Afternoon. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. No action in this chapter, sorry! Just a bit of plot development as such. I'm not good with plots. Sincere thanks for the reviews so far. Most encouraging and very very much appriciated. OK i'll let you get on with it. Thanks for reading, any comments would be very welcome if you wouldn't mind. Thanks again. Nic.
Chapter Three
Pádraig sat back and sighed. Van Helsing could tell he was settling himself for what could be a long and unpleasant story.
"Dorchadas is a demon." Pádraig began. "As of the moment, a formless demon; a malicious spirit. He was once a man, if you could call him that. He lived in this very village, many long years ago. Antony Kerrigan was as evil then as he is now. He was a murderer. He had taken the lives of many young women and girls before the villagers decided to rally together and put a stop to his debauchery. Even after being beaten to death, his bloodlust was not satisfied, and it is said that he gave his soul the devil in exchange for a body, so that he could seek revenge on the villages that killed him. And so he was resurrected, taking a new name. Dorchadas; the Gaelic for 'Darkness'. For years he reigned terror on the village, killing to feed his unholy form, and sometimes just because he enjoyed it. But even then, he had one fearful adversary, in a local demon slayer named Seamus Murphy. Seamus was the heir of the Murphy family, who had been destined to protect the village for as long as any local history books record. Seamus had finally found a way to bring down Dorchadas, and he tracked him down to a dilapidated old house at the edge of the village. There Seamus defeated Dorchadas, destroying his physical and weakened him enough to banish his spirit into purgatory. But, it was not permanganate. Years later, Seamus discovered that Dorchadas could be resurrected. He had built up a following of minions, who had scattered on his destruction that could prepare it. The conditions had to be akin to those on the night of his death. The lunar conditions were most important, and luckily for us, quite specific. The ceremony could only take place under a crescent moon, when the planets are aligned in a specific order. But the key to the ceremony was an exchange of blood; the blood of the one who slew him. Believing it the only way to prevent his blood being attained and thus ensuring that Dorchadas was never resurrected, Seamus took his own life."
"But these things are never that simple." Van Helsing muttered, almost to himself.
"Indeed." Pádraig sighed.
"The blood needed for the ceremony was not just contained in Seamus, but in all those in his bloodline; children and grandchildren included."
"And does Seamus have any children? Or did he?" Van Helsing asked.
"He had a son, Feargal, who took his father's place as slayer after his death. He knew well the curse that hovered over their progeny, discovering the true conditions and the threat to his family after his father's suicide.
He lived with his wife, her brother, and his children. His brother-in-law, Cìan, joined him in his war against the evils that beset their village. One day, Fergal's wife Siobhan became pregnant. Realising the huge danger the child would be in if it was recognised as of the Murphy lineage, Siobhan went away with a family friend. Returning over a year later, the newborn infant was taken to be the child of the friend, who's wife, it appeared, had died during childbirth, and it would never be known who the child's true parents were. That child is the last of the line now."
"What happened to the rest of the family?" requested Van Helsing, sat listening intently to Pádraig's tale.
"Well unfortunately, the aforementioned circumstances arose about 10 years ago. It began with disappearances, demons collecting offerings for their
diluted master."
"And you think that's what happening here? The murders?"
"Yes. Usually, the lunar conditions for the resurgence would only occur once every half-century. But it seems there is something of a 'leap year' present. This is the second time it has come to pass in around ten years."
"And what happened the last time?" Van Helsing was not anticipating an straightforward, or reassuring, answer.
"Well Feargal realised what was afoot, and set about ensuring his family were removed to a safe place. But it seemed that Dorchadas' underlings were one step ahead, and the night before they were due to leave, two of his cretins raided their home. Cian convinced Feargal to flee, as he was technically the only blood relation to Seamus Murphy, and he was the only one that risked being a tool in Dorchadas' successful resurrection. Reluctantly, Feargal escaped, knowing that he left his family in mortal danger. His wife and Cian's family were abducted and taken to the house where the resurrection was due to commence.
The ceremony began, and the demons took Cian's son Tomas and slit his throat, spilling his blood over the spot where their master had been slain. However, this did not produce the desired results, and the demons realised that none of the family were related to Seamus by blood. In their rage they murdered them brutally. Feargal had followed them up to the house, and witnessing this horrific scene, his was blinded by grief and wrath. Somewhat foolishly he revealed himself, making an unprepared last-ditch attempt to defeat the demons. But he was outnumbered, and understanding what would ensue if they were able to capture him, he followed his father's instance, and threw himself from the cliffs behind the house."
"Under the impression that that would be the end of it, with the child still hidden." Van Helsing pondered, mulling over the intense account he had just heard. "And no one knows the Murphys had a child?"
"There was some speculation amongst the villagers, about Siobhan going away. Some believe she may have had a child outside of her marriage to Feargal. Or that the child died after it's birth."
"You're sure there are no more, no more relatives?"
