The Stone that Shrieks
An Eachann and Connor Adventure
Eachann and Connor have sworn to assist the Selkies in ridding themselves of an old, bloodthirsty monster they once viewed as a god. They venture to the idol it is said to occupy, a standing stone by the brooding, nighted sea.
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King Fiachu smiled and spoke, gesturing to the crossbowman; Llewis translated: “‘Talorc will take you to the stones; he knows the land well and would see the god brought to ruin as well.’”
Talorc emerged from the crowd and held a hand out to the lads. Connor clasped his hand on the Pict’s forearm—Talorc did the same—and they shook. When he came around to Eachann, they clasped each other with limp grips.
Talorc frowned but said, “Come, get food and drink before we go.”
While the praise sank to a chorus of murmurs around the hall, Talorc addressed Fiachu with a nod and a few words in Pictish. He gestured to the outsiders and the king waved a hand, excusing them; Talorc bade Eachann, Connor, and Llewis to follow him. The lads retrieved their gear on their way out.
Over the horizon, the fleeting traces of sun bloomed as streaks of purple beneath low clouds tinted a dark blue against the darker sky above. Talorc led his charge a short ways down the hill and to one of the sod huts that stood among the aisles of many others like it; the earthen smell of peat drifted from within and orange light played under the heavy wool cloth hung over the threshold. A light, high voice that sang a song with no coherent lyrics also left the hut’s walls with the peat-smell, and Eachann sighed in relief for he recognized it as mouth-music—a musical style among Gaels sung without lyrics and with no meaning.
The hunter called out to whoever was within, “Cacht, we welcome outsiders. I bring them by for meals. They have Gaelic.”
The singing stopped and the cloth over the threshold shuffled. A woman with copper hair peered out, and her grey eyes fell on Eachann, at whom she laughed.
Eachann shared in her laugh. “By Manannán’s swine, I’d never have thought to see another Gael in such a place.”
“Ah lad,” Cacht said, sighing, “I’m as much a Gael as a salmon is a sturgeon.”
She continued laughing while Eachann ceased his and said, “I don’t understand, but you’re—”
“She is Selkie,” Talorc cut in. He sidled up to Cacht and the two exchanged a glance as he threw open the wool. Cacht made a welcoming gestured to the outsiders and they entered. Eachann lagging behind maintained a bewildered look until he came next to Cacht.
“Haven’t you ever heard of fosterage?” she asked.
“Of course, but your hair…your eyes…you speak our language well, but—”
“She is Selkie,” Talorc said firmly and guided Eachann by the shoulder inside while Cacht slipped in and went over to the hearth.
The hut would have been cramped with only two people in among the other furniture crowding the place—a pallet for a bed cushioned with worn wool; a roughly circular stone in the center as a table; and the various tools and containers pressed the five occupants in too snuggly. Despite the lack of space, Cacht navigated the hut with ease as she slapped filets of fish on the hearthstone before the fire. She and Talorc took a seat by each other near the hearth—she kept her eye on the meal as her husband spoke:
“King Fiachu sent outsiders to deal with Vuadd and I as their guide.”
Cacht frowned and replied in Pictish, speaking fast. Talorc spoke over her in the same tongue and their conversation turned into an argument.
Eachann leaned over to Llewis. “What are they on about?”
Cacht whipped a steely glare over at Eachann. “Mind your ears, Gwadell, after your meal Talorc will tell you where to go and that will be that; he is to stay by my side.”
“Take my pardon,” Connor said, “but we scarce know this part of Pict-ruled Alba, and Talorc will be safe with us leading the strike upon this thing.”
Cacht shook her head. “You don’t understand, simple steel and oak wielded by outside hands will not be enough to slay it.” She turned to Talorc. “You must uncover my foster father’s cairn; he possessed
Now Talorc shook his head. “What is dead will remain buried; it would be sinful to open a grave.”
“Who was your foster father?” asked Eachann.
