All Souls' Day

by Sam Barnes

His wife entered the room, waddling under the weight of a large pale, which she carried between her legs. She stopped for a moment before the hearth, which radiated precious warmth. Outside was brisk, with a biting wind.

She raised the pale up, and poured its contents over the fire. There was a long shoosh sound as the water initially evaporated under the heat, and then overwhelmed the flames. The room was bathed in darkness, as the steam and smoke billowed from the soggy charred wood.

Though her eyes had yet to adjust, she could feel her husband’s stare. It was a stare that could almost convey a message without words. And she knew it well. She looked in his direction, until she could begin to make out the pale whiteness of his face. Arlen’s eyes were dark shadows beneath his brow, divided by his large hooked nose.

She left the room, and returned with a weak lamp. It was made from a hollowed out turnip, with a candle burning inside. The light flickered, and illuminated her husband’s face. It was long and hollow. His skin was weathered, and deep creases lined his brow.

“The spirits walk,” he said.
“Not by the light of our fire,” she replied.

He took the lantern from his wife, stood up, and strode outside the house, into the chilly moonlight. Orla followed.

Others were emerging from their thatched dwellings, they also carried lanterns similar to Arlen’s. Some had drums and bells, others wore grotesque masks, made from the skin of a pig’s head stretched over a frame. Some had left the pig’s ears on as a macarbre touch.

Boom! Boom, Boom! Boom the drum began pounding away. In a meadow next to their small village, there was a huge bonfire built. The men of the village were dancing around it in a large circle. They were ringing bells, clapping, shouting and singing. The mouth watering smell of browning meat drifted from some smaller fires nearby, over which the unfortunate pigs that provided the masks, were being spit roasted.

Arlen joined the other men in the dance, which lasted for a good thirty minutes. The drums chants and other instruments climaxed into a deafening crescendo, led by a piper whose fingers seemed to defy the limits of human dexterity. Eventually, the danced finished with one big cacophony of noise, and a crash of drums.

After this followed the feast. Huge tables fashioned from oak, provided space for the meal, which consisted of slabs of roasted meat, corn, apples, nuts and raisins. The drink was beer. The thick forests which surrounded their village echoed with the noise of the feast.

As the eating died down, the druid stood and addressed the party from the head of the longest table. Being an accomplished orator, his voice easily projected so that all present could hear.

“The other world is a mysterious place.” Soft chatter diminished into utter silence. “We the people of Lomleen, have lost many this year. Through sickness or accident, or with the passing of time. But the harvest has delivered, so let us thank the Gods, with all heart.”

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

“Our late brethren hear us from the hills, and wish to join us tonight, as they did before. But we mustn’t let them. Their journey is not yet complete. Let us help them on their way, to the land of eternal youth.” There was a murmuring of agreement.

“The winter is now upon us, and our life will be frought with hardship, ‘till the spring brings its sweet blooms. For those who have transcended this world, the greatest favour we can do for them is to let them go. For they have already been treading a path of danger, walking among the spirits of the otherworld. Though their journey is nearly over. We must say goodbye, to those we loved and lost, and can never hold again.”

“Tonight, we feel the presence of the otherworld. And we must beware, of the malicious ones, who would trick us into thinking they have only good intentions. They wait in the trees, for us to sleep. They yearn for the taste of our succulent meat on their tongues. Tonight, the spirits walk the earth.”

A solo drum beat began, as a wooden cage was brought over to the fire. Inside was a fattened sow which snorted with discontentment. It was driven from the cage, with a stick, which was prodded into its backside. A ring was formed around the confused animal, comprised of most of the villagers. The high druid stepped forward, holding a slender bronze knife, with both hands above his head.

“We offer this animal in memory of our dead, that they may have their own feast when their journey is complete. And that they will never forget us, as we will never forget them.”

He brought the knife down swiftly, imbedding it at the top of the spine. The sow let out a squeal and collapsed dead. Its organs were removed and offered individually before being thrown on the fire. Then its body was cooked and left next to the fire.

