Chapter Text
Never wander the highlands at night.
From the day she was born, Niamh heard this advice over and over again. Her grandmother never explained why, only that children who did so were never found again. But in her eyes Niamh could see the fear – the haunting of a distant memory. It was always in the back of her mind when she was out – though she seldom heeded it.
Every evening Niamh began her walk, and every evening she travelled through the woods surrounding the hills. Twilight faded into night and the first stars began to twinkle overhead, but still she did not return home. It was a cool evening – just the kind she enjoyed the most. The night air helped to clear her head, even though it made her father worry. Her grandmother’s tales were just old superstitions – an artefact of a dying world. Why would she stop and listen?
There was no moon, but she knew the forest well and was not afraid. Ahead of her was a thick shadow – an elder yew, stretching out across her path. She crept closer. There was something pressed into the trunk: a stone tablet, ancient, covered in moss. Clutching her basket in one hand she reached out and touched the tree. The bark was soft and warm, in contrast to the stone. She could see through the lichen that several lines were carved into the rock. Niamh leaned in, trying to make them out.
From the sea, came the creature,
To highlands it steers.
For salt moulded feature,
Fresh water it fears.
A shiver ran through her, as if something were watching her from afar. She stood up and frantically looked around. The woods seemed to have grown frail and cold. The wind became harsh, blowing her hair over her face. Niamh struggled to pull it back and looked through the trees to the field. On a small hill was a rider, standing alone. She stared at him; something was wrong.
Every instinct told her to run. Run without looking back, but she stood petrified, transfixed on the figure. Its arms were unnaturally long, stretching down to the ground. The rider swayed without rhythm, lulled in the wind. Then it turned. Two red eyes on the horse's head locked onto Niamh. Her soul froze. The rider hung limply as the horse stared at her and Niamh realised that it had no skin; raw flesh glistened in the moonlight, the rider fused to the horse's back. A single terrible creature. It broke into a gallop down the hill towards her, its arms scraping on the ground.
Every step seized Niamh’s muscles. She had to run. Whatever it was, she could not let it reach her. But her body refused to respond. A fay screech filled the air, warbling high and growing louder as it came. There was no mouth to emit it. Niamh pressed her hands to her ears, but nothing could keep it out. Her grandmother’s words echoed through her mind. It was too late to follow them now.
The creature was only a hair away; its hooves muffled by the forest floor. At last Niamh’s senses returned and she ran faster than she ever had before in her life, but there was no hope of escape. The creature moved at speeds no mortal horseman could ever hope to match, much less a girl on foot. It was gaining on her and there was nothing she could do to get away. Her foot caught a rock, sending her spiralling down to the forest floor. Panic stuck her as she landed face first in a fresh water stream. The creature was almost on top of her. She tried to scramble away on all fours, but had barely made it across the water when the creature came to a halt. Terrified, she looked up to see it leering down at her from the opposite bank, the rider hanging limply. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it turned and galloped away. Niamh lay in the mud, struggling to catch her breath. She was still shaking, but somehow knew that it was all over. As her senses began to return, she looked at the stream, recalling the poem she had read over. There are many evils in this world who dare not cross fresh water. She had survived by a hair.
Niamh gathered herself up and returned home. When her father asked how she got into such a state, she found herself unable to answer. All she could think about was the look in her grandmother’s eyes, and at last, she knew. She never told another soul about what had happened; how could she? No one ever understood her cryptic warnings or the fear she held, nor did she ever see the creature again. But she never forgot about that night and whenever she wondered in the woods, Niamh knew that somewhere in the dark, a pair of eyes were watching her. And on a cold winters night, many years later, she looked her granddaughter in the eye.
‘Never wander the highlands at night.’
The End