Hemlock at Vespers

OUR LADY OF DEATH

The awesome moaning of the wind blended chillingly with the howling of wolves. They were nearby, these fearsome night hunters. Sister Fidelma knew it but could not see them because of the cold, driving snow against her face. It came at her in clouds of whirling, ice-cold, tiny pellicles. It obliterated the landscape and she could scarcely see beyond her arm’s length in front of her.

Had it not been for the urgency of reaching Cashel, the seat of the kings of Mumha, she would not have been attempting the journey northward through these great, forbidding peaks of Sléibhte an Comeraigh. She bent forward in the saddle of her horse, which only her rank as a dálaigh of the law courts of the five kings of Ireland entitled her to have. A simple religieuse would not be able to lay claim to such a means of transportation. But then Fidelma was no ordinary religieuse. She was a daughter of a former king of Cashel, an advocate of the law of the Fénechus and qualified to the level of Anruth, one degree below the highest qualification in Ireland. The wind drove the snow continuously against her. It plastered the rebellious strands of red hair that spilled from her cub-hal, or head-dress, against her pale forehead. She wished the wind’s direction would change, even for a moment or two, for it would have been more comfortable to have the wind at her back. But the wind was constantly raging from the north.

The threatening howl of the wolves seemed close. Was it her imagination or had it been gradually getting closer as she rode the isolated mountain track? She shivered and once more wished that she had stopped for the night at the last bruidhen or hostel in order to await more clement weather. But the snowstorm had set in and it would be several days before conditions improved. Sooner or later she would have to tackle the journey. The message from her brother Colgú had said her presence was needed urgently for their mother lay dying. Only that fact brought Fidelma traversing the forbidding tracks through the snowbound mountains in such intemperate conditions.

Her face was frozen and so were her hands as she confronted the fierce wind-driven snow. In spite of her heavy woollen cloak, she found her teeth chattering. A dark shape loomed abruptly out of the snow nearby. Her heart caught in her mouth as her horse shied and skittered on the trail for a moment. Then she was able to relax and steady the beast with a sigh of relief as the regal shape of a great stag stared momentarily at her from a distance of a few yards before recklessly turning and bounding away into the cover of the white curtain that blocked out the landscape.

Continuing on, she had reached what she felt must be the crest of a rise and found the wind so fierce here that it threatened to sweep her from her horse. Even the beast put its head down to the ground and seemed to stagger at the icy onslaught. Masses of loose powdery snow drifted this way and that in the howling and shrieking of the tempest.

Fidelma blinked at the indistinct blur of the landscape beyond.

She felt sure she had seen a light. Or was it her imagination? She blinked again and urged her horse onward, straining to keep her eyes focused on the point where she thought she had seen it. She automatically pulled her woollen cloak higher up around her neck.

Yes! She had seen it. A light, surely!

She halted her horse and slipped off, making sure she had the reins looped securely around her arm. The snow came up to her knees, making walking almost impossible but she could not urge her mount through the drifting snow without making sure it was safe enough first. After a moment or two she had come to a wooden pole. She peered upward. Barely discernible in the flurries above her head hung a dancing storm lantern.

She stared around in surprise. The swirling snow revealed nothing. But she was sure that the lantern was the traditional sign of a bruidhen, an inn, for it was the law that all inns had to keep a lantern burning to indicate their presence at night or in severe weather conditions.

She gazed back at the pole with its lantern, and chose a direction, moving awkwardly forward in the deep, clinging snow. Suddenly the wind momentarily dropped and she caught sight of the large dark shadow of a building. Then the blizzard resumed its course and she staggered head down in its direction. More by good luck than any other form of guidance, she came to a horse’s hitching rail and tethered her beast there, before feeling her way along the cold stone walls toward the door.

There was a sign fixed on the door but she could not decipher it. She saw, to her curiosity, a ring of herbs hanging from the door almost obliterated in their coating of snow.

