The Hawthorn Tree - Number 5
Always the reluctant hero.
The Hawthorn Tree 1. The Hawthorn Tree 2. The Hawthorn Tree 3. The Hawthorn Tree 4
Jimmy Clarkson did not like people.
He didn’t hate them either.
He just found being around too many of them too often - draining!
Paying attention to all their easily missed cues and messages was hard work. That’s why he never married and also why he didn’t have any friends. He waved and said hello to everyone in the village, but that was as far as he took it.
Instead, Jimmy filled his days with reading. His small, neat, and orderly one-bedroom cottage was stuffed full of books - some old, some new, and some very rare, though all contained the same topic.
‘The Dark Fae. Sluagh Sidhe. The Underhill people.’ Those who granted wishes to desperate folk then twisted, turned and corrupted their victim’s deepest desires until they had wrung out every last drop of fear, fun and death.
Those who once invited in, never went away!
Jimmy’s favourite book was simple. He’d had read it so many times most pages could be recited, word for word. This worn hand-me-down was nothing more than a simple collection of leather-bound pages filled in over time by various scripts.
It was titled simply - ‘Mar a Mharbhadh Slough Sidhe’ - How to kill Slaugh Sidhe.
Under this precise banner were notes on how to recognise Fae, where they lived, what they ate and most importantly, as the title suggested, how to kill one.
All this varied knowledge had been learned by trial and error. When the trial was successful, it was recorded by the author; when it was unsuccessful, it was recorded by the next owner of the book.
As Jimmy’s father had been, he was now the owner and had been for most of his life, which placed a great responsibility on his shoulders.
He had the knowledge.
He would be the one to keep everyone safe when the dark fairies came, which they always did when called!
Most people were just like that Suzie woman. Thinking fairies were pretty winged little pixies or beautiful beings who’d fill your life with their otherworldly delights and granted you your wish, forever ensuring happiness.
The truth was the furthest reality from these twisted and childish beliefs.
Jimmy had tried to warn her, but he’d messed it up. He was pretty sure she was angry now, and when people became angry, they didn’t listen. That’s what the books said; in Jimmy’s experience, it was whole-heartedly true.
As he mulled over his encounter with Suzie, a sense of dread and disbelief grew rapidly in his gut. Jimmy knew he couldn’t go around telling everyone that they'd done something very dangerous by bottling their wishes and hanging them on the oldest Hawthorn Tree in the village. They’d brush him off, thinking he was either insane or delusional.
And that was the darkest power of the Sluagh Sidhe. They’d become folklore, concealing their existence in plain sight. It allowed these cunning monsters to hide and wait until everyone stopped believing in the old protections and old ways were truely forgot.
Forgetting was dangerous.
Forgetting why everyone put milk out for the elves to drink was now just a funny old ceremony. But those who remembered knew it was done to hide the scent of a newborn baby- the Sluagh’s favourite delicacy.
Why you never said your birthday wish aloud. The knowledge of a wish made on the turning of your year was powerful and dangerous, leaving you open wide for corruption by the Underhills.
The book said, ‘Action speaks loud’r than w’rd’.
Jimmy took this to heart.
He had acted, and now as the sky turned pitch black and the stars came out to hold hands with the moon, Jimmy sat in the bushes just outside the Connolly’s home. He’d seen the mind-twisting of Mal in the market yard and knew he wouldn’t have to wait long before the dark elf felt brave enough to begin its campaign of terror on Mal inside his home.
His breath was held as a single darkling confidently walked up to the Connolly’s front window and began swaying backwards and forwards, speaking in its own lilting language. Twisting and turning its long, thin clawed hands in the air in front of its chest as it controlled the minds of the people inside.
Jimmy listened and gritted his teeth as Mal, Carol, and their daughter screamed and cried out in fear, encouraging the dark Fae to smile a little wider each time.
“Mal, stay inside. All ya doors are locked an’ it can’t get in unless you invite it.” Jimmy watched, hopeful Mal would refuse to come out.
“Shit!” was spat out to the garden bed as the front door opened and Mal turned tugging it hard to ensure the door was locked behind him.
Well, it was now or never! Jimmy knew he’d either add his notes to the book tonight or his distant nephew would update it with a ‘what not to do’.
Speed and silence were the key factors. The Sluagh was busy torturing Mal with it’s words, wanting him to submit willingly and as its cold laughter filled the nights crips air with spite and malice Jimmy hurled his willow spear as hard as he could straight into its back.
