In An Ancient Place-A Short Story

Majestic swans are common to the Irish landscape and prominent in Celtic myth. This modern adaptation involves two American tourists who become permanent residents.

In An Ancient Place

Acts of witchcraft and tricks played on human beings by the Wee Ones often take place in Ireland’s County Clare. Tales are told of timeless leprechauns, clurichauns and shapeshifters who are still encountered in remote spots left untouched by modern times. One such location, not marked on any map, nestles darkly on the damp eastern shore of an unnamed lough near the ruins of Skahard Castle in Stone Forest townland at the edge of the Burren, Ireland’s stoniest place. 

“We are so blessed to live here in the Burren: a place touched directly by the hand of God,” said Father Breen in his sermon.

Sam and Evie Hane could not understand what he meant. After Mass, they approached the reverend.

“Father, aren’t all places on the Earth touched by the hand of God?” asked Sam.

Breen answered.

“We live here in this special place in the west of Ireland where the land has few adornments. God’s hand is able to touch the bare bedrock as in no other place I know. There is little to keep His power from flowing directly like an electric current into the soul of the Earth”.

Later, over lunch with Mossy and Margaret Quinn, from whom they were renting their bungalow, he asked the same question. Mossy’s answer was quite different from the priest’s. The farmer looked over at his wife who frowned at him.

“Margaret may not agree, but, though I do indeed believe Breen’s Catholic God does touch the lives of us who live in the Burren, He holds only partial sway over the land.  ‘Tis the ancient gods and spirits who share our land that hold more power over it. They were here before the Church’s God came.”

The Americans looked at each other in surprise. Locals were always telling stories about faeries, banshees and leprechauns. The young couple thought the tales were just that: superstitious stories, but here was a supposedly devout Catholic questioning the ability of his own Church to compete with more ancient powers. 

“Do your really believe in these little people?” asked Evie.

“Ye and yer man have been here long enough to know the imps that are our neighbors. Ye just can’t believe yer own senses. If ye seek them out, they be here. They may hide from us in ancient dark lairs, but, if a person mistakenly enters, their power will be felt.”

After returning to their house, Evie wanted to sit quietly in the sunny garden and write in her journal. Sam wanted to make another stab at walking through Quinn’s three fields across Carran Road from their house and down to the isolated northern shore of an unnamed lough which sat at the base of the holy mountain Mullaghmore. He had tried several times before to reach that hidden spot, only to be driven back by heavy showers.

This time the air was dry and warm as he walked out. Last night’s light rain had left the grasses damp, but no puddles lay on the road’s uneven tarmac. In the unmowed upper pasture sun-lit droplets still hung on the seed heads and taller blades. Quinn’s son John had mowed the middle field yesterday, so Sam was sure that if he kept within the tractor’s path he could easily walk through all the pastures without being soaked. 

Walking from the gate down across the first field to the second gate, he followed a wide swath of bent grass, crushed down to the damp ground by the tractor. Some of the blades were beginning to stand back up in the sun’s drying heat, but he was able to pick his way through, only dampening his hikers. As he moved down the hill his pace quickened. The grade became steeper as he approached the bottom-most field. Ahead he could see only stubble in the path remaining from the recent mowing and that several wide puddles were ponded in deep tractor wheel tracks. It looked as if his plan to stay relatively dry would not work out, but he was determined to reach the destination: a thick, dark copse of scrub hazel beyond a moss-covered stone wall adjacent to the water’s edge. As he neared the stone wall, he sensed that this could be one of the ancient places Mossy mentioned during their Sunday conversation.

Sam had hiked up a nearby boreen a few days earlier to a famine road on the high stony ground just across the lake from where he now stood. At that time, he spied two mute swans: one a large pen, or female, the second her smaller cygnet. With his telephoto lens he had been able to get a few panoramic shots of the swans, small white specks between a foreground of water and background of smooth grey limestone. He was surprised that a mature cob, or male, was not with the two because swans are wont to mate for life.

Something must have happened to the cob.

As he peered across the wall top to the hazel thicket, it looked within to be as dark as night. Heavy ivies with trunks thick as a man’s arm wrapped around stunted trees. All surfaces, trunks, branches, ground, even the stone boundary wall itself, were carpeted with thick moss so darkly green that it appeared blue in some places. The only sounds he could hear were the susurrus of gentle breezes moving across the field of grass and waves of lake water lapping the shore.

It was only as he lifted his left leg to climb over the wall that he realized how soaked his jeans were. His legs had become so damp and cold that they were numb. As he pressed at moss on the wall with his hand, he realized it was 6” thick and saturated. Never before had he seen such moss. What appeared to be trunks as thick as his thigh, were thin as a man’s wrist, but wrapped in a thick green blanket. The thicket must not have seen direct sunlight for a long time, perhaps decades or even longer.

