ã€ŠCurse of Clwydã€‹


 Godâ€™s Call

    Ours is the Age of Enlightenment, where logic and reason are thought to have won an eternal victory against their foes, or so we like to delude ourselves. The truth is that the walls holding us back from primal madness are thin, low, and in constant danger of breach. Forces that we dismiss as being mere superstition regularly endeavor to tip us over, both individually and collectively. What follows is my account of the phenomena I encountered in the winter of 1788-89 during my service as His Majesty''s physician. I, Francis Willis, assert that everything in the following pages is wholly true and written with the utmost care and sobriety.

    As a former clergyman, I understand all too well that we are called by God to serve our fellow man in ways that are burdensome and at times that are inconvenient. When His Majesty¡¯s Equerry, Captain Robert Greville, arrived at my asylum in Lincolnshire, it was indeed a most inconvenient time when my burdens were already considerable.

    I had recently taken under my care fully two dozen lunatics who were all deemed untreatable by other ¡°mad doctors,¡± as the townsfolk are liable to call us. Rarely do I consider anyone untreatable, the intractably mad Mrs. Caldwell notwithstanding, but these cases are invariably difficult nonetheless. My sons, Robert, Thomas, and John, assist me in my work to lighten the load and each of them bring their own range of talents. John has his strength, Robert his wits, and Thomas, well, is a blessing in his own way.

    In any case, I put my patients to work repairing a barn on the farm next to their lodgings. It is my opinion that those laboring under severe burdens of the mind can put aside the nonsense batting about their heads when they are being constructive. Good habits form good thoughts and on the virtuous cycle goes. Mr. Greville arrived at the precise moment at which we were just about to finish the barn¡¯s front doors, December 2nd, 1788.

    ¡°Good morning. You are Doctor Willis?¡± Greville asked, straightening his fine red officer¡¯s coat. It stood out that day against the cold gray sky and the rows of frozen farm soil. He was a handsome lad in his mid-30s I should think, though with his heavily-powdered wig it was difficult to tell.

    ¡°I am,¡± I said. ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure?¡±

    He proceeded to explain, in a ponderous style of address, his position as His Majesty, King George III¡¯s equerry. The precise words he used elude me, but that was the essence of it. Formalities related to royal protocol have never once interested me.

    ¡°You have heard that His Majesty is ill, yes?¡± he asked after the formalities.

    I motioned for him to keep his voice down so as to not upset my patients. I always struggled to ensure that they would not be burdened with antagonizing news of the outside world.

    ¡°I have heard this,¡± I muttered.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid to say that the circumstances are a good deal worse than any rumors or official bulletins would have led you to believe,¡± he said with a grim countenance. One of my patients waved at him and smiled giddily. He simply tipped his hat at her and proceeded to ignore her after that.

    A chill came over me, and not merely because of the incipient winter winds. If His Majesty¡¯s equerry was coming to me, it was obvious something had gone terribly wrong. I remember looking out over my lunatics, attempting to imagine which of them would be the most appropriate proxy for His Majesty. I had encountered such a vast array of maladies in my time that would prepare me, or so I thought, for His Majesty¡¯s ailment.

    ¡°I presume, sir, that because you have come here to my facility His Majesty labours under a distortion of the mind?¡± I inquired.

    Greville pursed his lips and simply stared at the ground for some seconds. I shall always remember the ashen look on his face at that moment.

    ¡°His Majesty¡¯s mind is troubled, yes, Doctor Willis. We have begun to suspect that there may be a fouler cause. Her Majesty, the Queen, had heard from one of her attendants, the Lady Pembrooke, that you are skilled in some more unconventional treatments from your time in the Church,¡± he probed mischievously. I must have made some startled expression as Greville became perplexed. ¡°That is correct, is it not?¡±

    It was true, for what it was worth, that I had experience in my time as a clergyman in vanquishing influences that most people presume to not exist. In the interests of snuffing out wild superstitions, we do not discuss such matters openly. I will not recount in detail all that I have done as it would be far too lengthy of a digression. It is sufficient to say that my works include the suppression of pagan rituals that have produced astonishing and queer phenomena, unnatural to our world and an affront to God. These instances have arisen only irregularly and only a precious few doctors and clergymen have trained in the relevant arts.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°That is not my primary area of practice as a doctor, nor was it as a clergyman,¡± I said, trying to dismiss his insinuation.

    ¡°But it was or even is an area of practice?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°I understand your reluctance,¡± Greville grumbled. ¡°His Majesty¡¯s survival and the survival of the whole realm depend upon your help. You must understand this.¡±

    He was right, of course, about my reluctance. As a proper servant of the Crown, I could not refuse forever His Majesty¡¯s equerry and ultimately succumbed to his pressures. I arranged for the nearest church in Lincolnshire to look after those lunatics at my asylum while I traveled south with my three boys to Windsor Castle.

    As all proper Englishmen would sympathize, I was awestruck the first time I visited Windsor Castle to tend to the King. In the winter it is particularly beautiful as it rises out of those dreary snow covered fields. I remember looking out my carriage window at the sprawling grey stone edifice and uttering my amazement aloud. It is a worthy structure to have housed the torments that resided inside.

    Meandering through the corridors to where I was to meet His Majesty was a confusing experience. I was left to wonder how many royal attendants had been dismissed in short order for failing to learn the labyrinthine halls. Windsor Castle struck me as a place filled with chronic despair and apprehensions, which was an entirely different air than I had assumed beforeentering.

    I finally was brought to a strange red room where the walls had been stripped bare. The several paintings one would have expected to see on the walls were removed. There was nothing. The windows were barred, too. I was left alone for a moment to examine my surroundings. Then, a man in exquisite garb opened the doors and announced an unexpected honored guest.

    ¡°Doctor Willis, the Prime Minister,¡± the herald declared.

    Into the room stepped Prime Minister William Pitt, often called Pitt the Younger to distinguish him from his father. He was a lean man, well-appointed, young, handsome, with burgundy clothes and a magnificent wig. Mr. Pitt had the expression of a very serious man, almost utterly humorless. I bowed slightly toward him to acknowledge his presence.

    ¡°Doctor Willis, I¡¯ve heard great things about your care for the sick,¡± Pitt said, his voice smooth and almost seductive. I reasoned that such an intonation was a skill he developed for his already accomplished political life.

    ¡°I am honored, Prime Minister,¡± I thanked him, bowing again. ¡°I understand I¡ª¡±

    ¡°His Majesty is deeply troubled, Doctor Willis,¡± Pitt interrupted me. ¡°I have been privy to his deterioration for the past three months and it¡¯s gotten worse and worse, despite the doctors.¡±

    ¡°I am sure they have done all they can,¡± I offered.

    ¡°That is precisely it, Doctor Willis. They have,¡± Pitt said, drawing close to me. ¡°Are you familiar with what befell my father?¡±

    It was of course an awkward query from the Prime Minister. Everyone who was remotely informed of the political happenings of our great country knew that William Pitt, or Pitt the Elder as some took to calling him once his son arose, had suffered from a serious malady. Through various circles, I had heard some of the broad strokes of the pertinent information.

    ¡°It has been relayed to me that your father, God watch over his soul, went mad,¡± I replied.

    Pitt stared blankly at me. It was a peculiar expression. I had rarely seen anything like it, but then again one rarely comes across Prime Ministers who are under the age of thirty.

    ¡°That is precisely the issue, Doctor Willis,¡± he said, mouth scarcely moving. ¡°That assumption isn¡¯t true.¡±

    I stepped back from him as his voice became more mysterious.

    ¡°It¡­ It is¡ª¡±

    ¡°I have never been able to prove it definitively, but I carry in my pocket a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury,¡± he declared, patting his right pocket. ¡°He believed that my father had been afflicted by a peculiar curse, a druidic ritual that robbed him of his senses. I must tell you that believing such a thing did not come easily to me.¡±

    ¡°Were all medical explanations ruled out?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Not one medical treatment had even the slightest positive effect,¡± Pitt said mournfully. ¡°As I am sure you remember, he left office eighteen years ago and at that time he was still mad. His malady abated very shortly thereafter and the doctors credited an attack of gout for bringing him to his senses.¡±

    ¡°Gout?¡±

    ¡°Yes, doctor. Gout.¡±

    ¡°Prime Minister, forgive me for saying so, but that is absurd,¡± I said angrily.

    ¡°Indeed, doctor,¡± Pitt said with a raised eyebrow. ¡°In truth, a small detachment of priests had detected that there was something far different at work, what they referred to as a ¡®flimsy hex¡¯ that had fallen upon my father. The Archbishop himself managed to excise it.¡±

    ¡°And you think His Majesty is suffering from¡ª¡±

    ¡°Precisely, but far worse,¡± Pitt confirmed what I was going to ask. ¡°The difficulty is that the three doctors we have consulted seem to have ruled this out. Except for Sir Lucas Pepys, I should say.¡±

    ¡°Sir Lucas is one of the realm¡¯s most respected physicians. I would take what he says quite seriously.¡±

    The Prime Minister formed the closest thing to a smile that I would ever see out of him.

    ¡°I can see I was right to send for you,¡± he said with a happy sigh. ¡°If His Majesty is to survive, and indeed the whole realm is to survive, we will need open minds.¡±

 His Majestyâ€™s Quacks

    After I finished consulting with Mr. Pitt, I next met with those three physicians to whom the entire realm had entrusted His Majesty¡¯s care. Mr. Pitt had previously mentioned Sir Lucas Pepys, a man of forty-six, short, lean, with craggy jowls and thin wire rim glasses. He had recently been named Treasurer of the Royal College of Physicians earlier in the year and I was impressed with his modest and approachable affect even if he was a trifle eccentric. I often wondered if his studies of the mind and its delinquencies were motivated out of his own afflictions.

    Richard Warren, the Prince of Wales¡¯ personal physician who had been assigned to the treatment of His Majesty, was quite a different creature. Tall and smug, he was always impeccably attired, eager to flaunt the great wealth he had acquired over of fifty-seven years. It would only be on precious rare occasions I would ever see the smirk that appeared permanently affixed on his face disappear.

    The final of the three was, of course, Sir George Baker, His Majesty¡¯s personal physician and one of the most esteemed figures in the Royal College of Physicians, serving as its president at that time. He was the eldest of the three and even that made him four years my junior. Age and his comfortable life in the Royal Court had fattened him considerably. His sight was poor by that point in his life and he relied on especially thick glasses that regularly fell down his nose as gravity tried to claim its prize.

    Doctor Warren was the first to greet me in that strange empty red room in Winsdor Castle.

    ¡°Doctor Willis, I see that you arrived safely,¡± he announced mirthlessly through his smirk. ¡°Would you be terribly offended if I had previously referred to you as the Mad Doctor from Lincolnshire?¡±

    I did not humour the man on his insult and turned my attention to Sir Lucas, who emerged from behind Warren¡¯s broad frame.

    ¡°I have heard so much of your work, Doctor Willis!¡± he chirped excitedly. ¡°I¡¯ve spent a lifetime dedicated to curing those afflicted by those same maladies. Noble and hard work, yes. I haven¡¯t seen your name in many submissions to the journals, though. Why is that?¡±

    I bowed politely to Sir Lucas.

    ¡°I have found myself far too burdened with practice to engage in much scholarship. My notes are copious, however, and I would be pleased to share them with such esteemed company,¡± I said.

    Warren¡¯s smirk grew and he turned his head toward Sir Lucas.

    ¡°It would be difficult for Doctor Willis to be published as he is not a member of the Royal College of Physicians,¡± he said, condescension overwhelming in his every word.

    Sir Lucas recoiled as though he had been shocked by a lightning bolt.

    ¡°Not¡­ Not a member?!¡± he gasped, but then composed himself. ¡°Most irregular, yes. But we are desperate. All ordinary forms of medical treatment have failed to produce any progress.¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t all agree on that point, Sir Lucas,¡± Warren dissented.

    At that moment, Sir George Baker entered. I recall that Sir George laboured under an illness that day and sneezed repeatedly.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    ¡°Ah, you must be Doctor Willis,¡± he said in a nasally voice. He then ignored me and turned toward the other two doctors. ¡°I just attended to His Majesty and I regret to say that the pulse has risen to one-hundred and ten!¡±

    I was shocked, but Warren shook his head.

    ¡°The pulse will vary without signifying. We have seen that before,¡± Warren scoffed.

    ¡°I beg your pardon, Doctor Warren, but that isn¡¯t true!¡± Baker shot back. ¡°The pulse is a most excellent measure of one¡¯s health! A high resting pulse like this indicates His Majesty¡¯s humours are out of alignment. Quite too sanguine, which explains some of the agitation. I have ordered another round of blistering.¡±

    ¡°As I recommended this morning,¡± Warren pompously added, visibly irritating Sir George.

    Sir Lucas, however, shook his head.

    ¡°We have been attempting these same remedies since October, yes? The King is no better and, if anything, seems to be getting worse,¡± Pepys insisted. ¡°The Prime Minister¡¯s suggestion made sense to me as an avenue we should explore.¡±

    ¡°Superstitious nonsense,¡± Warren spat with a malicious laugh. ¡°He¡¯s a politician, not a doctor.¡±

    ¡°As president of the Royal College of Physicians, there are certain odd matters that come to my attention from time to time. Queer things. I have never seen them myself, but¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sir George, then how do you know that they have happened, in fact?¡± Warren interjected.

    Baker glanced at Pepys and then at me.

    ¡°Because I trust these men, Doctor Warren!¡±

    I coughed politely to draw attention from the three. It had become quite clear to me that they were not doing anything productive.

    ¡°I am aware of the Prime Minister¡¯s suspicions and I appreciate his experience,¡± I said calmly. ¡°Proper medicine, however, involves eliminating the most likely causes and then going to the least likely. Eliminating possibilities leaves us with the ultimate reality. Sir George, might I ask some simple questions first?¡±

    Sir George nodded while Warren sighed.

    ¡°Does His Majesty have any infections at the moment?¡± I asked.

    ¡°None,¡± Sir George replied immediately.

    ¡°Has His Majesty¡¯s diet changed radically?¡±

    ¡°No. His Majesty eats less with his agitation, but it is a consistent and hearty diet.¡±

    ¡°Are there physical manifestations? Queer stools, discharges, and the like?¡±

    ¡°His water is blue,¡± Sir George said with a grimace. ¡°Other than that, no.¡±

    ¡°Blue?¡±

    ¡°Yes, inky and blue or violet depending on the light.¡±

    ¡°Worth noting,¡± I commented aloud. ¡°Stools?¡±

    At that moment, Sir Lucas inserted himself with great excitement.

    ¡°Exquisite, fetid, stinking stools!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°Volume, shape, and so on are very healthy. I have kept a thorough accounting of them, yes. You might want to examine them?¡±

    I should note that I had never found the presence of healthy stools to preclude the possibility of illness. It is certainly true that extraordinarily unhealthy stools, those thin, misshapen, bloody, or otherwise irregular can signal a great disturbance in a man¡¯s overall health, but as to the state of one¡¯s mind? That is far less clear.

    ¡°I may give that log a cursory examination,¡± I said politely, attempting to avoid offending Sir Lucas. ¡°Any signs of growths?¡±

    ¡°None. We lanced two boils that seemed to be bothering His Majesty,¡± Sir George commented, making a gesture of poking through a boil with a needle.

    ¡°Have you attempted restraints and behavioural modifications?¡± I inquired at last, knowing this would be a point of contention.

    ¡°This is His Majesty!¡± Sir George barked in outrage. ¡°You cannot treat the King of England like some Lincolnshire lunatic.¡±

    ¡°Disgraceful,¡± Warren added.

    Sir Lucas did not appear to take nearly the same level of offense.

    ¡°Unconventional corrections might be, well, useful?¡± Sir Lucas tried to offer to the others. ¡°It would help to rule some things out, yes?¡±

    ¡°Quite right, Sir Lucas,¡± I immediately added. ¡°Those undergoing distresses of the mind often forget how to behave. Bad habits. Broken routines. A loss of familiarity with accepted norms. Lapses in protocol. These are worrying things for a monarch.¡±

    Sir George and the other two doctors exchanged nervous expressions. Sir George¡¯s countenance grew pale.

    ¡°His Majesty should be coming through this room shortly on his usual walks,¡± Sir George said nervously. ¡°Perhaps you can make an assessment?¡±

    ¡°That I shall.¡±

 The Mad King

    ¡°Sharp, sharp! The King! The King!¡± His Majesty¡¯s attendants yelled as the doors on the far side opened.

    ¡°This is the King,¡± Sir George scolded me as I walked into the middle of the room.

    ¡°Whom I must cure,¡± I replied.

    ¡°Such arrogance,¡± Warren murmured behind me. I paid him no mind, though.

    Those halls in Windsor echo such that I heard His Majesty¡¯s voice well before I could see him. The way the words bounced on the stone it was indecipherable nonsense. It would even have been indecipherable nonsense to my ears had it not been such nonsense coming out of His Majesty¡¯s mouth. At last I could discern some words as the King came closer.

    ¡°And you, sir, King Louis! I¡¯ll have you torn apart and burned, in that order!¡± he exclaimed as he came close to the door, but I still couldn¡¯t yet see him. ¡°Those farms in France are all pits of sin, the vineyards of devils, and great mounds of waste straight as an arrow across the whole of Europe! Out of our kingdom, you frauds! Colonists, you know the French came to their aid, are all traitors! They¡¯ve learned that from those fish in the straits of¡­¡±

    He paused as he turned into the room. The doctors, myself included, bowed before His Majesty. His three attendants behind him all had addled countenances. Even their red dress uniforms were disheveled, a strange sight for such men. His Majesty, peculiarly enough, was clothed very well in a blue coat, red vest, immaculate white stockings, and black shoes. His face, though, looked little like the man I had seen on coins or in paintings. He had begun to grow a beard as they had not trusted him to shave with a razor, nor had any felt it wise to have a blade of any kind near him. He had also lost enough weight that one could easily see the bones of his face. His eyes sat in these deep wells, sinking further into his skull as he wasted away.

    With a haunting gaze, His Majesty approached me. His lips moved, but he did not speak. His eyes rattled about randomly as he came closer. His Majesty is a good deal taller than I, and so the King towered over me. I could smell distinct odors or urine and excrement wafting from His Majesty, a reliable sign of derangement. Strangely, I sensed that there was another presence in the room beyond those I knew were there. I made sure to make a note of that in my mind for further inquiry.

    His Majesty glanced over my shoulder toward Greville, who had lurked behind me since I had entered Windsor Castle.

    ¡°This gentleman is Francis Willis, a doctor from Lincolnshire who has made Your Majesty¡¯s maladies his special study,¡± Greville announced.

    ¡°Ha! A mad doctor! Madmen are everywhere doctor, but not here! Not in Windsor, no, sir!¡± His Majesty barked, his rancid spittle landing on my face. ¡°Sheep and pigs. That¡¯s all there is in Lincolnshire!¡±

    Up to that point, I had not seen anything truly unusual out of His Majesty. I had certainly seen far madder souls in my time as a physician. I decided to try to inject an air of good humour.

    ¡°I have a farm where my patients work. There are indeed sheep and pigs there, Your Majesty,¡± I said cheerily.

    ¡°TAMWORTHS?!¡± His Majesty screamed toward the ceiling. I had scarcely understood him.

    ¡°I beg Your Majesty¡¯s pardon.¡±

    ¡°And you shalln¡¯t get it!¡± he said, pushing me away. ¡°I asked you if you have Tamworths on your farm. You know what they call me? Farmer George! FARMER GEORGE! Not even God himself knows more about crops and swine than I!¡±

    ¡°Blasphemy does not do a mind well, Your Majesty,¡± I scolded, pointing my finger sternly at him.

    This elicited gasps from the others present.

    ¡°This is the King!¡± Greville admonished me, echoing Sir George from earlier.

    ¡°People get their heads chopped off for less!¡± the King shouted. ¡°Captain Greville, cut off his head! I¡¯ll speak with it later when it suits me!¡±

    The King then said a series of absurd ramblings that I dare not repeat on these pages. If what His Majesty said previously included arrogant blasphemy, I am at a loss for words to properly describe the specific obscenities he uttered about the Virgin Mary, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost. How he managed to combine the three in such a depraved way, I will never know.

    ¡°Mr. Greville, please bring my sons here,¡± I commanded, my patience running thin. They were just in the other room with a restraining chair we had brought for the purpose of curbing this aberrant behaviour.

    My three boys all entered and pushed aside the other doctors.

    ¡°Ha! Are you threatening me, your Lincolnshire bumsucker!¡± he screamed. ¡°Go back and fondle those pigs until they puke bishops from their mouths!¡±

    I sighed and turned back toward my sons. John, my eldest and strongest, looked eager to do his duty. Thomas and Robert both had their apprehensions, but I knew they would do what I asked. In this instance, I did not have to say anything. John led them and lifted the King, who resisted mightily.

    ¡°GET OFF ME YOU MANIACS!¡± he screamed. ¡°I¡¯LL HAVE YOUR EYES PUT OUT AND THROWN INTO THE CHANNEL!¡±

    He went on in that fashion for some time until John placed His Majesty in the restraining chair in the adjoining room and put the gag across His Majesty¡¯s mouth. His Majesty wrestled furiously in the restraints but it was all pointless for him. We had built the restraints to control far stronger men. In time, he gave in and ceased his resistance. The king¡¯s attendants, including Greville, as well as the three other doctors all simply stood aside in stunned silence.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°On what authority did you do that?¡± Sir George protested.

    ¡°Medical authority,¡± I answered plainly.

    ¡°And what good will this do?¡± Warren snidely added. ¡°You cannot keep His Majesty in that chair forever.¡±

    ¡°I need the opportunity to monitor His Majesty carefully, day and night,¡± I declared loud enough so that I knew His Majesty could hear me. ¡°My methods require a constant watch.¡±

    Sir Lucas dabbed sweat from his brow and tears from his eyes.

    ¡°I do hope you know what you are doing,¡± he said meekly.

    His Majesty¡¯s temper cooled throughout that afternoon and evening while we kept him in his restraints. He still babbled incoherently once we removed his gag, which I found was the predominant feature of his disturbance. I made note of a number of the more extraordinary items he uttered:

    ¡°I don¡¯t mind the cold because I make it by means of mental powers!¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ve killed the Queen and they¡¯ll kill me next, too!¡±

    ¡°Pitt, Fox, North, all of them actual pigs! Rolling around in their own waste! Parliament is but a mushroom.¡±

    As one can plainly see, His Majesty¡¯s interminable ramblings were deranged, though not completely incomprehensible. There were the truly odd utterances that made no sense whatsoever, but none of that was especially peculiar within the realm of treating a lunatic.

    I established my desk and papers just outside of the room in which we kept His Majesty and simply observed the King¡¯s incessant babble. One finds that lunatics tend to return to certain topics that are at the core of their troubles. The challenge for physicians is to sort out those common themes from the quagmire of nonsense. That requires patience and observation.

    The halls of Windsor were almost entirely black, save for the orange glow of the dozens of candles, including the set of three candles I kept on my desk. The castle felt utterly empty that night, even with His Majesty¡¯s words attempting to fill the void. Even as I tried to maintain an admirable accounting of the King¡¯s utterances, I found myself distracted, staring at the melting candle wax in front of me. I know not how much time passed until the next notable occurrence.

    At once, the candles¡¯ flames leapt upward, as though they had caught a puff of wind. There was, however, no gust of any kind. Initially, I thought my eyes might have deceived me, but they leapt upward again, looking like skeletal fingers.

    A strange shriek came from His Majesty, unlike anything I had heard before. He then made some unnatural rumbles. Warily, I rose from my desk and rounded the corner into the room. The King rocked back and forth in his chair, repeating the same words over and over again.

    ¡°Yn ddwfn yn y palas, yn farw ac yn aflonydd, yn farw ac yn crio, yn farw ac yn sgrechian, yn farw ac ar ei ben ei hun,¡± he sang in a haunting, resonant tone unlike anything I had ever heard before.

    When I rounded the restraining chair, his eyes shocked me. They were wider than seemed possible. His pupils had phased to an inky blue. His mouth stayed open wide, almost as though it were but a tunnel for the voice that came through it. His eyes locked on me and he continued his singing, his voice getting louder.

    ¡°YN DDWFN YN Y PALAS, YN FARW AC YN AFLONYDD, YN FARW AC YN CRIO, YN FARW AC YN SGRECHIAN, YN FARW AC AR EI BEN EI HUN!¡±

    The king¡¯s shouts were so loud that they rattled the windows. At that moment, Greville ran into the room with Sir Lucas and Doctor Warren, all of them in their nightgowns.

    ¡°What¡¯s the meaning of this?! What¡¯ve you done to the King?!¡± Greville screeched.

    ¡°I have not done a single thing. This began while I was keeping my watch,¡± I protested, albeit calmly. I wanted to avoid disturbing His Majesty while he continued his strange song.

    Doctor Warren, who had entered without his wig, revealing his smooth-shaven head, walked forward carefully toward the King. Warren cupped his hand over his ear as if it were somehow necessary to grasp the deafening song.

    ¡°I dare say that this is nothing terribly different than we have seen previously,¡± Warren said with an unconvincing smirk. ¡°The King is merely speaking nonsense.¡±

    ¡°That isn¡¯t nonsense!¡± Sir Lucas protested. ¡°It¡¯s Welsh.¡±

    Warren rolled his eyes.

    ¡°As I said, nonsense.¡±

    ¡°You said that it¡¯s Welsh, Sir Lucas?¡± I queried, though the King¡¯s overpowering voice, if it was indeed his own voice, made difficult my efforts to even hear myself think.

    ¡°I¡¯m certain of it!¡± Sir Lucas insisted.

    ¡°There¡¯s something odd about that,¡± Greville mumbled. ¡°I¡¯ll summon the Queen.¡±

    I do not recall what further conversation past between those who remained in the room with His Majesty. When the Queen arrived, we all bowed out of respect. Queen Charlotte had a very plain appearance even when she would travel the country in public. In private it was even more so. Marring her appearance even further, she cried when she saw the peculiar state in which her husband.

    ¡°Vat have you savages done to him!¡± she bellowed in her strong German accent.

    ¡°This has been going on for some time under its own powers,¡± I stated politely, even though her accusation had irritated me. ¡°I have not touched the King nor administered any treatments. Whatever has befallen His Majesty, it isn¡¯t our doing.¡±

    Queen Charlotte dropped to her knees before the restraining chair and began praying aloud for the King¡¯s recovery. She then recoiled from him when she spent time to listen to what he was speaking.

    ¡°Vat is this? Vat is he saying?¡± she asked.

    ¡°He is speaking Welsh,¡± Sir Lucas answered.

    ¡°Velsh?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Yes, Welsh,¡± I answered.

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t know Velsh!¡± she exclaimed.

    I gave the others a curious glance and then pointed toward His Majesty, who continued to sing his Welsh phrases, albeit in a more hushed voice by that point.

    ¡°And yet he is speaking it,¡± I countered.

    ¡°Yes, but I tell you as his vife that he doesn¡¯t know it! Twenty-seven years I¡¯ve been at his side,¡± she angrily growled at me. ¡°Never any Velsh. He asked for a translator vhen he vould see it. He doesn¡¯t know a vord!¡±

    That answered for me a question I had about what we saw that night. It had not sounded like the King¡¯s voice and it made less sense that he should be speaking Welsh. With the queer flickering of candles and other astonishing varied phenomena that night, my prior experience in dealing with extraordinary cases suggested it was obvious that a more mysterious force at work.

    ¡°Sir Lucas. You said that you know it is Welsh,¡± I said, alternating my attention between His Majesty and Sir Lucas. ¡°Do you know what His Majesty is singing?¡±

    All eyes then turned toward Sir Lucas, who shook and scratched repeatedly at his brow, his lips quivering.

    ¡°It¡¯s probably not exact,¡± he laughed anxiously. Seeing us all gazing at him convinced him that he should at least try to translate it. "Deep in the palace, dead and restless, dead and crying, dead and screaming, dead and alone."

    I felt ill when Sir Lucas said it. I turned my attention toward His Majesty, who now had become serene, his face returning to normal and his singing stopped. There was a quiet lull.

    ¡°Octavius!¡± he shouted, shattering the silence. ¡°Dear little boy! OCTAVIUS!¡±

 Kew

    His Majesty¡¯s lamentations continued for some hours until we decided that he should be gagged again to grant a spell of sleep to those of us who had given up their rest that evening. When we gathered in the morning, I insisted that Her Majesty, the Queen, be present as it was clear to me that she knew far more useful information than any of those attending to the King.

    Warren disagreed with me on this point, saying after breakfast that day.

    ¡°Her Majesty is far too close to this to be objective. She wants to believe that the King is merely suffering from a little episode of some malady or another. That it may be a terrible and permanent illness isn¡¯t within her ability to accept,¡± he said with an icy chill.

    Had I not seen His Majesty¡¯s altered state, I might have accepted his logic. Had I not seen the candlelight twist and warp into those eerie skeletal fingers, I might have concurred and been silent. Had I not felt that night what I had so often felt in cases where an ethereal and otherworldly foe presented itself, I might have thought his protests had some merit. As it was, I was merely astonished and disappointed in Warren¡¯s closed mind.

    ¡°What do you believe it was you saw last night, Doctor Warren?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Nothing that can¡¯t be explained by reason. It¡¯s only a function of things that we don¡¯t know that fuel your superstition,¡± Warren spat back at me.

    ¡°Superstition,¡± I sighed. ¡°I am an Oxford man and I dare say that I have learned our language as well as one can. Superstition means to me that I have a baseless belief in something beyond the natural world. That I have a broad view of what is part of our natural world, isn¡¯t superstition. It¡¯s experience.¡±

    Warren shook his head repeatedly and scoffed at me.

    Our joint discussion with the Queen was far more productive. She explained at some length what had befallen Octavius, their young boy who passed away from the pox at the age of four. I recalled the event at the time in the year 1783, falling the same year as the defeat at the hands of the American colonists and their French and Spanish allies. Truly it was a dark time for the King and the kingdom. He had fallen ill at Kew Palace just to the southwest of London and died there.

    It was a terrible story and one that, in conjunction with Her Majesty¡¯s grief over the King¡¯s descent into lunacy, must have been far too terrible for her to bear. I worried that we would inadvertently create another lunatic by extracting such painful memories. I decided to declare our course of action before any further damage could be done to the Queen¡¯s state of mind.

    ¡°It would be for the best if we took the King to Kew to try to root out this disturbance,¡± I declared. ¡°I believe, based on my past experience, that there may be a spirit haunting him from a site of great tragedy. It would not be without precedent.¡±

    Sir Lucas nodded while Sir George gave me an uneasy look. Doctor Warren, predictably, scoffed at the suggestion. Her Majesty, however, quickly interceded before any disagreement could occur.

    ¡°Yes, yes. Please! If that vill bring this to an end, please go!¡± she cried. ¡°Go today if you must!¡±

    Greville stepped forward from the opposite wall in the dining room and bowed at the Queen.

    ¡°Is that an order, Your Majesty?¡± he inquired.

    ¡°Yes! Yes, it¡¯s an order!¡±

    ¡°Her Majesty is responsible for decisions pertaining to His Majesty¡¯s care while His Majesty is indisposed,¡± Greville announced. ¡°I therefore will arrange for transport to Kew palace straight away.¡±

    A terrible scene unfolded in the courtyard at Windsor in the midst of a fairly dreadful snow where His Majesty, upon learning that our destination was to be Kew, kicked and struggled violently. My sons fitted the King in a leather restraining jacket, which was heavily laden with buckles and locks to keep the King¡¯s arms in place.

    ¡°KEW?!¡± he screamed. ¡°No! Not Kew!¡±

    ¡°Your Majesty, your doctors thought it best to¡ª¡± Greville tried to explain.

