Arach

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

No, it had once been heaven on earth, to Owain at least.

In the summer he would roam Glendalough for hours, lost in its endless menagerie of colours: the petals of the Easter lily, trumpeted and cloud-white; the yellow haze of the cowslips, their clusters like a thousand suns; the pale purple blades of squill dotting the riverbank.

His mother would often send him out to the valley at dawn to collect primrose for her remedies. Armed with nothing but a straw basket and a flagon of water, he would return at dusk, too spellbound to realize he had eaten nothing all day.

Heaven.

It was even better in the winter. Atop the mountains, he would survey the glittering blue sweep of the two rivers below, their spume lapping softly at the rocks, a lull so sweet it seemed it had put the whole world to rest.

Yes, it had been perfect until those fucking dragons.

Of course, Owain didn’t believe in the Arach.

It was that madman Oisin who had started the whole hysteria, the drunken eejit. He had come back from the valley reeking of ale and tobacco, his blotchy red face smeared with sweat, shouting ‘The Arach! The Arach are here!’

At first almost everyone had laughed at him. The kinder villagers had told him to get a bowl of barley and sober up, whereas the coarser amongst them had warned him in no uncertain terms to piss off and stop hollering at night. It was only Aisling, Owain’s mother, who had been taken in by his nonsense.

‘And what did the dragon look like, Oisin?’

‘Ach, it was a real beithir, Aisling, honest to God. No wings at all, a great big flying serpent, so it was,’ he had replied, earnest as a child.

‘Were there many?’ Aisling had asked, wide-eyed, clutching at her linen smock in excited terror.

‘No, no, just one great big one. Its tail was wrapped around its mouth, so that it had no beginning or end … just a great big green knot, with fierce eyes, black as a December night, so they were …’

Unable to suffer the fool anymore, Owain had screamed that Oisin was not only a drunk, but a liar, and that he should be ashamed for working his mother - a poor, lonely widow - into such a frenzy.

‘If my father were alive,’ Owain had threatened, ‘he would have given you a good firm kick up the arse. Get away you, get away!’

But Aisling had remained resolute, chiding her son between breathless apologies.

‘Only thirteen with a mouth like that, God help us all. I know you’re no liar, Oisin. I’ve known the Arach were coming since I was a wee girl myself. Have you no sense, Owain? Can you not see it’s the end of days?

Owain had merely scoffed and stormed off to his bedchamber. He was sick to death of his mother’s prophecies, which had swelled to an obsession ever since the turn of the century.

1100 A.D., Owain, we won’t live to see another winter, you mark my words.

Well, if he couldn’t go to Glendalough anymore, he wished the bloody world would come to an end, and soon …

*

All was not lost, though. Owain had hatched a plan to make his mother see sense.

He would go down to the monastery and tell Ciaran Flaherty that his mother had lost her mind, and that the wretched swindler Oisin was feeding her tall tales about the beithir, fueling Aisling's fantasies of an apocalypse as she plied him with what little bread and ale she had.

No, Ciaran would not stand for it. He had been close friends with Owain’s father, Alasdair, and was now an oblate, one of the laymen who lived in the monastery but were not bound to the monk’s stringent vows. This was just as well for Owain: he needed a man of action, not orisons.

If he were older he would have handled Oisin himself but, as it stood, he was shorter than even Aisling, with the taut, waifish frame of a strong yet underfed boy. Daft as Oisin was, he was a gifted brawler, with a temper that flared from time to time, not least when someone came between him and a free tankard of ale …

*

And so, Owain set off to the monastery one fine Spring day, unable to endure another afternoon confined to central Wicklow, a cruel, coppiced wasteland, with nothing to see but felled oaks and austere farmers, livid mammies and their impish broods, scabby-kneed and starving.

‘Where are you going?’ Aisling asked, interposing between him and the door.

‘To see Ciaran Flaherty,’ he answered flatly.

‘Ciaran! I’ve not seen him in aeons! Since before your father passed, God rest his soul. Tell him about the Arach when you see him, son.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, mam, I’ll be sure to tell him about the Arach,’ Owain scoffed, laying a mocking emphasis on the last word.

‘And promise me you’ll stay away from the valley, it’s only a stone’s throw from the monastery. I may be old but I’m no fool - I’ll smell it on you if you do!’

‘Jaysus, mam! I just told you, I’m going to the monastery, nothing else. You’ll be looking for fairies and sprites under the hazel next …’

‘Just swear to me you won’t go to the valley, Owain. Nobody ever listens to their mother until it’s too late,’ she continued, undaunted by Owain’s ridicule. She was so fervent that for a few seconds, locked in his mother’s twinkling grey eyes, Owain almost believed she was on to something.

‘I promise I won’t go to the bloody valley, for the millionth time. I’m going to see Ciaran. Maybe he’ll get through to you, seeing as you don’t listen to a word I say.’