As Sam sat on the wall and swung his wet legs over to the shady side, he realized that he had completely left the bright sun behind and entered into a dusky darkness. While his eyes adjusted to the drastic change, a splashing sound came from beyond the hazel. Hairs on his neck and head stood at attention. He began to wonder if his exploration was ill-advised. Yet, curiosity made him stand and look more closely. Then he heard more splashing and a sound like laughter.

“It must be the two swans,” he said out loud to himself, as if speaking to a companion. The thought that he could explain the noises slowed his racing pulse. He had watched these majestic birds many times as they peacefully swam along the shores of the lake, so there was nothing to fear. 

He sat down once more on the wall and rolled up both pant legs to let his cold ankles dry. The moss on the wall was so thick that it was like sitting on a rain-soaked pillow. Suddenly a swan honked out either a warning or a greeting loud enough to make him jump up from the wet seat. He stared into the tangled underbrush trying to make out what it was that thrashed unseen several yards away. Then he heard cackling laughter and a shouted question.

“Why speak to thyself, Yank? You are quite alone, except for we visitors.” 

He tried to turn tail and sprint from the danger which he sensed was upon him. Try as he might, however, his legs and arms were paralyzed. They felt numb.

Two tiny figures emerged from the darkness; both draped in green moss cloaks. Hats on their heads were nothing more than large green ivy leaves into which swan feathers, as long as each imp was tall, had been stuck to keep the hats in place. The larger of the two had long white hairs on its wrinkled chin and steadied itself on a stiff blackthorn briar cane with large sharp thorns and leaves still attached. The smaller demon thrashed on the damp ground, grabbing its exposed pink belly and laughing wildly. Most of its body was covered with feathers.

The larger thing spoke.

“It will do no good to try an escape. We have ye now. We like visitors, especially men. We do not get too many here on this side of the wall, but when they arrive, we like to keep them for a while. You can help with chores, find food for my little one and perhaps give me another bairn. It’s not been easy on us since his Da’ was lost.”

It laughed in a broken high-pitched metallic tone like a trumpet. 

Sam understood that he was now under a spell. The hairs on his arms and legs began to turn into feathers. At first his mind raced out of control as he thought of all that was lost: his human life gone forever. When his consciousness became focused on his new life as a swan, his human thoughts and memories dimmed and a calming trance came over him.

The two creatures shed their costumes on the ground and returned to the fully feathered forms of mother and cygnet. They no longer were weird or frightening to Sam. They were the same as what he had become: a wild bird who would swim on the lake, eat small fish and insects from grass growing out of the lake sediments and preen himself.

His new life became a very simple existence. He did occasionally experience fear, such as when a hungry grey fox approached and he honked a warning to his family. When he swam to the opposite shore where food was plentiful, a raging gale might blow the water into slapping waves twice his height and force him back to his protected cove. 

After a few days he was surprised that a few memories remained from his past life as a sentient human being.

“It is strange. I thought my human mind had been lost, but here I sit recalling so much. My love for Evie remains, but I am not sure I could trust her as a human or even remember exactly what she looks like.”  

As time went on human memories returned less often to his animal mind. He would often see a human strolling on the far lake shore. Its hair was long and blew in the wind. It wore a long cloak and stood motionless for long periods. At these times he felt a strange fleeting sensation of familiarity which swiftly vanished as he moved silently away from the shore to escape the threat of a human.

He lost all sense of time. When it was cold, the lake water hardened. When it was warm, flies buzzed around his head. Flying, he could see the light of the sun reflected in the water below him. It looked the same as it did in the sky above his head. When he flew higher the water appeared to be a darker blue.

Evie wandered alone on the shore most every day.  Several times she tripped on large boulders and fell into shallow water, soaking her clothes. She hardly made an effort to eat and her restless nights were filled with crying. Mornings she might stare for hours across the fields, not even aware of where she was. The local police, the Garda, launched their search and investigation. A detective interviewed her several times, but to her mind there was no progress in the case.

The Quinns helped her to make a more thorough search. Mossy recalled seeing Sam enter his fields through the steel gate. Son John thought tracks found in the muddy lower pasture were Sam’s. It was there that the farmer stumbled on a bundle of neatly folded, sodden jeans and sweatshirt wrapped around a pair of muddy hikers. Swan feathers were strewn about the area.

After more than a month of searching and praying, Evie thought that there had to be some alternatives to Christian prayers for divine help. Perhaps ancient Celtic rituals still practiced by modern Druids in the area might prove more successful. When she broached the subject with the Quinns, John mentioned that his friend Dualta was a follower of ancient beliefs. He would check with him.

Intrigued by the kidnapping, John’s friend was willing to join in the hunt and ready to try a chant that he said was used to appeal to the Wee Ones. On a sunny, bright June morning, he and Evie met in the lower field. They piled Sam’s clothes on the damp ground below the wall where they had been discovered a month before. Four clean swan feathers, one for each of the four primary directions, were spread compass-like on top of the clothes and a dark black stone was set where the quills crossed. Dualta was very tall for an Irishman, so it was easy for him to climb upon the wall. In a momentary breeze a shaft of sunlight snuck in between the tangle of hazel and gnarly ivy above him, shining directly on this somber display. The light made a dramatic contrast of radiant white feathers against the shiny black stone which had been selected from the top of holy Mullaghmore and polished for the ceremony. 