    ¡°You¡¯re taking me away! Away to have my limbs ripped off by horses and my genitals thrown to pigs!¡± the King wailed. ¡°And poor Octavius! Octavius! Octavius!¡±

    I tried to never indulge His Majesty in his lamentations as reinforcing a patient¡¯s calls for help only encourages more such behaviour. In that case, however, I made an exception.

    ¡°Your Majesty,¡± I spoke softly, ¡°this is for your own peace of mind.¡±

    He looked at me with tears welling in his eyes, which were red and irritated with crusty discharges that had not been cleared away from his lids or eyelashes.

    ¡°They¡¯ll do it to me again. They¡¯ll do it to me again,¡± he whimpered as he sank to his knees in the snow. He then curled up upon the ground and rocked back and forth, snow covering his face and hair. ¡°Kew is where¡­ is where¡­¡±

    ¡°I know, Your Majesty. That is why we must go. I can only promise you that once this is over, you shall know peace,¡± I attempted to assure him. ¡°There will be more pain before it is all over.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    My sons lifted His Majesty into the carriage where I am told he simply rested, sobbing in his sleep, on the journey to Kew.

    Never before had I any reason to know anything about Kew Palace. I confess that I had only once or twice thought of it before attending to the King. It was a lovely enough estate with a great white stone house as its crown jewel. Its rooms were spacious and tastefully decorated in pastel colours with ample windows to create a brighter setting than the somewhat dreary halls of Windsor Castle. For that reason alone Kew would have been an improvement in any case.

    When we arrived, we established His Majesty, seated in his restraining chair, in the dusty great hall and decided to create an air of normality by feeding him a lunch of heavily salted soup and plain bread without butter. I have found, for whatever reason, butter to be an irritant for already strained tempers. It does not do a mind well to indulge in pleasing flavours.

    Initially, I had to feed the King his soup, putting the pewter spoon right up to his mouth and waiting for him to, under protest, consume it. On the first sip, he spat it into my face. The hot broth scalded my skin and dripped into my eyes, but I did not relent. It was important to establish that he could not act in whatever way he pleased. He still spat upon me the second time I tried to feed him. By the third, however, he relented and consumed his soup.

    Once I was done, Doctor Warren, who had been waiting impatiently in the hall observing this spectacle of regal delinquency, accosted me.

    ¡°And just what was the point of all of that?¡± he asked. ¡°I thought you were trying to root out strange spirits from beyond, not feed His Majesty soup.¡±

    ¡°For the inexperienced,¡± I began with deliberate condescension that fueled Warren¡¯s ire, ¡°one might not recognize the need to calm the patient¡¯s mind so that they can properly combat these malign influences. Those primal and malicious elements that haunt our world seek out those of weak minds to corrupt and enlist in their efforts¡±

    ¡°And the King is one of those weak minds?¡± Warren queried, laughing.

    I glanced back toward the King in his restraints and nodded.

    ¡°It would be a lot easier to just write off the King as a lunatic, elevate the Prince of Wales as regent, and be done with this whole bloody mess,¡± Warren scoffed.

    ¡°And it would be wrong. The King can be cured!¡± I insisted.

    Sir Lucas traipsed past us as we argued. He turned to give a stiff nod.

    ¡°I quite agree, Doctor Willis! I quite agree!¡± Sir Lucas chirped.

    Sir George followed behind, waddling and relying on his cane to a great extent. His undulating girth made balancing a precise feat of dexterity and one he managed well.

    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he nodded as he pushed on. ¡°Dinner will be at just past seven.¡±

    I could not help but find Sir George¡¯s fixation on sustenance amusing given his build, but any moment of levity was welcome at that time.

    We had brought a squad of guards with us to Kew so that it was not only the doctors and attendants. Nonetheless, the palace felt as empty as my fields in Lincolnshire. After dinner, I again observed His Majesty throughout the evening. I observed that nighttime made his malady worse as he tried to fight off sleep. At first I assumed that this was, like so many lunatics, because he feared his own dreams. There is nothing like the horrors that a deranged mind will unleash in its dream life. I have had lunatics attempt to kill themselves upon waking for that very reason.

    It became clear to me that other occurrences were afoot. I walked about the perimeter of the palace¡¯s interior that night alone to collect my thoughts on how to proceed. I knew not what precisely I was looking for at Kew. Sir George even questioned me as to why we were at Kew as a general proposition.

    ¡°But His Royal Highness¡¯ remains are at Westminster Abbey!¡± Sir George had insisted to me earlier in the evening. ¡°Surely logic would dictate that his spirit would be restless there.¡±

    ¡°Sir George, one learns as a clergyman that the body is a vessel for the soul only so long as the body lives,¡± I reminded him. ¡°Once mortality takes our body, the soul is free.¡±

    ¡°Free to go to Heaven,¡± Baker repeated with the comfort that only ignorance can grant a man.

    ¡°Not always,¡± I riposted.

    I had learned that, due to Octavius¡¯ age, there had not been the traditional period of mourning granted to those who would pass over the age of fourteen. As such, beyond a ceremonial burial at Westminster Abbey, the unfortunate Octavius was given a treatment not dissimilar from a stillbirth. I considered those circumstances again and again as I traversed the halls of Kew.

    Then, a hand fell upon my shoulder. I startled.

    ¡°Father,¡± my son John said, leading the other two behind him. ¡°I think the King is asleep now.¡±

    Recovering my breath, I nodded and motioned that they could walk with me.

    ¡°He¡¯s still babbling in his sleep, though,¡± Thomas chuckled.

    ¡°Is he saying anything intelligible?¡± I asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s not Welsh again, if that¡¯s what you mean,¡± Thomas laughed again.

    ¡°Like you would even know if it were,¡± Robert sighed.

    ¡°I know it¡¯s English!¡± Thomas protested.

    ¡°As if one could call your attempts to utilize our idiom ¡®English¡¯,¡± Robert grumbled contemptuously, as he was wont to do.

    ¡°Boys, I beg of you, not now,¡± I groaned. ¡°Try to be more respectful of one another when we are even barely in His Majesty¡¯s presence. Restoring some sense of propriety to the King¡¯s surroundings is good for him.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª¡± Thomas whined and I immediately cut him off.

    ¡°Not another word!¡± I scolded them.

    When we walked past a hearth in a secondary reception room, I heard what sound like a piercing wind coming down through the hearth. I stopped to listen to it as I was curious how it was that such a sound could be coming down into that room on such an otherwise still night.

    ¡°Father, what is it?¡± John asked.

    ¡°Quiet. Do you hear that?¡± I asked.

    It was an indistinct howl at first, no different than wind blowing through a hole in a fence. Then it sounded more like a wailing. A woman¡¯s wailing in fact.

    ¡°Heeeeennnnnnnooooooo,¡± the wailing high-pitched voice called out. ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    I heard Robert gasp behind me. The other two boys and I all turned toward Robert, whose face drooped and shook. Even in the scarcely visible light availed to us at that moment, I could see the tortured contours of his face.¡±

    ¡°Tonight is your night,¡± he muttered mournfully. ¡°Tonight is your night.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± John scoffed. ¡°Who is even saying that?¡±

    Robert looked toward the windows where a milky white figure glared at us before gliding past. My heart leapt against my chest. A total silence fell over Kew Palace at that moment. Not one of us breathed.

    Nothing.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡± the sepulchral voice lashed at my ears. I jumped where I stood.

    Robert whimpered, tears running down his face.

    ¡°Banshee,¡± he muttered, his teeth chattering. ¡°Banshee.¡±

 Keening

    All four of us rushed toward His Majesty¡¯s room where we had thought we would find him awake and singing as he had at Windsor. Instead, we found the King face down on the ground, arms bent in a strange contortion, but he appeared to be asleep. How he had escaped his restraints was a mystery I could not immediately resolve, nor was it one I cared about with a banshee haunting the palace.

    ¡°John, Robert, get him back into his chair,¡± I commanded. ¡°Thomas, get the guards.¡±

    All three of them did as I asked. While I waited for the guards to arrive, I tried to determine who the banshee had come for. I feared it was me as I had seemed to be the only one who had heard the loudest incantation of its warning. Of course, in his fragile state, it could have been His Majesty. That death would visit him was not unthinkable.

    The guards arrived quickly, a squad of ten. Their polished black boots clacked against the stone floor, waking the King after he was seated in his restraining chair. They formed a perimeter around the room, holding their muskets at attention. Greville stumbled into the room, donning his evening wear.

    ¡°What is the meaning of this?!¡± Greville barked. ¡°Is there an intruder?¡±

    ¡°Banshee,¡± Robert muttered.

    ¡°A what?¡± Greville replied.

    ¡°A harbinger of death,¡± Robert eerily intoned.

    Doctor Warren appeared from the opposite doorway, gently applying his wig. The dim candlelight produced a most unfortunate visage on his puffy, craggy face.

    ¡°What nonsense is this now?¡± he yawned. ¡°I heard all of this clattering about from the second floor. This had better be¡ª¡±

    ¡°Please be quiet, Doctor Warren,¡± I groaned.

    He stood near me as we all glanced around at the windows and the hearth in the room. Just when I was about to take a breath, the candle flames leapt upward, forming long skeletal fingers as they had in Windsor. Two of the guards gasped and recoiled while the others grasped their weapons.

    ¡°Stand closer, all of you,¡± I ordered in a loud whisper.

    Warren and my sons did so, forming a circle around the King. A quiet moment passed again, with only the sounds of our breathing being evident.

    ¡°YN DDWFN YN Y PALAS, YN FARW AC YN AFLONYDD, YN FARW AC YN CRIO, YN FARW AC YN SGRECHIAN, YN FARW AC AR EI BEN EI HUN!¡± His Majesty screamed.

    All of us leapt off our feet. We turned and saw the King writhing again in his restraints, his jaw unhinged and his eyes flickering about randomly. The song became deafening. I soon could not hear anything other than the twisted melody His Majesty sang. As the incessant and swelling music filled the room, the candles all dimmed until none of us could see one another beyond the faintest of outlines.

    Down from the floor emerged a translucent blue ethereal child, glowing like moonlight. An abyssal giggle came from this ghostly visitor as he began to prance around the floor. At that moment, the banshee¡¯s warning again slithered down the chimney, melding with His Majesty¡¯s mournful song. My boys were not as experienced as I in confronting such phenomena and Doctor Warren certainly had never encountered such an event.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°All of you, all of us, join hands. Prayer is our only answer now,¡± I said. There was hesitation, but then the boy¡¯s ghost began crying in such powerful sobs that the windows rattled. ¡°Now!¡±

    Warren grasped my hand as did John. The other two formed up a chain with Warren. At that same moment, one of the guards looked down at the ghostly boy in curiosity.

    ¡°All of you, join us in prayer now!¡± I tried commanding, but the King¡¯s singing and the banshee¡¯s wailing overwhelmed my attempt.

    ¡°Our Father, which art in Heaven,¡± I began and the others soon repeated after me.

    The child¡¯s lamentations descended into a pitch I had never heard from man or beast before. The soldier who had been attempting to examine the boy¡¯s spirit suddenly screamed and burst into tears. He laughed manically and then cried despondently. The boy¡¯s spirit threw up his hands in rapturous joy as he bounded over to another soldier. The first soldier who had fallen victim to the child¡¯s machinations unattached his bayonet. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, he thrust it through his own head. The blade broke out through the back of his skull with a sickening crack.

    ¡°Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven.¡±

    I tried closing my eyes. Pernicious curiosity had me at a disadvantage and I felt compelled to observe that wretched spectacle, especially as the boy¡¯s cries swelled to fill the whole room and even the whole palace. They reverberated as though they came from the bottom of a deep well. Outside the windows I again saw the milky white banshee gliding past the palace. I never saw her look at me or anyone else. Indeed, her head was turned skywards along with her spindly skeletal arms and twisted hands.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn,¡± a voice again come down through the hearth.

    ¡°Give us this day our daily bread,¡± we continued our prayer, even amidst the chaos.

    A third soldier began screaming as the boy¡¯s ghost pranced around him, disjointedly wailing in lamentations of otherworldly anguish even as he outwardly appeared to be joyous. The second and third soldiers embraced in their misery. Then they separated, nodded at one another and pointed their muskets toward their counterpart¡¯s chest. On a swift count to three, they each pulled the trigger. Deafening blasts, flame, and smoke. The two men fell dead.

    I felt Warren¡¯s hand go cold and shake. He almost broke concentration on the Lord¡¯s Prayer, but I admonished him to continue by harshly tugging at his hand. It was vital that we all continue, no matter the distraction. My boys knew well that it was the only chance we had against that primal evil of the banshee and her malevolent magic. Warren appeared clever enough to understand that much without having to be told.

    Four of the soldiers joined hands in our circle and continued with the Lord¡¯s Prayer. The other three took to trying to shoot or impale the boy¡¯s spirit. Two bullets passed through harmlessly and the bayonets had no more success. I know not what the men thought they were trying to achieve.

    ¡°Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.¡±

    The boy¡¯s ghost floated up to one of the men¡¯s faces. A horrible cry sounded out from the boy as his mouth drooped open unnaturally wide. Screeches and howls not of this earth came forth. The soldier thrust fingers into his ears deeply, so far that he drove them past his eardrums. He then ripped off his own ears and scratched at his face in agony. The remaining two guards, screaming in terror, ran out the doors to the outside, leaving their muskets behind.

    ¡°And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,¡± we concluded.

    The instant the prayer was completed, the boy¡¯s ghost vanished, the banshee¡¯s deathly warning ceased, and the King was at rest again. Warren looked at me with the most astonished countenance I have ever seen on an adult man.

    ¡°H¡­ How did¡ª¡± he stammered.

    ¡°Our forefathers purged most of these lands before, all with the power of God,¡± I wearily interjected. ¡°Any clergyman knows that, Doctor Warren.¡±

    When I looked out the window, I noticed a strange lingering red blur, not so much a mist as it appeared like a translucent garment. By the time I adjusted my glasses, it had passed.

 Riddles

    Simply surviving that night¡¯s cascade of horrors was only useful insofar as it allowed us to continue our work. We had accomplished nothing besides losing three men killed, two who had run off and had not return, and one soldier severely disfigured by his own madness. Preparing an official explanation of the incident was difficult, but thankfully was also not my responsibility as His Majesty¡¯s physician. Evidently, the official explanation provided by the sergeant among the men was that there was a party of bandits that had attempted to break into Kew Palace and that they had been heavily-armed insurrectionists, seeking the overthrow of the monarchy.

    It was nothing short of staggering to me that Sir Lucas and Sir George had managed to sleep through the entire incident in their quarters in one of the adjoining buildings. When I discussed with them that following morning, they were entirely astonished at all they had heard. Sir Lucas had not difficulty believing me, but Sir George was incredulous. I want to thank Doctor Warren for not withholding his own experience. It proved useful in convincing Sir George of the veracity of our account.

    Knowing that we had not yet put to rest the spirit of Octavius was my central concern. I believed that the banshee was in some way responsible for him never finding that rest, but I had a difficult time ascertaining precisely how. Banshees are heralds of doom far more often than they are the causes of it, or so I had been led to believe by all of the knowledge available to the clergy who attended to such matters.

    Whatever the precise relationship, I knew that vanquishing the banshee would be of the utmost importance and I set about learning what its probable relationship was to Octavius. We summoned Her Majesty to the grounds of Kew, but kept her away from the King so that he might avoid having his spirits agitated by the topic at hand.

    ¡°Your Majesty, I want to discuss with you the circumstances under which Octavius perished here,¡± I said gently.

    She whimpered at the suggestion but agreed to hear me out.

    ¡°Were there any peculiar sightings or noises the night he died?¡± I continued.

    ¡°Peculiar? Vat are you speaking of?¡±

    ¡°I do not wish to lead Your Majesty to give an answer,¡± I insisted. ¡°Tell me to the best of your recollection.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± she said. ¡°There was this horrible vailing wind. So unusual. It vas May. The veather had been so nice. It sounded like, like someone screaming or a volf howling. Something like that.¡±

    ¡°And did anyone report to you any sightings of anything, something that they felt ashamed to bring to your attention?¡±

    ¡°Ein maid, excuse me, one maid said she thought she saw a ghost. I remember that. I assumed that she vas simply trying to help me believe that Octavius was on his vay to Heaven.¡±

    I smiled at that innocent thought. Sadly, it is the case that pagan and primal forces in our world can lure Heaven-bound sounds back to the earth and keep them there as their servants. When I thought of it, while the banshee in question was likely not able to cause great harm by itself, it was possible that it had control over Octavius¡¯ soul, particularly after Octavius might have felt aggrieved for the lack of mourning provided for him. Those who go unremembered or are badly remembered are at particular risk.

    Once Her Majesty left, I met with the doctors and my sons in the palace while His Majesty had a blessedly long nap. Robert, via his copious acquired knowledge regarding Celtic pagan history and mythology, had surmised a strategy for luring out and destroying the banshee. It was elegant in its construction.

    I cannot recall the precise way in which he described it as Robert¡¯s insufferable arrogance makes for painful listening, but the essence is stated easily enough. He believed that the King¡¯s random babble would periodically contain information that could be used to hypothesize a location for those who were doing this to him. He had, in his own time attending to His Majesty, heard descriptions of trees and other landmarks that might prove useful. He insisted that we needed to prod the King into a particularly agitated state to draw out such information.

    ¡°Ah!¡± Sir Lucas interrupted. ¡°The King is very cross with us when we use cupping and blistering. Very cross, indeed.¡±

    ¡°Put hot cups on my skin and I¡¯d be cross, too,¡± Thomas chuckled. The three doctors looked at him with great scorn. Thomas shrugged his shoulders and sighed. ¡°I just think that we haven¡¯t thought enough about how none of that works.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s been practiced for centuries!¡± Sir George protested. ¡°Any radical modern notions have to answer for many years of successful practice!¡±

    ¡°Hear hear!¡± Warren bellowed.

    ¡°Indeed!¡± Sir Lucas added, adjusting his thick glasses.

    ¡°It obviously hasn¡¯t been that successful,¡± Thomas mumbled.

    ¡°What was that?!¡± Sir George spat back.

    ¡°Irrelevancy,¡± I said to maintain our focus. ¡°All of you, do whatsoever you are able to ensure the King enters a loquacious state. Then write down everything, and I do mean everything, he says.¡±

    ¡°Even the nonsense?¡± John asked.

    ¡°Especially the nonsense,¡± I retorted.

    ¡°And you, Willis. What will you be doing?¡± Warren asked.

    I pointed my walking cane toward the northeast, right at London.

    ¡°A swift ride to London and back,¡± I said. ¡°There is something very useful there that we must have. Mr. Greville, will you accompany me?¡±

    Greville, who had been waiting just outside our conference, terribly distracted, joined in to agree that he would travel with me to and from London. I surmised that he was still staggered from the events of the prior evening and was trying to brace himself for the next calamity.

    For the moment, however, there was a lull, as is typical for banshees. They particularly struggled to maintain their constant array of terrors and we decided it was possible to complete such a ride in a short amount of time before night would fall upon us.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    What I looked for in London was in Westminster Abbey. After being led deep into the crypts below the abbey, we encountered a strange old woman, dressed in all white, and who looked as though she might have been a witch or some manner of supernatural entity herself. She prevented us from proceeding any further, even hissing at our colleague who had taken us that far.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± she asked, the light and dim candlelight in the area accentuating rather unpleasant features of her face.

    ¡°Captain Greville, His Majesty¡¯s equerry,¡± Greville said, puffing himself up to make a larger impact.

    ¡°And your friend?¡± she asked

    ¡°Doctor Francis Willis. I am presently employed to provide care to His Majesty,¡± I explained with a slight smile.

    ¡°If you¡¯re coming down this far, you¡¯re very desperate indeed, oh¡­.¡± The old woman groaned. ¡°What¡¯re you hoping to find down here?¡±

    I hoped that she would not be the sort to ask a simple question but demand that the answer conform to a puzzle or riddle. I had encountered such types of guardian in my prior works. They were a queer and intriguing lot who belonged to an order within the Church specializing precisely in those efforts to purge the realm of the chaotic pagan influences that had once so dominated our kingdom.

    ¡°A banishing implement for haunting spirits. I believe that there is an ancient cudgel used by Saint Augustine of Canterbury,¡± I said.

    ¡°Oh, you need this for banshees, do you? Heh heh heh,¡± the old woman laughed. ¡°Tell me, how do you fight that at which you cannot look?¡±

    She was making reference to the fact that banshees were known to disappear into a puff of mist if looked upon, even though this particular one lurking about Kew Palace had not done so when we observed it. To apply rational rules to such creatures, however, is a fool¡¯s errand. They exist outside the reason we in our era of Enlightenment like to believe so dominates that world.

    ¡°Every song has a singer. All words flow from a mouth. One needn¡¯t have their eyes open to find their way,¡± I replied after thinking for some moments. Riddles never were a strong suit of mine. The old woman seemed pleased enough.

    ¡°Good. Then this,¡± she said, extracting from her sleeves the cudgel that I had sought out, ¡°shall be yours. ¡°Bring it back to us once you have done your duty.¡±

    It was an impossibly old weapon, at least 1,180 years to be as exact as one could. The cudgel was hewn from a single piece of dark wood, inlaid with dark iron spikes and crude images of the crucifix. It had, miraculously, not fallen apart after all of this time. I wish it had been given a proper name like the great swords of legend, but alas it was a humble cudgel wielded by a lowly servant of the Almighty who sought for it no stories. Saint Augustine of Canterbury was everything that read of him in our histories and his cudgel proved that much.

    We returned to Kew Palace just after nightfall to find the doctors applying a regimen of heated glass cups to His Majesty¡¯s skin. As one would expect, the searing pain from having his skin blistered put the King in a most hideous temper. He shouted obscenities pertaining to desecration of the Virgin Mary that I dare not put to paper for fear that no amount of penance would render me clean before God¡¯s eyes.

    I noted, happily, that my son Robert was furiously taking down every word the King said. Given the King¡¯s rapid pace of speech, this was a difficult task. I would estimate that the King spoke some two hundred words a minute, if not more. Robert, whatever his other shortcomings as a man, had a hand to match.

    While the King remained laid out upon a sturdy red lacquered table, John and Thomas both held His Majesty down while Sir George and Sir Lucas observed the application of cups by Doctor Warren. Greville complained to me more than once that this entire enterprise was demeaning to His Majesty. I finally rejected all of his complaints utterly by saying, ¡°Nothing will be more demeaning to His Majesty than if he lives out the rest of his life in lunacy.¡±

    At one point that evening, Robert threw up his hands, drawing all of our attention.

    ¡°I think there¡¯s something here!¡± he exclaimed.

    ¡°Oh? Something useful as opposed to just, well, something?¡± Thomas joked, still holding down His Majesty¡¯s right arm.

    Robert shot him the most frightful look and then returned to his pages.

    ¡°The King kept mentioning the King of Prussia and him being nearby. At first, I thought that was nonsense,¡± he said. ¡°Then he kept talking about these trees. Something about six trees. Then he mentioned being underwater in a pond.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that sounds like quite a lot of nonsense again,¡± Sir George sighed.

    ¡°No damn it!¡± Robert shouted. ¡°If any of you will recall, there is a botanical garden here on the Kew Palace grounds, or rather near them. Prussia gifted to the royal family some trees for that garden. I recall hearing that somewhere. Therefore, I believe that it is almost certainly the case that His Majesty continues making reference to those trees and they are around a pond in the garden.¡±

    ¡°And then the banshee is there,¡± I said, albeit with reserved confidence.

    ¡°The Welsh equivalent of a banshee, yes. I have no idea as to why it is this far east or why it is here at all, but that is my hypothesis,¡± Robert insisted.

    It would not arise again in this conversation, but for the sake of accuracy I should note that the Welsh version of a banshee is a cyhyraeth. There are somewhat different characteristics and I have never been clear as to why those differences exist, but they do. Should any person find my records on this subject useful on the whole, perhaps that aside will be of specific value.

    My son John made a spitting gesture in disgust.

    ¡°If we know where this beast is, why don¡¯t we just go out there and kill it now?¡± he asked.

    Sir Lucas mumbled and raised a finger to interject, but was drowned out for a moment by the King¡¯s almost indecipherable screaming.

    ¡°Stop the blistering,¡± Sir George ordered. ¡°It¡¯s obviously been enough.¡±

    Warren almost appeared sad that he would not be able to continue his exercise. He put down the heated cups he was about to apply to the King¡¯s skin and instead sat down in an irritated posture.

    ¡°As I was about to say,¡± Sir Lucas began again, ¡°I believe there is a problem with simply trying to hunt a banshee down, yes? They only appear when someone is about to die. Isn¡¯t that correct?¡±

    This was a point I had worried about as Robert had started explaining his theory. It was more complex because of the effects of Octavius¡¯ ghost and whether that was truly under the banshee¡¯s control or not. I had surmised that it was, but there was no firm way of knowing that.

    Sir George clicked his cane on the ground and commanded the room¡¯s attention as we all pondered Sir Lucas¡¯ query.

    ¡°This seems a simple enough matter. We find some poor souls who are about to die in one of the nearby hospitals and bring them here,¡± he said without a single trace of remorse in his voice. He must have sensed how horrified I was by the thought as he offered an alternative. ¡°Or, we find prisoners who are being held on capital crimes and execute them near where this creature is believed to be.¡±

    ¡°God help us, Sir George. I think that your first suggestion was better than the second,¡± I gasped.

    ¡°It is either that or you wait for that boy¡¯s ghost to drive men to kill themselves again!¡± Warren immediately rejoined.

    Simply waiting for that to occur had been a thought on my mind, as it had happened. Once a banshee started their wailing, it was believed that their intended target could not survive, regardless of the interjections of others. What we had observed raised another complication. If this foul abomination could indeed control the Prince Octavius¡¯ spirit, we had an entirely different dilemma upon our hands. A banshee that could select its own quarry and bring about deaths on its own was a frightening thought.

    ¡°I suggest we move quickly on your suggestion, Sir George,¡± I said, conceding the point after a few seconds of additional thought. ¡°Either it is successful and we can bring a swift end to this menace or it is a failure, in which case we will at least know what won¡¯t work.¡±

    We sent our summons that night to a hospital some six miles away for their most deathly ill patients to be transported to Kew by order of His Majesty¡¯s physician, Sir George. It was a decision we all found distasteful, but grimly necessary.

 The Hunt

    Blessedly, that night passed without incident. Out of fear of another volatile evening, we all slept in the same room with His Majesty, who had a tranquil night. We found that worthy of note on its own. Why the strength of the evils tormenting him ebbed and flowed in such unpredictable and capricious ways eludes me still. In fact, I find it particularly disquieting. It creates the impression that our primal foe is calculating and deliberate, even if indeed it is not. The tricks one¡¯s mind plays to make sense of the senselessness of such things is one of the cruelest of deceptions.

    The following morning, quarter past 10 or so, two carriages arrived with a total of four dying men and one woman. I must say, based on my practice of medicine, I ventured that none of them had more than a day or so to live. One of the men routinely vomited up a viscous brown substance, neither fluid nor solid, indicating acute liver disease. Another was unconscious and I feared would soon be dead, perhaps even before the evening. The other two men and the woman appeared quite ill, but I had not the experience with their ailments to diagnose them more precisely.

    We treated all five as well as we could while we awaited nightfall. Two of the King¡¯s guards managed to discover the precise location of the trees and pond that Robert had been so certain marked the dwelling place of this banshee. The guards reported to us their own profound unease with the area and insisted that they not be present there that night. Greville rejected their cowardly demand and said that they would have to be responsible for placing the dying patients, at a minimum.

    Sir Lucas, however, added a further complication to the situation based on his knowledge.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how to say this, but banshees seem to, um, disappear when looked at for any length of time,¡± he explained to me. ¡°Or so I understand it. I never truly believed that they existed, you know.¡±

    ¡°So how should we hunt this one without the benefit of sight?¡± I asked.

    ¡°I gave that some thought,¡± he said pensively, sucking his bottom lip inward. ¡°I should think that you will have to locate the banshee via sound, via their¡­ their wailing.¡±

    ¡°Eyes closed,¡± I affirmed. ¡°Blindfolding will be best. It will avoid any chance I or anyone else slips up and glares at the accursed creature.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes!¡± Sir Lucas shouted excitedly.

    ¡°I will do it with my boys, then,¡± I said. I unfurled Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel, which drew an admiring gasp from Sir Lucas. ¡°And this blessed instrument should vanquish the beast.¡±

    ¡°Oh my. It looks ancient!¡± he commented, adjusting his glasses to examine it. ¡°And yet strangely well-preserved.¡±

    ¡°Saints¡¯ artifacts, like saints¡¯ bodies themselves, are incorruptible,¡± I cheerily noted. ¡°Even in this age of reason we would do well to pay homage to our holy figures.¡±

    Sir Lucas responded with an awkward sign of the cross. I fought off a grimace at his sloppy display. He was well-meaning enough.

    I grew apprehensive as the wintry darkness set in during the late afternoon. The thought of traipsing around in the dark in the Kew Gardens, trying to locate this banshee on its own terrain seemed far more dangerous the nearer the hour drew. Coming upon the ground where we were to hunt did not alleviate my concerns. There were many bushes and brambles laying low, some of them covered with a thin layer of snow that made them hard enough to see in daylight. At night with nothing but moonlight and oil lamps, I could only imagine. Beyond that, when time came for the hunt, we would be blindfolded.

    We placed the dying patients near small fires to keep them warm. We provided them with ample means to dull their pain. Based on the colouration of their skin and other ordinary signs, I estimated that only one of the five would make it until morning. If the banshee wished to call souls to the grave that evening, it would have ample opportunity to do so.

    When night came, my boys and I placed our blindfolds over our eyes and said a terse prayer for our safety. I had blessed their weapons, simple bludgeoning instruments, with holy water and various rites I thought might be useful in the circumstances. Whether any of that would empower them to slay a banshee was unknown to me. I felt that there was no harm that could be done.

    Hoots of owls began to fill the sky. Distant howls of wolves made their own gentle nighttime song. As we waited in the dark, our anticipation of the banshee¡¯s wails caused me to wonder if those howls and hoots were the banshee¡¯s work instead. It is like a hunter who looks for his quarry for such a time that all starts to resemble it.

    Our dying subjects periodically groaned while they slipped into the delirium that precedes death. I tightened my grip on the cudgel. The air formed a vice around me. I could feel that at any moment the banshee¡¯s wailing would begin.

    Hoooooot, an owl sounded out as it flew above us. Hooooooot.

    I sighed. Even with the heavy coat I wore, the cold began to pierce through. I wouldn¡¯t be able to remain out the entire night and I wondered if our quarry knew this.

    A voice then wailed in the distance, ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    A prickling shock washed over my skin. My boys and I had waited hours to hear that sound. Now that it came upon us, I wished that we had simply been able to stand freezing until morning, without so much as the slightest incident. That was no longer our reality.

    My old ears had a difficult time discerning the direction from which the wail had come. A swirling wind had picked up and it made matters confusing to me.

    ¡°Boys,¡± I whispered as I extended my arm, ¡°grab my hand and point me in its direction.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    I believe it was John who grabbed my hand first and pointed almost directly to my right. Then the other two reached out and fumbled about to distinguish my arm from John¡¯s. The tugged it slightly further to the right, but in the same general orientation.

    ¡°Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    The voice was weaker that time, but in the same direction. As quietly as possible, we all walked carefully toward that distant wailing. I was deliberate with each of my steps, using the tips of my boots to feel out the snow and undergrowth I was to encounter. Each crackle of the desiccated branches and crinkle of the snow below my boots sounded thunderously out in that still night air.

    Moaning came out from one of the patients, the one whom I had deemed the most likely to die immediately. They were clearly near the end where a terminally ill person calls out to their already deceased relatives. I realized, however, that with the banshee¡¯s presence there was the cruel fact that they might be deprived the opportunity to meet their deceased loved ones. The banshee, so long as it lived, would prevent that and keep them bound to the earth.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡± the wailing voice called out in a sharp shriek.

