The shadow of banshee hi.., p.23
The Shadow of Banshee Hill, page 23
A hostile calmness prevailed over the mob as they slowly quietened down.
“Any last words, Mr. Valour?” Constable Bailey asked, not expecting a peep to be forthcoming. He had ensured the noose was secured nice and tight around Cillian’s neck. It was so forcefully wrapped that he was barely able to talk.
Constable Bailey came from a long, humble line of hardy fisherman from the Isle of Man, and being from such a make, he was dexterous in the act of fabricating slipknots. But the hangman’s knot, in particular, was his speciality. He took such pride in his work that he went as far as to boil the hemp rope to lessen its stretch. Thirteen coils were needed to guarantee a swift and humane death, but he had only put seven due to the severity of the wrongdoing. A painful, drawn-out strangulation would fit the transgression he had decided, ignoring the calls from his plagued conscience. “I guess not,” he said before continuing. “So, without further ado—”
“Actually,” interrupted Cillian hoarsely. “Yes, I do.”
“The bells of justice are tolling.” Constable Bailey straightened his brass-buttoned, navy-blue uniform. He then twisted the tips of his waxed and well-maintained moustache. “Go ahead, Mr. Valour. Speak your truth and make it quick. Your audience awaits you.”
Cillian flung his gaze out upon the locals before him who were all apoplectic with wrath. They stared back with utter disgust. A stricken mother yelled out, “You murdered my babies!”
“I stand before all you fine people of St. John’s as a decent, moral, and law-abiding man who’s being falsely accused. I’ve been charged with such a heinous and wicked atrocity that if even half were true, Beelzebub himself would have an assortment of the most frightening torture devices known to demonkind waiting for me down below. If my hands were not lashed, I would place them over my gentle heart and declare to you all that I’m not guilty. I’m not to blame for what has happened to those poor, unfortunate children. I’ve not committed the sins that I’m accused of,” Cillian said straight-faced before unleashing bawls of distress.
“Are you finished?” Constable Bailey asked without emotion.
After several seconds of silence, purely for dramatic effect, Cillian swallowed and continued speaking piteously. “Principled persons of this beautiful and God-fearing isle, I have a monumental regard for the sanctity of human life. My love and admiration of all things that breathe the Lord’s fine and sweet air could rival that of a clergyman. Look long and look profoundly at me and see that I’m just a good-mannered Irishman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time on Crown land. I shouldn’t be punished for the vile and abominable acts done by another. I swear to you now, as God is my witness, that I did not commit any wrongdoing. I have not trespassed, so don’t punish me unfairly. Do not condemn me, for I’m an honest man—AN HONEST MAN!”
Weeks after Cillian entered the Realm of the Revenant, he had discovered that he had the ability to place thoughts into people’s heads—not all, but some. He wasn’t masterly at it yet, but he was powerful enough to faintly sprinkle his opinions and beliefs upon unsuspecting minds. Cillian pulsed the belief that he was innocent to all eyeing him with hateful stares. Within a few seconds, he could see that his subliminal declaration of innocence had a few in the crowd doubting their initial assumption of absolute guilt.
Unfortunately, Cillian’s passionate plea and his telepathic suggestion wasn’t enough. Not one of the townsfolk dared open his or her mouth and demand for them to be untied, let down from the gallows, and placed before a true court to decide their destiny. The time for clemency had long passed.
Nobody was completely sure what had exactly conspired at the homestead of Captain Edward Bonny, or even if Cillian and Martha were solely to blame for the atrocity, but someone had to pay for the child murders.
“I’m moved,” said Constable Bailey following his remark with a derisive sneer. He was astute enough to know that any information divulged, or any declarations carolled from Cillian or Martha’s mouth, were most likely fabricated. He had witnessed firsthand the nightmarish scene that was almost beyond vocal description. He helped cut down babes from the rafters—babes that had been hung stripped, siphoned of life, and their torsos hollowed out. Within each stomach cavity sat a lit pillar candle, making them appear and act as paper lanterns would gladden a pastoral veranda. “Very well said, Mr. Valour, but you don’t fool anyone here. Six pairs of honourable eyes saw you dancing merrily at the scene of the crime. Your fate is sealed.”
