The Tragic Tale of Seamus Fox

He lost his wife. To what? No one knew. He wasn’t even sure what happen. It had been a few nights since and the only comfort he found was at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Donavan’s pub was a safe haven for mourning and everyone knew of his loss. He said it was a beast that stole his darling Mara from him in deep dark trails of Dunbarry forest but some were skeptic to the possibility of any sort of monster dwelling in their borders-save for the monsters that dwell within the soul of man. The mysterious situation did present itself with clarity eventually…and the tragic tale of Seamus Fox is known all around-everyone with their own ideas of what truly happen.

. . .

The jug slipped from his hand and fell to the ground and the snoring went on. Warm whiskey sloshed into the dirt as the bottle lay on its side, rocking slightly.
“Bloody drunk! Get up and off the bench! Or to the river I’ll drag ye!” A strong but old voice yelled out; but the man on the bench was stuck in a deep slumber that comes after many draughts of the strong liquor. The owner of the instigating voice was that of a village militiaman patrolling the streets. Receiving no reaction, he moved closer to the snoring body. Before he could throttle the man awake, a surprisingly loud crash of wood followed by the unmistakable shrill scream of a woman, stopped him stiff in his steps. A throaty grumble came from the drunkard and a sharp wind cried into the soldier’s ears. Then nothing. Silence. But that did not last long…

. . .

They were walking hand in hand down the wooded path towards their favorite spot on the river. Slight breezes rustled the treetops; sending platoons of colorful leaves into scattered landing zones.
“Isn’t it lovely tonight Seamus?” The woman said with a warm smile.
“Surely Mara my love-but wait and see what’s to come!”
Her smile grew and she squeezed his hand. At first, a snug squeeze that was indeed a love gesture. But a few uneasy steps further and it became an excruciating grip that crushed his hand and put him in such pain that he fell to his knees yelling,
“Let go for jaysus’ sake! Are ye’ mad?!”
He saw that she had turned deathly pale and was staring off to the side-where a looming shadow with eyes reflecting green in the moonlight, shone at the top of a grizzly black mass. A sudden shock of pain gripped his heart cold and all he could think was to get his darling Mara away from this creature and these woods forever; especially with an unborn child cuddling away within her womb.
As he turned to run, he lost feeling in his legs and fell to the ground-hitting his chin hard upon the earth. Disoriented and confused, he rolled onto his back clutching his thighs screaming,
“Maaaarraaaa!………Maaaarraaa…!”
In what turned to sobs. He could not see her nor understand why his legs wouldn’t work. Everything became a blur of shadowy trees and vivid forest green, until all went out along with his yells into the murk of the wilderness.


. . .

A splash of cold water awoke the man on the bench so abruptly that he fell onto his clay jug, crushing it and sending slivers into his breeches. He was still yelling “Mara!” when he hit the ground. Opening his eyes, two hazy figures slowly joined and became one. It was a village guard holding a wineskin in one hand and holding the other out in a gesture to help him up.
“Quick man…wait…oh fuck tis’ you Seamus. Didn’t recognize ye’. Though I shoulda’ known-what with the yellin’ of that name and such. Oh but no coddin’! You’ve got to come with me. A woman’s been taken’ from her home just now. A horrid and large creature….” His voice trailed off because he could see what affect this was having on Seamus. It was as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper himself standing not but a few meters away.
“Where did you see it go?” Asked Seamus.
“Well off out of town I gather, down towards the river…where you said Mara was…ummm taken-but this is just my uuh…mmm…deduction.”
“Morgan…you must meet me at the edge of the woods as quick as you can. I’m going to fetch my axe and we’ll sort this bastard out. Leave a note for the others and be swift!” And with that, the distraught and shaky man dashed off through the streets-leaving Morgan to compose himself and realize what he’s about to take on.

. . .

