Page 18 of Heart of the Wren (Haunted Hearts: Season of the Witch #2)

LORCAN

DUE TO the snow, we got back to the farm much later than I’d anticipated. Carol and Eddie were snuggled up on the couch watching telly, so after I told them to behave themselves, Dara and I braved the weather and walked into the village for a pint.

Casey’s was packed. We settled in by the door as people stood around chatting about the upcoming hurling match. Bullseye was in fine form, doing the rounds of the place.

Dara went to the bar, nodding to everyone on his way. He made a point of speaking to the Monk but of course he got no response. I caught myself staring at Dara’s bum and wondered if anyone noticed.

“Have you heard?” Bullseye shouted to me on his way over. “Paul Regan is after emigrating to Spain. He got a job offer yesterday. Closed his butcher shop and packed his bags.”

“He’s gone already?”

“With the wife and kids. Can’t believe it.

Another one left the country in the lurch.

He’ll not be back.” He slurped his Guinness.

“We’ll all have to go into town for our meat now.

You know us and Cormac MacShane are the only ones left from our class in school?

Every last one of them born here, educated here, and gone abroad.

It’s an awful shame, so it is. And worst of all, it means we’re a man down for the hurling.

The two pubs in Tullycreena had a long-running rivalry which oscillated between friendly and heated.

Generally, people who drank in one dare not set foot in the other, and any who did were treated with suspicion.

Newcomers to the area were often unaware that whichever pub they drank in first would be the one they’d frequent for the rest of their lives.

The rivalry came to a head every year with the annual hurling match.

Patrons of both pubs would put forward a team who met on the GAA pitch on the first Saturday in December.

The only thing at stake was honour and bragging rights for the following year.

Someone once suggested getting an actual cup made, with the winners of each year engraved on it.

The idea was dismissed as “notions” — the most devastating thing any idea could be labelled.

Dara returned, drinks in hand. “What’s this?”

“The annual pub hurling match. Between Casey’s and the Long Bridle Lounge. Are we going to drop out?”

Bullseye blanched. “We are in our bollocks! Should I be the only man on the field, I’ll not drop out! Sure wasn’t I the one who scored the winning point last year? And no one’s ever beaten my record from ’78.”

“I could fill in,” Dara said. “If you’re stuck for players.”

“You?” Bullseye looked him up and down. “Have you played before?”

“A little bit, here and there.”

Bullseye wrinkled his nose. “Well, I suppose you’re better than nothing.”

???

A brisk walk in the chill December air would sober us up, or so Dara had said. Bullseye took some convincing. I had to corner him in the jacks when he was washing his hands to try and find out why he’d been so frosty towards Dara.

“I don’t know him,” Bullseye said. “ You don’t know him.”

Cormac came in and stood at the urinal trough, belching loudly.

“Dara’s decent,” I said. “Give him a chance. Come on back to the farm, and we’ll have a few drinks. I’ll make sandwiches.”

A good ham sandwich with mustard was Bullseye’s weakness, especially after a few drinks, and so we strode along the lane, towards home.

Dara regaled us with tales of his time smuggling bottles of poitin across the border into Northern Ireland and how he’d nearly been shot for his efforts.

“Missed me by that much.” He held his thumb and forefinger up an inch apart.

“I was a bit slimmer back then, of course, not much of a target for them.” He slapped his belly twice and laughed. “They’d find it’s easier now though!”

I belched. “Did you say they’d find a sleazier cow? ” I slowed my pace. “It’s gettin’ fierce foggy, fellas. Hah , it’s like a rhyme.” I wobbled a bit. The fog rolled from the fields and within minutes I could barely see my hands in front of my face. “Lads?”

I stopped. The hedges on either side of the lane had been swallowed by the fog, not even the trees could be seen. “Lads? Where are yis?”

On receiving no answer, I stumbled onwards for I don’t know how long, calling out and grasping at the air as I went. I flinched at a loud snort and a low grunt. Spinning on my heels, I became aware of a form moving in the fog. A large, dark shape, just out of sight.

“C’mon now, lads. This isn’t funny.” I backed away from the thing in the fog.

The slushy tarmac of the lane gave way to hard soil, and I ran.

The shape followed me, hooves thundering on the field.

I tried to glance over my shoulder but tripped instead and came crashing to the ground.

The contents of my pockets spilled out. I rolled onto my back as from the fog emerged a horse — a mare — huge, and black as pitch, with a wild mane and blood-red eyes.

The mare snorted blasts of hot air from its flared nostrils and bared its teeth. Sharp teeth. Predator teeth.

I shouted but my mouth had run dry and made hardly any sound.

I grabbed at the earth around me and found my house keys.

I threw them at the mare but they bounced harmlessly off its hide.

