[Mortal Things] Chapter 3: Mortal Things

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.

---

Days went by and Bridget saw no more of the strange flash in the sky, nor of the stranger whose eyes matched its shade. With the help of William, Michael had made contact with a small local guild of crafters, one of whom was a cooper. The man was all too happy to take on another pair of working hands and introduce Michael to the business owners who may require his services.

And so, as the temperature cooled, the cottage warmed. Michael was happy, and so was Bridget. The couple spent their evenings singing, dancing, and playing music. Sometimes Bridget would read or sew as her father and husband drank their pints, played cards, and told tales from their life as labourers. Neighbours came by and joined the merriment, all of them remarking on how well-suited the young couple were. Patrick Boland smiled often.

Michael became used to Bridget’s activities at the market and was especially pleased when he began adding up how much their incomes would be together, and how quickly they could save funds for the next step in their shared life.

Yet, even with the joy surrounding her, Bridget couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen. Her nights were spent staring longingly up at the sky, hoping for anything; any kind of sign of what she’d seen before. Her eyes would play tricks on her. She’d think a star had a purple aura, then blink and it would glow white once again. At the market she spent more time staring out at the crowd then chatting with shoppers asking about her chickens; her mending prices.

Bridget was a woman distracted.

—

It was a week before Christmas when she saw him again. The wind was bitter cold and the market had moved indoors, into a large warehouse which had been repurposed for community use. It was warmer than the town square but still quite cold to stand in for a full afternoon. Crafters and marketers would bring a brick or two with them, warming it on an outdoor fire before wrapping it in cloth and setting it down near their table, putting their feet up on it or their hands on it when they weren’t serving a customer. All except Bridget.

“Really, I’m fine without!” She laughed as a customer offered to wrest a brick from a nearby beer merchant.

“The man’s got enough lard on him to keep him warm all through the winter,” the man laughed as his eyes darted to the merchant and back to Bridget again.

“Oh hush,” she spoke quietly. “My blood has always run hot. It was a mystery to my mother and father both. And the day is almost through anyhow. But I do appreciate the offer. Especially considering Thomas there could tear you limb from limb if he liked.”

Laughing, the man sighed, “Alright then, I’ll take my eggs and be on my way.” Tipping his hat, he left her table, moving on to the next.

Bridget shook her head, smiling as the man left; now, busying herself with the state of her table. As people came through they often moved her wares about, displacing neat stacks and egg boxes, even breaking eggs in the process of examining them.

Today, this had happened. But luckily for Bridget she had an ability the other salespeople did not: the bit of magick in her veins. Carefully, she opened the box where she knew the broken egg lay and held it in her hand. It glowed a moment before becoming whole once again.

“Excuse me.” The voice was smooth as silk; warm, and strange for this region. She’d never heard the accent before.

With a jump, Bridget quickly closed the egg box and looked up.

Her eyes were met with purple.

The man from all those days ago was now standing in front of her, his elegant fingers dancing across folded fabrics, lifting their corners and examining their weave with an awareness other shoppers did not possess.

“Y-yes!” She spoke quickly, straightening out her skirts and standing up rigidly.

Had he seen her fix the egg?

“I heard tell that you offer mending services, and I have need of them.” His fingers paused, lifting from the fabrics and into a bag now, bringing out a folded item made of beautiful brocade. He placed it on the table, delicately unfolding it to reveal that it was a waistcoat.

“You see,” he continued, “there’s quite a problem with the lining.” He opened either side now to reveal the rich purple lining indeed had a large slash straight across it.

“Oh yes, that is a problem indeed!” Bridget laughed, reaching her hands out to examine the vest further. As she did, they slid across the man’s fingers for which she uttered a quick apology.

“It’s nothing,” the man laughed. “Do you think there’s anything to be done?”

Holding the vest up, she nodded. “Oh of course, I imagine I’ll need to re-line it though. It may take a few days.”

“Well!” He smiled, “that’s all I needed to hear. I will leave it with you then. And the cost?”

“Two shilling for the job, one for now and one when it’s done.”

“Very reasonable for such beautiful work.” He spoke in that lyrical tone again as he reached into his pocket, taking out a purse. He then laid one shilling in Bridget’s hand.

“Thank you. And—might I ask your name sir?”

