by Ciaran McLarnon

The driving rain stung his eyes, the howls of the wind filled his ears, the cold of the winter puckered his skin. Every one of George’s senses pleaded with him, but nothing would stop him from getting his early delivery bonus. Heavy rain ran down the road in babbling streams. In dips, the water collected in icy pools that were almost too deep for George’s wagon to ford, but not quite. He was looking for the stone bridge, hoping that it could withstand the force of the swollen river and that he could cross that border between the two counties: from Antrim into Derry.

He was driving his team as hard as he could. They were giving him every ounce of strength they had. They rushed along the road; he was gritting his teeth so hard that he could taste blood. When he smelled burning in the air, he slackened his hold on the reigns. When was able to see the burning tree that had fallen across his path he brought his horses to a halt. Water was pooling in the brim of his tri-corner hat, but George still it took off when he greeted the soldier standing at the side of the road.

A flash of lightning revealed the soldier was shouting something into the wind. George leaned forward, ‘you’ll need to find another way across the river tonight, that road is much too dangerous. The storm must be right overhead, there are lightning flashes all around. It won’t be clear until tomorrow.  If I was you, I’d give up on crossing before tomorrow.’

‘But I have guns for the siege at Derry,’ said George, ‘can’t you let me pass?’

The soldier looked back at his comrades, shivering in the bitter wind, scowling more deeply with every raindrop that seeped into their woollen tunics.

‘It can’t be helped; we’re under strict instructions. When you arrive, inform an officer of the reason for your delay. I saw a wooded area a few miles back where you can rest and take shelter.’

‘But I could be stuck by lightning if I shelter under trees!’ Said George.

The soldier fixed him with a cold stare for a few moments, ‘we’re more worried about catching the death of cold.’

George was driving his horses back south, back towards the village of Cullybackey, looking for the trees the soldier had mentioned. The road was narrow, with the heavy rain some of it was crumbling away; George used his whip sparingly. With each flash of lightning he could see over the hedges; he saw the silhouettes of trees rising from the field up ahead. He followed the track towards them.

He saw that the trees surrounded a mound, that the grove was thick enough to provide good shelter even at this time of year. I can stay here until the rain gets lighter, he thought, but I must find a way to Derry soon. He found the trees unusual, or rather he found it unusual that the landowner hadn’t found a more profitable use for the land.

George didn’t like using his hurricane lamp, but once he was in the complete darkness of that undergrowth, a place not even illuminated by the flashes of lightning all around, he had no choice about to light the wick and burn through some of his precious oil. The light it provided was faint, just enough to see the naked tree branches and twigs swaying in the wind and to avoid those that bent and could whip across his face. He moved deeper into the thicket.

Soon he found a space under the canopy, underneath the branches of mature trees; that space would provide shelter from the storm and room enough for his horses to be comfortable. And he could see through to the moonlit clouds, there was light enough for him to dispense with the hurricane lamp. Before he extinguished the flame and plunged into the gloom, George made a final check of his surroundings. Raindrops struggled to permeate the leathery leaves discarded by the Willow and Ash of the thicket, he heard the ground beneath his feet squish as the rain it couldn’t absorb run out of it, his horses shifted uncomfortably and whinnied as they tried to move away from the mound. He tried to calm them with soothing noises, but he also knew that something was amiss too, and yet could find no cause for his anxiety. He lifted the glass that protected the flame of his hurricane lamp. The flame guttered in the breeze, then a strong gust blew out the flame.

It was a sudden gust of warm air. It didn’t come from the storm swirling around them; it was blowing across from the hill. The breeze was pleasant to George, it was only natural that he should turn around to examine the source more closely. He saw a black space at the base of the mound, it was a space so dark thought not even moonlight could brighten it. The horses reared up as they struggled to get away. One thought told Gorge to get away, but he followed the one that urged him closer to the source.

