Bruar's Rest

Her old friend had slept on and off, and happily had encountered no one.
    Stephen popped in to say his hellos and how-are-yous to the old woman before departing. Promises to bring Bridget and Nuala drifted on the wind as he hurried away. Mother Foy answered Megan’s query as to why the Irish folks, with their obvious affection for her, didn’t visit as much as she predicted they would. ‘The part of Ireland where they come from is steeped, not just in superstition, but in the best manners you are ever likely to encounter,’ she said. ‘They’ll not come unless I invite them.’
    ‘But I have invited them, twice.’
    ‘But this is my home, they wait on my invitation, not yours, it’s their way. You have ways of doing things in Scotland, don’t you?’
    ‘Aye, but we can hardly send out invitations for a-coming to the tent. We don’t all live in fine varda wagons. If folks chance by they either get a welcome cuppy or a hard stick. All depends on why they stop.’
    Her comments made the old lady laugh. ‘It’s a tonic you are! Now, how did you manage to hurt that hand? Bridget has done a fine job of rolling it in muslin strips, but if you want it cleaned right, get them off. Tell me now, did you find time to speak with Michael?’
    ‘No, he’s gone off to Ireland, and I know it was because of me. Will he come back?’ She asked un-ravelling the bandages from her hand.
    ‘He has the foal to fetch over, else little Nuala’s parents won’t get a minute’s peace. You haven’t told me how you got such an injury.’ The expert hands of the old woman were busy rubbing a concoction of dried nettles and a vile-smelling paste into the wound that Bridget had cleaned so well with iodine.
    ‘I fell against a rotten fence post in the thick mist. What the hell is that, it stinks like dung?’
    ‘I dunno what dung is; this is Beth’s shite!’
    Megan drew away her hand, but it was already covered in the muck. ‘Let the air dry the thing, keep those bandages on and the wound will stay wet and rot. My stuff will put a hard scab on it. It’ll heal from the bottom up. Now don’t argue with me!’
    She didn’t. It was dark outside; the cloaked figure that had caused her accident began to concern her.
    ‘You seem afar off, is something bothering you?’
    ‘Nothing at all, except...’ she stopped for a moment, wondering if she should tell her about the thing in the cloak.
    ‘Except what, girlie?’
    Just then a low eerie rumble of wind followed by heavy sleet spitting hard against the windows brought back the earlier encounter. ‘What if he decides to come a-creeping round us?’ Megan thought with a shiver. The spooky vision she had seen earlier in the mist ushered in new fears. ‘Strange, that one day a merry dance of passion is followed by another of hidden terror. Better lock up early, just in case, but before I set the wagon for the night, I’ll take my old mate outside to pee.’ Mother Foy would not have this, however.
    ‘No, not even a cat would squat in that weather. Bring in the bucket, the one I fed Beth with; we’ll both use it in the night. Anyway, me warm bed would freeze if left empty for a time. Now what did you start to say earlier?’
    ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve fetched the pail.’
    As she opened the door, the pitch darkness filled with wind and sleet engulfed her like a dance of ghosts around gravestones. ‘God bless me, if this is not the dreichest weather,’ she said, groping for the wagon steps. The bucket was hung on a broken branch of an old tree trunk. Pulling her coat over her head and shoulders, she rushed into the gale and retrieved it. Gripping the pail tightly, she turned and forced her steps back up the wagon stairs. At the top, movement amid the nearby bushes stiffened her. Forgetting the old woman and still shaken by her earlier experience, she screamed out, ‘I swear, bastard, no way will I run from you again.’
    Who was this person? Feelings of vulnerability and a sense of worthlessness battled within her head. If she’d mistakenly imagined someone was watching and trying to put the fear of death in her earlier, then all doubt now vanished as the figure of the cloaked phantom stepped out of the shadows, pointed a finger once more and said, ‘Hell comes, Megan!’
    Fingers closed tightly around the metal handle of the bucket, as the weird words crept inside her ears and chilled her brain. The creature threw something. It landed at her feet, then rolled heavily