Fire Out of the Ages - II
A Scottish Gaelic folk horror story set in rural Nova Scotia
The mysterious lore of “Fire Out of the Ages” continues in this second installment. Although passionate about preserving information on the local Gaelic traditions, Duncan finds there is a grim side to his research, which may lead him to horrific truths.
If you haven't read the first part to the story, check it out at the link below!
Fire Out of the Ages - I
I woke up sweating on July 31st. The air-conditioning malfunctioned several days prior. It led to dense, warm nights but manageable with a box fan. For some reason, however, it felt like a huge, burning blanket wrapped around me as I slept the night before. I dreamt for certain, but I couldn’t gather the full story of what came to me. Images of fire, the sun, the land being scorched. In the flashes I could recall of the sun, I remembered seeing the vague impressions of a face; a mouth and several eyes flared in dark red blazes. I sweat just thinking about it and tried to put it out of my mind as I took an ice cold shower after I dragged myself out of bed. For the rest of the day, I tried to keep cool inside and outside my apartment, sticking as close to the shade as I could; I didn’t bother studying at all as anticipation at what Flòraidh knew burned away any urge to sift through texts I had already gathered.
Well before sundown, I went to campus and waited on a stone bench under the archway leading into the library. I watched the shadows lengthen and darken under the deep gold light. The grass and leaves looked yellowish, dying in the late summer beams. An instinctive melancholy welled in my heart as I realized that it was my last summer in school and I spent most of it cooped up in the library. I thought up some ways I could soak up the last weeks of vacation, considering when my roommates would return to Antigonish and wondering if Flòraidh would want to go out to a beach. Eyes closed, I lost myself in imagining Flòraidh in a swimsuit before the rumble of a car engine and grind of rubber on asphalt.
“A Dhonnchaidh!” Flòraidh’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. An old, red Civic parked in front of the wheelchair ramp leading up to the library. Flòraidh leaned out the passenger window, waving but not smiling. The silhouettes of two other riders occupied the vehicle, one in the driver’s seat, and another in the back.
I stood up and waved, smiling as I came down the ramp. Flòraidh, however, simply pulled herself back inside and rolled the window up. She jabbed her thumb towards the backseat once I reached the car. Frowning, I pulled the door open and the stale smell of cigarettes and fast food, and old car interior warmed by the sun, wafted out. I slid inside and gave the other occupant a sheepish nod and smile. He was an older guy, likely nearing his mid-thirties, round-faced and with thinning yellow hair. He stared back at me through thick glasses. The driver also held his gaze as I slid in and buckled myself. He didn’t seem to be much older than my neighbor in the backseat, but had dark hair poking out from under a ratty maroon cap.
“Ciamar a tha sibh?” I asked, glancing between the two. “Dè an t-ainm a th’ oirbh?”
Neither of them answered. The driver shifted the car out of park as soon as I slammed my door. The car rocked as it pulled out of the road in front of the library and turned right on St. Ninian Street. Caledonia Mills was southeast of Antigonish; it wasn’t a far drive but the absolute silence maintained by everyone else in the vehicle made it feel longer. The driver also didn’t bother to turn on the cold air or roll down the windows or just didn’t care to do either. Whatever the case, neither Flòraidh nor the guy sitting next to me, staring at me, didn’t complain. The only time anyone spoke was in murmured Gaelic, too quiet or well beyond my own comprehension of the language.
We reached Caledonia Mills just as the sun touched the black hills and mountains far behind us. The car turned onto a densely wooded road. Despite the shade, the interior retained the stiff, wooly heat; my head throbbed and beads of sweat ran down my face.
Straight, narrow pavement gave way to a twisting, dusty gravel path that wound up to a low hill in the middle of a grassy clearing. An old, yellow-painted house sat on the hill. Two kids, a boy and girl, ran around the house counterclockwise, occasionally rapping their knuckles against the sides. They laughed, singing a song, the words of which were lost amid the rumble of the engine and drone of insects and birds in the dim, surrounding woods.
The driver parked the car in front of a shed a few meters away from the house. He and my neighbor in the backseat opened their doors and stepped out.
Flòraidh nodded towards the house and said, “Thig.” She opened her door and stepped out. I followed suit and shadowed her up to the front porch with the two men—Cap and Glasses, I decided to call them in my head. The kids halted their play and song before the rickety steps, standing stock-still and staring at me. I gave them a nod and friendly smile, looking back to my “hosts” as we stepped up to the dusty screen door.
“A mhàthair!” Cap called inside, throwing open the door. Glasses caught it and held it open for Flòraidh, but slipped in before me. I caught the door before it shut and entered a kitchen. The air indoors was stiffer and warmer than outside. A woman, plump and with greying hair, stepped away from the stove on the far wall. She smiled warmly as we filed in.
“A Fhlòraidh,” she nodded towards me, “cò tha seo?”
“Seo Donnchadh,” Flòraidh answered, her eyes cast downward.
I thrust my hand towards the woman, forcing a smile as we shook hands. “Ciamar a tha sibh?” I asked.
