[Mortal Things] Chapter 5: Breaking the Glamour

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 layers of quilting and wool blankets felt suffocating to Bridget. Yet, she made no motion to strip them from her. Lying still on the bed, staring at the ceiling, she felt the weight of her husband beside her; his breaths slow and deep; the bulk of him shifting up and down with every inhale and exhale. Her intimacies with him after Christmas dinner lacked the joy she had hoped for; her every thought lingering on the comments he’d made when his parents sat at their table.

Any other woman, she told herself, would not take them so seriously. He was merely jesting in a way any other man would. It is abnormal that I work in the way I do, he has every right to feel strange about it. The fact that he had not spoken that way prior to last night only speaks to his own strengths as a husband.

It was true that every man in Tipperary was raised in preparation for supporting their wife and family. Who was she to take that from Michael without discussion of her interest prior?

Yes, that is what any of her neighbours would say if she were to bring the issue up with them—what Johanna would say, certainly, if she mentioned it at the market some day. She could imagine it now: her young cousin’s smooth, freckled face breaking into beautiful tinkling laughter; the kind that every man adored. Bridget would do well to heed the interests of men. Perhaps, if she did, she would not face another dinner such as the night before with her mother-in-law.

But how was it that men were welcome to work, to be strong, to do as they wished? The question echoed in her mind, bouncing about incessantly. It was rhetorical, of course. This is simply how it was, and Bridget Cleary knew it well.

And yet …

She glanced sideways at her husband who erupted in a thunderous snore as if on cue.

Pursing her lips, she grabbed the quilt and carefully peeled it back. It was not as if she had never done this before. More often than not, she rose in the night to stare out at the stars, or early in the morning before the sun was up, while her husband stayed abed until a proper dawn had appeared. Michael would not wake until he wished to. But for Bridget, tonight was different. Tonight she knew she was about to take a risk.

Feeling the cool floor on her feet and the silence all about her, she stole to the front door of their home, hearing her father’s snores from his own room as she quietly took her coat from a hook by the door and shoved her feet; clad in thick woolen socks, into her work boots.

The door opened quietly, without a creak. Smiling to herself, she thanked the labourers who had built the home only a few years before.

The door closed just as easily behind her as she stepped out into the yard, the familiar land feeling like a whole other universe at this hour.

Where was she planning to go? She felt something in her but did not yet know where it would lead.

Wrapping her arms about her, she stalked off through the snow and out the gate, heading down the road to the east, remarking silently at the beauty of the world around her. While it was not rare for Bridget to be out and about at odd hours, this hour was odder than usual. She guessed it was probably 1 or 2 in the morning. Not even as a girl had she dared venture out at this time, for fear of spectres and beasts on the fields. But tonight, she feared no spectre nor beast. Tonight, it felt that … should they appear … they would appear as friends.

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The ringfort did not seem as far down the road as it normally felt when Bridget was making her way to and from the market. Something about it called her tonight, and as it came into view, there was something ethereal about the little hill.

Absent-mindedly, Bridget raised her hand to the amber brooch on her breast, allowing it to rest there. The brooch was warm; nearly hot to the touch. Could this material from the earth sense something Bridget herself could not?

No … she did sense it. But what it was, she did not yet know.

Nearing the bottom of the ringfort’s hill, she stared up but saw nothing. She heard nothing. No voices, no fairy court making the night their own … the tales told by her mother were flooding her mind, but she saw no sign of them glowing into reality.

At last, she stood on top of the fort, looking about as her hair whipped wildly in a growing wind.

The figure was at the forest’s edge again. But this time, they walked out of the shadows, leaving the forest to walk towards the ringfort. Towards Bridget.

Frozen on the spot, she held her breath; clutched the brooch, and stared as Malachy Quinn came into full view; no longer obscured by shadow and snow.

“It’s a beacon, you know.” He smiled.

“Wh—” Bridget did not know what she expected. Had she thought he would appear? Yes … of course she did.

“This,” he held out a hand towards her, placing it on the hand she held against the brooch. “Amber, silver, all of these trinkets. The Fae are not harmed by metals and stones of the earth, but they do react to us. If you want to find us, follow your protection charms.”

His fingers were warm, unlike hers which had the bite of winter to them.

“Are you …”

“Yes.” He said, and let his hand drop from hers.

“Am I …”

“I don’t know.” His voice was calm, as was his expression. “Walk with me.”

And so she did.

The two of them walked through silent twinkling drifts, past somber trunks and reaching branches, past the forest’s edge and into its winding paths. There was still a smell of earth here, sheltered from the worst northern winds. It seemed to Bridget that perhaps she should be afraid, walking with one of the fairy folk through the moonlit groves, but instead it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Where are we going?” she asked finally, breaking the silence.

“To the edge of the wood.”