After the offering, the festivities began again, and the piper reeled off bold and lively tunes. The beer flowed freely, and people began to disperse into smaller groups, to observe the custom of ousting; walking around boisterously, and very drunkenly to scare off the spirits of the dead.

Orla joined up with Anna, Darcy and Floyd, and Arlen with a separate group; the theory being that the wandering souls would become more nostalgic at seeing all their old family together, and never complete their journey to Valhalla.

Anna was fifteen years younger that Orla, and was yet to bear a child. She was plump with smooth skin, and long silky hair tied back in a pony tail. Having had one too many beers, she was flirting outrageously with Floyd, who was hardly discouraging her. He grabbed her around the waist from behind, and she screamed in mock fear, tripping him up. Darcy was doing his best to ignore the youthful courtship display, and strode silently beside Orla, walking stick in hand. He struck up a Samhain song which the others soon joined in with:

Away with you, away with you, be gone far from here. This tempting night, will bring you naught. Except a rusty spear.

Those of you that would return, To join with us, your kin. We let you know to carry on and Hear us as we sing.

The summer months and harvest grain, Have withered in the soil, The winter days, so short and cold, Will test us in our toil.

Away with you, Away with you! Be gone far from here Our arms are strong, our legs are stout, And you should run in fear.

As they finished the song, they came to the gate, which fenced in the cow enclosure. The animals slept standing, looking strangely still under the moon. The enclosure was surrounded by dark woods, save the path they had just marched up. Floyd helped Anna over the fence, and they ran off frolicking between the cows. Orla and Darcy followed more sensibly, but in good spirits none the less. Darcy’s turnip lamp, provided a comforting reference point for Orla, who was short sited. Although it was only a blur, she could still make out the hazy spot of light, even at a distance.

They clapped and chanted their way around the enclosure, waking the cows who kept their distance from the din. Orla stayed close to Darcy, all the time keeping the light from his lantern in the corner of her eye. Anna and Floyd had disappeared behind some trees, and judging by their giggling, had found their own novel to scare away spirits.

“How is Arlen these days,” Darcy asked offhand.
“He shows his age as do I. But he is in good health, that much I can be grateful for. How old are you Darcy?”
“Forty two.”
“Forty two. What a lovely age. You have your children, still young. And you are fit enough to take long walks in the mountains. My children have families of their own now. They moved away to Klathan in search of a better life. I hardly see them anymore.”

Darcy paused for thought. “I am indeed blessed. I love my family with all heart. I’m sorry if I stirred your emotions.”

“No! not at all,” she replied. “Such things come with age, friends and relatives fall from the path. And even one’s own flesh and blood become distant, as their own lives become more hectic. I am grateful for the time I have been given. That’s the way I look at it.” She glanced across at his hooded face lit from below with the flickering light, and he smiled warmly back at her, crows feet branching from the corners of his eyes.

“You have a philosophy wise beyond my years. If my young ones ever moved away, I would feel the lost so acutely, I’m not sure if I could bear it. I admire your strength.”

The giggling from the trees beyond had given way, to soft intermittent moans, which seemed to attract the cows to the sound’s source rather than drive them away. They stood swishing their tails, wondering, (slowly), what the sound was with their cow brains.

“I think our work is done here,” Darcy said looking across to where Anna and Floyd procreated. The moans turned into ‘Oh!s’ “Shall we be going? I think we can trust these two to find their own way back.” They crossed the field and climbed over the gate.

“What it is to be young and free,” Orla sighed. “To spend an evening under the stars, with only the warmth of each others bodies.”

“It has been some time since I last did that,” Darcy replied honestly and they both broke into laughter.

The path leading to the village was long and dark, sided by tangled hedges. Trees naked with the loss of leaves were silhouetted against the moonlit sky. As they walked along Orla could not be sure, but she thought she heard voices behind them. Surely Anna and Floyd, had not finished their fun and games yet? But like her eyes, her ears weren’t what they used to be. Darcy began to hum out another tune. It was a melancholy song about winter hardships. Orla joined in and pushed dark thoughts to the back of her mind.

