Joint runner up ; Beth Irwin

A Shocking Swine by Beth Irwin

Mrs McCarthy was known for spinning tales. Widow of the long deceased Mr. McCarthy, her aging mind and failing memory left her filling in any gaps in her stories with random, outlandish details. Whatever obscure thought that managed to plant itself into her head was liable to become a leading feature of her tales, leaving the listener to play a game of distinguishing between the half truths and the falsehood. So, when Brother Maeldoid spotted her hobbling up Main Street, approaching him in her renowned grey fleece, he knew what to expect. That despite having his own plans, the monk would be spending the next half hour listening to the newest of the women’s bizarre spiels, a stiff smile on his face.

Now, the woman had spoken of some unorthodox things in the past, but what she declared on that fateful day was surely the most baffling and inexplicable yet. Standing, hunched over, as the hubbub of the weekly mart surrounded them, the elderly women informed the monk that she had been having vision. Through a quivering lip and wheezing chest, she described the apparitions, her voice horse as a crow’s. She explained how they would come to her in flashes throughout the day, strange and frightening. A sudden bright light would cross her eyes, and in that light she would see the hazy outline of an animal. An animal she couldn’t quite make out. The creature would appear in front of her, then abruptly take off, fast as the wind, gone in the blink of an eye. Even recalling the ordeal clearly unsettled the women. Of course, upon hearing this, Brother Maeldoid immediately passed these “visions” off as the ramblings of an old hag. Perhaps her eyes had deteriorated to such an extent that she was seeing things, or perhaps it was her mind that was rotting. Either way, he would not give it another thought. For why worry about the fictitious?

However, unlike previous incidents, the oddities did not end with Mrs McCarthy. Starting three nights after the meeting on Main Street, further unfortunate events occurred. A number of mothers, all flustered and shrieking, came knocking on the holy man’s door, arriving at unseenly hours. Sometimes in pairs, sometimes on their lonesome, always with a wailing child in grasp. Clothing askew and hair out of place, they each sobbed to the monk that their child had been possessed. That the young one had been having nightmares, waking up screaming and drenched in sweat, speaking of beasts and monsters. Terrified that the devil had taken residence in their infants, they came directly to him for guidance, racing down the streets of Castleblayney in the dead of night. Only when the monk had managed to calm both cub and mother bear could he send them on their way, promising that the devil had more sinisters plans than possessing a five year old from a small town in northeast Ireland. Of course, as the situation continued to worsen and he lost out on more and more of his precious sleep, the monk finally considered the possibility that perhaps something more was going on here. How strange the events had been, and happening in such close proximity to each. However, out of either naivety or denial, the holyman decided to put it all to the back of his thoughts. Perhaps to be taken out and re-examined another day, perhaps not. He, being one of the few church men in this minuscule town, had bigger things to concern himself with, and was sure that the all would pass given the proper time.

One of those all important things which had captured the monk’s attention, more so than the worries of the town's folk, was his monastery. Or, better put, his soon to be monastery. You see, being that Brother Maeldoid had been situated in the Castleblayney area for several years, he felt that it was about time he left his own staple on the land. A place of worship with his name on it. Having decided this quite some time ago, the monk already had a plan for the construction of his monastery. He wanted to have the building located on the west side of Lough Muckno, the lake Castleblayney was best known for. With its numerous fish stock and water supply, the town depended greatly on the lake. The western side was the ideal spot for his monastery, with its high ground and views of the shimmering waters. It also helped that this side of the lake did not house a forest of proud, ancient trees, unlike the north side. As for materials, the most suitable and accessible stone could be found on the east side. Retrieving the stone had been tiresome, crossing the lake in a small fishing boat with as much weight as the splintering wood could carry. For about a month, Brother Maeldoid would rise with the sun and set off for the west side of the lake, ready to continue the work he had left the eve before. The process was a monotonous one. Picking up and carefully setting each individual stone, cementing them in place. Within minutes of starting the grueling work he would already be looking forward to the day’s end, just so that he could go back to town and rest, only to do it all again mere hours later. But despite his distaste for the job, progress was being made, and the monk could feel anticipation start to build in his chest everytime he would arrive at the site to see the skeleton of the structure. All was well, and in a matter of years, the monk would have his monastery.