The creature’s laughter stopped immediately, allowing silence to reign like a soothing balm. Mal’s face showed the shock he felt and then the horror as the fairy’s blood bubbled out of its mouth and on the garden leaves below.
“Don’t just stand thare gaupin like a bloody goldfish, help me drive the other willow stake intae its heart, an we can finish it.”
“Jimmy Clarkson!” Mal shook his head in disbelief.
“Ay, dae ye need a bloody written invitation tae help me?”
Anger and fear gurgled up from Jimmy’s stomach as he pushed the Sluagh against the front window and shoved a sharpened stake of willow still attached to its cricket bat handle into Mal’s hand.
“Willow's one of tha’ thins tha’ ends 'em. Shove it intae its heart, young Mal, whilst we've still got the chance.”
The nightmare Fae spat blackened spittle to the ground and snarled at both attackers as it wrapped its long fingers around the head of stake and pulled itself closer to the tip. The body of the spear dragged along the garden bed, and in only a matter of seconds, the breathing nightmare would be free.
Adrenaline pure and undiluted flowed through Jimmy’s veins, cheering him on to yell. “NOW, Mel, NOW! Before it sets itself free!”
The elf shot Mal a vicious stare as he asked it roughly, “Slaugh, if A let ye gae, will ye leave us alone?”
Hatred echoed through its response, “NO! Ah will rip ye a' tae pieces! An’ dine on all ya hearts.” Its fingers gained purchase on the stake once more, allowing the monster a better grip pull and tug. It laughed as its efforts slid the spear further back through its chest wall.
Jimmy couldn’t end the Fae; it had to be the wisher; otherwise, the nightmare would return night after night until it got what it wanted. As Jimmy watched, he looked closely up in the face of a man who would do anything to protect his family. Mal snared through his bared teeth, “So be it!”
Down came the willow stake directly into the Sluagh’s heart, its eyes widened in disbelief as Mal leaned in and whispered harshly. “I hate fuck’n games!”
Pinned to both the spear and stake and in its final death throws, the Sluagh launched itself at both men, dark razor-sharp claws ripping at their jackets in an attempt to slice flesh from bone. Wet screeches and a forced howl echoed out up to the stars as Jimmy kicked back the beast and narrowly missed having an eye gouged as it fell and swung wildly.
In all the violence Jimmy felt out of his own body and horrified that he was watching such desperation in another living creature’s face but only able see his own reflection in its dark insectoid eyes.
The Sluagh half attempted to thrash out one last time as death finally embraced its heart, then fought to gain its balance. Standing still, the elf looked directly at Mal who stood with clench jaw and fists. The Slaugh whispered to its intended victim, “Agus tha an salachar fhathast a 'coiseachd.”
And then the elf was nothing more than a crumpled small lifeless body, lying empty on the front lawn.
Panting Mal asked, “What did that mean?”
Jimmy swallowed down his bile, “It said ‘And still the filth is walking.’”
The wooden spear and stake were unceremoniously pulled out, its black blood smeared on the grass next to the corpse.
“Na Poppy lass, stay inside the house!” Mal called out firmly to his shocked daughter, who, with her mother, had witnessed every gruesome detail.
“Did Carol make a wish?” Jimmy’s feeling of dread built once more.
“Ay Jimmy, she did.”
“Carol, whit did ye wish for intae the little bottle?”
“Jimmy, A wishit tha’ Mal's wish wad come true, because A knew he'd wish somethin’ lovely for us all.”
“Well, Carol,” Jimmy looked at Mal with his strange look, “A think you’re safe for the time bein’ ” but tapped on the window to emphasise his point. “Until the sun rises, keep the doors an’ windows locked, an’ don’t let anyone in, includin’ us. Okay?”
“Ay!” turning to her daughter, Carol instructed Poppy to go check all the doors.
“What next?” asked Mal as he prodded the dead elf with his boot.
“Who else did ya see make a wish?”
“Well, there was Mr Smiddy; he wished his wife would come back.”
Jimmy sucked their air in between his teeth, “Tha’s no good! She’s been dead the last three years and under a bush in his back yard.”
“You what?”
*
Mr Smiddy’s house was, except for the quiet TV, dark, cold and empty. The two cautious men crept quietly along the side path and into the back yard.
“How do you know he killed and buried his wife?” Mal looked around the gloomy patio attached to the house like an apron. A wood-fueled BBQ and fancy glass table stood in pride of place.
“I saw him, digging the grave.”
“Didn’t ye think ye shoud’ve told someone?”
