Late September

Where were they?

It would be dark soon; the sun, cold and dispassionate behind the heavy banks of autumn cloud, was low in the sky; the western peaks wreathed in a soft ethereal glow.

Domhnall rarely stayed out after dark. And never when he had Fiachra with him. Something was wrong.

The instinct prickled at her, a raw ugly thing, edged with fear and guilt. She hadn't wanted her grandson to go. There had been something in the air that morning, a strange quality to the heavy clouds clinging to the sides of the valley that made her uneasy. But the boy had insisted. He'd been up the mountain before, he knew the paths, he had grandfather and Ailil to look after him.

Maeve had only relented after even Domhnall's measured words failed to dissuade the boy. She'd watched them leave from the small porch; her eyes following their progress along the rough boirín; Fiachra chasing the old sheepdog, Ailil, in circles; until they disappeared around a corner, lost beneath a stand of beech.

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Maeve shivered, and looked back along the old road. Praying for some sign of their return.

A dense fog was rising in the foothills, long tendrils slowly creeping down the slope, groping their way into the dips and crevices. She couldn't help but imagine those cold fingers trailing along her neck.

Grasping, probing, reaching.

She shivered again, a violent shake of her shoulders this time; a vain attempt to throw off the lingering sensation crawling across her skin. Something wrong was in the air; an oily, rancid residue she could almost taste; a violent, intrusive closeness.

Where were they?

If they weren't back by nightfall, she didn't know that she would ever see them again. Thirty years of marriage had prepared her well for the possibility, at least with her husband. But her heart raced, and her breath quickened at the thought of losing her grandson. Fiachra was the last thing she had left of her daughter. When Aisling died, her world had collapsed into nightmare; only his presence, his life, had allowed her to dream again.

What was left if she lost him?

The evening wind picked up and rustled the small patch of unharvested wheat next to the cottage. Absently, she ran a hand along a stalk, silent prayers crossing her lips as she stared off towards the dying light of the day. This plot had been left stand as a gift to her husband's gods, so old that even he didn't know all of their names. She rarely prayed for their guidance; they were Domhnall's religion, not hers, and she had always felt a distant uneasiness when she visited the small patch of land that served as both their altar and temple.

When they were first married, he had spent years trying to reassure her, trying to convince her that they had accepted her and would answer her prayers if called upon. There had been omens, he said, on their wedding day.

They had been married in the orchard behind the house, beneath the overlapping branches of two apple trees. Maeve had lived in a town her entire life, so she had thought nothing of the silence in the grove. Everything was so quiet to her in the valley. But Domhnall had said that even the wind stopped to listen to her vows.

She had never understood what he meant by it. Not until now. She looked at the encroaching night as she prayed and even the stars seemed to be holding their breath.

~

November.

Maeve dropped the last of the chopped wood in a heap, and paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow. The winter was well-established by now; the mountains had been capped with snow for weeks and she could feel the promise in the air. Even in her brief respite, she could feel the cold seeping into her, stiffening her joints and numbing her fingers. She stretched upwards, hands pressed to her lower back.

There was little she could do to suppress the dull ache that followed her everywhere now.

Almost done, she sighed to herself, as she bent to stack the last of the wood under the eaves.

It had taken most of a fortnight to chop and collect enough firewood to last her through Midwinter, but it had helped take her mind off their absence. She had observed Samhain, as had been her husband's custom, although she had steadfastly refused to pray for his, or her grandson's, soul on the day.

They would come home.

Maeve knew it in her bones. She knew it with the same certainty that she had known something was wrong the day they left. That pervading sense of wrongness had vanished overnight, only to be replaced by the stinging grief and emptiness that clawed at her heart. The world felt less real without them, less alive.

The wind gusted as she finished stacking the wood, and she felt the first flakes of snow drift down onto her exposed skin.

She made one last circle of the house to make sure everything was secure.

