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The Lorelei Signal

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The Light of Death

Written by Susan E. Rogers / Artwork by Marge Simon

It was cold the day Da died. My bare feet crunched through the thin skin of ice covering the mud as I sprinted the path across the field to the church. The weather was stormy this past Imbolc and, according to the women of the village, the hag Cailleach slept through the day for a promise of early Spring. That promise was still to be kept. I ran faster to warm myself. Besides, if I got to Father Rorke while he was taking his dinner, he’d offer me some. There’d be neither dinner nor supper in our house this night.

 

I banged my fist on the oak plank door to the rectory, threads of heat brushing my face as they escaped from inside the cottage. Shuffling footsteps approached. I bounced to keep warm as I waited and shivered. Finally, the door opened and the smell of the old man accosted me.

 

“What is it, child?” He turned and waved me inside.

 

He always called me child, despite my eleven years, old enough to do a woman’s work. “Da’s dying and Mum needs you to come for Extreme Unction.”

 

He plopped back in his chair. “Did you have your dinner?”

 

I shook my head and he patted his leg. If I wanted to eat, there was no help for it. I hurried to his side. He threw his arm around my waist and hoisted me onto his lap. I grabbed the bowl of bread soaked in goat’s milk and pulled it toward me. Small price to pay for a good meal. I felt his stiffness rise beneath me, swallowed the last bit of crust, slurped the milk from the bowl, and jumped from his lap.

 

“Come quickly now. Da’s soul’s waiting to be blessed.”

 

Father Rorke grumbled but rose and grabbed his coat. His black sack of priestly things sat on a table near the door, and he picked it up as we left. Back over the path, the mud sucked at my toes as I ran and left the priest trundling through the muck far behind me. I wanted to make sure Mum and the house were ready for his arrival, that no fairies or house spirits lingered. From the distance, I saw the smoke that wafted through the thatch roof.

 

“Father Rorke is coming,” I yelled as I ran up to the house and yanked open the door.

 

Mum was kneeling by Da’s side where he lay on rushes near the central fire pit. A bowl of water and some rags were on the floor beside her.

 

“Breed, shhh! You’ll wake the dead.”

 

I looked sideways at Da as he coughed with a gurgle in his throat. “Father Rorke is on his way,” I said between panting breaths.

 

Mum stood and put the bowl near the hearth. She handed me the damp rags to hang on twigs that stuck out from the wattle walls. I was just done when the priest appeared in the doorway.

 

“Máire, I’m sorry to hear of Padraig. What is it, do ye know?” He made the sign of the cross.

 

“I don’t, Father, but it isn’t the fever what took the boys two months ago, of that I’m sure.” Mum paused, a catch in her throat. “The signs are different.”

 

I heard her cry at night when she said her prayers, asking Jesus to care for her two lost babes, my younger brothers, taken by the fever just after Solstice. I wondered why he needed to take small children from their mother, and now she’d have no more with Da gone. Mum prayed too for Da to change his mind and let me go to the nunnery to take holy vows. I hoped Jesus refused that boon to her too.

 

The priest shook his head. “Resquiescat in pace. Have you had Eithne in yet?”

 

He unpacked his bag as he spoke and placed things on a low wicker table, covered by a white cloth, next to where Da lay. A small white candle in a clay dish sputtered as he moved. The stole went around his neck after he kissed it. He placed a metal vial of holy water and a chrismatory with the holy oils to anoint the body on the table.

 

“No, Father. I waited for you to come first.” Mum took hold of Da’s hand.

 

The priest continued with his preparations. I scampered away and sat cross-legged on the floor with my back tight against the wall. Da moaned once and Mum wiped his brow with a moist cloth.

 

“Shh, Paddy. The Father’s here to give you the blessing.”

 

Finally, Father Rorke was ready, and gave my mother the nod. She moved back next to me and we knelt, waiting.

 

In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti,” the priest began.

 

“Amen,” we said in unison and blessed ourselves with the sign of the cross.

 

I couldn’t pay attention to the priest’s mumbled Latin, words that sprung from his tongue and swirled in the air, threatening to bind me like cords. Mum’s responses cued my own. Father Rorke painted holy oil on my father’s face, hands, and breast. Da’s breathing quickened and his hands balled into fists, though his face wasn’t creased in pain.

 

“Amen.”

 

Finally, the prayers were done. Da’s whole body relaxed and his breathing slowed. Father Rorke repacked his bag and Mum walked with him to the door and outside, the two of them whispering the whole while.

 

“Breed.” Da’s head rolled to the side and his voice was a raspy whisper. “Breed?”

