Earth itself?
She raised her head. “R... Rowan... my... my love..."
“I am here, do not fear.” His hands shook as he lifted her, cradling her in his arms across one knee. “Caoranach? Is she here?”
“No... Dullahan...”
His eyes were even wider than she had been when she first saw the creature who foretold of her own death.
“It... It cannot be," it seemed
it was his turn to stutter then; pain even greater than hers.
“Listen to my husband.” Naimh rests her hand on his cheek, smearing it with four lines of blood and a thumbprint on the other side, marking him as her warrior. “We well not long... Not long to be separated... I have seen your death in a most painful view...” She coughed, and he supported her, cradling her like a child.
“Save your strength. We must catch up on these wounds!” Hearing it said out loud sounded even more ridiculous than it had in his head. There would be no saving her, no matter how hard he tried. The fates had spoken. The cry of the banshee had pierced the air.
It was done. And nothing more could alter it.
Tears brimmed at his eyes as he held her, banshees gathering in a circle around them. They were careful to keep their distance, giving them the respect their marriage deserved in its final, fleeting moments - at least on that particular plain. His eyes darted between all of them, begging from the bottom of his soul for a way to help.
None came.
“Rowan, my love... You are going to die when you battle with Caoranach... I know this to be... To be true. It is to be sure.” A smile roused, and he believed her to be almost gone by this sign of peace. That was not why she smiles though. “The moths..." she whispered.
“What do you mean? What is it that you speak of? Oh, Naimh! Beloved Naimh!" He howled like an injured wolf to the sky before putting his eyes on her hand fell onto her chest, too weak to keep it against his skin, as much as she wanted to.
“I die smiling... Because I have seen you defeat Caoranach... The sword will be yours. I have seen it... I love you.”
Never before had those three words meant so much, no, how do I ever cut so deep.
“Do not say it! It is not over yet!”
She smiled, “let me hear it one last time.”
His lip trembled, moving outwards and making his jaw shake. Saying it seems so final. There wasn't a single fiber in him but wanted to let go of her. They clung to hope like a man hanging from a mountain top with only a tuft of dry vine preventing his fall. It would break. Nothing in the world could stop that.
“I...” the other two words stuck in his throat, fighting each other to go back down and never surface again. If these words were not for Naimh, he was determined never to release them. The door that let them out was sealed. He had to say them. Had no choice.
“Please...” Her voice was as frail as a summer wind.
As the words fell, so did a tear. “I love you.”
And with that permission to move on peacefully, she passed. Her body went limp in his arms, and he let out a woeful wail, one that would have got even the attention of banshees.
He held her body until the hour woke up, saying over and over again; I love you. I love you. I love you.
But only when the banshees came to help him carry her to a pyre of twigs from their very own forest could he say the word he needed to.
As the flames crackled, he mouthed only one thing.
“Goodbye.”
On Carrigdhoun, the heath is brown.
The sky is dark over Ardnalee,
And many are the stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Owen na Buidhe.
The moaning blast goes sweeping past
Through many's the leafless tree,
And I'm alone, for he is gone,
My hawk has flown, ochone mo chroidhe.
The heath is green on Carrigdhoun.
Bright shines the sun over Ardnalee
The light green trees bent trembling down
To kiss the slumbering Owen na Buidhe.
That happy day 'twas but last May
It's like a dream to me,
When Donal swore, aye o'er and o'er,
We'd part no more a stór mo chroidhe.
Light April showers and bright May flowers
Will bring the summer back again,
But will they bring me back the hours
I spent with my brave Donal then?
Tis but a chance, he's gone to France
To wear the Fleur-de-Lis.
I'll follow you, my Donal Dhu,
For still, I'm true to you mo chroidhe
“I would like to offer you a home here whenever you need it. Even if it is only for a few nights,” a banshee said to the leprechaun as he throws stones at the lake. They did not skim, just sank with a dull splash.
“I am grateful,” he said, not knowing what else to add. He wasn't really grateful. He didn't feel anything, not for them, at least. The world seemed to have become a shade darker, and he had already thought it cloaked in shadow — what a wicked place it was, so full of unfair things and an unjust end.
