Nobody batted an eye while the man with the carrion-crow mask handed the little girl flowers of violet. Not even the young farmhand, who stood by the dank estuary with a slender torch and makeshift antler horns of wood. Turning away from the tall, strange man in the woods, the farmhand slipped back into the firelight of the village festival of Samhain; the final day of October was setting upon this village, with the moon in a deep shroud behind grey clouds and rousing smog. A shrewd chill caressed the fair skin of many village folk, but the blazing flames and veiled costumes warded off the frigid omen.
In tandem, sultry oranges and fiery reds danced off the slender and depressing beak of the stranger, as he remained on a single knee in front of the little girl. Prominent cracks and shavings of deteriorating birch were beginning to show on the faded white of the bill, and those two eye-holes were merely part of a sunken lake at dusk. Still, the little girl grinned and giggled at the ridiculous mask, bearing her own pair of tiny, wooden antlers.
She asked the silent and dignified man: “Why doesn’t your mask look like the others? It looks dangerous and pointy.”
The stranger’s head lowered slightly towards his chest, brushing against the mantle of dead leaves; these crisp and colourful pigments of nature lined the entirety of his neck, acting as a warm pelt one would wear during the winter solstice. Slowly, he reached the backside of his leather-gloved hand to brush down the little girl’s cheek. “Ye are fair, but ye danced around the flame of cattle thrice sunwise.” He spoke softly, as though this voice did not belong to him.
Perhaps it was stolen—his voice. And maybe yet, the little girl knew this, for she now wrapped her arms taut around the nearest fir tree; her village had been blessed with their rich verdants, warding off bitter spirits from entering their tiny village in Meath—a spacious and Holy land of Celtic worship and Pagan practices unto nature, surrounded by a vast woodland and towering spirits of festivity.
“Where would ye like to go, little one?”
The carrion-man’s voice was silky, but the hollow of the wooden beak recused its butter-slick tune—muffling the inquiry with a freakish reverberation.
The little girl paused for a moment. “Where do others dance? I think I would like to go there.” The gifted flower stung sharply in her hand, but she held it tightly as she mumbled into the old tree.
And so, the tall man with the carrion-crow mask took her tiny hand in his, sauntering slowly towards the quiet marsh ahead. Craning his head back to the raging flames of the Samhain festival, the carrion-man watched as many humans danced their sweltering flesh around the heaps of offered livestock—many hopping and tripping into loved ones as they hesitantly threw away their spot in the dance. Of course, it was obvious as to why this was; the souls of the living were never ready to face their awaited fates on the night of Samhain.
When the little girl turned her face to stare up at the carrion-man, her golden locks formed their own mantle at the base of her neck. “What is the flower’s name?”
“Wolfsbane,” he answered, without so much as a breath to ponder.
The little girl giggled with a childish croak. “Does it nip?”
A curt nod was the only response that left the carrion-man’s rangy stature. Slowly, he took to his knee, dipping two fingers into the murky bog that rested, now, at their feet. There, he mumbled a chant of sorts—one which stole away the little girl’s curiosity as she stood in timid nature behind the man; for before her eyes, a gargantuan monster of shimmering verdant and fallen leaves emerged from the deep water. Upon meeting its beady eyes with the little one, it bowed its head in a plodding manner, paying no mind to the carrion-man.
“Oilliphéist, I require assistance. Imprudent passage across the marsh would prove unbefitting for this young one.”
The water-serpent, known as Oilliphéist, reared its long and slender neck as it glared down upon the carrion-man. “Is the dusk of Samhain arrived yet?” it spoke in its baritone bite.
The carrion-man nodded his head as he reached a careful arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “It has, Oilliphéist.” The disquieting crow mask tilted upwards slightly, causing a few leaves to fall from his cloak to the ground below.
Once more, the serpentine creature looked down towards the little one. Then, it sighed.
The carrion-man did not join with Oilliphéist in staring at her. Instead, he continued: “I have met with the one who danced thrice sunwise. Thus, I am to be granted passage across the marsh, for this flower will never bloom in such a dank locus.”
Oilliphéist scowled with a burning grin. “An appraisal of mankind may yet be in order.” Then, it brought its snarling snout and piercing fangs down to the little girl’s height, brushing tenderly against her clothed chest of ebony and white.
The carrion-man cupped his hands together as he gestured for the girl to use his palms as a stepping stone. Giggling, she practically leapt off the makeshift stool, wrapping her arms around Oilliphéist’s viscid neck with a content sigh. “Your turn, mister!” she exclaimed with a rosy tint in her cheeks.
