The Wailing Storm

It was on a cold winter night, with the air so stifling, and the stars so distant—

That a pitiful, lost soul wandered where it shouldn’t. Yet maleficence came not from the person’s drifting steps, nor due to the moonlight that shone its uncaring glow.

But from words that, though innocuous, alas, were ill-spoken.

‘Thou speak of Death with such a nonchalant demeanor, thy kin could mistake thee for one who met Death thyself.’

Would fate have been different were such words never spoken? Would a curse so masterfully crafted, so carefully planned, be discarded with no second thought had those wandering steps chosen a different path?

‘Fear no more, o woeful creature. For thy transgressions shall all be forsaken and forgotten. For thou shalt know Death as never before.’

No one can know—perhaps no one ever will. Yet had things been different or not, one verity shall remain immutable.

The fact that Fate—

Would not be kind.

***

Within the warm room, windows rattled due to the downpour. And the lit candles, though many and spread out, could do little to brighten the shadows waiting outside.

“Dear me, Mr. Conroy, you have a corpse’s touch! Come—sit closer to the fire.”

The tall and slender figure was reluctant to step inside. Nevertheless, his feet guided him inside—the man’s body still aching and seeking warmth.

“Given tonight’s skies, is no wonder you lost your way. Ah, this poor soul… Fergus, dear, go fetch the man some cider,” the woman spoke, her eyes meeting the young boy who was still tending to the fireplace.

The boy glanced toward the man, his eyes apparently unsettled by whatever they saw, before answering his mother with a short nod. Before the boy could leave the room, however, the man reached out to his hand.

“Bring something stronger. Please.”

His words were less than whispers, yet within them carried storms far more violent than the one outside. Winds and thunders that did not express anger, but a man’s dread and horror.

If the boy hadn’t been scared before, he was then. And as the boy rushed out of the room, the woman adjusted her dress and sat on the chair, her light eyes glistering with warm light.

“Now pray tell, Mr. Conroy—“

“Eoghan is my name, madam.”

“Oh yes, yes! I heard from your uncle you came back for the funeral, no?”

Eoghan clenched his fists, giving a curt nod.

“Such a long distance to travel by yourself—even for a big man like yourself.” The woman leaned closer, taking his hands in hers as a kind smile spread across her face. “Feel free to spend the night, till this downpour has passed. My husband should be here soon with the meat—you like ducks, yes?”

He nodded.

“You are far too kind, madam.”

She dismissed him with her hand. “Nonsense! How could anyone leave you be, with such weather outside? It’s a wonder how only your cloak is drenched.”

Eoghan wondered if they could hear it.

The wails.

The moaning.

In his mind, he had asked the woman one time. Yet whether they could or not, it didn’t matter. The reason he had chosen to go down this path once again was but one. The answer he sought an answer to was simply one.

“…forgive me my bluntness, madam, yet would you happen to know the tale of the Star-eyed Unseelie?”

She let go of his hands as they were covered in burning coal, all warmth disappearing from her face.

“Forgive you I shall, Eoghan Conroy, yet I hope you will bring no more ill-will toward my home.”

The young Conroy leaned closer, unable to conceal the shaking in his words. “Please, madam. You cannot fathom the graveness of my situati—this is of utmost importance to myself.”

When the woman started to stand up, he grabbed her by the hand, locking eyes with the older woman. Wondering how much of his despair she was able to see in his eyes, reflected by the weak, candlelights.

“I swear on my life and those of my unborn children, once I’ve heard what I must, I shall walk out of that door and bother your family no more. But please…please, answer me truthfully. I know you are familiar with the tales.

Young Fergus came back right then, carrying a bottle of whiskey. Unlike his mother’s fiery, red hair, the boy’s was a rich brown, which gave a gentle and beautiful contrast to his clear green eyes. And as he placed the bottle and the glass carefully on the small table between them, the woman’s gaze pierced Eoghan even deeper.

The sheer fear in her eyes being but a hollow echo of what resonated within his heart.

“Sweetie, go to your room. Don’t leave until I tell you to.”

The boy gave a reluctant side glance to Eoghan, twirling his fingers at an anxious, nervous pace.

“But ma, you shouldn’t—”

“I won’t repeat myself, Fergus. Go.” Her voice was imperative, final—a lightning tearing down the raging sky. And in less than a blink, the boy was gone, his steps fading as he rushed away from the room.