    My spine tingled. Three wails meant that one life had expired, or at least momentarily would. We only had twelve more before our supply of the near-dead would be depleted. I realized, however, that the direction of the wail had changed somewhat from before. It was closer, but differently oriented. It sounded as though it had been behind us.

    ¡°Boys,¡± I whispered, ¡°turn around.¡±

    ¡°And a bit to the left,¡± Robert added.

    I worried that the banshee knew our gambit, even though they were rumored to be near-mindless abominations. If it could keep us moving in circles while our dying expired, we would waste the entire night.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    It called for the soul of a second victim. At least the call had felt as though it was in the same direction. I heard one of the boys, probably Thomas based on the lackadaisical cadence of his steps, sweep further to the right. I wanted to admonish him for breaking from our plan, but I realized that there might be merit to his course of action. Flanking the banshee and forcing it toward one of us was necessary. Should we all have headed in the same direction, it is almost certain that the beast could outmaneuver us.

    ¡°Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    The voice shifted again, further to the left, but well away of where we had started. My heart raced. My steps felt more uneasy than they had before. I had heard of men growing wobbly on the battlefield before, but I had never experienced it myself. I forced long and slow breaths to the best extent I could to prevent my panic from growing any further. In my mind, I pictured the long and twisted claws of the banshee coming down upon me at any moment. It was as though I could already feel those horrible nails rip through my flesh and rend my body.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡±

    Six times the beast had wailed and I felt we had made only a little progress. I hoped that it was the case that it was wailing for our terminally ill patients and not for us. Doubts on that point haunted me with each step I took. The banshee could well have been calling for our deaths. In which case, any number of horrid abominations could sweep down upon us. The banshee would have been the least of them.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    That call was closer. Much closer. I could feel the wispy words flicker up against my chin.

    ¡°Boys?¡± I whispered so weakly I could barely hear myself. There was no response.

    The winter winds rose and ripped against my skin. Within seconds I could no longer feel my face as shards of ice pelted me and frigid air sapped all of my heat.

    ¡°Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    That was even closer. I could smell the rot of the banshee¡¯s flesh and breath. They felt even colder than the winter winds. And they were damp, as though it breathed out the dampness of that pond. I tasted the skin of the frogs, fish, and weeds.

    I prayed to God to steady my hand as I reached out with Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡±

    A third set completed. Only two remained. That last wail had come far closer. It was almost within my ability to reach out and touch. I was sure of it. My entire body grew cold and unsteady. As I thought of my sons and how I had not heard anything from them for some moments, I grew faint. I fell to the ground, my right foot tangled in a bramble of vines.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    At that point I was certain the banshee was taunting me in my impotence. I could not dislodge my foot. It was as though it was ensnared in sentient tentacles that conspired to keep me there.

    ¡°Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    The banshee was moving far swifter through its wails. Before long we would be on to our last potential victim. That was, of course, unless the banshee meant to claim any of my boys or myself. I tugged to remove my foot from the brambles, but I only succeeded in a sharp thorn cutting across my leg.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡±

    Now four were doomed. I reasoned that it had been no more than two minutes between the third and fourth victims. Perhaps far less. I breathed so quickly that I felt dizzy, the world slipping away from me. The wintry winds became a blizzard, howling so loudly that I could not hear anything else. I became terrified that I would not hear the banshee¡¯s wails. I would lose its position and, even worse, not hear it coming toward me.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    That wail came so close that it brushed past me like one of the blizzard¡¯s gusts. I even swung the cudgel to attempt to land a blow. I only met with air. A void had set in around me.

    ¡°Hennnnoooooo yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    My boys, wherever they were and whatever had happened to them, would not be able to help me.

    ¡°HENO YW EICH NOSON!¡±

    A fifth victim. We had not found our quarry, even employing the dastardliest means. I had at least managed to free my foot so that we could set out from that vile place. I calmed myself now that the opportunity had passed us by. Even the winds settled down, as though the earth itself offered a reprieve. It was a peaceful moment, but I lamented planning yet another jaunt to hunt the beast.

    ¡°Heno yw eich nossssonnnnnn.¡±

    My heart stopped. A sixth. That could only mean one thing. I cried out for my boys, but I heard nothing.

    ¡°Willllllissssssssssss,¡± the slithering voice called out and wrapped around me. That was not a wail. It was a voice as clear as any I had ever heard.

    I steadied my hands and wondered if the time had come to accept my fate. I felt the hag approaching from behind and decided that I should at least attempt another swing. With my right hand, I swung the cudgel. It fell with a shattering crack upon its quarry.

    At once, a shriek unlike any other I had ever heard emanated from the cudgel¡¯s victim. Sepulchral, pained, violent, it sent waves of anguish that washed over me, knocking me down to the ground.

    I removed my blindfold to see this milky white figure floating in the air before me, its head turned skyward, its jaw distended and drooping far below what should have been possible. Where my cudgel had struck there was a most queer of wounds. It was as though the banshee was made of fabric that frayed apart, an invisible force pulling to pieces.

    So terrible was its death rattles that I could not even hear my three boys approaching from behind me. With a burst of sickly green light searing through its eyes, the banshee crumpled to the ground, collapsing into a pile of rags and melted skin. I stomped on the pile with my foot. Believing that it had all ended as simply as that, did not come easily to me.

    ¡°Is it over, father?¡± John rumbled.

    Glancing around the dark grove of trees surrounding that accursed pond, I expected that something more might come. Beyond the hoots of owls and the distant howls of wolves, there was nothing. I saw, once again, a red blur that disappeared with a single blink, but I had no cause to make note of it at that time.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± I said. ¡°And maybe is the best we can hope for.¡±

 The Empty Chair

    When we returned to Kew Palace from our successful excursion against the banshee, we saw that the three doctors, Greville, and several of the guards had become overwhelmed with excitement at our arrival. Even the taciturn Sir George broke into a broad smile and a joyful trot to greet us. Seeing a man that corpulent move as he did was an inspiring sight.

    ¡°We had that monstrous death cry from over the horizon. The banshee is dead, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked, his gentle little face looking for permission to join the sense of triumph.

    ¡°I believe so,¡± I replied, waving the cudgel toward him. ¡°I believe so.¡±

    ¡®Oh thank God!¡± Sir Lucas proudly declared, sending his short arms up in a salute to the heavens.

    Warren walked forward across the cobblestone path in front of the palace, clicking his cane as he did. I saw from him a manner that I had not yet observed: one of profound humility.

    ¡°I suppose I owe you my thanks and my apologies, Doctor Willis,¡± Warren said.

    ¡°I am owed nothing, Doctor Warren,¡± I smiled in return. ¡°All glory is to God and the saints who protect us.¡±

    He silently nodded.

    ¡°Were it a medical matter, I would see that you are inducted into the Royal College of Physicians,¡± Sir George said in his haughty voice. ¡°We will definitely ensure you are given an appropriate honor for this service.¡±

    ¡°I seek no honor for myself, Sir¡ª¡±

    ¡°Awards of honors aren¡¯t only for oneself!¡± Sir George scolded me. ¡°They are examples to the kingdom!¡±

    I was eager to change the subject from self-congratulatory flummery to something more urgent.

    ¡°I only hope that now we can properly focus on His Majesty¡¯s care. It is far from guaranteed that he will recover even with this burdensome menace removed,¡± I said grimly. ¡°He had great traumas inflicted upon him. Men do not easily cure themselves from those wounds.¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure that such eminent physicians are ourselves can address that in due time,¡± Sir George chirped. ¡°In the meantime, I think we could all do with some rest. Hopefully there will be nothing more to disturb our night.¡±

    That wish rang hollow for me. I waited to hear that the guards had retrieved all of the corpses of those we had used as bait. They had all died of natural causes that evening and we sent them back to London for burial. I wondered, time and again, where the two soldiers who had run off to from the first encounter with the banshee and Octavius¡¯ ghost. It was also far from clear to me if we had managed to free Octavius¡¯ spirit from the earth or not. Eventually, I managed to become lost enough in my thoughts that I fell asleep.

    That night, my dreams were marred by that same strange red presence that I had seen twice before. The crimson blur took on something eerily similar and yet dissimilar from a human form. A shadow fell across much of its head, obscuring my vision. I kept approaching it to try to gain a better view, but it ever turned away. When at last I was fatigued, I looked away to see if there were any other strange phenomena around the abyssal mire around me.

    Its hand fell upon my head. I saw nothing of its face except for a sickly, twisted maw that opened unnaturally wide.

    ¡°Willllllllissssssssss¡­.¡± a sepulchral hiss echoed out from the maw.

    It lunged for me with a horrid screech.

    At that moment, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat and disoriented. I must have sat up in my bed, wide awake, for a full two hours after that. My heart raced continuously. Eventually, once my nerves had settled, I summoned the courage to sleep again, dismissing what I had dreamed as a product of trauma.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The following morning, I decided to take an inventory of His Majesty¡¯s state of mind in the aftermath of our victory over the banshee. The King was still deeply demented, which was much as I had anticipated. I had not shared the optimism of Sir George and Sir Lucas, who had presumed that the King would rapidly improve without the malign influence of the banshee¡¯s magic.

    ¡°You know that London used to be part of France?¡± the King asked me during one of our sessions that day. ¡°Yes, it was down right next to Paris, just down the road from Berlin and Rome.¡±

    ¡°I am afraid that none of that is true, Your Majesty,¡± I corrected him.

    ¡°How dare you! I¡¯m the King of England!¡±

    ¡°That much is true,¡± I said with a smile. ¡°And where are we now?¡±

    ¡°Some pit of Hell that you stuck me in!¡± he spat, wriggling in his restraining chair. ¡°And get me out of this damn thing!¡±

    I folded my hands and looked into his wild and unfocused eyes.

    ¡°Calm yourself, Your Majesty,¡± I insisted.

    ¡°I tell, I am not told,¡± he riposted, sticking his tongue out at me like a disobedient child.

    ¡°Your Majesty¡¯s reign is subject to Parliament,¡± I replied. ¡°If you do not behave yourself, they can make sure you never tell anyone anything ever again.¡±

    ¡°Nonsense! I¡¯ll have them all hanged!¡±

    ¡°No, no you will not,¡± I sighed.

    It went on like that for some time until it was time for His Majesty to eat his soup for lunch. We all stood around him in plain black clothes to provide a more austere setting. We also chose an interior room that had comparatively little light to animate the King¡¯s spirits. He politely ate his soup without any serious difficulty, though some of it dripped into his beard. The King became quite annoyed regarding how long it took until Greville stepped forward to dab his beard with a napkin.

    I led the others in applauding His Majesty for properly conducting himself. It seemed to the others to be such a small triumph, but I assured them that it was necessary to rebuild the King¡¯s proper sense of self. I am not sure that any of them understood just how damaged he had become. Doctors such as those three would typically send their lunatics off to ¡°mad doctors¡±, such as myself, and never give their patients a moment¡¯s thought after that.

    In the afternoon and early evening, I took to encouraging His Majesty to draw as I had heard from Greville that the King found art a productive channel for his emotions in more ordinary times. I sat and watched him acquit himself very well with an obsessive focus on his craft. A part of me worried that he would produce some kind of mortifying monstrosity, like the banshee or his son¡¯s tortured spirit, but instead his first caricature was only a crude portrait of me. I took some offense at how he depicted my face, far chubbier and more misshapen than it truly is, but this seemed to me a harmless diversion.

    Later that evening we tried to focus His Majesty on reading from some of his favorite books, including a compendium of Shakespeare. As it happened, he was not yet tranquil enough for that and he ripped one of the books to pieces, requiring him to be confined to the restraining chair. I resolved to try that again the following day.

    Because His Majesty continued to mutter and speak streams of seamless nonsense throughout the night, I elected to remain near him to observe on which matters his mind seemed most focused. He mentioned time and again how he missed the Queen, how the Prime Minister was a shadow of his father, that Papism should be eradicated as opposed to tolerated, and then he started harping on the loss of the former colonies.

    ¡°Write a letter to the colonies. Tell them I forgive them and I¡¯ll have them back. They can even have a few of my sons if they want them. I¡¯ll give them nice bushes of roses and¡­¡± His Majesty spoke in such a rapid pace I could not even manage to write a down a tenth of what he said.

    At one point he started singing ¡°God Save the King¡±, though with some oddly twisted lyrics, including replacing ¡°Happy and Glorious¡± with ¡°Flappy and Laborious.¡±

    I need not belabor the point that attempting to match wits with a lunatic is exhausting and at some juncture I fell asleep upright in my own chair.

    That sleep did not last long however.

    "Dim ond wedi dechrau,¡± His Majesty mumbled, jolting me awake.

    I looked in front of me and to my sides. There was nothing there. I wondered if it had just been a dream that had spilled into my waking moments. I realized something odd had happened, though. The restraining chair was empty.

    I stood, confused as to how that could have happened. His restraints had been thorough. I¡¯d seen to that myself.

    "DIM OND WEDI DECHRAU!¡±

    The King¡¯s voice came from just behind me and I turned to see two hands emerge from the shadows. They pushed me down to the floor. I hit the wood planks hard, my bones aching upon impact. The King then stepped forward into the pale blue moonlight of that evening, his face only just outlined. He smiled with a twisted smirk and his eyes flashed with an emerald green sheen.

    As I would later learn, that phrase translated to English meant ¡°It¡¯s just begun!¡±

 Relapse

    The King slowly stepped toward me, his hands bearing a brass candleholder that I can only imagine he meant to use to bludgeon me.

    ¡°Your Majesty, stop this at once!¡± I commanded as I dragged myself across the floor to put more distance between us.

    ¡°NOOO!¡± he growled like a beast. The voice was not his own. It was far deeper than his ordinary voice and also sounded as though it was much farther away.

    I began uttering the Lord¡¯s Prayer again as I searched in vain to find a weapon. I realized that I had left Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel in another room far away. There was nothing I could use and His Majesty was considerably larger than me.

    ¡°Prayers? That¡¯s all you have?¡± his twisted and rumbling voice mocked me.

    At that moment, my son John entered the room and drew the King¡¯s attention. John did not take any chances. He lifted the chair that I had been sitting in throughout most of the night and brought it down on the King¡¯s head and neck. It cracked to pieces and the King fell to the ground, certainly injured, but just as certainly alive.

    ¡°John, my boy! Well done!¡± I cried out rapturously as I regained my footing.

    ¡°I just hit the King¡­¡± he said despondently.

    ¡°And it was necessary,¡± I applauded him. ¡°Whatever is controlling his mind, it is not the King¡¯s own thoughts, even his deluded ones.¡±

    ¡°I thought we won,¡± John mumbled. ¡°I thought it was over.¡±

    I sighed and looked at the King, who was breathing shallowly after losing consciousness.

    ¡°No, John,¡± I sighed. ¡°It was never to be as easy as that.¡±

    That morning, when the others were awake, we met in the interior dining room where I discussed the events of the previous night. John confirmed those events for me, as did Greville, who had heard His Majesty mumbling in Welsh again in the early morning hours. Despair set in around the room with Sir George¡¯s copious jowls drooping mournfully.

    ¡°Then what do we do?¡± Sir George lamented.

    ¡°If I am honest, I was never convinced that the banshee was the root of this problem,¡± I said. ¡°I fear that there is fouler magic at work and it is more distant. An obvious conclusion is that if His Majesty is being manipulated via some manner of curse that causes him to speak Welsh, the origin must be in Wales.¡±

    Warren grumbled under his breath while all of the others simply looked down at their hands or at the tastefully appointed dining room table.

    ¡°Wales,¡± Warren growled. ¡°Even if that is true, and I am not yet certain of that, it¡¯s not as though Wales is some small London borough. It¡¯s a sprawling land. Well more than half a million people and many villages and towns spread from Swansea to Cardiff.¡±

    ¡°I am well-aware Doctor Warren,¡± I acknowledged. ¡°There must be some way of isolating where it might be. Rumors. Gossip. Even local legend if we can find someone who knows it.¡±

    Greville coughed to gain our attention.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Mr. Pitt is visiting today. Being a politician, perhaps he had some information? Politicians do naught but gossip and spread rumors,¡± Greville offered.

    ¡°The Prime Minister? Here today?¡± Thomas asked, laughing as he did. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s just great. Explaining to him we¡¯ve done bollocks up until now will be easy.¡±

    ¡°Wash your tongue, boy,¡± I scolded him.

    ¡°Sorry, father,¡± Thomas sighed with an indolent shrug.

    Sir Lucas brightened up, adjusting his glasses excitedly.

    ¡°I¡¯m friends with some doctors in Wales. One in Cardiff. One up in Clwyd somewhere as well, oh yes,¡± he chirped, his voice quivering in a combination of anxiety and glee. ¡°I could write to them to learn what they know. It may be something! I think so, anyway!¡±

    ¡°You may as well, Sir Lucas,¡± I grumbled. ¡°Anything that can help us now is worthy of consideration.¡±

    When the Prime Minister visited, his first insistence was to meet with the King before we could tell him anything else. Greville facilitated the meeting while everyone else was kept in a nearby study where Mr. Pitt could consult us afterwards. I took from this the obvious suggestion that the Prime Minister did not wholly trust our vague daily bulletins. After about an hour, the doors to our cramp study opened and Mr. Pitt stepped in with his black winter coat, his face in a deep scowl.

    ¡°I have just spent an hour speaking with His Majesty and I am unconvinced that you gentlemen have done anything to improve his condition,¡± he declared in a voice that was far more polite than I would have imagined possible for such words. ¡°Well?¡±

    ¡°Prime Minister, if I may, I don¡¯t think an untrained observation such as the one you are giving the King is properly reflective of¡ª¡±

    ¡°Medical expertise?¡± the Prime Minister interjected, the faintest of smirks coming across his face. ¡°I am sorry, Sir George, but you well know that my view is that this is not simply a medical matter. Doctor Willis, I summoned you to care for His Majesty precisely because you have deal with what I have believed to be the root cause. What do you have on that?¡±

    I stood from my chair and straightened my frumpy coat as best I could.

    ¡°We did discover a banshee in the nearby gardens, and, with great difficulty, we dispatched it. It had certainly antagonized His Majesty. There is no question there,¡± I said firmly. ¡°We lost some men to it and a spirit we believe was under its influence. Once it was destroyed, there was a vain hope that perhaps this would bring an end to this unfortunate episode, but His Majesty¡¯s behaviour last night and earlier this morning indicates that he remains under an otherworldly influence.¡±

    ¡°Have any of you gentlemen a notion of where that might be?¡± Pitt inquired, his hostility not yet abated.

    Robert stood and pointed a finger skyward to gain the Prime Minister¡¯s attention.

    ¡°We believe that this otherworldly influence my father speaks of is of Welsh provenance,¡± Robert explained with suffocating pomposity. ¡°His Majesty is speaking Welsh and doesn¡¯t know Welsh. The banshee spoke Welsh and seemed to be more of a cyhyraeth, a Welsh analog for a banshee, which is more of an Irish Celtic tradition as opposed to a Welsh Celtic tradition.¡±

    ¡°The only thing I understood of what you just said is that this is a Welsh problem,¡± Mr. Pitt said humorlessly.

    ¡°We had wondered if, through the apparatus of government, that any peculiar stories, rumors, or reports had come from Wales lately?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Wales is eternally peculiar, Doctor Willis,¡± Mr. Pitt answered, eyebrows raised in condescension. ¡°But there have been an unusual number of such customary peculiarities. I will return to my study in London and provide you gentlemen with what I can.¡±

    ¡°We would be most grateful if¡ª¡± I started, but Pitt interjected.

    ¡°Just remember, all of you, that the survival of the government depends on His Majesty¡¯s swift recovery,¡± he declared theatrically, as though he was addressing the House of Commons. ¡°Anarchic forces love the uncertainty that the King¡¯s malady provides. They feed off it. And it is not merely the lowly forces of Mr. Charles James Fox and his friends in Parliament. Far worse men will follow. We need His Majesty to stave them off. Never forget that.¡±

    He left around 1:30 in the afternoon, leaving us largely to wait for what information he could provide. I did not care for our helplessness and prodded the other doctors to try to extract some manner of information out of His Majesty just as we had before when locating the banshee. Alas, even several hours of cupping later, the King offered us nothing. I decided to order an end to that torturous treatment of His Majesty and instead focus our efforts predominantly upon treating his madness when possible.

 Bodies of Evidence

    The following morning, we awoke to frenzied shouts from a new squad of soldiers that had arrived to supplement the beleaguered and depleted forces we had there previously. I stormed outside to the path to see a cart being escorted by two red-coated riders. The soldiers on the path gawked at the approaching cart with rapturous attention.

    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked one of the young men.

    ¡°Some bodies, from the sounds it!¡± he excitedly squeaked.

    ¡°Bodies?¡±

    ¡°An¡¯ they ¡®aven¡¯t got any ¡®eads,¡± a second soldier added.

    A dull ache set in around my chest and stomach. If they were telling the truth, that would be yet another crisis for us. It was quite rare in ordinary criminality to have a find that grisly. The same applied in the practice of medicine. While I had seen a number of gruesomely disfigured bodies in my time, what was described to me was something else altogether.

    When the cart arrived in front of the palace, I walked around the riders to look at the remains they were carrying with them. The riders, for their own part, said nothing. They stared straight ahead as though they were mindless automatons. When I rounded the rear of the cart, I was hit by the unmistakable waft of putrefying flesh. The rancid, overpowering odor even carried over that crisp wintry air. I covered my nose, dreading what I would find when I opened the cart¡¯s rear panel.

    As soon as I did, I saw two corpses, dressed in muddied red wool uniforms, their heads severed and missing, and their skin green and purple. In a brief mindless moment, I dropped my hand from my nose in shock and took in a heavy gulp of that air, inundated with the odious vapors of putrefaction. I consider it a blessing that I had allowed my stomach to be empty that morning as the vomit that I unleashed was naught but clear saliva and some yellow bile. I quickly composed myself and stepped to the side of the cart to point to the men who stood idly by, gawking.

    ¡°You! All of you! Help me with these bodies!¡± I barked.

    The men only grudgingly obeyed, but at least they were swift and efficient when they did so. They carried and laid the bodies out upon the ground to be examined near the palace. Sir Lucas and I undertook the examination as Doctor Warren and Sir George claimed they had little expertise in such things. I suspected that they merely had weak constitutions and would rather not be burdened with it. I cannot blame them.

    Sir Lucas was wise to focus on the strange pattern of the flesh around the neck where their heads had been severed. I focused far too much time on the strange mottling of the skin, which was largely irrelevant compared to what he noticed.

    ¡°These weren¡¯t clean cuts,¡± he said, taking breaths of a perfumed handkerchief in between his examinations. ¡°See? There¡¯s this jagged nature here on this one. And then on the other, it¡¯s at a bit of an angle. Yes, like it was coming up from below and across. Below and across, yes. This wasn¡¯t an execution. I think both of them lost their heads whilst standing or running.¡±

    ¡°I am trying to imagine what could have done that¡±

    ¡°Admittedly I am not an expert on how one kills another man,¡± Sir Lucas dryly joked. I glared at him for his morbid impertinence. His face straightened and he again examined the wounds. ¡°Yes, with these jagged marks, I dare say that it was something akin to a chain that must have come across and ripped their heads off.¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°And apparently the heads were not discovered. I venture someone or something may have taken them,¡± I murmured. ¡°In any case, it seems obvious to me that these are the two who ran off the night we encountered the ghost of Octavius.¡±

    With a startled expression, Sir Lucas gawked at me.

    ¡°Are you certain?¡±

    ¡°They look somewhat familiar. I¡¯ll have the few guards remaining from that night confirm it, but it seems likely,¡± I groaned as I stood from examining the corpses. ¡°This all only adds to our woes.¡±

    Sure enough, the guards from the first night of our strange encounters at Kew confirmed those were their comrades, identifying their hands and one of their birthmarks. In some respects, I was glad to have learned what had become of them, though without their heads I feared that there could be something truly irregular at work. Whomsoever stole those heads would have done so only for a dastardly purpose as there is no good reason for a sane man to want to keep two rotting heads in their possession.

    Later that afternoon, we received a response from the Prime Minister regarding our inquiry of the previous day on any peculiar activities, rumors, or reports in Wales. As it happened, there was a great deal more than we expected. Mr. Pitt was kind enough to enclose a detailed map of Wales that allowed us to sift through the innumerable incidents to attempt to discern some manner of pattern.

    It was my observation that those incidents down along the southern coast of Wales, near Cardiff, Swansea, Carmarthen and so on were far more vague and obtuse than those as one moved northwards through the more remote parts of Wales, including lightly-inhabited locales such as the Cambrian Mountains and up into the northerly reaches. The incidents and reports centered most heavily on Gwynedd and Clwyd, two of the three northernmost counties of Wales.

    ¡°I¡¯ve always found these Welsh place names intolerable,¡± Warren fumed, tossing notes aside at one point. ¡°Everything ends in ¡®ed¡¯ or ¡®yd¡¯, it seems. It is hard for me to tell anything apart.¡±

    ¡°I quite agree,¡± Greville said. ¡°Though this is all making sense to me now.¡±

    ¡°This? This all makes sense to you?¡± Warren chuckled.

    ¡°In a way. Sir George, you mentioned to me that His Majesty has been to Wales before, in fact fairly recently,¡± Greville said, pinching his nose to relieve what was doubtlessly incredible strain. He had laboured more heavily than any of us through the Prime Minister¡¯s correspondence.

    The weight of sudden unwanted attention made Sir George form a dismissive smile. The piercing gazes of the rest of our gathering compelled him to speak after a short silence.

    ¡°Ah, well. It is the case that His Majesty and Her Majesty undertook a journey to Wales some time after their son Octavius died. I believe that they may have spent some time in the Vale of Clwyd, now that we have mentioned it,¡± Sir George said in a careful tone. ¡°I would not invest so much in a fleeting coincidence, however.¡±

    ¡°Coincidences are only irrelevant if there is indeed no link between two events,¡± Robert offered, straightening himself in his chair and developing an accusatory posture toward Sir George. ¡°If our evidence is pointing us toward Clwyd and His Majesty has some link, however tenuous to Clwyd, then we should go there.¡±

    I glanced at the map again, my eyes settling on the village of Ruthin in the Vale of Clwyd. The number of incidents and rumors that had been reported in and around the village could not be ignored. Not with the whole weight of all of the corresponding evidence. I decided to interrupt some incipient squabbling between our well-meaning, but disagreeable, grouping.

    ¡°We will set off tomorrow for Ruthin in Clwyd,¡± I declared. ¡°I read in the Prime Minister¡¯s dispatches that there were two men decapitated in much the same way our two soldiers here were. Those were near Ruthin. Several other pieces of evidence point this way as well. It may end as a tragic act of deceit that leads us toward Ruthin, but it is a wiser path than any other I can think of.¡±

    ¡°All roads lead to Ruthin, eh? We¡¯ve come a long way from Rome,¡± Thomas joked, drawing a couple of groans, much ignoration, and no laughs. He shrugged and return to fiddling with a small locking mechanism that had gained his attention for the previous several hours while others had done true work.

    Ultimately, all agreed with my conclusion. When I spoke with His Majesty just before going to bed, he had a rare lucid moment where even he concurred with our decision.

    ¡°Anything you can do, please help me!¡± he cried.

 Off the Edge

    Certain undertakings had to be made before we set off for the north of Wales. Sir George and Doctor Warren would remain behind at Kew to continue His Majesty¡¯s treatment. We arranged for the two of them to continue to provide our regular bulletins to Parliament on the King¡¯s condition to create the illusion of activity. One might wonder why such a ruse was necessary, but the plain fact was that the King¡¯s malady was of nearly daily interest in Parliament. To explain why two of His Majesty¡¯s physicians had headed off to Wales would be nearly impossible.

    I left with Sir George and Doctor Warren detailed instructions for what I believed would be the most useful course of treatment. I recommended that they halted with harsher physical means and instead take care to continue reacclimating His Majesty to proper civilized conduct to rebuild those shattered routines in his mind that had been buried under piles of filth. I had my doubts about their applications of my proposed treatments. They were the only options available to me, however.

    Sir Lucas, for his part, had been very insistent that he go to Wales with my sons and me due to his friend, a physician in Clwyd, near Ruthin as it happened. The man¡¯s name was Noah Yeoman and we would, according to Sir Lucas, have need of him as a trusted friend to guide us in the area. Sir Lucas also insisted that his knowledge of Welsh, albeit imperfect, was a useful asset and that he had some manner of facility with matters supernatural.

    I brought Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel with me, of course, and sent a letter to Westminster Abbey to apologize for the artifact¡¯s likely long absence due to my continued need for it. I had no concept of how long I would be away in Wales and thought it a common courtesy to set at ease their apprehensions. For one of their prized artifacts to be missing for so long a time must have been quite taxing.

    We set off in two carriages. John, Robert, and I were in one carriage with one guard while Sir Lucas and Thomas and two guards rode in the other. I thought it good for Thomas and his indolence to be in the presence of a fine disciplined and active mind such as Sir Lucas¡¯. At times, I wonder what precisely must have been my error as a father to make Thomas behave in such a way.

    Those worries were, however, minor as we set off for Wales.

    The first leg of our journey was easy enough on horses, drivers, and passengers. The rolling hills of the countryside of Berkshire and Oxfordshire were a pleasant sight as we headed west. Our first day¡¯s full ride brought us to stay in Oxford, which was a pleasant diversion for me as one who had attended Oxford to learn medicine. Allowing my mind to marinate in old memories of my more youthful days allowed an escape of sorts from the cruel present.

    I should mention that one of my first encounters with a supernatural being of some kind did in fact occur in Oxfordshire some twenty years earlier in 1768. There was a peculiar outbreak of an illness that had led to several people inexplicably wasting away.

    The perpetrator was a strange sort of faerie called an Alp-Luachra, which I was told translated as ¡°Joint Eater¡±, which does not mean that it eats a person¡¯s joints, but rather that it eats jointly with a person. The strange creature will take the form of a newt that resides in a person¡¯s throat and consumes their food. So puzzled was I when I treated this malady that I happened upon a cure entirely by accident. I was left to prepare a meal for the afflicted and I happened to over-indulge in the use of salt. That so depleted both my patient and the Alp-Luachra that the little creature left the body in search of water, allowing me to vanquish it.

    Being near Oxford University again made me pine for the days of the ¡°sweet smile of reason¡± that the professors taught us. One of my greatest regrets was ever becoming aware of the more primal and chaotic aspects of the world.

    The roads to the northwest were somewhat more treacherous as we turned toward Wales. The hills rose and began to turn into mountains. In December, many of those rocky slopes had become slick with ice.

    ¡°There¡¯s a chance we¡¯ll have to abandon the carriages and walk if it gets bad enough,¡± John grumbled to me, looking out the window at the worsening wintry conditions.

    ¡°I pray to God that does not happen,¡± I hoped aloud.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    It so happened that Providence was kind enough to deliver us in our carriages to the Vale of Clwyd midday on December 19th after another few days of perilous riding through mountain trails. I considered that a great blessing indeed as I shuddered at the other possibilities. What we faced before us was bad enough without my being consigned to walking such a distance in a strange land at the age of seventy.

    Upon our arrival at Ruthin, I admired the pleasant environment. It was a quaint little village of some several hundred housed in a series of tightly-bunched Tudor-style homes, all contained on the top of a modest hillock. Buildings of white wattle and daub held together with dark wood were everywhere one looked. There were the occasionally odd stone buildings such as the local church and town hall as well as the constabulary and the remains of Ruthin Castle. Ruthin Castle, incidentally, had been the object of Oliver Cromwell¡¯s ire in the prior century and most of it had been razed to the ground. Ruthin itself, however, had recovered far better than its most famous fortress.

