[Mortal Things] Chapter 4: Good Stock

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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The cock on a neighbouring farm crowed, but Bridget Cleary was already awake, in the barn and tending to her chickens. 

“Kate you must stop fighting with your sister, your feathers look ragged and it’s no way to present on Christmas Eve,” Bridget tutted as she stroked a hen; the reddest of the brood. 

As she ran her hand along Kate’s feathers, they puffed up, growing in fast and full, making the ragged fowl appear quite presentable compared to the state her mistress had found her in. 

“That’s much better. And you—” Bridget pointed a finger at one of the more tawny hens, “don’t encourage her, you hear me?”

The hen in question let out a belligerent CLUCK and stomped into a nesting box. 

Sighing, Bridget stood and surveyed the barn. Michael’s horse, Charlie, stood near the furthest wall contentedly chewing at his breakfast. The horse had not been bothered by his busy roommates, but they certainly had opinions about him. Bridget could tell. They’d been nervous, flighty, and even aggressive. This was rare for her birds. She of course had done her best to calm them and for the most part it had worked, but she felt that the addition of this stallion to their little life would never be something they’d truly get used to. 

“Well, that’s it for now. I’ve much to do this Christmas Eve and you’ll have to be comfortable on your own until I return tomorrow. I promise I’ll bring you each a treat.” Bridget smiled as all four hens and Charlie the horse looked at her with seemingly full comprehension of what had just been stated. 

“Be good!” She wished, backing out of the barn and closing the door behind her.

“So which is to be dinner then?” 

Bridget jumped, turning around to see Michael standing by the barn, cup of tea in hand.

“Of my hens? You jest.” Bridget laughed nervously. 

“Yes and no,” her husband sipped his tea. To him, the statement had meant nothing. To Bridget, it was a threat. 

“Michael I need to hear you say that you’ve no intention of butchering my hens.”

He laughed, “Alright woman, I’ll go into town and purchase another farm’s hen which has already been butchered.”

“Michael I’m serious, my hens lay eggs, that’s it. That’s how they’ll live out their days.” 

Reaching a hand out, he placed it on her arm, rubbing it up and down in an attempt to comfort what she imagined he viewed as hysterics. “Love, your hens will live out their days exactly as you see fit. I meant no harm by it.” 

“Thank you,” she said, brows knit together in frustration. 

“Now,” he tsked, “I’ll not see such a face on Christmas Eve. Tell me, what have you set out for our day?”

Shifting her thoughts away from the potential doom of her hens, Bridget centred her mind once again on family life and the holiday season. “We’ll go into town to pick up your mother and father, then I will bake the soda bread. We’ll eat sparingly tonight, go to service, and have a feast on the morrow.”

“That sounds perfect,” he finished his cup of tea and placed it on a stump, sawn off near the barn, then wrapped his arms about her and looked deep into her eyes. “Our first real Christmas together.”

“Yes, our first real Christmas together,” she repeated with a smile as their lips met. 

—

The snow was falling in earnest when Michael set off to pick up his parents in town. In the end, Bridget had chosen not to go, but to stay behind and prepare food for their arrival; certain they would be hungry and likely would not have broken their fast yet, as was their custom on Christmas Eve. 

Truth be told, Bridget longed for a few moments alone before the holiday descended upon their household. She had been thinking about Malachy Quinn for quite a while now and wanted to find some way to eject him from her mind and go about being a dutiful wife. She had longed for the holidays, had she not? In all her months of waiting for Michael to come to Ballyvadlea, Christmas was something she had wanted desperately to share with him. 

Now here she was, mixing the soda bread and thinking of nothing but purple eyes.

The heel of Bridget’s hand slammed into the countertop as a sigh escaped her lips. “Don’t overwork the bread,” she muttered quietly to herself. 

What was it? What was it about this man? She wasn’t feeling as she did about Michael—no—she had questioned that in herself a million times. So again, what was it? Was it his magick? Certainly, that was it. He had shown her he had the same abilities she had. He had commented on the weather. He had to have meant the sky. 