The wind grew stronger with every footstep. Soon, the source became an irresistible force that desired only to pull George towards it. It became strong enough to pull George off the ground. As he was pulled into that otherworldly portal, he groped for anything he could keep him in this world, but it was to no avail. George was consumed by that malevolent gateway, subject to a force so strong that not even his cries could escape it. All that could be heard were the snorts and neighs of his panicked horses.

‘If you look to your left, you can see Dundermot mound,’ said the guide, ‘a site that has been important in this area since ancient times. It is called Dun Diarmada in Irish, a name that translates as Dermot’s Fort in English. This site has earned an infamous place in local folklore as the site of a gateway to hell. As you can see the site consists of a wooded area that surrounds a grassy mound that peeks above the treetops. These mounds were very common throughout northern Europe, artificial heights offering expansive views. Most were used for defence; the peaks of these mounds are excellent sentry positions. But in this environment, rich farmland divided into patchwork of fields in every shade of green spread across a shallow river valley, that mass of earth might serve another purpose – it covers the burial mound of an ancient king whose name is now forgotten.

That king sold his soul to the devil, so the story goes, so souls can be dragged to hell through that burial site. The building of the mound was an attempt to stop this, but every few years the devil takes another person – the most famous of these was in 1689, when a courier named George Logan took shelter here as he was taking guns and ammunition from Belfast to Derry. His horses were found starved and deranged in those woods, although no trace of George was ever found. It’s said that George lingers there still, and that he dances with the devil every Halloween at Dundermot mound, so the devil forgets to lure the living into the gateway.’

Ethan looked out the window of his bus. He wondered if this road had been here 1689, what it had looked like before it had been criss-crossed with cars. Perhaps it was a track of mud and stones then, barely passible in winter. Perhaps it was a smoother, straighter road in the time of the ancient king.

‘That forest is considered to be some of the most ancient in the area, because of the rumours surrounding that mound – people are very reluctant to disturb land where the devil walks.’

Ethan scoffed. He planned to return, ancient monuments are always worth a visit, but believe it was any kind of portal was absurd. The road their tour bus was on was snaking towards the Giant’s Causeway, but he’d already decided he’d rent a car tomorrow. There were just too many places that he’d like to have lingered longer, and he wanted to see as much of the land of his Logan ancestors as he could before he hopped on the plane.

This place is Ireland’s very own Bermuda Triangle, thought Ethan. The super-mini he was driving seemed like a toy compared to the cars he was used to the States. When he got out, he was worried that the wind was strong enough to blow the car onto its roof. But he’d parked the car as close to the hedge as he could, so that probably wouldn’t happen. As he opened the gate into the field, his eye moved to the rolling hills surrounding him, the green swathes and unbroken sky were a world away from the from the determined surge of humanity that filled New York, where towering buildings connected the city to the clouds. There was a freshness to the air in that Irish winter, but also a sense that the land was dead earth then; a feeling that the fields have been abandoned to a force both eternal and malevolent.  

Ethan started walking, across to the thicket of trees. They were without leaves in late November; those skeletal silhouettes were petrified, trapped in their place by the beams of a sun that would not be hidden, even by the blanket of winter. Ehan wondered how this place had appeared to his ancestor, and if the thicket still carried a trace of his final moments. He felt his connection to George growing stronger as he approached. He could feel the temperature drop as the warmth of the sun retreated and day moved quickly into night. He zipped up his parka as completely as he could, patting his pocket to confirm the torch was still there. It’s okay, he thought, it’s still the same world, it’s just as if someone turned the lights out.

He swallowed hard as he took that final step from the damp, thick grass to the mud, sticky with leaf litter, under the grove of trees. It seemed then that the air was becoming thicker, as if it was offering more resistance than it would elsewhere. Still there was a force urging him forward, whispering in his ear that he had almost reached the place where his wildest dreams would be fulfilled. That curiously warm breeze urged him to the base of the mound. The wind stopped as he began climb, then moved behind him to become a force supporting his ascent.