    The great hills surrounding Ruthin, some seeming as tall as a small mountain, were covered in pristine white snow. The tallest of them was Moel Famau to the northeast that had a direct line of sight across the treeless slopes down to Ruthin. I had heard from those who had been to the Vale of Clwyd before that the skies seemed far more open than in other parts of Great Britain. I could see from where that reputation arose. It felt as though one were at the heights of the Earth.

    As for the town itself, it was an old market town and was structured in much the way one would expect. The roads and all major buildings were oriented around the central market in the town center. A stout stone clocktower stood in the center of the market square with the humble stone church of St. Peter¡¯s just off to the north. Around the market were the customary accommodations of an inn, two taverns, and some ordinary shops along with the important institutions of governance such as the constabulary and town hall I mentioned earlier.

    ¡°Fairly cute,¡± Robert said, looking around the town as we exited the carriage. He sneered slightly before returning to his customary gloomy countenance. ¡°Not unlike Lincolnshire, for better or ill. At least we have the love of our admirable sheep in common. That should grant us something to talk about with the locals.¡±

    ¡°Probably don¡¯t make that comparison,¡± John scoffed at his younger brother. ¡°Welsh love their sheep as much as their wives. Maybe a bit more.¡±

    ¡°When you boys are quite finished,¡± I scolded them. ¡°We are guests of this town and we are to behave respectfully, whatever one may think.¡±

    I noticed a handful of townsfolk walking slowly by the clocktower, all of them gawking at us. There were among them two men and three women, all dressed in simple heavy wool winter attire. Sir Lucas approached me while that silent standoff continued.

    ¡°Ah! Lovely little town! Truly lovely! I¡¯ll see if I can learn where my friend Noah is. Yes, yes,¡± he chirped.

    I watched carefully as he approached that gathering near the clocktower. The odd little Sir Lucas did not seemed perturbed in the slightest by the lack of reaction from the group as he asked where he might find his colleague. One of them eventually pointed silently to the opposite end of the square. Sir Lucas bowed graciously at the group and returned to us with a broad smile.

    ¡°They did not seem terribly warm,¡± I said listlessly.

    ¡°I dare say the Welsh have their own sense of manners. We will have to adjust, yes,¡± he lilted. ¡°It would appear that Noah¡¯s practice is on the next street over that way.¡±

    ¡°Probably the most useful place we can go at the moment,¡± I mumbled, apprehensive about the group still gawking at us from the clocktower. ¡°Lead the way if you would, Sir Lucas.¡±

    The next street was quite narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate two horses. The road below us was well-maintained cobblestone, though slippery with a thin layer of ice and snow that had been packed down by man and beast trampling it. We did not have travel far on that treacherous ground, however, as Doctor Yeoman¡¯s practice was but the second building to the right once we entered the street. It was largely indistinguishable from the other white wattle and daub structures, though it had a clear iron sign swaying above the door: ¡°Doctor Noah Yeoman, Physician.¡±

    When Sir Lucas knocked, the answer was slow in coming. We heard some manner of rustling on the other side of the warped and splintering dark wooden door.

    ¡°Yes? What is it?¡± a slurred nasally voice, muffled by the door, sounded out.

    I tried to glance inside through the windows, but they had all been shuttered.

    ¡°Noah?¡± Sir Lucas called out louder than was necessary. ¡°It¡¯s Lucas. Lucas Pepys.¡±

    I would say that some ten silent seconds passed before the door swung inward, creaking on its hinges and scraping against the flagstone floor. The man inside the spartan room before us was of middling height, gaunt, with almost the same wire spectacles as Sir Lucas. His hair was disheveled, long and grey and a light beard had begun to grow in. With a weary smile, he greeted his friend.

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s good to see someone worth talking to. Come in, Luke,¡± he spoke softly through a pained grimace. ¡°And the rest of ya. Don¡¯t have enough seats for everyone, but it¡¯ll have to do.¡±

    A lack of chairs would hardly be the only arrangement that was far from ideal in Ruthin.

 Disquiet

    Doctor Yeoman provided us with the barest of lunches, little more than some stale bread and butter. It was welcome, however. The final leg of our journey into the Vale of Clwyd had left us light on provisions and I had lost sight of just how famished we had become.

    I had taken note of his fairly bare cabinets of medicines and instruments in addition to his distressing lack of seating in that musty building. While I admire deliberate austerity, this did not seem to be deprivation of his own accord. Indeed, he poured himself a generous glass of Port and dispatched it within mere seconds.

    ¡°So, what brings you here, Luke? And who¡¯re they?¡± Noah asked with a heavy sigh.

    ¡°Let me introduce my friends here first,¡± Sir Lucas cheerily intoned. ¡°This is Doctor Francis Willis and his sons, John, Robert, and Thomas.¡±

    ¡°Good set of names,¡± Noah chuckled. ¡°Our four inestimable Willises.¡±

    I nodded out of politeness, though I was unsure if he meant that as a compliment or a sarcastic insult. Or whether it meant anything at all.

    ¡°We, ah, have come from London where we have been part of the team treating His Majesty,¡± Sir Lucas changed to a more serious tone. ¡°Have you heard anything about that out here?¡±

    Noah raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

    ¡°A thing or two. What happens with the King is, well¡­ eh,¡± he whined with a shrug. ¡°I can¡¯t say it¡¯s been my highest priority. Oh, uh, but congratulations on the patient. Sounds important.¡±

    Sir Lucas¡¯ face drooped at Noah¡¯s dismissive acknowledgement. He gave me a sheepish glance before looking back toward his old friend.

    ¡°I should tell you, Noah, that it does not appear to be only a medical matter. Yes, this is something more than that and that is why¡ª¡±

    ¡°Ohhhhh,¡± Noah interjected, wagging his finger at Sir Lucas. ¡°Now I see why you come all of the way out here to Ruthin! Do you remember how convinced you used to be that nothing like that actually existed?¡±

    ¡°The books said so,¡± Sir Lucas weakly replied.

    ¡°And now?¡±

    ¡°Would you like an apology?¡±

    ¡°Oh no,¡± Noah closed his eyes and smiled. ¡°This is fine.¡±

    I took the opportunity of their posturing ripostes to further examine the room. I noticed various plaques that Noah had earned from a grateful town. It was not surprising, I suppose. In smaller towns, the local doctor was a particularly prized thing, at least usually. Oddly, that recognition did not seem to manifest in improved garments for Doctor Yeoman. His white stockings frayed while his grey coat was speckled with remnants of food and had seen holes eaten into various odd places.

    ¡°Doctor Yeoman, if I may ask,¡± I said, trying to put the conversation back on track, ¡°do you have knowledge of the more peculiar sorts of events here in¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just curious,¡± Noah interrupted me, raising a finger, ¡°what link do you see between Ruthin and the King going crazy in London? Seems a leap to me.¡±

    ¡°Admittedly, Doctor Yeoman, circumstantial. The King was speaking Welsh, seemingly possessed. He does not Welsh, not a word according to the Queen,¡± I stated plainly. ¡°It was therefore the case we surmised that the origins of this magic, or whatever else it is, must be from Wales and we went to where more incidents have been reported than anywhere else.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°That¡¯s weak,¡± Noah scoffed.

    ¡°And we are desperate,¡± I replied. ¡°We slew a banshee haunting the grounds near Kew. It also spoke, or sang, or wailed in Welsh.¡±

    Noah nodded at that piece of evidence.

    ¡°Oh, that wasn¡¯t a banshee then. That was a¡ª¡±

    ¡°Cyhyraeth,¡± Robert said confidently. ¡°Yes, it was, Doctor Yeoman.¡±

    ¡°Smart boy. Read a lot about Welsh ghouls and such?¡±

    ¡°Enough to learn the rudiments,¡± Robert snarled at being mocked.

    ¡°In any case, Doctor Yeoman, incidents, rumors, or firsthand knowledge of these happenings would be useful,¡± I said, interrupting with a polite cough. ¡°Have you anything to tell us?¡±

    Noah sneered and poured himself another generous glass of Port. He drank that glass more carefully than he had the prior serving.

    ¡°So many such things, Doctor Willis, that one would do well to ignore them,¡± he said in an affected loud whisper, followed by licking his upper teeth.

    ¡°I am afraid that is not an option,¡± I shot back.

    ¡°I have only taken a few patients in the past several months. Have any idea why that might be?¡± Noah asked.

    ¡°I can¡¯t begin to guess your own reasons.¡±

    ¡°Because the problems went from being ordinary to being¡­ Well, more than what I can manage. You will find more than your share of lunatics here and it¡¯s as though it became a damned disease, spreading like plague,¡± he dripped with anger, his voice becoming shrill. ¡°Smart thing to do is keep your head down. Mark my words.¡±

    Our visit to Doctor Yeoman did not last terribly much longer than that. At a certain point, one of his patients whom he would still see came by and ended our meeting for the day.

    We decided to regroup and procure lodgings at the inn on the market square. Those were tiny little rooms, only large enough for a bed, a small wardrobe, and almost nothing else. Scarcely more than glorified closets, to be truthful. Yet there was a comfort to it as the wattle and daub walls had been made so thick that it felt as though we were protected by grand fortifications.

    The beds were serviceable, better than anything I had slept on at Kew Palace for that matter. This was fortunate as the whole party of us turned in unusually early that first evening due to the indescribable fatigue traveling had inflicted upon us. The guards we had brought with us stayed up a touch later to make use of the tavern on the inn¡¯s lower floor. How I envy the energies of younger men.

    I lay awake for a time, listening to the groaning and creaking of the old inn as it absorbed the stiff wintry winds blowing down from the Irish Sea to the north and west. My room was in the interior, so I was spared the interminable rattling of the window shutters of the outer rooms. However, my bed did rest almost precisely against the chimney and the whistling of those shrill gusts passing over the top of the chimney caused me some disquiet. The sounded at times like the banshee¡¯s distant wails. I convinced myself that this was not anything more than a natural occurrence.

    When I slept, however, I had the most astonishingly odd dreams. For a moment, I could not see anything other than total abyssal darkness. I heard what sounded like bones rattling against one another. They clacked against one another in rapid succession. I was slowly able to see more. The silhouette of a horse came into view against a sickly dark green sky. My vision of the horse steadily improved and I saw a rider draped in flowing black robes, but the rider had no head. I approached it and noticed that the rider carried under one of its arms what I presumed to be the rider¡¯s rotting head. Its skin had the consistency of moldy bread or cheese and a permanent twisted smile ran across it. I could not stop staring at this strange spectacle. As instant later, its eyes flashed a bright, devilish red!

    I jolted awake covered in sweat and afflicted by confusion. Some moments passed before I regained my orientation. As a man who travels only relatively rarely, and never to Wales, I had for a moment the sensation that I was back in Lincolnshire, but then the cruel reality of being in Wales set in.

    ¡°Doctor Willis?¡± Sir Lucas¡¯ muffled voice came through my door. ¡°I think it¡¯s time for breakfast.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be there shortly,¡± I mumbled just loud enough that I believe he heard me.

    I glanced to the right where I had stored my compendium of incidents sent to us by Mr. Pitt. Strangely, it seemed to be missing. A search of my room did not uncover it, either. It was not likely that I had simply misplaced them. What that meant caused me to shudder.

 Men of the Town

    Sir Lucas believed that our next useful inquiry would take us to the constabulary to visit the constable, a man named Baen Burnell. His constabulary was an orderly building, as fitted an officer of the peace. The old tan stone was lovingly maintained and the windows were all recently-washed. Instead, too, everything seemed to have its proper place with chairs tucked up tightly against tables, papers properly stored, and so on. It was a welcome change of setting from Doctor Yeoman¡¯s dilapidated offices from the prior day. The constabulary even had a nice smell with crisp clean air and a hint of burning wood from the fireplace.

    Mr. Burnell himself was a cherubic and jovial man, fairly tall with a large frame and an ample mat of black hair that he swept up and back. As best as I could tell, he was perhaps about forty years old, maybe a year or two younger. He received us in his office at the rear of the constabulary. His dawdling old assistant, Marcus, showed us in and offered us tea with a splash of honey.

    ¡°So, you fine gentlemen just got into Ruthin yesterday,¡± he said with a cheery lilt in a slightly high pitched voice. ¡°Whaddya think so far?¡±

    ¡°I have no complaints, Mr Burnell,¡± I replied respectfully.

    ¡°Please, you can call me Baen.¡±

    I nodded in acknowledgement, though I thought it poor practice for an officer of the law to be so familiar with those he had just met. It was of little consequence to me, however. It was not as though I intended to long remain in Ruthin.

    ¡°We do have some questions for you, on behalf of His Majesty¡¯s government,¡± I said. ¡°Would that be permissible with you?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I suppose now.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± I smiled. ¡°You submitted reports that found there way to London and even on the Prime Minister¡¯s desk. They were reports of strange happenings, including¡ª¡±

    He motioned for us to quiet ourselves.

    ¡°And ya think it¡¯s a good idea to come ¡®ere and just start blabbin¡¯ around about it all like that?¡± he shrieked.

    I smiled at that reaction as it was confirmation of everything important that he, or an underling of his, had written. Two murders, one of which had been highly ritualistic based on the mutilations on the man¡¯s body. Several disappearances in the farms around Ruthin, leading Mr. Burnell to report them as presumed kidnappings. Reports of strange chanting. Rumors of a restless spirit seen lurking atop Moel Famau. On and one it had gone and Mr. Burnell¡¯s reports were hardly the only ones from the Vale of Clwyd.

    ¡°We intend to be very discreet, Mr. Burn¡ªI mean, Baen,¡± I assured him, looking behind me to indicate to my boys that it would be wise for one of them to close the door. John did so after some delay at my unspoken order. ¡°It¡¯s not our intention to parade around Ruthin as though we are some manner of brass band. We come here for a specific reason that reason alone.¡±

    ¡°So, what¡¯s that?¡± Burnell inquired, his head extended forward and his eyes bulging.

    ¡°His Majesty has been afflicted by what appears to be some supernatural manipulation,¡± I said before pausing to gauge the constable¡¯s reaction. His lack of surprise struck me as promising. ¡°We have reason to believe that Ruthin and the Vale of Clwyd more broadly are central to the problem. I won¡¯t trouble you with all of the details, but¡ª¡±

    ¡°An¡¯ I don¡¯t want to ¡®ear ¡®em,¡± Burnell said, reverting to what I imagine was his original Scottish accent. He had given indications of his origins a few times in how he spoke, but under stress he gave up more. The constable looked surprised that his speech had slipped. ¡°Sorry. Old habit.¡±

    ¡°Are you from Scotland, sir?¡± I asked as a brief change of topic.

    ¡°Originally. Migrated down this way via promotions and the like and now I find myself policing the ¡®Jewel of Clwyd¡¯ as some fool called it to me,¡± Burnell said mockingly. He then got very sad. Following a deep breath, he took a sip of tea. ¡°Well, that¡¯s for another time. But you want to get to the bottom of this, right?¡±

    ¡°That would be correct.¡±

    ¡°Well, there was somethin¡¯ recently. One of those men gone missin¡¯, he¡¯s a very good friend of mine. Jack. Jack Walker. Has a good business fixin¡¯ farm tools and the like,¡± Burnell said, motioning his hands like he was a tinkerer. ¡°Also makes lil¡¯ trinkets for people. He gives me the nicest jewels and such for my birthday.¡±

    Burnell paused and his face glowed momentarily as he stared off. I exchanged a quizzical look with Sir Lucas during the brief interlude.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± Burnell resumed, ¡°he says to me that he¡¯s found somethin¡¯ in the castle, Ruthin Castle. It¡¯d take some diggin¡¯ in the old grounds, but he thought it was some kind of buried treasure. Maybe somethin¡¯ someone was trying to ¡®ide from Cromwell way back when. He went stompin¡¯ ¡®round there one night and suddenly, poof. Gone without a trace.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ve searched the castle grounds?¡± John, standing over my shoulder, asked.

    ¡°Well, no. That place scares me ¡®alf to death!¡± Burnell protested, recoiling in his chair. ¡°Once you¡¯ve seen some of the strange shit ¡®round ¡®ere, you¡¯re not likely to go pokin¡¯ ¡®round in the dark! Good way to end up missin¡¯ yerself!¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°Given an experience I had with a banshee near Kew, I can¡¯t say¡ª¡±

    ¡°A banshee?¡± Burnell exclaimed.

    ¡°To be more precise, a Welsh version the, um¡­ It starts with a¡ª¡±

    ¡°Cyhyraeth,¡± Robert mumbled disinterestedly from my left.

    ¡°Yes, thank you,¡± I acknowledged his help.

    ¡°Ohhhh. Those are bad,¡± Burnell frowned. ¡°One ¡®round here. Well, there were two I had heard, but one ¡®pparently went off somewhere. Some of the strange folk ¡®round here would talk about these two sisters, the cyhyraeths. One ghostly white and the other red as blood itself.¡±

    I could feel my stomach clench so tightly I thought it would never feel right again. The thought of having to confront yet another of those foul creatures was far too much. I tried even imagining what this blood-hued banshee would look like. Each time part of my mind tried to conjure an image, the rest of my mind thought better of it and prevented it.

    ¡°That would seem to fit the facts, yes, yes,¡± Sir Lucas said in my stead while I recovered from my shock at what Burnell suggested. ¡°I think we should have a look at the castle grounds. Does that seem like where this banshee, or cyhyraeth, might be?¡±

    ¡°No idea,¡± Burnell said. ¡°That isn¡¯t somethin¡¯ I know precise kinds of details about. It could be somethin¡¯ entirely different there. It¡¯s not like we only ¡®ave one problem ¡®round here.¡±

    ¡°Understood,¡± I sighed. ¡°Do you have anyone we can talk to who might be able to furnish us with some more information?¡±

    Burnell took in a deep breath and motioned with his right hand¡¯s thumb toward the southeast.

    ¡°For the really strange things ¡®round here, I always start with Adam Jones. You¡¯ll find ¡®im almost every damn moment at the Boar¡¯s Tusk. Man has always had a lot to drink, but it¡¯s gotten worse lately.¡±

    ¡°Much obliged,¡± I said, rising from my chair. ¡°I think, come nightfall, we will have a good look at the castle grounds and do so in force. You are welcome to join.¡±

    ¡°Probably a good idea,¡± Burnell awkwardly chuckled.

    Once we concluded with the honourable constable, we made for the Boar¡¯s Tusk directly across the market square. The snow fell heavily that day and I did not observe that anyone was stalking our party or otherwise watching us. Indeed, the town seemed subdued on account of the poor weather.

    Part of that appeared to be explained by the heavy attendance in the Boar¡¯s Tusk, where nearly every seat and table was occupied by men and women drearily sipping at their ales. A fiddler played in the far left corner, providing a constant morose melody to make the place truly dismal. It was an orderly enough place for a tavern, though it had the ever-present smells of sweaty unwashed bodies, remnants of food, and impolite gases provided by the patrons.

    I instructed my sons Robert and Thomas to go back to the inn as we did not wish to make too disruptive of a presence. Instead I was accompanied only by John and Sir Lucas. We walked up to the counter where the tavernkeeper, a short and fat bald man with a wild beard, stood waiting for us to order.

    ¡°¡¯ello, pals,¡± he said. ¡°What can I do ya for?¡±

    ¡°We are looking for a man named Jones,¡± I said.

    He laughed.

    ¡°Gonna ¡®ave to do better than that. One in five men in this town¡¯re named Jones,¡± he snickered. ¡°This is Clwyd. Joneses are e¡¯rywhere.¡±

    ¡°Adam Jones,¡± I said politely.

    ¡°Ah. He¡¯s always ¡®ere,¡± the man said. ¡°Back right against the window. Tall man, red beard. Can¡¯t miss ¡®im.¡±

    ¡°Much obliged,¡± I mumbled.

    We saw Mr. Jones right where the tavernkeeper said he would be, tucked him in the corner with three empty pints of ale in front of him. He also made steady progress on the fourth. Sure enough, he had a bright red beard with a few flecks of grey growing in and must have stood well over six feet, though I only observed that later when he stood up. Discerning his age was difficult as he looked to be fairly well along in his life, but then again a steady diet of gin and beer ravages a man¡¯s body. I wagered from the stench wafting off of him that he was still inebriated on gin from the night before.

    ¡°Mr. Jones?¡± John rumbled as he stood over the table.

    ¡°Yeah? Who¡¯s askin¡¯?¡± Jones replied in a slur, his eyes only partially open.

    ¡°My name is John Willis and I¡ª¡±

    ¡°Alright, Johnnie, I wasn¡¯t actually interested,¡± Jones guffawed. ¡°Just sit yerselves down. I won¡¯t ¡®member yer names in an hour anyway.¡±

    After we were seated, I decided to ask a simple probing question to test the seriousness of this man.

    "Mr. Jones, do you even know what day it is?" I asked sternly.

    "Ehhh... at least the 10th."

    "The 19th."

    "Heh,¡± he chuckled. ¡°Shit. Well, I wasn¡¯t wrong."

    Sir Lucas, sitting to my right, was not so much perturbed by Mr. Jones¡¯ extraordinary level of intoxication as he was fascinated. With his deep and probing stares, I wondered if Sir Lucas realized that Mr. Jones was not yet a corpse. He seemed to show no signs of concern over the propriety of gawking in such a way. For his part, Mr. Jones paid it no mind.

    ¡°Mr. Burnell said that you might help us with a line of inquiry regarding happenings in Clwyd,¡± I stated with a biting tone, only barely masking my abject contempt for this man.

    ¡°Baen said that? Hm,¡± he grunted. ¡°Lots of things ¡®appen in Clwyd. We¡¯re ¡®appening in Clwyd right now!¡±

    ¡°Strange things, specifically,¡± I clarified.

    ¡°Depends what ya mean by strange.¡±

    ¡°I think you know full well what I mean.¡±

    ¡°Gonna ¡®ave to be clearer than that.¡±

    I sighed and rose from the table.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to return to Mr. Burnell and tell him that you are far too drunk to be of any use to me,¡± I lashed out.

    ¡°It¡¯s ¡®cause of all those strange things ya speak of that I¡¯ve been drinkin¡¯ so much,¡± Jones said, chuckling and motioning for me to sit back down.

    ¡°And how is it exactly that drinking yourself into the abyss helps anything?¡± I scolded him.

    ¡°Ah. Lots of folks ¡®round ¡®ere ¡®ave been losing their minds lately. Seems that whatever¡¯s doin¡¯ it doesn¡¯t work as well when yer drunk off yer ass.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious,¡± John said.

    ¡°Aye. God¡¯s honest truth,¡± Jones gruffly replied, a hearty belch escaping his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s either be drunk or crazy and dammit I¡¯ve made my choice.¡±

    Without any method for determining whether Mr. Jones was telling us the truth, I was left to take him at his word. Somehow, by his telling, heroic levels of inebriation were indeed a method of forestalling the corruption of the mind by these sinister forces.

    ¡°Also, we should take this somewhere else,¡± Jones said. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna be talking ¡®bout such things right ¡®ere.¡±

    We followed Mr. Jones to the rim of the town. His rundown home was on the outer edge pointing toward Moel Famau. Every step we took toward that mountain left me with a greater sense of foreboding than the one before. I could not help but feel that it was from that precipice that our foe awaited us.

 Ruins

    It would be difficult to reconstruct the entirety of my circuitous conversation with Mr. Jones in his shoddy abode, but I can summarize the key elements. He outlined how he had begun to notice the customers coming to his small tannery had become increasingly agitated and delusional over the space of some months during the past year. When he explained the precise circumstances of their maladies I was shocked. They were so staggeringly close to those afflicting His Majesty, whom I had not mentioned to Mr. Jones, that I could not help but assume a connection.

    He also explained in some greater detail the known circumstances of disappearances in and around Ruthin. He particularly focused on what it was that Jack Walker, the gentleman to whom Constable Burnell, had referred in our conversation earlier in the day.

    ¡°Ol¡¯ Jack, he always thought he¡¯d find that one big treasure that¡¯d set ¡®im up for the rest o¡¯ his life,¡± Jones explained as he paced aimlessly around his living room while drinking from a cup of pure gin. ¡°So he finds this place in the ruins of the castle, right? He told me all ¡®bout it, ¡®ow he could feel this big horde of treasure coming up. I said to ¡®im that he had better be careful with those banshees ¡®round. ¡®specially that red one. I¡¯ve seen ¡®er.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me, Sir Adam,¡± Sir Lucas said, clearing his throat with a light cough. ¡°I am afraid I don¡¯t understand. You say this red banshee is frequently around Ruthin?¡±

    ¡°Aye. She pops up at the damnedest times and places, sometimes doing that scream they do when someone¡¯s ¡®bout to die. Sometimes someone dies. Other times? No,¡± he said. ¡°Also, Sir Lucas, I¡¯m not a ¡®Sir¡¯ anything. Damn far from it.¡±

    This discussion of the red banshee caused me to see once again the horrible twisted maw of that strange crimson figure from my nightmare. I tried, foolishly, to put it out of mind.

    ¡°Returning to Ruthin Castle for a moment,¡± I coughed, ¡°Mr. Walker must have heard a rumour that drew him there. Otherwise, it is hard to imagine that anyone would just happen to start digging there.¡±

    ¡°Oh, there were some rumours alright,¡± Jones nodded fluidly. ¡°It was from these damned crazy people I¡¯ve been telling ya ¡®bout.¡±

    ¡°What were they saying?¡±

    ¡°They kept sayin¡¯ that ¡®Gorwedd y goron o dan y ddaear mae''r addewid yn gorwedd o dan y cerrig mae''r cyfan o dan yr adfeilion.¡¯ I¡¯ll ¡®member that line o¡¯ nonsense ¡®til the day I die,¡± he angrily spat. ¡°Must ¡®ave heard ¡®em say it a thousand times.¡±

    I turned to Sir Lucas. Not a word had to leave my lips before he provided his translation.

    ¡°The crown lies beneath the ground, the promise lies beneath the stones, all is beneath the ruins,¡± he muttered, though he appeared somewhat confused by how simple it seemed. ¡°That does appear fairly straightforward. I can¡¯t imagine it¡¯s referring to something else.¡±

    ¡°That almost makes me wonder if we are missing something here. I also have no concept of what the ¡®crown¡¯ beneath the ground could be, nor this ¡®promise¡¯ spoken of. The location is not a mystery. The objects are a different matter,¡± I murmured. ¡°Mr. Jones, can you provide us with one of these lunatics who is saying these things?¡±

    ¡°Ah, they said these things. They¡¯re not still saying ¡®em,¡± he grumbled, punctuated by a rancid and thunderous belch. ¡°Can¡¯t say exactly when they stopped. Maybe ¡®round the time ol¡¯ Jack disappeared.¡±

    Sir Lucas and I exchanged worried glances. If that was true, then it implied that Mr. Walker had been lured to a likely demise. Worse, whatever else the circumstances of that demise, it had satiated the desires of the force drawing him there. Regardless, the ruins of Ruthin Castle had to be our next destination in order to fulfill our mission.

    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Jones,¡± I grudgingly offered my appreciation of that otherwise loathsome man. ¡°Stay in good health.¡±

    ¡°I promise ya that I¡¯ll stay as drunk as I need be to keep my mind sharp,¡± he said with a wink.

    We returned to the constabulary where Mr. Burnell was receiving an old woman, short and withered, who screeched at him as we entered the building.

    ¡°An¡¯ if ya find ¡®im, tell me at once!¡± she screamed, bashing her cane against the ground.

    Mr. Burnell strummed his fingers impatiently, but otherwise kept a polite demeanor. I respected his professionalism in the face of whatever it was that he had been dealing with.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am, I assure ya, I¡¯ll run to your house and tell ya,¡± he said. ¡°Now, I have some other business with these gentlemen. We¡¯ll speak tomorrow, yes?¡±

    The old woman, whose face resembled old rotting wood with its innumerable crevasses and harsh ridges, gave us a deathly stare as she hobbled her way out. When she was gone, Mr. Burnell slumped in his chair and held his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair.

    ¡°Was that about another missing person?¡± I inquired.

    ¡°Cat,¡± he sighed. ¡°Damned missing cat.¡±

    I heard John chuckle over my shoulder, but did not join in myself. I empathized with the honourable constable¡¯s predicament. He had far more important matters to concern himself with. He did not seem terribly pleased to see us, for that matter. I cannot say I blamed him.

    ¡°Did ya get a chance to talk to Adam?¡± he asked, his voice dampened a bit by the hand he held over his face.

    ¡°We did. He ultimately proved useful,¡± I said, pulling out the chair in front of the constable¡¯s desk so that I could sit. ¡°As it happens, your friend Mr. Walker may have been lured to Ruthin Castle by peculiar forces. Specifically, there were rumours being circulated around the town, spoken in Welsh, that alluded to some fantastic treasures to be had under the castle¡¯s ruins.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t speak much Welsh, so that¡¯s news to me,¡± Burnell replied with a furrowed brow.

    ¡°You¡¯re the constable of the largest town in the Vale of Clwyd and you don¡¯t speak Welsh?¡± I inquired, exasperated.

    ¡°Not much. Just enough to get by. I hear people sayin¡¯ things all the time that I don¡¯t really understand, but I¡¯m still able to do my job,¡± he defended himself.

    I was unable to conjure any response to that. Thankfully, Sir Lucas did not miss his opportunity to continue communicating what we had learned.

    ¡°Mr. Burnell, it seems that there might be some use in exploring the ruins of Ruthin Castle, if we can arrange that?¡± Sir Lucas requested. ¡°We¡¯re strangers here and don¡¯t know much of the town. No, not at all. I think it would be useful if you could guide us.¡±

    Burnell scowled and shook his head.

    ¡°I can¡¯t see what help I would be.¡±

    ¡°If we find information of some kind on the disappearance of Mr. Walker, I am sure you would be interested in it straight away,¡± I suggested.

    A somewhat guilty look came over his face at that point. I could not determine why he felt that way, but I had my suspicions. To my surprise, he then stood up and nodded.

    ¡°Alright, very well. We¡¯ll meet at five this evening and head on over there. Can¡¯t say I like it,¡± he grumbled.

    ¡°Appreciated, Mr. Burnell,¡± I said, nodding to bid him a good afternoon.

    Before I could leave, he shouted toward us.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°And if you ¡®ave anything that¡¯s useful against unholy things, now¡¯d probably be the time to bring ¡®em,¡± he yelled.

    I simply turned about and nodded. That reminder was entirely unnecessary. I had carried Saint Augustine of Canterbury¡¯s cudgel since I obtained it from Westminster Abbey. I had a fine interior pocket in my coat here I kept the blessed object and I sensed I would be needing it that night.

    We gathered outside the constabulary at just after five, joined by my sons Thomas and Robert as well as the guards we had brought with us. Mr. Burnell wore a heavy black coat with a black tricorn hat that shimmered with a gold-threaded rim. He also had a stately cane that he leisurely swung alongside him while we walked toward the south end of town where the castle¡¯s ruins lay.

    It was a dreadfully cold evening with a stiff and howling wind sweeping down from the northeast. I had been sure to wear all of the wool I could plausibly muster and I still suffered in the piercing cold.

    ¡°Aye, it¡¯s a right nasty bitch of a wind tonight,¡± Burnell said, his Scottish accent coming through especially strong.

    Thomas, ever afflicted by terminal indolence, trailed at the rear of the group and complained endlessly to one of the soldiers who came along with us.

    ¡°I¡¯m half-tempted to just turn around and go back,¡± he said, chuckling to the soldier, who did not respond. ¡°It¡¯s not like I¡¯m of much use here.¡±

    ¡°Boy!¡± I shouted as I spun about. ¡°Your uses elude even me sometimes. God has a plan for all of us and I¡¯m sure He will make that clear soon enough.¡±

    ¡°Yes, father,¡± he replied with a sarcastic grumble.

    Walking alongside Burnell, I heard the honourable constable chuckle.

