The sky was overcast; menacing black clouds loomed overhead like a guardian wall of the troposphere, forming a barrier between this world and the next. The swirling formations seemed to look down from their sky-bound prisons like trapped souls waiting with greatest impatience to walk the Earth once more, to breathe the cool air as opposed to merely being suspended in it.
Mist hung low in the air, clouds tightly hugging the ground in what could have been an effort to avoid joining the dark collective that waited for them in the sky, that blotted out the early morning sun. The reluctant presence made sight of the ground almost impossible, the stony beach had become a treacherous death-trap for those who did not take care in the placement of their feet.
The mist was, of course, no concern of Dougal's as he rummaged through the rocks and pebbles in his excited hunt for the source of the scent he had come across. He loved days like this. The weather, the beach, everything! The mist and the breeze made his search more challenging, he could not pinpoint his quarry with the usual ease and accuracy in which he would on a normal day. No, today would be an achievement!
Dougal didn't even know what he was looking for, though his curious nature removed his concern for this minor detail from his heart. Some sharp objects lurked amidst the partially submerged stones, washed ashore when the tide was still in, that threatened to cut Dougal's bare, unprotected feet, though he was smart enough to see most of the debris and walk around or over it. He felt that he was getting close, the focus of his attention was almost within his reach.
There was other stuff here that carried the faint scent of the one he was looking for, probably touched by him recently. Yes, him, Dougal was sure it was a male. A human male, not from around these parts, either. It was this small detail that lit up the path for Dougal to find him, else he'd be walking a darkened road without hope of ever finding the end.
Dougal came across more debris. It looked familiar. In fact, a lot of it looked like it came from something he'd found yesterday morning. The whole thing was fascinating, he could hardly contain his excitement! There were bits of smooth wood that had been painted white and matching bent metal tubes that were probably parts of the small boat he had investigated with his friend yesterday.
That thought pattern reminded Dougal of another question he had. Where had his friend gone? He was right behind him a minute ago. Lorcán often fell behind, Dougal was far too quick for him and he kept forgetting about his poor, slow friend. In fact, if he listened, Dougal could hear Lorcán calling for him! But wait, what was that? A cough? A splash of water? Oh, Lorcán could wait, this needed investigating immediately!
He'd call for his friend when he found what he was looking for. Oh, this was so exciting! Lorcán would be pleased too, when Dougal found what he was looking for, as he'd been almost as curious about the thing Dougal was looking for. He hadn't told him it was a man but he'd find out soon enough anyway, and Dougal would say "I knew it!"
It wasn't long before Dougal cut his foot on a piece of glass hidden in the water, he noticed a small cloud of blood forming around the tiny wound. It was of no consequence, but he'd have to get Lorcán to take a look at it when they got home, just to be sure.
More coughing! This was too easy now, Dougal could see in his mind's eye the one that he had been looking for. There! Amongst some debris lay a man!
"I knew it! I knew it!" shouted Dougal.
A voice in the distance behind him called out: "Hold on there, lad, I'm comin'!" It was Lorcán.
"Come quickly!"
He rushed over to the prone figure and quickly confirmed that it had been he whom he was looking for all morning, Dougal was greatly pleased with himself. The man didn't seem too happy, though. He was wiping water from his face with soaking wet hands that had wrinkled like when Lorcán's did when he had been in the bath.
Dougal hated bathing but accepted it as a necessity, though Lorcán didn't mind. Each to their own, he supposed.
The silly man lying on the ground kept wetting his face while wiping it away again. He had said nothing to Dougal, which annoyed him. "I found you!" he cried, nudging the man's shoulder to get his attention.
The sound of stones crunching under foot made Dougal look round to see Lorcán awkwardly hurrying towards them. He did not walk on the stones as well as Dougal, one hand on the hood of his big black walking coat, holding it in place to stop the wind blowing it down.
"Wha's this you found, eh lad?" he said in a surprised voice, pointing at the man.
Dougal shrugged. "It's a man! Alive, too! I think he was on the boat we found yesterday."
"Hmm, must've been shipwrecked."
"Aye!"