His breath was seen puffing out as he crouched by the road. Seamus was tightening his boots and looking up at Morgan jogging towards him, also spouting thick mist.
“I’ve left word, they may follow us on horse but it’ll make a load of racket as far as I know.” Spat Morgan, as he caught his breath through a few of remaining teeth.
“Well let us hope we find the right route before it’s too late.” Said Seamus before turning towards the gloom of the woods.
It was not long until they discovered the downtrodden trail some hundred meters off from the main road. A pinkish hue was beginning to frost the horizon and a light rain began to fall as the two men began tracking their adversary. Morgan had with him a long knife and a hunting bow. He trudged behind Seamus with a grim face and a grim mood, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of anything worth marking. Seamus’s broad shoulders were dwarfed to the size of the path that tore through the thicket of the woods. Logs were smashed and any possible obstructing branch or limb had been crush or tossed aside for quick passage. And the ground was stamped flat by large heavy feet.
“This is sooome shite Seamus…look at it all…”Said Morgan in a whisper, the s’s seeming to melt into each other.
Seamus stopped walking and pointed to something hanging from an unbroken branch sticking oddly in from the dark edges of the path. It was swaying from little wisps of air that blew now and then. Morgan looked with a frowning brow and Seamus stepped closer,
“My god…”He said quietly. It was a tuft of blond hair with some skin and dried blood still clinging to it. “I fear for the worst…”
They looked at each other with dark eyes. Morgan gripped his younger friend’s shoulder.
“We’ll see to it this…this…”He couldn’t finish his sentence. And a sob caught him short. A lengthy moment followed until he said,
“I’m supposed to be tougher but my lord Seamus, this is not what I’m used to. I deal with drunks in the streets and petty tieves’. Not fuckin’ horrible things like this. I don’t think I could look into the eyes of anything foul enough to drag an innocent woman from her home in the dead of night…to do whatever evils deeds that he may fancy to harm her with…I..I…”He broke off again kneeling with sorrow. Seamus knelt by his side.
“Get up Morgan, I need you. Now quit the fuckin’ fuss and follow.”
Seamus stood up and swept the wet strands of hair out of his eyes. He held tight the axe in his hand till his knuckles shone white. Morgan pulled his wiry body up and wiped his eyes nodding in the direction of the winding trail.
Being men of the land, they had no trouble moving in the woods. The morning was a very close reality and a milky fog had crept around them as they stepped quietly through the brush. The only eyes upon them were those of a red fox peering at them from under a half fallen tree. The pulled roots like earthy prison bars. The men neared a split in the trail and slowed to a halt. Seamus looked close at the soggy ground.
“To the right…but I don’t ever like these sorts of decisions.” Seamus said at last. “Whatever we’re tracking might have an idea we’re following and could try something. I’ll have a look to the left and you wait here with the bow as ready as possible. If there’s trouble, god help us, yell.”
“Alright lad…alright. But be quick Seamus-quick and smart.”
Seamus left his axe in the hands of the husky soldier and drew his own long knife and ran cautiously down the left side of the hewn trail.
The fog was getting thicker and he couldn’t see too far into the forest. He stepped quick and light, feeling the adrenaline course through his hot throbbing veins. But a little ways down the path something happen. He had been running along the edge as best as he could, using old strategies of tracking: that one must always keep to the side of a trail when in pursuit. For you are less likely to be seen in full (thus a smaller target) and to keep clear of hidden deadfalls. His foot stepped through the leaves, through crisp branches and deeper down. His eyes widened and he realized what was happening. He’s stepped partially into a trap. His left fist held the knife and brought it into the earth up to the handle. His left knee hit the ground and he gripped the air with his free hand. In the momentum of the fall, his body swung into the hole and he clawed for a hold through mud and rock to keep from falling into the sharp pikes, awaiting him at the bottom. The knife saved him from slipping and he managed to crawl his self out-nearly causing his heart to explode. As he rested, panting and holding his hurt knee, a loud long ‘Seaaaaamusss!’ broke through the fog and trees and turned his sweat cold.
He ignored the pain throughout his body and pushed himself as quick as he could to reach the split in the paths. He turned to faintly see the brown tunic back of Morgan, who was running with the axe. It happen all too quick. Seamus screamed,
“Staaaaaawp runnin’ ya’ feckin’ eejit or ye’ll be…”
Morgan fell through the leaves and sticks and the axe left his hands. A crack and blood muffled moans came out of the hole. What Seamus didn’t see, was a dark figure a bit further down…disappear into the fog.
“Nooooo ya stupid bastard! Noooo!” Yelled Seamus till he was hoarse.
When he got to the hole he couldn’t make out so much the details but a few bloodied stakes were visible amongst the mud, leaves and flesh. Morgan’s body groaned and shook with pain for a few moments before quieting all together. Seamus made way around the deadfall as safe and as quick as possible and moved fast, no longer carrying the axe. He wondered where the bow had gone to, but dismissed the thoughts of it, broken at the bottom of the hole with Morgan’s poor body. As he ran and ran, tears slipped out as his feet pounded the ground. He wanted to tear the spleen out of whatever it was that has terrorized his life. He didn’t deserve any of this. The rushing sounds of the river were easily heard and the sun was sneaking its way up. The fog was slowly rising and he came to a clearing.

. . .