She found the iron handle, twisted it and pushed. The door remained shut. She frowned in annoyance. It was the law that a brugh-fer, an innkeeper, had to keep the door of his inn open at all times, day and night and in all weathers. She tried again.

The wind was easing a little now and its petulant crying had died away to a soft whispering moan.

Irritated, Fidelma raised a clenched fist and hammered at the door.

Did she hear a cry of alarm or was it simply the wailing wind?

There was no other answer.

She hammered more angrily this time.

Then she did hear a noise. A footstep and then a harsh male cry.

“God and his saints stand between us and all that is evil! Begone foul spirit!”

Fidelma was thunderstruck for a moment. Then she thrust out her jaw.

“Open, innkeeper; open to a dálaigh of the courts; open to a Sister of the Abbey of Kildare! In the name of charity, open to a refugee from the storm!”

There was a moment of silence. Then she thought she heard voices raised in argument. She hammered again.

There came the sound of bolts being drawn and the door swung inward. A blast of warm air enveloped Fidelma and she pushed hurriedly into the room beyond, shaking the snow from her woollen cloak.

“What manner of hostel is this that ignores the laws of the Bre-hons?” she demanded, turning to the figure that was now closing the wooden door behind her.

The man was tall and thin. A gaunt, pallid figure of middle age, his temples greying. He was poorly attired and his height was offset by a permanent stoop. But it was not that which caused Fidelma’s eyes to widen a fraction. It was the horror on the man’s face; not a momentary expression of horror but a graven expression that was set deep and permanently into his cadaverous features. Tragedy and grief stalked across the lines of his face.

“I have a horse tethered outside. The poor beast will freeze to death if not attended,” Fidelma snapped, when the man did not answer her question but simply stood staring at her.

“Who are you?” demanded a shrill woman’s voice behind her.

Fidelma swung round. The woman who stood there had once been handsome; now age was causing her features to run with surplus flesh, and lines marked her face. Her eyes stared, black and apparently without pupils, at Fidelma. The religieuse had the impression that here was a woman in whom, at some awesome moment in her life, the pulsating blood of life had frozen and never regained its regular ebb and flow. What surprised her more was that the woman held before her a tall ornate crucifix. She held it as if it were some protective icon against the terror that afflicted her.

She and the man were well matched.

“Speak! What manner of person are you?”

Fidelma sniffed in annoyance.

“If you are the keepers of this inn, all you should know is that I am a weary traveler in these mountains, driven to seek refuge from the blizzard.”

The woman was not cowed by her haughty tone.

“It is not all we need to know,” she corrected just as firmly. “Tell us whether you mean us harm or not.”

Fidelma was surprised.

“I came here to shelter from the storm, that is all. I am Fidelma of Kildare,” replied the religieuse in annoyance. “Moreover, I am a dálaigh of the courts, qualified to the level of Anruth and sister to Colgú, of this Tanist kingdom.”

The grandiloquence of her reply was an indication of the annoyance Fidelma felt, for normally she was not one given to stating more than was necessary. She had never felt the need to mention that her brother, Colgú, was heir apparent to the kingdom of Cashel before. However, she felt that she needed to stir these people out of their curious mood.

As she spoke she swung off her woollen cloak, displaying her habit, and noticed that the woman’s eyes fell upon the ornately worked crucifix which hung from her neck. Was there some expression of reassurance in those cold expressionless eyes?

The woman put down her cross and gave a bob of her head.

“Forgive us, Sister. I am Monchae, wife to Belach, the innkeeper.”

Belach seemed to be hesitating at the door.

“Shall I see to the horse?” he asked hesitantly.

“Unless you want it to freeze to death,” snapped Fidelma, making her way to a large open fire in which sods of turf were singing as they caused a warmth to envelop the room. From the corner of her eye she saw Belach hesitate a moment longer and then, swinging a cloak around his shoulders, he took from behind the door a sword and went out into the blizzard.

Fidelma was astonished. She had never seen a ostler take a sword to assist him in putting a horse to stable before.

Monchae was pushing the iron handle on which hung a cauldron across the glowing turf fire.

