The Phantom Hill

A Classic Pulp Adventure Story in Ireland

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 Emerald Isle; his adventures will be full of folklore and fortune.

Art Cavanagh journeys to his ancestral land of Ireland in search of answers in the form of lore and treasure—answers to the history of the furtive Celts. In this yarn, he follows a rumor about a fairy hill that supposedly only appears at sundown. Should this tale prove true, what might he find within? And are there others who might want a piece of whatever hides in the phantom hill?

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Art Cavanagh followed legends over facts. His Irish intuition for the strange and American drive for success no matter the cost combined made him a boundless adventurer. Though the libraries of Harvard, St. Francis Xavier, St. Eunan’s, and Berkley fueled his fire to explore, he abandoned the dry, mirthless theories presented by the scholars within them.

“People have more stories than all the books upon the shelves of the world,” his grandfather told him as a lad. Dathaith Cavanagh, being a native Irishman, trusted the word of a good neighbor more than the newspapers or official statements of learned men.

When Art arrived in Cork, Ireland by boat at the age of twenty three, the locals thought him to be one of their own until he started speaking. They were curt with him, and more than once laughed or scowled at his questions about ancient sites, history, and lore. He ventured from the small city into the countryside and lived as an itinerant worker. For a time, they regarded him as an alien but maintained their hospitable traditions and welcomed him into their homes; he repaid them with physical labor, much to the relief of many a grey-headed, stooped fear-an-taigh. Hard work in the fields combined with a hearty farmer’s diet built up the skinny, New York street rat into a towering, sun-browned man who cut the figure of an ancient Connacht champion. His sandy blond hair and perpetually boyish face offset his hard, iron-thewed physique, both of which won him many a dark, glistening glance from farmers’ daughters—and the ire of their suitors.

At the close of each workday, Art visited the céilidh house of whatever village he stayed in and relished in the community’s singing, drinking, dancing, and most of all their spinning of yarns. At the start of his first year, Art relegated himself to a dark corner, watching and listening while he sipped poitín. By the end of his first year, he joined in the singing and dancing. Then, by the middle of his third year, Art was telling his own yarns and tall tales, partially in Irish, lifting the spirits of crowds and dancing across the ancient stone and dirt floors of céilidh houses with no less than three girls a night.

Amidst his wanderings and indulging, Art still held fast to his desire of exploring the deeper, seldom trodden corners of Ireland. He hoped to piece together the frustrating puzzle of the Celtic enigma—the origins, arts, and crafts of his ancestors at which many a scholar merely scratched his head and hemmed and hawed over.

Once Art’s skills in the language improved, he sought out poor old tramps who long abandoned their communities thanks to eviction, famine, or ostracization. He always carried a few bottles of whisky with him for such colloquies to get the old hounds talking. When pressed, they told some ghost stories, the potential truths of unsolved murders, and warnings to stay away from fairy mounds in the area. Art often palavered with these vagabonds by the roadside ‘round a little fire as the sun descended.

One man he spoke with, by the name of Conán Ó hÓgáin, finally gave him a tale which set him on a journey:

“Now, the Boys—the fairies that is—had a little fort near Lough Eske, but the thing of it was that you could nary see the fort or the hill it was in themselves except after sundown. These fairies held a great swath of treasure in their fort and any fools who tried to come after it met their end by the tips of the Boys’ spears and arrows. One day, Finn McCool and his men tried to take the fort for themselves—this was when the Fenians were at their prime, mind you—and it was a massacre! There were thousands of bodies strewn through the gullies and blood flowing like rivers down the braes. Not one of the Boys was touched, but they went and shut the fort up well before dawn broke. As they were getting the defenses in place, Finn hurled a spear through the main door and chewed on his thumb to learn that it indeed struck one of them. His spear is likely still there to this day, along with the rest of the treasure.”

With this lore in mind, Art ventured northwest, stopping in Donegal before he made his way to Lough Eske. Though blessed with the gift of gab, he kept this endeavor a close secret while he imbibed with some men in a publick house. The next day, he gathered supplies from various vendors—rations, rope, electric torches and batteries, a pick, and ammunition for his .45 Colt. The last article forced him to promise favors to unsavory characters conducting their business in the root cellar of a senile farmer.

Equipped by noon, Art set out to Lough Eske. He borrowed a horse from a farmer with the remainder of his funds to aid in the transport of his gear. Thanks to the steed, he reached the lake well before nightfall. Art moseyed along the banks to kill time, admiring the sunbeams upon the water as they fractured in the ripples. He rested atop a mossy stone as the sun descended, smoldering orange. Like an eagle upon a crag, Art turned his gaze all about the Lough.

The sun and sky wheeled, bringing dusky shades and the winking, early stars. A dark blue pall washed over the green, rolling swells ringing Lough Eske. Not one of them stood out as the mystery hill Art sought, however. Once the sun’s gilt gaze vanished behind the Earth’s rim, yet a burst of its light remained—a fading wall of rosy flame—a shape emerged north of Art. Like mist conceding to dawn, a veil in the air peeled away amid the dimness, revealing a mound larger than the other ridges along the banks.

