Mother

In the eaves of the barn the great white owl shivered as the wind
rose and whispered its coldness into the nest. Something came into the
loft, something cold and fearsome. The owl pushed itself further into
its bed of leaves and shivered, wide eyes searching the gloom around
it. It saw nothing but it remained in its roost. There would be no
hunting tonight.

Below, down amongst the hay bales, Matt Rogers was oblivious to the
wind as he moved a bale and uncovered the tunnel he'd built in the warm
dry hay. This was his favourite time - the chores were all done, his
father had retired to his bed and Matt was free and alone for the first
time that day.

He had built the den the night before, pushing the large rectangular
blocks of hay around until he had a four feet square cavity right in
the centre. A strategically placed bale hid the entrance from his
father's prying eyes. There had been a bad moment earlier today when
the old man had nearly uncovered the tunnel but it had passed and his
secret was still safe.

He switched on his flashlight before pulling the bale back into place
behind him leaving him alone in the warm yellow glow. He turned and
shone the torch down the tunnel, stray spines of hay casting sharp
needle shadows along the wall ahead of him. The plastic bag in his left
hand scraped along the straw as he pulled himself down the
tunnel.

There were small scurrying noises all around him but he had a lot of
experience with mice and they had long ago ceased to frighten
him.

Now rats, that was another matter, but Toby, the family terrier, seemed
to be lord of the farm at the moment and it had been several months
since the rats had been seen. However Matt purposely made more noise
than was necessary as he left the tunnel and pulled his way into his
private place.

Although the temperature had fallen to freezing outside, the air here
was warm and dry and musty, smelling faintly of new mown grass. He
moved the coarser parts of the hay aside as he smoothed out a seating
position for himself. He could see by his watch that it was nearly
midnight, nearly time.

Granddad had told him what to do. By rights it should be his father's
duty, but father was too much of a realist, too much a believer in
machines and fertiliser. It was down to Matt to keep the peace, to
ensure the crop now that Granddad had gone.

Carefully he emptied the plastic bag, placing the contents in a line
before him - the small sickle, gleaming golden in the torchlight, the
carefully trimmed ears of corn, the matches, the crucible and the tiny,
oil-fired brazier.

He moved the brazier into the centre of his small clear area. He would
have to be careful - he knew the dangers of fire in a hay loft, but the
element of danger was part of the ritual. He was trembling, a mixture
of anticipation and fear, as he lit the small wick underneath the
tripod and placed the crucible in its place.

The air seemed to grow heavier immediately and he was having difficulty
drawing breath as he dropped the corn into the crucible where it hissed
and spat as it ran around the bowl.

Within the confines of the den the shadows flickered red and the hay
seemed to dance in time with flickering flame as he began the chant
that Granddad had made him memorise.

Old Mother protect us. Cuillach preserve us.

Young Mother come forth. Cuillach dochtir be full for us.

The temperature dropped sharply and Matt could see his breath condense
in the air before him. The shadows on the hay facing him deepened
sharply and he reached forward to grip the golden sickle. There was a
quavering tremulous note in his voice as he continued the chant.

Young Mother be bountiful. Cuillach dochtir marry us

Old Mother be merciful, Cuillach spare us

The wall opposite him quivered, the straw shaping and moulding itself,
running together and binding, small knots forming as he watched
wide-eyed. A bulge appeared in the wall, a bulge that forced itself
into shape, first a head covered in flaxen hair, then shoulders, tanned
and golden.

Matt gripped the sickle tighter as the body of a young girl pushed
itself towards him.

Old Mother look the other way, Cuillach bypass us

Young Mother be gentle, Cuillach dochtir sleep with us

This was the important point. 'She will be beautiful,' Granddad had
said and Matt had noticed the far off look in his eye as he remembered,
'And you will be tempted by her favours. You must not bend, remember -
they are old. Older by far than this farm or even this land. My father
knew them, and his father, and on, before the Romans even. She wants
your seed but you must offer only your blood. She is bound by the chant
to accept. Remember, only your blood.'