The mare advanced on me and I scrambled backwards, unable to find my footing.

My hand landed on a smooth surface. A black stone.

The gift from Dara. With all the might I could muster, I hurled the stone.

The mare opened its mouth and the stone landed on its foul tongue and in that instant, the mare vanished.

No puff of smoke, no blinding light, nothing.

Simply there one moment and gone the next.

I remained on the ground, breathing fast. I searched around myself but found no trace of the mare. My heart bounced when something touched my shoulder.

“There you are.” Dara helped me to my feet. “What happened? Did you get lost in the fog?”

Bullseye was by his side, too, relief plain on his face. All of us had sobered up quickly.

“Did you see it?” I asked. “The mare, did you see it?”

“What mare?” Bullseye asked.

“You must have heard it!” I searched the spot where the mare had been until I found the black stone. I held it to up to Dara.

“Let’s get you home,” Dara said.

???

Once in the safety of the farmhouse, I set to work making sandwiches while Dara poured us all a whiskey.

Carol appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s wrong? You’re all white as a sheet.”

Dara suggested she join us in the kitchen. “You’ll want to hear this.”

She sat with us at the kitchen table under the glare of the overhead light but didn’t acknowledge her father at all .

Bullseye pointed to the tarpaulin. “What happened here?”

Dara exchanged a glance with me, evidently seeking permission to reveal what had happened.

“It’s all part of it,” I said.

“All part of what?” Bullseye picked up a sandwich from the plate which I slid onto the table.

“I told you what’s been happening to me. Things disappearing and breaking. The kitchen window is one of them. And I think tonight, the horse was trying to break me too.”

“What did you see?” Dara touched neither his drink nor the food. He kept his attention on me.

“A big, black horse,” I said. “With red eyes. She chased me into the field. I shouted for you two, but you’d vanished.” I fished the black stone from my pocket. “This fell out when I tripped. I threw it and the horse disappeared. What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Dara said. “We were talking one minute and the next you were gone. We called out but you didn’t hear us. Bullseye thought you were playing a joke; he thought you were going to jump out and scare us.”

Bullseye munched on his sandwich. Carol sat wide-eyed.

“What was it?” I didn’t care if Bullseye thought I was crazy. I wanted answers. “A phouka?”

Dara scratched his nose. “It sounds like it but it didn’t try to get you onto its back, did it? That’s usually what they do.”

Bullseye took a mouthful of whiskey and swallowed hard. He slammed the tumbler onto the table. “Oh, that’s what they usually do, is it? The phouka? The phouka try to get unsuspecting farmers onto their backs on foggy lanes? For feck sake, will ye listen to yersevles.”

Carol tutted and crossed her arms. “Daddy, stop it.”

Dara tried to smile. “A phouka is—”

“I know what a feckin’ phouka is!” Bullseye said. “A big feckin’ spooky black horse who takes people for rides across the countryside. Everyone knows what they are. And everyone knows there’s no such feckin’ thing.”

My shoulders tensed. I hardly moved at all. “Tell him.”

Dara gave him a look to confirm what he’d heard. “Phouka are real,” Dara said. “I’ve encountered a few on my travels. I’ve ridden one. In County Wicklow, one Easter Sunday, years ago. And what’s been happening to Lorcan, to the farm, it’s real too. There’s a supernatural force at play here.”

“And how would you know?” Bullseye all but sneered at him.

I didn’t like this side of him.

“I’m a witch,” Dara said. “I make it my business to know these things.”

Bullseye stared at him for a moment before barking out a harsh laugh. “I was right. You’re a feckin’ headcase.”

“He’s telling the truth.” I kept both hands clamped around my tumbler of whiskey.

Bullseye’s beady eyes darted back and forth.

He pushed his glasses up. “Right. Okay. So… You were attacked by a demon horse, or a ghost horse, or phouka, whatever you want to call it. And he’s a witch.

And his magic stone saved you.” He shook his head.

“Carol, you’re coming home wi th me. You are not spending another minute in this house with this madness.

” He pointed to Dara. “This is your doing. Filling his head with nonsense. He was never like this before you came along.”

“I’m not leaving, Daddy.” Carol didn’t budge.

“Come on, now.” Bullseye marched to the front door. “Get your coat and come on.”

I spoke to her under my breath. “I think you should. For tonight, anyway. It’s a lot for him to take in. You might be able to help him understand.” I slid the black stone over to her. “Just in case.”

Carol rolled her eyes, took the stone, and grabbed her coat from the newel at the bottom of the stairs.

Me and Dara stood at the front door. The fog had all but receded.

“Is it safe for them to walk home?” I asked.

“It should be,” Dara said. “Whatever the spirit is, it doesn’t want them. It wants you.”