“I cannot begin to express my sorrow at losing lady Naimh so soon after we had discovered her, yet it must be nothing on what you feel. I am truly sorry.”
The phrase angered him. Sorry. What did sorry even mean? It wasn't as though she had caused it. What could they possibly sorry about? He had said it many times to other families, 'I am sorry' or 'I am sorry for your loss', but now that he understood it more, it seemed like a stupid thing to say. Still, he knew that he should not be rude. They were trying.
“Thanks,” he said as genuinely as he could, fearing that it had come out rather curt. By the momentary tightening of her lip, he deemed that he was right. That had not been said in a polite manner.
“I would like to offer you a gift on this parting. I know from what the lady said that you were hoping to find the final treasure. Is it still your intention to bring an end to the snake that lies within the waters?”
Finally, she had said something that stuck him. It was a quiet note - yet still a plucking of a string somewhere.
“More than ever.”
She nodded. “In that case, I must tell you that I know where you may locate the final treasure.”
He threw a stone in with a plunk, his attention given to her. “Where can I find it?”
She pressed her lips together, then dampened them with her tongue and taking a long breath before saying it. “Here.”
“Here?”
“Yes. In the Forest of Phantoms.”
His voice rose. “Why were we not told this on our arrival? My wife might be alive if we had left with the treasure!” He hopped up, towering over the banshee who now start at the side of the water. She did not flinch.
“Because if it had been here, we would have given it to you. The fact of the matter is that it has only just arrived with the passing of your wife.” Her eyes hung on the surface of the water like mist.
“May I see it?”
“You are looking at it.” She angled her head towards him. “I am what you seek.”
Rowan did not understand. He looked about her person, which was clad in black but seemed to have no obvious place to store anything. There were no pockets to hold dress and what fabric there was fitted her form so perfectly that a dress tailored for the Queen would not have lined up more neatly.
“I do not have time for riddles. Either tell me what you know or leave me be. I am quite content with my misery; thank you.”
“I am what you seek. The final of the Four Treasures is a spiritual soul willing to give itself up for the sake of greatness. I am afraid that when you first arrived, I was foolish and a coward,” she sighed, “we banshee so very much death you understand that seeing anymore is a painful idea. I was scared, but seeing the pain of loss today, I know, but I am more frightened of life knowing that I allowed such things to continue outside of these trees.”
“I understand. The fourth treasure is a willing sacrifice?”
“It is.”
“Then what are the others?” He fished them out of his pocket.
“The weapon is to make a cut in the side of the orb.”
“The one that contains the selkie?”
She nodded again. “Yes. This will release the power held within it, along with the creatures. This will cause
the next part of the chain. The creatures will take the sacrifice, along with the map. That is all four items.”
“Are you telling me, but after all of this, they are to be swept upstream?” That was rather a waste in his opinion.
“I am indeed. Four Treasures combined will become a seed for a new life. Where you need to be to find the sword, we will grow a silver birch tree. This is between you must stop at.”
“But you will die?”
Her eyes closed for a long blink, and although her lashes were long and sprightly, he saw the markings of crow's feet in the corners. “I am old. I have had my time. I will be carried along the water by the selkie, causing such a disruption but it will summon what do you need. The selkie will be trapped once more by what is brought up from the depths. Here the new map will be rewritten and the treasures placed where they are supposed to be, for the next generation that will need them. The map, of course, will rewrite itself.”
“I do not know what to say.”
“Say nothing, hand me the treasures and let me begin the ritual, and please... do not let my sacrifice be in vain.”
In silence, the blade was placed within her hand, and as she slid into the water, you passed her the orb. The map she talks to carefully into the top of her dress, although they both knew that it would find its way to wherever it needed to be regardless.
There was hesitation as she held the blade over the orb, even from the dry land he could see the creatures swirling at the top. Clearly, they knew what was coming.
With a whimper somewhere in the back of her throat, she dropped the blade down, plunging it into the pearl of the sea, which shattered like glass. Five selkies sprang forth, along with the water that had been encapsulated.
Rowan ran backward. The sliver of a stream was becoming a fat lake. Water gurgled and gargled like a geyser in the middle. Sear like tails protruding from the water on occasion, slapping if they drove back in, and a scarlet traveled through the water like paint being washed from a brush.