Matt remembered, but she was comely and his heat was rising - he could
feel it pounding in his heart. The flaxen hair parted and he was
looking into a pair of eyes as clear and as blue as the summer sky. A
pair of red lips parted and a small pink tongue escaped from between
them.

He could feel an erection growing between his legs as she reached for
him and his grip on the sickle loosened slightly as he felt the feather
light touch of her fingers on his face.

He was looking up into those pale blue eyes when the bale above shifted
and the red angry face of his father glared at him.

'What the hell are you doing down there boy?' the man bellowed as Matt
was lifted out of the den by a strong right arm. He only had time to
look down once but all he could see was a disturbed layer of straw
slowly settling back into place, He looked up into the large red
face.

'How many damn times do I have to tell you? You know about the fire
don't you?'

'But dad,' Matt began before the man clapped a hand over the boy's
mouth.

'No buts. Not this time. This time I'm going to teach you a
lesson.'

Matt was thrown to the floor, hard enough to knock all the wind from
his body. He lay there, gasping, as his father took the large leather
belt from around his waist.

'The Cuillach dochtir. I was calling the Cuillach dochtir,' he managed
to blurt out, just as the first stroke hit and the pain lanced across
his back.

'Old wives tales. Just the ravings of an old dying man. How many times
do I have to tell you?'

Matt bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. Crying would only
make it worse.

Neither of them heard the rustling of straw from the makeshift
den.

Matt saw his father move to the den, saw him reach in and lift out the
brazier with one hand, the sickle with the other. Then all hell broke
loose.

The barn door was thrown open by a gust of wind, a wind that swept past
Matt and blew out the tiny flame in his father's hand, a wind that
whistled through the bales of hay, dislodging any loose straws and
sending them dancing and cavorting through the air.

'Close the bloody door,' his father shouted, and Matt pushed himself
upright. It was a struggle - the wind was strong - but he eventually
managed to get the door shut.

He could feel the wind rattling and struggling against the oak door as
he slid the bolt into place. It was only when he turned back to look
for his father that he noticed the straw - the straw that still danced
in the dead calm of the barn.

It spun and reeled in front of his father, all the time picking up more
material as it hovered over the remains of Matt's den. A figure began
to form and at first Matt thought that his maiden would return.

The straw had other ideas.

The hair came first. Not golden - not this time.

This time it was gray and old and dead and plastered across a mask of a
face stitched in yellow and dry stalks - the face of a hag.

Matt shouted as the arms began to form.
'The Old Mother. The Cuillach. Use the sickle dad! Use the
sickle!'

It was no use. He could see that his father was in shock, the veins
standing out large and proud at his temple as he struggled to contain
his fear. The long straw arms were around his neck before he had time
to shout and his first exclamation was smothered as the yellow face
clamped itself over his mouth.

They fell - the man and the hag, rolling on the floor, the sickle
hanging useless in the man's right hand, small pieces of the hag
falling off only to be replenished as ever more straw was strewn into
the air. The legs formed, long thin gray legs that were wrapped around
his father's lower body. Soon the whole place danced with the whirling
straws.

Matt tried to move upwards them and was buffeted by a whirlwind of
stinging grass that lashed across his face, across his hands. He fell
to his hands and knees and started to crawl. As he moved closer, his
father suddenly stopped struggling and gave one convulsive
shudder.

The wind fell, dropping the stalks around his body. Matt could hear the
sucking as the Cuillach fed.

Something inside him snapped at the sight of his father's still and
deflated body. He giggled as he crawled closer.

He could see the blood, could see the redness draining into the stalks,
could see the life pouring into the straw figure as his fingers closed
over the matchbox.

His hand shook violently as he tried to open the box and he nearly
dropped the contents when the figure stopped its feeding, its red
glowing eyes turning on him. He remembered the last thing his Granddad
had told him as he struck match after match and dropped them in the
straw at his feet.

Young Mother leave us, Cuillach dochtir depart

Old Mother be banished, Cuillach be dust once more

He smiled as the fire spread.

The great white owl flew over the barn, wary of the hot red sparks that
flew up into the night air. It watched as the barn collapsed into
itself and the fiery redness wafted in the night and it swooped
gratefully into the shelter of a large oak as the first snows of winter
fell.