Satisfied, she reclaimed the axe from where she had left it, leaning against the doorframe, and hefted it over her shoulder. Later she would clean and oil it for the winter. Domhnall had taken great care in keeping his tools. If she was never going to see him again, Maeve was determined to honour the careful, attentive approach he had taken to life. There was pride in what they had built together. And they would return to her knowing she had kept her faith.

She stopped just inside the door and looked back out across the fields. There was nothing to be seen past the yard now, the winter sun too weak to illuminate the late evening through the heavy clouds. Maeve felt a sudden crushing isolation.

It was like the world outside had ceased to exist; their homestead ripped from the world and cast adrift in darkness. She closed her eyes and whispered one final prayer into the night before closing the door and shutting the winter outside.

~

December

It had been weeks since she was last able to go further than the piles of wood stacked against the cottage walls. The snowfall had been heavy, and the temperature, dropping precipitously with the first storm, had remained well below freezing, both day and night. The well was completely inaccessible now, barricaded behind a thick wall of densely packed snow. Maeve had tried shovelling a path through, but on reaching the well itself, had found the water at the bottom frozen over anyway. So she had taken to melting snow in the large pot over the fire for water.

She was grateful that she didn't need to worry about food supplies. The pantry and cellar had been stocked for three people before Domhnall and Fiachra didn't return home. Although she was increasingly determined to make the overnight trip to the nearby market as soon as the snow thawed. Cured meat, and dried out fruit and vegetables began to grow tedious after a few months.

~

January

They waited until after Yule.

Domhnall had always cautioned her to respect what he called the Silence. She had never understood exactly what he meant by it, but she had believed in him enough to keep an open mind.

When it came, she had recognised it immediately.

It was different than the quiet solitude that normally surrounded their rural homestead. There was always noise in that quietness, birds crowing, wind whistling, sheep bleating, trees rustling. When the Silence fell, all those signs of life fell away, and the universe held its breath in anticipation.

Fear. Terror. Foreboding.

A profound stillness brought about by the world retreating.

Recognising that otherworldly silence for what it was, Maeve cast her mind back to Domhnall's instructions.

'First, you must secure any thresholds or transitional spaces against intrusion. Doors, windows, chimneys; they must all be warded.'

Her husband's words were strong in her mind as she scattered grain across the threshold and windowsills.

She tied shut the windows and door using lengths of braided straw he kept in a chest by the hearth. She placed a sheaf of dried heather on the glowing coals of the fire, filling the house with its earthy aroma.

Just as he had shown her.

This was his world, not hers. She had been raised far from tales of old gods, spirits and rituals. A younger version of her would probably have scoffed at what she was now doing. But for thirty years, she had loved and trusted her husband. Maeve had never truly believed the stories, but she believed in Domhnall. So she had listened to him in earnest, learning his beliefs and his rituals. Setting aside her own doubts in favour of honouring his faith, just as he had honoured hers.

A deep booming sounded somewhere outside. A distant sound, blending with the silence, intensifying it.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. What was next?

'Be prepared. Fear, deceit and trickery are all weapons. If in need, linen soaked in beeswax can be used to plug your ears. If cornered, they are weak against ashwood and iron.'

Maeve picked up the axe from where it stood by the fire, and removed the oilskin, its edge glinted in the firelight. Running her hands down the long, carefully carved ash handle, Maeve could feel the strength of Domhnall's hands on hers.

The man was a bulwark. For over half her life, she had marvelled at his immovable strength, his imperturbability. He had shed tears when Aisling died, but as she herself had sat grieving over the coffin, Domhnall had carried on; taking care of her and Fiachra, just a babe and barely walking. In the long months of her grief, he never faltered. Not once.

His absence at that moment was a yawning void. She was out of her depth. She had no idea what was coming, or if she was even up to the task. All she had was his faith, not hers, and her promise to be there when they returned to her.

Maeve took one of the stools by the hearth and sat, facing the door, all of her concentration directed to still the shaking in her bones. Her hand ran absently along the axe, drawing strength from the memory of his.

They came after sunset.

At first it was just scratching, fingers exploring the cracks between the windows and door frame.

Insistent, searching, probing.

