Pernicious Patterns

Eoghan Conroy woke up.

This time, there was dirt filling his mouth as he coughed and took, once again, his first breath. Once he clawed his way out from the soiled earth, the man’s eyes wandered around him—hopelessly searching, seeking something he could hold on to.

All they saw were leafless trees and a bleak sky.

Still on the ground, Eoghan crunched dry leaves and fickle sticks in his fists as tears burned his eyes.

Thirty-two deaths…

…out of a hundred thousand.

How was he supposed to endure it? How was a common, ordinary man supposed to remain sane? Whole? Why did he have to suffer to such vile extents only due to a flimsy comment made within the mistaken secrecy of dawn? Words directed at no one but his own wandering thoughts after a long, tiring day.

“…I will break this devilish cycle, foul creature. For I shall not let you nor Death have the final say in my fate.”

Eoghan expected his desperate bravado to be met with silence—the fae’s way to show him scorn and disinterest. Yet the wind whispered back. Wailed. Grinned. Crackled. And though no words were spoken in return, the mortal man knew better than he knew his own shadow, that the dark fae called Mórbhach was watching and listening.

Delighting themselves in his torment.

He took a few deep breaths, no warmth daring to remain in his body for long as he stood up and started to walk. Conroy's best chance—his last hope—was to find the witch. The wise woman who was said to live isolated in the woods, somewhere. Someone who carried so many wicked tales in her steps, most believed her to be a spawn of the devil.

And to Eoghan, it didn’t matter if she was the devil’s lover or evil incarnated—he needed her. He had to break free from that curse.

…but where is she?

In such a small village, the briefest mention of the Blood Huntress Cailleach was enough to send spiteful glances and curses in one’s way. In one of the previous ‘days’, Eoghan was even stabbed in his shoulder for asking too much about the witch. After spending so many years away, he had forgotten most about his ancestors’ folktales and legends. He wanted to.

One funeral.

The only reason he came back, the only reason he stayed as long as he did—a single funeral. One death.

One death that was costing him thousands more.

Eoghan’s hand went into his pocket, only to find it empty.

Oh, I forgot…

The moonshine was not originally his. Since it was a new ‘day’, the flask was with its original owner once again. Eoghan glanced at the sky, the daylight bringing him only coldness and woe. If he were to go fetch the moonshine again, he would waste too much time. And although “time” was something he had plenty…

It came with a cost. One he didn’t want to pay, so soon.

So the man recalled the patterns. The memories of all previous days, gathering only the ones who shared the witch’s tune, the ones that could aid him with his search.

“The Coill na Tost is haunted, they say. Mamaí says it’s because of the Unseelie, but I’m sure it’s because of the Cailleach.”

“Why you think so?”

He could recall it vividly. The way little Keelin MacNeil whispered to him, her words too afraid of being heard yet too certain to remain unknown.

“Because there are no animals there. They all end up dead. Because the Blood Huntress Cailleach catches and eats them alive.”

Coill na Tost. The Forest of Silence.

A place he had only visited once. A place he wished he never had. Yet it was still the one place he was hopeful of. As pernicious as that hope was.

That first ‘day’, Eoghan wandered aimlessly around the trails, his memory trying to guide him toward Coill na Tost as his feet struggled to get away.

Death found him before he ever arrived.

On the second ‘day’ following that first one, the man found the entrance to the woods.

He met the headless horseman on a forked tree. The man’s blood drenched its roots well.

On the sixth ‘day’, Eoghan Conroy could already recognize trails he had crossed before, and locate particular trees.

It took a single slash for the Dullahan to take his head.

When the ninth ‘day’ came, he went to fetch the moonshine. That day, he lost some of his teeth before the others threw him out.

Eoghan thought about waiting Death at that place. He wondered if Death would take those men’s blood before it claimed his.

He went back to the woods before his mind could settle on a decision. The horseman made sure to cover as many rocks and leaves with Eoghan’s remains as it could, that ‘day’.

The next seven ‘days’, Eoghan Conroy kept searching. Kept looking. Listening. To any signs, any clues, he could find of the witch’s lair. Out of those seven ‘days’, only two did the Dullahan gave him a quick death.

Four of them, his screams joined the wails and whispers until he had no more voice to exploit.

Some ‘days’, Eoghan never crawled out of the dirt. The man forgot to account for those.

He didn’t know how Death killed him those times—he could only recall the pain. The darkness.

One ‘day’, Eoghan thought of visiting Keelin MacNeil again, but reconsidered. Instead, he went to fetch the moonshine again.

He fought back that ‘day’.

They stabbed him. He bled. Death claimed those men before it came for him.

Eoghan Conroy could not recall if he stayed there on purpose, or if he just happened to arrive later than usual. He forced his mind to forget what he felt when he saw those men were killed.

The next ‘day’, Eoghan did not go for the moonshine. Instead, he found an animal trail in the woods. He didn’t know how to track it.

After three ‘days’, he found an experienced hunter at the village. The man taught him things. Eoghan made sure to recall the new patterns.

Two ‘days’ later, the man concluded the animal was probably a hare. And on the next ‘day’, Eoghan followed the tracks and spotted the animal.

The first thing he did when he saw the hare was try to kill it. Eoghan didn’t know why.

That ‘day’, he waited for Death and was glad when a new ‘day’ began. For he didn’t want to recall the previous one.

The following ‘days’, Eoghan kept searching for the Blood Huntress Cailleach. He called for her, so much so it hurt his throat.

He didn’t look for the hare again.

When the Dullahan came for him that ‘day’, he could not recall if death had ever hurt as much.

On the new ‘day’, Eoghan Conroy cried alone till there were no more tears to be shed that ‘day’.

As he wept, he heard the wind carrying Mórbhach’s laughter. The man did not dare to raise his head.

Eoghan Conroy met with Death nine more times.

On the tenth, he barged into the MacNeil’s house. Eoghan thought that, perhaps, Lady MacNeil could tell him something about the witch if he threatened to hurt Keelin. He could not recall if he ever did. He knew Death did.

The man did not add that ‘day’ to a pattern.

Yet even when he did not add that ‘day’ to the pattern, some things kept burning in his mind. Forcing him, commanding him to recall and keep them alive.

The tears streaming down the girl’s widened eyes.

The warmth abandoning her body as fright filled her gaze.

The dread echoing in the mother’s voice.

When Eoghan Conroy crawled his way out of the tarnished soil ‘that day’, he let out a harrowing cry. One so sharp and maddening, it made his entire body revolt and shake.

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t I can’t I can’t…”

Eoghan’s skin felt so numb, he could not even feel the tears running down his face. He could not feel the sheer cold invading his entire being.

However, as the wails got louder and even more haunting, trying to pierce his shattered mind even deeper, a new sound.

A different pattern.

The man did not look up as the steps approached. Somewhere inside him, Eoghan was too afraid of meeting Death again. Of seeing once again that blooded blade aiming for his heart. Yet the sound of the dry leaves got closer, heavy steps crunching her with a determination and strength the man no longer had.

He saw blood dripping into the leaves in front of him. Its color fresh. Vivid.

beautiful

Eoghan raised his head.

The man didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He knew as well as he knew Death and the taste of his own blood—the person staring down at him was her.

The Blood Huntress Cailleach.

Holding a dead hare by its neck.