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The road across Kerry County was lined with sidhe. Low mounds said to be tombs of the sheeda, who had retreated underground when Séamus’ ancestors had first crossed over to Ireland. Séamus seldom gave them any mind but as the afternoon progressed he found himself looking over his shoulder at the sidhe behind him. He was worried about his words with Éilís. Couldn’t she see he loved her with all his heart? It seemed everything he did was wrong lately. 

  "Conor, old friend, we’ve been through many a perilous adventure together.” He often talked to the horse on long rides. They’d been partners for many years, and he felt they made a good team. “But no journey is so fraught with danger as courting a woman. Count yourself lucky.”

The sidhe grew more numerous, some towering over the road and its lone occupant. The low gray cloud cover was a curdled oppressive mass that looked like brains slipping out of a corpse. Séamus had seen enough of that in his days of soldiering. He urged Conor on. When he arrived at the old county crossroads near sundown, they were waiting for him. 

Two black dogs stood in the center of the intersection. The creatures were massive but he could tell they were starving. Red eyes tracked the wagon as they approached and when the hounds bared their teeth in a low throaty growl, they drooled in anticipation. Conor screeched and bucked, almost overturning the cart. The animals advanced in low crawl, almost on their bellies, snapping and crying as they came. Séamus pulled a hammer from the wagon bed and jumped down. But where the hounds had been only a moment ago there was nothing. He circled the cart but there were only dead leaves and silence. "Mangy curs," he muttered uneasily. 

Darkness fell and he was only halfway to the village of Limerick. Under a great stand of ancient oaks he decided to stop for the night. When Séamus went to unhitch Conor the horse was skittish and wide eyed. Séamus patted him and the flesh crawled under the horse's flank. “Easy boy. I'd never let those hellhounds hurt you. We’ll be out of this forest and on our way at dawn," the blacksmith promised. He led the animal to grass but it would not graze. So he tied it to an oak and built a fire. A ground fog was creeping in. Séamus pulled his shawl over his shoulders and huddled near the warmth. The flames danced and crackled. In the distance the dogs or perhaps wolves howled. He decided to mount up again and drive through the night.

He must have dozed off.

Séamus started. The fire had burned low, barely more than embers now. Something moved in the darkness. No, it was a person just outside the red glow of the fire. A woman. How long had she been standing there? Séamus tried to push himself upright and rub the smoke out of his eyes but his arms were so heavy. “Who’s there? What are you doing out here all alone?”

The figure stepped forward ever so slightly into the smoldering firelight. She was young, only a maid and wearing only a shift, though it was more than chill. “Don’t you know me Séamus? She smiled and tilted her head. Her hair was jet black and her skin as white as ivory. “And I’m not alone. My friends make camp just around the bend. Can't you hear the singing and laughing? No? You will meet them soon enough.”

Séamus was confused. “Know you? How would I know you?”

She came closer and Séamus could smell the scent of pine and lilac. She had the most peculiar blue eyes. Deep as a bottomless well they were. Séamus wondered if he was dreaming. “You are of the ancient families. I have always been near. You know who I am, Séamus of the Uí Néil clan. You came here tonight to be with me.”

“No, I had business in Limerick . . . ” Séamus trailed off. Now he could hear the music and laughter nearby. He could smell lamb cooking on an open spit. The woman held out her hand. “Come now Séamus. There is a warm bed in my tent.” Her eyes were endless and raven black hair floated around her impossibly beautiful face. 

This isn't real, Séamus thought. She'd surely freeze to death wearing only a gown so sheer he could see her breasts rising and falling in the half light. 

              Séamus couldn't seem to breathe. "I'll not go down into one of those mounds.” He struggled to stand up but the very roots of the looming oaks seemed to hold him to the ground. 

She leaned her head back until her pale neck shone in the wan firelight. Then her head kept leaning backwards at an impossible angle until the flesh was drawn taut and began to rip . She screamed. The sound cut Séamus' ears like an ax. Her bloodcurdling wail echoed through the forest and trailed off.

The silence was even worse. 

When the woman raised her head again, she was no longer a young maiden. Her mouth now hung open far too wide, as if her jawbone had come unhinged. Wormlike things crawled in that obscene orifice that had called his name. Ragged bits of flesh clung to a rotting skeleton that smelled of damp soil. But the eyes remained the same, unnaturally blue, colder than the grave, he now realized.

The oak roots held him firm as the banshee towered over him. "Join me under the loam. My" The icy blue eyes regarded him. "You have earned your rest." As it spoke a rustling, skittering sound filled his ears. He looked to his left and a wave of maggots were crossing the forest floor towards his root bound head.

Séamus screamed. 

The banshee emitted a foul exhalation, a death rattle. "Well, that's a pity." The creature swayed and regarded Séamus as he lay helpless. "Before the sun is high, one you love will be dead." The apparition began to disintegrate before his eyes but nevertheless shrieked inconsolably, driving Séamus almost to the point of madness. "You'll be the killer, Sssshheaamus." 

The last flame sputtered out. He was choking to death. In the darkness he tried to gasp "Éilís," but no sound came out.

A bug crawled on him and he jerked upright.

"No!" But it was only an ant. He looked around wildly. There were no maggots, no Banshee. It was dawn.

Was it a dream? Certainly dreamlike. And that was the way of Samhain.

He brought forth a saddle from the wagon and fixed it to Conor in the chill morning air. He cared not what his customer would do. Nothing mattered but Éilís. He left the wagon and all the horseshoes there in the road and headed back to Foraoise at a full gallop.

Séamus had never ridden Conor so hard. The sun had climbed above the hills when Séamus arrived at their straw thatched cottage on the outskirts of the village. He jumped from the exhausted, gasping horse with an ax in his hand. He was tired and confused , but no one was going to harm his beloved.

“Éilís! Éilís Lanigan are you alright?” He called and pounded on her door. He grew frustrated and he swung the ax back to break it in two when Éilís threw back the door. Her eyes grew wide at the site of Séamus standing over her ax in hand. 

“What on earth? Séamus are you alright?”

  He dropped the ax and drew her into his arms. 

  “Séamus I’m so sorry for the way I carried on. I didn’t mean a word of it. I’m lucky to have you.” Éilís laid her head on his massive chest.

He began to tell the story of the black dogs and the banshee when a neighbor called out, “Séamus come quick!”

Dread filled the blacksmith. Séamus and Éilís ran out of the cottage to find Conor collapsed in the garden, stiff and cold. Séamus kneeled beside the horse but it was already clear that Conor's old heart was done beating. Éilís held the weeping man.

“Tricked me,” he sobbed. She tricked me into riding him too hard.”