 

I ran to his side and took his hand. “Aye, Da. I’m here.”

 

“Ah, my girlie.”

 

There was little strength left to squeeze my hand. A tear trickled down the side of my nose but I let it go. Death came often enough in the village for me to know it’s presence. He coughed and his chest heaved in the effort to take in enough air to speak.

 

“Stay true, Breed.” A cough interrupted and he sucked in another breath. “The old ways…keep with them…go to Eithne…she’ll help…”

 

I planted a kiss on his cheek and ran my hand over his thick black hair, damp with sweat.

 

“I’ll do what you say, Da.”

 

“Thank you…girlie.”

 

He started to choke and gasp for air. Mum came running and sank beside him.

 

“Shh, now Paddy. Be still.”

 

She raised his shoulders up a couple of inches as he gulped in breaths. After a few minutes, he quieted and she lay his head back down. His breathing was shallow and slow. Mum wiped his head and face with another damp rag.

 

“Breed, go get Eithne. Tell her your father’s dying and he asks for her.”

 

I didn’t hesitate and was out the door within seconds. Eithne was the bean feasa, from a long line of wise woman in the village, keen on herbs and healing, along with the workings of the old ways. Since I was just a babe, Da took me with him whenever he brought her bacon and onions in exchange for butter and eggs, and sat with a cuppa to talk with her. Sometimes they prayed to the Ancient Ones, sometimes spoke of the weather and nature’s omens. Her hut in the woods wasn’t far from the village, but I was glad the late afternoon sun shone through the trees enough to light the way. Still, I shuddered when I entered the shadows and wound my way through the path toward Eithne’s clearing.

 

The goats and sheep in their pen let out a fair din as they saw me approach, bleating and snorting as the goats jumped and butted the fence and each other. I startled at a brush against my ankle, and looked down to see the black cat twining in and around my legs. Her fur was soft as down when I tickled behind her ears. She nuzzled up to my hand but skittered off when Eithne appeared in the doorway, shooing away the chickens.

 

“Breed, what is it? Something’s wrong.”

 

“It’s Da. He’s dying.” I sniffed and squeezed shut my eyes to hold back the tears.

 

The old woman waved me toward her. “Come and help me gather what I need.”

 

A step inside her hut was like nothing else I knew. There was a scent, bordering on pleasant, like decaying wood soaked in sour milk. The floor was dirt but fresh rushes piled in the corner for a bed lent their fragrance to the air, along with the bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling. It was dark and sparse, lit only by the flame from one fat tallow candle on a withe table.

 

Eithne pulled her long silver-gray hair into a roll at the back of her head and tied it with a leather thong. Her appearance hadn’t changed since I was a babe. Old and wrinkled, her pale skin was like parchment, her fine bones and bluish veins protruding through the thin covering. She wore her clothes in layers as if she needed the added protection, but from the weather or from the other world, I didn’t know.

 

“Bring me that basket,” she said and pointed to a woven reed container next to the table.

 

I did as told and watched as she stocked it with packets wrapped in cloth or hide and a clay jar with liquid. She stopped and threw a handful of dried leaves in the fire, closed her eyes, and mumbled some ancient words.

 

“He’s got a bit yet,” she said as she opened her eyes and reached for one more packet to add to the basket. “Has Father Rorke been in?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. That will put your mother at ease.”

 

The animals bleated farewell as we started down the path. Eithne gave me the basket to carry with a strap over my shoulders. Her pace was quick and I started to huff after a short distance, but kept up as best I could with the heavy bundle. The cat followed behind, darting in and out of the brush. The shadows were long in the woods, the sun dangling above the lip of the horizon. By the time we left the trees and reached the edge of the village, it was gone. We reached our house as dark dropped its veil over the land.

 

“Mum, Eithne’s here.” I ran into the house and put the basket on the floor.

 

She had the fire low and the old woman knelt next to her, beside Da on the pallet. Without a word, Mum moved aside and Eithne leaned over and whispered in Da’s ear. He stirred at the sound of her words. She placed one hand on his brow, the other over his heart, and continued to murmur the prayers. When she was done, she nodded to Mum.

 

“He has a few more hours yet,” Eithne said. “I see you’ve washed him.”

 

Mum nodded. “I’ve done what I could.”

 

“And done well. I need a few minutes with him. Is the water in the pot warm?”

 

“Yes. What do you need?”

 

“Just two bowls to steep the herbs.”