The carrion-man did not appreciate his calling of that honorific, but Oilliphéist seemed to quite enjoy this shroud of discomfort that now clouded its backside.
Quickly, the masked man launched himself up onto the thick tail of the creature, holding on with shaky arms as his beak now pointed down towards Oilliphéist’s slippery flesh. The girl laughed at this.
Here, a guttural purring emanated throughout its serpentine stature, nearly knocking the carrion-man off its jagged tail.
“I think it likes us,” the girl chippered. ‘It reminds me of our field kitty. But I’m not sure if Oilliphéist enjoys chasing crickets, or not.’
The carrion-man clicked his tongue, while Oilliphéist craned its neck to bare its fangs and smirk through its slimy snout. “My body is not privy to versatility, but I do enjoy watching little rodents cower and squirm,” it remarked, staring down at the man who was holding on for dear life.
He’d had enough. “Let me up, Oilliphéist, or the wolfsbane will wilt!”
“And let it!” Oilliphéist bellowed.
Not startled by the water-creature’s sudden encroachment, the little one suddenly stretched out her smooth arm, reaching for the carrion-man as she grunted a huff of discomfort. “Take my hand, mister! Oilliphéist’s backside is certainly tricky to stay seated on!”
The serpentine monstrosity laughed with thunderous applause. “Only when a poison lurks near my scales, little one.”
“Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man bit back.
Immediately, Oilliphéist’s scales rattled and peaked, and its flesh grew quickly frigid in the bog. The carrion-man’s cruel slick of his tongue had finally penetrated the creature’s tough scales; here, it hoisted its tail out of the water to allow slippery passage to its backside.
“We will travel across the marsh, to the bed of wolfsbane. There, we will dance until dawn.”
And then, Oilliphéist set off through the murky water, gliding silently downstream as the three passed many sunken trees and odd creatures that cackled and hummed as they all met eyes. But Oilliphéist’s strokes through the bog soon slowed, as a ribcage of rotting trees and fir ancestry depressed inwards. Here, a cascade of violet flowers began to twirl down from their decaying branches; many kissed at the little girl’s cheeks, while they fell furthest from the carrion-man.
She took notice of this immediately, sliding down the hump of Oilliphéist to reach him. There, she fell down against his chest, bracing herself as her arms wrapped around the crisp cloak of the carrion-man.
“Why aren’t the wolfsbane nipping at you, mister?” She looked up at the daunting serenity of his beak.
Quickly, he pulled her close—holding her to his silent chest, as he grabbed a gentle pallet of golden hair. With a whisper, he spoke: “Because they know only life.”
Oilliphéist came to a steady halt as the wolfsbane began to fall from the trees in a mere maddening waltz, obscuring the girl’s vision as the carrion-man pulled away from their still embrace. Then, he slid off the creature’s scaly tail, before extending a gloved hand to her.
“I think my feet hurt, mister.”
But the carrion-man reached his arms out to take the little girl in his own, being careful as not to drop her into the abyssal stream of the marsh below. Oilliphéist reared its head to look down at the both of them, with a dismaying amount of ashen smoke circulating its gaping nostrils.
“Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man spoke with a slow nod. “I thank thee, as usual. Until the next dance, may we meet.”
Oilliphéist dropped its head to conjoin with the carrion-man’s height, before whispering in its thunderous tone: “Go n-ullamhuighe an diabhal teinne dhuit.” And the serpentine water-creature set off into the dank and dreary marsh, its verdant shine disappearing quickly into the thick mist.
The little girl watched with her hands balled together against her flat chest, nodding farewell to the creature with an uncertain grin.
At this, a reclusive chuckle left the carrion-man’s throat. “Tell me, now,” he whispered gently, “how supple are those soles ye bear?”
And she grinned like a toddler as she pinched the silky hems of her dress and kicked up her feet from the frail mulch.
“I use them to dance,” she exclaimed.
He took her right hand, smoothing over the faint beginnings of youthful veins with his large, leather thumb. “Naturally so, little one. Then, would ye fancy a dance around my glorious pyre?”
“Yes! Oh, yes, mister, I would love that!”
With his hand still in hers, the carrion-man nodded down at the little girl, leading her by the hand as their shadowless figures disappeared into the forest. No birds were present to chortle hopeless birdsong for a dawn that would never come; still, the wolfsbane fell silently in tandem with a ghostly wind, taking on the figures of saintly songbirds in the little girl’s eyes.