    ¡°Do you have children, Mr. Burnell?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Me? Oh, no,¡± he laughed. ¡°Never was the type ta do that.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s our duty to God to be fruitful,¡± I insisted.

    ¡°The King has thirteen living children, so I think he made up for me,¡± Burnell said through a smile. ¡°I¡¯m just too busy with my work.¡±

    ¡°Ah. I see,¡± I mumbled, deciding it was not profitable to pursue the matter any further.

    We traveled down what I learned was called Castle Street, named for obvious and eponymous reasons, until we arrived at the castle¡¯s ruins that lay on that south end of the town. They were largely by themselves and left to rot, for the most part. The remnants of the outer wall were a sad jagged and broken mess of stones. A structure that had the look of the armory was beyond those gaps in the walls. There was also what appeared to be the destroyed ruins of the barracks, though it was hard to tell for certain in that pale moonlight and weak torchlight aiding us.

    To my right I saw the partially intact gatehouse that was a sturdy enough structure. It was obvious that was the key to the outer wall¡¯s defense back in the day. What remained of the great hall was on the far side, but I would only learn that it was the great hall later when I read up on the castle some more. There was so little left there that one could have told me it was a house, a stables, or even a small church. It had been so reduced that one had to possess a more active imagination than I have.

    As our party stood in the windswept ruins in heavy darkness that night, I felt from Burnell profound unease. I felt some remorse for dragging him along, but it could not be helped.

    ¡°What I understand is that Jack was looking on the far side, near where the moat is, or was,¡± he said. ¡°We should probably start there, if I ¡®ave to guess.¡±

    With no dissent, we trudged through the snow and climbed over the outer wall as we headed toward opposite side. The castle¡¯s husk was haunting even if I had not heard the Welsh invocations from Mr. Jones that indicated something more to the site. Loose stones presented a more immediate concern. Covered in heavy snowdrifts, I nearly tripped over them every few steps and one of our soldiers fell victim to a hidden stone. He fell over into such a deep pile of snow that he had to be pulled out by my three boys.

    We pushed through in under one of the surviving archways, which was reduced to a couple spindly rows of stones held together by flaking and cracking mortar. I worried that even a few more snowflakes might cause this withered remnant to give way. Holes in the wall near the moat allowed the winds to whistle through, making the most haunting noises. It was all the worse because I knew I could not dismiss that they could in fact again be a banshee¡¯s wails. I pined for the days of sweet ignorance when I felt I knew that such things did not exist.

    There was before us a hole dug in the ground that had begun filling with snow. A shovel lay off to the side of the hole, as did a wooden box filled with other implements. I reasoned that the hole was perhaps eight feet deep and ten feet wide, though it was difficult to determine that at night. It had been dug well, with terraces to aid climbing in and out.

    ¡°This must¡¯ve been Jack¡¯s doing,¡± Burnell said, looking into the hole. He stared for a while as something appeared to catch his eye. ¡°I think we should have a look down there.¡±

    ¡°John,¡± I immediately ordered my boy to do just that.

    John did not hesitate for even a moment. He stepped down the terraces nimbly, though his feet slipped on a caked layer of dirt, snow, and ice on one of the steps. He regained his footing easily enough and reached the bottom. I saw him lifting snow-covered stones and tossing them aside as though they were nothing. Among my three sons, I have always marveled at John¡¯s unmatched strength and I suspect he meant to demonstrate it to a wider audience that night.

    In the process of moving those stones, he managed to uncover a strange chest that had already been opened and its contents clearly removed. Even John complained that it was heavier than it looked and made of something exceptionally strong. In the dark he could not recognize what it was. It clearly was not wood, but it was not metallic either.

    ¡°Pass me a lantern,¡± he said.

    We only had three lanterns between the lot of us, but we lent him one, passing it down via a long pole that had been left alongside the shovel. When the light from the oil lantern fell upon the chest, it looked like it was woven together from a variety of different hard white objects of diverse shapes and sizes. They had been smoothed and polished to provide a sleek sheen. John knocked his fist against the chest n various locations. He backed away with a jolt.

    ¡°It¡¯s bone. The whole chest is made of bone!¡± he exclaimed.

    All of us standing around the hole gasped. We had expected something depraved, but that was altogether more than even I had feared. What precisely it meant was not important in that moment, though.

    The sound of thundering horse hooves echoed near us, sounding out in bursts of perhaps eight quick strides. The silence. Then another burst. Hooves pounding against snow-covered ground were such a distinct sound that they could not be mistaken for anything else. The muffled thuds rang out passing around us from the north to the south.

    ¡°Were¡­ were we expecting anyone else?¡± Thomas whispered.

    ¡°No,¡± I whispered back, scarcely able to hear myself.

    A period of silence lasting some minutes, or what felt like some minutes, followed. We all listened carefully. The howling wintry winds continued to rise. Those winds whistled through every crack and crevasse of the ruins around us. An unnerving symphony. It became nigh impossible to hear anything else. I thought I could hear more of the muffled hooves beating against the snow. But I could not be sure. I held my breath and looked in every direction. Naught but darkness.

    Winds subsided for a moment. Hooves beat the snow behind me. I spun about to look, but there was nothing. My boys Thomas and Robert stood closer to one another, pressing their backs against each other to ensure they could not be surprised from behind. I decided to join them, taking a view facing what I believed to be south. Mr. Burnell stood almost on the lip of the hole, his head flicking all around as he tried to get a look at what was making that noise.

    Then I saw a strange flash of fiery red circles behind Mr. Burnell. I recalled my nightmare and assumed that they were eyes.

    ¡°Constable!¡± I shouted and pointed behind him as the eyes flashed again.

    He spun about, but there was only darkness.

    ¡°Nothing. There¡¯s nothing,¡± he said, his voice shaking. ¡°Nothing¡¯s here.¡±

    Then I heard a set of clicks. They echoed eerily in the air, which had then grown very still. It was hard to tell from where they were coming as they were so loud. Mr. Burnell panted, palpably terrified. The clicks rose skyward.

    The air itself sound as though it were being cleaved in two.

    A blur of white clattering spikes came out of the darkness and split across Mr. Burnell¡¯s head.

    A sickening cracking and ripping sound caused my stomach to turn. Mr. Burnell¡¯s head fell in half in line with his eyes, the top half sliding down and hitting the ground while his body tumbled backward toward us. It fell right at my feet. His mouth was unhinged, and the lower half of his face was covered in his own blood.

    My two boys standing with me whimpered at this gruesome sight. The soldiers who had accompanied us attempted to take shots in the direction from which the assault had come, but their muskets fired off harmlessly into the air. The smell of musket smoke hung in the air for several seconds before another crack of that eerie white whip came out of the darkness. It wrapped around of the chest of one of the soldiers, causing him to screech in agony. I looked at the whip and saw that it was made of what appeared to be vertebrae from human spines. At once, the sounds of clacking we heard earlier had a grotesque explanation.

    From the darkness emerged the headless rider, who himself wore all black leather atop an ebony steed. His head, wreathed in desiccated flesh and with flashing red orbs where his eyes had once been, rested awkwardly under his left arm while his right wielded the spine whip. He loosened his whip¡¯s grip on the one soldier only to effortlessly bring the whip up into the air and crack it down atop the soldier¡¯s head, cleaving straight to the ground. The soldier screamed momentarily before his body fell in twain, a torrent of blood pouring onto the ground between the segments of his body.

    The other two soldiers and Sir Lucas coalesced around Robert, Thomas, and me while John struggled to rise out of the hole. Thomas, who began muttering uncontrollably, drew from his pocket a small gilded cross that his mother hand bought for him and held it toward the headless rider as he approached. Suddenly, the rider stopped in his tracks. His eyes flashed again, and his mouth drooped open to let loose a mortifying screech that shook all of us to our bones. No mortal being of any kind could possibly emit such a sound. It was the herald of another world.

    With a flourish, the rider turned about and galloped off into the night. Those terrible hooves stamping in the snow became distant. Then they became nothing. All of us stood in stunned silence in the cold with the two mangled corpses of our erstwhile comrades continuing to bleed out onto the snow.

 Deaths Sting

    Our party elected to remain in the ruins until dawn as we did not believe that we would be safe walking in the dark on the trail back to the town. We instead took refuge in the old armory, with Thomas at our front holding his golden cross. We managed to keep a fire going until dawn so that we did not freeze to death. Almost no one spoke a word besides to make clear when more wood should be put on the fire.

    Robert stayed in the back corner of the armory, ruminating the entire remainder of the evening. Come morning, he posited a possible explanation of what we had seen.

    ¡°In Celtic myth, there is a monstrosity known as the Dullahan,¡± he said as we composed ourselves just after dawn. ¡°A headless horseman that travels the countryside slaughtering indiscriminately. The only reason I realized this was when Thomas held up his cross. Do you know what¡¯s notable about it?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say I do,¡± Thomas shrugged.

    ¡°It¡¯s gold, or at least partially gold. Legends tell us that Dullahans are terrified of gold,¡± Robert explained. ¡°Why, I do not know, but it does offer a solution.¡±

    ¡°Be that as it may,¡± I sighed, still shaking from the prior night, ¡°our first priority is to give the honourable constable a proper Christian burial. And the soldier, too. His name was¡­?¡±

    I had motioned for an answer from one of his companions. The tall and lanky lad stepped forward and bowed to me. I would have corrected him that I was entitled to no such honor, but I think the ritualistic display was meant to give him comfort that some manner of normality was being maintained.

    ¡°Private Richard Goodwin, sir!¡± the soldier replied, seemingly unshaken.

    ¡°Mr. Goodwin died in the line of duty in the finest traditions of His Majesty¡¯s Army,¡± I said, invoking a tone I had used when I had been a clergyman. ¡°It will be our honour to bury him.¡±

    We decided that the ground Mr. Walker had dug out in pursuit of this morbid treasure was as fine a place as any. With most ground in the area frozen for the winter and our burdens otherwise great, we were not able to provide for much else. In any case, I had no desire to spend a great deal of time with the bodies. Mr. Goodwin¡¯s body was of course a complete atrocity, having been jagged cleaved from top to bottom. I had never in my life seen anything like that. Mr. Burnell¡¯s body, of course, was largely intact aside from the top half of his head, which I had the displeasure of picking up myself. His brains and the remnants of his eyes were caked together with the snow in an abominable amalgam.

    Even with the deplorable state of the remains, we managed to collect them and wrap them in those excess clothes we had on us, largely due to their deaths. We gathered over the hole to conduct a short funeral service.

    ¡°Lord Jesus, lamb of God, we offer unto you the bodies of our departed brothers, Baen Burnell and Richard Goodwin, who fell against vile foes opposed to your will,¡± I declared as the others bowed their heads. ¡°We pledge our eternal loyalty to your commands and vow to seek out these foes and consign them to Hell. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.¡±

    ¡°Amen,¡± all of the others replied in sullen tones.

    When we returned to Ruthin, with the strange bone chest in our possession, there was the uncomfortable matter of explaining to the townspeople what had happened to their honourable constable. To make this declaration, we contacted the Lord Mayor of Ruthin, whom we had not previously met. He was an older craggy gentleman, probably my age, by the name of Nathaniel Cooper, an Englishman who had once served, as it happens, as a mayor far to the east in Lincolnshire close to where I maintain my hospital.

    He had been out of town for the prior several days, touring the coastline of Clwyd as part of a commission to select a site for a new lighthouse or some such thing. The comings and goings of political figures have always vexed me. Indeed, when we met with him, he busily turned his attention from one task to the next, even as the gravity of our news could scarcely have been greater. His cluttered office in the town hall was cramped and uncomfortable as it was and that was made even worst by his constant stirring.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll take your word for it that Burnell¡¯s dead. I would normally ask to see the body myself so that we could conduct all of the appropriate records, but with someone as inestimable as Sir Lucas Pepys being a witness, I need nothing else,¡± he said dispassionately. ¡°As to how you say he died, I cannot officially state that, as you know.¡±

    ¡°I understand,¡± I replied. I had no quarrel with the practice of preventing the ordinary people from learning about these more extraordinary threats. They could never handle the information responsibly.

    ¡°So, I will need a proper explanation,¡± Mayor Cooper sighed as he walked across the room to rummage through a pile of letters that had overtaken an end table. ¡°Something believable to explain both that he¡¯s dead and that there isn¡¯t a public funeral.¡±

    ¡°Fell in a lake?¡± Thomas suggested, shrugging his shoulders.

    Cooper spun around, his eyes peeking out from the rims of his glasses at Thomas.

    ¡°Not bad, actually,¡± he said after some delay. ¡°To the southwest of here there¡¯s a small pond just off a branch of the River Clwyd. Most of the locales around here refer to it as Mworg Pond. Yes, I¡¯ll use that as the official explanation and draw up the relevant documents. Or rather, I¡¯ll have our town clerk and notary, Cael Powys, write them up, as is customary. I suppose I should send you as the witnesses to it. He¡¯s very exacting about these things.¡±

    ¡°We can expect a lot of probing questions then, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked.

    ¡°Indeed. He¡¯s a funny little man, but he does good work. Our records here in Ruthin are in fine condition on account of that, even though we have had to disguise the true nature of many of these happenings,¡± he declared as he walked around his desk to search yet another document pile. ¡°Where did I put that damned thing?¡±

    I realized how easily we had slid into ministerial minutiae, perhaps out of the comfort it gave us, and how we had spoken almost nothing of the menace itself. Bringing our attention more firmly back to the matter at hand was vital, even if Mayor Cooper would prefer that we attend to other matters.

    ¡°If I may, I want to spend some time addressing what we believe was this rampaging Dullahan we encountered last night,¡± I said politely. ¡°It killed two men, including Constable Burnell, and we have every reason to believe that it likely killed Jack Walker as well. Surely we need to¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not ignoring that problem, Doctor Willis,¡± he grumbled, his fingers continuing to flick through his various and sundry documents. ¡°It¡¯s just a little¡­ Ah ha! Here it is!¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    My boys, Sir Lucas, and I waited in anticipation as Mayor Cooper pulled a piece of parchment from the morass on his desk and waved it.

    ¡°The last major death notice I posted,¡± he cheerily declared. ¡°I was looking for a proper template for this one. Now I can get started.¡±

    He sat down at his desk without a moment¡¯s delay and withdrew his quill from the inkwell, elegantly writing the news onto a blank piece of parchment. I stood in silent astonishment at the mayor¡¯s behaviour, which he appeared to notice despite not giving me even the slightest glance.

    ¡°As to your concern, Doctor Willis,¡± he said as he continued to write, ¡°I¡¯m not convinced that much can be done. If you look through the constable¡¯s records, and those of his predecessor, I think you¡¯ll find that Ruthin has been under siege by these sorts of phenomena, as you doctors would call them, for a good long while.¡±

    ¡°Surely this is all meaningfully worse than it once had been,¡± I said, my voice betraying all of my incredulousness at the mayor¡¯s reaction.

    He looked up from his declaration and formed a mirthless smile.

    ¡°The Dullahan is new, I¡¯ll say that much for it,¡± he grimaced. ¡°But as to banshees, various haunting spirits, and the like, I have heard it all before. I¡¯ve seen the red banshee myself in fact. Every time someone is ready to die in this town, she comes lurking around the outskirts wailing with a voice that sounds like the worst wind you¡¯ve ever heard.¡±

    His description caused me to jolt where I stood. I had been far too quick to dismiss some of the more unnatural winds I had heard the prior night and indeed the night before that as well.

    ¡°Would you say that we would have known if it we heard it or would it have been indistinguishable with the winds?¡± I asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard to imagine that you could mistake it for just the wind, but I suppose if you were not specifically listening for it that could¡¯ve happened,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s not easy to tell some of the winter winds we hear from banshees and other foul things, if you¡¯re not from around here that is.¡±

    I realized that I had fallen into a trap of not pressing him on his call for inaction and returned to the point again.

    ¡°What is it that you suggest we do about what we experienced last night?¡± I inquired.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± he said. ¡°I suggest we simply let this incident pass as we have with others before it. Whatever these foul and unnatural forces are, they come and they go. When they come, you just hope that they don¡¯t come for you.¡±

    His delivery of this argument carried a strange air of sincerity to it. I realized that it was not merely the case that he meant to try to leave him alone in that moment, but that he truly believed what he said was the appropriate course of action. Not wanting to press the point any further, we left and made for the notary¡¯s office, which was in the same building on the opposite side.

    The notary, who also served as the town clerk, was a peculiar and slovenly man whose clothes were disheveled and unwashed and had an office to match. There were places where Cael Powys had left crumbs of old food to dry out or rot and, like the mayor¡¯s office, he had papers scattered all over nearly every surface. As far as I could determine, these were only personal correspondences and not official documents. Evidently, his official documents were orderly and nigh impeccable.

    As for himself, he was a plump man of about forty years of age with messy black hair and thick glasses. Other than being slightly eccentric in his demeanor, a common feature we had found in the people of Ruthin, there was little truly notable about him. He listened politely, maintaining his focus on us as he sat at his desk, while we explained why it was that we were seeing him.

    ¡°So, here¡¯s the thing,¡± he began in a cheery baritone voice, ¡°I¡¯m going to need three of you to sign an attestation that you truly saw Baen Burnell die since we don¡¯t have a body.¡±

    ¡°That seems reasonable,¡± I muttered, looking toward Sir Lucas and my sons. ¡°John, as my eldest, would you care to sign your name to this?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± he grimly answered as Cael pushed a piece of paper forward for us to sign.

    Cael pursed his lips and carefully watched as we all dutifully swore that we had witnessed the death of Mr. Burnell.

    ¡°Can we just talk about how our town¡¯s constable died in the presence of several people, none of whom are from here?¡± he asked in a mischievous tone.

    ¡°Is there an accusation there, Mr. Powys?¡± Robert asked with hostility.

    ¡°Oh, no. Of course not. I can only speak for myself and I can¡¯t tell you how others might take this. If they hear that several Englishmen came here two days before the constable died and that those Englishmen were the only witnesses, hoo boy,¡± Cale said with a wheezing laugh that turned into an impish giggle. ¡°Of course, I¡¯m but a humble notary. It¡¯s not my job to look into such things. I would¡¯ve been curious what our constable would¡¯ve said if presented with that same evidence.¡±

    I wished to confront him over his accusation, but Sir Lucas beat me to it.

    ¡°Sir, this is a most unbecoming insinuation. Most unbecoming. We witnessed a horrible tragedy and your first words you say to us are nothing but innuendo of the most loathsome kind,¡± Sir Lucas shouted at him, his squeaky voice nearly cracking. ¡°I am a ranking member of the Royal College of Physicians. I swear my life¡¯s reputation that we had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Burnell¡¯s death.¡±

    Cael chuckled and took back the document, applying his wax seal to it without saying anything more.

    ¡°Oh, you all can go now,¡± he said, adjusting his glasses.

    There is enough pain in death¡¯s sting for the friends and family of the departed to burden men¡¯s minds without the added load of innuendo that Mr. Powys heaped on us. I have never once in my whole life been accused of such a thing, nor has it even been insinuated by anyone, save of course the lunatics in my asylum. One cannot take too seriously the things said by the afflicted, however. There was some value in what Cael said to us, though. It was a warning that we would be struggling to find any allies in Ruthin, especially since one of the few people with whom we spoke had met with such an unfortunate end.

    Entirely exhausted from the frights and strains of the prior evening, I retired to my room early that evening and lay on my bed. I may have slipped in and out of a restive and unproductive sleep, but it was difficult to tell. So much of the world had become from me indistinguishable from a dream, or rather an atrocious nightmare.

    At some point much later in the evening, my son John came to my room and requested my presence. He had been focused on the strange chest that we acquired from Ruthin Castle and had put it in the center of his room while he studied it. He had procured a series of candles that he put around the chest, illuminating it brilliantly. I could see nearly every individual bone that had been stuck together to construct the chest. Ribs, femurs, pieces of skull, and so on. John had noticed something obvious that I had not, however.

    ¡°Father, I¡¯ve been looking at these bones all night and something occurred to me. These are new bones,¡± he said. ¡°Given their density and relative lack of wear, I¡¯d say they were stuck together like this in the past few weeks.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand then,¡± I murmured. ¡°If this is new, then what was all that nonsense about the townsfolk speaking of a promise?¡±

    ¡°I think, and I will need to ask Robert about this since he knows these sorts of things better than I, that it may have been part of a ritual yet to come,¡± John¡¯s voice became weaker as he spoke. He must have found the conclusion as unnerving as I did. ¡°Look very carefully on each side of the chest. There¡¯s Welsh script in six locations. I can¡¯t read it, but either Robert or Sir Lucas could.¡±

    I examined the sides, top, and bottom of the chest and, sure enough, there was crudely-etched Welsh script on each of the six femurs. I summoned both Robert and Sir Lucas to John¡¯s room as soon as I could find them. They had stayed down in the tavern, drinking away their sorrows, but they were still serviceable.

    Both of them scurried around the chest, whispering to one another as they read each side in turn. When they were done, Sir Lucas took to writing down the words while Robert explained them to us. Robert¡¯s face twitched as he spoke.

    ¡°Y rhain rydyn ni''n eu cynnig i chi; Y rhain rydyn ni''n eu rhoi i chi; Am was dewr; I was yn wirl Cnawd unyielding; Gwaed yn anfodlon,¡± he intoned, affecting a perfectly fair Welsh accent for the task. John and I looked to one another. While unsure of what exactly it meant, there was a meaning to it that still worried me. Robert provided the translation after a pause. ¡°These we offer you; These we grant you; For a servant brave; For a servant true; Flesh unyielding; Blood unspilling.¡±

    As Robert finished his translation, I stared at the chest, that unholy box of unspeakable provenance. I swear to this day that I could hear the lamentations of the poor souls that had been slain to craft it. We had indeed interrupted a ritual that was to be performed, but that meant another disquieting truth. Whoever had made that chest would now be looking for it. And for us.

 The Hunted

    ¡°It¡¯s best if we find another place to keep this, my boys,¡± I stammered out fearfully. ¡°Somewhere far from here.¡±

    ¡°What? Why?¡± Thomas asked.

    ¡°Because it will draw something terrible to us,¡± John angrily snapped back at his brother. ¡°This is important to them. They will come looking for it.¡±

    Robert and Sir Lucas both nodded.

    ¡°I would suggest out of town,¡± Robert offered.

    ¡°Yes, yes. Somewhere on the outskirts. Let them have it,¡± Sir Lucas said.

    At that, I was forced to disagree. Whatever this servant the etchings spoke of, I shuddered to imagine the ritual being completed and that servant being unleashed upon us.

    ¡°If it¡¯s important to them, we cannot let them have it,¡± I declared, quashing my earlier terror. My sudden change of heart plainly confused my boys and Sir Lucas. ¡°I fear that allowing whatever ritual this was to be completed will be a far greater danger.¡±

    Thomas looked as though he had been struck on the head by a bell. His eyes flickered back and forth between me, the chest, and the others in the room in rapid fashion.

    ¡°Father, just a second ago you said¡ª¡± he began to protest, but I cut him off.

    ¡°Yes, I know. I¡¯ve thought better of it,¡± I angrily interjected. ¡°Getting it out of this inn and making sure it doesn¡¯t fall into the wrong hands aren¡¯t incompatible. We can do both.¡±

    ¡°What idea do you have?¡± Robert inquired.

    ¡°The only place in this town I feel can be safe.¡±

    We made for the church of St. Peter¡¯s on the north end of the market square. It was around nine at night, but the church was still lit as the priest and his assistants were doubtlessly preparing for the final Christmas festivities. The final Sunday of Advent was the following day and it was only then that I realized that I had celebrated only one of the Sundays of Advent that year. That was a loathsome tally for a man formerly in the service of the Church.

    John and Thomas carried the chest under a large black cloth while the rest of us, including two soldiers, surrounded it to avoid anyone sighting the accursed box. The streets, however, were mostly clear that evening with only a couple of staggered drunks conversing near the town¡¯s central clocktower. They paid us no mind and we were keen to return the favor. For any who spotted us, they must have been terribly confused at the spectacle we provided.

    Once we arrived at the church¡¯s doors, I knocked repeatedly on the rough and splintering wood. One of those splinters even entered my right hand, but I did not notice that until later. When the doors opened, a young priest, wearing festive vestments of green and white, stood before us. He was a red haired fellow with a round face and very thin neck.

    ¡°God¡¯s blessing be with you,¡± he said in a strong Welsh accent. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but mass isn¡¯t until seven tomorrow morning.¡±

    ¡°If you will pardon me, Father¡­¡± I began.

    ¡°James. You may call me Father James,¡± he said cheerily.

    ¡°We are on a Royal mission on behalf of His Majesty and we have an object of great importance that we believe can only be protected on these holy grounds,¡± I implored him.

    He squinted his eyes at me.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°My name is Francis Willis. I am a physician in service to His Majesty and I have been sent here to Clwyd as part of that service.¡±

    Father James nodded his head and opened the doors further. He showed us in with a bow and a motion of his hand. We eagerly scurried in as we heard the winter winds howling again. What Mayor Cooper had said to us was fresh in my mind. The red banshee could well have been lurking around the town that very evening. We set the box down in the vestibule. Its horrible crashing echoed down through the empty nave.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°What is that?¡± Father James gasped.

    ¡°An unholy thing,¡± I said. ¡°We know not its precise purpose. Only that there is a foul ritual to be performed with it and we dare not allow this object to fall into malicious hands.¡±

    Father James nodded as he looked at the chest again.

    ¡°You came to the right place, Doctor Willis,¡± he said resolutely. ¡°Come with me.¡±

    He led us down to the chambers below the church where the church¡¯s supplies and various important artifacts were stored. He explained to us that the church was one of the few sanctuaries in Clwyd sufficiently blessed to ward off the pagan influences that abounded in Clwyd.

    ¡°I should warn you, however,¡± he concluded as we neared the vault where the most important artifacts were stored, ¡°those who have come to us to thwart the designs of these demons have met with grisly ends or have disappeared altogether. The blessings of this church are confined to its premises alone.¡±

    ¡°I understand. We would become the hunted regardless of what we did with this chest. It¡¯s best that it be in your care here, no matter what may happen to us,¡± I said.

    ¡°God bless you, Doctor Willis. You are a wise man,¡± he stated as he unlocked the heavy iron door to the vault. ¡°You should place it in there with the rest of these vile items.¡±

    Inside the vault, which was only partially illuminated by the candles from the hallway, were a variety of astonishing and queer artifacts. Many were stone monoliths of various kinds, tributes to old Celtic deities largely long-forgotten. There were also gems and rings, crystals, wood carvings of monstrous creatures, and stacks of books whose words I intended to never read. After we placed the bone chest inside the vault, I noticed further a collection of what appeared to be various and sundry animal parts, though they were from no animals that I recognized.

    When I left the vault and Father James sealed it up again, I could not shake the feeling that there might have been something useful among those artifacts. I, of course, had seen similar depositories of strange artifacts in my travels as a member of the clergy and I struggled against malevolent forces elsewhere in Britain. This store in Ruthin, however, was something altogether different in both its size and range of items.

    ¡°Father James,¡± I said as he sealed up the vault, ¡°how long would you say that the church has been collecting such things?¡±

    ¡°God knows such things. I do not know myself,¡± he replied placidly.

    ¡°But it has been since well before you came to serve as the priest for this church?¡±

    ¡°Well before, that would be fair. On the basis of those records I inherited from my predecessors, I wonder if it is the case that the church was built here precisely to be the house of such things,¡± he said. ¡°When one spends so much time trying to understand these matters, one finds that the truths at the core of it all are¡ª¡±

    Right as he said that, I noticed an odd rumbling and shaking that at first was intermittent. Then it was sustained. We all fell silent in the vault as the unnerving noises continued.

    ¡°What is that?¡± Robert asked.

    ¡°I¡¯m almost too scared to find out,¡± Thomas chuckled awkwardly.

    We all hurried back up to the church¡¯s nave. From there, we could see out the windows a strange burst of flame on the horizon, coming from Moel Famau. It shone brilliantly against the night sky and caused us all to stare breathlessly.

    ¡°God save us,¡± Father James gasped. The rest of us looked to him to explain his reaction in some manner of greater detail. ¡°Caorthannach¡¯s minion. A fire spitter. We had heard gossip for months, even years, that those trying to resurrect the Irish fire demon had found something they found useful. The red banshee must¡¯ve found it.¡±

    The fires that burst skyward expanded outward in one massive conflagration, extending over much of the hilltop on Moel Famau. At last, then, they subsided. We realized that this did not mean that the threat had passed. Rather, it was clear that it only meant that the ritual was concluded, whatever it had been.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Sir Lucas squealed in terror. ¡°We interrupted the ritual by getting that box, yes? How did this happen?¡±

    ¡°There was more than one ritual,¡± Father James muttered. ¡°Whoever is behind all of this is holding nothing back.¡±

    He again looked toward Moel Famau, which now stood smoking, wispy dark strands rising from the mountain to shroud the moon. It was a sight unlike anything I had seen before. I wished that I had told the Prime Minister that every supernatural or otherwise peculiar event I had deal with was of a much more meager magnitude. I had never seen anything like what we encountered in Clwyd. Father James, from his shaken demeanor and ashen countenance, had not, either.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think you should go back to your rooms in the inn tonight,¡± he said. ¡°I can¡¯t guarantee your safety. There are accommodations down in the cellar, far from ideal, but serviceable. You can sleep there for the evening.¡±

    ¡°What? You think that they will hunt us down and kill us in our beds?¡± Thomas asked, exasperated.

    ¡°Yes, precisely that,¡± Father James replied dryly. ¡°You, of course, are free to do as you will. I can only speak to the evil in the air tonight. You are all in terrible danger.¡±

    Despite Thomas¡¯ attempt to seem disagreeable with the suggestion, I knew that he was simply being needlessly contrary, as was his nature. Not one of us truly objected, even if the accommodations the priest spoke of were beds of straw and blankets of crude wool.

    With heavy walls on all sides of us, we had no difficulty sleeping that night, even as the world above us seemed to be careening toward disaster. I prayed all night long that God Almighty would intervene to end this crisis, but as a wise American colonist said more than a decade ago, ¡°God helps those who help themselves.¡±

 Course of Action

    Sleeping deep beneath the ground like we did that night afforded us perhaps the only passable night of rest we had enjoyed in some weeks. We arose early, however, to celebrate mass with the congregants of Ruthin for the last Sunday of Advent. Attendance was strong and the entire mass peaceful. I felt a pressing need to shout out at the entire congregation and question how it was that they could pretend that everything in Ruthin was proceeding normally. However, I restrained myself as I sat in the first row of pews with my sons and Sir Lucas.

    Far in the rear sat Doctor Yeoman and Mayor Cooper, both of whom did not rise for songs. It seemed that they had both resolved to adhere to as few of the obligations of attending mass as was possible. I noticed that the notary, Cael Powys, was not in attendance. I would inquire about that shortly after the mass and discover that apparently he never attended. I had questions about how it was possible that a man could be in supposed service to the Crown and yet not show loyalty to the Church.

    The sermon for that day was a missed opportunity for Father James. I would have preferred that he use it as an opportunity to solicit assistance from those members of the populace willing or able to do so. As it was, he kept it thematically appropriate with the season, using Christ¡¯s birth as an invocation for the renewal of our commitments to one another and of course to renew our faith in Christ.

    Following mass, we returned to the inn to close out our accounts and move our belongings, such as they were, to the church¡¯s cellar. I was not surprised in the least that documents I had brought with me had been examined and moved about by others in our absence. I can¡¯t blame those who did so. We were, after all, alien presences and had taken no time to soothe the town¡¯s fears about our intentions. Despite the disturbance of my documents, however, all of those papers appeared to be present and generally unharmed.

    ¡°Father, my room!¡± Robert shouted. I ran around the hallway to see that indeed his possessions had fared worse than mine.

