Bruar's Rest

like a red deer and was soon gone onto the moor to wait for the next move.
    ‘You’ve gone stone horn mad, girl,’ O’Connor told her. ‘What stupid idiot takes on a monster like that?’
    ‘I have no choice, that beast has sent a fear through me. I have been living a nightmare. Can’t you see? If I don’t face my fear it will never leave me. Dead or alive, he’ll always plague my waking thoughts. Now, give me that gun, I’m not so daft as to match my puny strength against his.’
    Michael immediately forbade her to go after Buckley, saying he and the men would go instead.
    ‘I know the moor bogs,’ she replied. ‘While you pottered with your horses and ran that blasted war of yours, I spent days marking causeways through them. That will be my advantage over Buckley.’
    Then, before they could stop her, with a new-found power and speed she ran after her demon.
    As the mist swallowed her up, Michael said to his men, ‘I love that mad tinker. God help me for it, but I have to follow her. You lads are free to make up your own minds about the risk.’
    ‘Aye, I love her too, an’ for different reasons, so I’m coming. Any road, she’s too good to fall at the hands of a fiend that kills old wimmin,’ said O’Connor.
    Mrs Sullivan watched as they chased after Megan, and were swallowed up by the thick mist covering the land.
    Treading softly through the bog on strips of firmer ground, where nothing but the creatures that live in that godforsaken place know the way, she soon found what she was looking for—the heavy, unmistakable footprints of her prey. The men behind her were calling out to each other in the mist; one minute they were within touching distance, the next, far off. If they found him first she was certain they’d shoot him. She kept her eyes on the oozy earth, following the deep-sunken prints until they disappeared. Underfoot, the heather wove a thick carpet and there was no clear track forward, so she waited. There in the damp mist she found her rock seat, almost hidden by bracken and rye grass, and sat stealthily down. It wouldn’t take long; she knew he’d back-track. A moment later, she also knew her prey was inches away as hot breath touched her neck.
    ‘Show yourself, Bull. You’re not frightened of a little tinker mouse are you?’
    ‘You be a good girl and throw away the gun, and make me feel a mite luckier.’
    Before she could answer, fingers wound around her arm and whirled her to face him. Once again the devil stared into the depth of her soul, red hair covering one eye, grinning.
    This time, though, the veil of terror that so long shrouded her had lifted.
    ‘Not as easy to kill as Moses Durin or a helpless hedgehog,’ she told him, ‘am I?’
    ‘Or old Mamma Foy,’ he laughed. ‘Honest, though, I have to thank you. I’ve never had such fun since you shopped me to the muskries. All those killings, and here I am seeing a bit of old Ireland. It’s a power of joy you are to me but,’ he threw a quick glance at the gun held tightly in her hand, ‘that puts anger in my head, and you know what I do when I’m angry.’
    ‘Surely a wee gun isn’t turning Bully scared?’ She goaded him and waited for his familiar response.
    Tossing back his head he snarled like a dog and growled into the shroud of mist, ‘Give me that gun!’
    ‘Oh, does Mr Pussy want this?’ She dangled it inches from his leering eyes, then threw it behind him.
    It thudded onto tufts of rye-grass and lay awkwardly, with the barrel facing upwards.
    ‘There’s the weapon, take it from the marsh if you dare!’
    ‘It’s not to harm you, my pretty little mouse; that weapon will rid me of those idiots who think I’m easy meat.’ He turned and stepped towards the gun. His feet landed on soft ground that instantly began to suck him down. ‘What the hell is this!’ he called as he began to sink up to his knees into the marshland. ‘Megan, I will not be beaten—throw me a hand or stick! I won’t hurt you, surely that is clear. I’m really in love with you! Help me out and together we’ll rule this place.’ The bog sucked and inch by inch he went down. His chest heaved as he sank to his waist. ‘Listen, how would you like me to take my fists onto the Irish scene? We’d be rich; I’m King, never been beat.’
    Down he went, slithering under, now up to his chest. Soon only his head remained above the bog.
    She could hear the others calling, hear the crackle of dead twigs under foot. They