Aisling said nothing; she simply hugged Owain and kissed him goodbye, drinking him in as if for the last time.

At this, Owain stalked off, muttering obscenities into his filthy tunic, a basket of oatcakes trailing in his wake.

*

Owain arrived at the monastery near noon.

Cloistered in the heart of the forest, it was an underwhelming place when set against the two great lakes and the massy, undulating woodlands that flanked it. There were a few Celtic crosses hewn from granite, some an ashen gray, others an anemic sort of pink, all abraded from long, harsh winters, with windswept nimbuses and limescale-stained shafts.

The church was equally unimpressive. It had a steep stone roof from which a little steeple jutted, and its belfry so small that it was often mistaken for a chimney. Indeed, that was how the place had won its quaint designation: St Kevin’s Kitchen.

Still, Owain liked the place in spite of its austerity. It was, to his mind, what a monastery should be: arcadian and honest, utterly without pageantry … the sort of place where a madman’s ravings about Arach and the end of days would be dismissed, not with scorn or sarcasm, but with the quiet solemnity befitting men of learning.

Owain believed in the unseen world, but not in fairy tales and myths, not in the doomsday fearmongering which had been spreading like a sickness throughout Wicklow.

In the last few weeks alone, dozens of the villagers had been taken in by Oisin’s theatrics, his position bolstered by each fresh report of some credulous child or another that he too had seen a beithir in the valley, that this or that mammy had seen some premonition of the Arach in her dreams ...

Well, Ciaran would put a stop to it before it got out of hand.

*

An hour passed before Owain could make out the first stir of activity.

The church was unusual in that it had a nave but no chancel, such that he could not seek out Ciaran without disturbing the Sext, the midday prayers in which psalms were briskly recited by the abbot, Padraic, a saturnine old man who admitted of no interruption.

Eventually, a trickle of men emerged beneath the west gable, indistinguishable in their flowing cowls.

‘Ciaran Flaherty! Ciaran!’ cried out Owain, afraid lest he miss his man and have to wait three more hours for the nones liturgy to finish.

The droves of men carried on wordlessly, as if Owain were quite invisible to them.

‘Ciaran! Ciaran Flaherty!’ Owain bellowed again, desperation tinging his high, unbroken voice.

The men simply carried on, unperturbed as before.

Perhaps coming here was a mistake, thought Owain, fighting back hot tears. Chagrined, he made to leave, clutching angrily at his basket.

Just then, a small, vigorous man strode out from the entrance.

It was Ciaran! Owain would recognize his walk anywhere: he still moved with the purposive gait of a farmer, his celerity undimmed by age.

‘Ciaran!’

‘Owain? Is that you?’

‘Yes, Ciaran, I’ve come to see you!’

‘Well, isn’t that grand! Come on inside, my boy.’

*

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Owain? You were ye high the last time we met,’ Ciaran smiled, lifting his hand only infinitesimally above his own head as they crouched on the chilly timber floor.

‘Well, I wish I had better news but … I need your help, Ciaran,’ Owain answered bashfully, faintly ashamed to be calling round on a favour after all this time.

‘Is that so,’ teased Ciaran, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. ‘And how might I be of service, young man?’

Owain hesitated, suddenly realizing how far-flung and silly his ordeal must seem to any sensible adult.

Still, he had not come here for nothing.

‘It’s about my mother.’

The lineaments of Ciaran’s face, always animated with a wry smirk, suddenly grew serious.

‘Is she alright? Does she need food? Do you? I can arrange something if so, you need only ask …’

‘No, no, it’s not that,’ interjected Owain, flashing his basket of oatcakes in a self-conscious flourish. ‘It’s of a spiritual nature, Ciaran.’

A long silence followed in which Ciaran stroked his wispy ginger beard, his eyes clenched shut in concentration.

‘The passing of a loved one is a profound loss, Owain. Your father was a great man. He had his flaws but he was a good, honest man … It must be hard for - - for you both,’ Ciaran floundered.

‘I should have been around more,’ he confessed sadly, fixing his sharp blue eyes upon Owain.

‘I appreciate that, Ciaran, but you must not blame yourself. My mother has fallen under the influence of a bad man. A liar and a cheat,’ Owain replied, abruptly seized with anger.

‘Who? What man would dare upset poor Aisling? She’s an angel incarnate! I’ll see to him, son, so I will, the scoundrel,’ said Ciaran, his words charged with the intensity of a vow.

‘Oisin. That bloody fool, Oisin.’

Ciaran said nothing for a few moments, then erupted with laughter. He muttered apologies through his fist, which he had lodged in his mouth to muffle his howls.

‘Right, I shall leave now,’ Owain glowered, gathering his things.

‘No, son, stay. I’m quite done … Just, Oisin? He’s a sweetheart, Owain, he wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ said Ciaran placidly, still fighting back the urge to laugh.