The next day, the village rose late. People went about the mornings work, rubbing the hangovers from their eyes. November the first was the first day of Winter, and preparations were already under way, for the season of cold. Wood was being cut and dried in sheds. Nettles and Flax plants were collected, for their fibre, which was woven into linen undergarments. Bales of sheep’s hair were broken open, and spun into wool which was used to make thick cloaks. The men were out in the forests logging, or hunting with traps and spears. Most of the meat would be salted and stored in cool larders to extend its lifespan.

Orla was preparing a stew for the evening, when she heard a female voice calling her from outside. “Orla! Can I speak with you? Are you busy?” She went to the doorway and saw it was Brietta—Anna’s mother.

“Oh Orla, I’m sorry to bother you. Its Anna, she didn’t come home from the feast last night, and I’m terribly worried. You were with her weren’t you, ousting the cow enclosure. Do you know where she is?” Her brow was furrowed with worry.

Orla was fast thinking how to put Brietta’s mind at rest without letting on that she had been sowing seeds with young Floyd: They were not married, and it would definitely cause a stir if the parents were to find out.

“Well, she was with Floyd the last time I saw her, we left them behind in the enclosure to finishing the ousting.” Orla’s account, like the best lies, omitted all but the essential facts. “I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you, Floyd’s a good young man, he wouldn’t let any harm come to her.” She pictured them huddling close throughout the night, and shivering together as dawn broke.

“Oh, I see. I suppose I should ask Floyd then. Thank you Orla, may the gods look kind upon you.”
“And you,” Orla replied.

That evening Anna’s Father and two brothers paid a visit to Floyd’s home. He lived with his grandmother, in a small dwelling that was the last house in the village. Beyond it, the road dwindled into a track which plunged into the forests.

There were two heavy raps at the door, which was answered by Floyd. He had just returned from a day’s tree felling, and still wore his bearskin cloak, fastened with a silver broach. His long greasy hair hung around his shoulders, and he smelt of sweat. His axe rested ominously against the wall near the door, where it always did.

He opened the door to the unpleasant sight of Anna’s father – Gwrtheyrn, standing with his arms folded, and scowling. He was a fat man, and his ruddy cheeks glowed red from the autumn breeze, and perhaps some alcohol consumption. He was flanked on either side by his sons, who had managed to inherit their father’s ugly grimace. Arzhur, the youngest, was fifteen, a skinny pubescent. His cloak seemed to engulf, rather than hang off him. Cadeyrn was older and fatter, like his father. He had the self-righteous look of a bully.

“Where is my daughter?” Gwrtheyrn cut straight to the point.

Floyd eyed the swords at their belts nervously. “I suppose she is at home?” he reasoned.

Gwrtheyrn reached forward and grabbed Floyds throat. His chubby fingers had a vice-like grip, which Floyd unsuccessfully tried to rip loose.

“Don’t give me that shit! What did you do to her last night?”
“I don’t know what, ahh!, you’re talking about” Floyd managed to croak out whist choking. He continued his attempts to pry the iron like hands from his trachea, his desperate gasping projecting small bits of spittle onto Gwrtheyrn’s unflinching face.
“You were together last night weren’t you?”

Floyd was beginning to see little stars, whizzing around his field of vision. “Ahh! Yeah I was, ws. wth. ha.” Gwrtheyrn released his grip, and Floyd gulped in air rubbing at his throat.

Floyd’s grandmother hobbled over from her chair. “What’s all this fuss about,” she said. Gwrtheryrn! I thought you were an honorible man, what brings you over here bullying my grandson like this?

“I’ll tell you what. Your grandson here was with my daughter last night, during the ousting, he was the last person to be seen with her.”

“Well I don’t see the harm in that. Young people have to meet sometimes don’t they? It’s the way of the world. When I was young—”

“Anna didn’t come home this morning, so we came over to ask young Floyd about this. Seeing as he was the last one seen with her.” He looked at Floyd with mean beady eyes that exuded little intelligence. “You are coming with us,” he said.

