Cromm's Gold
An Art Cavanagh story set on an ancient, fog-shrouded isle west of Ireland
To cap off March’s Irish theme, here is a second Art Cavanagh story two months in a row! I originally had a different title and MacGuffin in mind for this story, but changed it after writing my post on Cromm Crúaich, feeling my readers were now equipped to recognize some of the lore in this story.
To read Art’s previous adventures, check out the stories below!
The Phantom Hill
For the past couple weeks, I’ve been reading the Del Rey edition of Robert E. Howard’s El Borak stories and they inspired me to think up some classic historical pulp adventure tales. Of course, I felt compelled to tie it into Celticism and, sticking with Howardian tradition, came up with an Irish-American adventurer whose curiosity leads him to the Emer…
Bad Night in Salisbury
I have only been to Salisbury once, but it was by far one of my favorite places I have visited in Great Britain. Writing this story has made me want to explore it in person even more—if at least to clear up whatever inaccuracies this yarn might have.
A heavy veil of rain hung over the sea northwest of the Irish coast. The waves were low, thankfully, allowing the small ferry dubbed the Fand to glide over the frigid grey waters almost as black as the sky. Three men clad in heavy oil-skin coats peopled the Fand, two of them sat towards the bow while the third—the captain named O’Gill—steadied the course with the outboard motor on the keel. Not one of them had spoken since convening and departing from Malin Bay in the dim hours before dawn. A smoldering band of red had winked over the eastern horizon moments after they left, but dark clouds swallowed it and dominated the sky.
The man sitting at the starboard made a gurgling noise then hawked a glob of spit into the sea. “With how much water this coast has,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if this island got drowned like Atlantis.” His voice was nasally and flat, barely a mumble over the drone of the rain, waves, and motor.
“Folk have been seeing it for hundreds of years,” said the other man on the portside, his voice booming. “I doubt it could’ve sunk in the past few decades.”
“My grandfather did see it,” proclaimed O’Gill. “He rowed all the way up to a stone’s throw of it in his coracle but the waves were too strong and that’s the truth! What I’d give to step upon it in his honor, by Mary!”
The man on the portside laughed heartily, respective of his tall, broad frame. “Keep up hope, Connelly!”
The nasal-voiced man—Connelly—sniffed. “All fine for you, mayhap, but it’s hard to see any good out here in the rain.”
“You know what comes once the clouds part.”
Connelly sniffed again. “I doubt we’ll be finding any pots of gold in this place, Mr. Cavanagh.”
“Not just any pots of gold!” Art Cavanagh flashed Connelly and O’Gill a wide, white grin. He reached inside the breast of his coat and withdrew a worn, leatherbound journal. Withdrawing it also revealed a flint arrowhead dangling from Art’s neck on a cord. It folded back into his coat as he guarded the journal from rain and sea spray, opening the pages to reveal a hasty sketch of a mound. Connelly squinted at it, wiping some water from his face before leaning closer. His sight focused on the numerous, vegetal lines and curves making up the pile, picking up shapes of engraved rings, U-shaped devices, and shields and swords encrusted with gems.
“Gold from before the coming of Christ to Erin.” Art shut the journal and replaced it in his coat.
O’Gill made a half-strangled, half-amused cry. “Devil’s gold!” he said. “If my grandfather hadn’t seen the island, Mr. Cavanagh, I wouldn’t be takin’ you out here today.”
The little ferry seemed to skim across a murky oblivion as the grey sky lightened, yet refused to break beneath the sun. Through the haze in the west, and wan beams that slid through the clouds, the crewmen spotted a low, mound-like shape rising out of the horizon.
“There!” Art cried clambering to the bow, finger thrust forward. “Do you see it, O’Gill?”
“Aye,” answered the ferryman. “I’ll bring us closer but not too far. It could just be a skerry.”
O’Gill kept the course true towards the shape on the sea. He slowed as it rose higher above the waves and the crashing of them sounded against its craggy coast. Beneath the mist, a swath of green bloomed above the ridged, black crown of the landmass, dotted with the bright yellow and purple buds of early spring flowers.
“Happy days!” cried O’Gill. “As I breathe…the very island Grandfather saw with his own eyes! I’m seeing it with mine!”
“And my own,” added Art.
Connelly merely gaped at the sight, wiping water from his face and blinking. Suddenly, he pointed at the rocks and shouted, “Careful! We won’t be its first victims if we don’t slow now.”
The skeletons of small boats, coracles, and even the fragments of a colonial galley thrashed against the crags and skerries around the island like prisoners. Their slimy, rotten remains somehow enduring the throes of the sea for ages before the arrival of the little ferry and its crew.
“I’ll bring us ‘round,” O’Gill turned the handle of the motor, “and find a cove or spit of sand to moor us.”
O’Gill guided the ferry towards the northern edge of the island where the rocks receded. The crags opened to a short inlet ending at a beach made up of many little stones. O’Gill killed the motor, letting Art and Connelly take up the oars to row onto the shore. The two younger men hopped out of the boat several yards from dry land, running it into a sturdy spot aground. O’Gill sprung out of his vessel and beamed at a ridge overlooking the beach, the grass and flowers upon it shaking in the wind. He strode with a merry gait up towards the green, Art and Connelly following close behind.