It was an unnaturally hot day, perhaps a week after the childrens’ nightmares had begun. With so much going on in town, Brother Maeldoid hadn’t the chance to return to the building site for some time. The sun was low in the sky, yet the air seemed to hiss with heat. The monk reached the west side of the lake, not to see his work standing tall in all its glory, sunlight bouncing off the smooth stone. No. Instead, all he saw was chaos. Rubble lay in heaps, soil disturbed and left upturned. Tools once tidied away neatly were now scattered across the area. There were no walls to be seen. If not for the fact that he had built the walls himself, he would not have believed a monastery was in construction there in the first place. The scene resembled the aftermath of a horrific storm, one which had just blown through the man’s life and demolished everything in its path. Just looking at it all took the breath from him, and for a moment, the holy man did not trust his own eyes. Perhaps this was some strange mirage, a trick of the light. He blinked several times, rubbed his hands across his face, blinked again, but the scene did not change.

As the monk walked further into the site, the daze faded and rage took its place. His face flushed a deep red, an infuriated grunt escaping from his throat. Despite being a man of God, the monk did not have the greatest handle over his own temper, and often abandoned all rationale when he lost it. Thoughts of revenge immediately flooded his mind. However, the perpetrators would first have to be caught before retribution could be brought down upon them. So, with a new found determination, Brother Maeldoid once again started building up the walls of his monastery. The monk knew whatever vile being that had done this would be outraged to learn that he had simply restarted the project. He knew it was extremely likely that they would return to the scene of the crime to complete the job. And that was exactly what he hoped for.

For the next few days, Brother Maeldoid continued building. Stone after stone, arriving early and leaving late. Only he did not leave. Rather, the holy man set up camp on the perimeter of the site, close enough what he could still see his work. Hidden behind a cluster of boulders, the man stood watch all night, eyes trained on the freshly built structure, straining to see in the dark. Exhaustion consumed him, yet he refused to rest. Stubbornness had become his new sustenance, and he wasn’t running low on it anytime soon. During the first two nights, all he heard was the quiet whirl of the nearby water, the only trespasser on the site being an owl out on his nightly hunt. Fingers pinching his wrists to keep him alert, hours creeped by with only the silence as company. The length of those nights seemed unending, and Brother Maeldoid was half prepared to surrender. That was, until the third night rolled around.

Soft and distant, the monk heard an unfamiliar sound as he hid behind the rocks. Almost inaudible, it was the sound of distrubed water, splashing coming from the bank of the lake. His offenders had come by boat, he realised, using the lake as their speedy escape. That explained why Maeldoid had failed to spot any traces of tracks in the sodden soil. Crouched in a position that made his joints groan, he prepared himself to face the lowlives, ready to confront them. Strolling up from the bank, he expected to see a gang of young men, hopefully no more than three or four. Instead, what came into his view was not a band of rowdy youths. In fact, what he lay his eyes upon was not even human.

 A pig, snot pointed high in the air, santuared up onto the site, his body round and plump. The animal's skin was black and spotted, dark as the night. But as the monk further examined the creature, he realised that the pig wasn’t dark like the night, rather the pig's skin was the night. The animal was see-through, translucent. Just the outline of a body, no substance. And yet it seemed to be very much alive, making its way towards the monastery walls. The monk did not react to this realisation, could not react. His mind had frozen, his thoughts had run cold. Stuck to the spot, all the man could do was watch, dumfounded. Not truly in his own body, Brother Maeldoid simply spectated as the pig reached his walls and, with a strength unnatural for such an animal, knocked then over with a single shove of his snot. A tiny push from a pig, and suddenly two days worth of tireless work crumbled to the ground. As if it were not made of stone but paper, crashing down to the earth, hitting the ground hard. Words could not reach him, and the few thoughts that he could muster ran on repeat through his head. “A spirit? A ghost? A demon?” He wasn't sure, he would likely never know.

Two minutes. That was the length of time the pig remained on the site, before trotting off back towards the lake, a single stone wedged in his mouth. Just like that, the pig was gone, and all was silent again. And in that silence, Brother Maeldoid found his feet. On weak legs, he left his look-out and strolled off into the night. Guided by the gleam of the moon, he headed back for town, contemplating whether he had truly lost his sanity, or was he simply deprived of sleep.