Art leapt off the rock and onto his horse in the middle of grazing. It snorted angrily but heeded its master’s spurs; the grass tore beneath its hooves. Art raced against time itself, unsure how long the phantom hill would remain but knew he could make it stay for a while—he readied an iron knife to drive through whatever door led into the ancient sidhe fortress within the mound. His grandpa recommended Art keep such a knife on his person at all times: “For driving off bandits, cutting apples, an’ sticking in fairy doors, boy!”

The horse gave up running at the foot of the hill and shook Art off. He tumbled onto his back and cursed. “Unruly nag,” he grumbled, clambering to his feet. The grass bore a strange chill which permeated off the blades like the icy breath of fallen snow.

Art’s blood grew hot as he spied a threshold covered by a fallen dolman carved with spirals. Pulling himself by hand and foot up the hill, a burst of vigor in his heart flooded his hard limbs. He ascended to the entranced and sought to push the blockage aside with his bare hands. It proved too difficult with his fingers alone, shaking with adrenaline. He swore at himself for abandoning his tools on the saddle in his haste. Then, he recalled the iron knife and plunged it into the nearest crook where it would fit.

“Opening fairy doors in a way, grandpa,” he muttered to the heavens as he twisted and levered the blade. Curiously, he found no dirt or moss on the stone or amid the cracks. At last, the stone loosened and scraped against the threshold. Art reached his fingers in and pulled the rest of it out. The dolman tumbled down the hill; the horse had enough of a mind to canter away before it crippled the beast.

Art withdrew a torch from his trouser pocket and shone the beam into the threshold. A long, stone tunnel ran inside the hill. It was a head shorter than Art and narrow for his frame; he shuffled sideways through the passage. The smell of cold stone and earth filled the air. Not one mote of dust floated in Art’s torch beam. Spirals, chevrons, dots, and sketchy humanoid figures etched into the stone reminded Art of the carvings discovered at the tomb of Newgrange—relicts of a people older than the Celts who dwelt in Ireland, and perhaps the basis for the fairy legends that permeated the folk memory of the Isle.

After about one hundred paces, the passageway opened to a circular chamber with a low ceiling. Art swept the torch beam across the room. It fell upon columns of rocks piled carefully up to the ceiling and dusty skeletal remains sitting beneath them. In the rear of the chamber sat the tarnished remnants of a vehicle much like a chariot crafted out of gold. A pair of horse skeletons lay before it, and a skeleton sat inside it. The bones leaned against a spear propped straight up; the leaf-bladed bronze tip was wedged within a crack in the ceiling.

“Finn’s spear,” Art murmured, approaching the remains, head bowed as though paying his respects to the departed at a wake. “Slán, old chief,” he said, stopping beside the cart. He reached out to grasp the spear, but halted as alarm prickled the back of his skull. Art cast the torch beam upward; cracks spiderwebbed around the spearhead in the ceiling. The crooked lines led to each of the pillars in the tomb. If this moves, the whole place comes down, Art determined, and left the ancient weapon alone, chagrined.

“At least I might leave with a few keepsakes.” Art smiled as he shone his torch into the cart. A few stone and flint arrowheads were piled beside the skeleton’s feet. He scooped up a handful and examined them, before setting them in his pocket. Little good luck charms, he mused, recalling some farmers who had similar “elfin” arrowheads they claimed to have found near supposed fairy mounds.

Suddenly, something cracked against the back of Art’s head. White and red flashed in his eyes as he tumbled to the ground and a black, unwelcomed sleep fell over him.

***

“I want this chariot removed, everything else may be forgotten.” The nasally voice of an Englishman roused Art from his unconsciousness. His head ached so hard his guts churned. He reckoned the man who spoke was of gentlemanly standing based on his elongated vowels, trilled Rs, and slight lisp.

Art forced his eyes open and moved to stand, but found something squeezing against his chest and arms, which prevented him from rising. He looked down as his vision cleared; ropes bound him tight to one of the pillars, and his holster folded empty at his hip.

Several figures shuffled through the tomb, waving electric torches around, save one. Three rugged men gathered around the cart, muttering to each other in rough Liverpool accents. The apparent leader of the plunderers stood near the threshold. He was tall and slim, clad in a fine tweed suit and holding a cane with a round silver head. His face was soft and pale, contrasted by his dark eyes and thin black moustache. The gentleman looked down at Art and grinned.

“Ah, the Colonial has awoken.” He waved at his workers to continue while he approached Art, placing one black-gloved hand over his chest. “Alexander Allard, his majesty’s envoy, explorer, and procurer of artefacts.”

Art winced as lingering pain throbbed through his skull, yet he returned Allard’s grin with a venomous one of his own. “Art Cavanagh, I’m an explorer myself, but definitely not in service to your tyrant.”

Allard waved a hand dismissively. “Naturally, you Colonials have little sense of purpose without a monarch—little better than the churls of this miserable isle.”

“What do you want with the cart?” Art nodded towards Allard’s cronies who began arguing with each other. Their dialect was so thick Art could hardly make out what their spat was about.