"I'll get the truck, so I will. Looks like 'e could use some help, eh Dougal?" suggested Lorcán as he knelt down by the dazed man. "You alright there, fella? You look fierce knackered, lad. Dain't worry, we'll sort yer out, right."
The man simply groaned in answer.
"Right you are, there. I'll get me truck then, aye?"
* * *
Lorcán lowered the tailgate of his rusty red pick-up truck and headed for the prone castaway. Dougal sat beside him, wagging his tail and panting in excitement. He licked Lorcán's face when he reached down to the man to turn him over. Waving the Irish Setter away, Lorcán slapped the stranger's face. The man turned his head away from the gentle blow and groaned.
"Y'alright there? Can you walk?" he asked.
The man grumbled something and coughed.
"Aye, I hears you. C'mon, get'cherself up, I'll help you," Lorcán continued as he pulled the man into a standing position, holding him upright. "How long you been here anyways? Saw th' boat I think y'came in on an' all, banjaxed fer sure. Where'd you come from 'en, bucko? Come o'er here, this crock o' shite'll get us back to town. Get on the back, Dougal's reserved front seat."
There was no argument as Lorcán rolled him onto the flatbed, throwing a dusty blanket over him.
"Mind the bumps!"
He slammed the tailgate shut.
* * *
With the cab window open, the driver could include the stranger in the conversation with his dog. He had slept through most of it and contributed to none of it, though this didn't deter the older man. He had been talking for the past hour, or so it felt. Woken this morning by the dog's cold nose, Draeden Darksky was not having a good day. He sat up and looked around. They seemed to be driving through a forest, slowly. Draeden banged on the back window, interrupting the driver mid-ramble.
"Eh? Oh, feelin' better 'en?"
"Stop the truck!" Draeden croaked.
"Wha'? Whisht lad, you need t' get t' town. You've been bloody shipwrecked, so you have, lad," argued the man.
"Stop the damn truck!"
The vehicle screeched to a halt, Draeden slammed into the back of the cab and swore. The driver twisted around in his seat.
"Well tha's gratitude for you, eh? Shoulda jus' lef' you there, eh? Feed for the crabs, aye," he moaned.
"You don't understand - I wasn't alone on that boat!"
"Aye, but tha's a pretty big coast, lad. Your mates could be washed ashore anywhere!"
"No mates, only one other person. I need to find her," Draeden muttered. "This is my fault."
"Nah, storm last night ain't your fault. That'll be what's buggered your boat."
Draeden didn't remember any storm. "Where am I?"
"Where d'you think y' are?" asked the driver with a grin. "Ain't Christmas feckin' Island, tha's to be sure."
"I'm in Ireland?"
"Got it in one! I knew you was a clever lad when I peeled you off that beach, eh?" mocked the Irishman. "M' name's Lorcán. And y'know me dog, Dougal, aye?"
"Aye, we've met. I'm Draeden."
"Draeden? Tha's an odd one, scarce as hen's teeth. Not from these parts, then?"
"Not quite," the younger man grunted.
"You tan?"
"Pardon?"
"English?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"So how'd you end up here?"
"I was on a boat. From America."
"America! Always wanted to go there but me aul man, borin' wanker he is, ne'er let me go," ranted Lorcán, waving his arms in the air. "Stuck in Ireland now, love the place, but gettin' sick o' the same four walls, y'know what I mean?"
"Yes. We need to go back to the beach. I have to find Archer."
"Ah, your friend? Nah, we should go back to town, get help. You're soakin' wet an' you need some zed's lad! First we get to town an' we get help, aye?"
"No, we have to go back!"
"Jam on your egg, boyo."
Draeden opened his mouth to answer but he had no idea what the man had just said. "What?"
"Bloody foreigners," laughed Lorcán, "means 'no chance!' We're goin' to town. You go back there an' you die of hypothermia, that's a fact."
There was no point in arguing. Draeden held his blanket tighter and lay back down; Lorcán restarted the engine.
"Not far now."
