After Neil had sorted himself out and the girl had introduced herself as Sorcha, they were off. She led the two boys quite expertly to a road not more than a quarter of a mile away and they set their feet to the pavement. Neither boy would admit how good it felt to trek on solid asphalt again—their leg muscles were sore from moving over such boggy terrain for the past hours—but both had a strange urge to get on hands and knees and kiss the road. Their previous night's escapade had given them a new appreciation for the convenience of civilization.

Sorcha stayed a good three yards in front of them as they walked along the road. She hardly talked at all and when she did, it was to give orders of some sort: don't fall off into the ditch, pick up the pace, watch the sheep droppings. And, like sheep, the boys listened to everything she said. They followed her commands without hesitation, happy to not have to think for themselves. The day was late into the afternoon, and they still hadn't had anything to eat. They were beginning to feel weak from the exertion coupled with their lack of sustenance. They were nearing exhaustion and were happy to listen indifferently to the sounds of their own feet trudging the pavement, watching the girl ahead of them whack at too-long plants and wave at distant people.

It was less than twenty minutes when they reached a small, one-street town. In fact, it was only recognizable as an established town by the larger-than-life sign on the road stating, "Welcome to Ballyfergus!" It was a ridiculous introduction to a street of about ten scattered buildings and a town square, which was merely a roundabout in the center of the road with a haphazardly leaning signpost poking out of a lump of grass in its center. The place looked deserted, and with the sun setting and casting pale sugar-dustings of light in strange places, it felt as if the three had arrived in a ghost town. Eric was suddenly reminded of the circumstances of the night before and felt fear mingle with the hunger in his stomach. Neil was intrigued.

"Come on, this way," Sorcha stated, and they followed her into the front door of a shady-looking building with a low-hanging sign, which read, "The Witch's Pub." Once inside, the boys were met with an immediate contrast to the silent, creepy, dim atmosphere on the outside. The pub was lit with glowing gas lamps hanging low over tables and an open fire pit in the middle of the room. Happy little flames nibbled black logs, and the crackling of the wood sounded like a chipper conversation being held amidst the light and smoke; it was a happy undertone to the real talking and laughter going on around them. The whole town must have been inside. There were mostly old men sitting up at the bar, and women clustered in groups around the tables. Some small children played in the back, and a few younger couples huddled up by the fire. It was no wonder the town had been so empty—everyone was here in the pub! Relief flooded through Eric, whose flashbacks to the ghastly night before had been starting to overwhelm him.

Sorcha traipsed along in front of the two and right up to the bar, where there was a group of old men chatting in pea-soup-thick accents. The girl said to them as she passed, "Afternoon, sirs! How's the puppy doin', Mr. Connel? Still trying to convince me da' to get me one. And I like that hat, Schaefer—is it new? Lovely color on yeh." The men responded and smiled at her; she must have been known by everyone. In fact, this town was so small that everyone must know everyone. This was a foreign idea to both Eric and Neil, who'd grown up in the crowded Chicago suburbs and had hardly known all the kids on their street let alone the entire neighborhood. They envied the scene around them—how warm and cozy it felt, how friendly everyone looked. Neither of them would have even considered hanging out around old people and little kids and parents, but here, all ages and sorts of people were chatting and drinking and it was the most welcoming thing imaginable, at that point.

All thoughts of their situation left the boys' minds as Sorcha came back to them with baskets of chips and led them toward a table, shooing away a few kids who'd taken seats there. They smelled the food and lost thoughts for anything else. The two dug into the baskets of greasy fried potatoes the moment their hands were close enough, and they ate as if their lives depended on it. Sorcha left them and began to wander through the cheery pub, talking to just about everyone she came across. Eric and Neil hardly noticed she'd abandoned them—they were too preoccupied with filling their stomachs. They'd never tasted better food.

"Look at this table," Eric remarked casually, nearing the bottom of his chip basket.

Neil looked, but he didn't see anything worth discussing. The table was a big block of wood. That was all. He shrugged and took a big swig of a drink that seemed to appear suddenly on the table the last time Sorcha had brushed past.

Rolling his eyes, Eric pointed out some deep grooves in the center of the table. The wood had been smoothed down somewhat, but it looked like some chunks had been taken out of it at one point.

Still, Neil didn't find it interesting and just kept eating.

Eric sighed and explained his growing fascination. "It's like we're eating off an old chopping block. See?" He traced the grooves with his fingers. "It looks like ax marks or something."

Neil furrowed his brow, at last showing slight interest. "Yeah," he admitted, glancing around. "Looks different than all the other tables. They're just regular. This one's all thick and old looking."

"I'm telling you—it's a butcher block. Or at least it used to be." He frowned. "I hope they don't use it anymore."