“Ru, the sister-son of King Fiachu,” Cacht answered. “He was among the Selkies’ greatest champions, and was the only one to stand up against the Vuadd ere we found our new God.”
“The people would be loath to disturb such a mighty spirit,” said Talorc.
Cacht laid a hand on her husband’s chest and spoke to him in Pictish, calmly this time. The outsiders cast their eyes away as if the two were naked. Their voices were so low the sizzling of the fish sounded over them. Talorc pointed over at Eachann and Connor several times during the exchange, after which Cacht sighed and nodded.
She looked at Eachann. “Gwadell, Talorc tells me you can kill gods with that knife.”
Eachann gave a half-smile—on the side of his face illuminated by the fire—and withdrew the leather-wrapped knife from his belt. “This, my fellow Gwadell, once was the spear of my people’s greatest hero. Cú Chulainn wielded it as the Gae Bolga and struck down his best friend, and his only son with it. Now, in my hands, it is Scían Tethrach—the knife that killed the god Tethra.”
Cacht’s expression remained hard at the lore, but leaned forward and said, “Swear on that knife that if it doesn’t slay the Vuadd, you will find my father’s cairn.”
“I swear,” said Eachann.
“You swear by what?” Cacht pressed, leaning closer to the lad.
Eachann sighed. “I’ve already taken an oath before your king.”
“I am not the king,” Cacht retorted, “and he is not here. Now what do you swear by?”
“By the gods…I swear by the gods, by whom my people swear that I will heed your advice, o Cacht daughter of Ru.”
Cacht nodded and turned around to check on the meal. The fish soon finished and served wrapped in seaweed and with ale. A toast was made and the guests and hosts ate quickly. When they were finished, Talorc rose and excused the outsiders from the hut. Eachann, Connor, and Llewis waited for a few moments outside before Talorc emerged; the wool over the threshold swung open long enough for the three to witness Cacht sat down on the floor, outlined by the fire, with her head against her knees.
“We go,” Talorc said.
***
The sea winds rolled rampantly as the sand-blue swath of early night domed over the world. Talorc led Eachann, Connor, and Llewis northeastward from the tribe. Llewis brought with him a long yew bow and a sheaf of two dozen arrows fletched with crow feathers. They traveled from tall fields of swaying grass to the craggy shore. The waves of the retreating tide lapped lazily against the stones and pebbles, scarce a murmur beneath the sighs of the sky.
They came to a rocky causeway, slick with seawater and slime, which jutted out from the shore towards a small island where a standing stone rose black against the dim eastern horizon. The ancient stone, the height of at least two men, was worn from the tools of time, but remained whole. Their surfaces were rough and grey-stained.
Talorc trained his finger on the stone and spoke while Llewis translated, “ ‘That stone at the center of the island is the house of the Vuadd; go there then kill the god.’ ”
Eachann looked at the stone then at Talorc. “How do you expect me to kill a stone?”
“I think he believes that your dirk will do it.” Llewis pointed at Eachann’s belt.
Eachann scoffed. “This? This can rend flesh, bone, and wood if it’s old enough, but stone? I never tried it.”
Talorc pointed at Eachann and Connor then at the stone again, speaking tersely this time.
Llewis relayed the order, “He wants you to go there, now.”
The lads approached the causeway, Llewis followed behind them. Eachann stared down Talorc as the Pict lowered his hand but not his gaze. The three went across, careful not to let their feet slip on the treacherous surface of the seaborne path to the island.
The standing stone tilted backwards and bore symbols that differed from more common Pictish stones, which were wont to depict ancient creatures of Alba or strong men from the various tribes.
“What heroes or beasts are these, Llewis?” asked Connor.
Llewis and the lads paused their advance as the bard answered, “I…cannot say.”