“What place is this?” demanded Fidelma as she chose a chair in which to stretch out before the warmth of the fire. The room was low-beamed and comfortable but devoid of decorations apart from a tall statuette of the Madonna and Child, executed in some form of painted plaster-a gaudy, alabaster figurine. It dominated as the center display at the end of a large table where, presumably, guests dined.

“This is Brugh-na-Bhelach. You have just come off the shoulder of the mountain known as Fionn’s Seat. The River Tua is but a mile to the north of here. We do not have many travelers this way in winter. Which direction are you heading?”

“North to Cashel,” replied Fidelma.

Monchae ladled a cup of steaming liquid from the cauldron over the fire and handed it to her. Although the liquid must have been warming the vessel, Fidelma could not feel it as she cupped her frozen hands around it and let the steaming vapor assail her nostrils. It smelled good. She sipped slowly at it, her sense of taste confirming what her sense of smell had told her.

She glanced up at the woman.

“Tell me, Monchae, why was the door of this hostel barred? Why did I have to beg to be admitted? Do you and your husband, Belach, know the law of hostel-keepers?”

Monchae pressed her lips together.

“Will you report us to the bó-aire of the territory?”

The bó-aire was the local magistrate.

“I am more concerned with hearing your reasons,” replied Fi-delma. “Someone might have perished from the cold before you and your husband, Belach, opened your door.”

The woman looked agitated, chewing her lips as if she would draw blood from it.

The door opened abruptly with a wild gust of cold air, sending snowflakes swirling across the room and a stream of icy air enveloping them.

Belach stood poised a moment in its frame, a ghastly look upon his pale features and then with a sound which resembled a soft moan, he entered and barred the door behind him. He still carried the sword as a weapon.

Fidelma watched him with curiosity as he threw the bolts.

Monchae stood, both hands raised to her cheeks.

Belach turned from the door and his lips were trembling.

“I heard it!” he muttered, his eyes darting from his wife to Fi-delma, as though he did not want her to hear. “I heard it!”

“Oh Mary, Mother of God, save us!” cried the woman, swaying as if she would faint.

“What does this mean?” Fidelma demanded as sternly as she could.

Belach turned, pleading, to her.

“I was in the barn, bedding down your horse, Sister, and I heard it.”

“But what?” cried Fidelma, trying to keep her patience.

“The spirit of Mugrán,” wailed Monchae suddenly, giving way to a fit of sobbing. “Save us, Sister. For the pity of Christ! Save us!”

Fidelma rose and went to the woman, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and leading her to the fire. She could see that her husband, Belach, was too nervous to attend to the wants of his wife and so she went to a jug, assessed its contents as corma, a spirit distilled from barley, and poured a little into a cup. She handed it to the woman and told her to drink.

“Now what is all this about? I cannot help you unless you tell me.

Monchae looked at Belach, as if seeking permission, and he nodded slowly in response.

“Tell her from the beginning,” he muttered.

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the woman.

“A good place to start,” she joked lightly. But there was no humorous response on the features of the innkeeper’s wife.

Fidelma seated herself before Monchae and faced her expectantly.

Monchae paused a moment and then began to speak, hesitantly at first and then more quickly as she gained confidence in the story.

“I was a young girl when I came to this place. I came as a young bride to the brugh-fer, the innkeeper, who was then a man named Mugrán. You see,” she added hurriedly, “Belach is my second husband.”

She paused but when Fidelma made no comment, she went on.

“Mugrán was a good man. But often given to wild fantasies. He was a good man for the music, an excellent piper. Often he entertained here in this very room and people would come far and wide to hear him. But he was a restless soul. I found that I was doing all the work of running the inn while he pursued his dreams. Mu-grán’s younger brother, Cano, used to help me but he was much influenced by his brother.