    His numerous books had been torn to pieces and scattered across the floor, his bed cut open, and his clothes taken out of the cabinet and carelessly discarded in random spots. Fortuitously, however, his clothes had not been destroyed as his books had been.

    ¡°Who could have done this?¡± he whimpered.

    ¡°We can ask the innkeeper if he saw anything, but I doubt that will be a productive line of inquiry,¡± I said, putting my hand on Robert¡¯s shoulder to console him. ¡°We best be moving along now, Robert.¡±

    Once we had moved our principal lodgings to the church¡¯s cellar, dank and musty place that it was, I reasoned that our next most useful course of action would be to visit Mr. Jones again on the northeast side of the town. He, after all, had provided the only information thus far that had led to any firm sign of our foe¡¯s plans. Though it had cost us dearly, obtaining that chest granted us something on which we could proceed.

    Jones was still drunk from the previous night when we found him, or perhaps he was newly drunk from that morning. In either case, he was slouched, clutching his head, and groaning repeatedly about how he¡¯d been slapped by a woman named Cynthia Burnell, apparently a cousin to the erstwhile constable. I took from many of his meandering statements that he had attempted to console Cynthia in her grief by offering, perhaps too brazenly, his companionship. There were other details of the encounter that I do not care to put to writing because they were intensely vulgar.

    ¡°Mr. Jones,¡± I sighed as I stood over him, ¡°we came to speak to you about what we found in Ruthin Castle.¡±

    ¡°Oh. That,¡± he groaned, finally removing his hand from his head. ¡°An¡¯ was it worth ol¡¯ Baen bitin¡¯ the dust?¡±

    ¡°Maybe,¡± I said. ¡°It was a chest made of the bones of at least three different men, etched in Welsh incantations. It seemed to be new.¡±

    ¡°Ah. That explains where Jack went,¡± Jones chuckled painfully. ¡°He deserved better than that.¡±

    ¡°You think Mr. Walker¡¯s bones were part of that chest, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked.

    ¡°Aye. I¡¯d been thinkin¡¯ ¡®bout that for a while. The other two, I can¡¯t ¡®member their names just now, but there were two others Jack ¡®ad been workin¡¯ with,¡± Jones¡¯ voice strained as though he was dragging the thoughts out of his skull by force. ¡°You¡¯d probably ¡®ave to go talk to Cael. He wrote down that they were missin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°This is the first I¡¯ve heard that there were others,¡± I said.

    ¡°Oh yeah. Jack was, I think it¡¯s fair to say ¡®was¡¯ now, always one for his lil¡¯ schemes. I still can¡¯t believe he got others ta go ¡®long with this one. All he had was what those crazy people were sayin¡¯. That damn chanting and what not,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Anyone who¡¯d be taken in by all that shit deserved to die.¡±

    ¡°Horrible thing to say,¡± Sir Lucas bemoaned.

    ¡°Yeah? Well, I said it.¡±

    ¡°Mr. Jones,¡± I interjected, realizing that we had to make some effort to keep our efforts moving productively, ¡°can you provide us with some manner of evidence as to where to look for these other people?¡±

    ¡°Think it¡¯s pretty clear that they¡¯re dead and got made into that box ya found,¡± Jones scoffed.

    ¡°I meant evidence as to who they are and where they lived.¡±

    At that he rose, walked over to his cabinet and tried to pour himself another tall glass of gin. Discovering that his existing bottle had run empty, he tossed it to the ground, causing it to shatter into dozens of pieces. He then grabbed a fresh one, filled to the top, and proceeded to pour fully half of it straight into his glass. Confoundingly, he sweetened it with the finest pinch of sugar.

    ¡°Takes the edge off just enough to make it tolerable,¡± Jones laughed as he sat back down in his chair. ¡°When ya drink as much as I do, can¡¯t afford the good stuff.¡±

    I simply stared at him in irritated silence.

    ¡°One of ¡®em was seeing Noah ta treat some boils or some damn thing. God, what was his name?¡± he squeaked and then paused, hoping that he could recall something. ¡°Don¡¯t remember. Anyways, talk to Noah. He¡¯d know who it was.¡±

    ¡°He didn¡¯t mention any such thing when we spoke to him,¡± I said.

    ¡°Ya probably didn¡¯t ask him about this. He doesn¡¯t keep a finger on such things anymore, ya know? Now, you should probably be gettin¡¯ out of here,¡± he said, motioning toward us with his hands as though he was literally shooing us out of his house.

    ¡°Why? You are afraid of something, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked.

    ¡°Damn right I am,¡± Jones coughed in a wheezing laugh. ¡°All of ya saw that fire there on the hill, on Moel Famau?¡±

    I nodded, fearing what more he might add to what we already knew.

    ¡°Well, ya might wanna keep yer heads low for a while here. Whoever did that summonin¡¯, they have somethin¡¯ nasty enough to make short work of anyone. Even that Dullahan is nothin¡¯ compared to that thing,¡± he said gloomily. ¡°Honestly, ya should think about goin¡¯ back ta London or bringin¡¯ in some more help, ¡®cause ya ain¡¯t doin¡¯ it with what ya¡¯ve got.¡±

    As we walked back across town to Doctor Yeoman¡¯s office, most of us said virtually nothing about what Jones had said to us. One might find that a strange thing given the gravity of the warning. I, however, decided to focus my mind purely on the task before me. We needed more information and we needed it badly. I had otherwise resolved that we should camp atop Moel Famau until such time as our foe showed itself in full. Whether we would die or utterly vanquish our foe was irrelevant to me at that moment. All I desired was that we should face it.

    Doctor Yeoman simply sat at his desk, fingers pressed into the bridge of his nose. He didn¡¯t say anything for a while, even as we attempted greetings. When he had greeted us at his door, he only offered the flimsiest of acknowledgements.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s troubling you now? I didn¡¯t scare you off before,¡± he said amusedly. ¡°With what I heard about Baen, I¡¯m shocked you haven¡¯t scampered off yet.¡±

    ¡°What did you hear?¡± I asked.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t that damn story about him falling in the lake. I¡¯ll tell you that much,¡± he said, snickering.

    ¡°I believe that we are on the same side here, Doctor Yeoman,¡± I continued, even though I expected to get nowhere with the jaded and cantankerous doctor.

    ¡°Side? You have a strange vocabulary, Doctor Willis,¡± he sighed. ¡°This isn¡¯t about sides.¡±

    ¡°What is it about, then?¡± Sir Lucas asked.

    Doctor Yeoman looked at us with vacant eyes.

    ¡°Damned if I know. I thought I knew at one point,¡± he said wistfully. ¡°You know, this was once a good practice I had here in Ruthin. I made over twelve-hundred pounds a year. Twelve-hundred. I never thought I¡¯d see that sort of income. But now, I can¡¯t say I understand what¡¯s happening. It¡¯s a terrible fog. People and things of ill meaning stalking us. Worse yet, there are more of them every few weeks, it seems.¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    This sort of banter went on for some time until I resolved to ask him directly about the two nameless individuals, specifically the one he had treated as per what Mr. Jones had said to us.

    ¡°Doctor, it is our understanding that there was a man who sought treatment from you for persistent boils, or something of that nature,¡± I began. I paused to judge his reaction. He raised his head slightly and furrowed his brow. ¡°We have reason to believe that this person may have been a close associate of Mr. Walker.¡±

    Doctor Yeoman rolled his eyes so far into the back of his head that I was worried that they might not come back around.

    ¡°You¡¯re talking about Sean. Sean O¡¯Connell. Irish lad, came here to Ruthin about, oh, a year ago, I should think,¡± Yeoman said. ¡°Never could quite figure him out. He came to me because of his boils. Simple enough thing, really. I must have lanced ten thousand boils in my time as a physician, probably more. His were more than a little odd, though. They oozed this reddish liquid, not red like blood. Red like the colour of a soldier¡¯s uniform. No matter how many times I lanced them, they kept coming back.¡±

    I began to feel my stomach turn, both from imagining this loathsome boils he described and because I started to realize what might have been happening to him. There was once a rumour I had heard about a ¡°Blood Banshee¡±, though it was unclear where this creature lived. Rumour was that she could suck out all of your blood in a single pass, leaving you a desiccated corpse upon the ground. Apparently her mark upon you was that you would bleed exceptionally bright red blood, red like the dye in clothes or some foods. Yeoman¡¯s description sounded eerily similar to that rumour, to which I had previously paid no mind at all.

    ¡°And where in town did Sean live? Or does he live?¡± I asked.

    ¡°On the second question, I have a firm idea. It¡¯s not actually in town, but if you head almost due west you¡¯ll come across an ugly brown farmhouse with a dark red roof,¡± Yeoman said, straining his mind to come up with the answer.

    ¡°Due west,¡± Sir Lucas muttered aloud.

    ¡°Yes, it really is hard to miss,¡± Yeoman returned to simply brooding.

    ¡°Should we be concerned about any contagions and the like from whatever his malady was?¡± I asked.

    ¡°No. The primary thing ailing that man wasn¡¯t his boils or whatever those were. He was probably the craziest man I¡¯ve ever met, or at least he was until some of the more pernicious bouts of madness started setting in here in Clwyd,¡± Yeoman scoffed. ¡°He had these tendencies to rant endlessly in Welsh and I could scarcely understand most of what he said when he would get like that. Sometimes he would scream the words at me, as though I cared to hear them.¡±

    That piqued my curiosity immediately. Other than His Majesty and his strange Welsh ramblings, we had yet to encounter one of these others about which we had heard so much Thus, any opportunity to expand our knowledge of the afflicted was inherently desirable.

    ¡°Do you recall any of what he said?¡± I inquired.

    Doctor Yeoman shook his head disdainfully.

    ¡°I¡¯d sooner light myself on fire than worry about the rantings of a madman. I just dutifully nod and let them run their course. A perfunctory courtesy, but one I try to give my lunatics,¡± he said with a pained grimace. ¡°I don¡¯t know about your success with this, Doctor Willis, but I find that being kind-hearted sometimes is enough to cure lunatics.¡±

    ¡°That isn¡¯t my experience,¡± I gasped, staggered that he would even try to suggest that he had met with success. ¡°I treat all of my patients with dignity, regardless of the extent of their affliction, but there are so many cases where encouraging them to just babble on incessantly does far more damage than sternly correcting them.¡±

    ¡°If you say so,¡± he shrugged. ¡°In any case, that¡¯s all I have for you.¡±

    After our meeting with Doctor Yeoman, we trudged west through town, encountering yet another stiff snowstorm that resulted in large drifts piling up all around town against buildings and the central clocktower. We came across a clustering of four townsfolk who walked in the same strange rhythmic way through the storm. They walked right past us, all chanting the same Welsh words over and over again, though I could not ascertain what they were. I instructed John and Robert to follow them, John for his brawn and Robert for his ability to translate whatever nonsense it was that they were saying.

    When we arrived at the O¡¯Connell farm, we found it predictably deserted. Anything else would have been a great surprise to us. The farmhouse was indeed an ugly rundown brown building with a red shingle roof. A similarly poorly maintained barn sat next to it, replete with holes in its siding and roof. Its lands were modest at perhaps ten acres and seemed to primarily be oriented toward the raising of sheep, based on the herd that resided in the barn. There may have been some small areas under cultivation for wheat as well.

    Inside the farmhouse, affairs were adequately tidy though with how dark it was inside it was hard to assess dust, dirt, and the like. A small room was separated from much of the rest of the house, containing a double bed. Based on the clothes there, I surmised that Mr. O¡¯Connell was married, a fact that had not been mentioned by any of those with whom we had spoken. Similarly, there were two small beds in the main living area, just to the right of the dining table. Clothes stored in a heavy dresser nearby indicated they were for a young boy and young girl.

    ¡°Two children,¡± Thomas commented. ¡°Seems light for the Irish.¡±

    ¡°Thomas, not now,¡± I grumbled, thumbing through papers lying on a nearby desk.

    Most of the correspondence I saw was quite ordinary, albeit the man¡¯s penmanship was dreadful and I could scarcely make out more than half the words. The remainder could be gleaned by context. The great bulk of the letters and other papers simply pertained to orders for wool from customers and then his own records for purchases of grain to feed his sheep. Whatever else one might say of Mr. O¡¯Connell, his records were fairly extensive and meticulous, if a touch shoddily stored.

    Then I happened across a very strange thing indeed. There was a bound series of documents in a marginally locked drawer that we were able to simply force open due to the weakness of the lock. This seemed to be something of a diary, but only spanning the prior nine months or so. It began with his writings in March of that year, pertaining to the expected birth of a child in April. Come April, this descended into devastation when the child, whom he named Patrick, passed away only three days after being born. I paused to pray for Patrick¡¯s soul before continuing.

    The tenor of Mr. O¡¯Connell¡¯s writings took on an exceedingly disturbing bent. His lamentations ventured from being simply sad to frightening. ¡°I will rip off the flesh of any happy child I see! It is unfair that they should live while Patrick is dead in the ground.¡± Such sentiments are common among lunatics I have treated who have encountered great trauma. Envy is considered one of the deadly sins for a reason and Mr. O¡¯Connell¡¯s writings aptly demonstrated that point.

    Around July, he started writing a series of Welsh phrases over and over across his pages. ¡°Tri am y gwaed. Tri am y fflamau. Tri am yr esgyrn. Naw i ni i gyd.¡±

    Sir Lucas offered a translation for me, which he delivered in a lyrical voice, as though he were reading Shakespeare.

    ¡°Three for the blood, three for the flames, three for the bones. Nine for us all,¡± he sang.

    Thomas and I looked at him with terrified expressions. His own face had turned grey and then he began an almost maniacal chuckle that turned quickly to tears.

    ¡°His family had three others. His wife and his two children,¡± he cried. ¡°They would have been one of those groups of three, yes. I¡¯m sure of it.¡±

    I said nothing and returned to the diary. With each passing week, his writing became larger with more extraneous lines and embellishments that defied any manner of convention. He periodically reverted to English, including in one entry where he wrote, ¡°This is not a world for them. Any of them. Their lives will craft a new world.¡± That entry was in mid-September. ¡°This miserable kingdom will come crashing down. It deserves only the worst.¡±

    ¡°Sir Lucas, when did His Majesty take ill? Precisely, if you can,¡± I mumbled.

    ¡°I believe it was the first week of October, though if Greville were here he might tell you that His Majesty started to have unusual complaints several days before that,¡± he said. ¡°Does that matter?¡±

    ¡°Possibly,¡± I answered.

    His next entry, September 21<sup>st</sup>, was ¡°I gave them over. All of them. She promised a curse on the crown, a continuing curse that will bring the whole island low.¡± Then a repeated phrase in massive lettering, ¡°MEDDWL PWDR, PEN WEDI PYDRU, CORFF WEDI PYDRU, YN FUAN I GYD WEDI MARW.¡± Sir Lucas translated it as ¡°A ROTTED MIND, A ROTTED HEAD, A ROTTED BODY, SOON ALL DEAD.¡±

    ¡°This was somehow related to a curse put on the King,¡± I said grimly. ¡°And he sacrificed his entire family to do it. Men in despair will do shocking things, but this is something else altogether.¡±

    Sir Lucas closed his tearing eyes and wiped repeatedly with a handkerchief. Thomas, standing behind me, gasped and whimpered.

    ¡°Well, at least they rhymed it this time,¡± Thomas laughed uncomfortably.

    ¡°A complete coincidence,¡± Sir Lucas said. ¡°There is no reason Welsh words would necessarily translate in such a way. No, no. It is hard enough for us to determine what is happening here without seeing meaning where there is none. If--¡±

    ¡°Quiet,¡± I commanded. My nerves were already in such a state that I could not abide any more pointless bantering.

    Mr. O¡¯Connell¡¯s entries became so disorganized with fragments of thoughts ending abruptly and changing topics frequently. Words trailed off, drooping down the parchment on each page as though there were some force pulling them down, stretching and twisting them. My spine tingled as I continued. I have seen many a deranged man¡¯s writings in my lifetime, but this was something quite unique.

    Oddly, around the second week of October, some clarity reemerged to Mr. O¡¯Connell¡¯s words. ¡°I miss them all terribly,¡± he wrote. ¡°Now I am alone on my farm and I wonder if it was truly worth it all. My dear family, I thought it would do anything for them. Instead, I asked everything of them. No, I forced them to give everything. How they cried. I shall never forget that.¡±

    At that point, I wanted to stop reading as I had building rage toward this man. There are those who might view Mr. O¡¯Connell as being merely pathetic rather than loathsome. I confess that I do not allow for such distinctions. Not in this case.

    Finally, I came across mentions, though sloppy and demented, of his approach of Jack Walker regarding a potential treasure in Ruthin Castle. He referred time and again to the belongings of ¡°a powerful man¡± who was ¡°the greatest warrior in Wales.¡± Apparently, Mr. Walker interpreted this to mean that there would be treasures fit for a king. The Welsh chanting of the townsfolk doubtlessly aided this perception. I recalled the references to ¡°a crown¡± in what Mr. Jones had told us, but it is possible that this was a metaphorical statement as opposed to a literal one.

    Jack Walker appeared to trust Mr. O¡¯Connell, for reasons that elude me, and the two obtained permission from the current owner of Ruthin Castle¡¯s lands to prod around. The owner is absentee and lives actually near Liverpool well off to the northeast of Clwyd. O¡¯Connell described Walker as ¡°A fool¡¯s fool, and even that might be too kind.¡± The last entry I came across was another Welsh incantation, but the penmanship was quite poor. Sir Lucas managed to make sense of it, however.

    ¡°Heddiw, byddaf yn cwympo. Yfory byddaf yn codi. Mae marwolaeth yn reidio eto. Mae marwolaeth yn reidio bob amser,¡± Sir Lucas said, his voice trailing off. He paused before giving us the translation. ¡°Today I will fall. Tomorrow I will rise. Death rides again. Death rides always.¡±

    ¡°The Dullahan,¡± I said. ¡°O¡¯Connell, Walker, and someone else were sacrificed to bring about the Dullahan.¡±

    ¡°That would be my understanding. Yes, yes,¡± Sir Lucas limply concurred.

    ¡°And what was his family sacrificed for?¡± Thomas asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I conceded.

    ¡°I wonder if they were responsible for the coming of the banshee, or cyhyraeth, we encountered near Kew,¡± Sir Lucas said.

    ¡°Burnell made it sound as though that creature was a ¡®sister¡¯ of sorts to this red banshee or blood banshee or whatever one chooses to call it. I had interpreted that to mean that they had been around for some time,¡± I recalled. ¡°Although, he never did specify how long it had been.¡±

    ¡°And, if I may suggest, it seems as though these rituals are to resurrect things that once were. Yes, yes. It is entirely possible that he spoke of legends that have persisted here for some time,¡± Sir Lucas said. ¡°One of these things may have been slain and was brought back.¡±

    ¡°In any case, we know more than we did earlier. We should get back to my boys in town and consult Father James on his thoughts,¡± I declared. ¡°After all, night falls shortly.¡±

 Cathedral of Flames

    The foul weather had abated somewhat while we were in the O¡¯Connell homestead, making our journey back to the center of town a peaceful one. I worried for my boys¡¯ safety, though I had faith in John to ward off any foe that they might come across in daylight. Drunks and maniacs were the most of their problems near as I could determine.

    Indeed, they had been fine, and we found them standing in front of St. Peter¡¯s having a spirited discussion. It was so enrapturing that they did not even notice me as I approached with Thomas and Sir Lucas.

    ¡°Boys!¡± I shouted to gain their attention.

    They turned toward me as though they had seen a ghost.

    ¡°Father!¡± John gasped in shock. ¡°Robert and I were worried something had happened to you.¡±

    Robert shook his head.

    ¡°I was only beginning to worry,¡± he declared. ¡°It is merely the case that in circumstances such as ours, with so many odd dealings, one should be vigilant when people are an hour or two later than they said they would be. I¡ª¡±

    ¡°Robert, please,¡± I said with a stern though happy smile. His pomposity was too much to absorb at that moment, though I was delighted that both were safe. ¡°There were a number of documents at Mr. O¡¯Connell¡¯s house and it took us some time to read through them. How fared your efforts?¡±

    Robert and John glanced at one another with grimaces. John made a deferential wiggle of his head toward Robert.

    ¡°It was a rhythmic chant, one they kept repeating even as they ate and drank. John tried talking to them while they repeated it to see if we could interrupt the spell under which they labored,¡± Robert muttered, his face tense and his eyes looking slightly down and away from me.

    ¡°Go on. What were they saying?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Cerrig fel pren. Ar dan yn y nos. T?''r duw ffug. Eglwys gadeiriol o fflam,¡± Robert mimicked a deranged lyrical tone. ¡°Stones like wood. Alight in the night. The false god''s house. A cathedral of flame.¡±

    Sir Lucas almost fell backwards as he heard those words. While some of the Welsh verses we had encountered on this entire demented adventure were cryptic, that was not. I looked up at the strong stone edifice of St. Peter¡¯s and realized that it would be there, that night, we would see the next crisis.

    ¡°We haven¡¯t a moment to lose,¡± I said. ¡°We must prepare to defend this place.¡±

    Inside the church, preparations were being made for a Christmas Eve mass that was to come a couple of days later. A nativity decoration had been placed in the vestibule and festive decorations adorned the lamps and candleholders there as well. Father James wore a bright red cassock with a gold stole around his shoulders, but his countenance did not match his vibrant garments. Rather, the lines of his face better approximated a man about to conduct a funeral than one preparing to celebrate the birth of our Saviour.

    When we explained the situation, he was only able to mildly nod his head in concurrence.

    ¡°I had dark dreams last night presaging such a thing,¡± he murmured. ¡°Against a spawn of Caorthannach¡¯s, we have few weapons except that faith provides us. Blessed water is as fine a weapon as any.¡±

    ¡°You have experience with that?¡± Thomas chuckled with incredulity.

    ¡°No, but I have read about it. The sword used to drive Caorthannach into the sea was nothing more than an ordinary blade doused in blessed water,¡± Father James said politely, admirably tolerating Thomas¡¯ impertinence. ¡°God¡¯s power, like God¡¯s truth, are simple things.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s fine enough,¡± Thomas riposted, ¡°but do you have some swords we can use? Maybe some blessed musket balls?¡±

    Father James further forgave Thomas his misbehaviour, and instead summoned us down to his vault again. There we looked over a variety of blessed artifacts, including three swords that dated back to the 7<sup>th</sup> Century.

    ¡°The Papists will often speak of incorruptible bodies being signs of saintliness. These swords, their steel is similarly incorruptible,¡± Father James said, running his finger along their broad sides. ¡°Think of it. Eleven hundred years they have been in the damp climate we have here and they are still as strong as the day they were forged.¡±

    ¡°I say¡­¡± John gasped, gawking at the blades. He picked up the longest among them. ¡°These are rare finds.¡±

    ¡°Not as rare as one might think. This is hardly the only church in the realm housing such artifacts,¡± Father James corrected him. ¡°This island, Great Britain, has historically been inundated with this Celtic pagan scourge and it has been an effort across the whole island to keep those forces at bay. One day, we hope they will be utterly vanquished.¡±

    ¡°Hasn¡¯t happened yet, though,¡± Thomas sighed, grasping the shortest sword, which was only as long as a man¡¯s forearm. ¡°Almost makes you wonder what the point is.¡±

    ¡°Thomas, the point is we keep up the fight to save those who would otherwise fall victim to these foes,¡± I declared. ¡°That is our mission. It¡¯s just like ordinary medicine. People still die of the things we try to cure, but we keep trying. So it is with this.¡±

    He looked at me with a slight smirk and nodded.

    Robert, meanwhile, grudgingly took the sword of middling length. He carefully inspected its every inch for any information he could glean from its crafting. Indeed, he found an inscription at the base of the blade right near the pommel.

    ¡°God¡¯s foes all fall,¡± he said, quoting it.

    Father James smiled and gently touched his finger to the point of the blade.

    ¡°This one slew a Dullahan centuries ago,¡± he said. ¡°The tip here? Gold. It¡¯s one of the reasons that Dullahans today fear gold.¡±

    ¡°Keep that one close, Robert,¡± I said with a smile.

    The good Father James turned to me and gave me a curious glance.

    ¡°And you, Doctor Willis, or Brother Francis if you would prefer to go by your old title?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Doctor, please,¡± I said. ¡°And I shall use Saint Augustine of Canterbury¡¯s cudgel. It served me well once. It should serve me well again.¡±

    I opened my coat, allowing him to see the cudgel held in a strap in my coat¡¯s inside lining. He nodded and smiled. He then turned to Sir Lucas, who nervously kept adjusting his glasses and muttering quietly to himself.

    ¡°You, Sir Lucas, do you wish to be armed?¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°No, no,¡± Sir Lucas mumbled. ¡°I am not much use at this sort of thing. I could maybe, that is, I could perhaps, help carry blessed water as necessary?¡±

    Father James appeared amused at the meagerness of Sir Lucas¡¯ offer of assistance, but I suspect he had not expected much as he accepted it. We all were only able to offer what we could. It was all that could be expected.

    As night fell upon Ruthin, we noticed that the townsfolk almost all retired to their homes earlier than normal. The market square was empty. Even the inn and tavern were essentially deserted, save for the most committed of drunks. Rumours had spread throughout the town that the fire spitter was coming. The chanting of the afflicted townsfolk had been enough to convince the whole town to take shelter.

    From one of the northeasterly windows on the church¡¯s second level, I looked up toward Moel Famau, waiting for the first signs that something would indeed happen. I do not know how many minutes passed before I saw the first burst of flame shoot skyward from the mountain. Crackling red and orange flames tickled the vaults of the sky before subsiding. What appeared to be, at that great distance, a single cinder, began trudging down the mountain. With each step it took, a small wave of flame flowed out around it, illuminating the snow nearby before melting it.

    ¡°It¡¯s coming,¡± I said.

    My boys, standing down in the nave below looked up with horrified expressions on their faces. Even though we all expected this to happen, there was always that na?ve hope that, somehow, we might be spared. Every second that had passed without incident had provided the promise that we might make it until morning without such a calamity. Those hopes were dashed the instant those flames lit up the sky above the mountain.

    ¡°Be true to God and He will be true to you,¡± Father James declared as he stood beside my boys. ¡°It was in Christ¡¯s name and by Christ¡¯s power we claimed this island from these monsters in the first place. It shall save us again now.¡±

    I turned to Sir Lucas, who was a window further down from me. He had kept his eyes on Moel Famau the whole time, watching the descent of the fiery beast.

    ¡°Will you keep watch here?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he weakly answered, his lips quivering. ¡°I didn¡¯t know such things existed. I would be a happier man if I still thought they didn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Hopefully by the time we are finished here they won¡¯t exist anymore,¡± I said.

    I tapped my fingers on the cudgel and watched for some moments more as the fire spitter descended low enough that our view was obstructed by trees and a smattering of buildings. A few seconds later, however, a burst of flames rose from the north side of town. Wooden planks were blasted in each direction, arcing into the sky before falling across the town.

    ¡°I pray Mr. Jones is alright,¡± I murmured as I turned to descend the stairs.

    My head throbbed as my heart beat so forcefully that my eyes shook. My legs felt as though my bones had been removed. I had to grasp the railing for balance as my apprehensions surged. I prayed for strength but I was as frightened as I had been any time in my entire life.

    As soon as I set foot down in the nave with the others, hard knocking fell upon the church door.

    ¡°Open the damn doors, ya shits!¡± Mr. Jones¡¯ muffled voice came through.

    Thomas ran forward to the vestibule and swung open the heavy wood door. Mr. Jones stood with his hands on his hips, gasping for air.

    ¡°That damn thing blew up my house!¡± he shouted, pointing northward. ¡°What¡¯re ya doin¡¯ ¡®bout it?!¡±

    My boys all brandished their swords, which dripped in blessed water.

    ¡°You think yer gonna stab it to death?!¡± Mr. Jones burst out laughing. ¡°It¡¯ll melt those damn things.¡±

    ¡°Adam,¡± Father James said. ¡°These are not ordinary swords. They¡¯re¡ª¡±

    ¡°Ah, those holy things ya¡¯ve locked away down there?¡± Mr. Jones groaned, mockingly. ¡°That¡¯ll ¡®elp, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    ¡°More than your sarcasm, Mr. Jones,¡± I scolded him.

    ¡°A little sympathy fer a man who¡¯s lost everything,¡± he cried, dropping to his knees in a mocking manner. He then stood back up, albeit wobbling as he did from his astonishing levels of inebriation. Even from some feet away I could smell the fumes of gin on his breath. ¡°Anyway, I wanna help kill it. Tell me what I¡¯ve gotta do!¡±

    Father James stepped forward and handed to Mr. Jones two glass vials of blessed water.

    ¡°Holy water, eh?¡± Mr. Jones chuckled. ¡°Never did much good on me. O¡¯course, I¡¯m a bigger fan of the wine.¡±

    ¡°I am afraid there is no record of sacramental wine being effective against any of these¡ª¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t talkin¡¯ ¡®bout¡­ Never mind, you ass,¡± Mr. Jones sighed, as he slapped Father James on the shoulder. ¡°Now, let¡¯s get out there. It can¡¯t¡¯ve been that far behind me.¡±

    I wanted to object to the notion of fighting this flame spitter out in the open, but then again I considered that it could likely roast us alive within the church without us ever having a chance to strike out at it. We all agreed to follow, except for Sir Lucas, who remained inside the church.

    Outside, the wind had died down entirely and the night sky was clear as could be. We looked in each direction and saw only empty streets at first.

    ¡°Now where¡¯s that shit?¡± Mr. Jones growled, punctuated by a foul, gin-tainted belch. ¡°Sorry ¡®bout that, Father.¡±

    Father James shuddered and said nothing.

    I then heard what sounded to be a banshee¡¯s wail on the air. Down the street to the north, a red mist swept past the houses on either side.

    ¡°Did you hear that?¡± I asked.

    Robert, standing to my left, both nodded and shook his head.

    ¡°I did, but couldn¡¯t make it out. Far too wispy,¡± he whispered.

    A warm gust swept down the road toward us. It felt like the glow of a fireplace, but smelled of sulfur.

    Heavy, crashing steps sounded out next. The ground rumbled. I stood with my legs wide to brace myself. From around the corner of one of the stout stone homes at the end of the street emerged the creature. Tall and broad, it was covered in alternating patches of black and red and orange, like a pile of burning coal. It had a face of sorts. Malformed and twisted, it glowed at us as bright embers. There was only something vaguely human about it, enough to unnerve us all the more.

    It stopped for a moment.

    ¡°GROUAGH!¡± it roared in a deafening blast.

    From just behind us, I felt a wispy presence. It felt like a series of long hairs brushing up against my back. The wispy wails of the banshee sounded out again. I turned to look, but all I saw again was that red mist. My heart quivered. Twice the banshee had wailed. Once more and a man¡¯s death was certain. I feared that the Dullahan might be close by, too, though I had no evidence of that.

    The fire spitter began walking forward toward us again, its thick legs crawling forth. Its breaths were heavy and tortured, sounding the belches of a blacksmith¡¯s furnace melded with a dying man¡¯s coughs. I had never heard anything like it. Mr. Jones walked forward, one vial of the blessed water in each hand.

    ¡°Alright, ya ugly bastard!¡± he spat, standing around thirty paces from the approaching beast. ¡°Yer gonna pay fer burning down my ¡®ome.¡±

    ¡°RAROUGH!¡± the beast answered, its skin flashing brighter. The snow all around the fire spitter melted, even on the roofs above. Water spilled over the gutters and onto the street.

    It gradually wobbled forward, its embers getting ever brighter.

    ¡°That¡¯s it, ya shit!¡± Mr. Jones shouted. He hurled the vial in his left hand at the creature. It shattered on the beast¡¯s knee, causing it to sizzle and crackle. The embers on its skin darkened. ¡°Ya like that?¡±

    The beast¡¯s eyes flashed the brightest we had seen yet. A third wail of the banshee sounded out from the east, this one so loud that it felt as though a knife had been jammed through my head. The fire spitter took in a heavy breath, all of its embers glowing fiercely.

