Mallen's Bridge

irishmik60

Tis a little known fact that there are literally hundreds of stone circles and mounds throughout the British Isles. Stonehenge being by far the most famous. Their arches and monolithic structures have astounded mankind from earliest recorded history. Some say space travelers built them thousands of years ago. To others, they they became the place of worship and strange doings of Druids. Yet earliest man sat within their shadows and felt the Spirit of one know for eternity. One so evil, that every man carries his own nightmare picture within. And, if the truth were known, it would bring the purest agnostic closer to GOD.

As a child, I would look across my fathers fields toward the River Wyeth. Across that slumbering stream, on a barren point of ground stood the circle.

No man boasted to name himself as it's discoverer: and the village also, long ago, had refused to be associated with it. The circle's legend, from it's discovery, by modern man, had alluded to evil of the past. How, I wondered as a child, could something so majestic, be so evil.

I will say this, my father was no cruel man, but his warning of a severe beating if I were to enter the circle, put a certain fear into me from the beginning. As was the case with all the village's children. Twas in the voice of our fathers that kept even the slightest curiosity at bay. It would have been thought extremely cruel for a village child to dare another to enter the circle.

Rarely did a village prosper near such a relic and know so little about it. The reason for this lack of knowledge was generated by the circle itself. For ever sine Sean Mallen built a bridge across the Wyeth strange and often horrible things have occurred. Culminating with terrible deaths. For over four hundred years, very few villagers have dared to cross the 'Mallen's Bridge' at night: and only one to the best of me wit has ever returned to tell the tale.

In the mid sixteen hundreds this area was still part of a feudal society. Lords, Ladies, serfs, and the such were the common way of life. At this time there lived in our village an accomplished mason named Sean Mallen. Being a small village, there was but a limited amount of work for a mason. After all, with a community of such a small population, only so many homes, barns, hedges and such were needed. And all of these, whether all or in part, had Sean Mallen's mark upon them.

At this time, the Lord of the county thought it appropriate that a road be built connecting many of the villages, This road would necessitate the construction of a bridge across the River Wyeth, through our community. Because of his reputation, Sean was offered the commission of construction of the bridge. The Lord told Sean that he would furnish the stone needed for the bridges construction.

As time went by, Sean continued to dig the footings for the bridge on either side of the Wyeth. Sean first started digging on the village side, get into his small boat, row across and work on the far side. Back and forth, day after day, the work progressed. It was hard work, but that's what Sean liked. He seemed more at ease with sweat rolling down his back and arms than most do lounging in the shade.

Sean seemed perfectly suited to the task at hand. It was no surprise that Sean was devastated when word came that the Lord would be unable to supply the promised stone for the bridge as promised. Sean was told that if he wanted to build the bridge, at his own expense, he would be allowed to charge a small toll as recompense for his labors. At first, this angered Sean. With the nearest quarry over thirty kilometers away, how did the Lord expect Sean to acquire the needed stone? Let alone afford it. Sean seemed ever more convinced to complete his task. He decided that, since no one cared for the stone circle across the Wyeth, he would take stone from it to complete his task.

Now, there was far more stone in the circle than would be needed by Sean. The circle measured almost fifty meters across. It's stones formed a perfect circle. To the eastern side, the stone columns stood approximately three and one half meters tall. As the circle expanded, both north and south, the columns rose gradually in height. The tallest column, the one to the extreme westernmost side, rose to just over eight meters. At the middle of the circle, slightly to the west of center, was what some presumed to be an altar.

Though the stones of the circle had remained for as long as the village historian could remember: there didn't seem to be any sign of erosion or weathering about them. Their corners were as keen as when they were quarried. The stones were of a strange colored granite. A type no one in the British Isles could remember having seen before. It reminded one of bloodstone: yet bloodstone would have been too soft. It's dark green texture was mottled with small red dots that looked like blood. So dark was it's hue, that at a distance of a few meters it looked black.

There were a total of sixteen columns. Divided into pairs, they were 'capped' by horizontal stones creating eight separate divisions. All of the 'cap stones' were perfectly level....except one. On the westernmost 'division', the tallest section, the cap appeared to be about ten degrees off plane. Just enough to be discernible to the eye. Oddly enough, it was also in this section that one of the vertical columns was flawed. On the inside of the southern stone of this division was a crack. About a meter and a half below the capstone, the crack started. It descended diagonally down the inside face of the stone, until it reached the opposite side, about a meter from the ground. At the lowest edge of the crack. a fair sized piece of rock was missing. Some who saw this say this fissure occurred when the monolith was erected. Some say it must have been caused by lightning. And those who believe in devils, said it was caused by Lucifer himself. The reason was because this section was not as perfect as the rest.