“Glè mhath,” she replied, letting go of my hand then gesturing to the threshold on the far side of the kitchen, leading into a dim sitting room. Dust motes floated in the receding beams slanting in past the half-drawn curtains. I followed her directions, Flòraidh, Cap, and Glasses close behind. Assorted chairs and a single, beaten and stained sofa lined the walls. I chose a creaky wooden stool with a floral-patterned cushion. Flòraidh sat across from me on the sofa, casting her eyes to the scuffed floorboards.
Cap and Glasses went to sit but the woman in the kitchen stepped through the threshold and barked at them, “Fair am Bàrd Aonarach.” She pointed at a set of stairs leading up directly across from the kitchen. The men nodded and went up the stairs, which creaked horribly under each step.
When the woman stepped back into the kitchen, I leaned forward and asked Flòraidh, “Okay, what is all this?”
She looked up at me. “I thought you wanted to learn about the Red Priest.”
“I did, and I’m sorry, but I feel really uncomfortable right now. I thought—”
“Thought what?” she spat, an unfamiliar venom sliding into her tone. “Thought I’d bring you to a square dance or some townhouse apartment where everyone’s only speaking a few words in Gaelic? You students are so afraid to look where you don’t feel safe. Well, a Dhonnchaidh, the lore you’re about to hear is ugly but it’s the truth, the truth of my family and our traditions. It’s a cèilidh so we’re going to be here a while.”
Cap and Glasses’ footsteps tapped on the floor above us. They started out in a normal, plodding rhythm, then after a pause, shifted to a deliberate shuffle. I looked towards the stairs as they descended and almost fell out of my seat as they entered the living room. The pair carried what looked like a mummy of a man wrapped in a heavy woolen blanket. Sallow, spotted skin clung to long bones. Wrinkles creased his face like tree bark. His toothless mouth opened and closed, lips shaking, babbling something in a hoarse voice, indicating he yet lived. The men set him beside Flòraidh who smiled slightly as he leaned back against the cushions.
“Feasgar math, a sheanair,” she said, touching his bony shoulder gently.
“Oh!” the ancient gasped and set a trembling hand on her arm. “S-S-Sally! S-Sally!” He licked his lips and leaned closer to Flòraidh, puckering them. She tried to lean away but the old man grabbed her shoulder with his other hand.
The woman rushed in from the kitchen and gently separated them. “Chan e Sally a th’ innte. Chan e Sally a th’ innte.” She caressed the old man’s face, leading him to drift back into his seat.
I cleared my throat and leaned forward, shooting a question at the old man, “Dè an t-ainm a th’ oirbh?”
He looked towards me and as he did I could tell by his milky blue eyes that he was blind. “Cò thusa?” he demanded.
“Ah, ‘S mise Donnchadh.”
“Tha e ag iarraidh fios air an t-Sagart Dearg,” Flòraidh said.
The old man’s jaw fell open and shook as he forced out the words, “Father Cameron?”
“Was that his real name?” I blurted.
“Settle in, a Dhonnchaidh,” said Flòraidh. “The sun’s almost down; his tale will start soon.”
Those of us who could see—Fòraidh, Cap, Glasses, the woman in the kitchen, and myself—watched out the window as the sun dipped beneath the black trees, the blue sky deepening. The little boy and girl ran inside before the light fled entirely. They ran up to the old man and kissed him on either cheek. He patted their heads as they took a seat before him.
“‘Nis,” Cap tapped the old man on the shoulder once all sign of the sun faded, the mourning doves filling the forest with their calls.
By then, I felt like I was falling asleep, everything feeling somewhere between reality and a dream. Around my second year at StFX, I had become quite accustomed to speaking and thinking in Gaelic, so I eventually started having dreams in Gaelic. I couldn’t understand all the words, or even remember them as is the case with dreams, but in the moment they made sense to me—that is how it felt when the old man spoke. What I have managed to remember is something I forewent telling the cops and even CSIS, because I can’t be sure it even happened. In fact, during questioning, I seemed to have forgotten all about it. However, in the few hours a night I can get sleep amidst the pain, his words come back to me in dreams. Little by little, as Gaelic itself had come to me, his words echoed out of the murky fog in my memories. Words that no one now in their right mind would believe.
Nonetheless, in that sweaty, warm daze, it made sense to me—
“I came here on May Eve, sometime after the Gaels settled in this new land, I found everyone under his sway. Father Cameron, the Red Priest, showed the people an old face of God. The face of the sun, fire, the God after whom the sacred festival of Beltaine was named. I objected to his teachings, and yet I still do, but I must share them for they are stories and they are the truth. Although I did not believe him, he still declared that it was I who would be the last bard in this old world, I who would sing people to the new world once the bright face of God consumed this withering existence. I would be blind Ossian, lonely on the hill, while all others walked into the golden beams.
“That morning of Beltaine, he blinded me and forced me to drive the knife into my dear Sally’s breast! Ochan! Ochan! Ochan!”