    ¡°Christ¡¯s blessings upon ya, ya shit!¡± Mr. Jones yelled, hurling the second vial right toward the fire spitter¡¯s chest. Again, it sizzled and crackled.

    A spike of flame shot forward from the creature toward Mr. Jones.

    It pushed through his mouth and into his body. For an instant, Mr. Jones¡¯ entire body glowed orange. He burst, exploding into flaming pieces of flesh, bone, and viscera. Gruesome remnants of his body flew in every direction, covering the ground, my sons and me, Father James, and many of the buildings around us.

    The fire spitter¡¯s glow had diminished following its foul deed. It took in deep breaths to recuperate its strength. I wiped Mr. Jones¡¯ remains from my face and looked in both directions toward my sons, who had still not recovered from the shock of what they had just seen.

    ¡°Boys! Now!¡± I shouted.

    Father James joined us, hurling his own vials of blessed water at the beast. They fell on its head and shoulders, causing it to recoil and howl in agony. John lunged forward with his sword, pushing it through the monster¡¯s belly. Thomas aimed higher with his blade, piercing near its neck. The fire spitter flailed its arms, knocking the two of them away. They coughed and groaned as they fell back upon the road. The creature tumbled to the ground, bracing itself with its hands.

    Robert approached the beast, his sword drawn. He paused for but a moment and then swiped the blade down upon its neck. Its black head tumbled to the ground and all of its embers were snuffed out. All that remained where it had stood was a crumbling pile of coal and rocks.

    It was only then, when the creature had been slain, that I could smell the nauseating and overwhelming smell of Mr. Jones¡¯ burnt remains. It was a poignant mark for our Pyrrhic victory that night.

 Bloodless

    For Mr. Jones¡¯ sacrifice, we gave him the honor of collecting those remains we could scrape together, largely from our own persons and the ground around us. We provided those to Father James, who put the remains in a spare urn he had in the church¡¯s vaults. I regret that it was not possible for us to do better, but the manner of his death had been so gruesome and the devastation to his body so total that there was little option.

    We also collected the remains of that fire spitter and put them down in the vault as well. However, as we set them down, they fell apart into ash, leaving us with a useless grey pile of dust. Since it was unclear to me how the creature had been summoned, I suggested that we store those remains in separate containers, just in case somehow they were to be retrieved later by a malevolent actor.

    Once we had completed those tasks, Father James was kind enough to allow us to use his bathing facilities to wash off those parts of Mr. Jones that still clung to our bodies and clothes. Following that, we did the best we could to go to sleep and prepare for our next day. My boys all slept easily, which I found astonishing. Perhaps they found comforting the fact that they had delivered the lethal blows against that abomination. Sir Lucas, too, fell asleep before I did. Try as I might, I could not stop seeing the moment at which Mr. Jones¡¯ body exploded before us. There were moments when I came close to dozing off, but those were brief and almost immediately the thoughts of that terrible moment shook me back awake.

    So it was that I lay on my side, thinking of that instant again and again. I had not considered Mr. Jones to be a good man or a friend. I knew him for far too brief a time to judge him to be either. Nonetheless, it is a jarring thing to see a person one had gotten to know at least somewhat be rendered into naught but splatters upon the ground.

    Then I heard that wispy wailing again. At first I thought it was merely a resurgent wind as a fierce blizzard set in on Ruthin. Then it sounded out again, whistling past the church. It was certainly that red banshee¡¯s wail again. I was certain of it. When I closed my eyes, I could even see the red blur again. At last I felt I could discern what it said.

    ¡°Mae eich awr yma. Gweinwch y gwir. Lladd y celwyddau. Talu sy''n ddyledus,¡± it said.

    I still had not developed any facility with Welsh, but I could at least parse out the noises and relay them to someone who could understand it. I woke Sir Lucas, who seemed terribly confused. Before I even managed to speak it to him, we heard it again, this time only louder.

    ¡°That¡¯s the third time,¡± I muttered. ¡°Someone else is dying tonight.¡±

    ¡°I think I understood what it said. Your hour is here. Serve the truth. Kill the lies. Pay that owed,¡± Sir Lucas whispered. ¡°I think that last bit could be translated as ¡®pay that which is owed¡¯ but it was hard for me to hear.¡±

    ¡°The last words seemed to be lost in the wind,¡± I sighed. ¡°I shall not be sleeping tonight.¡±

    ¡°Nor I,¡± Sir Lucas nodded. ¡°To think in two days it will be Christmas, yes?¡±

    ¡°This will be my seventieth Christmas,¡± I said. ¡°And it will be by far the worst.¡±

    We did not hear anything more from the banshee as morning came. I speculate that, at some point, I must have finally succumbed and gotten some sleep as time passed too quickly otherwise. My boys all rose perfectly ignorant of what had occurred a few hours before with the banshee¡¯s wails. Sir Lucas and I must have appeared visibly distressed as my boys looked at us with concern.

    ¡°Are you both feeling alright?¡± Thomas asked with a nervous chuckle.

    ¡°No. The banshee wailed while you were all asleep. Three times. Someone died,¡± I mumbled.

    ¡°Other than Mr. Jones?¡±

    ¡°Banshees don¡¯t wail after a man is dead. Besides, there were three wails before him. This is someone else.¡±

    Robert shuddered.

    ¡°I almost want to avoid going upstairs so we don¡¯t find out who it was,¡± he said.

    However, we summoned the requisite energy and rose to the church¡¯s nave. We found Father James and one of his assistants continuing to prepare for Christmas Eve mass. He gave us a forced smile as he approached.

    ¡°Did you sleep well?¡± he asked.

    ¡°No, but that does not matter,¡± I said, even as my head bobbled about from my crushing fatigue.

    ¡°I cannot blame you, Doctor Willis. The wails of that banshee last night jolted me awake. I have yet to hear who its victim may have been,¡± he lamented, his voice crackling in grief. ¡°How many more must die before this ends?¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°I wish I could tell you,¡± I whimpered, still recalling the grisly sight of Mr. Jones¡¯ body exploding before us. I then also remembered the sight of the honourable constable Mr. Burnell¡¯s awful end. ¡°With the Dullahan still at large as well, I fear there will be plenty more. That reminds me, we should get going to the notary. We have at least one death to report and, yet again, we don¡¯t have a body.¡±

    ¡°You mean going to Cael?¡± Father James queried, his eyes squinting.

    I jolted, surprised that this seemed irregular to him.

    ¡°Unless there is another recorder for deaths in this town, yes.¡±

    ¡°Allow me to come with you,¡± the priest insisted. ¡°I can be a witness for your purposes.¡±

    While that request struck me as odd, I assented to the request.

    We found Cael at his desk, affixing seals to a variety of newly-updated land title documents. He ignored us for some time until we insisted that we have his attention. He smiled, his glasses riding up on his chubby cheeks.

    ¡°So, you have another dead man?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Adam Jones. He died last night,¡± Father James said.

    ¡°And did the gentlemen with you have anything to do with it?¡± Cael impishly inquired.

    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± Father James protested.

    ¡°And what would you like to list for the cause of death, Father?¡±

    ¡°For lack of a better term, arson.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a funny name for what I heard happened to him,¡± Cael chuckled as he began drawing up the appropriate document. ¡°I heard some great flaming beast walked into town and shot a bolt of flame into him, causing him to explode. Pieces everywhere. People were still finding some this morning, in fact.¡±

    Father James, Sir Lucas, and I exchanged terse annoyed glances.

    ¡°There is what happened and then there is the official version,¡± I stated.

    Cael laughed and took off his glasses to rub off a speck of dust.

    ¡°Can we just talk about how the two strangest deaths in the entire past year have accompanied the arrival of these men? Father James, doesn¡¯t anything strike you as odd?¡± Cael continued to prod.

    ¡°They have nothing to do with it. They came here to Ruthin in pursuit of those things causing all of this,¡± the priest growled. This was a side to his persona I did not know he possessed. Based on his prior comments, I wondered if he had a disagreement with the notary.

    ¡°If you say so,¡± Cael sighed, finishing off his work. As he pushed the paper forward, his sleeve moved up his arm slightly, revealing a patch of burnt skin. I saw that Father James noticed it as well. ¡°The attestation is ready for you to sign here, Father. Mr. Willis, if¡ª¡±

    ¡°Doctor Willis,¡± I corrected him with a smirk.

    ¡°Doctor Willis, if you can sign as well. And Sir Lucas Pepys,¡± Cael insisted. ¡°That should do it.¡±

    We all attached our names, though I was careful to read what he had written so that we were not somehow signing a false confession. It looked to be in order as far as I could tell, though that was no longer the issue that bothered me most about Cael Powys.

    ¡°Until our next unusual death,¡± Cael chuckled and put the papers away.

    Upon leaving, Father James turned to me with a wrathful gaze.

    ¡°You saw that burn upon his arm?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I did,¡± I answered. ¡°A strange mark for any normal happenings.¡±

    Sir Lucas looked befuddled and hopped to gain our attention.

    ¡°Pardon my asking, but what are you both speaking of?¡± he inquired, exasperated.

    ¡°The notary had a very strange burn mark on the skin of his right arm,¡± Father James said. ¡°Absent having an accident in his fireplace, I struggle to imagine where he could have gotten that except¡ª¡±

    ¡°You think he was in the presence of that fire spitter, yes?¡± Sir Lucas interjected, the relaxing glow of epiphany washing over him. ¡°Ahhhhh, I see it now. Yes, yes.¡±

    My first instinct was to go visit Doctor Yeoman again, as much as he would doubtlessly groan to us for incessantly troubling him and burdening his already miserable life. Nonetheless, I thought it possible that he might have some manner of insight as to Mr. Powys¡¯ dealings. If nothing else, his contempt for his fellow man might have fueled his curiosity into a man as cryptic and loathsome as Ruthin¡¯s notary.

    We arrived at Doctor Yeoman¡¯s office, which also had his residence in the floor above, around noon. Despite persistent knocking, we heard no response. I wondered if it was perhaps that he had simply chosen this as a moment to become a hermit. He seemed as likely as any man I had met to utterly withdraw from society. That would be a fine option, given the circumstances, had we not needed him.

    John took the initiative that I myself feared to take. He opened the front door, finding it surprisingly unlocked. That itself struck us as odd.

    ¡°Apologies, Doctor Yeoman,¡± I called out from the open crack in the door.

    Nothing. No response at all.

    ¡°Hm. Maybe we should go,¡± Father James said. ¡°He may be indisposed.¡±

    I ignored the priest¡¯s suggestion and instead pressed on into the office. I noticed that there were some candles still burning from the night before. The wax had melted to such an extent that they were now but little nubs, almost entirely depleted. My boys followed behind me with Sir Lucas and Father James a touch behind them.

    ¡°Doctor Yeoman?¡± I called out again.

    Silence.

    I noticed in the back corner of his first floor a figure slumped in a chair. I recognized from the general silhouette Doctor Yeoman¡¯s frame. I knew then that my worst fear had been realized.

    Carefully, I approached him and pulled on his shoulder.

    ¡°Good heavens!¡± Robert shouted behind me as he saw Doctor Yeoman¡¯s corpse tumble to the ground.

    His skin was pale and his entire body desiccated. It was as though all of the fluids, blood, pus, bile, and so on had been taken out of him. His eyes had sunk back into their sockets, leaving deflated white cushions in abyssal cavities. His jaw drooped toward the left and his dried-out tongue. As he had died some hours before, his entire body had begun to stiffen into rigor mortis, twisting and contorting in the most grotesque ways.

    ¡°Well, that explains the banshee¡¯s wailings,¡± Thomas quipped behind me.

    ¡°Saints preserve us,¡± Father James gasped, making a sign of the cross in response. ¡°Our demonic foes have no sense of decency.¡±

    For Doctor Yeoman, I muttered a quick prayer wishing his soul a safe journey, though I feared his soul may have become trapped in our world as well. For myself and my sons, I offered a desperate silent prayer that we might be so fortunate as to survive this foe.

 Venture

    We gathered again at St. Peter¡¯s as the snows began to fall heavily again. We could scarcely see across the market square, much less anything beyond it. I considered it a blessing that we could not glimpse the imposing presence of Moel Famau. The white veil that swirled around us that afternoon gave us the comforting illusion that we were separated from this chaotic and terrible world.

    I had chosen to leave Doctor Yeoman¡¯s remains in his office for the time being. The reason why I made this unorthodox choice was to see if Cael would demonstrate any apparent knowledge about what had happened. It was unlikely he would visit Doctor Yeoman¡¯s offices that particular day, but there might be other opportunities to gauge the man¡¯s response. In any case, with Doctor Yeoman¡¯s fluids so thoroughly drained, there was little risk of the foulness of putrefaction. It was as though he had been mummified where he sat. That would reduce the pressure to move the body immediately. Beyond that, I had not the heart to bury yet another man so soon.

    Our sources of information had badly dwindled between the losses of Adam Jones and Noah Yeoman. Father James was a useful font of information on those subjects about which he had studied. However, for town gossip and the comings and goings of various people around Ruthin, he was not the most ideal person. This was especially true when it came to Cael Powys, who was apparently inactive in the local church and therefore Father James knew little. We also had learned that Mayor Cooper had taken another journey far away from Ruthin, likely owing to his town¡¯s considerable troubles. Separating himself from those frightening evens was hardly something for which I could blame him.

    ¡°Well, it would seem that we have one clear option open to us,¡± Robert offered after perhaps an hour of our ruminations had led us nowhere. He stood up proudly, taking to the pulpit. My other two boys rolled their eyes and sighed in tandem. ¡°Moel Famau has been looming over us this whole time. We saw where that fire spitter descended. We know what the locals have said about it. I believe that we¡¯ll find that this red banshee and her minions, however many of them there are, reside there.¡±

    All of the rest of us sat in the pews in silence. I had Robert¡¯s idea myself, but I had been too timid to bring it forward. Everything we had heard about Moel Famau suggested that lurking around it after sundown would likely seal our dooms. I knew that at some point we would have venture up the small mountain and see what secrets could be unearthed, but I also had consciously avoided it.

    ¡°You¡¯re free to go there,¡± Thomas chuckled back it him. ¡°Once the weather clears up, it should be a nice little walk.¡±

    ¡°Thomas,¡± I scolded, ¡°please approach this with the seriousness it requires.¡±

    John stood from his pew to call the nave¡¯s attention to him.

    ¡°I agree with Robert,¡± he boomed. ¡°We have three choices. We stay in town milling about, slowly getting slaughtered. We can head back to Kew in defeat and accept whatever becomes of the King. Or, finally, we can head to the mountain and see what lies there.¡±

    ¡°Hear hear!¡± Sir Lucas cheered, slapping his hand upon his thigh.

    Father James looked wearily toward me.

    ¡°I leave this decision entirely to you, Doctor Willis,¡± he said. ¡°After all, I still need to prepare my Christmas sermon and all of the festivities in and around the church. I will not be able to join you.¡±

    I wanted to protest that this was rather more important, but, in truth, there was little more value that Father James could provide. Yes, he was another warm body that could brandish a sword or hurl blessed water at our foes but it was clear to me that he would not be strictly necessary.

    ¡°I understand, Father,¡± I said in conciliation. ¡°If we need¡ª¡±

    Three strong knocks on the church¡¯s front door interrupted me. Thomas sprang from his pew and walked cheerily toward the vestibule to open the door.

    ¡°Thomas! We have no idea what it is,¡± I shouted toward him.

    ¡°If it was bad, they wouldn¡¯t have knocked,¡± he shrugged as he turned back around at me.

    Before I could say anything else, he pulled the doors open and in came Mayor Cooper, covered in a heavy sheet of snow, flanked on either side by ten red-clad soldiers carrying muskets.

    ¡°I¡¯d come to understand that you might need some help here,¡± the mayor said, glancing to either side at the men he had brought with him. ¡°These two squads were not easy to come by. Please use them well. I would hate to explain to Colonel Fitzherbert anything too peculiar.¡±

    I walked forward and offered a stiff bow to the mayor. I was so surprised by what he offered us that I was struck speechless for several seconds.

    ¡°This is most unexpected, Your Honour,¡± I gasped. ¡°We are very thankful!¡±

    ¡°Save your thanks for later. Solve this damn problem in my town!¡± he both shouted and laughed.

    ¡°Well, if there is one more thing you could do for us,¡± I sheepishly began.

    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Mayor Cooper replied with sarcasm. ¡°What is it? Anything.¡±

    ¡°Cael Powys has been a bit of a mystery to us and¡ª¡±

    ¡°Cael?¡± Mayor Cooper interrupted me. ¡°Saw that fat loaf trudging up to the northeast on my way in with the men. He said he had something he had to do, but he wouldn¡¯t be long. God help me if I know what he meant.¡±

    That he was heading to the northeast was not at all a shock to me. That would take him straight toward Moel Famau.

    ¡°Was he carrying anything?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Big bundle of stuff under his right arm,¡± Mayor Cooper recalled. ¡°I didn¡¯t get a good look at it. Were you expecting him to carry something with him?

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± I murmured. ¡°In any case, we¡¯ll try to follow him. Weather permitting. Boys, Sir Lucas, ready yourselves.¡±

    We gathered still more implements of holy provenance before setting out for Moel Famau. By the time we were all ready, it was perhaps slightly after four in the afternoon and the sun had already largely set. The soldiers with us asked almost no questions about where we were going or what we were doing. They readied themselves with drills outside the church, led by their sergeant. Father James blessed their bayonets and musket balls with blessed water. He told us he was unsure that it would do any good against our particular foes, but that it was worth an effort.

    He also approached me with a strangely wrapped object and held it before me.

    ¡°This is an old golden spike,¡± he announced, unsheathing it. It was certainly golden, though it had been warped and distorted over some years by the look of it. ¡°I have records about it dating back to the 10<sup>th</sup> Century. It¡¯s very likely older than that.¡±

    ¡°And it¡¯s gotten some use, I can see,¡± I mumbled, touching it lightly with my fingers.

    ¡°Our Dullahan is not the first to roam these lands. Nor, I fear, will it be the last,¡± he said mournfully as he handed over the implement. ¡°What matters is that we deal with this one so that we are alive to continue the fight. It will never fully end.¡±

    I grasped the heavy spike and wrapped my fingers around its strange contours.

    ¡°With God¡¯s grace, we shall prevail.¡±

    ¡°Amen,¡± Father James said, offering me a sign of the cross. ¡°Bless you, your sons, your friends, and our soldiers. You will need every ounce of strength God grants you.¡±

    I believe we set off around half past four, the soldiers flanking my boys, myself, and Sir Lucas as we trudged up toward the north, toward Moel Famau. From windows of the houses bracketing the street, the citizens of Ruthin gazed at us like gargoyles on a cathedral. Whether they were hostile or benevolent still eludes me. Other than the handful of citizens I spoke to, I never managed to get a good sense of the people of Ruthin and I dare not ascribe motivations to them that I cannot confirm. Suffice it to say, I felt unnerved by those inquiring eyes. They certainly had not offered assistance.

    The only road headed to Moel Famau was the better part of three miles long, meaning that, in the snow and attempting to be careful to be on the lookout for potential threats, we would be approaching the mountain for the better part of an hour, perhaps more. None of us spoke to one another as we did not want to distract the soldiers from their vigilant watch over our surroundings. All of them had their muskets held out in front of them while they scanned their eyes back and forth across the darkness that lay on either side of the road. I suspected that they would be unable to respond to any threat that was not already almost upon us. It still provided some sense of comfort.

    Just as it is in Lincolnshire, the country roads at night are places of abyssal blackness. Our lanterns provided the faintest illumination. The moon, a thin crescent that night to begin with, was obscured behind a wreath of thick snow-laden clouds. Any time I looked into the lanterns¡¯ light, I was blinded when I looked out back into the blackness surrounding us. I readily confess that I was relying on the keener eyes and ears of others as we walked.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Already the air had a frightful chill that only worsened as we approached the mountain. Blistering winds swept down from Moel Famau, carrying with them a truly deathly chill, causing my skin to burn and then turn numb. The mountain and its surroundings were largely barren with only the most meager smattering of trees to blunt any of the winds¡¯ fury. On those trees were a couple of owls who intermittently hooted at our party, likely mocking us in our venture.

    As we approached the mountain¡¯s base, we caught sight of a trail of footprints leading up the mountain. They had appeared well off the road, indicating to me that whoever it was tried to avoid making their trail obvious. Of course, based on what Mayor Cooper had told us, we had a single suspect in mind.

    ¡°These must be Cael¡¯s,¡± Robert muttered, his teeth chattering. ¡°I presume we should follow.¡±

    I nodded and pointed for us to continue up the slope. Beneath the snow was a thin layer of ice that made its presence felt every ten steps. I regularly lost my balance and wobbled uncomfortably in the air before usually regaining my footing. Usually. More than once I tumbled backwards or forwards. My boys, walking along side me, were good enough to catch me. The soldiers with us had boots better suited for the climb and did not suffer as I did. Sir Lucas, poor man, had the most difficult time. No fewer than four times he fell face first into the snow. At some point, he lost his glasses.

    ¡°I hope I don¡¯t have to read anything up here,¡± he laughed nervously.

    All of us stopped in place when we heard a furious burst of hooves beating against the snow. My heart leapt into my throat. Silence. Some of the soldiers raised their muskets, almost taking them to a firing position. Others maneuvered to form a tighter circle around our position. As those with lanterns scanned them about, I saw a set of horse hoofprints in the snow some feet to my right.

    ¡°Dewch i ddringo, dewch i ddioddef,¡± a wispy voice called out on the wind. I gasped in shock. ¡°Dewch i sgrechian, dewch i farw.¡±

    Robert, standing next me, breathed so rapidly I thought he would fall over.

    ¡°Come to climb, come to suffer. Come to scream, come to die,¡± he whispered, his voice cracking.

    Hooves beat against the snow behind us. I gripped the golden spike that Father James had granted me.

    ¡°Dewch i ddringo, dewch i ddioddef. Dewch i sgrechian, dewch i farw.¡±

    Again the hooves pounded against the snow. Then there was the distinct clacking and clicking of a familiar foe. The Dullahan was prepared to strike. My heart quivered and my legs felt weak. Even with as frigid as it was, I sweated such that my face became drenched.

    ¡°DEWCH I DDRINGO, DEWCH I DDIODDEF. DEWCH I SGRECHIAN, DEWCH I FARW.¡±

    The air to my left felt as though it was all being pulled toward the whip as it swept across the abyssal void and into the head of a soldier. The soldier said nothing. Only the sickening sound of cleaving bones and brains punctuated the air. I followed the whip back to its source. From the darkness emerged the headless rider. Under its right arm, the eyes of its withered head flashed an iridescent red.

    I held out the golden spike, the sight of which caused the rider to recoil back. Its horse stood on its hind legs, kicking into the air.

    ¡°To oblivion with you!¡± I shouted.

    ¡°REEEEEEEGGGGHHHH!¡± the Dullahan¡¯s head shrieked at me. It raised its whip into the air to lash out at me.

    ¡°FIRE!¡± the soldiers¡¯ sergeant shouted.

    Thunderous blasts and puffs of flame and smoke came from all around. The air reeked of gunpowder and, as the smoke hung in the air, I could scarcely see anything. The Dullahan had shrieked again, but it took some seconds until I could see it. By then it was too late. The whip came forward right at me, but a twist providence placed a soldier between that deathly device and my skull. It broke through the soldier¡¯s neck, loosing a torrent of blood at me. Some of the blood hit me in the eyes, forcing me to wipe it away. As I did, the Dullahan struck again, this time at a soldier who had stabbed the horse on its left side. The whip came across and severed the soldier¡¯s hand. The soldier held the bloody squirting stump where his hand had been and screamed in agony. His pains did not last long, however. The Dullahan bucked his horse back up on to its hind legs and brought them down upon the soldier¡¯s head. It was crushed like a rotted pumpkin, forming a mess of blood, brain, and bones upon the ground.

    I lunged forward with the golden spike in my hand. I could not reach the Dullahan himself as his horse angrily turned about and snapped at me. I saw for the first time that the horse had something like a wolf¡¯s teeth, sharp and numerous. The Dullahan did not hesitate to try to crack its whip at me again.

    In desperation, I jabbed the spike into the horse¡¯s face, which caused the beast to buck back and hurl the rider to the ground. As it descended back toward the ground, the black steed molted away, turning into naught but ash and the ash itself collapsed into oblivion, leaving nothing behind. Once the horse dissipated, I saw that the rider¡¯s head had fallen out of its hands.

    John ran forward and tackled the rider¡¯s body, holding his whip hand to the ground. The rider¡¯s body writhed violently, trying as much as it could to shake John off.

    ¡°Now, father!¡± he shouted to me.

    I scurried over to the withered head, which was facing up on its backside. Its fiery red eyes stared back at me and its jaw opened, letting out a mortifying screech. I answered it by drive the golden spike straight through its right eye and other the other side of its skull. As soon as the opposite side of its skull cracked, the rider stopped resisting and both its skull and body collapsed into ash. I collapsed over where the Dullahan¡¯s head had been, my legs no longer able to keep me standing.

    John and I both took some time to get off the ground, our bodies depleted by the ordeal. Thomas walked over to us and put his sword away. He looked up the mountain in front of us and shook his head.

    ¡°To think we¡¯re only halfway up this damn thing,¡± he chuckled.

    ¡°Can your mood ever match the moment, Thomas?¡± I queried, my voice dripping with fatigued irritation.

    ¡°Not if I can help it, no,¡± he said.

    The soldier¡¯s sergeant came up to us and bowed his head in respect.

    ¡°I ordered my men to bury their comrades under mounds of snow for the time being. It should at least keep the bodies from spoiling until they can get a proper burial,¡± he said.

    I looked down the slope where his men were doing precisely that. Sir Lucas helped them, though only incompetently. He was a man who had clearly gone some years between doing actually physical labour.

    ¡°After they are finished, we continue on,¡± I said.

    ¡°There¡¯s something that bothers me,¡± Thomas added. ¡°If the Dullahan was merely a protector of this red banshee, how strong must the banshee be?¡±

    ¡°I would rather not think about that,¡± I groaned in response. ¡°Whatever it is, we will vanquish it.¡±

    Our final ascent up Moel Famau become increasingly difficult with ever more ice covering the ground as we approached the summit. Our pace of ascent slowed as a result. I found myself repeatedly gasping for air as I continued to exert myself. I felt as though I had suddenly come down with some wretched illness. It was possible that some foul aura from the dying Dullahan had afflicted me, or that the summit of Moel Famau was simply cursed.

    When we reached the summit, the first thing that I noticed were the deteriorating ruins of some ancient fortress. Even with the snows burying a good portion of the stonework, the walls were still somewhat visible. I judged from how little was left that it had been some centuries since the fortress had fallen. Doubtlessly, some portion of the stones had been taken by those in Ruthin and a handful of smaller settlements in Clwyd to build their own structures.

    ¡°I read about this,¡± Robert said as he walked about the summit¡¯s rim. ¡°Celtic tribes built a great citadel here to protect their lands long ago. It fell in about the seventh century, allowing for some margin of error. Its captors committed a horrible atrocity, slaughtering the entire garrison and their families in cold blood. Hundreds were slaughtered right here and then the fortress was torn down.¡±

    ¡°Strange that a castle or even a watchtower was never rebuilt here, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked.

    The sergeant with us concurred.

    ¡°It¡¯s a prime defensive position,¡± he said, surveying the ground around us. We could see Ruthin to the south and a few smaller towns to the north. ¡°And yet when a castle was built, it was built in Ruthin, on the low ground. Why?¡±

    Robert coughed and raised a hand to gain our attention.

    ¡°This is cursed ground. The slaughters inflicted here put a blight upon the land, unleashing horrors from Celtic myth and legend that have haunted us ever since,¡± Robert declared, his voice taking on a sinister air as if he was telling a story meant to frighten small children. ¡°What we¡¯ve found around here probably scared them off.¡±

    ¡°But there¡¯s really nothing here!¡± Thomas shouted in frustration, throwing up his arms. ¡°Just some old rocks and bad memories.¡±

    ¡°We just got here,¡± I snapped at him. ¡°Everyone, take a look around and see what we can find. There may be a crypt or barrow or something of that nature.¡±

    ¡°Oh, Father, you mean a passage grave or burial mound,¡± Robert corrected me, drawing scornful glances from those around us. ¡°Like the tumuli in eastern England. Those are more of Saxon origin, but there are Welsh and Irish analogs.¡±

    I sighed and rolled my eyes.

    ¡°Yes, one of those,¡± I grudgingly acknowledged. ¡°See what we can find.¡±

    I spent some time on the northern end of the ruin, trudging around a circular pattern of stones that pointed toward the Irish Sea. It seemed like it might have been important, but then John shouted to draw our attention to something that truly mattered.

    ¡°Everyone! Over here!¡± he shouted, calling us toward the ruins¡¯ center.

    John had scraped away the snow, revealing a rectangular pattern of thin stones around a larger one that was an amazingly smooth white stone slab. It almost had a metallic sheen to it, one that actually led me to tap on it to determine its composition. Robert took a lantern from one of the soldiers as they arrived and bent down to read some lettering etched into it.

    ¡°O waed, bywyd. O fywyd, atebion,¡± he muttered. ¡°From blood, life. From life, answers. That¡¯s the simplest riddle I have ever read.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t follow¡­¡± John grumbled.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t,¡± Robert sighed in condescension. ¡°It¡¯s written like a simple transitive mathematical property. Blood is life, life is answers. Therefore, blood is an answer. Drop some blood on this and the door should open.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a door?¡± Thomas chuckled. ¡°Not like any door I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±

    ¡°Oh my, yes. Yes, yes,¡± Sir Lucas chirped. ¡°Probably down some stairs into a dank nasty crypt, I should think.¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Robert puffed. ¡°Now someone put out your hand and we¡¯ll slice it open with a bayonet.¡±

    Not surprisingly, none readily volunteered when presented with such wording. Being the oldest member of the party, I stepped forward and motioned for one of the soldiers to put out their bayonet as Robert had instructed.

    ¡°Father, what are you¡ª¡± Robert protested.

    ¡°Doing my duty for God, King, and Country,¡± I interrupted, tapping my finger on the tip of the bayonet. ¡°You¡¯ve done a good job keeping it nice and sharp.¡±

    ¡°T¡ªThank you, sir!¡± the soldier happily answered.

    ¡°Well, let¡¯s get on with it,¡± I declared. ¡°God help us all.¡±

    With my glove off, I ran my bare palm across the blade, allowing for a deep cut. It did not hurt much more than a slight burn at first. Blood immediately flowed freely and fell upon the stones, both what we surmised was the door and the stone above it. I stood back and withdrew a clean handkerchief to tie around the wound. Nothing happened with the door at first, leading us all to anxiously look at one another. I feared that I had grievously injured my hand for no good reason.

    Then, I felt a rumbling beneath my feet. Sounds of stones crashing against one another echoed up through the soil. All of us leapt back from the opening door. The massive smooth slab swung downward and then upward, becoming a part of the ceiling of the passage down. Crudely hewn stone stairs led us down into an abyssal maw where we knew not what we would find.

    ¡°Huh. Look at that,¡± Thomas gasped. Then he looked to his younger brother and grinned. ¡°I say, Robert. Well done.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll lead the way,¡± John announced, drawing his sword and holding a lantern out in front of him.

    Two soldiers followed right behind him and I followed behind them. I found myself calm as in the next moments we would either succeed in our mission or meet with a swift and terrible end. When ambiguity is removed, the mind can be at peace and I was at peace with either of those.