* * *
They arrived in Lorcán's village, Gleannfárne, which was at the bottom of a shallow valley that had been deforested for the most part, leaving an odd circle of trees surrounding the village, as if standing guard. Lorcán had chuntered on about how safe the village was and that there'd be no trouble from the 'hooded feckers,' whatever they were.
There wasn't much to the village; the three passed a few dozen houses on the way to Lorcán's and he had told Draeden that there were shops and everything here. He was not impressed after having lived in Chicago for almost a year, a sprawling city teeming with life, most of which he had not explored. It seemed strange to Draeden that now, after living in a city for less than a year, he already found country life quiet and boring; especially since he had lived on a quiet country farm near Foshan in China for most of his life.
As recent events would testify, his life had been hectic to say the least. From accidents, murder and brutal death matches to the kind of dark power quest you only read about in fantasy novels, Draeden had known only total chaos all his life. Any attempt he made to settle was interfered with and destroyed. He knew there would be no peace.
It was good that he was found out here, in the arse-end of Ireland, than to be discovered in some red neck state by a fan from his wrestling days. Face down in a puddle, aye, he could see the headlines now:
'Drink, Drugs & Disorder: Draeden Darksky's Disappearance Delusion"
Only, perhaps not so illiteric. Was that even a word? It is now. Still, no writer would illiterate that much, it'd sound silly.
His thoughts wandered off on their own tangent as they often did, leaving the real world behind. Before Draeden knew it, Lorcán's cheerful voice cut through the fog of his mind and told him they had arrived.
Draeden looked at the stone house in disbelief. Even the farm in China had been more modern than this. "Wow," he said.
"Aye! Me castle, it is!" said Lorcán as he beamed with pride. "Me an' me aul man built this, though I was only a diddler then."
"It looks... sturdy," Draeden managed.
"Aye, that it is. C'mon in, lad. You should get yourself some kip, so you should. Bring the blanket, 'tis me spare."
* * *
It wasn't long before Draeden was ushered into Lorcán's spare bedroom. He had graciously kept quiet about the sword hanging from Draeden's waist, this was not something the young man could be bothered to explain right now. He stood looking at the old wooden bed, wondering whether or not it'd take his weight, the blanket Lorcán had given him draped over his shoulders.
"Take a look at your wrist," said the voice in Draeden's head.
Draeden detected a hint of amusement in those words; he looked at his wrist, pushing the tattered grey blanket aside. There was some kind of marking there, in black. A serpent? No, a dragon. It was a simple design, but an unwelcome one nonetheless. Draeden licked his fingers and rubbed at the marking but it wouldn't budge.
The voice's mockery became clear as a soft cackle entered Draeden's thoughts. "Good luck with that," it said. "That's a tattoo."
"Great," Draeden grunted. "What does it mean?"
More laughter. "How should I know? You can fill me in when you find out."
"What do you know about this, Jack?" he hissed.
"Only as much as you do. Find out more in the morning, the old man is right. You're incredibly lucky to be alive. I'm quite impressed that you managed to stay afloat with that anchor around your waist, or maybe it helped? I do hope Archer is alright! Sweet dreams, Crusader."
* * *
In the morning, Draeden was fortunately already awake when Dougal burst into the room and leapt onto the bed, making a bee-line for his face while wagging his tail furiously. Draeden grunted and held the dog's snout. Dougal backed off and sneezed, splattering snot onto Draeden's hand. The dog bolted out of the room again with the same excitement in which he'd entered it, leaving the startled young man to deal with the mess.
He looked over the side of the bed to find that his clothes had been taken away and replaced with some of Lorcán's own – some black trousers, a blue collarless shirt, crème woolly jumper and a pair of wool socks.
"Smart," Jack chuckled.
Draeden ignored him; got out of bed and put the clothes on. They fit fairly well, though the sweater was a bit baggy and the trousers were slightly to big, but they'd do. He walked out of the room and headed for the stairs; the wooden floorboards creaked loudly under foot, screaming their protest at being walked upon. As Draeden moved along the corridor he saw pictures along the walls of Lorcán, Dougal and two other people. He assumed they were his wife and daughter. He looked a lot younger. On the long journey to the house, Draeden remembered Lorcán telling him he was forty-two years old. In the pictures he looked no older than thirty, his daughter must've been maybe six years old. He wondered where his family had gone, unless he'd simply missed them when they arrived. Draeden was still pretty dazed at the time. In fact, he was pretty dazed now, though he had a feeling Jack had something to do with that. Sharing your eyes and ears with another presence was disorientating.
