The Red Scowl

The freezing cold water bubbled between the twigs and branches that had slowed the progress of the river through the village. A robin bobbed on the snowy bank and light graupel fell in round pellets to the ground. There was no other sound in the forest at that moment as Mor and Beathan stood by the riverbank looking at the task ahead of them. “This isn’t as bad as Tristan thought,” Mor said. The town elder had told them to take all day if they needed to clear whatever was narrowing the river and cutting off the supply to the village. Beathan grunted, but that was to be expected. He was never one for hard work and even finding out their job was less than quarter of what they thought he still wouldn’t be happy. The weir of fallen branches had caused a large section of land to become a swamp as the water looked for a place to go. If it was left long enough the river would have a new route or a lake would form there. “So, how do we decide who gets his feet wet?” Beathan said, his dark eyes on Mor when he turned to look at him. “What do you mean?” Mor asked, he looked to the water as though he might see some answer there. “That’s a job for one man,” Beathan said. “I see no point in both of us getting our feet wet for it.” “But we were both asked to do it, and if we work together, we’ll get it done in no time at all and can get back to the village.” “What do you want to get back there for, so they can give you another job to do?” Mor had known Beathan all his life, had known of his laziness too, but he’d never heard him speak aloud so disdainfully of the village before. “We have our duty to the village,” Mor said reproachfully. “Duty, pah!” Beathan looked away in disgust, peering back out over the water. Mor looked at the side of his face, saw his temper cool and then followed his gaze out to the blockage. It wasn’t going to be pleasant wading out there. The water was not deep, but it would reach up over the thighs and there was no doubting how cold it was. “Why don’t we wager for it?” Beathan suggested. “Games of chance are sinful,” Mor said, shocked that Beathan would even suggest it. “That’s only for gain,” Beathan scoffed. “In this case, it’s just an easy way to decide who goes into the water.” This didn’t ring true, and Mor looked distrustfully into Beathan’s face. Beathan was his elder by two years, but it had been a long time since either of them could have been called children. Mor felt Beathan knew more of the world than he did — Beathan had been as far as Drogheda in the past after all — but also felt there was a skein of wickedness over the man. The idea of gambling was bad enough, but Mor’s certainty that even if he were to partake — which he never would — he would be cheated anyway angered him. “I’ll go you slothful cur,” he said hotly, and he pushed past to get to the water’s edge. The strong grip of a hand on his arm stopped him, and Mor turned to see Beathan’s reddened face close to his own. “Suit yourself, little man,” he spat, “but you don’t ever call me that again!” Mor was frightened but did his best not to show it. He tugged his arm free. “Let go of me,” he said hoping it carried the same weight with Beathan the other man’s voice had just carried with him. Beathan wore a thin smile and Mor knew it hadn’t. “Why don’t you walk the bank and make sure this is the only blockage,” he said weakly and then turned to wade out into the icy water. “I’ll do whatever I want,” came grumbling from behind him. Mor didn’t look back and though he wanted to act like the water was fine, he couldn’t help but yelp and shiver head to toe at the shock of the cold on his inner thighs. A smug laugh rose from the bank and still Mor didn’t turn. He trudged on to the middle of the river where the mass of debris was. It was very hard at that moment not to think ill of Beathan, but Mor did his best. No good would come of it. Chancing a glance to the bank, he saw Beathan was wandering along disinterestedly to check for other dams. Mor’s hands were red and frozen by the time he freed enough of the branches to let the water flow freely again. The current was much stronger now, increasing with each large branch he tugged free, and he worried about getting swept off his feet and getting into difficulty. He hadn’t thought this far into the job when he walked into the river alone. He should have perhaps tied himself off the one of the sturdier trees. It was too late for that now. Beathan would have a great laugh to see him wade out, tie himself to a tree and then have to wade back in for the last couple of branches. He could probably leave the rest now as the water was flowing well again, but he didn’t like to leave the job only mostly done. Besides, it would likely be him who had to come back and fix it again if he didn’t clear it completely now. Mor planted his feet in the sludgy bed of the river and leaned forward into the current. With a great heave, he pushed at a large