 

Mum scooped water into the clay bowls and placed them on the floor next to Eithne. The old woman selected several packets from the basket, pinched some of the dried herb from each, and tossed it into one of the bowls, then chose two different packets and sprinkled the contents into the water of the other. She stirred them both with her index finger. While the herbs steeped in the warm water, Eithne arranged sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and borage on the rushes around Da. She sprinkled liquid from her clay jar over him and the herbs around him.

 

Chun do leaba shíoraí, go dtí do shuan síoraí. Codail, codail, agus imigh le do bhrón. To your eternal bed, to your eternal sleep. Sleep, sleep, and go away with your sorrow.”

 

The old woman’s voice wrapped around us like a blanket giving warmth and comfort, its tone soft and soothing, unlike the grating sound of Father Rorke’s Latin. Da’s breathing calmed, still shallow but regular. Eithne chanted more prayers, stroked Da’s arms and legs, drew symbols on his head and body after her finger dipped in the jar.

 

I glanced at Mum who was biting her lip, her hands were pressed together in front of her breast in the church way. She whispered her own prayers, making the sign of the cross every few seconds. I turned back to the old woman and focused on her words and actions.

 

Eithne took her time to rise when she was done, pushing herself up with her arms, one leg at a time. She never quite straightened the hunch in her back. Da slept peacefully as she repacked her herbs and carried the basket to the door where Mum and I waited.

 

“His time is near, a few hours, no more or less. It won’t be long for the bean sidhe’s keening,” Eithne said as she passed through.

 

“Paddy is thankful you came, I’m sure,” Mum said. “Though I would have done with the priest, you know.”

 

“Tis fair,” Eithne replied. She nodded and started on her way home.

 

“Will you be safe in the dark?” Mum asked.

 

The old woman spoke over her shoulder as she limped toward the woods. “The dark is no threat to me. I’ve survived worse and will again.”

 

I shivered at her words. Mum made the sign of the cross. She put her arm around my shoulder and led me into the house, shutting the door behind us. The two of us glanced at Da who lay quiet with his eyes closed, though a rattle sounded in his chest. Mum pulled the blanket to his chin as I watched from my pallet. I rested my elbows on my knees and covered my face with my palms. My thoughts were a jumble refusing to be sorted. Mum sat next to me and I looked at her face for help, but all I saw was a determined set to her jaw.

 

“Breed.” She started and then paused for several seconds, looking at the fire. “Breed, I’ve made a decision.”

 

My heart pounded in my chest. “What is it, Mum?”

 

“After your father’s buried, we’re going to the cloister, both of us. I’ve already made the arrangements with Father Rorke.”

 

My mouth hung open and I felt the tears burn in my nose. “But, what about…”

 

“The animals will come with us to add to their own. We’ll need nothing else.”

 

“But…”

 

“There is no but, Breed. I’ve made up my mind. We can’t manage here, the two of us alone.”

 

“Da never wanted me to go to the nunnery. He was never part of the church.”

 

“Your father was stubborn and lived in darkness. He refused to accept the light of Jesus Christ as Lord.”

 

A hot rage rose from the pit of my stomach and up into my throat. “I won’t do it, and you can’t make me.”

 

I ran then, slammed through the door and down the path away from the village. I ran past the other houses, rousing animals to low and snort in my wake. I ran as fast as I could until a stitch in my side hobbled me and I fell to the ground with the pain.

 

Thin clouds drifted across the sky, playing a silent peep-a-boo with the half-moon. I was in front of the church, next to the graveyard. The random stones that marked the burial places reflected the moonlight and shone like beacons in a storm. The cemetery was an ancient one, taken over when the church was built. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of Da buried beneath those clods of dirt. I would find a nice stone to mark his place so it wouldn’t be lost.

 

A shriek shattered the silence of the night and I clapped my hands over my ears. The bean sidhe, fairy of death, come to foretell Da’s passing. I scuttled to the fence post and huddled as close to the ground as I could. A keening wail pierced the air, its echo bouncing across the fields and into the woods. The scream sounded again, from behind me this time. My head pivoted toward the graves. A bright silver mist floated above the stones, the fairy’s long hair and filmy dress wavered in the moonlight. Her song stabbed my ears, hurt my head. I could barely breathe for my heart hammering against my bones.

 

“Leave me alone,” I whimpered. “I know you’re here for Da. Leave your message and be gone.”

 

Even with my hands covering my ears, there was no escape from the fairy’s wailing. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the church, slamming the door behind me once I was inside. The thick stone walls muffled the screeching. I leaned my back against the door and slid to the floor, grateful for the refuge.