Surrounding the circle of standing stones was a second circle. These enclosed the inner circle all around. The distance between the inner and outer rings was an even eighteen meters all around. This outer ring was smaller, boulder like stones, slightly flattened at the top. As if these were to be used to sit upon. This outer ring was missing many of it's stones on the western side of the circle. These were the stones Sean Mallen had used to build his bridge. Even now, more than four centuries later, there is no evidence that Sean had to break these rocks before moving them. Except for where the missing stones should be, there was no other evidence of stones being sculpted.

Yet, where stones of the outer circle were missing, many slivers of stone could be found. Proof that Sean Mallen had labored hard.

Though the soil within the circle was the same as without, no grass would grow within it's confines. This was odd because all of the soil was very fertile, and sheep grazed all about the circles. Neither would snow stay long inside this unhallowed place

Twas not until Sean Mallen completed his work that the terror began. It seemed as though whatever it was, had waited to seek its revenge.

This was thought to be a joyous time for our village. A new highway through the village meant prosperity for the townsfolk. Sean's bridge enabled villagers to open businesses to serve the traveling public. Sean did feel a bit slighted when the Lord was unable to be present for the dedication of his bridge. Ever since the Lord had stopped shipment of stone to Sean, he had gone out of his way to stay away from this bridge. As though he'd had a premonition. Well, this was Sean Mallen's day. No lack of royalty was going to ruin it for him. He hadn't been paid for his work, but with being allowed to charge a toll, he would soon have his debts paid. With the continued income from the toll booth, he might even become a man of means.

The pub was full that evening with those celebrating the villages new found wealth. In one corner darts were flying almost as fast as pints of ale were being quaffed. It seemed that people were vying for the privilege to buy a pint of stout for Sean. Even though Sean was well known in the pub, he was having a hard time keeping up with the pints being set before him.

It was well past normal hours when the last patron finally left for home. The tavern owner thought to himself Sean wouldn't make it home easily. Certain that someone would help him, he returned to the task of cleaning up.

The morning came hot and sticky. The clouds so thick, it seemed dawn had arrived late. The humidity so thick it seemed a burden to breathe. Twas the local vicar that found him. Even so early, the flies were already thick. The blood that had left it's normal course in the body had set up it's own stream bed on the surface of the bridge. He must have died soon after leaving the Inn to smell so. The first thought of the vicar, was what kind of fiend would do such a thing? Everyone in the village knew that this was a man of little means. Certainly no one had earned this kind of death. For Sean Mallen laid face down on the bridge he had so recently finished. In the middle of his back, neatly severing his spine, was the very pick Sean had labored with for so long. Eyes wide open in terror, arms stretched as if in supplication to an unhearing God. Tucked neatly into his breast pocket was the prettiest red silk scarf. It's presence was a contrast to the condition of Sean's tormented body.

Sean's wife would be heard to say later, that she never owned such a scarf. The Inn keeper would say later that Sean never had such an item with him when he left the pub. Sean was known as a devoted husband, so most put aside any thought of an affair and vengeful husband. The oddest of all was what appeared to be deep claw marks about the corpse. It was deduced that some stray or wild dogs or wolves must have mutilated Sean's body after his death. It was agreed however that it was a powerful person who had done Sean in. The pick that entered his back had run Sean through and become stuck in the mortar of the bridge. Indeed it was a grisly affair.

On hearing of Sean's death, the Lord sent a small pension to the widow Mallen. He also told her to continue with a toll on the bridge, to help support her and her children. Thanking him for the gesture, she choose to move instead. It was just too much for her to look upon the bridge again. The Lord then put up a notice in town for one to work the toll booth and tend to the bridge. He decided whatever would be made above a wage would be sent to Sean's widow. Few knew the guilt he felt at the death of Sean Mallen. If he had only supplied Sean with the stone as promised, this tragedy could have possibly been prevented. He didn't know why he felt this way, he just did.

Over the decades sixteen people who had associated themselves with Mallen's Bridge died. Under severe, if not terrifying circumstances.

Each time the constable would find a red silk scarf on the body. Each time it was a man who died. Each time the fact of the red silk scarf would be buried somewhere in the police or coroners report. If one were of sharp mind, reading all the reports, it would be hard to associate this little fact. After all, how could this be the same killer? It had been more than four hundred years since Sean Mallen's, and the last persons death. Even today as we sit in the pub and drink our ale, it's still a story to tell.

As the village's current mason, tis my responsibility to keep Mallen's Bridge, along with many homes and hedges in repair.