"Yes. Certain. Six in the family, six headstones in the churchyard."
"And where is the child now?" Van Helsing demanded.
"She is in my keeping, as she has been since Feargal passed her to me after her birth, and I swore to care for and protect her, all the while keeping her identity a secret. I'm her godfather."
†
It was dark now, and a grey shroud of mist veiled the black night sky as Pádraig lead them down a long narrow dirt lane alongside the river boundary of the town.
Carl shuddered, not so much from the clinging damp, but the dread of this haunting town that had been exacerbated a good deal by Pádraig's frightening and sorrowful tale.
A faint light began to come into view in the distance. A lone glowing window echoed warm candlelight over the outstretching fields of largely dead and barren turf. From the outside, the house was much like the houses they had seen in town; shabby, dishevelled and desolate, though much larger. It appeared to have once been a farm house, with a barn to one side and many surrounding fields, running up to the winding river that stretched past the house and through a thick woodland on the horizon.
Pádraig pushed open the dilapidated wooden door, and strode into the darkness of the lounge. He took the lantern he had been carrying and lit the hearth with it. The room was flooded with a rush of warm firelight, revealing a sparse but homely room. Two long battered couches where set either side of the fireplace, with a small wooden table in front of it. In the back corner of the room, barely visible as the light faded, there was a desk, piled high with scrolls and dusty books. Carl smiled as it reminded him fairly of his own workbench at the abbey.
Three abundant bookcases of varying shapes and sizes were dotted about the room, and the paltry oil lamps strewn about were the only thing that adorned the walls, save a photograph.
They gathered around the fire, and Pádraig went to fetch ale for himself and his guests. Van Helsing rose to inspect the portrait above the hearth. It showed a group of people sat beside a river. Two men and a woman were sitting down on the meadow, while another young man was playfully chasing three giggling children across the bottom of the picture. It was a natural scene, a beautiful un-posed glimpse of a loving family. Van Helsing did not have to ask who they were.
He felt a wrench of hurt at the sight, not only for the tragic family in the picture. He contemplated the haunting feeling of loss and uncertainty, the thought that once he may have had a family, and the even more painful notion that he might never find out.
His moment of reflection was broken as Pádraig returned from the store, and, setting a pitcher of ale on the table, stepped up beside him.
He stared at the picture, as he had doubtlessly done innumerable times before, and at length he spoke.
"I know it's perhaps a bit risky, having that up in the current circumstances, but…" He trailed off. Van Helsing nodded understandingly, and did not press him to finish.
Behind them, Carl jumped in frightened surprise as a figure appeared like a ghost in the dark kitchen doorway.
Van Helsing turned and watched as the shape timidly edged forward into the light of the room.
She was young, just a teenager. Her dark eyes flickered behind the short brown hair pulled over her face, shifting nervously between the men and the floor.
"Mr. Van Helsing, this is Roan." He paused as Van Helsing looked over the girl. "Roan Murphy."
†
They sat together for hours talking, without mention of the perilous task at hand. Roan didn't appear to be much of a talker, but no one could blame her. Although as the conversation continued, she began to seem more secure around the strangers, and was clearly grateful of their help.
An outlying clock chimed, it was eleven o'clock. Setting down a near-empty tankard of Irish ale, Van Helsing rose.
"Its getting late, I suppose we better get some sleep. We have a lot to be getting on with."
An discomfited air crept over the room, at the first mention of their mission; even though it was constantly weighing on all their minds, they had so far managed to escape into ordinary, affable conversation without discussing the grave matter.
"I'll show you your room." Pádraig offered, starting up the tapered set of steps, Van Helsing following him.
Carl, however, was already half asleep on the couch, and failed to notice that Van Helsing had left to go to bed.
Roan leant across closer to him. "Sir? I think everyone is …" She said, grasping his shoulder and shaking him gently.
Carl awoke, his tired eyes wide and bewildered. He sat forward, wobbling uneasily.
"I was just. ..I'm not..err..urh." He flopped back onto the couch, clamping his hand over his head.
"I think that ale's hit you a bit hasn't it?" she smiled.
"What? No... I er..hmm?"
"Come on sir, Mr. Van Helsing's already gone off up." She stood up, sliding her arm under Carl's and pulling him to his unsteady feet. He staggered forward, and Roan grabbed him around his waist, steadying him as he stumbled.
She pulled him to the top of the stairs, where Pádraig and Van Helsing were taking covers from a trunk on the landing. Roan propped Carl against the wall, and Van Helsing smiled at her for her serenity.
"Carl has a habit of falling asleep inappropriately. You have more patience with him than I." Roan bent and took some blankets and led Carl to his room.
She turned to Pádraig and smiled impishly.
"So-òlta." She said, nodding towards Carl's door, before disappearing into her own.
Van Helsing turned to Pádraig with an questioning look. Seeing he was inquiring for a translation, Pádraig smiled.
"Easily drunk."