The Bracken Will Wither

What happens when the looking eye notices you?

That was a question Donald Finnegan asked himself as he was transfixed, bent over the door to the old cellar of the bar, where a saline-dripping, large iris looked from side to side before focusing on him. Salt crusted the handle as a thin layer of sea mist rose from under the door. As he knew full well the door led to nothing but an old, unused storeroom and then the thick back wall of the bar, he put it down to the whisky. He fell backwards, turned away, and ignored it. Daft bastard.

To the north of fair Donegal County, sits Malin Head, a tough and resilient point of reckoning between the harsh waters of the Malin Sea that branches off into the Atlantic and the small town community.

To outsiders, the locals often appeared backward and superstitious, living half-stilted lives. Maria, who grew up in the area but left on her 18th birthday, swearing never to return, found herself back there. In the old pub, Farren's Bar, for her father's wake. That's the story she told everyone, at least.

The sea air managed to soothe her. Briefly. It took her back momentarily to better days. Happier times. At the harbour.

Admiring the lush, dramatic scenery while also feeling pangs—of doubt, regret, or guilt. Probably all three. She doubted coming home was a good idea; she regretted not doing it sooner and felt a deep guilt to her core for not being there when her father finally passed.

"With the first covering lifted, the bracken began to wither."

A keen folklorist, Maria knew of the savage tales of Balor and his eye. She didn't believe them. It felt a bit, Lord of the Rings, to her. Even for someone who had grown up around the northern tip of Ireland. The land of magic, of evil, and the unexplainable.

Her father used to joke that their blood carried more than Guinness and peat smoke—that they came from old gods who’d outstayed their welcome.

A voice in her head had recited the verses, the warning, the incantation every night. Since she’d heard of her father’s passing, the verses—warning or incantation—had returned to her every night.

She was too tired to think about the bracken that had crisped months too early in spring. As the bus pulled up not far from Farren's Bar, she gave the driver a tip, knowing the wages weren't great there and rolled her suitcase along the uneven road towards the welcoming glow of the pub as day became night.

The room was abuzz with chattering. Some took note of her arrival. Gleeful expressions and solemn condolences. Others, though, kept their faces down or in their huddles. Ignoring her.

"Bloody marvellous welcome home, eh?" she muttered, not so quietly as a smiling face welcomed her in.

Sinead, the current owner, led her to an empty table that had been reserved for her. As she sat sipping the Guinness she never asked for, she heard a lot of commotion from the table next to her. Donald's table. Donald was talking, with passion and fear, to no one in particular.

The barmaid said, "Don' mind ol' Don...he's harmless enough."

Maria was not so much worried as curious.

"The bracken will wither... the bracken... the bracken. Mark my words, on the lifting of the covering of the first. The bracken will wither. With the second, the grass turned copper-coloured."

Maria stood up to gasps around the bar that hushed as she sat down beside Don. "Donald. Is it? My name's Maria Maguire. Can I ask you what you were saying? Is it a poem?"

Donald's eyes suddenly focused, and he became lucid.

"Aye lass, what of it?" he replied with a look of uncertainty and surprise. Besides talking to himself in what many mistook for drunken ramblings, he hadn't mentioned what had happened earlier that day.

When Donald had pried the warped boards from the old cellar door that afternoon, he hadn’t realised he was lifting the first covering.

"It sounded like you were talking about Bal-"

Before she could finish her sentence, Don pushed his wrinkled finger against her lips.

"No, dearie. Mustn't speak of his name."

Maria's own surprise and a growing sense of dread in her pit were both confounded and interrupted by a sound from across the bar.

"Oh fuck's sake," groaned Sinead in her delightfully light and breezy timbre.

"I've just burnt myself on the bar. Mick... Mick... did you leave something hot on the bar again?"

"No, Sin darling," came the burly reply.

"With the third, the woods and timber did heat," murmured Donald.

The lights flickered; Donald looked transfixed at the bar, as Maria saw sea air climbing, licking, sliding around the counter.

"With the fourth smoke came from all trees," he continued.

Maria whispered the words under her breath.

Outside in the cool of the night, a rising commotion — shouts, screams, the word fire cutting through the night. The patrons spilled out the door, knocking over chairs, pint glasses forgotten.

Through the tavern's doorway, Maria saw the village trees glowing red, smoking, possibly on fire. Impossible, surely?

"Donald," she urged the old man, grasping his hand, rousing him from his trance, "Tell me the rest. Please."

Donald turned to her, holding her gaze with his beady milky pools.

"You already know it, lass. It's in there," he broke the silence, pointing to her head.

Maria had ignored her father's pleas for her to return home for a long time. She thought he was a daft old bugger. But that wasn't a good enough excuse. A daft old bugger that was still her dad.

And right now, she was questioning how daft he actually was. In the back of her mind, she remembered his words.

"Our blood carries more than Guinness and peat smoke—we are from the old gods who'd outstayed their welcome a long time ago."

The floorboards, walls, and ceiling cracked and shook. Red pierced through the oak lacerations. A rumbling or a roaring was coming from underneath.

"Did you go to the basement, Don-" Maria looked around to ask Donald. He had gone. In fact, Maria was the only person left in the bar.

"With the fifth everything glowed red," she exclaimed, her voice raising in volume and fear as she headed to the basement stairs.

A spark flickered in her mind's eye, and she saw the very faint visage of a giant eye. Then nothing.

"With the sixth, it sparked. Fuck. Balor... It can't be-"

As she reached the basement and found the old door. It was bulging around the frame, but the wood remained intact. Strange that all that was holding back one of the most ferocious beings that ever walked the earth was what looked like any old B&Q door.

"My dear Andrew. Wherever you are. I'm sorry. It's up to you. Soon you'll understand why I chose Lugh as your middle name. Balor, I guess I'll be seeing you now. Are you ready to see me?" she said.

"With the seventh, they were set alight and the countryside ablaze."

She could hear the surf in her blood again, slow and tidal.

As she opened the cursed door, she stood on the threshold between the prison that had kept the evil locked away for centuries. Stood one foot in his world and ours. Defiant, though she knew her fate was sealed.

"Balor the Evil, you may take my life, but know that salvation will be done."

A laugh and a roar emitted from beyond the gateway as the large eyelid opened and set its gaze on Maria. Within seconds, the same glow of red burned from the unfathomably large iris and vapourised Maria.

It was up to Lugh now, whether he wanted to answer the call of ancient prophecy or not.

“Balor has awoken,” chanted Donald from atop the stool, his voice carrying over the burning bracken, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to say it.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Won't say too much. However, I have a long-term project I'm considering that this is the jump-off for. It is still a standalone story. This is for the Through The Keyhole challenge.

Here are some lighter things... Okay, maybe now.