Constable Bailey turned his attention to Martha and let out a harsh exhale. “Now, onto you, woman. Would you similarly like to give voice to your innocence?”
Martha eyed him for several, long seconds and then answered in an unemotional and detached tone. “No, I do not wish to.”
“That surprises me. I thought at least you would attempt to falsely ‘plead the belly’”.
“No,” she curtly responded. “That would be far too predictable a thing for me to do.”
“Well, is there anything you wish to say before you are to be judged?” Constable Bailey asked.
“No creature void of form took me by the hand. No disembodied voices gave me instructions. No protestations of innocence shall be forthcoming from me. I did it. I am guilty. Not Lucifer’s suggestions, but me! I kidnapped those children, drained them of their ichor, and then hollowed them out and used them as lanterns,” declared Martha, barefaced.
The onlooking crowd below gasped in shock.
Constable Bailey dropped his head in disgust and made the sign of the cross.
“I’m going to take immense delight and perverted pleasure in seeing all of you simpletons burn alive tonight.” Martha released a wide smile before cackling madly. “None of you fools will ever see a sunrise again,” she screamed like a firebrand preacher, her outburst echoing evilly on the shore.
“Enough!” Constable Bailey exploded. He marched up to Martha and forcefully backhanded her across the face. “Shut your spluttering gob, you foul wretch.”
Martha didn’t flinch from the assertive hit. “May I please have another, sir? And, this time, can you try to hit me like a man who has more brass in his balls than the buttons on his uniform?” she goaded.
Cillian looked down and his feet, trying to hide his amusement.
Constable Bailey stood aback. He had never struck a woman with such force. In the past, he had clobbered many burly, seafaring drunkards and tantrum-throwing scallywags filled to the gills with rum and had seen their jaws dislocate and their cheekbones shatter. But that wasn’t the case with the contemptuous redhead before him. Martha’s skin didn’t even break. In fact, her creamy exterior didn’t even portray the tiniest of contusions—not a lick of harm was caused.
“If you so wish,” he replied, gladly accepting her chancy offer. “This should shut you up!”
Constable Bailey slapped her again with all his strength.
Again, no injury was sustained by his wallop.
“You shouldn’t have done that. I can say with complete confidence that the focus of my anger will be upon you and yours before anyone else,” spoke Martha shallowly, her tone calm and collected. The conviction and promise seen in her eyes sent a chill up the constable’s spine.
Loosing himself, he threw an elbow, connecting perfectly with her eye socket. A loud crack of bone was heard. Martha shook off the blow. As quickly as the skin around her eye puffed up and bruising appeared, the swelling and discolouration vanished.
“How can this be?” Constable Bailey questioned, unable to comprehend her unnatural strength and healing. “This is not right.”
With a curled lip, Cillian glared. “You’re as daft as a haddock on Good Friday. Your actions are foolhardy, and your treatment of Martha will be regrettable. Hell hath no fury like that of my wife.”
“Your family line will come to an end on this very night. My devoted husband and I will see to it. Congratulations, you’ve dug your own fat-faced children’s graves,” Martha growled, staring daggers.
Constable Bailey shrank back. He felt a bulge of fear in his bones. In Martha he saw something incorrect, something improper. “I cannot believe I was considering exiling you two to Funk Island for the remainder of your lives. That would have been far, far, too merciful.” He placed the knots of their nooses beneath each of their left ears and then dashed down the purposely built thirteen unlucky steps rising from the sand to the gallows platform. “It is decided that these two fiends shall swing on this night.”
The crowd cheered in concurrence, bolstering Constable Bailey’s resolve. “Hang them! Hang them! Hang them! Hang them! Hang them!” they bayed.
Martha threw Cillian a lecherous look. “You look so handsome with that noose around your neck.”