"Nah. The dents look old. Worn down. Someone just must've thought it'd be cool to make it into a table. Or they were hard up for money."

"Kind of creepy . . . isn't it? To think we're eating off something hundreds of animals might've been murdered on?"

"No," Neil smirked. "We eat animals all the time. Nothing new. Somebody had to kill them."

A new look crossed Eric's features—a mix of distaste and all-knowingness. "Yeah, but I don't want to think about how it all happened. And it was probably terribly unsanitary. All the blood and fur and guts . . . ugh!" he shivered.

Neil would've responded with a rude comment if Sorcha hadn't returned at that moment and interrupted with, "Talking about blood and guts, are yeh?" She didn't wait for the obvious answer. "Yeh must've noticed, then, where you're sittin'."

Both boys looked at the table, up to the girl, and asked, "Where?" She grinned, pleased to explain. "This is the Witch's Pub you're in."

"Witch's pub?" Eric repeated, automatically caught in the suspense of her tone.

The girl nodded and replied, "I'll get Michael to tell yeh the story. He'll do a much better job than I." And she went off again.

Neil looked at Eric with a curled lip. "Great," he said. "Now we'll be here all night."

"So what? Where else do you have to be?"

"Just a minute ago you were grossed out at the fact we're sitting at a chopping block, and now you're all into ghost stories? Come on. Make up your mind." Without really thinking about what he was unearthing, Neil added in a hushed tone, "And after last night, I should think the last thing you want to hear about is witches."

At his words, Eric shivered. He hadn't wanted to think about last night—ever. He had been successfully blocking the memory of it all day, and to hear Neil bring it up again felt as if someone had cut open some stitches he'd just gotten. He didn't really know what to say in response; he felt a little nauseated and began to wish he hadn't encouraged Sorcha for the story, but she was back before he could get too hung up on the regret, and she had a little old man in tow.

This old man was, in fact, barely four feet tall. He may have been taller at one point, but he was so hunched over that his head and back were level. His body creaked with each movement he made and Eric's immediate impression was that he must be in pain, but the toothy smile etched into his cheeks and the twinkle in his pinched eyes told another story. This was Michael, Sorcha told them. He was the best storyteller in town and he knew the history of the area beyond anyone else (really because he was so old). She noted the "lovely" tufts of hair resembling a moat of clouds around the bare hill of his head and pulled a stool up behind him, at which point he promptly sat down, smacked a hand on the table, and asked the boys what Nigeria was like.

Eric and Neil, confused, glanced from the grinning old man's wrinkled face to Sorcha, who motioned that Michael was a little loopy, and Eric replied that Nigeria was absolutely unfathomable.

"Great, lad. Lovely," Michael mumbled. He nodded at them, grinning from one to the other for what seemed five solid minutes. Just as the boys were beginning to feel uncomfortable, the man's face changed and a dark look crept across his features. His smile drooped into a frown and the corners of his eyes loosened their grin and widened. Even the hand he'd placed on the table and the fist gripping the knob of his walking cane tightened up and blanched at the knuckles. His sudden change in mood startled both Eric and Neil, and they waited nervously for what would come next.

"She used to sit right there," Michael croaked out quietly, his eyes gazing long and hard at the place in which Neil sat. "Right there, ay. I remember it perfect. I was a wee lad, still sittin' on me mother's lap some of the time. Nigh on eighty-five years ago, it was, when she was practicin' her dark magic. Oh, she was a sneak, that one. She'd always be in that spot, cuttin' the meats for her father's business. I'd see it all through the window when I'd stroll past . . . always look at you with that blind eye o' hers, she would. S'right, lads—she had a blind peeper, the color o' creamed butter, and we said she could see the devil with it. That's how she started talking to him, ay. And he'd tell her to do all sorts o' things, and they'd work together—cohorts, as such—and they formed a sort o' liaison, a camaraderie, a partnership—"

"Redundant much?" Neil muttered.

Eric elbowed him.

Michael noticed none of it. "—and together, they decided to wreak havoc on this town, she because she wanted revenge for always bein' frowned upon as the butcher's daughter (cuttin' up the meats wasn't a real nice position for a lady, y'see), and he because . . . well, because he was evil itself."

"Makes sense," Neil snorted.

Eric kicked him under the table.

Michael coughed, then continued. "They say she spoke to him here, late into the evenin', over the choppin' block. I even saw them meself, the red glow comin' from the window one night when I was out later'n I shoulda been. They worked their spells and charms and such, but most of all, they conjured up the pooka to do their biddin'."

The boys looked sideways at one another beneath furrowed brows. Neither was sure if he'd heard the man right, through his heavy accent.