Two days later the Druid stood and addressed the village. “People of Lomleen. We searched the woods around the cow enclosure. Though we did not find the body of Anna, daughter of Brietta and Eaven, we conclude that this young man must be guilty of her murder.” He pointed to Floyd who was tied to a wooden pole around which stuck out of large stack of timber, on a bed of grass kindling. “By the accounts of Darcy and Orla, she was cavorting with him on the night she disappeared. We can only conclude, that he must have taken her life. Floyd, son of the late Atton and Knya, have you anything to say for yourself?”

“I did not do this!” he screamed. “I admit we were lovers that night, on Samhain. I was alone with her in the trees behind the enclosure, but when I awoke after our lovemaking she was gone.” He sobbed desperate tears which rolled down his weather beaten cheeks, into his beard. “I never harmed her, believe me!”

“Floyd, son of the late Atton and Knya, I condemn you to burn at the stake, for this crime. Confess now, and you may one day have a chance of reaching Valhalla. Otherwise you will roam forever, in the grey fog of the otherworld.”

“Never!” he cried, looking to the sky for comfort. “The gods curse you all!”

Gwrtheyrn was the one to light the deadly blaze. As he did so he looked up at Floyd and said, “Burn, you bastard.” The kindling was soon well alight, and flame curled around the timber which slowly ignited.

Floyd’s feet began to feel hot, and the smoke drifted up between his legs making him cough uncontrollably. He looked down and saw the horrible bright orange working its way upwards. Then acrid black smoke enveloped him, and he inhaled as much as he could bear, hoping he would pass out before the flames reached him. He didn’t.

He felt an acute pain on the souls of his feet, and screamed in agony. The yellow tongues of flame sprang upwards, and began licking around his lower legs. It felt like getting thousands of nettle stings and bee stings all at once, except his legs didn’t grow numb. The intensity of the stings grew and grew, until his screams warped and began to sound alien to even his own ears.

Then for a moment he managed to stop screaming, to listen. There was a sizzling sound, and he looked down to see the flesh on his legs blistering and bubbling. But worst of all was the smell. Like the pigs they had roasted on Samhain, it actually smelt good. His mouth watered, and then he threw up.

By now the flames were strong around his midriff, and he couldn’t see his legs very well. He didn’t want to look down because the flames might get to his eyes. He could however, feel his loin roasting and beginning to melt away.

Then he was completely engulfed in the fire, and he saw everything in orange. Through a gap in the smoke he saw his Anna’s family gathered looking at him with hate. He would be guilty in their eyes, in the eyes of the village, for ever. He managed to rip open his lips, which the heat has fused together, and scream one last word: “Anna”, which came out more like a cry. He noticed Gwrtheyrn’s expression change from hate to surprise. Then he heard a brief hissing, as the water on his eyes evaporated followed by a small pop. Everything went black, and he was overcome with agony which covered him from his head to the bones of his toes. He became a screaming gibbering consciousness, aware of only pain before he died.

Winter turned to spring and spring to summer. As year progressed, the villagers tried to put behind them the tragedy which had befallen Anna, and Floyd’s brutal punishment. But Gwrtheyn was not the only one to have heard Floyd’s final cry, and whispers were circulating: Why was it that he had screamed the name of the one he had killed, as he himself perished? If he was a cold hearted killer, would he have done such a thing? Orla for one had heard their lovemaking on the fateful night, and it had sounded perfectly normal. She knew Darcy had too.

She spoke nothing of her worries to Arlen, as she knew it would only cause him grief. Besides, what use would it be if he knew what she did? It was all too dangerous. To be seen as questioning the verdict of the Druid. People might begin to think she was somehow in league with Floyd, whose name had come to represent a demon, who once lived in their small community.

After the final harvest, the evening of Samhain festivities once more arrived, but there was a pervading feeling of apprehension. The sooner the dawn came and the spirits were once more relegated to their own domain, the better. This year, Floyd’s grandmother was banned from the event for fear that she might bring misfortune. While the feast and offerings took place, she remained in her small hut of a house. As was required she had extinguished her fire. She sat cold and alone in the dark, with only the meagre light from the turnip light to aid her already failing eyesight.