What happened a fortnight ago is true, as many of me friends can attest. For, though I fear God no more, nor less than before, I fear the devil now more than ever.

I had just won a close game of darts and had settled into me stool to enjoy me spoils., when she walked in. I will say that she was near to the loveliest female I'd ever seen. Her long auburn hair ended just above her waist. Her cream colored skin needed no makeup or perfumes to attract a look. Slender she was, but not skinny. Her sweater seemed to have been painted on, yet I heard no complaints. Her bosom, though not large, was firm....upthrust, and proud. Even the other women stared at her in envious admiration. For all her features, her eyes were the most notable. The deepest emerald green they were. Centered on a perfect face, they seemed to stare right through a person. As she walked, she almost appeared to glide across the floor. No woman could be that perfect, not until now.

The single men in the pub could easily be spotted. Beer bellies were sucked in, and chests puffed out. The ritual of manliness had begun.

I can say that I wasn't about to be left out. Even some of the married men were trying to vie for her attention. Luck was surely on my side that night. The only empty seat in the pub was next to me. I felt then that my victories this evening would not just be at the dart board.

At slightly over six feet tall, and only about a stone overweight, I feel I'm not to bad looking physically. I won't be pretending to say I'm overly handsome, yet I've had no complaints either. All in all, I'd say I was a fair catch for any damsel that might be looking to catch a man.

I've been caught by a few, but never kept. The wedding vow is one I'm not yet ready to recite. I'm not minding a bit to 'try on the shoe', as they say, but I still wish to shop at the same time. I'm not yet ready to relinquish myself to gazing through the windows. And, at twenty-six I feel I have more living to do before I'm shackled.

Now this lass beside me looks at me and offers to buy me a drink. Why, you could've knocked me over with a feather! Never before has a woman come on so strong to me. I know the times are changing, but I didn't realize such drastic changes. Being a good natured as I am, I accepted. Only first I had to know this beautiful creature's name.

Moira. A name as charming and mysterious as its possessor. After our first drink, Moira asked if I were a superstitious man. Not wanting to disappoint her, I said no. All she did for the next few moments was look at me and smile. Finally she rose, whispered into my ear to meet her at midnight within the ring of standing stones across the Wyeth, and left. Gone before I'd even had a chance to realize what I'd just agreed to. Now let me repeat, I'm not a superstitious man! Yet, I don't walk under ladders. I let no black cats cross my path. And if the thirteenth of the month is on a Friday, I feel nervous at work all day.

Now understand my upbringing: I was always told to stay away from this ring of stone. Now my imagination raced. Not only with the thought of terror, but also of the promise of ecstasy to be found there.

So, I decided to quaff a few more pints to bolster my courage. My ego was already so high, it suffered from lack of oxygen. I mean, how else would a sane man like myself, be ready to throw caution (superstition) to the wind. The idea of an evening of passion, under the stars, with Moira, would appeal to any man. Wouldn't it?

As the midnight hour approached, I rose to leave the Inn. My last flagon of ale safely within, had helped its brothers take my senses from me. As I walked towards the bridge, even the village mongrel, always ready for a handout, cowered from me. Like a man nearing the gallows I crossed Sean Mallen's bridge. and approached the ring of stone.

Why was someone, going to meet such pleasure, feel as frightened as I?

Was it because she'd not even asked my name that made me sweat?

Was it the fact that she came straight to me in the Inn, like someone possessed, that made my skin crawl?

Was it the lack of noise from owls, crickets, and the like, as I approached the ring that started to give me second thoughts?

Maybe it was the stench of some dead animal nearby that made me feel this was becoming less of a spot for romance. A sober man would not have come this far. I'm sure, but the haze of ale was still before my eyes,

I'd never seen the village from here before, at least at this time of night. Why I ventured to look now, I cannot say. As the fog settled about the town, I felt I were looking at the village from the grave. Why should a man going to meet passion think of death and graves?

Quite possibly it was because of where I was standing. For, I was within the outer circle of stone. Though the night was cool, the ground beneath me felt noticeably warmer. Here, all of a sudden a peace came over me, and I was nervous no more. Anxious not to be late for my rendezvous I entered the standing circle.

Moira was standing near the altar within. As beautiful as she had been in the pub. I felt I'd never be able to quench her thirst for passion. I only hoped I could be man enough for her. She smiled, but made no motion to approach me. I must have looked clumsy in my haste to reach her, for she put out her arm to stop me at its length. I could only become curious as to her hesitancy, after to be so wanting at the Inn.

Moira told me to remove my shirt and lay it upon the altar for comfort. I need not be asked twice. I saw her hand approach my chest yet did not feel it as I was pushed backwards upon my shirt.