branch until it moved a little and then he dropped his shoulder into the water and heaved it up. It fell loose from its perch and suddenly the flow of water over Mor was almost enough for him to lose his balance. He stood up straight, bouncing from one foot to the other as he tried to regain the bank. For a very scary moment, it seemed as though he was stuck in place, jumping forwards but landing in the same spot in the river, but then he felt the level of water around him dip and he was soon stepping out into the worn trail on the bank. Just as he cleared the water, Mor slipped on the muddy ground and thudded into the earth. At the same moment, a terrible booming growl shook his heart. He scrambled away from the sound and turned to look back across the river where he felt it had come from. His hot breath rose before his eyes, but nothing was moving on the far side. The tree line was sparse. Whatever it had been was big, he’d never heard anything like it before in his life. Mor jumped to his feet quickly, thinking the worst for Beathan, but the man was approaching casually from upstream. “Did you hear that?” Mor called to him, still scanning the trees. “What are blathering on about?” Beathan said coming up to him. “Something growled behind me, sounded big.” Beathan looked to where Mor gazed and then shook his head. “I think you’ve gone a little mad from being dunked in that cold water,” he said. “No, I’m sure I heard it. It scared me.” Beathan shook his head in a way Mor took as dismissive. There was no talking to this fella. “Did you see any more blockages?” he asked, hoping there was so that he could have the pleasure of making Beathan go in the river this time. “No, looks like you’ve cleared it.” Just then, another log lifted and keeled with a loud moan from where Mor had cleared. They both looked to it and Beathan laughed. “There’s your wild growl now!” Mor didn’t say anything, but he couldn't help but nod in agreement. He felt very foolish now being scared of wood shifting in the water. “We better be getting back to the village,” he said. The cold was getting inside him now, and he could feel the bad aches that would come of it in the morning. All he wanted was dry clothes and to stand by a fire for a while. He couldn’t feel his fingers and pain from the cold stung his inner thighs. “You’ve been given a well-earned opportunity for some rest, and you want to running back to be told you didn’t do a good enough job?” Beathan jeered. “That’s not how it is,” Mor said, but in his heart, he knew it was. Tristan, the village leader wasn’t one for lavishing praise. Any job he didn’t carry out himself could only be underdone, or at best adequate. Beathan didn’t say anything, he just looked him with raised eyebrows. “I need to get out of these clothes,” Mor said. “Another few minutes won’t do you any harm. We can go look beyond the Red Scowl now that we’re so close,” Beathan said. “Are you mad!” Mor exclaimed. No one had gone beyond the Red Scowl since the old witch had put a curse on it before she was captured and burned in the village. “I’m not, but I don’t believe in curses, and you shouldn't either.” “Whether you believe or not, it is forbidden to go there.” “Why?” Beathan challenged him. “Do you think that witch was more powerful than God? Do you think he would have allowed her to curse his land?” “I...” Mor didn’t know what to say to this. Of course he didn’t think the witch was more powerful than God, but he knew that answer would weaken his own position on the Red Scowl. “Exactly,” Beathan said in triumph. “Come on, we don’t go in, we’ll just take a look over the ridge.” Mor thought about this for a moment and understood that if this was all they did, they would not be breaking the rules. “Just a look?” he clarified. “Just a look, I just want to see what the land is like over there.” Mor nodded; he couldn’t deny he was very curious as to what was there himself. He’d imagined glowing red evil and many times he’d had bad dreams thinking about the place so close to home as it was. He hoped seeing it would put those fears out of his head. He had to hope it didn’t look anything like he imagined it did. They set off and at the first step, Mor became scared. This was a mistake, but he couldn't back out now, Beathan would never let him hear the end of it if he did. They walked on without speaking, the only noise the heavy crump of their feet in the snow and the gurgling of the river as they left it behind. The walk to the Red Scowl was all uphill, the top of the ridge denoting the farthest any of the villagers were permitted to go. It was hard going in this deep snow. Images of Buela — the witch — and her burning on the village pyre came to his mind and the smell of her body as it cooked like meat in the flames gushed into his nostrils. Mor didn’t want to be at the burning, to witness it, but Tristan had made everyone go. He said it was important we all see God’s will done