Note to Readers:
Carrickfergus is a real village in Northern Ireland. It sits across the bay from Belfast. The ancient Celtic people celebrated the Festival of Samhain on October 31st.The belief was that the boundary between the living and dead became confused on that night. The holiday became All Saints Day in Europe then Halloween in more recent times. I've taken the liberty to blur the time line of the change in names of the holiday, placing the timing of the story somewhere in limbo. So, enjoy this twisted little tale from the mind a twisted lady and have a wonderful Halloween.
*
Garth walked down the three steps at the front of the meeting hall into the dark grey afternoon. The icy wind caught him as he moved down the dirt lane toward the center of the village. He pulled his leather cap down over his ears and held his woolen coat closed at the collar. Still the icy air cut though his homespun trousers making him shiver. The air came from far to the north, cooled by the ice, then blew south across the Irish Sea to strike land at Carrickfergus. This was a wind sent by the devil of the north to chill the soul of the Celtic folk.
"Blast this bloody wind. To hell with everything," he groaned as he marched steadfastly onward.
Soon enough he came to the center of the village and entered the inn. Inside the men sat sullenly waiting for his return. The women huddled in the corners in groups of two or three talking in quiet tones. The inn was dark except for a few sputtering tallow candles and the low burning fire in fireplace.
"Aye, Garth," came to the voice of the innkeeper from behind the old, stained and splintery bar. Garth could barely make out Donal Halloran, the innkeeper, in the gloomy, half-light.
"Ah, Donal," Garth replied.
"What's the news then, Garth? What did they say of the prophecy this year?"
All eyes turned toward Garth. The room became very still.
"Yes. The Council says, Aye. The Prophecy is true. They come this year. But who knows? Didn't they say that last year and the year before and the year before that?"
Maggie O'Connell, wife of Brian, stood at the back of the room. "If anyone knows it would be the Council, I'm sure, Garth."
The people mumbled in agreement, for they knew Maggie was old and wise, having lived longer than anyone in the village except maybe the head of the Council. Even this was disputed by some.
"Come now, Garth. Tell us what exactly did the Council say?" Innkeeper Donal went on.
"Ah. Fools that they are. They went on about ghosts and witches and walking dead. But whoever saw such?" Garth shot back.
There was another general murmur. "Walking Dead?" "Witches?" "Ghosts?" The men and women repeated these words in whispers with fear in their voices.
"And when did they say this would occur?" demanded Maggie O'Connell.
"You know very well, Maggie. Tonight's the night. You know that as well as you know the nose on your face," came Garth's irritated retort.
Again there was a general murmur in the room. "But tonight is the Festival of Samhain," Mattie McGuire objected.
"Aye so it is," Donal mused. "But then what do the English call it? What is it? All Saints Day isn't that right?"
"Yes. And in the colonies it's called All Hallow's Eve. The very words puts a chill in me bones," said Ian Denny, somewhat louder than he expected.
Garth moved closer to the great stone fireplace, still feeling the chill from the cold wind blowing off the Irish Sea.
"Why?" he wondered. "Why tonight. Annie, daughter of Hamden, had wished him well only this morning. Her laughing grin said more than her words, Garth was sure. It seemed so much better to be bundling the lovely Annie off to a warm bed for a little "in and out" and maybe a tickle and a snog as he had done many times before, rather than standing around here musing about this silliness. "A man needs a bit of a wench to keep him warm on a night like this." But it's early yet," he reminded himself with an inward smile.
With that thought on his mind, Garth turned back to the rustic bar. "Give me a short glass of your finest to warm me innards, Donal. Then I'll be on me way."
Innkeeper Donal brought a glass, poured whiskey from a bottle and set the glass upon the bar in front of Garth. Garth dropped a copper on the bar and, picking up the glass, downed the drink in a single gulp and slammed the glass back on the bar. "Ah, now I'll be off. I have business to attend too."
Turning toward the door Garth again thought of the lovely Annie and the pleasures between her thighs. Even outside in the icy wind now driving a few snow flakes from the grey sky, the combination of drink and Annie added warmth against the cold. Garth moved up the lane toward the hill behind the village. Soon he could see the tiny cottage Annie kept with her father, the fisherman.
A single knock at the door and Annie answered. Her smile was as wide as it had been earlier at the sight of Garth.
"Ah, Garth. I wondered if you would bother to pay me a visit today," Annie said stepping aside to allow him to pass.
Garth pushed into the small, cozy room. Opening his coat, he stood by the warm fireplace. "Aye, Annie, me dear. I knew by yer smile this morn you were in a mood for a bit of ..."
"Garth you naughty bugger. What makes you think I would want anything to do with the likes of you?" Annie tried desperately to hide her grin.
"Oh come now, Annie. You know you are me true love," Garth said pressing close to Annie. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her against him.
"And here you are," Annie said, "smelling of whiskey, thinking I would have you here while me father is gone on the boat. And professing true love for me, no less. That's funny. For I've heard you have been tickling one of the fancies at the inn."
"'Tis a lie!" protested Garth.