What happened next I will never forget.

She asked me why the ancestors of my village had defiled her father's house. Puzzled, I raised my head to see into my inquisitors eyes. No longer were those emerald green eyes so beautiful. For, instead of round pupils, they were slit and hooded like a serpents. The once slender arms, now showed bulges of muscle beneath her sweater. Fingernails were replaced by claws, as thick as, but longer than a bears. Moira's smooth cream like skin, darkened and cracked before my sight. Her perfect shaped mouth and brilliant teeth, now began to shape itself into a scowling mandible, set with long pointed fangs. So frightened I was that I released myself within me britches. I felt no shame or humiliation, for sheer paralyzing terror overtook me.

She told me her kind had lived here long before the first village within these isles had been thought of. Yet when Sean Mallen had built his bridge, he had taken stones away from their home, defiling it. Over the centuries her kind had wrecked vengeance upon my village: and until the bridge was torn asunder, and the stolen stones replaced, she would continue.

I found the courage, or stupidity, to speak. I asked, since it had been more than four hundred years earlier, how could she still be here, seeking revenge? I was told that though Moira was well over seven hundred years old herself, she had not yet reached her prine.

She said her kind and mine wee able to co-exist prior to the bridge because of their fear of water. When Sean Mallen constructed the bridge, and defiled the circles, he started a terrifying chain of events. I then summoned the courage to ask what was to become of me.

In slow detail, Moira told how she would relish eating my still warm heart, fresh from its receptacle. She said she would then feed the fish and crabs of the Wyeth with my entrails. What was left she would leave in the fields for the dogs. Now a coward I'm not, but the picture she painted was not one to hang above a mantle.

As she spoke, Moira paced about, round the altar. At first chance, while she stood above my head, I made a leap to my feet. I felt if I could only re-enter the village I'd be safe. I knew Moira wouldn't chance entering the village in this state. For it would forever reveal her true identity. As Moira's hand grabbed my left shoulder, I knew I'd been too slow. As she growled her displeasure at me. waves of pain cascaded down my spine. Moira informed me that if I were to try that again, she would leave even less for the dogs as before.

I can say pity was not for the dogs. I could just see the village mongrel, whom just a little earlier would have nothing to do with me, feasting off my arm, The ingrate! As Moira seemed to enjoy watching me snivel, I begged her for a chance to make final peace with my maker. With this, I was raised up from the altar by one of her powerful, massive hands and thrown to the ground.

"If you wish to pray to a dead God, do it on the ground, not an altar to my father!", she shouted.

At least she would give me a chance to right myself with GOD. All I could think was, it was a hell of a time to be at a loss for words. That was when I noticed Moira's vision was obscured by the altar. It was now or never!

Through the upright pillars I ran. Knowing what would be following me. I needn't look back! As heavy as my feet were, I could hear Moira's over mine. Or, was that my heart beating? My temples throbbed as fear pounded from inside, trying to get out. Mu lungs burnt from exertion and terror!

It was as I left the outer circle that she first caught up to me. Her claws raked down my spine. I couldn't tell if the moisture I felt was blood or sweat. Whichever, Moira's calling gave me extra burst of speed. Her searing breath baked the short hairs on the back of my neck. If I weren't terrified, I would have been in awe at the attunement of my senses.

As I turned to cross the Wyeth, I knew in another hundred meters I'd be safe.

My securities were shattered when I was tackled from behind. Just as I came upon the bridge. It was like a bull had slammed into me from the rear. The force of our impact, as we were moving, separated us as we fell, Moira rolled ahead and beyond me a few meters before coming to her feet. Between me and the village!

As I rose to my knees, I could see the saliva on her teeth. A serprnt like tongue hung loosely to one side of her mouth. Hatred seemed tattooed in her eyes. Fair game I had been, dinner I'd now be, she said.

Thinking of something she'd said before, I gathered what strength was left for one last effort. As I arched over the railing of the bridge towards the Wyeth, I could feel Moira's claws tear down the backs of my legs. Her growls of anger could be heard for kilometers, or so I thought.

Many were waiting. Ready to listen to my story of passion within the ring of standing stones. When I returned to the Inn, they were not prepared for what arrived. Bloodied, in excruciating pain, and soaking wet, I told my story. It was decided by the villagers that I had come upon wolves, or wild dogs. Still they believe not my story. They felt I was so drunk I had become hysterical upon my return.

I have not stopped my sorties to the pub. Neither, have I stopped imbibing my favorite ale. The scars on my back, legs, and shoulder attest to what happened. Whatever my friends believe, they cannot explain the red silk scarf that I found in the middle of Mallen's Bridge the following morning.