“Do I wear it better than Judas?”
“I’m wetter than an otter’s pocket over here—does that answer your question?” she panted before releasing an exceedingly horny roar.
Constable Bailey, now standing alongside both a priest and a vicar, regained his look and posture, then voiced aloud, “Cillian and Martha Valour, you have shown no signs of remorse for your crimes. You both have been judged and we have found you guilty. There will be no reprieve. This community will evermore be haunted by your heinous acts. Let you soon fall, and let God have mercy upon you both. We will pray for your souls.”
The revenants laughed.
“Say a couple of Hail Marys for me while you are at it,” wisecracked Martha.
Constable Bailey exhaled in disappointment. It was time to mute their amusement forever. “May you hang by the neck until you are dead. Let them fall.”
Reflexively everyone bowed their heads. A bell rang from within the crowd.
It was the death knell for the Irish brace.
“You all will die tonight!” screeched Martha with a demented expression slashed across her face. “Die—die—die, you all will!”
A young officer of the Crown yanked the platform out from beneath them. The condemned couple both fell earthward. Within inches of touching the sand, their bodies abruptly halted their descent with a sharp suddenness, jerking them back upward. No sound of snapping or dislocating spines sounded. Constable Bailey’s seven-coil slipknot was living up to its dreadful promise.
The rabble’s cheers quickly turned to gasps watching Martha and Cillian squirm and squeal as they slowly strangled. Foam and spittle began to pour forth from their mouths, and their eyes bulged outward from their skulls as they fought to stay alive, trying their hardest not to become victims of the long drop.
Constable Bailey addressed the crowd. “Be gone. Return to your homes and sleep well knowing justice has been served,” he ordered over the soughing coastal wind.
As quick as all were to convict Cillian and Martha, they dispersed into the gloom, praying the tide would flood in sooner rather than later to wash away all evidence of what had conspired on the sandy shoreline.
The last to leave was Constable Bailey. He looked on for several minutes as the last residue of life was choked from them.
It appeared Martha was the first to drift away into the beyond.
Cillian then followed suit not long after.
The grim sounds of stretching skin and creaking bones molested Constable Bailey’s ears. Staring at their limp bodies as they swayed back and forth, he felt strangely conflicted. He rubbed his forehead wearily and then sleeved his moustache. It dawned upon him that he had grossly acted outside his place and rank. But extraordinary situations sometimes called for extraordinary—and sometimes unethical—measures to be taken. That would be the excuse he would tell himself in old age when his brow was deeply grooved with regrets, his eyes sunken with woeful doubts, and his lips dry from tirelessly trying to explain his impetuous actions to the ascended masters.
“May God truly have mercy upon your souls—and mine, at that,” he said, sounding genuinely pained for his rashness.
Constable Maxwell Bailey blessed himself once more, turned around, and disappeared into the darkness of the night accompanied by the soft roar of capsizing waves. He was confident that all that would be left come daybreak would be wood and rope. The sea, the fish, and the crustaceans would clean up the blasphemous mess.
He hoped, anyway.
A handful of minutes went by, and Martha unfastened her eyes. She saw that the two of them were completely alone. “Cillian?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he replied, lifting his lids. “Are you?”
“God, yes.”
Without much effort, he easily broke the leather binds clasping his wrists and ankles together and then removed the noose from around his neck. He then slipped it off and dismounted the gallows, landing gracefully on the damp sand. “That was fun.”
“Have you noticed that nobody ever tarries around after a good hanging?” Martha remarked, also breaking herself free from the gallows with ease. She gingerly shook her head, dispersing the grainy haze that comes with being hanged. It clearly wasn’t her first time. “I suddenly feel incredibly peckish. Are you with hunger?”
“Ravenous, my love. I’m absolutely ravenous.” Cillian pulled Martha to him and kissed her ardently.
“May I ask, are you ravenous for me or for sustenance?” she asked with a seductive simper.
Cillian winked sinfully. “Can I not be for both? You’re more than aware that my inner waters flow mightily in a southerly direction whenever I’m a victim of the drop.”
