D-A-Skelly

BRENDAN and THORA

By

D-A-Skelly

     A peat bog is particularly lonely never more so on a storm-driven night. It’s a time when the banshee howls claiming midnight for her own. With hair streaming down her back, garnet eyes alight with pain the banshee hovers watching and waiting for who knows what. Her age is timeless to all intent and purpose she is a prisoner of time itself.

795 AD

     As the longboat pushed its way up the narrow river the Norse warriors were on high alert. Carefully watching the landscape as it passed them by. It seemed fertile, just the place they were looking for.

     Thora was by this time battle-hardened a shield maiden who has earned her place among the warriors. Ragnar her soulmate has been killed.

      As he lay dying Thora took his sword and made sure it was in his hand. Valhalla was assured. She looked forward to the day when they would be reunited. However, her first duty was to the unborn. She cherished the idea of Ragnar’s child. It made her more fierce and determined if that was possible.

     The monastery was easy to sack the Norse warriors left nothing useful and those who attempted to escape were cut down. A few bedraggled prisoners, mostly young men and women were spared. This was the start of the Irish invasion and the birth of the Celts. 

     Over the next two decades they ventured further inland, small settlements sprang up in their path. Thora was now middle-aged by the standards of the day. Her daughter is a grown woman and the image of her long-dead father.

     It could be said that Thora had grown complacent with her surroundings. The local inhabitants always had a healthy respect for the wetlands, she did not. One stormy day she was out hunting fowl and found herself trapped in the bog.

     The peat closed around her as relentlessly night fell.  Thora died without a sword in her hand. This death was not noble or worthy.

      Dying she cursed the gods and anything she could think of. Her burial ground was unmarked and never found Or perhaps it’s better to say it has not been found yet. The bog is always reluctant to give up its secrets but it does relinquish them when the time is right.

     21st Century 

     Brendan is a conservationist, passionate about his work and interests. He worries about the declining state of the planet he’s anxious to make a difference.

     As a young boy, he fell in love with the wildness of the peatlands.  He kept his grandfather company through the summer months when the men were cutting turf. He has so many happy memories of that time, happy long days stacking turf ready for the winter months. Those early years ingrained in him a love for the wetlands in all their diversity.

     It was supposedly spring but the weather was unseasonably cold. The wetlands are still in the grip of an Irish winter. But things had to be assessed and wildlife accounted for. Brendan worked alone, in fact, it suited him fine he was the original loner. All of his reports and observations could be sent to the department by email. He really was a free agent and very good at his job.

     Toward the end of the day, Brendan hiked to where the turf cutting had taken place. It’s an alien landscape with its neat trenches, waterlogged now from winter rain. The cut turf lies under a tarpaulin. 

     It brings back so many memories. Like Thora all those centuries ago he missteps and finds himself trapped. But the modern world has many advantages. His mobile phone comes to the rescue. However, the downside is he will have to wait until morning before anyone can get to him.

     As night closes in the weather changes and not for the better. The wind turns into a spiteful squall with a noise that could drive a person insane. Hunkered down uncomfortable with his trapped legs he leans on his backpack. Covered with a waterproof poncho a long night stretched before him.

      His thoughts turn towards his parents, his adoptive mother and father. They had always been honest about his origins, and he never questioned them. Although when he looked at his parents he had to smile at their brown eyes and even darker hair. His ice-blue eyes, ginger hair and beard spoke of his Nordic heritage.

    Midnight approaches with a noise like a thousand screams. Before his eyes, a banshee materialized, nauseated with disbelief Brendan stares back unable to think. The apparition flies around making an appalling keening sound then unexpectedly sinks into a peat cutting next to him. She vanished with an ear-splitting scream. The rest of the night was endless. He played the experience over and over again. His eyes rooted to the spot where she disappeared. 

     Tramping feet early in the morning was a welcome sound, locals have come to extricate him armed with spades and a thermos of hot coffee. Free at last Brendon asks the men to dig pointing out where. They raise their eyebrows but steeped in country lore his tale is not mocked. When they find a mummified body The men are respectful but Brendon is not surprised.

     This seems compelling evidence, the banshee who is never mocked and taken quite seriously has a purpose. A messenger from fallen souls maybe? Thora might not have found Valhalla  but a deferential public will consider her life. People will ponder over her mummified remains wondering what had happened, what was her story? While Ragnar in Valhalla forever waits with their daughter.