Downstairs, Lorcán greeted Draeden with a smile and retrieved a plate full of food from the oven. The pile of beans, bacon, egg, black pudding and sausage was enough to remind Draeden of the hunger he'd suppressed for days now. He hadn't eaten since the morning before the MCU and he had no idea how long ago that was. The pain awakened in his stomach guided him to the round dining table in Lorcán's kitchen, where the man handed Draeden a basket of potato bread. Draeden thanked him and ate ravenously.
"Feelin' better then?" asked Lorcán.
"Much," Draeden managed through a mouthful of food.
"We'll find your bird today, don't you worry. Got me aul mucker comin' soon, he'll know where to start, used to be a bit of a sailor in 'is day."
* * *
"Bejeyzus, 'e looks like shite, Cán. Wha'cher done to 'im?" laughed the Irishman named Ross as he addressed Lorcán, who had explained about Draeden's shipwrecking and the missing doctor. "Has 'e got the same feckin' skawly dress sense as you then, or is that jus' your fault?"
"C'mon Ross this's serious. I promised I'd 'elp him find his missin' lass, you gonna help us or what, eh?"
"Aye o' course I will, you aul fool. Wouldn't be here t'otherwise. Wha's your name, fella?" Ross asked Draeden from across the dining table.
"Draeden," he said plainly.
"Man o' few words 'n all!" chimed in Lorcán.
Draeden remained silent because the combination of obscure slang, the men's soft accents and quick speech made it almost impossible to understand what they were talking about, the conversation sounded like a drawling, drunken ramble. Had that been the case in truth then Draeden would probably have stood a better chance of comprehending the babble coming his way. Still exhausted, Draeden found himself switching off, the words washed over him like the sea had done when he lay on the rocky Irish beach, half drowned and dead to the world. His mind raced now, thinking of anything he could to find Archer. He was still responsible for bringing her here, if she was lost at sea her death would be upon his head. It could have been the first time there was blood on his hands and he didn't mean to cause it to happen.
"Just remember," Jack's voice muttered amongst the rampant thoughts in his mind, "Jessica was dead from the start of the whole thing. Kyrian was going to kill everyone in the facility. Even if she is dead, you gave her a chance."
Draeden hadn't expected this from Jack, his comments had always been unhelpful or derogatory in the past.
"Hey, I like Jessica as much as you do. Probably more. It's everything else I give less of a shit about, alright?" Jack explained.
Fair enough, Draeden thought.
"I said, that fine by you, lad?" Lorcán repeated, bringing Draeden back to the world beyond his head.
"What?"
"Wake up, boyo! We're goin' to head into village centre, speak to some lads there, get some help. See if anyone's saw anythin' lately, aye?"
"Oh," Draeden said, "aye, good. When do we go?"
"Why, now! Time's a wastin'!"
* * *
Ross had taken his own 4x4 to get back to the village centre, Draeden rode with Lorcán in his pick-up. Dougal sat on the floor in front of Draeden, looking up to his eyes sadly. He got the feeling that the dog was asking for his seat back.
"I saw pictures on the walls in your house. Who are they? The people with you I mean," Draeden asked. Lorcán's face hardened.
"That'd be me wife an' daughter, Úna an' Ceara."
Lorcán offered no more information and Draeden took the hint. "I see," he said.
"I didn't ask you nothin' about your sword and your little dragon tattoo, jus' leave that one there, eh lad?" requested the man. Draeden simply nodded in response. "We're nearly here anyways."
