Bruar's Rest

care, a word of worldly wisdom and a few nips of the cratur. Things seemed crystal clear now. She’d no stomach for strong drink, but after downing those three nips the world had a rosy hue to it. In the morning she’d go off to the stud farm and tell Michael everything, but the night was young and the amber liquor plentiful.
    Next morning, as she tried with great difficulty to lift her head from the feather pillow, a thought struck her—why did she have a leaden head and ache like a billy drum?’
    ‘You’ll be better when food and warm tea fill you.’
    ‘I feel sick even at the mention of food, and my skull is bursting at the seams as if it’s full of rocks. If it’s all the same with you, I’ll stay here in this warm bed and nurse a cracker of a sore head.’ Like a tired badger she curled up, head to knees beneath the bed covers.
    There would be no peace for her, though, and as the thump of Mother Foy’s stick came across her back she screamed, ‘Leave me alone, stupid old woman, can’t you see I’m ill? And it was all your doing.’
    ‘It’s many a horse I’ve walked to water, but none I’ve forced to drink, so don’t blame me for the wild state of you. Now get up and see to things.’
    ‘Where is the mercy in your heart? I’m dying here.’
    ‘So I’ll just slide out of bed and bump me arse with full bladder down the snow-covered steps. Then, if I’m not frozen to death I might manage to relieve meself, is that what you’re telling me to do? Anyhow, have you changed your mind about telling Michael? Talk of the devil, here he comes, I see him from my back window.’
    Like a flash Megan was pulling on her skirt and fumbling with buttons, the stones that filled her head ignored. She yanked open a drawer, searching frantically for the hairbrush and thinking, ‘I’ll die for real if he sees the state of me.’
    It must have taken her ten seconds to get dressed, put a quick brush through her curls, and open the wagon door.
    However, there was no one to be seen. She peeked behind and up the side of the wagon, yet if the old woman had seen him, then he certainly wasn’t there now.
    ‘Wait a minute...’ the sudden thought that she’d been tricked entered her aching head. She mused, ‘Ha, ha, I can see how that wizent old dame is known as wise—she tricked me. Still, I must say I feel acres better now that I’m up.’
    In a while she’d lit a fire and filled the kettle with warm water, and after Mother Foy had taken a wash, she helped her outside to toilet, this time avoiding low-hanging branches from the holly trees.
    With breakfast over and the wagon tidied, she decided she would visit Michael and explain her situation. Leaving the old woman comfortable and a kettle on the boil for tea, she set off. Snow had settled, and an icy breeze blew tentacles of mist. ‘This place reminds me of Glen Coe,’ she thought, as the dewy mist found its way down her collar and over her shoulders. She drew them in towards her breastbone. Her fingertips nipped, ‘I could do with a pair of woolly gloves. It’s a small mercy but thanks be for pockets, although this coat is useless,’ she thought. as her cold fingers peeped through holes. ‘I will have to start hawking soon, and see if some benevolent soul will part with a cast-off coat.’
    Here and there small fir trees full of rustling under branches lined the road, a low breeze bringing them to life. From side to side she darted her gaze. Usually walking lonely roads was nothing to her, even the dark seldom ruffled her, but there was an strange feeling of menace that gnawed into her courage. As the way bent through gorse bushes someone moved swiftly across her path. ‘Who’s there?’ she called into the thickening fog. Far off the wind howled like a werewolf lamenting its accursed form. Her steps froze as the body appeared again from the heart of the mist, hovered for a moment, then slipped backwards into the swirl. ‘Is that you Michael? Stephen, is it you?’ Silence followed. Fear grabbed inside her and squeezed her heart. She remembered O’Connor’s tales of sinister beings who practised magic in the boglands of his Irish home.
    There was a storm of silence. Her heart beat like thunder. She stood her ground and waited, then no more than ten feet from her stood a figure, cloaked, face hidden under a black hood. It was a phantom; slowly it lifted its hand, pointed and said, ‘Hell comes soon!’
    Its croaky voice chilled her to the bone,