The distant sound of the drums and singing occasionally drifted over with the breeze, but was soon overwhelmed by piles of fallen leaves rustling in the wind. That, and the slow squeaking of her rocking chair, as she attempted to keep the circulation going in her numb toes.

“Oh Floyd,” she said “Why did you ever do such a thing. Now your grandma is almost an outcast in her own village. And I’ve been here for longer than any of them.” Since last year, she often talked to herself this way to keep herself company through the sleepless nights. “Oh Floyd my boy. I know you would never do such a wicked thing. And seeing you go that way, was…the worst thing I have ever seen. To see your face. Your scream. Oh dear.”

Then came the awful sound of an old woman crying fully, with real hurt. In the last season of one’s life, one expects to encounter a lot of death and suffering. But this is normally at nature’s hand. Glenda at the age of seventy five, was a broken old lady whose only grandson had been cruelly killed. She placed her purple veined hand over her mouth to stop the flow of bitter tears from trickling inside it.

“I don’t know how to live anymore,” she sniffed. “They took you from me,” sniff. “Oww,” there followed a series of angry moans. “When I had your mother, I looked forward to the day I would see you. Owww—but they hurt you”.

She looked at the ugly face she had carved into the turnip lamp, which was really Floyd’s face as she had seen him perishing in the flames: The two triangular eyes represented the way his eyes had dribbled over his cheeks. The jagged mouth was as she remembered his final scream, through lips that were partially melted together. “My Floyd,” she said, “this isn’t the way I wanted to remember you.”

As she sobbed her despair, the faint sound of footsteps outside caught her attention. They grew louder as they crunched through the piles of dry leaves. The wattle walls of her dwelling were devoid of windows, but she stared at the door none the less. Maybe the rest of those bastards had decided to offer me as a sacrifice this year?, she thought. To finish off the family line, once and for good. The steps came to a halt outside the door, and she could hear heavy breathing as if who ever it was had been walking a good while. Though an old woman, instinct still made her cease her absent minded rocking, and freeze like a pheasant hiding in bushes. She strained her waning eyes to pierce through the darkness.

With a clunk of the latch the door swung open, and a figure entered the shadows. “Have you come to take away, and roast me like you did to my grandson?” she asked boldly. The figure drew closer, but as it entered the meagre light of the turnip lamp she saw that it was a young woman, plump with long black hair tied back in a pony tail.

“No,” said a familiar voice, in answer to her question.
“Anna! Is it you? But it can’t be. How can it be?” The young lady’s skin was still as smooth as the night when she had gone missing exactly one year ago. Her clothes were in good condition, her face clean.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said “Who else could it be?” She moved up closer to Glenda’s rocking chair so her face was in good light. Her eyes twinkled with mischief, as they had always done.

“But do you know what they did to Floyd?”
“What would they do to Floyd?” she replied perplexed.
“You have no idea do you?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, if that’s what you mean? What? What did they do to Floyd?” she asked almost playfully.

“They burnt him, that’s what they did.” Glenda forced the words out of her hairy lips .

“Floyd, burnt!” she chuckled, “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would any one want to do that?” She smoothed down Glenda’s grey hair against her head.

“Because he killed you! That’s why.” But it was all getting to much for Glenda who was starting to conclude she had finally lost her mind.

“Well he obviously didn’t did he? Seeing as I am standing here now.” She twirled around as if to prove the point. I know it’s Samhain, but don’t go making up stories, because you are scaring me.”

“What happened to you Anna? Where did you go?”
“I think I had a little too much to drink last night. The last thing I remember is going to the Cow field with the others. Then I woke up this evening with a rotten hangover. Must have slept outside somewhere. Strange what drink can make you do!”

Glenda reached over with her bony fingers, to caress the young woman’s supple cheeks, and despite her bad circulation realised that they were stone cold. Then she felt the coldness spreading up her arm as if she was plunging it into a pale of icy water left out overnight in an October chill.

“Anna what’s wrong with you?” She said in her soprano voice cracking with age.

