[Mortal Things] Chapter 2: Snow on the Rath

In a quiet Irish village in 1894, dressmaker Bridget Cleary lives between two worlds: the hearth and market stalls, and the one whispered about in fireside tales. When a stranger with violet eyes appears, Bridget learns of a hidden power tied to an ancient rift between realms. Her secret meetings with him draw the attention of her husband and a community quick to see her as something other than human.

Based on a haunting true story, Mortal Things is a gothic tale of desire, suspicion, and ruin.

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December 2, 1894

My Michael came home last night. It was a beautiful thing, a reunion under a snowy, starry sky. We supped together in the warmth of our cottage, and I was pleased that the barn had enough room for his horse to keep warm as well. The chickens had opinions on their new bunkmate but they will adjust. We all will.

Michael comes with his own belongings, his own thoughts, his own routines. My days and nights are no longer my own. This morning he woke at the same time as I did. We watched the sunrise together and he put on the kettle for father’s tea. He offered to tend the chickens as well but I insisted on keeping my work to myself. It was a kind offer, but he doesn’t have the connection I do with my feathered ladies.

I am glad to have him here, but it changes everything.

Last night I saw something strange in the sky and wondered if it was the Gods of old; Taranis, calling out at the people who abandoned him. Michael had fallen asleep. His day was long and our reunion was passionate. But I was restless; awake and full of energy. I slipped from our bed and wrapped myself in another of Mother’s quilts. Barefoot, I crept outside to feel the night around me.

The grass crunched beneath my feet, encased in the first ice of the season, and I was quite focused on the sensation when suddenly a flash of purple shot across the black sky. It was only for a moment but I heard a crack like thunder and the streak—it was like lightning, but cut across the horizon like a wound ripped open, side to side instead of up and down as lightning usually appears.

Was it lightning after all? I thought this for a moment but it could not be true.

If it were not true though, what else could it be? No other explanation made sense. And all at once I felt a shiver like I was being watched, so I hurried back indoors to the warmth and Michael’s arms. Though he slept, he pulled me close to him in his slumber and I slept contentedly until morning broke.

Now, with the light of day, I can’t help but think of the flash again.

—

“I must take the eggs to market today, Michael.” Bridget was dressed and standing by the table where her husband and father sat breaking their fast.

“Oh ay,” Michael muttered in the midst of a bite, pausing to swallow and then making eye contact with his wife. “Then what’s all this? That doesn’t look like an egg basket,” he said, gesturing with his fork to the tied stack of cloth under Bridget’s arm.

“This is mending for ladies in the square.”

“Can they not do their own?” Michael laughed, looking to Patrick for solidarity.

Patrick chewed at his porridge methodically; eyes cast into the depths of the bowl in front of him.

“Sometimes they can, yes, but I’m quite good at it and faster.”

“Do they pay you for it then?” Michael’s laugh continued, and he reached for a rasher of bacon, tossing it into his mouth, settling into a smile.

“Yes, in fact they do.” Bridget tried her best to speak casually and not allude to the weight of the statement.

“They do, do they!” Michael’s eyes widened and he gulped his food down, looking to Patrick again. “And what d’you have to say about this, Father?”

Patrick let out a laboured sigh. “Bridget is an enterprising young lady and I’d be…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “Remiss if I were to say it hadn’t helped us these past months.”

“But I’ve sent funds enough to support you have I not?” Michael’s face was growing red now and Bridget felt a shrinking inside herself.

“Of course you have, husband. But I have diversions, and when one is offered something in exchange for those diversions it would simply be rude to say no.”

Michael leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, staring past Patrick now. Bridget saw the slightest flickers of emotion in his eyes. The man was thinking, and he was thinking hard.

Bridget waited like a breath held in too long; her mind feeling as if it tilted a little.

For a moment, only the sounds of Patrick’s spoon scraping against the bowl filled the cottage.

“Well,” Michael finally spoke with a sigh. “Who am I then to stop you from receiving well-meant gifts in exchange for diversions you enjoy.”

Bridget lit up as she bent to kiss her husband on the cheek, “I knew you would understand, my love. And, we will speak more of it when I return if you wish. This could help us a great deal.”

“Yes, yes, wife.” Michael accepted the kiss; colouring a little, and waved his hand to minimize the interaction that had just occurred. “But,” he stood now, “allow me a moment at the door.”

Patrick looked up from his bowl and saw a twinge of fear on his daughter’s face before he stood as well, stacked his dishes and cutlery and took it to the sink for washing.

“Of course, anything you wish,” Bridget responded to Michael with a small smile before leading him to the door.

Once outside, they stared at each other a moment, dark eyes searching bright, neither sure of what they hoped to find.

“What was it then?” Bridget questioned with a laugh, more confident than she truly was.

Michael’s face warmed at her tone and he tugged her gently into a hug, “I only wanted to give my wife a proper kiss goodbye.”

Melting into him, Bridget’s smile grew. She knew it. She knew he would understand her work even if he could not truly comprehend the reasoning behind it. A diversion… yes. But to her, so much more. Something of independence to it, something she hadn’t even known she needed until she had it.