“Six years ago our local chieftain lit the crois-tara, the fiery cross, and sent his rider from village to village, raising the clans to send a band of fighting men to fight Guaire of Connacht in the service of Cathal Cú cen máthair of Cashel. Mugrán one morning announced he and young Cano were leaving to join that band of warriors. When I protested, he said that I should not fear for my security. He had placed in the inn an inheritance which would keep me from want. If anything happened to him, I would not be lacking for anything. With that, he and Cano just rose and left.”

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.

“There were no human tracks, I tell you,” Belach said, irritable.

“The snow was smooth. But there was one thing“

“Tell me.”

“The snow seemed to shine with a curious luminosity, sparkling in an uncanny light.”

“But you saw no footprints nor signs of anyone?”

“No.”

The woman was sobbing now.

“It is true, it is true, Sister. The ghost of Mugrán will soon come for us. Our remaining time on earth is short.”

Fidelma sat back and closed her eyes a moment in deep thought.

“Only the Living God can decide what is your allotted span of life,” she said in almost absentminded reproof.

Monchae and Belach stood watching her in uncertainty as Fi-delma stretched before the fire.

“Well,” she said at last, “while I am here, I shall need a meal and a bed for the night.”

Belach inclined his head.

“That you may have, Sister, and most welcome. But if you will say a prayer to Our Lady…? Let this haunting cease. She needs not the deaths of Monchae and myself to prove that she is the blessed Mother of Christ.”

Fidelma sniffed in irritation.

“I would not readily blame the ills of the world on the Holy Family,” she said stiffly. But, seeing their frightened faces, she relented in her theology. “I will say a prayer to Our Lady. Now bring me some food.”

Something awoke Fidelma. She lay with her heart beating fast, her body tense. The sound had seemed part of her dream. The drop-ping of a heavy object. Now she lay trying to identify it. The storm had apparently abated, since she had fallen asleep in the small chamber to which Monchae had shown her after her meal. There was a silence beyond the shuttered windows. An eerie stillness. She did not make a further move but lay, listening intently.

There came to her ears a creaking sound. The inn was full of the creaks and moans of its aging timbers. Perhaps it had been a dream? She was about to turn over when she heard a noise. She frowned, not being able to identify it. Ah, there it was again. A soft thump.

She eased herself out of her warm bed, shivering in the cold night. It had to be well after midnight. Reaching for her heavy robe, she draped it over her shoulders and moved stealthily toward the door, opening it as quietly as she could and pausing to listen.

The sound had come from downstairs.

She knew that she was alone in the inn with Monchae and Be-lach and they had retired when she had, their room being at the top of the stairs. She glanced toward it and saw the door firmly shut.

She walked with quiet padding feet, imitating the soft walk of a cat, along the wooden boards to the head of the stairs and peered down into the darkness.

The sound made her freeze a moment. It was a curious sound, like something soft but weighty being dragged over the bare boards.

She paused staring down the well of the stairs, into the main room of the inn where the eerie red glow of the dying embers of the fire cast a red, shadowy glow. Shadows chased one another in the gloom. Fidelma bit her lip and shivered. She wished that she had a candle to light her way. Slowly, she began to descend the stairs.

She was halfway down when her bare foot came into contact with a board that was loose. It gave forth a heavy creak which sounded like a thunderclap in the night.

Fidelma froze.

A split second later she could hear a scuffling noise in the darkness of the room below and then she was hastening down the rest of the stairs into the gloom-shrouded room.

“If anyone is here, identify yourself in the name of Christ!” she called, making her voice as stern as she could and trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart.

There was a distant thud and then silence.

She peered around the deserted room of the inn, eyes darting here and there as the red shadows danced across the walls. She could see nothing.

Then… there was a sound behind her.

She whirled round.

Belach stood with ghastly face on the bottom stair. His wife, Monchae, stood, peering fearfully over his shoulder.

“You heard it, too?” he whispered nervously.

“I heard it,” confirmed Fidelma.

“God look down on us,” sighed the man.

Fidelma made an impatient gesture.

“Light a candle, Belach, and we will search this place.”

The innkeeper shrugged.

“There is no purpose, Sister. We have heard such noises before and made a search. Nothing is ever found.”