“Odd,” mumbled Connelly as he, O’Gill, and Art mounted the slope under the ridge.
“Hmm?” Art jostled his companion with his elbow.
“I haven’t heard a single gull since we moored.”
Art looked about the sky and the rocks ringing the island, then nodded. “Odd indeed, mayhap this place is a mystery even to them.”
O’Gill, still in the lead, crested the ridge and stepped forward a few paces before removing his wool cap. He stood, frozen in the wind and rain, his gaze set on whatever plain spread before him.
“As grand as you imagined, O’Gill?” inquired Art with a laugh as he and Connelly joined their skipper on the ridge. His mirth vanished like dew in rain as he beheld a sight which made his marrow run cold. Even before he came to his ancestral Ireland, Art’s grandfather told him a story of a place St. Patrick visited and cast out a demon that held the Gaels under its yoke for ages.
“This demon,” his grandfather had told him, “dwelt in an idol of gold, surrounded by twelve statues of stone.”
Art, Connelly, and O’Gill looked upon a plain, thick with grass, and upon the swell of a mound stood twelve tall dolmen stones in a circle. In the center of them, gleaming in the pale grey light, was a figure of gold.
“We ought to leave, lads,” O’Gill blurted, fumbling with his cap and taking a step backwards. “This island reeks of deviltry.”
“If I could drag myself out here in such dreadful conditions it wouldn’t hurt us to at least look for the goods.” Connelly strode down the ridge towards the stones.
O’Gill shook his head, turning towards the shore. He clapped Art on the shoulder, saying, “This is your search, but I want to be gone by the end of the hour if it can be helped.”
Art frowned. “That’s not nearly enough time to search.”
“Fine! Two hours! But not a minute more.” O’Gill made his way back to the ferry.
Art jogged down the ridge and met Connelly halfway to the stones. They approached the site briskly, O’Gill’s terms in mind, but gave pause as they beheld the idols up close. Etchings on the stones, weathered and marred by moss, depicted leering faces with bared teeth and pit-like eyes. Within the ring of stones, the soft dark earth was not covered in grass, left bare to soak up the rain. The gilt idol in the center was splotched by a reddish brown substance like rust, but flecks of it peeled off beneath the rain. It was shorter than the stones, which were twice the height of both men, coming up only to waist-height. The metal was shaped to appear like a series of spirals and vegetal curves forming the vaguest semblance of a face. The designs made it appear as though the visage was dripping with thick trails of liquid.
“Suppose the rest of the loot is somewhere ‘round here?” Connelly wondered aloud, stepping onto the earth. As his foot sank slightly into the sod, a soft crunching issued from below. After several more steps, he frowned and brushed the soil aside with his booted toes. Connelly recoiled at once, leaping back onto the grass, his finger thrust towards the ground. Art followed Connelly’s indication and grimaced as his gaze landed upon the brown-stained fragments of skull and teeth jutting from the earth.
“So,” Art grumbled, “that old fear of the Gael was right; Cromm Crúaich claimed bloody heads on this island.”
Connelly wiped his brow and fussed with his shirt collar, eyes sliding towards the golden idol. “I don’t much care what happened here so long as we stay within our skipper’s agreement, but mayhap that gilt heap may still be worth something?”
“Perhaps.” Art rubbed his chin. “But I don’t think any good would come of it.”
“Ah, come now!” Connelly walked across the bare soil, wincing as countless skulls hidden beneath it cracked under his feet. Approaching the idol, he wrapped his arms around it and strained. It rocked at its base, the earth grinding softly as Connelly twisted and pushed.
Art moved to join his partner but halted as a dark shape moved over a mound almost a hundred yards south of the ring of statues. It was mannish, with hunched shoulders and a low, shambling gait. Something dangled from its hand, which it spun. Art’s eyes widened as he recognized the tool—a sling.
“Connelly!” Art lunged forward as a sharp crack broke through the air, followed by a whistling scream that ended with a dull thud and Connelly’s scream. He collapsed, clutching his right shoulder. Art ducked behind the idol and saw to the man as he writhed in the dirt.
“My shoulder feels like it’s been shattered,” Connelly mustered to say through grit teeth.
“Stay down.” Art held a hand above Connelly as he peered over the idol. The stranger still stood atop the mound, readying the sling again. Art lowered his head and reached into the breast of his coat, groping past his lucky arrowhead charm and journal until his fingers curled around the butt of his revolver in its holster under his arm. He withdrew it, cocking the hammer back. In one swift motion, he peaked over the idol, aimed the revolver, and fired. The report echoed across the plain, fading into the distant wash of the waves.
The figure staggered backwards, whether out of pain from a bullet wound or fear Art knew not. It loped out of sight behind the mound.
Art rose, lowering the gun but not putting it away. He turned towards Connelly who struggled to his feet, still clasping his shoulder. Without acknowledging Art, he lunged for the golden idol and wrapped his uninjured arm around it.
“Come on, Art!” he groaned through his teeth. “It’s not that heavy.”