The old man broke down into sobs as he mentioned that name—Sally. He shook and wailed, beating his feeble fists against his brow. Flòraidh wrapped her arms around him and started humming that song from the first day I had met her. After a few minutes of her tune and rocking him, the old man heaved a long sigh and resumed—
“Father Cameron wanted to bring us to the new world on that day, but it was not the right time. I tried to tell him this, but in his hubris he did not listen. Well, I did what a good Ossian would do and sat on the hill. I listened to the village burn itself that night.
“I wished, and have wished since then, nothing more than my own death. But it seems I must wait still. I will be the last upon this world, the last bard—the Lonely Bard. I will close the last verse of this old world and sing the first of the new.
“This world does not end in a cold night, but in a fiery dawn. Remember!”
The last word of the old man’s soliloquy had jolted me awake. The house was dark and so were the woods outside. No one sat or stood in the room; I called out for Flòraidh but got no response. As I shouted, the taste of smoke and gasoline clogged my mouth and nose. I coughed and looked over to the kitchen, leaping to my feet as a thick black cloud, underlaid with quickening flames billowed towards the threshold. I shouted for Flòraidh again, but fell into a coughing fit as I gulped in another draught of the smoke. Taking up my stool, I hurled it at the nearest window. As the glass shattered, the flames surged forward, hungry for the fresh source of air. I vaulted through the frame and landed hard on the side of my left foot. A sickening pop erupted from my ankle, followed by a hot flash of pain; I rolled the rest of the way down the hill the house sat on, halting on my stomach.
Bringing myself onto my hands and knees, I looked up and my jaw dropped as my eyes met Flòraidh’s, obstructed by the haze of fledgling fire. She stood at the back of the Civic, which was parked and running at the trailhead leading towards the main road. Cap and Glasses threw matches and gasoline around the tree line. They didn’t even acknowledge me as they moved to the open driver and passenger doors. Cap tugged at Flòraidh’s wrist without looking at her. She lifted her free hand towards me and made a slight, half-hearted wave before climbing into the backseat.
“Stad!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet and lurching forward. My ankle screamed in protest and refused to let me move more than a meter. Cursing, I crawled towards the shed, its doors were swung open, and grabbed a rake with a rusty head. I used it as a crutch to hobble through some of the untouched trees onto the path. The fire spread through the underbrush, and it was then I realized how dry that summer had been with how easily the plants burst into the flames. It was like a pathetic race, me limping and stumbling down the rough path while being flanked by an unfeeling, all-consuming force. Sweat soaked my clothes, any of it on my skin evaporated, exposing it to the searing heat of the fire. The smoke hung around me in a dark grey wall. I kept my head down and my breaths sparse as I followed the trail. Trees creaked and moaned amidst the roaring of the inferno; birds and other wildlife shrieked, crashing through the branches towards safety; somewhere ahead of me, the car’s motor rumbled.
I forced myself through the woods up to where the asphalt reappeared. Ahead of me, through the smoke, glowed the taillights of the Civic. Mustering what energy I had left, I pressed onwards, but paused as a terrible creaking sounded off to my left. A huge, ancient tree snapped near the base, eaten up by the fire. It collapsed a few meters ahead of me, laying across the road. I looked for a way around and saw nothing except for a narrow gap near its base, already wreathed in flames.
“The only way,” I rasped to myself, the smoke forced tears out of my eyes and burned my throat. Setting my teeth, I stooped to the opening and pulled myself through the gap. The flames immediately singed by hair, clothes, and skin; I screamed as I tore through, unable to retreat but finding it difficult to push myself along. White hot pain licked at my back as I raked my nails over the asphalt, the bite of nicks or scrapes minimal to the hell I endured.
I don’t remember how I put out the fire on myself, or how I either crawled or hobbled to the side of the road. I recall echoes of some good Samaritans with thick Pictou County accents asking if I was all right. Then there were flashes of red and blue lights; the ride in the ambulance with the temporary panacea of painkillers.
What I do remember is the great ball of fire that engulfed my dreams between surgery and bed rest. It burned away all my convictions and assumptions about what I had learnt for almost a decade. As I’ve been healing, I lost all motivation to continue my thesis or even my degree. I put myself in this rut, I guess, by looking into things I shouldn’t have, by just not leaving things as I heard them. Instead, I made the mistake of philistines, symbologists, and postmodernists—I tried to squeeze meaning out of one story and paid the price of knowing the truth.
I know for certain not all Gaels subscribe to this belief in a great apocalypse, in some kind of twisted Rapture, or in a blind, seemingly immortal bard that will see everyone through to a “new world.” But if there is one merit from the insanity I witnessed and heard that night, it’s that maybe there are things in this old world better left to burn.
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“Fire Out of the Ages” © 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.
Great atmosphere!
One question about language - when Flòraidh tells him to come into the house, she says "thig". We would use "trobhad" as the imperative form of "come" in the present, with "thig" being future tense, e.g. "thig mi a-màireach". I'm just wondering whether that's a dialect difference between Scotland and Nova Scotia?
Wow! What an ending! Discourages one from delving into things they know very little about, for fear of what they might encounter!