Dualta removed his shirt and shoes and put a folded seat of canvas on the damp moss. Not wishing to do anything to interfere with the power of his performance, Evie sat on the damp, cold, stubbly ground twenty feet behind the wall with a tarp beneath her.  As Dualta raised his arms to the sky and turned his head to address each of the four directions, she wondered if his words and chants would be understood by the ones who had captured Sam. Hell, she thought, I can’t understand it at all, but there is a chance that the hobgoblins will at least understand the spirit behind the words. At least he is doing something. The Garda have failed to turn up a clue. Locals seem to accept the disappearance as just another soul lost to an ancient power.

She spied neighbor Quinn standing behind the metal fence at the top of the highest field. What the Irishman was thinking about such chants rising from the dark copse mattered little to her. After all, it was he who had told her and Sam of demons who might live on the lough shore. It was he who spoke of powers that the imps might use to capture people. What Dualta was now doing was no stranger than those beliefs.

Loud thrashing within the dark hazel grove disturbed her thoughts. The sounds were a mix of splashes, a series of harsh whistles, a cackle and then a banshee howl. He turned to her for a moment with a wild look of fear and excitement, eyes bulging, mouth twisted in the toothy crooked grin. His chanting continued, but much faster and louder than before. He pointed to something on the ground in front of him and clapped his hands four times.

Evie couldn’t see what it was that made such a racket. She was still staying back, but now out of fear as well as caution. As the howling became louder and the young man began clapping faster, she suddenly jumped up from her seat and mounted the wall next to him. Again, he clapped four times. Then she did. Then he. Back and forth they went until they were in a rhythm like two aboriginal drummers sending messages across the Burren plain.

Three beings emerged from the thicket in a rowdy procession, making her heart begin to race. First came a demon cloaked in green moss, a huge hazel leaf stuck on its pointed head and its protruding fat belly blotched with feathers and pieces of swan down. It dragged a smaller thing behind, tugging on its long neck and feathery arm to move it roughly over the brambles. The little imp sang out a series of high-pitched whistles while groveling along on its down covered belly. Behind these two devils followed a radiant cob who towered over its companions. He trod gracefully on the uneven path of broken branches and fallen leaves. Then, standing proud and tall with both wings spread wide on either side of his head, he let out the loudest screaming honk that either human had ever heard.

“Scrawnk! Scrawnk!”, he called out to them.

She was frightened by the sound but thought that there must be a meaning to the calls. Did it mean to say hello or was it a warning to run for safety before something evil happened?

“Scrawnk! Scrawnk!” came even louder.

She sensed that danger was at hand and turned to move into the sunny place behind the wall. The swan calls held her frozen in place.

The larger demon screamed at the radiant cob.

“Shut up, ya bullock! Keep your beak shut tight! Ye ha’ not been with us long enough to learn how dangerous these humans can be to swans. So shut your hole, ya bullock.”

Evie and Dualta both wanted to jump from the wall and escape, but they could not move. Their voices were stilled, so that they could not cry out for help. Then their hearts, which had been racing wildly, slowed to a near stop.

“We have ye now.” said the larger imp. “We’ve stopped that gawdawful gaggle of words. Roused my man here to a near fury. You humans were cruel enough to kill my first husband. Now, my second one wants you to join us. Threatened to leave us, he did, when you started that cursed ritual.”

As he spoke, all feeling drained from Evie's body and feathers began to grow from her pores. Both humans sat suddenly naked, their clothes mysteriously placed in neat piles on the shady ground behind the wall. They felt no panic as their necks grew longer, arms turned into wings and human feet became three-toed webbed swan feet. When the transformation was complete five swans marched in single file back to their home on the water.

Mossy Quinn, from his uphill position had lost sight of the humans. He thought it strange that they had disappeared behind the wall into such a dark tangle of undergrowth. He was concerned for his American neighbors. He opened the gate, closed it carefully behind and cautiously walked down the tractor path. Nearing the wall, he saw the procession disappear through the ivy and hazel. A medium sized pen led her pudgy cygnet whose down was speckled with dirt and leaves. A cob followed, nuzzling a snow-white pen. In the rear walked a very tall male led along the way by a leaf-speckled pen who held his wing in her bill.

When the farmer spied the two neatly stacked piles of clothes, he immediately knew what had happened. Sam had used the powers of his captors to bring his Evie and friend Dualta to keep him company in a new life. 

Mossy gathered the clothes into one bundle, placed it under his arm and headed back up hill away from the place. After leaving the field and closing the gate securely, he knelt on one knee and said an Our Father then pondered what just happened.

“Even as the old spirits show their powers still reign here in the Burren, the new God may still have some power to protects us.”