Tara. ‘A great big, bad lynx.’
‘Because older venefici don’t sleep, some of our most productive work is done at night.’ Twilight spoke quietly to Tara, who was beginning to get heavy-eyed. They were sitting under an ancient elm tree in a small clearing outside of Skellighaven. Tara was curled up in between the two huge wolfhounds, the gray fur of their bodies encircling her like a protective wall.
‘How long will it be before I don’t need sleep?’ Her voice
was drowsy. ‘A few more years yet.’ ‘Hmmm . . .’ Moments later the regular hush of her breathing meant sleep.
Two pairs of intelligent brown eyes in huge heads covered in gray fur followed Twilight as he stood up.
‘Look after her, I won’t be long.’ The two wolfhounds named by Tara earlier as Feasa, the female, and Eoghan, the male, opened their great jaws in acknowledgment. Insisting that noble beasts should have noble names, Tara had asked Twilight to run through all the old Irish Gael kings as far back in time as he could. Then she chose the names.
One thing was certain, nothing would get close to their charge, and even the wind had to ask permission to ruffle her red hair. Tara awoke the following morning to the sound of cracking bones. Twilight was feeding the dogs. Still not leaving Tara’s side, they gnawed the meat and began to crunch the bones in their powerful jaws from the two large joints Twilight put in front of them.
‘Where did you get the meat from?’ Tara asked, rubbing her eyes. ‘The kitchen at the monastery.’ ‘You’ve been up to something?’ The old astounder smiled at her.
‘I’ve been the harbinger of haunted, hysterical horripilation hellfire on the hapless,’ he said. ‘The placer of petrified phantoms of pandemonius poltergeists in the stygian sleep patterns of the psychotically unpalatable.’
‘Ugh . . .’
‘Nightmares,’ said Twilight. ‘I’ve been giving people nightmares.’
Tara nodded as comprehension began to dawn.
‘Let me guess,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The people are the abbot, my grandmother, and father, and the nightmares are about the Witch Queen herself.’
‘Precisely. As I said, some of our most productive work is done at night. Mortals have to sleep; it renders them defenseless and oblivious of what’s going on. That vulnerability can be exploited; we can interfere with their subliminal dreams through the conduit of the lightest touch to their foreheads. So those three are waking up about now screaming in abject terror at the very real spectre I planted, the reality of which will not leave them in peace until I remove it . . . or not.’
‘The reality of having their intestines drawn out on a stick and being eaten alive by Leannan Sidhe?’
‘Double precisely.’
‘What will they do?’
‘It should quickly drive them mad. Let’s go and find out, shall we?’
Leaving the dogs to sleep off their meal under the elm tree, Twilight and Tara transformed to the clouds over Skellighaven. The first thing they saw was Tara’s father rushing out of the illegally sequestered Delaneys’ hovel, shouting and clutching his bald head. Moments later the grandmother came out screaming at the top of her voice and beating at her head. After a few moments of caterwauling and jumping up and down on the spot, they both set off up the hill to the monastery. Before they got there, the abbot suddenly appeared in a similar state at the entrance to the monastery and ran down the hill to join them. After a brief dance of terror around each other, shouting and comparing the vivid horror of the implanted dreams, which would not leave their consciousness, the three of them slumped to the long grass and howled their painful images into one another’s faces.
Twilight pointed to the sky above them.
Leannan Sidhe, the Witch Queen herself, drawn like a starving wolf to a fresh blood scent, was descending very quickly toward the howling trio in the grass, the lynx pressed protectively
‘Because older venefici don’t sleep, some of our most productive work is done at night.’ Twilight spoke quietly to Tara, who was beginning to get heavy-eyed. They were sitting under an ancient elm tree in a small clearing outside of Skellighaven. Tara was curled up in between the two huge wolfhounds, the gray fur of their bodies encircling her like a protective wall.
‘How long will it be before I don’t need sleep?’ Her voice
was drowsy. ‘A few more years yet.’ ‘Hmmm . . .’ Moments later the regular hush of her breathing meant sleep.
Two pairs of intelligent brown eyes in huge heads covered in gray fur followed Twilight as he stood up.
‘Look after her, I won’t be long.’ The two wolfhounds named by Tara earlier as Feasa, the female, and Eoghan, the male, opened their great jaws in acknowledgment. Insisting that noble beasts should have noble names, Tara had asked Twilight to run through all the old Irish Gael kings as far back in time as he could. Then she chose the names.
One thing was certain, nothing would get close to their charge, and even the wind had to ask permission to ruffle her red hair. Tara awoke the following morning to the sound of cracking bones. Twilight was feeding the dogs. Still not leaving Tara’s side, they gnawed the meat and began to crunch the bones in their powerful jaws from the two large joints Twilight put in front of them.
‘Where did you get the meat from?’ Tara asked, rubbing her eyes. ‘The kitchen at the monastery.’ ‘You’ve been up to something?’ The old astounder smiled at her.
‘I’ve been the harbinger of haunted, hysterical horripilation hellfire on the hapless,’ he said. ‘The placer of petrified phantoms of pandemonius poltergeists in the stygian sleep patterns of the psychotically unpalatable.’
‘Ugh . . .’
‘Nightmares,’ said Twilight. ‘I’ve been giving people nightmares.’
Tara nodded as comprehension began to dawn.
‘Let me guess,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The people are the abbot, my grandmother, and father, and the nightmares are about the Witch Queen herself.’
‘Precisely. As I said, some of our most productive work is done at night. Mortals have to sleep; it renders them defenseless and oblivious of what’s going on. That vulnerability can be exploited; we can interfere with their subliminal dreams through the conduit of the lightest touch to their foreheads. So those three are waking up about now screaming in abject terror at the very real spectre I planted, the reality of which will not leave them in peace until I remove it . . . or not.’
‘The reality of having their intestines drawn out on a stick and being eaten alive by Leannan Sidhe?’
‘Double precisely.’
‘What will they do?’
‘It should quickly drive them mad. Let’s go and find out, shall we?’
Leaving the dogs to sleep off their meal under the elm tree, Twilight and Tara transformed to the clouds over Skellighaven. The first thing they saw was Tara’s father rushing out of the illegally sequestered Delaneys’ hovel, shouting and clutching his bald head. Moments later the grandmother came out screaming at the top of her voice and beating at her head. After a few moments of caterwauling and jumping up and down on the spot, they both set off up the hill to the monastery. Before they got there, the abbot suddenly appeared in a similar state at the entrance to the monastery and ran down the hill to join them. After a brief dance of terror around each other, shouting and comparing the vivid horror of the implanted dreams, which would not leave their consciousness, the three of them slumped to the long grass and howled their painful images into one another’s faces.
Twilight pointed to the sky above them.
Leannan Sidhe, the Witch Queen herself, drawn like a starving wolf to a fresh blood scent, was descending very quickly toward the howling trio in the grass, the lynx pressed protectively
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