“Indeed,” echoed his wife, “why search for temporal signs from a specter?”

Fidelma set her jaw grimly.

“Why would a specter make noises?” she replied. “Only something with a corporeal existence makes a noise. Now give me a light.”

Reluctantly, Belach lit a lamp. The innkeeper and his wife stood by the bottom of the stair as Fidelma began a careful search of the inn. She had barely begun when Monchae gave a sudden shriek and fell forward onto the floor.

Fidelma hurried quickly to her side. Belach was patting her hands in a feeble attempt to revive her senses.

“She’s fainted,” muttered the man unnecessarily.

“Get some water,” instructed Fidelma and when the water had been splashed against the woman’s forehead and some of it nursed between her lips, Monchae blinked and opened her eyes.

“What was it?” snapped Fidelma. “What made you faint?”

Monchae stared at her a moment or two, her face pale, her teeth chattering.

“The pipes!” she stammered. “The pipes!”

“I heard no pipes,” Fidelma replied.

“No. Mugrán’s pipes… on the table!”

Leaving Belach to help Monchae to her feet, Fidelma turned, holding her candle high, and beheld a set of pipes laying on the table. There was nothing remarkable about them. Fidelma had seen many of better quality and workmanship.

“What are you telling me?” she asked, as Monchae was led forward by Belach, still trembling.

“These are Murgán’s pipes. The pipes he took away with him to war. It must be true. His ghost has returned. Oh, saints protect us!”

She clung desperately to her husband.

Fidelma reached forward to examine them pipes.

They seemed entirely of this world. They were of the variety called cetharchóire, meaning four-tuned, with a chanter, two shorter reed-drones and a long drone. A simple pipe to be found in almost any household in Ireland. She pressed her lips tightly, realizing that when they had all retired for the night there had been no sign of any pipes on the table.

“How are you sure that these are the pipes of Murgán?” she asked.

“I know them!” The woman was vehement. “How do you know

what garment belongs to you, or what knife? You know its weave,

its stains, its markings“

She began to sob hysterically.

Fidelma ordered Belach to take the woman back to her bed.

“Have a care, Sister,” the man muttered, as he led his wife away. “We are surely dealing with evil powers here.”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“I am a representative of a greater power, Belach. Everything that happens can only occur under His will.”

After they had gone, she stood staring at the pipes for a while and finally gave up the conundrum with a sigh. She left them on the table and climbed the stairs back to her own bed, thankful it was still warm for she realized, for the first time, that her feet and legs were freezing. The night was truly chill.

She lay for a while thinking about the mystery which she had found here in this desolate mountain spot and wondering if there was some supernatural solution to it. Fidelma acknowledged that there were powers of darkness. Indeed, one would be a fool to believe in God and to refuse to believe in the Devil. If there was good, then there was, undoubtedly, evil. But, in her experience, evil tended to be a human condition.

She had fallen asleep. It could not have been for long. It was still dark when she started awake.

It took a moment or two for her to realize what it was that had aroused her for the second time that night.

Far off she could hear pipes playing. It was a sweet, gentle sound. The sound of the sleep producing súan-traige, the beautiful, sorrowing lullaby.

“Codail re suanán saine…” — Sleep with pleasant slumber…

Fidelma knew the tune well for many a time had she been lulled into drowsiness as a child by its sweet melody.

She sat up abruptly and swung out of bed. The music was real. It was outside the inn. She went to the shuttered window and cautiously eased it open a crack.

Outside the snow lay like a crisp white carpet across the surrounding hills and mountains. The sky was still shrouded with heavy grey-white snow clouds. Even so, the nightscape was light, in spite of the fact that the moon was only a soft glow hung with ice crystals that produced a halo around its orb. One could see for miles. The atmosphere was icy chill and still. Vapor from her breath made bursts of short-lived clouds in the air before her.

It was then that her heart began to hammer as if a mad drummer were beating a warning to wake the dead.

She stood stock still.