Anna drew back taking the old woman’s hand from her face and clutching it between her own. Her eye’s still beamed their glassy smile. “Don’t worry everything will turn out just fine,” she soothed. “I am happy that I managed to speak to you before my father and the others start questioning me about where I’ve been.”

“But you mustn’t go to them Anna, they’ll never believe your story, don’t you know you’ve been gone for over a year!” Glenda rubbed at her arm as the strange chill crept up it into her shoulder then neck and then spread down into her chest. “Oh Anna I think I…I think I need to go and sit by a fire for a while, I do feel cold. If it wasn’t for Samhain I would have the hearth well stoked tonight, an old lady like myself.”

Anna seemed unconcerned. “Why don’t you go and join the others at the feast?” she asked innocently.

Glenda drew in breath sharply as the chill spread deep into her ribcage and around her heart. It felt like drinking a glass of icy spring water on a summer’s day. But somehow the water was dirty, polluted with fine a fine sludge of bitter tasting sediment that made one’s throat constrict as if to vomit. She began to choke as cool invisible fingers seemed to grip around her heart and squeeze tightly, making it beat harder to keep precious blood pumping through her ancient veins.

All the time Anna looked into her eyes with the same happy expression, as though nothing was wrong. “I know you want to go and sit by the comfy fire don’t you now? I’m sure the others will understand, a poor old lady such as yourself wanting to warm up a little. Why wouldn’t they?”

But Glenda could no longer speak, she looked on in fear at the horrible thing in front of her. It looked human, that much was for sure, but she should have known on Samhain of all nights not to open her door to anyone or anything. It was too late now as she felt her heart straining to move under an enormous pressure. Then she felt it give up altogether and her vision faded to black, all the time Anna clutching her weathered old hand tightly.

“You look sleepy Ms. Glenda, why don’t you rest a while?”

At the festival sight the mood was sombre. After the usual routine of dancing and the Druid’s speech the feast had commenced as normal, but the spirits of the villagers was dampened by the shadow of the previous year’s events.

Arlen and Orla sat side by side on the wooden bench of the dining table, finishing off large portions of meat which had been roasted over the Samhein fire.

“Who’ll you be ousting with tonight?” Arlen said over a swig of beer.

“No one I think,” she replied “I may just head back and try to get some rest. I’m just not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood? It’s Samhain for god’s sake. You don’t want to be in the house all alone do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind actually,” Orla said. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and if I was to lose my way in the dark…Anyway it scares me wondering about in the night time, under the moon’s shadows.”

Arlen turned to face her, his food oiled lips forming a tender smile “Sound’s like an excuse to me,” he said.

“Well I’ll see you back home when you’re finished my love. Don’t drink too much, you know how you’ll feel the morning after. You aren’t twenty anymore you know.”

“I know. Shall I walk you home?” he enquired
“No, don’t be silly. Stay here and enjoy yourself.” She got up a bid the table goodnight before disappearing across the field through the gate which led to the main village. Arlen looked at her as she went and thought what a fine woman he had had the good fortune to marry.

As the feast drew to a close small groups began to assemble in preparation for ousting which took place on each and every Samhain. Some were collecting up flagons of ale, as it was customary on the night of the dead to get roaringly drunk. Despite Orla’s advice Arlen intended to observe this custom, and poured himself another cup of frothy beer savouring the aroma of hops and barley.

“Can I join you in a drink?” Darcy said taking a seat beside his old friend.

“Certainly,” Arlen replied and passed him the bottle.
“You’ll be joining us for ousting?” Darcy asked pouring out some of the amber liquid into his own cup. “I’ve been lumped with a couple of Francios’ daughters—pretty young things.”

“Here’s to that,” Arlen laughed and clanked his cup against Darcy’s before drinking deeply. “Who’s that?” he continued, looking with a perplexed expression over to the gate from which his wife had exited back to the village before. A small hunch backed woman unlatched the gate and came through making her way over to the fire. As she Emerged from the darkness Arlen began to make out her features. “I don’t believe it it’s—“

“Floyd’s grandmother!” Darcy finished for him and put down his beer. “Shit. If Anna’s folks see her they’ll…They won’t be happy.”