 

I gulped for air to calm my breathing and inhaled the essence of the place, a scent I’d known since birth, the sweetness of incense and candle, the musty dampness of the stone, and the sharp tang left by the people of the village. I inhaled the sourness of Father Rorke. Mum’s smell was here, and mine, but not Da’s.

 

“Breed?”

 

I gasped and pushed tighter back against the door.

 

“Why do you come here?”

 

The disembodied voice echoed around me. I looked to find its source. My eyes landed on the gold crucifix hung above the altar. Wavering ribbons of light and shadow from the candle flame made the hanging figure dance on its perch.

 

“Is there something wrong?” Father Rorke asked as he emerged from the darkness of the sacristy. “Is your Da still with us?”

 

I exhaled loudly. “Yes, Father. I…I…had to get some air.”

 

“I know the waiting can be difficult, but you should be with your mother now, not playing out and about.”

 

The heat in my gut started again and rose to my head. “It’s because of my mother I’m out. I’m not going to the cloister and I’m not going to be a nun. I don’t want anything to do with you or your church.” I yanked open the door and ran out toward the woods and their darkness.

 

“Breed. Come back here now. You will do as you’re told, or you’ll burn in the devil’s hellfire.”

 

I looked over my shoulder and saw his silhouette in the doorway, but kept on running, my feet slipping on the muddy ground. Icy clouds puffed from my mouth with each breath. I was partway to the woods and the stitch nagged at my side again. Father Rorke wouldn’t chase me. I sat on a boulder at the side of the path to catch my breath. At least the wailing was done. The tears started before I could catch them. I cried for Da who would die without me at his side. I cried for my baby brothers who lost their chance at living. I cried for myself, at the mercy of Mum and the priest. I cried because I was alone.

 

The sound of galloping from the other side of the village broke through my misery. No horses were kept by this place, and I couldn’t think who might ride through so late at night. The pounding of hooves grew louder and curiosity ended my tears. There was a pause as the traveler must have reached the houses, but the pounding hooves started again quickly.

 

Frozen in place, I watched the apparition lessen the distance between us. I saw an eerie outline of the animal in the dark. The horse was black as the night with an unearthly glow that surrounded it like an aura. Sparks struck from the hooves and scattered in the air like fireflies released from hell. A plume of flames erupted from the mouth with every snort.

 

The horseman was tall and wore a long cloak that billowed behind him as he rode. But, something seemed wrong. I shook my head and squinted through the darkness until I was sure. The horse and rider came into full view, sending a hint of rotting flesh ahead of itself. The Dullahan! The headless horseman, messenger of Crom Dubh, came for Da to take his soul to Teach Duinn on his way to the Otherworld across the Western Sea.

 

His rotting head swung high as he held it by the hair, the burning eyes darting from side to side as he hunted for near-dead souls. Another figure straddled the beast behind the dark spirit as they galloped toward me. I knew of no other in the village who might be dying. A shudder trickled down my spine.

 

I wanted to see Da’s soul as he passed, but I couldn’t be noticed by the horseman, or he might blind me with his whip. Other than the stone where I sat, the flatness of the field offered no hiding place. The woods were too far away. I had no choice but to run back to the church, the only haven from the headless spirit and his deathly purpose.

 

Against all reason, I ran at the apparition barreling toward me. The church was farther away than I thought and the pain in my side started right away, slowing my pace. There was nothing to offer cover, so I laid on the ground hunched in a ball to hide my face. The horse’s gait slowed as it neared. The stench of decay overwhelmed me and I retched until I was dry.

 

“Breed.”

 

Da’s voice drew me to turn my face toward him as I wiped my arm across my mouth.

 

“Oh, Da.”

 

He sat at the back of the saddle, a specter bathed in the eerie light of transformation, like those hot summer days when he rose from the pond covered in a sheen of water that sparkled in the sunlight. I was sad to lose him, but not afraid of what he’d become. He held fast to the side of the horseman’s cloak to keep his seat as they rode. His smile was broad and his eyes gleamed.

 

The Dullahan tucked his head back under his arm and covered it with his cloak, the fabric a dark shadow draping his form. He sat still and straight in the saddle while I stared up with my mouth agape. The horse was a giant, as tall as our house, with hooves as big around as Mum’s cooking pot. The aura about the beast was knit of threads of silver and the purest white, all weaving around him. He danced and fussed until his master pulled on the reins to quiet him.

 

“Breed, my girlie.” Da’s voice wavered like it echoed from deep inside a cave. “Death is a wonder, not to be feared.”

 

“I’m not afraid, Da. I’m just sorry you won’t be here anymore.”