About a hundred yards from the inn was a small round knoll. On the knoll stood the figure of a lonely piper and he was playing the sweet lullaby that woke her. But the thing that caused her to feel dizzy with awe and apprehension was that the figure shimmered as if a curious light emanated from him, sparkling like little stars against the brightness of the reflecting snow.

She stood still watching. Then the melody trailed off and the figure turned its head in the direction of the inn. It gave vent to an awesome, pitiful cry.

“I am alone! I am alone! Monchae! Why did you desert me? I am alone! I will come for you soon!”

Perhaps it was the cry that stirred Fidelma into action.

She turned, grabbed her leather shoes and seized her cloak, and hurried down the stairs into the gloomy interior of the main room of the inn. She heard Belach’s cry on the stair behind her.

“Don’t go out, Sister! It is evil! It is the shade of Murgán!”

She paid no heed. She threw open the bolts of the door and went plunging into the icy stillness of the night. She ran through the deep snows, feeling its coldness against her bare legs, up toward the knoll. But long before she reached it, she realized that the figure had disappeared.

She reached the knoll and paused. There was no one in sight. The nocturnal piper had vanished. She drew her cloak closer around her shoulders and shivered. But it was the night chill rather than the idea of the specter that caused her to tremble.

Catching her breath against the icy air, she looked down. There were no footprints. But the snow, on careful inspection, did not lie in pristine condition across the knoll. Its surface was rough, ruffled as if a wind had blown across it. It was then she noticed the curious reflective quality of it, here and there. She bent forward and scooped a handful of snow in her palm and examined it. It seemed to twinkle and reflect as she held it.

Fidelma gave a long, deep sigh. She turned and retraced her steps back to the inn.

Belach was waiting anxiously by the door. She noticed that he now held the sword in his hand.

She grinned mischievously.

“If it were a spirit, that would be of little assistance,” she observed dryly.

Belach said nothing, but he looked and bolted the door behind Fidelma as she came into the room. He replaced the sword without comment as she went to the fire the warm herself after her exertion into the night.

Monchae was standing on the bottom step, her arms folded across her breast, moaning a little.

Fidelma went in search of the jug of corma and poured out some of the spirit. She swallowed some and then took a wooden cup to Monchae and told her to drink it.

“You heard it? You saw it?” the wife of the innkeeper wailed.

Fidelma nodded.

Belach bit his lip. “It is the ghost of Murgán. We are doomed.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Fidelma.

“Then explain that!” replied Belach, pointing to the table.

There was nothing on the table. It was then Fidelma realized what was missing. She had left the pipes on the table when she had returned to bed.

“It is two hours or so until sunrise,” Fidelma said slowly. “I want you two to return to bed. There is something here which I must deal with. Whatever occurs, I do not wish either of you to stir from your room unless I specifically call you.”

Belach stared at her with white, taut features.

“You mean that you will do battle with this evil force?”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“That is what I mean,” she said emphatically.

Reluctantly, Belach helped Monchae back up the stairs, leaving Fidelma standing in the darkness. She stood still, thinking, for a while. She had an instinct that whatever was happening in this troubled isolated inn, it was building toward its climax. Perhaps that climax would come before sunrise. There was no logic to the idea but Fidelma had long come to the belief that one should not ignore one’s instincts.

She turned and made her way toward a darkened alcove at the far end of the room in which only a deep wooden bench was situated. She tightened her cloak against the chill, seated herself and prepared to wait. Wait for what, she did not know. But she believed that she would not have to wait for long before some other manifestation occurred.

It was a short time before she heard the sounds of the pipe once more.

The sweet, melodious lullaby was gone. The pipes were now wild keening. It was the hair-raising lament of the gol-traige, full of pain, sorrow and longing.

Fidelma held her head to one side.

The music was no longer outside the old inn but seeming to echo from within, seeping up under the floorboards, through the walls and down from the rafters.

She shivered but made no move to go in search of the sound, praying all the while that neither Monchae nor Belach would disobey her instructions and leave their room.

She waited until the tune came to an end.

There was a silence in the old building.

