Trembling With Fear 02/24/2019

Good Fortune Can Be A Curse

Liam the Younger sits on the grassy knoll beside a row of headstones each bearing his surname, speaking to each in turn. He swigs gin from the bottle in memory of those he has lost. Wallowing in self-pity he pulls a lucky four leafed clover from his wallet. It’s stuck to a small square of red card and unless you knew better you would imagine it to be nothing of consequence. Years of wear have led to its disintegration. The only thing holding the leaf together now, are the layers of sellotape wrapped around it.

 

As he examines what remains, an image of an old woman slips into his mind, her outstretched hand offering up the token. It’ll bring you luck, she mumbled. And to be fair it had. It’s surviving that plays heavily on his mind. Becoming maudlin, he decides good fortune is nothing but a curse upon him, keeping him alive when he would rather be with his loved ones. Draining the bottle dry he considers disposing of his so called luck in the hope of redemption. For the umpteenth time, he passes out slumped against his daughter’s headstone.

 

***

 

Night has fallen by the time Liam the Younger awakens. The graveyard cast in fresh shadows, pathways vanishing, hedgerows whispering words of malice in his ears. His only guide back to the iron gate is the intermittent moonlight flittering through the line of trees. He stumbles through fluctuating darkness unnerved by the accompanying sounds — unidentifiable sounds — tripping over slant stones, staggering onwards until grass replaces gravel beneath his feet; grateful to have finally found the pathway leading home.

 

Unfortunately, in his inebriated state, Liam the Younger’s sense of direction has completely forsaken him. Instead of arriving at the iron gate as calculated, he finds himself in the depths of dank woodland. Low hanging branches scratch his face as he lumbers through the undergrowth, boots raking up the loose detritus, only his profanity to keep him company. Resting momentarily, he’s perturbed to hear movement behind him — or maybe to his side. His blurred vision barely makes sense of the forms moving in the moonlight dripping through the canopy. Huge creatures spread their wings drawn to the silver light pooling about him. Flapping his hands wildly, he fights off the bombardment.

 

In the far distance a warmer light glows. Liam the Younger imagines it to be the gatekeeper’s cottage, or better still the gatekeeper himself come to find him. Setting off at pace, zigzagging between tree trunks, he heads for the beacon. Confusion growing as it seems to emanate from the very centre of the wood. Not the outer edge where he knows the cottage to be. Nearing the source, he slows — chest heaving — to peer cautiously through a tracery of tangled branches. His befuddled mind trying to process what he sees before him.

 

In the clearing small rings of fire surround a felled tree trunk. Masked figures dance between them, circling, chanting in strange tongues. Taller figures brandish burning torches, flames glinting in their eyes as they twist and turn bestowing an unearthly presence. Naked bodies are everywhere, all covered in intricate designs. Trails of ivy following the contours of their flesh. While some gambol in the dew pond, enthusiastic couplings take place around the sloped edges; proclamations of desire drifting outwards.

 

A screeching owl takes Liam the Younger by surprise, his foot catching in the undergrowth throwing him off balance. His ensuing cries marking him out. Panicking — trying to untangle himself — he watches masked figures approach. Uncoiling tendrils creep across the ground, pinning him down until the masked men haul him forwards. Dropping him atop the altar sprawled out like the offering he is to become.

 

The trees bow and sway, rustling foliage accompanying the incantations, the ground vibrating, responding to the stamping feet. Three masked women step forward and slowly begin removing Liam the Younger’s clothing under flickering light. They paint his naked skin with potions of clay and ash replicating the patterns adorning their own. Once finished, they cavort around him, the masked men joining in throwing trails of ivy across the altar. Liam the Younger watches entranced from his prone position, his excitement rising, confident his lucky clover will protect him.

 

So entranced is Liam the Younger, the sudden sharpness piercing his ribcage takes him unawares. Voices escalate as he writhes on the foliage-clad altar. His pleading cries floating upwards, muffled by the trees as a network of roots slither across him. Twisting, cutting into his skin. Tightening around his neck and torso. Squeezing the remnants of air from his lungs. Fixing his mouth in a silent scream. One root, whittled to the sharpest of points, slices its way into his chest, wrapping itself around his palpitating heart. Severing all ties to his body, sending blood spurting across the closest watchers. Another root forces its way into his nose, slicing through his brain while others enter each eye socket. The cracking of bones reverberates through the clearing.

 

****

 

The gatekeeper, Liam the Elder, mutters to himself as he picks up yet another empty bottle abandoned at the foot of his granddaughter’s headstone. He sniffs the residue of gin inside, slamming his boot down on the familiar piece of red card summersaulting across the sunlit grass.