There was an old cabin. Really old. All around the bottom, shackles of thick moss linked the wood to the earth. The windows were boarded up with large slabs of wood and big iron studs nailed them to the frames. A tall and wide door was closed and in the middle of the front of the building-but before Seamus could make a move for it, he noticed something to the side. A wooden structure. Something like a tent frame. With some pinkish white material stretched across and around it. He listened for any sounds of alarm or perhaps the screams of the woman. But nothing. He slowly approached with a sick feeling in his gut. As he neared, he was able to see a lot more details about what he saw. It looked like a skin of some animal. Stretched out to dry. But something was wrong. It had no fur. And worse yet, what seemed to be two legs and two arms. Human limbs.
Seamus wretched where he stood, dropping the knife and slamming his fist into the dirt. In disbelief, he raised his head to look at the unnatural sight of the prepared skin of a human. He noticed something dangling from the top, where the stakes of wood met, so he took back his knife and stood up and walked over trying not to think about what it was he was looking at. Raw string was tied to the middles of the wood and to it was some hair and something with a shine to it. He quickly sliced the rope, grabbed the objects, and turned around. He was openly crying now, looking into his hand. He looked at the hair. The unforgettable red hair of his late wife, Mara. And holding the knot of it together at the top; her wedding band. It was too much for him. To find his wife, his pregnant wife, skinned. He became mad and overcome with indescribable rage and he stormed to the front of the cabin. There were two doors. One that opened outwards and one that opened in. Neither were locked. He burst in screaming and with the knife out and ready to strike at the first thing moving. He stopped when he could see faintly in the dark room from the streaks of light coming in through the doorway. Smears of blood along the floor and a table. On the table, an unlit lantern. He strained his eyes to see into the corners of the cabin, but failed to make anything out. Then without warning the front of the door slammed shut with a smash, as the wood cracked. Then the pounding of something echoed throughout the room in haunting pitches.
Seamus scrambled in the dark to where the door was and threw his body in a fit of uncontrollable insanity. He knew what had closed the door, and now it was nailing the door shut, locking him in. Over and over the iron studs were hammered into the oak door, sealing Seamus inside. He could no longer scream, it felt like the lining of his throat would come out with the next shriek. The noise stopped after at least two dozen nails were in and nothing was heard except the heavy breathing and pounding heart of Seamus as he slumped to the floor. He became horribly dizzy and found himself passing out into oblivion…feeling it impossible to take into account the reality of his situation.

. . .
He awoke without knowledge of how long he was out. He couldn’t see a thing save a few specks of light from the old ceiling. But what became nauseatingly apparent to him was the disgusting odor in the dank room to which he was captive. Suddenly remembering seeing a lantern, he quickly produced his tinder box and began feeling his way towards, what he guessed was, the middle of the room. Some spots on the floor were sticky and wet. Disturbing visions of disembodied corpses piled in the corner without their flesh flitted through his mind and he gagged along with the smell in the air. Finally he found the leg of a table and followed it to the flat surface of the top, to which he discovered the lantern. After a few shaky moments of figuring out the flint and wick and oil in the dark, he got the lantern to shine strong. He would rather have had stayed in the dark. Splattered around and all over was blood and other bodily discharges that need not describing. Assorted tools and blades were scattered upon a large desk in the corner and what appeared to be the body of a skinless woman slumped into a pile to the side of it. Hanging from nails on the wall; her skin. He could not look anymore. He couldn’t take in everything that was available to him in this nightmare of a cabin. Another vision flashed in the eye of his mind. He saw an axe leaning against the desk. He opened his eyes and in truth there it was; A gruesome barbaric model of an axe, with two blades in half moon curves and a long thick handle for strong, two-handed chops. He grabbed it and made for the door imagining himself anywhere else then this hut of hellish reality. With the will to escape, he swung with more strength than he knew he possessed. Shattering hunks of wood with every hack and crack, till his hands were raw and blistering. He kicked the remaining wood of the frame out and burst out into the screaming daylight, blinding him and knocking his senses momentarily. Taking in fresh gulps of air he looked around wildly for clues of his enemies whereabouts. But absolutely nothing. Until he heard the crashing of bush and branch in the woods in front of him. He held the axe once again with anxious arms until the noises became a bit more definable. Men on horses.
They appeared quickly after Seamus realized exactly what he was hearing. They came tearing through the broken path and Seamus quickly recognized them as the town guard. But they did not look friendly to his eyes. Something was once again wrong. The horses halted in frightened and nervous jumps and skids. The men looked at Seamus with terror pasted upon their faces. Seamus suddenly realized how he must look to them. The axe in his hand, covered in the woman’s blood. No one would believe his story. The hair and ring of his wife in his pocket. No one ever did believe his story. The only people who knew what really happen were Morgan, Seamus…and that beast who slipped away never to be captured and punished for the unforgivable evils committed…

. . .

Sadly, Seamus was declared insane and responsible for the grizzly murders of his wife Mara, Siobhan McKinnon (the blond woman), and Sgt. Morgan Stray of the local guard.
Until the day of his execution he never spoke a word nor denied his loss of sanity. Before he was led to the stage, where his death was to be witnessed, the only thing he demanded was one more draught of whiskey, but they even denied him that.

The End