And if he did mean the sky, then she had to find a way to speak with him again. 

Bridget rolled the bread into a ball, popped it into a large ceramic mixing bowl and carefully laid a towel over top. She then walked over to her sewing table and stared blankly at the machine. Patrick was over at William’s home, having brought a basket of eggs to him and his family as a holiday gift. Bridget had offered to do it herself but her father had insisted on the walk. 

Holding her hands out, she looked down at them, allowing them to glow with a bright gold aura. Malachy’s hands had the same aura about them as well, and with his violet eyes it had to be true that he was one of the fairy folk.

A shiver went down her spine.

The fairy folk.

She had long suspected that there must be something of them in her blood given her abilities but she could never place where it had come from. Her mother was her mother, her father was her father, and neither had a lick of Fae to them as far she knew. Not once had she seen her mother work magick…and her father was as down-to-earth a man as one could meet. Malachy…now Malachy was exactly the kind of man you’d see and think he had fairy blood in him, even without the strange eyes.

Could she be a changeling? It didn’t seem possible. Would she herself not know what she was? 

It had to be something else, and if anyone would have the answers, or at least the path to answers, it would be Malachy Quinn. 

Bridget balled her hands into fists and the bowl on the counter rocked back and forth, beginning to spin. The towel placed on top flew off, landing on the floor. Bridget leaped up, the glow quickly leaving her hands as she ran to steady the bowl. But once she reached it, it stopped. 

Inside was a perfectly baked, round loaf of bread.

“Well now what am I to do?” She asked the silence around her. “There’s supposed to be a warm cottage, the smells of baking bread…” 

Suddenly, a beautiful fragrance filled the air. 

“What…” Never before had her abilities worked in such a way. Glancing around the room, her eyes landed on the cottage window. A shadow flashed past. “...Malachy?” Bridget murmured, running to open the door. 

She looked wildly about the yard but could see nothing. 

—

Michael was the apple of Onóra and Seamus Cleary’s eyes. The youngest son, with his bright blue eyes, wide-open expressiveness, and strong work ethic could do no wrong. 

Bridget had known how they felt when she met them for the first time, and had loved them for it. But today, as she welcomed her in-laws into her home for the first time, she knew there were elements of their love she may not be in the mood to contend with. 

“Best house in Ballyvadlea, is it?” Seamus pronounced, handing Bridget his coat and looking about her home. “Yes, yes,” he said, walking  about in slush-muddied boots, “it’ll do, it’ll do.” 

Looking to Bridget more attentively, Onóra spoke with kindness at first “and how have you been dear? We’re glad to know that you and Michael are together at last. What you’ve been getting up to in this little town without your husband at your side I can’t imagine!” Her tone shifted now to the same veiled judgment Seamus had brought forth, “I’ve heard tales of mucking out chicken coops and doing mending for other womens’ husbands?” 

“Well I wouldn’t quite put it…”

“Patrick!” Seamus boomed, “Conas atá tú?”

“Tá mé go maith”, responded Patrick casually. 

Bridget knew her father was not completely well, but even to hear him say he was, brought warmth to her. Taking the coats from Seamus and Onóra, she went to her and Michael’s bedroom and began to lay them on the bed. The bundle in her arms came in with the scent of fresh air and snow, and the feeling of cold fur and felt on her hands reminded her of Christmases years ago as a child when she used to hide among similar coats, trying to find some time to herself when the cottage was filled with cousins. 

Smiling, she closed the door behind her and prepared to enjoy the evening and service ahead. Tonight they may be eating minimally for the fast, but tomorrow would bring with it warmth, laughter, and a beautiful feast. 

–

Christmas Eve passed in as uneventful a way as Bridget had hoped. They ate salted herring, roast potatoes, and bread, with tea and water to drink; spoke about all that had been happening in their lives, and attended Midnight Mass at the small church down the road. 