“Oh, I’m aware, mo chroí—I can feel it against my hip bone. How about we give chase and fill our bellies with the good constable, his wife, and their guttersnipes? And then start a kindling that the townsfolk of St. John’s will never forget,” Martha suggested, stroking his chin tenderly. “After that, you can lay me down on a bed of clover and have your bold way with me as the world around us is ablaze.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Martha took a step back from Cillian and released a revengeful wail. It was a warning tocsin to all the slumbering ears of St. John’s that their stint on Earth was about to come to a scalding and blistering end. She then grabbed her eternal spouse by the hand and guided him back toward the unsuspecting town where they would, on that All Hallow’s Eve under a waxing moon, wreak absolute havoc and put the town to the torch.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
December 21, 2012
Waldo County, Maine
United States of America
Fortunately, the hardest part of the trek was behind them. There was no chance, even with proper winter hiking gear and equipment, that Emily could have reached the coast without expending her entire energy reserves—energy she desperately would need once they reached Castle de Krüll.
“You sure we’re going in the right direction?” she asked, her breath frosting before it could leave her chapped lips.
“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” Cillian was relieved that they were close—not because of her extra poundage upon his back, but because the temperatures were beginning to drop like a stone down a well. The dry air was a sign that more snow was on the way. Time was not on their side on the shortest day of the year.
“How do you know? I haven’t seen a signpost or even a single trail marking for hours.”
“Trust me, we’re on the right track. I’ve been here before,” Cillian assured, trudging onward.
Emily looked upward at the sky filled with dark, ominous clouds. “If you say so.”
A little over a mile farther, they found themselves before a small cottage with a pitched gambrel roof overlooking Belfast Bay. The low and snug, single-story structure was an authentic-looking fisherman’s cottage with faded cedar shake shingles, white trim, and a large chimney. The centred door was flanked by multipaned windows aglow from the lit fire inside. A faded, marble plaque was affixed above stating its construction date was 1735.
“What are we stopping here?” Emily asked, dismounting Cillian.
“Calling in a long overdue favour.” He readjusted his coat and satchel and then guided her down a narrow snow-shovelled path that led to the cottage’s green painted door that was chipping and in need of some attention and care like the rest of the abode. Before Cillian could lift his hand to knock, a dog sensed their presence outside and began to bark.
Seconds later, the clunk of a heavy latch being lifted sounded, and the door swung open. “Can I help you?” gruffly asked a craggy-faced, stout man in his early seventies whose crown was completely bare. Tom Freeman, wrapped in a long red herringbone-patterned fleece housecoat, wore a heavy, bushy beard of white and his belly was just as full, but that was where the similarities with old St. Nick ended. Tom was tetchy, grumpy, and, frankly, sad.
“Afternoon, Mr. Freeman,” greeted Cillian.
Tom’s eyes rounded. His face went pale, and his mouth fell open in shock. It truly felt as if he were staring at a ghost. “Well, I never. Look what the cat coughed up.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” Tom bluntly replied. He folded his arms across his wide chest and looked at Cillian unblinkingly, taking in the Irishman’s shape. “Sixteen years and six months later and you haven’t aged a goddamn day.”
“What can I say—it’s my lifestyle,” Cillian said dryly, attempting to deflect the hostility coming at him.
“His lifestyle, he says,” Tom repeated in a sarcastic tone of voice, throwing a glance behind Cillian at Emily, who didn’t know what to do or where to look. Tom then noticed the dried blood stains on Cillian’s clothing. “Still up to the old tricks I see.”
“It’s not what you think, Mr. Freeman.” Cillian replied, shaking his head.
The black and tan Airedale who was sat alongside his master began to growl, sensing the rising tension. “It’s okay, Jimmy. Mr. Valour and his friend will not be staying long.”
Cillian crouched down. “Heya, Jimmy. Aren’t you a cranky fella. Taking after the old man, are we?”
Jimmy bared his teeth and snarled with great threat.