Then, the fire hissed as snow was dislodged from the roof and fell down the chimney. There was a frantic scrabbling across the thatch, followed by the harsh, angry shouts of her unseen assailants; unnatural screams that that tore at her ears, and stabbed hot needles into her brain.

When that stopped, the banging started.

The doors and shutters rattled on their hinges from the force of the blows but held strong. They pounded at the walls, and the cottage was filled with a high-pitched screeching as they tore at the stonework with their hands, or claws, or talons. Maeve didn't know, didn't want to know.

The assault continued long into the night, but her husband's wards held strong. The thick yew planks of the door and shutters withstanding the furious onslaught. Maeve couldn't remember when she started, but when the maelstrom finally died down, she realised that her lips were moving in prayer. The soft words Domhnall had taught her, words whose meanings you felt rather than understood.

She sighed in relief when the cottage fell back into silence. She had expected it to last much longer. It was only halfway through the night. The coals in the fire still glowed, warm and red.

The relief was temporary.

Maeve had just stood up, and was reaching for a log to bulk up the fire, when she heard a sound at the door. She froze, and turned towards the sound. A soft knock. Nothing like the frantic banging that had harassed her for hours.

Domhnall's voice called to her through the door. Then she heard Fiachra, his young voice weak and afraid.

Maeve dropped the wood and found herself reaching for the door handle. Her hand hovering inches from the polished brass.

Why was she hesitating? They needed her help.

Something felt wrong, and unsettled feeling in her chest. Her head was buzzing furiously. It was hard to think. She had to help them. She had to. She had to...

Hands shaking as she fought the sudden compulsion, she back slowly away from the door, eyes wide with horror.

'Lastly, don't trust what you hear. Deceit and trickery are their way. If violence does not suffice, they will promise, threaten, cajole, lie, impersonate. Anything to get what they want. Hold firm in your faith.'

Domhnall's last piece of advice pierced through the fog clouding her mind and she collapsed to her knees.

The voices outside begged her to open the door. They were cold, hungry, tired. They needed shelter. They were injured. They needed help. They needed her. They were coming again. They needed to get away.

Maeve cried as the voices battered away at her resolve. Her heart broke, shattered, leaving a gaping hole inside her chest. How she had longed to hear their voices again, to see them. To hold her grandchild and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

Blinking through her tears, she reached into the small leather pouch with the beeswax and linen earplugs and stuffed them into her ears. The voices calling to her dissolved, the facade falling away, and angry screeching erupted from outside the door.

She had come so close to giving in.

She curled into a ball on the floor before the hearth and wept as the attackers renewed their assault. They scratch and clawed, pounded and screamed their frustration, but they could not get past the wards. Eventually Maeve cried herself to sleep.

When she awoke, the voices were gone too.

They returned the following night.

And the next.

And every night after.

~

February

She was out sweeping the yard when Domhnall and Fiachra returned.

There was still a chill in the air, but the snow had finally receded and she was glad to finally be outside after the winter. The nocturnal visitors had finally relented their nightly assaults, stopping almost as suddenly as they started.

The thaw had revealed the damage done by the unseen attackers. One of their sheds lay in splinters, the thick wood damaged beyond repair. The well hoist was also gone, broken and dropped into the shaft. She had shivered when she saw the scratch marks on the windows and doors. Too small, to have been done by anything but fingernails.

It was midmorning and she was taking a short break, leaning against an old stone wall when she caught sight of the two figures walking along the road from the mountains. She dropped her broom and ran to the edge of the yard, the previous few months forgotten as she shaded her eyes from the spring sun and waited on their approach.

The smaller of the two figures broke into a run as they drew near and she cried as Fiachra flung himself into her arms. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. She hadn't realised how much hope she had lost until she felt his embrace.

'Why are you crying, Granny? We were only gone for one night?'

She looked over his shoulder at her husband, and he nodded sadly towards her. A sad smile growing on his face as he met her eyes.

'You'll understand someday boy,' was all he said as he walked forward and folded both of them into his arms.