The woman opened the bottle, pouring some in the glass until it was half full. She gave him the glass.

She took the bottle.

Eoghan Conroy took the drink to his lips with shaken, cold fingers. And it was not until he felt the alcohol burning and settling in his empty stomach that he finally felt an ounce of warmth spreading from within. The woman, however, gave more than a few good sips. And unlike him, as she put the bottle back on the table, her hands were as steady as a leaf hanging from a branch.

One strong blow, and it would fall.

“…May the Lord be merciful to my soul, for what I’m about to share, I only do so for I can see them foul shadows in your eyes.” Her words were low, solemn. It made the air stand still, weighing with trepidation as the woman hesitated to speak further. “So you better swear with your life and soul, young man, none of it will leave this room. And once you hear what you wanted, you leave without sparing a glance back.”

His hands grabbed the glass tighter, his lips trembling as he found his voice again.

“You have my word.”

She took a deep breath. Then, she took a few more sips of whiskey. And when she started speaking again, Eoghan knew deep down in his bones they were not alone in the room anymore. Something was listening.

The time was coming.

“This is an old tale, so old I cannot understand how you came aware of it. The legend of a powerful dark fae who many said was in close courtship with death.”

As the entire room was illuminated by lightning, thunder echoed through the skies not a heartbeat later. Yet the storm outside did not frighten him. Not anymore.

“At times, they would appear as the most beautiful woman bathing on a lake or asking for aid, with lustrous hair that shamed the blackest of ravens. At others, they could be a man dressed in old and patched robes, asking for alms. Yet regardless of what shape they took, the eyes would never change. Eyes shaped like the night itself, shining with the light of a thousand stars.”

The wails, they were stronger. Louder. Even more chilling, even more impending. While the moans and cries that continued to run across the night, those were fading.

“Whether the sun or moon would shine in the sky, whoever men were unfortunate to cross paths with them—to have an encounter, no matter how brief, shared the same fate. One as woeful as the glow in their eyes. And once those eyes landed on yours, there would be no escape and nowhere to run. For they would find you, always.”

Eoghan closed his eyes shut, shivers crawling and digging into his skin as the wind made the windows rattle, and the currents made the candlelights tremble.

He drank the rest of the whiskey in one go, tears burning in his eyes.

“Their name. You know their true name, don’t you?”

The woman’s gaze pierced him like blazing knives and venom—a silent, terrified warning. One Eoghan could not heed.

He stood up and grabbed the woman by both her arms, his words tearing his throat as they clawed their way up.

“Their name! TELL ME, NOW!

It was a whisper. One so faint, it could barely be heard amidst the raging storm outside.

“Mórbhach…”

And as the word was spoken, the wails stopped.

Not only the wails, but all sounds and movements.

No more rattling windows, no more trembling flames, no more passing breezes.

Still, even with no sounds, Eoghan sensed it.

Felt it.

“…what have you done…?” the woman whispered to him, a tear running down her face.

And before he could answer, something crashed at the wall—wood and glass exploding from all sides as the raging, fearful storm found its way inside at last. Eoghan started to cry.

The woman did not scream at the sight of the creature.

She screamed at the sight of her husband’s head.

Soon her screaming stopped, as the axe flew and sank deep into her throat. And by each step the creature took, the heavy boots clinking, Eoghan braced himself amidst tears. He tried to avoid raising his gaze, he wanted to avert his eyes. Yet the overwhelming shadow who towered over him did not share the fire’s warmth, nor the moon’s cold distance.

It called for his name, and he was obliged to listen.

To answer.

And when he raised his gaze, once again he saw. Taller than any man, stronger than any beast. A creature who wore the shadows of a knight, who wielded the sword better than any warrior, who rode faster than the wind.

A horseman dressed in black.

The headless creature who answered to Death’s whims.

“P-please…not again…”

Once again, his pleas were ignored. And as the blade cut through his heart, as life poured out of him, Eoghan Conray saw something standing between the trees. Watching him across the distance.

The figure of a beautiful woman. Smiling. And the voice that reached him, it not only echoed like a tearful song. It not only rang like a lyrical song.

‘Again and again, the Dullahan will come…’

‘As again and again, thy time will stop.’

It reeked of death.