* * *
The rest of the day was a blur to Draeden. With Ross' help, Lorcán managed to gather most of the village's young and able men to assist in the search, about two dozen men in total. They had piled into trucks and all-terrain vehicles and drove to the beach. No-one spoke a word to Draeden before long after they realised he was not from around these parts. Lorcán had explained that most of the others were wary of outsiders after rumours of strange men in hooded cloaks began to circulate. There had been "disappearances," as Lorcán described it, around Ulster, a town to the north. This had made the village folk of the surrounding areas highly suspicious of any outsiders that happened to pass through, which was unusual for people in these parts.
Lorcán didn't know if there was any truth in the rumours. As much as it was possible that there were men creeping around in the shadows, stealing people away in the night, Lorcán was more rational than the other "bog trotters".
Or so he said anyway.
* * *
The bottom of the sea was a strange place. Fish swum by that Jessica Archer never even knew existed, that she never thought could exist. She was a neurologist after all, not a marine biologist. She saw fish with huge teeth, mouths bigger than the rest of their bodies and massive, vicious-looking eels slithered past without paying her the slightest heed. She sought to run but her feet felt rooted in place, as if held by hands unseen in the clouds of silt that hovered above the sea bed. She knew she had somewhere to go, she couldn't stay underwater forever but she had little choice in the matter. Fortunately, the fish seemed uninterested in this foolish human that gawked at them as they went about their business.
Breathing didn't seem to be a problem, which was a most unusual feeling for one who had breathed all her life. Down here she simply didn't feel the need. She couldn't see very far ahead, the water was thick with tiny little floating creatures, bits of debris and the like that collectively obscured her vision.
No, this would not do. Time to get moving. Jessica used all of her strength to lift a foot free of the reluctant sea bed. She planted it in front of her and dragged her other foot to follow. There. One step at a time was how she'd do this. The sand and debris in the water became thicker, reducing her range of vision drastically.
Never mind.
She kept walking.
The feeling of something brushing against her legs startled her. Had she walked into a coral reef? Did they live this far down? She knew very little about under sea life and almost regretted not learning more about this gold mine of curiosity while she still could. She felt her legs being restricted, the coral reef was wrapping itself around her, rising up higher until she could no longer move.
But she had to! She had to get out of here, she'd drown after all...
Or had she already? Was it too late? Was she dead? Is this what happened to people who drowned at sea? Were they left to try and escape, to try and walk away from their watery grave? She couldn't be dead, she could feel herself! She put her hands to her face and felt the familiar nose and lips she'd always had, running her hands down her neck, to her shoulders, arms and hands. She felt down to her hips, her legs, and then she could feel the reef that held her in place. Perhaps she could prise herself free from the animal's grip? She began to peel the fingers of the sea creature from around her leg.
Funny that she would think of them as being like fingers. They really were, she supposed. Just like fingers. In fact, had she read once that there were creatures that would reach out and grab fish with hand-like extremities that would drag their prey down to be consumed?
She hoped not.
But still, these creatures certainly felt like they were holding her with real fingers. The cloudy water was beginning to clear with the lack of movement, Archer struggled to see what was holding her in place. She saw a few fat pink tendrils, there, on her leg. She began to peel them free as well, and the grip was loosened.
Suddenly the tendrils snatched her arm, grabbing her by the wrist. She opened her mouth to scream but her voice was lost, taken by the sea. She pulled at the creature with her free hand but something latched onto her other arm and began dragging her downwards, down towards the sea bed.
The silt was still clearing and Archer stared in horror as she saw what she was wrestling with. It was a man. His eyes were missing, black pockets stared back at her, his mouth was wide open as if locked in an eternal howl. She tried to scream again but to no avail, thrashing at the man to try and escape but the harder she tried the more of them came to aid the first. Were these the spirits of men drowned at sea?
She would never know, as the sea bed engulfed her body.
* * *
Draeden was losing hope. With every hour that passed by, Jessica Archer's chances of survival dwindled like the sands of an hourglass and the sun was falling from the sky. Each inch that the sun went down, the sky darkened and made the search ten times harder. The Irish villagers were giving up. Some of them had already made their excuses and left the beach, though Draeden didn't blame them. The night was descending upon them like a knife in the back and Draeden was just waiting for the steel to sink in, to slice muscle and nick bone, for that was the realisation that he had sent Jessica to a watery grave.