The Clearys were taken back to the inn, and the Boland home fell into deep slumber when they arrived back around 3:00 in the morning, but not before lighting a candle in the window, as was tradition. 

Bridget had been able to keep her mind clear of unwanted thoughts, a feat she had not thought possible. 

And, in the morning, as she saw Michael off to pick up his parents for their feast, she began roasting ham and potatoes with a smile on her face; warming up the remnants of soda bread with lard for her own breakfast. 

“Your mother would be proud,” the gruff morning voice of Patrick sounded from near his bed as he rose for the day.

Glancing over, watching him put woolen socks on to warm his bare feet, Bridget smiled and questioned “Oh? How so, Da?”

“You’ve married into a good family. Seamus and Onóra are of good stock, and their son is, too.”

For Patrick Boland, this was as close to an emotional conversation as Bridget would get, and it warmed her to receive his approval. “Thank you Da, I know.”

She heard the bed creak as Patrick pushed himself out of it and walked over to the kitchen. “Ah, just like your mother made it.” He breathed in the smell of bread and lard.

“Yes, every Christmas morning.” Bridget’s smile was wan. “Have you been thinking of her?”

Patrick’s face was serious; thoughtful. “Every day. And this, the first Christmas without her. But…” he paused and Bridget paused her work as well to give him her full attention. “I know I’ll be with her soon, and that brings me comfort.”

Bridget’s brow furrowed. “Not too soon, I hope.” 

Patrick’s face broke into a smile as he aimed to lighten the moment once again. “Aye, not until you’ve given me a brood of grandchildren, girl.” 

The two laughed and returned to their morning routines. 

In time, Michael rose as well, surprised at his wife and father-in-law’s early rising after such a late night. 

Sitting around the small table eating the last of the bread, Patrick, Michael, and Bridget were joyful; speaking of the night before, the beautiful candle lit service, the ride home in the hay-filled cart through glittering gusts of snow across the dark roads. The morning now was bright; blinding almost. The perfect wintery scene to welcome Christmas Day. 

“I’ve something for you, darling,” Michael spoke quietly to Bridget as she did the washing up, leaning towards her and wrapping an arm about her waist. 

“Oh, do you now?”

“Aye, when you’re finished come to our room.”

“Michael, do tell me this gift is not in our bed.”

He laughed, “No, wife, unless that’s what you wish. It’s a proper gift.” 

“Good,” she raised an eyebrow at him, “I know the way your mind works.”

“You do indeed,” he continued laughing as he left to go to their bedroom. 

Patrick was feeding the chickens this morning—he’d insisted upon it as part of his Christmas gifting to Bridget. She knew that simply feeding her ladies was a task her father or husband would be capable of, and though she missed wishing the barn residents a good morning and happy Christmas, she did not want to spit on the kind intentions of her father. 

When the washing up was complete, she joined Michael in the bedroom. He was laying on the bed with one of her books, looking quite frustrated with the words; so intent on the page that he didn’t even notice her open the door. For a moment, she was able to look at him without his knowledge. Even with his balding head and man’s body, he looked a boy.

“Oh!” He noticed her and put the book down on the small table by their bed. “How you get through this I don’t know, there are far too many words.”

“It’s a book, Michael, that’s the point,” Bridget responded not unkindly.

“Yes, yes, well I think I’ll leave the books to you. I’ve not the brain for them.”

“You’ve the brain, husband, just not the interest.” 

“Maybe.” He stood now and went to the small dresser at the end of the bed, opening a drawer and pulling out a box hidden beneath some scarves. The box itself was not fancy, but Bridget had a suspicion that what lay inside would be.

Original illustration by Holly Rhiannon

Facing her now Michael opened the box to reveal its contents to his wife: a brooch of dark, shining silver with an amber stone at its center. The framing of the stone was asymmetrical; organic in appearance with a natural design like vines. The amber was mottled, some glowing orange, some a rich dark caramel.

“Michael…” Bridget gasped, “how did you…”

“I’ve been putting aside a bit of my wages every week the past year. I knew I wanted to get you something special when I finally came home.” 