Then she heard the sound, the sound she had heard on her first waking. It was a soft, dragging sound. Her body tensed as she bent forward in the alcove; her eyes narrowed as she tried to focus into the darkness.

A figure seemed to be rising from the floor, upward, slowly upward on the far side of the room.

Fidelma held her breath.

The figure, reaching its full height, appeared to be clutching a set of pipes beneath its arms. It moved toward the table in a curious limping gait.

Fidelma noticed that now and again, as the light of the glowing embers in the hearth caught it, the figure’s cloak sparkled and danced with a myriad pinpricks of fire.

Fidelma rose to her feet.

“The charade is over!” she cried harshly.

The figure dropped the pipes and wheeled around, seeking to identify the speaker. Then it seemed to catch its breath.

“Is that you, Monchae?” came a sibilant, mocking whisper.

Then, before Fidelma could prepare herself, the figure seemed the fly across the room at her. She caught sight of light flashing on an upraised blade and instinct made her react by grasping at the descending arm with both hands, twisting her body to take the weight of the impact.

The figure grunted angrily as the surprise of the attack failed.

The collision of their bodies threw Fidelma back into the alcove, slamming her against the wooden seat. She grunted in pain. The figure had shaken her grip loose and once more the knife hand was descending.

“You should have fled while you had the chance, Monchae,” came the masculine growl. “I had no wish to harm you or the old man. I just wanted to get you out of this inn. Now, you must die!”

Fidelma sprang aside once more, feverishly searching for some weapon, some means of defense.

Her flailing hand knocked against something. She dimly recognized it as the alabaster figure of the Madonna and Child. Automatically, her fingers closed on it and she swung it up like a club. She struck the figure where she thought the side of the head would be.

She was surprised at the shock of the impact. The alabaster seemed to shatter into pieces, as she would have expected from a plaster statuette, but its impact seemed firm and weighty, causing a vibration in her hand and arm. The sound was that of a sickening smack of flesh meeting a hard substance.

The figure grunted, a curious sound as the air was sharply expelled from his lungs. Then he dropped to the floor. She heard the sound of metal ringing on the floor planks as the knife dropped and bounced.

Fidelma stood for a moment or two, shoulders heaving as she sought to recover her breath and control her pounding emotions.

Slowly she walked to the foot of the stairs and called up in a firm voice.

“You can come down now. I have laid your ghost!”

She turned, stumbling a little in the darkness, until she found a candle and lit it. Then she went back to the figure of her erstwhile assailant. He lay on his side, hands outstretched. He was a young man. She gave a soft intake of breath when she saw the ugly wound on his temple. She reached forward and felt for a pulse. There was none.

She looked round curiously. The impact of a plaster statuette could not have caused such a death blow.

Fragments and powdered plaster were scattered in a large area. But there, lying in the debris, was a long cylindrical tube of sacking. It was no more than a foot high and perhaps one inch in diameter. Fidelma bent and picked it up. It was heavy. She sighed and replaced it where she had found it.

Monchae and Belach were creeping down the stairs now.

“Belach, have you a lantern?” asked Fidelma as she stood up.

“Yes. What is it?” demanded the innkeeper.

“Light it, if you please. I think we have solved your haunting.”

As she spoke she turned and walked across the floor to the spot where she had seen the figure rise, as if from the floor. There was a trapdoor and beneath it some steps which led into a tunnel.

Belach had lit the lamp.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

“Your ghost was simply a man,” Fidelma explained.

Monchae let out a moan.

“You mean it is Murgán? He was not killed at Loch Derg?”

Fidelma perched herself on the edge of the table and shook her head. She stooped to pick up the pipes where the figure had dropped them onto the table.

“No; it was someone who looked and sounded a little like Murgán as you knew him. Take a look at his face, Monchae. I think you will recognize Cano, Murgán’s younger brother.”

A gasp of astonishment from the woman confirmed Fidelma’s identification.

“But why, what…?”