“We should stop her, send her back,” Arlen whispered. But it was too late, others from around the festive table had noticed the old woman hobbling towards them, looking over with eagerness. A hush spread over the dinner table as Glenda approached the empty space which she had occupied on so many Samhain nights over the years. She began to clamber over the wooden bench to seat her self when a voice called out from the opposite side of the table from Glenda’s seat.

“You! What are you doin’ here?” Gwrtheyrn said bluntly. He scowled hatefully across the table at the maternal grandmother of the man who had killed his daughter one year ago. He pointed his meat knife accusingly at Glenda and said, “I want you to turn around and get out of my sight. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll do it.”

“But I just came to warm myself by the fire, just for a while,” she looked around timidly at the faces staring at her from every direction. “Oh I was so cold with out a fire in my old house by the woods. Old woman like me, we feel the cold like you never know.”

“A cold hearted old hag like yourself shouldn’t feel it that much” Gwrtheyrn laughed meanly.

Tears came to Glenda’s eye’s as she saw none of her old friends soften towards her. Even a young woman called Katherine who she had looked after for some time as a child glared at her from next to where she stood. To add to the insult her empty space had been set at the table. A clean unused plate beside which rested an old but sharp meat knife similar to the one Gwitheyrn was pointing at her. “Oh really, do you have to speak in such a manner, did your parents teach you no mann—“

“That’s enough from you Glenda,” the Druid spoke from the head of the table in a clear and authoritative voice. “You know you were forbidden to attend tonight’s feast, so unfortunately I have to ask you to leave, or face a fitting punishment.”

“Oh I see well I suppose sir if you put it like that I will be going home then. Though could I have your permission to light just a small fire to warm my home a little. My bones you see, I feel it in my bones, and it aches so…”

“You will light no fire on the eve of the spirits. The night of Samain shall be dark in Lomleen save for the festival fire, and our lanterns.”

“Well if you say so sir.” Glenda turned her back to the table and began hobbling away.

“And don’t come back.” Gwrtheyrn called after her. “If you do I’ll be glad to light the pyre when you’re atop it, just like I did to your murdering Grandson.”

Glenda stopped in her tracks and turned around on the spot. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, I’ll watch you burn in agony just like your filthy offspring did. You’ve no place in this village anymore.”

“You are a wicked man. My grandson did nothing wrong. The body of the girl was never found was it? But you took out your revenge lustfully anyway, curse you!” She looked around the table hurtfully. “If Floyd was to blame for Anna’s murder then why did he call out her name? The last word he ever spoke it was. Oh you hurt him so, and for what? —Nothing but the sake of anger.”

“So you deny the crimes for which your daughter’s son was justly convicted of?” The druid enounced clearly. “You deny my word and the decision of the jury that examined and assessed the evidence against him?”

“I do more than that.” Glenda replied. “I call upon the sprits tonight to come and repay my loss!” The creases of her broken old cheeks lifted momentarily in a ghastly grin which revealed long since toothless gums blackened from rot. “To each and every last one of you.”

She crept forward to her place at the table once more, took up the knife which had as yet seen no use this year thanks to her banishment from the festivities. But Gwrtheyrn, fat as he was, was quicker than the old woman. He clambered over the table and sunk his pig grease coated blade deep into her heart, in one fluid movement. Glenda looked down briefly at the wooden hilt protruding from her chest and then began to cackle. Gwrtheyrn’s face was awash with disbelief, as if he had just woken from a knightmare. Unarmed and defenceless he stood frozen as Glenda arced her blade in front of her, making a deep cut below his larynx. He fell back onto the table chocking on his rapidly depleting blood which spurted through his fingers like an erupting geyser.

“Starting with you Gwrtheryn,” she said, unaware of the horrified faces which watched the man’s last death struggles growing ever weaker, in stunned disbelief. His actions had knocked over several mugs of ale, fluid which ran across the table onto people’s laps.