"Ay, lads," Michael seemed to read their minds, "the pooka hisself. The dark horse, they say, who felt she was his kin because they shared the curse o' the yellow eye. And they'd send him out in the black hours to tear down fences and scatter sheep and destroy crops. He'd give a scare to anyone out wanderin', shove him into ditches or off the road. Pure nightmare, he was, and though we knew she'd gotten him on her side, there was nothin' to do for it; couldn't anyone threaten her, y'see, for the worse she'd unleash on them. If anything was to be helped, we all had to work together. So it was one night, pitch as a moonless sky, when the people o' the town gathered. With pitchforks and shovels, they smashed into this very buildin' here and ferreted the witch out. But you'll never believe what happened, lads . . ."

Michael leaned in so close to the table that his chin nearly touched the top of it. Eric, quite enraptured (more for the fear that was blooming in the pit of his stomach than for any other reason), likewise leaned closer over the table. Neil looked at the two, the ridiculous old man and the even more ridiculous, goggle-eyed Eric, and leaned back against his seat, crossing his arms, determined not to be amused.

Michael was silent. The scene seemed frozen in time—the silence pregnant with possibility, dramatic in its length at first, but then, as the seconds ticked past, ridiculous. It became obvious that Michael was no longer pausing for effect. Eric widened his eyes in urging, while Neil snorted and turned to the window. Finally, Eric nudged the old man, and he seemed to awaken as if from a reverie. "Ay!" he barked, startling Eric. "Where was I, then?"

"Right about to explain what happened to the witch."

Michael sniffed. "No, me bucco, I can't tell ya that. Me memory's not so great anymore."

"What?" Eric lifted his hands in a gesture of frustration. "But—but I want to know what happened! I mean, it's important . . . and—"

"What happened is not important," Michael laughed, his grin returning and his eyes regaining their twinkle. "All ye' need to know is that she disappeared. And they say she's still causin' trouble in these parts. S'why I always say when somethin' bad is goin' on, it's due to her finaglin'." He presented this ominous finale with such cheer that Eric felt more creeped out than he had before.

Glancing side to side as if to make sure no one was listening, Eric leaned in, narrowed an eye, and dared to ask, "This pooka . . . what exactly does it look like?"

Michael thought for a moment, a matter-of-fact expression coming onto his face. "Ah, well. Can never say, exactly. Y'see, the pooka's a shape-shifter. Sometimes a goat, or a nasty little goblin, sometimes a big ugly bogeyman, sometimes an eagle . . . ya never know, son."

"But you said it was like a horse—a big black horse!"

"Ay, I did."

"Well . . . is it a horse a lot of the time?"

"Can be. Maybe so, maybe not. With our witch, here, lad, yes. That's the shape they say it took."

Eric was avid. "A big black horse? With yellowish eyes?"

"Eyes like smokin' sulfur."

"And . . . and would it have a rider?"

Michael pondered this question, putting a long bony finger to his chin. "Rider, eh? Well, I doubt it, son. The only one able to ride the pooka was Brian Boru hisself, and that was all long, long, very long ago. Oldern'I, if ye can believe it."

Eric was about to mutter that that indeed was difficult to believe, but he held himself. "Why can't anyone ride it?"

"Too wild. Can't anyone tame it."

Somewhat put off, the boy sighed audibly. He thought again. "Well, what about throwing stuff. Does it throw stuff at people?" He was hesitant to mention exactly what it was that had been thrown at him the night before.

Neil was beginning to wish Eric would shut up, but there was a sort of constriction going on in his chest that kept him from speaking.

"Throw anything?" Michael queried aloud. "No, I don't really think so. What might it be throwin', lad?"

Eric chewed his lower lip. "A . . . a liquid of some sort?"

Michael clearly didn't comprehend.

"You know, like water . . . milk . . . blood, perhaps?"

The old man stared at Eric as if the boy was looney. "Well, now," he chortled. "You're just talkin' fantasy."

Neil felt a chill, though he did his best to ignore it. Of course it was all fantasy! It was impossible—just impossible. There were no such things as witches and devils and ghost horses. It was a bunch of bull. Everything that had occurred the previous night had been brought on by hyper-active minds and overexertion; that was all. What he'd seen, what he'd felt, what he'd heard—yes, especially what he'd heard—it had been a hallucination, some trick of an overdrawn brain. Sure, there was still the arguable case that Eric had woken up coated in some dried, red, liquid-like stuff, but even that might be explainable . . . after all, they had spent a night lying in a muddy ditch. Perhaps Eric had rolled around a particularly wet patch of mud, and something in the air had turned it red! Yes, as impractical as that sounded, it wasn't entirely impossible. And mingling with Neil's stubborn denial was a renewed hatred for Eric, for reasons he couldn't quite grasp at all.