When he reached the crest, the land in Dundermot’s thrall was laid out before him. Icy raindrops were whipping in to Ethan’s eyes, the trees and hedgerows were discernible only as dim reflections of the sparse streetlights of towns and villages. A flash of lightening forked down from the sky, it that moment he understood what had brought him there. It was the buried secret of this ground, a force powerful enough to command the advancing storm. With his realisation came the rumble of stone being dragged across the ground. He heard sods ripping and turned to see the earth ripping itself apart.

The wind picked up and tried to suck him into the gaping wound, as the ground parted a stone cairn rose up to fill the space. This was the entrance for a burial that refused to be forgotten, a burial that lacked the permanence of so many others. Ethan realised that the breeze was sucking him towards the doorway into another world, knocking him off his feet as I became trapped in its inexorable grip.

Ethan was gripped by fear. He saw no way to escape being consumed by that black hell. He dug his fingers into the soft ground, even as the force that clawed at his legs and threatened to rip his arms asunder was becoming irresistible. At that moment he felt another force around him, he feared it was strong enough to crush my ribs and expel the last breath from my lungs.

‘It’s alright lad, I got you!’

The voice he heard was not familiar. It boomed over the howling winds; it came from an ethereal figure that struggled against Ethan’s capture with a vigour unfathomable to Ethan. But that stranger’s voice was familiar and comforting. The knot in his stomach loosened, that told Ethan who it was.

‘I saw you approaching the mound,’ George said, ‘I guessed you hadn’t heard the warnings; I know the price for that, so I thought I better stick around.’

Ethan grinned awkwardly at the apparition, ‘I did hear the warnings, I just thought I’d come and have a look anyway.’

George sighed, ‘well, maybe I wouldn’t have listened either. Still, we do what we can for family; don’t you think so?’

Ethan laughed heartily, until his laugh turned into a cough, ‘well, I’m glad you think that, ‘he wheezed, ‘I wish there was something I could do to repay the favour.’

‘Think nothing of it, I’ve been waiting 400 years for the chance! But you should tell all the people that you know to be wary of these gateways, so they don’t make the same mistake you and I did.’

‘I’ll tell them, sure, but I don’t think too many people I know will be visiting Ireland anytime soon.’

‘You’re only visiting? Where do you live then?

‘New York. My great, great grandfather emigrated from this area about 150 years ago.’

‘Lord save us! That’s in America, isn’t it? I heard of a few people who went over there. How are the colonies these days?’

‘We’re not a colony anymore! It’s one of the biggest countries in the world: it stretches from the Atlantic all the way over to the Pacific Ocean.’

‘Well I never! And what might your name be?’

The storm died down as George and Ethan clambered to the bottom of the hill; they talked until the sun rose over the frosty landscape, thawing the frozen fields with yellow and amber light. They exchanged stories, George telling Ethan telling Ethan of his ancestors and of the events that brought them to Ireland from Scotland; Ethan told George of how the world around him changed as he danced. As the traffic on the road grew heavier, they parted ways.

‘A person shouldn’t know of so many years,’ said George, ‘and yet my duty here continues to run.’

‘You’ve saved so many people,’ said Ethan, ‘I’m proud of that and you should be too.

I just have one question: do you really dance with the devil at Halloween each year?’

George laughed, ‘thanks for trying to cheer me up, boy. It pleases me to hear that thought story is 400 years old and still going strong! It’s a fiction of course, but if it serves to keep the warnings of this place alive fan maybe it’s okay to have a few lies that do good. You can tell your family of the things their forefather George still does. Knowing that the Logan clan still speak of me will give me the strength for the next 400 years.’

Within the week Ethan was in the departure lounge waiting to board his flight back to New York. He was little bit prouder of his Logan name now, and smiled at the thought of telling his parents about that pride.

Ciaran J. McLarnon is a writer from Northern Ireland. He has been published most recently in Infinity Wanderers 8. He has published a novel, New Shores, and is currently working on a second. For further information and to view more of his work visit http://www.ciaranjmclarnon.blog.