They observed the stone in silence for a few moments. The symbols consisted of swirls that lapped over each other in dizzying loops with no end. Between them were holes that looked to have been punched violently into the stone with some pointed tool; star-like strata bloomed out from the marks. Between the infinite loops and linking with some of the holes, other shapes took form. While some had angles, they did not last more than a finger’s length; though the party was unsure, bodies of weird creatures formed within this nebulous design. Faces with bestial features—horns, fangs, snake-like snouts—using the hollow stars as eyes, leered on the surface of the stone. Whatever god or gods the forebears of the Selkies worshipped were ones that likely relished death brought to their deep, nighted domains. In the half-light of the evening, the lines rippled before the watchers. Eachann, Connor, and Llewis all lent a shiver as they concluded their study.
“Well, let’s see if I can kill a stone.” Eachann drew his leather-wrapped dirk from his belt and undid the wrapping. Contained therein was a blade of barbed bone, a wicked thing that could have also been a spearhead. The material itself looked on the verge of petrification with its veins of grey spidering below the surface of the blade. Eachann removed his right shoe and placed the butt between the fork of his toes. He hopped a pace forward, positioned himself closer to the stone, and kicked. The tip of the dirk caught for a moment against one of the carved channels but scrapped upward and off. The impact and deflection cost Eachann his balance; he tumbled backward, flinging the dirk in the air. Connor and Llewis moved away from the knife before it descended and clattered on the ground.
Eachann looked for Connor and Llewis; their shadowed forms stood a few yards apart from him, facing at the stone. “It won’t kill you now,” he said with a tinge of laughter in his voice. “I don’t suppose it will kill this stone—”
A shriek burst from the very stone itself. It was a like the cry of a stormy squall and a tortured bird rent apart by hunting hounds. Eachann clamped his ears, Connor and Llewis staggered back as if the shriek had punched them in the guts.
“Llewis, what is going on?” Eachann asked.
Llewis shrank further from the stone. “I think the god is emerging.”
The shapes on the stone glowed with a dim blue light and shifted. One of the figures—a thing that looked like a man but with several bestial traits—beneath the layers of spirals moved its clawed hands. It pulled at the lines above it, slowly revealing more of itself; two of the holes in the stone stood in place of its eyes. Eachann eyed the ground for his dirk in three quick swipes, but it remained hidden.
The thing in the stone opened its mouth, exposing two rows of needle-like fangs, some were chipped or broken in places. Suddenly, water spilled off the stone as if pushed out by a tide, trickling down softly at first. The stream quickened as the etchings of the thing faded.
Connor pulled his shield off his back and hunkered on Eachann’s left side; he raised his club over his head and planted his feet in a squared fighter’s stance. They stared at the stone as water poured faster out of it, now spilling at a dull roar and spreading across the rocky ground. Behind the lads, the sound of Llewis clacking an arrow against the grip of his bow brought them some relief; the taut string creaked as the bard pulled back with a sharp inhale.
The thing in the stone pushed away all the lines that marred its appearance, but its onlookers barely saw its full features on the stone before it vanished. The nebulous lines, like clouds, moved back to their rightful place. The water’s rush reduced to a trickle; the liquid atop the ground gushed into the sea. A thin membrane of liquid rippled and glistened on the glowing face of the stone.
Eachann and Connor looked around as silence pervaded, but they did not drop their guards. And just as well they did not, for pale human-like arm rose out of the water over the stone, as if surfacing from the sea. Its hand splayed out three long clawed fingers. A second such arm flailed out on the other side. Together, they grasped at the stone, claws raking into the grooves until they found enough purchase for the rest of the thing to complete its strange birth. The creature from the stone, now flesh and blood, leapt onto the island. It bore a humanoid physique, but hunched its six-foot-tall, lean figure. A wet mane of yellow hair ran down from the top of its head to its tail—a three-foot long scaled whip with spikes that lashed at the air. Its face was a distorted man’s with snake-like slits where a nose should have been and black eyes closer to its temples; it still bore the needle-like fangs. Tied and clasped with a fine-looking bronze brooch around its waist was a ragged, sopping wet green cloth dangled down a little past its knees, which were bent in a predatory stance on a pair of webbed feet, ready to pounce and slay.
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“The Stone that Shrieks” © Ethan Sabatella 2025 – 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.