“Well you’ve done just that,” she breathed, taking the brooch from its box and pinning it to her dress. The contrast was stark. Bridget’s clothing was not as simple as that of many others in Ballyvadlea, due to her keen abilities and sewing machine, but in her mind, it was no match for this gift. 

“I fear I’ll need a better dress now,” she laughed.

“I s’pose I’ll start putting away the savings now,” Michael sighed in mock frustration.

“Thank you, my love,” Bridget gave him a kiss, both husband and wife now serious in the moment. 

“Amber…” she spoke as they parted. “You know the fairies are not fond of it.”

Michael nodded, “An additional benefit.” 

As they both left the bedroom, Bridget found herself wondering, Would a simple brooch be enough to keep Malachy Quinn away?

—

As the sun set, the families Boland and Cleary were sitting down for their dinner. Seamus and Onóra had brought with them a variety of baking that Onóra had done at home, and between that and the dinner Bridget had prepared, the table was fuller than that of many others in Tipperary. 

Saying grace, Bridget spoke of the famine and the country’s recovery since; the tenuous grasp one had on mere sustenance, as well as the spiritual sustenance we receive from the people around us. By the time ‘amen’ was uttered, stomachs were growling audibly. 

“That’s quite the statement, Bridget,” Onóra commented, gesturing to her Christmas brooch. 

“A beautiful gift from your son,” Bridget responded simply in response to the judgement-laced words. 

“And how much of your wages did that cost?” Onóra turned her judgement on her son.

“Nothing you need worry about, Mother,” Michael deftly fielded the question. 

“It’s a pretty thing,” Onóra said, “though I imagine it catches now and then on the shawl. Delicate things aren’t always practical.”

“I’ll manage,” Bridget said lightly, slicing into the ham with care. “Not everything in a woman’s life has to be practical.”

“Some would say it should be,” Onóra muttered, though whether to herself or the room was unclear.

Michael gave a small laugh—too loud, slightly off-beat. “Bridget’s practical in her own way,” he said, lifting his wine. “Sells eggs and needlework every week in town like she hasn’t got a husband to support her. But I suppose it keeps her busy.”

Bridget’s smile froze for a half-second before she turned to Seamus, her voice smooth but just a shade too bright as she asked after their family in Clonmel.

Seamus offered a polite, if brief, reply. Patrick said nothing at all. A flicker of heat rose in Bridget’s cheeks, not from embarrassment but something closer to disappointment. Her father hadn’t so much as looked at her through the exchange.

Onóra gave a dry little laugh. “So that’s why she’s always off to town,” she said, lifting her glass. “A woman will always find a reason, especially when there are conversations to be had.”

Michael chuckled into his wine. “She does manage to make a day of it.”

Bridget knew the woman thought her frivolous; narcissistic even, but knowing in her own heart that she was neither of these things usually brought her comfort. Moreso the fact that Michael knew the same… or so she had believed.

Had he purchased the brooch because he thought her above her own station, or because he loved her?

When the meal was complete, minimal gifts were exchanged quietly among the guests as they settled around the fire with dark, rich pints of ale. The low murmur of conversation and crackle of burning wood filled the room.

Gazing across the hearth at his wife, lit by the warm orange glow that seemed to set her Christmas brooch ablaze, Michael wondered between sips whether any of her conversations had been with fairy folk. When purchasing the gift he’d thought of the striking colour; how it would look against Bridget’s auburn hair when she wore it down… he had also wondered if she’d draw away in fear of the stone. But, her reaction had been nothing of the sort. It was  good. Loving.  And despite the thoughts that clouded his mind in the night or the wee hours of the morning, his feelings for her remained unchanged.

Bridget’s feelings had suffered a slight, however. Her strongest suspicions—her husband’s callous thoughts towards her— work had been proven. His words to her in the weeks prior had been lies; platitudes. Tonight he had spoken to her like a child, and Bridget Cleary did not appreciate being spoken to like a child.

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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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