Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Even now her voice was full of indignation.

“Time passed. Seasons came and went and I struggled to keep the inn going. Then, when the snows of winter were clearing, a messenger came to me who said a great battle had been fought on the shores of Loch Derg and my man had been slain in it. They brought me his shattered pipes as token and his bloodstained tunic. Cano, it seemed, had been killed at his side, and they brought me a bloodstained cloak as proof.”

She paused and sniffed.

“It is not use saying that I grieved for him. Not for my man, Mugrán. We had hardly been together for he was always searching out new, wild schemes to occupy his fancy. I could no more have tethered his heart than I could train the inn’s cat to come and go at my will. Still, the inn was now mine and mine by right as well as inheritance for had I not worked to keep it while he pursued his fantasies? After the news came, and the bó-aire confirmed that the inn was mine since my man was dead by the shores of the far-off loch, I continued to work to run the inn. But life was hard, it was a struggle. Visitors along these isolated tracks are few and come seldom.”

“But what of the inheritance Mugrán had left in the inn that would keep you from want?” asked Fidelma intrigued and caught up in the story.

The woman gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“I searched and searched and found nothing. It was just one of Mugrán’s dreams again. One of his silly fantasies. He probably said it to keep me from complaining when he left.”

“Then what?” Fidelma pressed, when she paused.

“A year passed and I met Belach.” She nodded to her husband. “Belach and I loved one another from the start. Ah, not the love of a dog for the sheep, you understand, but the love of a salmon for the stream. We married and have worked together since. And I insisted that we rename this inn Brugh-na-Bhelach. Life has been difficult for us, but we have worked and made a living here.”

Belach had moved forward and caught Monchae’s hand in his. The symbolism assured Fidelma that Monchae and Belach were still in love after the years that they had shared together.

“We’ve had five years of happiness,” Belach told Fidelma. “And if the evil spirits claim us now, they will not steal those five years from us.”

“Evil spirits?” frowned Fidelma.

“Seven days ago it started,” Monchae said heavily. “I was out feeding the pigs when I thought I heard the sounds of music from high up on the mountain. I listened. Sure enough, I heard the sound of pipe music, high up in the air. I felt suddenly cold for it was a tune, as I well remember, that Mugrán was fond of playing.

“I came into the inn and sought out Belach. But he had not heard the music. We went out and listened but could hear nothing more than the gathering winds across the mountains that betokened the storms to come.

“The next day, at the noon hour, I heard a thud on the door of the inn. Thinking it a traveler who could not lift the latch. I opened the door. There was no one there … or so I thought until I glanced down. At the foot of the door was…” Monchae genuflected hastily. “At the foot of the door was a dead raven. There was no sign of how it met its death. It seemed to have flown into the door and killed itself.”

Fidelma sat back with pursed lips.

She could see which way the story was going. The sound of music, a dead raven lying at the door. These were all the portents of death among the rural folk of the five kingdoms. She found herself shivering slightly in spite of her rational faith.

“We have heard the music several times since,” interrupted Be-lach for the first time. “I have heard it.”

“And whereabouts does this music comes from?”

Belach spread one hand, as if gesturing toward the mountains outside.

“High up, high up in the air. All around us.”

“It is the lamentation of the dead,” moaned Monchae. “There is a curse on us.”

Fidelma sniffed.

“There is no curse unless God wills it.”

“Help us, Sister,” whispered Monchae. “I fear it is Mugrán come to claim our souls, a vengeance for my love for Belach and not for him.”

Fidelma gazed in quiet amusement at the woman.

“How did you reckon this?”

“Because I have heard him. I have heard his voice, moaning to me from the Otherworld, crying to me. ‘I am alone! I am alone!’ he called. ‘Join me, Monchae!’ Ah, how many times have I heard that ghostly wail?”

Fidelma saw that the woman was serious.

“You heard this? When and where?”

“It was three days ago in the barn. I was tending the goats that we have there, milking them to prepare cheese when I heard the whisper of Mugrán’s voice. I swear it was his voice. It sounded all around me.”

“Did you search?” Fidelma asked.

“Search? For a spirit?” Monchae sounded shocked. “I ran into the inn and took up my crucifix.”

“I searched,” intervened Belach more rationally. “I searched, for, like you, Sister, I look for answers in this world before I seek out the Otherworld. But there was no one in the barn, nor the inn, who could have made that sound. But, like you, Sister, I continued to have my doubts. I took our ass and rode down into the valley to the bothán of Dallán, the chieftain who had been with Mugrán on the shores of Loch Derg. He took oath that Mugrán was dead these last six years and that he had personally seen the body. What could I do further?”

Fidelma nodded slowly.

“So only you, Monchae, have heard Mugrán’s voice?”

“No!” Belach interrupted again and surprised her. “By the apostles of Patrick, I have heard the voice as well.”

“And what did this voice say?”

“It said, ‘Beware, Belach. You walk in a dead man’s shoes without the blessing of his spirit.’ That is what it said.”

“And where did you hear this?”

“Like Monchae, I heard the voice speak to me within the barn.”

“Very well. You have seen a dead raven, heard pipe music from far off and heard a voice which you think is that of the spirit of Mugrán. There can still be a logical explanation for such phenomena.”

“Explanation?” Monchae’s voice was harsh. “Then explain this to me, Sister. Last night, I heard the music again. It awoke me. The snowstorm had died down and the sky was clear with the moon shining down, reflecting on the snow, making it as bright as day. I heard the music playing again.

“I took my courage in my hands and went to the window and unfixed the shutter. There is a tiny knoll no more than one hundred yards away, a small snowy knoll. There was a figure of a man standing upon it, and in his hands were a set of pipes on which he was playing a lament. Then he paused and looked straight at me. ‘I am alone, Monchae!’ he called. ‘Soon I will come for you. For you and Belach.’ He turned and…”

She gave a sudden sob and collapsed into Belach’s embrace.

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at her.

“Was this figure corporeal? Was it of flesh and blood?”

Monchae raised her fearful gaze to Fidelma.

“That is just it. The body shimmered.”

“Shimmered?”

“It had a strange luminescence about it, as if it shone with some spectral fire. It was clearly a demon from the Otherworld.”

Fidelma turned to Belach.

“And did you see this vision?” she asked, half expecting him to confirm it.

“No. I heard Monchae scream in terror-it was her scream that awoke me. When she told me what had passed, I went out into the night to the knoll. I had hoped that I would find tracks there. Signs that a human being had stood there. But there were none.”

“No signs of the snow being disturbed?” pressed Fidelma.