Upon sifting through pointed sprigs and mounds of dead leaves, the pair reached the grand, sultry heat of a pyre. Immediately, the little one ran off towards the encroaching heat, which, to her surprise, did not sway the blonde hairs on her arms; because there, prancing around the convivial rocks and logs, were tens of cattle with thick tufts of fur and limbs, all intact. No fire was to be found, but the bleating of cattle filled the air in a much friendlier manner than flame, crackling in the little girl’s ears as she eagerly fell into line behind a stout cattle—while one of gangly stature pranced at her rear.
They didn’t speak. Only hundreds of beady eyes fell upon her, horizontal pupils stretched thinner than a raisin, as they stared into the front and back of her golden locks. Still, they danced in their large circle, now hobbling to their hind legs. The little girl quickly wound her arms around the two cattle beside her, flicking her ankles upwards as she pranced along the soft mulch.
“Those antlers complement those golds just beautifully! O, it is only in my nature to fall envious!” the stout cattle spoke.
The little girl’s eyes widened as she watched the animal’s pale muzzle align perfectly with the chipper, feminine speech.
“Really?” the gangly cattle added. “I thought they were the fangs of some rapacious hog!”
The little one swiftly shook her head, laughing as she caught her breath from the intricate dance. “It is an honour to speak with you both! I’ve always dreamt of talking with such strange creatures.”
Immediately, the gangly cattle reared its head back, bleating loudly with a snort. “What a preposterous accusation, young lady!”
“Strange?” the stout cattle blurted out.
The third voice that followed was from that of a male cattle. “You, too, dance thrice sunwise around the pyre. Do you not?”
“You’re right,” she replied. “You are not strange. Across the marsh, none of you are afraid to dance around the fire. Back home, nobody dances thrice sunwise.”
Standing, arms dangling stiffly at his sides, stood the carrion-man with his splintering beak and soulless gaze; for a man with no eyes to look into, nurtured no soul. His cloak rustled against the ground, as countless leaves were whisked away from its virulent drag. Quickly, he fell in line with the cattle dancing opposite of the set sun, to which the little girl’s hand disappeared within the dark leather of his gloves.
“Across the marsh, they aren’t afraid to dance!” she shouted over the bleating.
He looked down at her brittle antlers. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
She nodded along. “Oh, yes, mister. I think I quite enjoy it across the marsh.”
Carefully, he slipped more wolfsbane behind her ears. “Thank ye for passage, little Niamh,” he whispered.
Then, without a moment to puppeteer her smile any further, she collapsed into his arms.
The first peak of the new dawn began to shine through the twisted and cruel branches of the woodland, causing the cattle to fall out of line and bleat amongst one another. A light grey now seduced Niamh’s fair skin, twisting her youth into rot and decay; but the wolfsbane remained untouched, tucked far behind her ears. The very sight of such a pretty thing nipped bitterly at the carrion-man, and he leaned back in solitude as Niamh’s face grew sunken and dry.
Slowly, he cradled her in his arms, stalking towards the abandoned pyre. Here, he placed her down against the dark mulch, allowing the Earth to taste her fair skin for the first time. The dirt parted for a moment, inching back from the girl in its distaste, before the small wolfsbane fell from her ears to the ground; it was quickly swallowed up by the leaves, to which the ground then took Niamh into its motherly embrace.
The carrion-man, of course, never learned of the little girl's true name; Niamh had been prodding at his throat from the moment he had first handed her the wolfsbane. He suspected that the gold of her hair and the divinity of her youth had placed that name upon his bill; and perhaps learning of her life across the marsh would have sullied the grace of her being. But that was the dutiful call of the wolfsbane, and the carrion-man swiftly shed his deathly mantle, scurrying into the final, remaining shadows of the new dawn.
There, beside the amalgamated twist of branches and leaves, remained the abandoned pyre, wrapped around a bed of youthful wolfsbane; and in the middle of it all, were the slender sprigs of two, makeshift antlers poking out from the mulch.
They complemented the pyre beautifully.
Dani Arieli is a published poet and lover of weird, dark, and archaic literature. She has multiple works published in B222 journal, and two forthcoming publications in Beyond Words and The Familiars magazine. She is currently working towards her Honours Bachelor of Creative Writing and Publishing degree at Sheridan College. During most writing sessions, her black cat sits atop her lap while she fervently taps away at her keyboard; she very much enjoys having a writing partner who can meow. You can visit her website, daniarieli.com for further authorial information.
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