The man had started to turn away, but paused now, turning back. “Strange skies we’ve been having lately,” he said simply. Before she could respond, he tipped his hat and left the marketplace.

–

December 18, 1894

It’s a week until Christmas. Today is the final day I will go to market until the new year. It’s time to be with family and friends; to attend services, and be warm of flesh and soul. Michael’s family will be visiting from Clonmel and staying at the local inn, as we’ve not the room to put them up. One day we will have a home large enough for visitors, but until then we are grateful to have the means to pay the innkeep for a large, comfortable room.

I’ve finished the mending for the man with the purple eyes and know I will see him today. I find myself wondering if I will learn his name, and if he will tell me what he meant about the skies. I have continued to search them for meaning, yet find none.

There’s something about him that scares and fascinates me all at once. I can’t help but think he has the answers I’ve always looked for. The answers to everything. But I don’t know if he’d ever give them to me. He strikes me as someone who would hold them close to his chest.

Then again, who am I to say anything of him? He’s an odd stranger, and to be fixated on him is fanciful. It’s a folly a girl might fall into, not a married woman. I have resigned myself to end my fascination when I return his mending. As one does with any occasional client who comes out of nowhere for a solitary job.

To think he may know of the sky and my strange abilities is foolish, and I tell myself so every night as I stare at the stars. Michael asks if I’m distracted, and I do not wish to be. With Christmas comes the new year and I look forward to walking into it with my husband at my side. He’s spoken of children recently and I want so much to please him with the family he longs for—the family he deserves.

—

The market was bustling with more activity than usual. Families were visiting farm stalls which had brought every offering they could dream up: carrots, smoked rashers, oatcakes wrapped in cloth, and baskets of winter apples with their skins just beginning to wrinkle. A few stalls boasted tins of treacle or dried currants, and someone had laid out holly cut from their hedge that morning.

Children ran rampant, and as Michael kissed Bridget goodbye, his wife noticed how his eyes lingered on them. Watching him leave for his own work, her hand rested hopefully on her stomach.

“Are you with child?”

Bridget jumped, her face turning crimson, hands swiftly moving to her pockets, hidden from view.

“Excuse me?” she started before she’d even fully turned around, finding herself face-to-face with the purple-eyed stranger.

“Are you with child?” He repeated, with a strange innocence.

“I—don– whether I am or not is none of your business, and I’d very much appreciate if you’d give me your name, sir.”

“Oh dear.” His eyes widened. “I’ve offended you. I apologize. My name is Quinn. Malachy Quinn.” He held his hand out now, a gesture that seemed much delayed given their interactions so far.

Still, Bridget took it. “Thank you kindly. Now if you’ll give me a moment, I’ve your mending. It’s still in my bag.” She bent down to pull out her wares. She and Michael had arrived later than the other merchants and she had yet to set up her usual display. It was rare that one of her mending clients would appear so early. But if nothing else, Malachy Quinn was the unexpected sort.

“I think it’s… here!” Bridget pulled the waistcoat from the bottom of the bag triumphantly, only to see that Malachy had knelt down beside her, watching her actions intently. “Oh—”

“Sorry I simply wanted to ask,” he whispered now, “are you of the fairy folk?”

Part of Bridget urged her to leap up. To run away. To avoid this person at all costs. To ask such a question was dangerous and would not lead anywhere good. But to run away, abandoning her wares, in this moment would only breed more questions.

“No…” She remained crouched. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

His eyes darted back and forth. “It’s only that I saw you work magick when we met last.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He studied her eyes with his own as they narrowed in consideration. "So, you can’t speak of it. I understand. If it will help…” He held out his own hand now, touching hers. It began to glow as Bridget’s did when she calmed the hens or put their broken eggs back together.

“You must go,” she found herself muttering reflexively. In her mind she had yet to decide what she would make of Malachy’s words, his actions. But for now, she did not want him anywhere near her. “Take this,” she said, shoving the waistcoat into his hands. “And please go.”

Standing, she turned her eyes away from him, looking off across the expanse of the market, gritting her teeth and hoping that when she turned to her table once again he would be gone.

And he was.

---

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.

Interested in publishing your own serialized work with The Stygian Blog? Our Stygian Serials program offers paid, chapter-by-chapter publication with professional artwork, promotion, and a path to print. If you have a horror or dark fiction manuscript ready to share, visit our submissions page to learn more and submit your work.