and play our part in it. Buela had been known as Medbh before she was discovered practicing witchcraft and she was accused of causing the failing of the crops for two years running. Mor never knew exactly what she was caught doing, or how it had been found out, but it upset him deeply. He knew then as now that it was his duty to kill a witch, but he simply couldn’t see her as one, not the Medbh he’d known. He’d known her to be... Mor thudded into Beathan’s back when he stopped walking. Mor had been lost in his thoughts but was glad to be out of them, the memory crackle of fire lingering in his ears momentarily. “There it is,” Beathan whispered, almost reverentially. Mor looked into the thick forest of trees, could see the ground sloping down into darkness. Who knew what evil resided in there, but he was happy there was no red glow, or floating embers as he’d imagined? “We’ve seen it, now let’ go,” Mor said, his fear riding over him in waves, getting stronger each time. “Just a moment, I want to look properly,” Beathan said, and he took a step right up onto the ridge. “What are you doing!” Mor cried. “You’re standing on the threshold!” “It doesn’t start until the tree line,” Beathan said, but his voice was distracted. Mor glanced up and saw something had caught Beathan’s eye. In a moment of sheer terror, Mor imagined Buela was standing just over the ridge, her burned hand out towards them as she transfixed Beathan with some spell. “What is it?” he asked, not wanted to look for himself, thinking he could be as easily ensnared. “I don’t know,” Beathan said. He took another step forward and Mor leaped up the few feet between them and grabbed hold of him. “It looks like an animal print in the snow, but...” Beathan’s voice was slow and distant, and he didn’t really object to Mor’s holding on to him. Mor looked now, thinking it was something normal enough, but when he did, he gasped and drew back, letting go of his friend. “What is that?” he said, all the fear thrashing back into his soul. The print was huge, and scarily so. It had four long toes, and deep claw impressions in the earth at the tip of each. What size of a creature could make such a mark as this? It would have to be five times the size of a man and to Mor’s knowledge, there was no such thing — not here at least. Beathan was shaking his head, seeming lost for words, but he didn’t seem perturbed by it, but more fascinated. “It can’t be real,” he said at last, some of the dreaminess coming out of his voice. “What do you mean?” Mor asked, glad at what he’d said but not ready to believe it without something to back it up. “There’s no animal that size, and no way to hide one around here,” Beathan said, his old sarcastic tone reaffirming itself. “Tristan made this or sent someone to make it as a trap.” “A trap?” Mor didn’t know what he was getting at. “Yes, don’t you see?” Mor didn’t see, didn’t see at all, he was too scared to see anything. His mind shot back to the growl he’d heard down by the river. Had it been logs unsettling in the water after all? And if it wasn’t? “Tristan put this here, so he’d know if anyone came up to here,” Beathan went on. He was grinning now at what he believed to be Tristan’s deviousness. “He knows that if anyone saw this, they’d report it to him as they were so scared. Then he’d know they were here, and he’d punish them for it.” He was shaking his head with a cheerful respect. Mor looked at the prints again and he didn’t think Beathan was right in his thinking. “That’s real,” he stammered. “Something has come out of the Red Scowl.” His teeth were chattering as he spoke, and he didn’t know if it was from the cold or his fear, or some combination of them both. “Don’t be so foolish,” Beathan laughed. His own shock of seeing the prints eroded away. “We have to tell Tristan,” Mor said. At that moment he wished more than anything to be back in the village doing just that. “You can tell him if you want,” Beathan warned, “but you won’t tell him I was up here with you, and I won’t be backing up your story either.” There was menace in his tone again, and Mor knew he was defeated. Beathan would be better under the pressure of questions back in the village, and Mor knew he would come out sounding like a fool and probably get himself in trouble at the same time. He looked to the prints one last time and in his mind agreed — this was just the kind of thing Tristan might do. He thought again about being made watch Medbh — Buela — burn. “Let’s just get out of here,” he said sullenly. Beathan laughed and started to walk back the way they came. “Is there anything you won’t believe!” he said. Mor didn’t hang around; he took one more look behind at the prints and the dark trees beyond. He couldn’t shake the idea that something had come out of there. And if something came out of the Red Scowl, it couldn’t be a good thing. He jumped a few steps in the snow to catch up with Beathan. He couldn’t wait to be home.