“I just wish to take it as a little prize to remind the Irish who they really owe their fealty to. His majesty will have it displayed in his estate here; no speeches, no public decrees, simply an edifice of failed rebellions and broken warriors.”

Art laughed, eliciting a scowl from Allard. “Trying to prove something to who? Elves? Aly, buddy, this cart is pre-Celtic, nothing to do with the men and women alive today.”

“It’s unlikely they’ll know the difference.” Allard held up one of the flint arrowheads and tossed it at Art. It tumbled against his fingers; he remained still as Allard seemed not to notice. “Instead of the crown jewel you decide to take the remains of rude weaponry?”

“Listen, Aly, trust me when I say you don’t want to move that chariot.”

Allard laughed, tapped his cane on the ground, and strode over to his lackies. “What is taking you lot so long?”

“Well, sir,” said one of the lackies with a squashed-looking nose, “it’s right stuck in place.”

“Of course it’s stuck, you nitwit, it wasn’t meant to be functional. Get those bones out and lift it up.”

“I wouldn’t do that, bright eyes,” Art called over to the lackey.

The oaf shrugged and seized the spear. He yanked it out of the skeleton’s grasp, breaking its fingers. The end of the tip snapped off as he chucked the spear behind him. Art groaned and grabbed the arrowhead, pressing its edge against his binds. Crackling sounded overhead and chips of stone dropped from the ceiling. Allard and his lackies looked up. The cracks running across the ceiling widened and multiplied. The ground trembled, prompting Allard to race through the threshold. His lackies gawked at the rain of rubble before following their leader. One of them peeled off and knelt behind Art as the others escaped.

“Sorry about that bump on your ‘ead,” he said. “Wouldn’t sit right with me to leave you tied up ‘ere either!”

Art paused from sawing as his binds fell away one by one. “Appreciate it, bud—”

A massive slab of stone careened down and crushed the poor bloke before he undid the final binds around Art’s wrists. His blood spattered across Art’s face and shirt; his body twitched as crimson pooled around it. Art resumed sawing the binds, straining his arms against them in hopes to snap out.

The rumbling from below grew and the stone floor fractured. The gold cart jostled before the ground beneath it crumbled, swallowing the priceless treasure. The breaks zigzagged throughout the tomb, some directly towards Art. He sawed faster, cursing Allard for binding him in the first place and leaving one of his own to die.

At last, the final bond snapped and Art leapt towards the passageway just as the spot where he sat gave way. The earth entombed the pillar and the poor lackey’s body. He dashed towards the murky blue colors of night at the end of the passage. His heart raced as more rubble crashed behind him; the entire hill shook and groaned, as if there were more layers beneath that tomb, forming the bones of what must have once been a population center. Art cursed Allard again for allowing such an exciting find to have been destroyed.

His wrathful thoughts distracted him from the growing chasm at his heels. Art snapped to the present in time to catch himself as the ground opened up beneath his feet. He clung to the remains of the floor, mere feet from the threshold looking out upon Lough Eske. Hot blood coursed from his fingers all the way up to his shoulders as he hung onto the crumbling edge. His legs dangled into a yawing pit with no discernable bottom; the rubble cascaded into the void and vanished from Art’s sight soundlessly. Without anything to support his footing, Art strained to heave his mighty frame to safety, however his hands could scarcely find an adequate hold.

This can’t be the end of the road! his mind screamed, refusing to allow his fingers reprieve. There’s still so much more to see!

Through sight growing dark and narrow from strain, Art spied the moon rising over the lake. It was a crescent, a slender, silvern sliver cutting through the fabric of the night sky. Several stars winked above the final, pale blue glow from the sunset.

“I suppose there’re worse sights to see for my last.” Art sighed, determining to let his body give out from exhaustion before giving up the ghost. One by one, his fingers went numb; they shook and curled away from the stone against his will, sore down to the bone. He shut his eyes and gave one last heave with the fingers he still clung with. They slipped, his nails cracked, and he felt himself drop towards the pit.

Suddenly, Art’s collar bunched up around his neck, choking him. Something seized the back of his shirt—a small, yet strong hand. A chill ran down his spine, radiating from his savior’s grip. Art rose in the air and flew onto the brae outside the tomb before the heavy lintel stones gave way. The hand released him and he tumbled downward. Art clawed at the dirt and grass, bringing himself to a halt. He looked around for a glimpse of his mysterious savior, but found no one near him. His eyes, drawn by a sudden flash, turned upward as a shape moved through the sky. It was a thing formed of pure light, blue and green—like the northern lights of the Arctic—in the shape of a man within a chariot pulled by two spectral steeds. At least, that was the impression Art had of it before it faded into the night.

Rising shakily, Art patted himself down to check for injuries. He paused as his hand fell upon something in his pocket. He reached in and withdrew the arrowhead he used to liberate himself. In his haste, he must have placed it in his pocket without thinking.

Art smiled and tossed the arrowhead in the air. “Might not have gotten the gold but at least I got a good luck charm out of this.” He caught the little artefact and moseyed down the hill, towards his horse grazing on the banks.

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“The Phantom Hill” © Ethan Sabatella 2023 – 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.