rain bit at his skin without mercy, driving numb fingers closer to coming out in chilblains. Sheer panic kept him moving, but for the last mile he’d been on the brink of falling into a senseless stupor.
When lightning flashed, the valley below was cast alight. Gnarled branches devoid of leaves loomed and clawed at the air above his head. The remains of a winding road cut across the land, stretching away into the unknown.
Somewhere behind the roar of the storm, a distant rumble stirred on the brink of audibility. To Don’s ears, however, it was a deafening racket, dangerously close. Whenever it punctured the din of the tempest, he mercilessly beat at the horse’s sides. The road ahead straightened, allowing him to chance glancing over his shoulder.
All he saw was the tarmac, shimmering behind a curtain of rain.
He pushed on, navigating the winding road, allowing his instincts to guide him. The horse was reluctant and exhausted, but yielded under his beatings.
After ten minutes he could see through the trees ahead, to where the Celtic Sea surged back and forth beneath wicked, black clouds. The beginnings of dawn were afoot, casting the water in an ugly grey hue. The waves slammed against the crumbled sea wall, spraying the remains of County Cork’s most south-western barony—the name of which had slipped from the world’s memory—with chunks of rusted detritus.
Don raced parallel to the sea for what seemed like an age, but couldn’t have been more than a further five minutes. The sea wall was soon left behind and the land buckled into the shape of what had been the harbour. Innumerable yachts and motorboats had once been moored, but now in the churning water only the tattered remnants of as many masts bobbed in their place, bearing fabric torn and limp.
Don peered into the maritime mausoleum and picked out his destination: a tiny rowboat bobbing along the jetty like a twig in a puddle—a violent, turbulent puddle. The rumble grew louder and niggled at the back of his head until he could no longer resist the unbearable urge to glance over his shoulder once more. Again, all he saw was rain-soaked tarmac.
But in his mind’s eye he saw the assortment of orange lights that had hung between the trees like fireflies, before the storm had descended and limited his view. They had remained in pursuit for mile after mile, defying his efforts to escape them. He was sure that as soon as he stopped, they would regain the ground he’d won, but for now they were only ghosts of the mind and a rumble in the night.
He left the trees behind and descended into the ruins of Schull, clad in shadow under the moonlight. The horse’s hooves clattered on uneven cobbled streets and Don was forced to grip the reins tighter to maintain control. He passed by abandoned houses and shops, sending fleeting glances into darkened alleyways.
Then the cobbles gave way to the water’s edge, and he was riding out along the jetty, towards the rowboat. A single figure popped up from within and disrupted its black silhouette. The figure didn’t move an inch until he was directly beside it. He disengaged himself from the steaming mount and worked his arms until the faintest sliver of feeling returned to his frozen, claw-like hands. Grunting, he rubbed them against his chest until they prickled with the heat of fresh blood.
The figure rose from the rowboat and stepped onto the jetty. In the midst of the harbour, the footsteps of the old man were audible in every crevice, cellar and attic, even over the crash of the storm. But, just as was so everywhere else, there was nobody left to hear them. He crept up to the shuddering steed and took the reins, pulling its head close and whispering calming words into its ear.
Don fought the urge to let his knees buckle and gripped the stirrups for a time, watching the old man soothe the exhausted mount. Schull’s withered ruin sat quietly beneath the looming hulk of Mount Gabriel, but he kept it within his
When lightning flashed, the valley below was cast alight. Gnarled branches devoid of leaves loomed and clawed at the air above his head. The remains of a winding road cut across the land, stretching away into the unknown.
Somewhere behind the roar of the storm, a distant rumble stirred on the brink of audibility. To Don’s ears, however, it was a deafening racket, dangerously close. Whenever it punctured the din of the tempest, he mercilessly beat at the horse’s sides. The road ahead straightened, allowing him to chance glancing over his shoulder.
All he saw was the tarmac, shimmering behind a curtain of rain.
He pushed on, navigating the winding road, allowing his instincts to guide him. The horse was reluctant and exhausted, but yielded under his beatings.
After ten minutes he could see through the trees ahead, to where the Celtic Sea surged back and forth beneath wicked, black clouds. The beginnings of dawn were afoot, casting the water in an ugly grey hue. The waves slammed against the crumbled sea wall, spraying the remains of County Cork’s most south-western barony—the name of which had slipped from the world’s memory—with chunks of rusted detritus.
Don raced parallel to the sea for what seemed like an age, but couldn’t have been more than a further five minutes. The sea wall was soon left behind and the land buckled into the shape of what had been the harbour. Innumerable yachts and motorboats had once been moored, but now in the churning water only the tattered remnants of as many masts bobbed in their place, bearing fabric torn and limp.
Don peered into the maritime mausoleum and picked out his destination: a tiny rowboat bobbing along the jetty like a twig in a puddle—a violent, turbulent puddle. The rumble grew louder and niggled at the back of his head until he could no longer resist the unbearable urge to glance over his shoulder once more. Again, all he saw was rain-soaked tarmac.
But in his mind’s eye he saw the assortment of orange lights that had hung between the trees like fireflies, before the storm had descended and limited his view. They had remained in pursuit for mile after mile, defying his efforts to escape them. He was sure that as soon as he stopped, they would regain the ground he’d won, but for now they were only ghosts of the mind and a rumble in the night.
He left the trees behind and descended into the ruins of Schull, clad in shadow under the moonlight. The horse’s hooves clattered on uneven cobbled streets and Don was forced to grip the reins tighter to maintain control. He passed by abandoned houses and shops, sending fleeting glances into darkened alleyways.
Then the cobbles gave way to the water’s edge, and he was riding out along the jetty, towards the rowboat. A single figure popped up from within and disrupted its black silhouette. The figure didn’t move an inch until he was directly beside it. He disengaged himself from the steaming mount and worked his arms until the faintest sliver of feeling returned to his frozen, claw-like hands. Grunting, he rubbed them against his chest until they prickled with the heat of fresh blood.
The figure rose from the rowboat and stepped onto the jetty. In the midst of the harbour, the footsteps of the old man were audible in every crevice, cellar and attic, even over the crash of the storm. But, just as was so everywhere else, there was nobody left to hear them. He crept up to the shuddering steed and took the reins, pulling its head close and whispering calming words into its ear.
Don fought the urge to let his knees buckle and gripped the stirrups for a time, watching the old man soothe the exhausted mount. Schull’s withered ruin sat quietly beneath the looming hulk of Mount Gabriel, but he kept it within his
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