“A sad but simple tale. Cano was not killed as reported at Loch Derg. He was probably badly wounded and returned to this land with a limp. I presume that he did not have a limp when he went away?”

“He did not,” Monchae confirmed.

“Murgán was dead. He took Murgán’s pipes. Why he took so long to get back here, we shall never know. Perhaps he did not need money until now, or perhaps the idea never occurred to him….”

“I don’t understand,” Monchae said, collapsing into a chair by the table.

“Cano remembered that Murgán had some money. A lot of money he had saved. Murgán told you that if he lost his life, then there was money in the inn and you would never want for anything. Isn’t that right?”

Monchae made an affirmative gesture.

“But as I told you, it was just Murgán’s fantasy. We searched the inn everywhere and could find no sign of any money. Anyway, my man, Belach, and I are content with things as they are.”

Fidelma smiled softly.

“Perhaps it was when Cano realized that you had not found his brother’s hoard that he made up his mind to find it himself.”

“But it isn’t here,” protested Belach, coming to the support of his wife.

“But it was” insisted Fidelma. “Cano knew it. But he didn’t know where. He needed time to search. How could he get you away from the inn sufficiently long to search? That was when he conceived a convoluted idea to drive you out by pretending to be the ghost of his brother. He had his brother’s pipes and could play the same tunes his brother had played. His appearance and his voice made him pass for the person you once knew, Monchae, but, of course, only at a distance with muffled voice. He began to haunt you.”

“What of the shimmering effect?” demanded Belach. “How could he produce such an effect?”

“I have seen a yellow claylike substance that gives off that curious luminosity,” Fidelma assured them. “It can be scooped from the walls of the caves west of here. It is called mearnáil, a phosphorus, a substance that glows in the gloom. If you examine Cano’s cloak you will see that he has smeared it in this yellowing clay.”

“But he left no footprints,” protested Belach. “He left no footprints in the snow.”

“But he did leave some tell-tale sign,” Fidelma pointed out. “You see, he took the branch of a bush and, as he walked backward away from the knoll, he swept away his footprints. But while it does disguise the footprints, one can still see the ruffled surface of the snow where the bush has swept over its top layer. It is an old trick, taught to warriors, to hide their tracks from their enemies.”

“But surely he could not survive in the cold outside all these nights?” Monchae said. It was the sort of aspect which would strike a woman’s precise and practical logic.

“He did not. He slept in the inn, or at least in the stable. Once or twice he tried to search the inn while you lay asleep. Hence the bumps and sounds that sometimes awakened you. But he knew, however, that he could only search properly if he could move you out.”

“He was here with us in the inn?” Belach was aghast.

Fidelma nodded to the open trapdoor in the floor.

“It seemed that he knew more of the secret passages of the inn than either of you. After all, Cano was brought up in this inn.”

There was a silence.

Monchae gave a low sigh.

“All that and there was no treasure. Poor Cano. He was not really evil. Did you have to kill him, Sister?”

Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment.

“Everything is in God’s hands,” she said in resignation. “In my struggle, I seized the statuette of Our Lady and struck out at Cano. It caught him on the table and fragmented.”

“But it was only alabaster¹. It would not have killed him, surely?”

“It was what was inside that killed him. The very thing that he was looking for. It lies there on the floor.”

“What is it?” whispered Monchae, when Belach reached down to pick up the cylindrical object in sackcloth.

“It is a roll of coins. It is Murgán’s treasure. It acted as a bar of metal to the head of Cano and killed him. Our Lady had been protecting the treasure all these years and, in the final analysis, Our Lady meted out death to him that was not rightful heir to that treasure.”

Fidelma suddenly saw the light creeping in through the shutters of the inn.

“And now day is breaking. I need to break my fast and be on my way to Cashel. I’ll leave a note for your bo-dire explaining matters. But I have urgent business in Cashel. If he wants me, I shall be there.”

Monchae stood regarding the shattered pieces of the statuette. “I will have a new statuette of Our Lady made,” she said softly.

“You can afford it now,” replied Fidelma solemnly.