Page 50 of The Scald Crow

“Calla Sweet and Niall York, headlining tonight at the Black Horse Pub. Join us for great food and drinks. Liquor sales from tonight’s event will be donated to the local Donkey Sanctuary—because their survival is in our hands.”

“Didn’t your da love those donkeys? Remember, wee Bingo?” She mussed my hair, then laughed.

Calla’s photo stared back in grainy black-and-white.

“Oh dear, that wee boy is still missing from near Malin Head.” She traced her finger over the child’s black-and-white image in the right-hand corner of the opposite page. “Well, I’m after the messages. They’ve got pork backs on sale this week. ’Twas Da’s favorite, remember?”

“Aye, aye, I remember. Have a good time.” I leaned back in the chair, brushing my fingers against hers as she walked away.

“Will you be home for dinner, luv?” She turned, her eyes shining bright.

"I wouldn’t miss it, Mam." A muscle twitched in my jaw—an involuntary reflex I couldn’t contain.

* * *

My dreams had escalated into something more.

The wind sang, her whispers calling me. Brazen, salacious thoughts flooded my mind, yet I could not express them. Held down by a mysterious force, I could not respond to her teasing touch.

Her need slammed into me, and time lost its grip.

Her hair, braided into delicate spirals, fell into my face as her pink lips brushed mine. She slipped her graceful fingers between the buttons of her blouse, spilling her breasts and rocking her heated flesh over my bursting erection. I woke semi-conscious, locked between her thighs, my cock straining at the seam of my boxers, her breath ragged, her ecstasy near.

She left my balls burning and my mind crazed.

I woke each morning––worn out and used up—my desire for her flaming out of control. I convinced myself those dreams resulted from an overactive imagination and simple infatuation.

* * *

Ardara’s main street had stayed the same over the past seven years. The chippy truck was still parked illegally. The Blue Bonnet Grill closed by three o’clock. Pete’s Pub was always an excellent place for a pint. From Pádraig’s bakery, a light shone beneath the kitchen door, telling me my brother worked late into the night.

I clenched the concrete railing, gazing into the flowing waters of the Owentocker, singing toward the sea. Breda might have had the right idea. The fishing boat Ciarán and I dreamed of represented an end to the madness.

My father’s death weighed heavy on my conscience.

Had I lifted that burden from his shoulders—would he still be alive?

“The blame game doesn’t suit you, brother.” Ciarán’s voice whispered. How many times had I talked to Ciarán? Imaginary conversations. Unanswered questions.

“Where are you, brother?” The question played on repeat, over and over.

I willed my mind to stay in the present, but instead, I relived the past.

Samhain’s frigid breath had poured over the land. While Mam twisted wood and bits of straw into protective crosses, Da stirred the bones of the past year’s slaughtered cattle into the fire. The flames consumed everything. Blue smoke curled into the air. The time to usher in the dark half of the year had arrived.

We ran for our lives, Ciarán and me, chased by ghouls from the Otherworld. The Sluagh sought to steal our souls. The Faerie Host aimed to take us away. Our brothers chased us, their faces hidden behind flour sack masks embellished with horsehair and sheep’s wool. Concealed in shadows, we flattened our bodies against the cold earth. I intended to surrender to the Púca’s wrath, but a shout was raised, our brothers whipping by. Fear curdled our screams as we crept on our bellies through the tall grass, searching for more friendly ghosts.

Rain lashed down, a sharp wind howling in from the sea, the ocean’s roar adding another dimension to the Púca’s fury. A ghostly apparition floated through the haar, a faceless woman cloaked in gossamer silk. If ever the dark was frightening, it was then.

Ciarán’s face whitened, and I looked in the direction of his fear.

A beast from the Otherworld, a giant wolf-like creature, approached with quiet stealth. His almond-shaped eyes shone like fiery flames, the night glowed in his black fur, and the moon shimmered in his wild ruff. The creature guided us to higher ground, where we huddled through the storm.

The following day, a farmer tending his sheep found us two missing O’Donnell lads. I still remember the ride home in the back of the farmer’s truck, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, and the steaming bowl of porridge Mam shoveled into my mouth.

No one knew who the black dog belonged to. My father said the Faeries came that night. We placed an empty chair at our supper table to thank them, and a full meal was prepared for Themselves.

I headed toward the witch’s lair, The Black Horse Pub—my second visit in two days. I smiled, half expecting the witch would give me the boot, no questions asked.

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