It was his fault. He had caused this and Archer hadn't deserved any of it.
"Don't be such a sap," Jack said unsympathetically. "You and I both know otherwise."
He ignored him.
"Listen, there's no body, right? We don't know she's dead. She might've washed up somewhere else, is all."
Unlikely, Draeden knew.
"Well sure, of course it's unlikely. In fact, it's probably impossible. Now, there's no way you can live with the guilt, why not see if these potato munchers have got a boat for you to borrow? You could always row out there and go for a swim with a sandbag tied to your feet, you pathetic cunt."
It wasn't like he hadn't considered it before, many moons ago.
"But remember, you've got to go on a killing spree first. Why not start with this lot? Useless bastards couldn't find a corpse in a mausoleum, you could cut them to shreds and they wouldn't stand a chance. Hey, what's that?" Jack said, suddenly distracted.
Draeden looked over to what had attracted Jack's attention. There was a truck coming, headlights broken by the trees. As it slowly emerged from the forest the search party drifted inwards, toward the vehicle. It skidded slightly on the stones as it came to a halt, the headlights flicked off again, blinding Draeden momentarily until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and his vision returned to perfection.
A man hastily got out of the truck. It was Niall, one of the first men to give up and go home. He was approached by Lorcán, with whom he exchanged words faster than the usual pace at which the Irishmen chattered, Draeden was lost instantly. Lorcán's face had lit up and the older man turned to him with a grin.
"What is it?" Draeden asked.
"Might yet be good news, boyo. Niall's wife's sayin' that one o' their boys in Ulster's heard o' some lass turnin' up bit damp like, but she's in a bad way. Still livin' though, 'tis better than how dead we were startin' to think she was, eh? Good chance it's your bird, lad!"
"That's great! So when do we go?"
"Hold onto your arse, lad! It's far too late to be drivin' o'er there now, so it is, no street-lamps in these parts, none o' what you're used to in cities, like. It's a right aul hoor drivin' about in th' dark, ain't even a proper road to Ulster neither, y'know," explained Lorcán.
"I understand. There's nothing I can do for her, if it even is her. Nothing that can't wait until morning."
"Fucking defeatist," Jack muttered.
"There's a good 'un! Le's get back home eh, I dunno about you but I could be doin' with me vitamin G for the day!" Lorcán said.
Draeden had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn't matter anymore. Tomorrow he would head to Ulster.
* * *
"...and keep away from 'em hooded feckers if you see 'em, bastards might just be a rumour 'round these parts but I knows they're out there, me head's no marley, eh?" Lorcán rambled as the pick-up truck bounced along the dirt track.
Draeden had chosen to ride on the flatbed, if only to avoid Dougal's heartbreakingly sorrowful eyes at having his shotgun position in the cab taken from him. He could still hear Lorcán's pearls of wisdom through the back window, so all was well. Even if he couldn't hear, though, he didn't expect the Irishman to stop talking. The people around here seemed to like talking. It wasn't like they had much else to do after all.
"So Ulster is bigger than Gleannfárne?" Draeden asked.
"Aye, 'tis. Fair bit, an'all. Plenty room for lodgin' there, there's a pub with rooms to let an' I know the fella who runs it! Should be able to pull some strings, get'cher some free stay while you sort your bird out, like."
"Thanks Lorcán."
"Heh, 'tis no bother lad, you've brung some excitement wi' you, makes a change from the usual business. Jus' hope your lassie is alright."
"Aye, me too," said Draeden.
"Ah, there y'go, see the aul temple there, above the trees? Tha's the centre of town, been there hundreds o' years. Ancient."
Draeden looked and saw the roof of the temple, it looked as old as Lorcán said. Older, even. As they approached from the south, a large hill rose directly before them, upon which Draeden could see two tall stones standing up. "What's that, up there on the hill?" he asked.
Lorcán shrugged. "Don't suggest you be goin' up there, though, for sure."
Choosing not to ask any further questions, Draeden sat back against the side of the flatbed and sighed.
It was almost over.