“We came from the edge of the wood.”

Malachy laughed a soft, understanding laugh. Bridget had half expected him to tease her but there was no edge to him, simply a kind of … fascination in her words.

“We are going to the other edge of the wood. Have you been?”

“No, I don’t think so. If I did, it was a very long time ago.”

“There’s a pond on the other side of the wood. I like to go there to think. And, that is often where I see the rift.”

“The rift?”

He didn’t answer, and Bridget chose not to question again, walking at his side in silence until they did indeed reach the other side of the wood. In front of them stretched a length of field, with a large pond at the end of it; a pond so large it almost felt inappropriate to call it such … but it wasn’t a lake and it connected to no rivers or streams.

The stars reflected in its frozen surface, and as the pair walked out from under the canopy of trees, a flash of purple reflected there as well.

Bridget felt herself jump; gasp a little.

Malachy glanced over at her, then back up to the sky.

“That’s the clearest I’ve seen it,” Bridget murmured, almost in a whisper.

“It’s always been quite clear here, reflected in the ice. And if you catch it at the right angle … there’s something more to its reflection.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come, sit with me.” He walked to the water’s edge and held his hand out. Where he gestured, the snow melted away revealing a patch of withered grass. “You’ll find it’s dry.”

Nodding, she took a step and knelt down, feeling the grass—bone dry to the touch. Excitement rose in her stomach as she sat down, watching Malachy follow suit beside her.

Together, they gazed out across the frozen pond, nothing but a glittering expanse in front of them so shimmering and dark, reflecting the world in such a way that Bridget wondered where the ground ended and the heavens began.

“It’s beautiful …”

Malachy nodded. “I love it most here at this hour. The mortals rarely venture out, and if they do, they don’t dare cross paths with the fairy lands. It doesn’t matter how brave the young ones are with their friends; those bantering posturing males. When it comes down to the thing, they leave us be.”

“How come I’d never seen you before, at the market?”

“I only just decided to let you see me,” his voice was bright, tinged with humour.

“Let me see you?”

“Oh yes, I’ve observed you for a time. I can’t really say for how long, but I’ve noticed your magick. I was uncertain at first … uncertain for quite a while. But I did see you repair the egg. I’ve seen how you move carefully, like you don’t wish to be watched, but you lack the ability to produce a glamour. Or see through one. I thought eventually you would see me; call to me, but you never did. And so, I revealed myself.”

“A glamour?”

“It’s an ability we have to ensure we remain hidden from mortals. Especially in recent years, it’s become dangerous to be seen. Humans take over this world, they populate like rabbits but are far more destructive. They consume and they produce and they destroy. They tear down our forests, they drive us from our homes, they call us monsters. As they populate, we go underground, but there is little ground that remains.”

Bridget turned her head to the right to look at him, truly taking him in for the first time since he’d met her at the ringfort. He wore no cap today and his straight black hair fluttered about him in the winter breeze. His violet eyes were fixed on the pond; their colour distorted in the moonlight, flecked now with silver and blue. On him he wore a high-necked black wool coat, dark grey trousers, and black leather lace-up shoes. His pale hands with those spindly fingers were bare; free of gloves, nestled in the dead grass on either side of him.

As her gaze rose back up, for the first time now she noticed his nose—strong; hawkish, above beautifully curved lips. And, it suddenly hit her, when his hair fluttered too far in one direction, his ears had points to them.

“I’ve said too much, I apologize.” Malachy turned to her now.

“Oh!—I’m so sorry, I admit I don’t know what to say. I think I knew you; or rather, your people, were here all my life but I never had much in the way of proof.”

“Well now you do, Bridget Cleary,” he gave her a smile that lingered, and she felt a warmth rise in her cheeks; a feeling she had only experienced with Michael.

Michael. Her world. Christmas Day … though, not any longer. It was December 26th now and she was in the woods by a pond with one of the fairy folk. Something must have crossed her eyes, as she saw the same move within Malachy’s as well; a searching, insecure, almost afraid thing.

“You want to go,” he said simply.

“I …”

“You need to go,” he adjusted with a firmness that solidified Bridget’s own thoughts.

“Yes,” she nodded, “I do. But …”

“If you wish to see me again, you will.” Malachy stood and held his hand out.

Staring at it a moment, she took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. At a similar height once again, she said, “I would. There’s much I’d like to know, but for now, I should be at home abed.”

“With your husband,” Malachy added, and Bridget felt quite naked in front of him.

How had he known?

“Yes,” she hoped he did not see her discomfort. “With my husband.”

“Come along then, Bridget Cleary, I’ll take you back to the ringfort, and you can forever feel proud of escaping the dark woods with fairy kin at the witching hour.”

And together, they turned to the direction from which they came, wondering if they could ever truly go back.

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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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