‘He’s dangerous, Ciaran. He’s got my mother and half the town worked up about the bloody Arach. I can’t even go to the valley anymore because that fool has my mother convinced it’s teeming with fecking beithirs,’ raged Owain.

‘If you’ll excuse my language,' he added venomously.

A long, gravid silence followed, soundless but for the wan flicker of the ebbing altar candles.

‘This is very serious, Owain. Very serious, indeed.’

‘I’m glad you agree. Nobody else sees sense around here …’

‘What did he say he saw, Owain? Tell me, verbatim?’

Owain shifted uneasily on the floor.

‘You’re not telling me you believe this nonsense too, Ciaran? Flying serpents and the end of days and a sign of the times and all that bloody -’

‘Owain, there are things you’re too young to understand. Principles of eschatology, culminations of history, a great malaise of the soul, a shift in the spiritus mundi that even our most learned scholars and seers can scarcely describe, let alone predict … I need to know what Oisin saw. Trust me, son.’

‘I’m not your son,’ shouted Owain, his face flashing crimson. ‘My father had more sense than you. You’re as bad as the rest of them.’

‘Owain, please, don’t lose your temper. I’m trying to help. I have to he --’

‘You want to know what the drunk saw? You must know?’ scathed Owain.

‘Yes,’ said Ciaran, the calmness of his assent further exacerbating Owain’s ire.

‘He said he saw a great big green beithir, with eyes as black as a December night, and a body that wound upon itself, without beginning or end,’ said Owain, impersonating Oisin in a mincing falsetto.

Ciaran’s eyes widened, filled with the same implacable terror that Aisling had shown earlier, and once again Owain was seized by the vague, fleeting horror that they knew something he didn’t …

*

Owain traipsed homeward through the forest, more distressed than when he had set out. He hazily considered absconding to the forest but demurred, more out of enervation than obedience.

He had never expected Ciaran to be so pompous, so narrow-minded and obnoxious ... Yes, Ireland was tumultuous at present, had been for a while. The past century had seen seismic shifts in power, ceaseless conquests for kingship, endless vying for dominance by numberless clans, dynasties, plunderers … the great Brian Boru had been toppled at Clontarf; the Book of Kells had disappeared for many years, presumed stolen; the Vikings pillaged the very church he had just left at least once every ten years … Disarray everywhere, but the turbulence of men, of human hearts and earthly affairs. What did dragons have to do with a blessed thing?

Still, Ciaran had spoken with such eloquence. It was not the blind faith of Owain’s mother, but something informed. Perhaps? Owain did not know what he felt anymore.

And yet, was it not the very same monks, the same self-regarding oafs who venerated the great Saint Patrick, who praised his doughty slaying of all the snakes in Ireland way back, as early as the fifth century? Did he miss a few? Or did he only smite the snakes without wings?

Soothed by his own wit - on which, it seemed, he would have to rely for the rest of his life, ever apart from the throngs of fools and fraudsters he called his kinsmen - Owain quickened his pace, eager to drink and then rest. He noted with gratitude that he was nearly home: the gentle camber of the forest levelled out as one approached the village.

Having quite abandoned his thoughts, Owain drew upon the outskirts of his village in contented silence, almost in a stupor, until he was assailed by an unpleasant odour, the acrid stench of … smoke?

He squinted into the distance … there was a faint black streak in the sky … then skeins of black, billowing smoke; then, the closer he got, a great enveloping plume ... He heard a din coming from the square, and the noxious smell thickened, and as he drew closer still the din became a clangour.

‘Did ya see what happened, lad?’ cried Aaron, one of the local publicans, his huge jowled face contorted with fright.

‘No, I’ve been down in the forest … why is everyone screaming?’

‘See for yourself, lad, I’d not stay here for love nor money!’ he called, running even as he spoke.

Owain weaved his way past the pulluations of villagers, each more frenzied than the last, some carrying pots and pans, others clutching kids or herding cattle.

‘Oh my God,’ Owain gasped, reaching the square.

The thatched roofs of cottages and taverns lay in charred tatters, razed by a fire that still burnt fiercely here and there, and a crowd huddled around an unseen voice.

Owain pushed past.

‘Has anyone seen my mam, Aisling? Is she alright? Has anyone seen my mother!’ he cried, his shrieks drowned out by the reedy voice of the unseen man.

‘Owain!’

‘Mam!’

A woman’s arms wrenched Owain into the midst of the crowd. It was Aisling, her face smeared with sweat and dust.

‘What’s going on? What happened? Was there a fire?’

Aisling hugged him, then raised a long, thin finger to her lips before gesturing at the man on the crate.

‘The Arach have arrived! The Arach have arrived!’ trumpeted Oisin, his dark eyes aflame, incandescent with an awful truth.