When they separated, Michael looked to the barn and back to his wife. “Do you wish to take the horse and cart?”

“Oh, no,” Bridget shook her head. “It’s not a long walk and I enjoy it.”

“Alright my wife,” Michael looked at her a little like she was from another plane. The world of the fairies, perhaps. “Have a good day at market. I’ll be speaking to your neighbours about opportunities that may be available for a man with my skills.”

“Yes, that will be good!” Bridget chirped, “speak with William first. He helps manage the lands and the taxes and knows much about the goings on here. Father can direct you to his cottage.”

William. Michael remembered the name. Tempering his thoughts to it, he responded as expected, with a smile. “I will be sure to go to William before anyone else.”

The two held each other’s eyes for a moment longer.

“All is going to be well, my love.” Bridget spoke with finality, taking his hand in hers briefly and squeezing it before she turned to walk to the gate and onto the main road towards town.

—

The market was a large, bustling space in the central square of Mullinahone. Bridget had been coming here twice a week for the past year, since her hens began laying eggs in quantity. It was where she had picked up most of her connections for sewing and mending work, too. Many of the women in Mullinahone had large families and little time for all the work they had to accomplish, while Bridget, without children and until now, without husband, had the time to spare.

Having set up at a small table, Bridget stood, hands on hips, and looked about her at the various storefronts and homes which surrounded the square. Light, glittery snow drifted past on the breeze and she breathed in deep the smells of a fresh, clean morning peppered with bread, livestock, and sawdust. The weather today was such that she could see her breath, yet the flakes still melted on impact.

“A beautiful morning, isn’t it!” The youthful voice broke Bridget from her thoughts. In her field of vision now, a spritely young woman with flushed cheeks and red hair done hastily up on what passed well enough for a bun.

Johanna Burke was Bridget’s cousin; younger, but old enough to be married with two children and a third on the way. She was the picture of vitality with bright green eyes, comely figure and pleasant disposition. For her, getting married off and starting a family was never a question, only a matter of time and circumstance. This has not been the same for Bridget.

“Yes, it is very beautiful,” Bridget nodded at her and rummaged through a pile of fabric, “I have Janey’s dress ready for you.”

“Oh thank you!” Johanna clapped, “You work so quickly I can’t imagine being able to do the same, there’s just so much to manage at home.”

“I imagine so,” Bridget murmured, eventually pulling a dusty rose frock from the pile and holding it up in front of her.

“It’s perfect! You’d never know she tore the sleeve near off,” Johanna laughed, taking the dress from her cousin. “And here’s the coin for your time.”

Bridget graciously accepted and pocketed the money. “Any time you need help just let me know—though, Michael is with us now so there may be some changes around the house, with the routine.”

“Oh of course! How silly of me. Sometimes I think the babe is taking the thoughts from my head and leaving me with nothing.” Johanna rubbed her stomach reflexively. “When might John and I be able to come by? Perhaps Patrick can come as well. We’d love to bring something to warm your hearth.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Bridget thought now of Patrick, Johanna’s brother who at a time she thought may become her own husband. “We will have time in the coming days, but I’d like for Michael to be able to secure work before we begin social obligations. I think he will feel better for it.”

“Yes, yes,” Johanna nodded, “he would want to do that. Well,” she tucked the dress into a bag she wore over her shoulder and then fussed with her hair a little, “I must be on my way but I’m sure it won’t be long before I see you about town again.”

“Not long at all,” Bridget smiled. “I hope Janey will enjoy having her dress mended.”

“She’s missed it dearly,” Johanna spoke with genuine care. “Thank you again, cousin.”

The two bid farewell and Bridget was left to cast her eyes about the marketplace once again. There was something about it that gave her an energy; a feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she was part of something. Doing something. Was this what men felt when they went to work? Was this why they protected it so? Why, when her father had to stop, he seemed to shrink all at once?

As a girl she’d been told she’d feel butterflies in her stomach when she met the love of her life, but nothing she had felt with Michael could be described as such. However, now, among the stalls and the excitement, what else could she describe it as other than butterflies?

Looking to the clock face on the town hall she could see it was nearly noon. Half of her day was done and soon she’d be making her way home, to Michael, to learn of how he had fared with the search for his own butterflies. Only one piece of mending remained to be handed out and half her eggs were sold, so she was on track to return home empty handed, aside from the coin in her pocket. Exactly the way she liked it.

Eating a piece of cheese from a neighbouring merchant, Bridget was lost in thoughts of the comfort and familiarity of the Mullinahone square when she saw something entirely unfamiliar.

Someone, rather.

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Holly Rhiannon is a Montréal-based writer of dark fiction. She is the author of A Time When Demons and a regular contributor to The Stygian Zine. Her work has also appeared in The Stygian Collection and 13 Haunted Nights. Drawing on folklore, history, and the supernatural, her stories centre on women, power, and the fault lines running beneath everyday life.

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