Mal noticed a shadow pass over the whiskery face of old Jimmy before he quietly mumbled. “Mr Smiddy came an’ saw me.”
The hinted at threat was all Mal needed to understand the situation. “Yeah, I bet he did. Let’s go see if the ol’ bugga’s survived or not.
Surprisingly, the Smiddy’s garden was long and overgrown.
What a wonderful place to hide a body.
The leaves and long grass whispered hushed remorse as the two men crept closer to the place where Mrs Smiddy’s body lay. A moment longer and Jimmy held up a calloused hand for Mal to stop and then pointed to his ear.
It was a weird sound. Unfamiliar in every way until a crunching of bone disclosed the revulsion of its origin.
Mal’s stomach turned and knotted tightly into a hard ball.
With Jimmy in the cautious lead, they slid closer to a broken lattice fence and saw where the moon shone down on an uprooted bush and smooth black leathery back of a crouching figure as it slurped, sucked, crunched and cracked at a fresh femur.
If Mal had thought he’d heard the worst, he was wrong; that moment came when a whimpered plea crawled out of the open grave. Mr Smiddy was still alive. Closing his eyes, Mal concentrated on pushing down his stomach’s contents. This time, there was no threat to his family, no rage monster to carry him through to finishing a monstrous act; there was simply a gruesome reality that needed to end.
Jimmy’s blue eyes search Mal’s face as once more the sharpened cricket bat was handed over. No words of encouragement could be spoken; they were too close, and even though the Fae might be occupied and enjoying its meal, neither man wanted to be next on the menu. Instead, Jimmy carefully laid his hand on Mal’s shoulder and then gently patted it, just like his father had done when he was a lad. He hoped it would bring Mal the same form of comfort it always brought him.
Standing tall, Jimmy’s lean frame cast a moonlit shadow back over Mal, who in turn stood on shuddering legs, forcing each muscle to move in coordination. Slowly and ever so carefully, the two men crept like wraths towards the Fae’s turned back.
In a heart wrenching moment the monster stopped sucking marrow from Mr Smiddy’s leg bone and sniffed the air. Turning its head from left to right, it paused still as a stone with large elongated ears listening to every sound.
Hardly daring to breathe, Jimmy held tight his spear, readying himself for an attack.
Mr Smiddy groaned pitiful from the grave, provoking the elf to spit a shard of bone down upon his victim as it returned to cracking the bone in his hands to access more marrow.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six steps forward, and now they were in reach.
With no ceremony or warning, no indication of victorious speeches before the battle began, Jimmy drove the willow spear into the elf’s back, then drowned in the creatures agony filled bellowed howl. Jimmy was left with enough distance to escape the sharpened femur as it was swung wildly about in an attempt to hit the elf’s attackers.
“Help me drag it over to the clearing.”
Both men struggled as the creature flailed around, digging in its clawed feet against their attempts to use the spear to pull and drag it to a clearing in the garden.
“What Jimmy, what do I do?” The words were full of terror-fuelled vigour as Mal sought a spot on the creature’s body to stab his willow stake into.
“Go an grab Smiddy’s fire poker an’ brin it here.”
The dark elf hiss and screeched as Mal bolted for the house’s patio and BBQ, sweeping up in his meat hands a wrought iron poker resting against the stockpiled wood.
The elf on his return had pushed itself backwards up the willow spear impaling itself further in an attempt to be close enough to Jimmy to use the broken femur as a sharp club.
The spear was dropped, as soon as the iron poker was handed over, making the elf upended itself and with gravity ensuring the monster slid almost to the end of the handle.
Terror transfixed Mal as the iron poker swung down hard upon the elf’s skull. Over and over again, the iron rose and fell until either Jimmy’s adrenaline was burned away or he was sure the creature was smattered enough to be considered dead.
Wragged breaths followed Jimmy as he staggered to the edge of the now open grave and looked down. “We’ll have tae get salt an pour it ower him, or they’ll be back for another gae.” It was said so matter of fact that Mal was shocked to see Mr Smiddy still shallowly breathing in the cold silver moonlight.
“Shouldn’t we gae doun thare an rescue him?”
Jimmy’s blue eyes gave nothing away as he took another look back down into the grave. “No, we’ve got other people more worthy o our time tae help. Let him lay in his last moments wi the bones o his poor wife.”
A car’s tires screeched over the market square cobbles before the dull thud of something being run over rang out.
“Come on Mal, leave the old devil wi his fate.”
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Without fanfare the two brave souls started killing the sidhe.