Art looked back towards the mound. A low, droning noise rose from beyond it; the commotion sounded, to Art, like steady blast of wind, but nothing swept across the plain. The drone increased, pushing through the rain and crash of waves. A score of shadowed shapes shambled over the mound, most holding long spears with wicked tips. Art levelled his gun at the horde, but lowered it soon after, realizing these brutes were foolhardy enough to go after a man with a gun.
“Leave it, Connelly!” Art grabbed his companion’s good shoulder.
Scowling, Connelly shrugged him off. “You talked my ear off about this all the way from Belfast and now you want to let it slip from your fingers? No chance! Now, help me pull this out.”
“Ah!” Art spat, raising his gun towards the horde. “Sod it!”
He fired two shots at the pursuers as they came off the mound. One of their number collapsed, causing his nearest allies to give momentary pause before resuming their advance. Closer, in the paling grey light, Art could see these figures were clad in seal skin loincloths, with some wearing mantles of the stuff. Their features were pale and limbs gangly, however, they moved with surprising grace across the slick field. Their mouths were opened, and it was then Art realized the droning issued from their throats. As their dark eyes locked on the interlopers, their ululations altered to that of an ear-rending howl. Where it once was synchronous, the savages’ cries became an angry torrent of whoops and shrieks.
Art fired a third shot, then aided Connelly in displacing the idol. With his added strength, the gilt figure burst from the ground. The pair heaved it onto their shoulders and ran towards the inlet as fast as their burden would allow them.
More seal skin-wearing savages spilled over the mound, brandishing spears, axes, and slings. They sprinted across the plain, weapons raised and fervor increasing.
Art and Connelly struggled up the ridge, the weight of the idol bearing down on them as they climbed. Suddenly, Connelly slipped, causing the idol to tumble onto the brae. Art slammed his foot against it, gritting his teeth as sharp pain shot through his leg. He crouched and started pushing the idol up the rest of the way.
Jabbing a finger at Connelly, Art said, “Tell O’Gill to start the boat!”
Connelly nodded and dashed over the ridge. He slid down the slope leading to the shore, shouting, “Skipper! Skipper!”
O’Gill, standing beside the ferry, leaned forward quizzically.
“Start the engine!”
A report from Art’s gun sounded from the other side of the ridge, followed by the savages’ collective of cries. Connelly afforded a glance over his shoulder before continuing to the shore.
“Start the engine!” he shouted again.
O’Gill pushed the boat into the water, shuffled to the keel, and grabbed the engine cord. As he pulled, Connelly looked over his shoulder again to see Art cresting the ridge, rolling the idol on its side. With a grunt, he pushed it over and sent it rolling onto the shore. Connelly grinned and rushed back to aid Art. He reached for the idol as it came to a halt but looked up as movement from the ridge alerted him. One of the savages crouched at the top, spear aimed at Art’s back.
“Lookout!” yelled Connelly.
Art spun around and fired. Blood bloomed from the islander’s belly and he collapsed, rolling onto the stony shore.
“I’m out.” Art shoved the revolver back into its holster. He stooped and lifted the idol, almost single-handedly, back onto his shoulder. Connelly feebly assisted, merely hoisting the top part with his good arm.
The ferry’s motor droned as Art and Connelly neared the edge of the shore. O’Gill brought the boat in as close as he could without running aground. He looked past his passengers with his mouth agape, hands trembling.
“Bring it closer!” demanded Connelly.
“This is as far as I can go,” responded O’Gill. “She’d get stuck!”
Art glanced back at the horde as it poured over the ridge, its numbers’ bare, calloused feet sliding quickly down onto the shore. The primitive islanders rushed as a blast of wind from the land rolls to meet the waves. Art turned his gaze back to the idol, meeting one of its hollow, dark eyes.
We won’t make it with their god, he thought as he and Connelly’s feet splashed into the icy water. He pulled the idol out of Connelly’s grasp, and turned towards their pursuers.
“Art?” Connelly gasped. “What—”
With a barbaric cry and burst of tremendous strength, Art lifted the idol in both hands above his head. The islanders suddenly slowed, but maintained the ferocity of their advance, lowering spears, gnashing teeth, and glowering with unblinking eyes. Art hurled the idol at the islanders’ feet and they halted, gathering around the figure and righting it on its base.
Connelly swore and made to run towards it. Art caught him by his wounded shoulder and pulled him, shouting and cursing, to the ferry. The pair climbed in and O’Gill spun the vessel towards the inlet’s mouth.
O’Connelly leaned over the port, looking back at the islanders as they prostrated themselves before the idol. “All that gold and you let it slip away,” he growled through bared teeth. “What a waste of time, and what do I have to show for it? A broken shoulder! You can count me out of whatever other adventures you’ll likely bungle up, Cavanagh.”
Art said nothing as he glanced back at the shore and the idol, now seemingly dull beneath the thick cloud cover. He sighed and turned his gaze back towards the sea.
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“Cromm’s Gold” © Ethan Sabatella 2024 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.
Another rousing Art Cavanagh adventure!
Enjoyable! Please do more stories like this!