Several men including Darcy got up quietly brandishing knives, and made towards the old woman who had seemingly cheated death judging by the handle which stuck out harmlessly from between her breasts. She backed up and they surrounded her moving slowly, gliding into position as if the slightest abrupt movement could trigger her to make another kill.

“Really. There is no need for all this,” she croaked, “All of you, strong men like yourselves, ganging up on a poor old woman like me.” The blade tips were only inches away from her head now. Steel glinting with firelight encircled the old woman from every direction like a horrible kind of torture device.

“It’s not natural!” Katherine cried
“Kill her!” Another man said.
“Drop you weapon,” Darcy commanded, levelling his blade at Glenda’s throat. But she seemed not to hear him, instead looking around his shoulder into the darkness of the woods beyond the meadow, and smiling smugly to herself.

“You’ll pay all of you, sooner than you think!” she croaked. Some of those seated at the table suddenly stood and pointed to where she was looking.

Arlen turned pale when he saw what distracted them. People were coming out from the trees. Less than twenty meters away, behind the glare of the fire, hundreds of pale figures strode calmly from between the tree trunks of the forest. They advanced across the clearing around the sacrificial fire with lumbering purposeful steps. All that was, except one of the intruders who walked directly through the scorching flames and out the other side. It was a horrifically burnt figure with lidless eyes that made it look like it was in a perpetual state of surprise. The lips were completely burnt away revealing a sparkling white array of teeth set in a grizzly grin, and the figure’s skin on its body and face was dry matt black like the skin of a piece of chicken forgotten on the barbecue.

“Floyd my boy!” Glenda said chocking with emotion. “You came to help your ol’ Granny didn’t you.”

“The dead have come, ready yourselves!” The Druid announced. Those at the table rose and grabbed knives—the only weapons to hand. Glenda was forgotten as the men around her prepared to receive the unwelcome guests. Women and children were pushed to the rear as the men formed a line of defence across the side of the meadow that faced the village.

The charred creature that had once been Floyd suddenly sprang forwards biting onto the Druids face with a sickening crunch. Knives skewered him from every direction but had no effect against the animated hunk of meat.

The rest of the assailants were soon in fighting distance, and the melee proper began. Darcy slashed out in front of him, making a deep cut in a man’s chest. Yet not a drop off blood appeared from the wound. The face of his enemy looked familiar. Then it came to him, it was Kothor, a childhood friend of his that had died in a logging accident in his early twenties. Kothor looked down at his injury as if it were just a scratch and then clouted Darcy knocking him down.

Arlen rugby tackled Floyd whose teeth were still squelching around into what was left of The Druids face. He managed to decapitate the abhorition while they struggled on the ground, but he paid for it with his life. At least five of the dead descended on him, while the rest of the people of Lomleen were overwhelmed by the numbers and strength of those that had set upon them.

The battle lasted all of five minutes, and by the end of it all the villagers lay slaughtered in the meadow. All except one that is.

Orla awoke at dawn to a strange sound. It was the sound utter silence. There was no squeaking of the pulley as it drew water for the goats’ morning drink. No early morning ribbing from the groups of young men heading off to work in the forest. And most disturbingly no call from the town crier, that normally ensured everyone was up by five. When she discovered Arlen hadn’t come back she got worried. She ran around knocking on every door, but no reply. When she eventually decided to check at the meadow she found nothing but upturned plates of food and blood stained knives lying in the dewy grass. Near one of the knives she found a ring with a small black gemstone set into it: Arlen’s.

Later that day she decided she didn’t want to stay in Lomleen through the night. She packed a few belongings; mostly things that meant something to her, like the wooden flower that Arlen had carved for her once while they spent the day by the river. As dusk fell she set off up the deserted street, past the last house on the left that belonged to Ms. Glenda. The road narrowed to a path as it entered the tree canopy. Glenda walked nervously through the deep impenetrable woods that walled either side of the path and even arched over the top of it, like the ceiling of a never ending monastery corridor. Klathan was a good few weeks journey away she had heard, and she could only pray that she would find her children once she got there.

Though she didn’t know it, someone would be watching over her the whole way.

©2005 By Sam Barnes