 

“Whenever you think of me, I’ll be with you, Breed.”

 

“I know, Da. I know. But it won’t be the same.” The pain in my heart stung from the inside out.

 

A loud howl interrupted. Father Rorke lurched toward us across the field, waving a big golden cross.

 

“Breed! Get back!” the priest shouted.

 

“No, Father. It’s my own Da.” I stood with my feet planted firm and my arms crossed.

 

“Get back! They’ll steal your soul.”

 

The priest made the sign of the cross in the air with the crucifix. He dropped to his knees before he reached us and began to recite his Latin prayers. The words had no effect on Da. The horse snorted once but the Dullahan sat as still as before.

 

“No!” I screamed. “Let me alone. I’m saying goodbye to my Da.”

 

“In the name of Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior, save this child. Unholy demons, return to hell!” Father Rorke screeched.

 

“His god has no sway over us who don’t share his faith,” Da said. “The priest believes as he will. We have our own gods to guide us.”

 

“Stop!” I screamed at the priest. “I don’t want to be saved by your Christ.”

 

At those words, the Dullahan waved his hand and Father Rorke collapsed to the ground.

 

“Have you killed him?” I asked the horseman.

 

“He only sleeps and will remember nothing when he wakes,” Da said. “We do not interfere in his faith.”

 

I tiptoed toward the priest until I saw his chest rise and fall. A stuttering sigh escaped from deep inside me. The night air felt damp on my skin and I hugged my arms around myself. Except for Father Rorke’s deep breathing, the night was still as death’s company. I looked toward the village and wondered what Mum was doing, sleeping or crying over Da or looking up at the stars in heaven. In her heart, she expected I’d return to go with her to the nunnery. I turned back to look at Da’s spirit atop the Dullahan’s horse, bound for the happy lands of the Otherworld. He would gladly take me there with him and I’d never have to leave him.

 

I loved them both for their own ways, Mum and Da. I didn’t want to pick one for the other, yet I had to make a choice.

 

The sudden singing of a nightingale erupted from the woods. The season was early for its arrival, but now it served as messenger from the Otherworld. I listened for the meaning in its song and smiled.

 

Da held out his hand as I neared the Dullahan. “Ah, my girlie. Will you come with me then, Breed? To the Otherworld where the sun shines and we’ll want for nothing.”

 

“No, Da. I can’t come with you. I’m not ready for death. There’s too much waiting for me in this world yet.”

 

His face sagged. “So, you’ll go with your mother then, to be a nun in the Christ’s faith.”

 

“No, I don’t hold that belief true enough to be bound captive by them for the rest of my life.” I gazed at his face, his whole body sheathed in that ghostly light. “I’ll go to Eithne and learn the old ways from her. She’ll teach me healing and the words I need to know. When she passes, I’ll take on her work and fill her place. Someone must be ready to carry the old ways forward so they won’t be forgotten. I will be that someone.”

 

The horse whinnied and shook its head, tossing threads of phantasmic light through the darkness.

 

“Breed, I must go.” Da’s face was radiant. “My heart is breaking to leave you behind, but you’ve made a proper choice. I’m proud of you, girlie.”

 

“Thank you, Da. I’ll miss you. I’ll hold you in my heart forever.”

 

“And I’ll welcome you to the Otherworld someday.”

 

“Goodbye, Da.”

 

The Dullahan jerked the reins and the horse reared up on its hind legs. I waved and Da waved back before the horseman and steed took off, speeding through the night. Just before they reached the forest, they disappeared. A dim aura remained for a few seconds before it faded away. I glanced at Father Rorke curled up on the ground and snoring in his sleep. I gazed back at the village where all was dark and quiet.

 

With a last look up at the sky, I turned and walked toward the woods in the direction of Eithne’s hut. The trills of the nightingale’s song wove through the trees to guide my way.

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Susan E. Rogers lives in sunny St. Pete Beach, Florida, USA transplanted from Massachusetts. Her move was the catalyst to focus on her life-long ambition to write. Her other interests include genealogy and psychic spirituality, often twisting these into her writing. She self-published her first book in 2018 about her own psychic experiences, and published an occult thriller with an indie press in Sept. 2023 with another planned for release in 2024. A supernatural mystery novel is under contract with another publisher for a planned release in 2024. Starting in 2020, her short fiction has been published in print anthologies and several literary and genre magazines, including Cobra Milk Literary, Bluing the Blade, Luna Station Quarterly, Grande Dame Literary, Literary Mama, Personal Bests Journal, and Horror Tree's Trembling with Fear.

Visit her website: www.susanerogers.com

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