 The Maw

    We took as much care as we could to not announce our entrance with loud noises, but the tight stone walls caused even our comparatively soft footsteps to echo noticeably. I almost wondered how it was that John could even fit through those stone passages as they were so narrow that they compressed even my modest shoulders. His were a couple of inches broader on either side. Some of the soldiers with us were broader still. Among all of us, Sir Lucas likely found the descent the most leisurely with his diminutive frame allowing for easy passage.

    The air in these passages was as stale as anything I had ever encountered. If what Robert told us was true, much of the air and whatever hung in it had been down there for more than a millennium, even allowing for the occasional intruder. Also old was the artwork on the walls, written in a script far older than contemporary Welsh, straining our abilities to discern its meaning. This led me to conclude that the writing on the stones above us must have been some time more recent.

    ¡°Robert, do you have any idea what any of this says?¡± Thomas whispered behind me.

    ¡°No. Far too old. This isn¡¯t written in a Latinized version of Welsh,¡± Robert whispered back, his voice a touch louder. ¡°It¡¯s all Ogham, at least I think it is. Just lines and scratches, really.¡±

    ¡°Silence,¡± I commanded.

    The space around us opened up as we came to a more level portion of the crypts. We had descended at such a steep angle for so many minutes that I wondered if we were now well below the base of Moel Famau. If so, it was an impressive achievement for whomever had dug the passage. Moel Famau stands better than eight hundred feet from its base from my understanding. Suffice it to say, there are few places in the world that extend so far beneath the earth.

    In the large, open chamber we found ourselves in were a series of statues of pagan Celtic deities, all of which were minor compared to a hulking bronze statue of a grotesque one-eyed creature. The other statues were diminutive, in servile poses toward the one-eyed bronze giant.

    ¡°Balor,¡± Robert said. ¡°They¡¯re all offering themselves to Balor. Celtic God of, as I understand it, death, drought, and plague. Nasty bloke.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes!¡± Sir Lucas concurred excitedly, almost hopping in place. ¡°But in Celtic myth, Balor himself was killed, yes?¡±

    ¡°By his grandson Lugh,¡± Robert answered. ¡°Though I believe that¡¯s the Irish telling. The Irish and Welsh had different versions of the same stories. All of them are likely true to an extent, but only to an extent.¡±

    ¡°So, this is some cult to Balor, yes?¡± Sir Lucas asked aloud, bringing himself closer to the statue.

    ¡°A reasonable guess,¡± Robert said, scanning his head around the chamber. ¡°I would give almost anything to have someone here who can actually read this lettering all over the walls. It¡¯s Ogham. I¡¯m sure of it now.¡±

    ¡°Og-what?¡± John asked as he carefully paced around the chamber, looking down the two doorways leading further into the crypts.

    ¡°Ogham. The old Celtic script of these parts as well as Ireland,¡± Robert pompously recounted. ¡°I never spent any time learning it even though I learned Welsh at Oxford. No one in Wales still uses Ogham nor should they.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯d probably help us now if you had studied it,¡± Thomas lightly chuckled. Robert shot a stern glare at him.

    As the soldiers paced around the chamber, they found a long-desiccated corpse holding what appeared to be a silver mirror. Based on the crude leather and metal comprising the man¡¯s armor, he would appear to have been a Dark Ages or early Medieval soldier of some fashion. I pried the silver mirror from his bones and examined it.

    ¡°A fine specimen of its kind,¡± I said. ¡°This is newer than these chambers. Far newer. This was an intruder.¡±

    As I further examined the mirror, more of its origins became clear to me. There was an incantation inscribed on an ornamental silver rim around the polished silver. Most of the writing had faded badly over time and the quality of the inscription was poor to begin with, but I recognized the old English in one portion well enough.

    ¡°It¡¯s imbued with a blessing of sorts,¡± I continued. ¡°The essence of it is that it provides a reflection of the soul. There is more to it than that, but that¡¯s all I can read. Whatever it was meant to do, it obviously gave this poor man no protection.¡±

    I moved to set it down, but Thomas interceded.

    ¡°You should probably keep it with you, father. Just in case,¡± he said, grabbing my arm. ¡°You never know.¡±

    It was not terribly large, the mirror itself only slightly wider than the span of my fingers and its handle was short. I tucked it in to one of my coat¡¯s front pockets. It was an awkward fit, but that was hardly the greatest of my troubles at that moment.

    ¡°Here, I think we go down the right corridor. Seems to go deeper,¡± John said, pointing down that dark passageway. It was a path cut in a somewhat circular pattern through the rock and earth, supported by a handful of pillars upholding a hewn stone ceiling.

    ¡°Lead the way,¡± I reluctantly ordered.

    The path was wide enough to allow for us to advance three across. John, the sergeant, and one soldier led us forward while Robert, Thomas, and I formed the next row. Sir Lucas followed close behind with the remainder of the soldiers trailing him.

    After what seemed to be a couple of minutes, we happened across a massive open chamber lined in a bright red rock unlike anything I had ever seen before. There was a sporadic ring of candles around the chamber¡¯s rim, providing intermittent light. On the chamber¡¯s opposite side was what appeared to be a crude altar of some kind. It was a flat grey slab of stone covered in all manner of Celtic markings. Knelt before it, I recognized the figure of Cael Powys. He did not acknowledge our presence until he was done with whatever ritual he had performed.

    ¡°So, I¡¯ve heard your voices since you entered,¡± he said before turning around. ¡°What¡¯s taken you so long to get down here?¡±

    The soldiers all took aim at him, to which he chuckled.

    ¡°Hold your fire,¡± the sergeant commanded. ¡°He¡¯s unarmed.¡±

    ¡°Really was too bad about Noah. Here¡¯s the thing, though. She, the Cyhyraeth, really needed some more blood,¡± Cael said impishly.

    ¡°Did you have anything to do with that?¡± I inquired, stepping forward toward him.

    ¡°Oh, no. No, not at all.¡±

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°We have been the keepers of our traditions here in Clwyd,¡± he proudly declared. ¡°Many spirits protect our lands, but they need a little guidance to help. We have helped them.¡±

    ¡°We? I only see you,¡± I riposted.

    Cael hung his head, almost touching his chin to his chest before again looking back at me.

    ¡°There were certain casualties in the process,¡± he lamented. ¡°Untamed and primal forces have their reputations for a reason. This is meant to be an untamed island, Doctor Willis.¡±

    ¡°How much of this is your doing? You¡¯ve been party to all of this, yes?¡± Sir Lucas angrily queried.

    Shaking his head, Cael stepped back a couple of paces while holding his hands up.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°You flatter me, Sir Lucas,¡± he said while letting loose a twisted laugh. ¡°I merely help where I can here and there. Sean was really the one who came up with the idea of projecting a curse onto the King. Clever man. I¡¯m not quite sure how he did that and I¡¯ll never know now because, well.¡±

    With such a languid delivery and flat recounting of these terrible events, Cael presented himself as a man seemingly without a conscience. I had judged his character to be deficient in our couple of prior encounters, but I had never imagined he had this in him.

    ¡°He sacrificed his own family!¡± I shouted. ¡°His wife and two children!¡±

    ¡°Yes, well, all victories come at a cost,¡± he said, smirking. ¡°She demands quite a lot for what she has planned.¡±

    ¡°She?¡± I asked, but then I realized he spoke of the red banshee or cyhyraeth. ¡°And she speaks to you?¡±

    ¡°Only in the ways she speaks to others, well, those she hasn¡¯t marked for death of course. Speaking of which, I should think she¡¯ll be back soon,¡± he said excitedly. ¡°I know she took a quick pass through your men when you clashed with the Dullahan, but she had other business to attend to south of Ruthin, I believe. You won¡¯t get me out of here before she returns. You¡¯ll all die down here.¡±

    John stepped forward and turned his head to me.

    ¡°Father, may I?¡± he asked, clenching his fist.

    I nodded. John rushed toward the notary. Cael recoiled, but not quickly enough. With a sweep of his arm, John struck Cael in the face. Cael tumbled to the ground screaming. Judging by the crack I heard when John¡¯s fist struck Cael¡¯s jaw, I surmised that he may have fractured a bone in Cael¡¯s face.

    To my surprise, though, Cael only stood back up and started laughing.

    ¡°Well, you¡¯ve had your fun,¡± he mumbled, holding the side of his face.

    A horrifying wail swept down through corridors behind us. Every muscle in my body tensed. I grabbed Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel and withdrew it from my coat. My boys, Sir Lucas, and the soldiers all braced themselves.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look directly at her when she comes in,¡± I said. ¡°She¡¯ll disappear. We need to kill her, not chase her off.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s simply precious,¡± Cael chuckled. ¡°You see these strange stones and markings. They¡¯re runes. You won¡¯t find anything like it elsewhere. She doesn¡¯t need to hide from you here. This is her home!¡±

    Another deathly wail echoed through the corridors; this time far closer. It had a maddening quality to it, with each reverberation causing my rage to build in uncontrollable ways. I had, only then, come to understand how it was that this creature might be linked to the madness in Ruthin and, more importantly, how its influence may have driven His Majesty to irretrievable insanity.

    Silence reigned for a few more seconds. All that I heard was a gust of wind from the passages above. It sounded like a weak puff of air coursing through a flute.

    A foul, pungent blast blew in from the hall, casting a dark aura upon the chamber. Candles and lanterns all saw their flames diminish. My heart beat with such speed and force I feared it would tear in twain. Painful, oppressive silence fell upon us, like our heads had been suddenly submerged in water. Then, with a thunderous screech that shook me to my bones, a bright red blur swept through the chamber¡¯s entrance, cutting through three of the soldiers.

    All I heard from the soldiers were moans as they tumbled to the ground, landing with dull thuds. In the dimmed light, I could only, mercifully, see vague outlines of their entrails as they spilled upon the floor. Squishing splattering as their viscera impacted the hewn stone below provided as much an image in my head as I could care to see.

    We all turned toward the chamber¡¯s rear to see before us, floating in the air, the whole of this red banshee. It, or rather she, was lovingly dressed. Her flowing red gown danced before us like drapes blowing in a strong wind. It was immaculate, as though it had just been sold to her by a fine London clothier. Indeed, watching the dress float in the air before us was a very nearly hypnotic sight.

    Her body, however, was another matter entirely. Her arms and legs were withered to the bone, her desiccated skin, a reddish black in colour, forming a thin translucent papery cover of those twisted and malformed bones. Her fingernails, long and curled, extended out from strange hands that more resembled a reptilian paw than a human¡¯s. As for her face, I try to avoid thinking of it too often. Her jaw distended nearly a full foot below where a human¡¯s jaw would sit, resembling a snake¡¯s jaw as it swallows its prey. Flanking her teeth, her withered skin had holes where her cheeks should have been. Above those were sunken eye sockets, appearing unfathomably deep, far more so than should be possible. Sitting at the bottom of them were those iridescent eyes that flashed, alternatingly, from emerald to crimson. Wreathing it all was a flowing mass of spindly dry white hair.

    Our soldiers took aim and fired at her with a full volley. All of the smoke that hung in the air afterwards was a mockery of their efforts. Every musket ball harmlessly sailed through her body, if it was indeed corporeal, and cracked to pieces against the wall.

    Cael laughed maniacally, throwing his head back in amusement.

    ¡°You¡¯ve all¡ª¡± he started.

    The banshee screeched. We all fell to our knees as the piercing cry escalated. It grew so loud that it felt as though all my blood rippled. I saw flashes of my life¡¯s every horrid event ranging from the deaths of my parents to the grisly demises of so many we had met in Ruthin. I wanted to end my life to make it all stop. Each second that abominable creature shrieked felt as long as an hour.

    At last, she stopped. The relief from that torture was jarring in its own right. I gradually turned my gaze upward at the beast as she still hovered above. To my immeasurable surprise, her focus was not upon her intruders, but rather that contemptible notary.

    ¡°Fe wnaethoch chi eu harwain yma,¡± she sang in a wrathful, yet wispy tone.

    ¡°You led them here,¡± Robert translated, his voice breaking.

    Cael shook his head and tried backing away.

    ¡°No! No, I didn¡¯t! They found it out on their¡ªAHHHHHHH!¡± he screamed as blood began leaving his body in a fine red mist toward the banshee. His skin turned pale and then wrinkled as the cloud of blood continued to flow into the banshee¡¯s red gown.

    He collapsed to the ground, his body as withered as a raisin. Meanwhile, a dark pulse briefly emanated from the banshee and she snapped her head back at us, eyes flashing.

    Our soldiers futilely began to reload their muskets.

    ¡°Don¡¯t bother!¡± the sergeant commanded as he stood far to the banshee¡¯s left. ¡°They won¡¯t do anything. Bayonets only.¡±

    A particularly brave soldier, a tall and lanky lad, charged straight at the creature, shouting as he did. She passed straight through him, causing a cloud of blood to leave the young man. Withered and desiccated, the soldier crumpled to the ground. The red banshee again loosed a brief dark pulse, this time further dampening the light of the candles and lanterns to a mere glimmer of what they had been when we entered. Only traces of her were now visible, just outlines of her red gown, face, and putrid skin.

    Next, her head turned toward me.

    Panicked, I withdrew the golden spike and hurled it, as though it were a javelin, at her. Having seen the futility of trying to pierce her body, I instead aimed at her head. The spike bounced harmlessly off her ghastly face, sounding as though it had struck rock.

    Her jaw distended even further, forming a cavernous maw before me. It loosed a thousand tortured screams, the lamentations of the young and old, men and women. Each one was distinct and yet they were all melded together. I know not how to explain what I heard other than that.

    Suddenly, they all became a single voice.

    ¡°Willllliiiiiissssssss,¡± she hissed, her wispy voice echoing. Then, in a screeching wail, she sang, ¡°Byd gwallgof. Yn anochel ac yn greulon. Tywyll a sgrechian. Am byth ac am byth.¡±

    As I found later, that verse means ¡°A mad world. Unavoidable and cruel. Dark and screaming. Forever and ever.¡± I did not know then what it meant precisely, but the enfeebling tone slithering forth out of the abyssal maw made her intent clear enough.

    I drew Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel and lunged forward, swinging wildly at her. I savagely struck her arm. She withdrew slightly but did not show any signs of distress. Her arm seemed as solid as steel. That is the only way I know to describe it. I could have swung at it with an axe a thousand times and not made a dent.

    Her horrible maw closed for a moment to form a devilish smirk. Then, she again screeched in a deafening roar swinging her arms wildly to knock me onto my back. Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel flew across the chamber and skidded across the floor, crashing into a corner.

    My boys all charged forward, brandishing their swords and letting loose wild war cries. She simply ignored them as they swung at her. None of those blades made the slightest impact. She continued to drift toward me, her mouth again opening wide.

    ¡°Byd gwallgof. Yn anochel ac yn greulon. Tywyll a sgrechian. Am byth ac am byth.¡±

    A couple of the soldiers again tried firing their muskets, this time aiming for her head. The musket balls disintegrated as they struck her skull. All they had succeeded in doing is further filling the dank air of the chamber with smoke.

    I fumbled about my coat to find anything that might have an effect. Thomas threw his golden cross at the banshee, sobbing helplessly as he did. From my front pocket, I grasped that silver mirror that we had found earlier. Assuming I was a dead man, I nevertheless held it up toward the red banshee.

    ¡°BYD GWALL¡ª¡± she began, but then her eyes flashed a pale silver.

    Her jaw fell off altogether and she clawed at her face, screeching. Her hair burst into flames and quickly wilted away. What approximated her skin sloughed off, flaking into ash and then into oblivion. The gown comprising her body fell to the floor as blood. Her bones, once so seemingly solid, crumbled to dust. All that lingered as she perished was an echoing screech that gradually diminished until there was silence.

    The candles and lanterns brightened greatly, fully illuminating that accursed chamber. Nothing remained of the banshee aside from the blood that had once been its gown.

    Thomas, still whimpering, scurried across the floor, and embraced me. Sir Lucas, John, Robert, and all of the soldiers simply stood about, rightly astonished at what they had just seen.

    ¡°Father!¡± he cried. ¡°I thought you were¡ª¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± I hushed him. ¡°I thought so, too.¡±

    It was, however, all over.

 Merry Returns

    Despite the difficulty involved, we dragged the four dead soldiers¡¯ remains back up to the top of Moel Famau and rejoined them with their comrades further down the slopes buried under the snow. We kept them together, all under the snow, until we could acquire a cart in Ruthin to bring them all back and give them a proper burial. The day before Christmas, Father James officiated, and their comrades gave moving eulogies.

    We celebrated Christmas in Ruthin as we all recovered from our ordeals. I was happy to observe that the town seemed to be on the mend, the seeping madness from the banshee¡¯s lair no longer actively affecting the people there. I should qualify to say that they were no longer afflicted as near as I could determine. I did not, of course, examine all nearly five hundred of them, after all.

    At the end of mass, I granted to Father James the silver mirror on which our entire enterprise had depended. He stared at it and ran his finger across its rim several times.

    ¡°To think that the only thing that could destroy that evil fiend was her own gaze,¡± he quipped. ¡°Someone must have known about that to have brought this down there so many years ago.¡±

    I nodded.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if she has been vanquished in the past and if this is a permanent solution or not,¡± I mumbled in sorrow even thinking that this horror might one day return. ¡°But, if it isn¡¯t¡ª¡±

    ¡°A fine addition to our vaults, then,¡± Father James interrupted, smiling. ¡°I will add to our records accordingly. One of my successors decades or centuries from now might need to know.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll make my own records, of course,¡± I said.

    ¡°But sadly they cannot be the official record,¡± he sighed. ¡°It¡¯s always important that the ordinary people not know precisely what lurks in the shadows, if they did and we officially acknowledged it, there would not be a soul in this kingdom who could sleep well.¡±

    ¡°There is truth in that,¡± I concurred. ¡°I find that even moments of victory over these fiends never quite brings me peace. I know what still lurks out there.¡±

    ¡°And against them all, we stand vigilant, ever watchful,¡± he declared. Then he made the sign of the cross at me. ¡°In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.¡±

    ¡°Amen,¡± we said in unison.

    Mayor Cooper took the news regarding Cael Powys with a total lack of surprise, but also deep irritation. He wrote up the proclamation to be posted in the market square with great speed, fueled by wrath.

    ¡°So, he was causing a lot of this. I say good riddance, then,¡± the Mayor spat onto the floor next to his desk. ¡°But, I am now out a constable and my clerk. And my notary, since Cael was both. Whatever your travails, Doctor Willis, these fiends have also wreaked havoc on the proper maintenance of municipal governance!¡±

    I stood with my mouth agape.

    ¡°Is that truly all you are concerned about?¡± I inquired.

    ¡°Life marches on, doctor. Best not to dwell on things now firmly in the past,¡± he cheerily said while putting the finishing touches on his proclamation. ¡°There. Now I have three appointments to keep before noon, so I must insist that you leave. Give His Majesty and the Prime Minister my best wishes. Oh, and thank you for helping Ruthin. I will have your name inscribed on a brick or some such thing. Off you go.¡±

    And with that, we headed back to Kew Palace.

    Upon our arrival three days later, we were greeted by Sir George and Doctor Warren, who cheered our success, albeit with a reservation. His Majesty was still deeply demented, even if it was not in the same manner as before.

    ¡°At least he¡¯s stopped speaking that accursed Welsh!¡± Doctor Warren scoffed.

    ¡°I quite agree,¡± Sir George added. ¡°It made understanding his complaints most difficult.¡±

    When I stepped into the palace, I saw the King strapped to the restraining chair, though he was not violently resisting it. Greville at in a chair next to the King, silently watching His Majesty¡¯s every moment.

    ¡°Ah, Doctor Willis,¡± Greville chirped, rising to greet me. ¡°I knew when His Majesty had begun to improve that you must have been successful.¡±

    ¡°Improvement would appear to be a relative term,¡± I mumbled, glancing at the King. ¡°Still, an ordinary lunatic is a far simpler matter. Is there any indication he remembers any of what happened while¡ª¡±

    ¡°Hard to say,¡± Greville interjected. ¡°His Majesty¡¯s ramblings are still, shall we say, unintelligible for the most part. At least I am certain he is no longer speaking Welsh.¡±

    I nodded and took to examining the King. He stared directly ahead to the broad south-facing windows. A few birds played about in the snow, fluttering and chirping at one another. His sores from cupping and blistering were healing up nicely and he seemed to refrain from pulling off bandages that wrapped his prior injuries. Small victories were always the first step toward recovery and I took up the remainder of His Majesty¡¯s care with great optimism that he would be fully recovered within several weeks or at least a few months.

    After the New Year, we took to trying to teach His Majesty to patiently read documents again. During the most demented throes of his madness, he would simply become frustrated and tear papers apart, wear books as hats, or spout obscenities about how he found the topics boring or the authors were somehow morally deficient. I shall not repeat the precise contents of His Majesty¡¯s utterances as they were most distasteful. Little by little, we came to achieve some manner of stabilization and recovery.

    Prime Minister Pitt visited us at Kew shortly after the New Year to impress upon us the political importance of His Majesty¡¯s recovery. Charles James Fox and his reformist allies in Parliament pushed for the Regency Act to make the Prince of Wales Regent of the kingdom, with nearly all powers and prerogatives. As the Prince of Wales had far different leanings than His Majesty, that would mean a dismissal of Mr. Pitt¡¯s government and likely the ascension of Charles James Fox as Prime Minister, a thought that horrified any sober decent English gentleman.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Time, Doctor Willis, isn¡¯t on our side,¡± Mr. Pitt scolded me as we walked outside Kew Palace during an interlude in His Majesty¡¯s treatment. It was an especially brutally cold January day and I would venture that the foul weather did not aid the Prime Minister¡¯s temperament. ¡°Do you understand this?¡±

    ¡°Prime Minister, with all due respect, your worries are misplaced,¡± I assured him. ¡°I am certain that by the end of March, we will¡ª¡±

    ¡°March?!¡± he shouted at me. ¡°What makes you think we have that much time? Politics do not wait for medicine.¡±

    ¡°And yet all I can offer is medicine,¡± I quipped back.

    Progress continued to be slow and steady throughout January. He allowed him some visits from the Queen come early February and Her Majesty was able to carry on a fairly normal conversation with him for perhaps ten minutes or so. Then, inevitably, he lapsed into various demented delusions. Recovery is not a straight path, I have always found with my lunatics. His Majesty is just a man, like any other, and his path to a temporary recovery was destined to be an uneven one.

    Come late February, the political climate had escalated to a fever pitch as Parliament debated the Regency Bill. At one point, someone managed to present the text of the bill to His Majesty, which I feared would drive the King into a fit of rage that would set back his recovery by months. He did indeed fume over it, but in a coherent manner.

    ¡°The bill doesn¡¯t matter, Your Majesty,¡± I said to him with a smile.

    He nodded back at me with a broad grin.

    ¡°You¡¯re right, Willis,¡± he chuckled.

    He still had relapses, such as one episode when he claimed that he had stuffed the entirety of London into his pillowcase and that he would ¡°Sleep on London until it behaved itself.¡± I have not even the flimsiest idea as to what he meant by that. Astonishingly, that was one of the more comprehensible statements from his relapses.

    I found that his love of the Church and affinity for prayer sped his recovery far swifter than anything else. The comfortable routines and patterns of prayer provide a sound structure for any mind, troubled or not, and it was a regret of mine that I had not focused more on this sooner. For those residual traces of the curse that had been projected onto him from Clwyd, the prayers also served to suppress them, removing what ill effects they inflicted upon His Majesty.

    Finally in March, we had a sustained period of lucid conversations lasting several hours where the King did not engage in any demented lines of discussion. For those who had been in his service in the past, they noticed the return of a verbal tendency that they associated so frequently with his more ordinary behaviour. As I had not previously been in His Majesty¡¯s service, I did not know to expect this, and so it came as a shock to me when it happened.

    ¡°Ah, yes, Willis,¡± he announced as Greville escorted him in from a walk around the Kew Palace grounds. ¡°Fine day out there, what what!¡±

    ¡°I beg Your Majesty¡¯s pardon. What was that?¡± I inquired.

    ¡°I said that it was a fine day.¡±

    ¡°No, Your Majesty said something thereafter.¡±

    The King glared at me with the utmost contempt.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say anything more. Maybe all those years as a mad doctor have led you to start hearing things, what what!¡±

    Greville forced a smile at me and motioned for me to acquiesce. Once His Majesty went to the dining hall for lunch, Greville explained the situation to me.

    ¡°His Majesty is known to say ¡®what, what¡¯ or ¡®hey, hey¡¯ at the end of a great many of his sentences. It was the absence of him saying that which caused us to suspect something had gone horribly amiss last October,¡± he recounted wistfully.

    ¡°I see. Well, we should endeavour to correct that habit. It¡¯s a sloppy excess that should be curbed and thwarted,¡± I declared.

    Greville shook his head.

    ¡°I fear that would be a losing battle, Doctor Willis,¡± Greville giggled.

    Indeed it was. Over the next few days, I must have heard those most astonishingly odd punctuations to his sentences the better part of a hundred times. In some ways, they were intoxicating to listen to and I found myself mimicking His Majesty inadvertently.

    The House of Commons had actually passed the Regency Bill whilst we struggled with His Majesty¡¯s malady, but Mr. Pitt and his allies in the House of Lords managed to snare up the bill long enough that the King¡¯s recovery became a widely known and accepted fact. When he returned to London, the King addressed members of Parliament to thank them for all of their good wishes during his period of illness. The members¡¯ jubilation, especially for Mr. Pitt and his allies, was overwhelming. I had never seen grown men dance and cry in joy like that.

    We attended to His Majesty at Windsor for some time following his return to ensure that there were no other relapses. Mr. Pitt agreed to pay all of the doctors¡¯ wages for a further month. When we provided our final joint bulletin, Mr. Pitt passed a bill providing for an annuity of one thousand pounds a year for myself and each of the other attending physicians. It was a lovely gesture of gratitude.

    I wish I could claim that His Majesty offered me heartfelt words of gratitude as well after all I had been through, but I am afraid that such is not the manner of kings. His official duties soon made him quite busy again and I was told to return to Lincolnshire. When I was given that order, I returned Saint Augustine¡¯s cudgel to its resting place at Westminster Abbey.

    My medical comrades in confronting His Majesty¡¯s illness, too, scattered to the wind without saying much of anything, save for Sir Lucas. He offered to refer more patients to my hospital in Lincolnshire and to consult me on any future matters pertaining to the less natural occurrences. For such an esteemed member of the Royal College of Physicians to offer his support was greatly beneficial to my practice.

    All three boys and I returned to Lincolnshire in a cramped carriage. Thomas in particular could not stop talking about the honour of having met so many critical figures in the kingdom¡¯s governance, including of course the King, Mr. Pitt, the Lord Chancellor Roger Thurlow, and many others. I feel that John had the appropriate reaction to Thomas¡¯ incipient fawning sycophancy for those men.

    ¡°Not one of them is in the slightest bit remarkable,¡± John quipped. ¡°They¡¯re just men who happen, by birth or accident, to have gotten these positions. Really all very boring.¡±

    ¡°Boring?¡± Thomas shot back. ¡°Very few ordinary people get to meet this lot and you call it boring?¡±

    ¡°After everything we have endured and observed, you find men like Pitt interesting?¡± Robert scoffed in condescension. ¡°You never cease to amaze me, Thomas.¡±

    Thomas poked at me to gain my attention, but I was lost in thought looking out the carriage window at the rolling green hills of Lincolnshire.

    ¡°Thomas, your brothers are right,¡± I interceded at last. ¡°We have noble work to do back at our hospital and farm that should be the only thing that concerns us now.¡±

    My dear wife had lovingly overseen the work of my farm for those months, hiring at only modest expense the necessary labourers to oversee the livestock and, of course, my patients. They had fully completed the repairs on the barn and had also planted all of the crops for the coming season. Upon review, I determined that nearly half of them had so mended during my absence that they were free to leave and live happy, full lives unburdened by their maladies.

    As for myself, I took a more active role in that season¡¯s farming duties than I had previously as I found it a worthy distraction from the horrors I had experienced both at Kew and in Clwyd. I knew that other episodes would arise in the future and those would again require my labours, but for that moment I was content to simply indulge in the calm around me.

    So concludes my entries related to the so-called Regency Crisis of 1788-89. For the people of this kingdom, their minds focus on the lowly intrigue of the Prince of Wales and his allies in Parliament who tried to take advantage of His Majesty¡¯s predicament. Any who read my preceding words will know the horrible truth of it, which is rightly kept secret from the masses. Were they to know who precariously balanced we are between our Age of Enlightenment and primal depravity, I fear that society would tear itself to pieces in fear. And they might be right to do so. I know not whether we will always emerge victorious. After all, I ascribe our victory over that red banshee to quite a great deal of luck. Had we failed, I cannot say with confidence another would have succeeded.

    With that all in mind, I implore any who read this, as I shall implore myself, that this is a struggle that will have to be maintained for all time. God save the King. God save the Kingdom. God save us all.

    ~~~

 Epilogue

    I, Robert Willis, write this as an addendum to my father¡¯s account of the episode related to His Majesty¡¯s malady. My brother John and I would accompany my father on three further episodes in providing treatment to His Majesty during relapses of his illness. A brief spell fell over the King during 1795, but it was so blessedly brief that we did not believe it to be anything more than His Majesty¡¯s stress over the question of the revolution in France, which very nearly drove the whole country mad. A more serious relapse occurred in 1801 and then again in 1804. By that time, my father was too aged to attend to His Majesty and I would attend with John and a variety of other physicians, whose names are not terribly important for our purposes here.

    We had always understood that the treatments provided during the winter of 1788-89 would not be a permanent solution, but the escalating frequency of His Majesty¡¯s bouts concerned us that this was a losing battle. My father became deeply worried, in the final years before his death in 1807, that the site of our battle with the red banshee at Moel Famau might once again have started seeping its chaotic influences into the country as a whole and toward His Majesty in particular.

    I confess that after my father¡¯s death we did not immediately inquire as to the state of Moel Famau or any affairs in Ruthin generally. Come 1809, however, a variety of peculiar phenomena struck Ruthin that demanded our attention. We drew up plans to build a great seal atop the mountain¡¯s summit that would keep its malign influences contained. However, we had difficulty locating sufficient labour and our plans became hopelessly delayed until true disaster struck in 1810 with His Majesty¡¯s most serious descent into madness yet.

    It was then that we began constructing what became known as the Jubilee Tower, officially meant to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of His Majesty¡¯s ascension to the throne. He hoped that by sealing the malice that poured forth out of Moel Famau the King would swiftly improve. Sadly, that was not to be and, at long last, the Prince of Wales was made Regent over his father.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Other malicious effects from Moel Famau did seem to abate and reports of incidents in Ruthin as well as the remainder of Clwyd dropped off a great deal. We never actually managed to complete the Jubilee Tower as it had been intended for a simple reason. We determined, collectively, that to build a truly imposing structure would simply draw more unwelcome visitors who might one day discover that evil domain deep below the mountain.

    So it was that we claimed we could not complete the project due to a lack of funds. After all, there was the ongoing war against Napoleon that consumed virtually every spare resource on the island. It was a perfectly fair assertion that with such demands we could not place any further burdens on the treasury. There was not a soul in the realm who questioned our assertions.

    I visited Ruthin again in 1815, with His Majesty descending still deeper into madness. Whatever had come out of Ruthin five years earlier was intractable and rendered the King increasingly and violently unstable. I tried to ascertain what it might have been as I examined the seal we had placed upon Moel Famau with that partially-completed tower. I regret that I was not able to learn what had happened.

    His Majesty, George III, died in early January 1820, almost entirely alone and in a state of abject madness. The Prince of Wales ascended the throne as George IV and has worryingly displayed some similar maladies. It is for that reason I again sought out these papers from my father to learn what little I am able so that we might again put these malevolent forces in check.

    It is as my father wrote in the preceding pages. This struggle will persist for all time. God save us all.