With Halloween (or Samhain!) just around the corner, I wanted to share this story with you. I wrote it as part of the Curtis Brown Writing Gothic & Supernatural Fiction course I’ve been on for the past five weeks. The task was to rewrite a fairy or folk tale, and I chose this one: the baobhan sith.
These creatures feature in my novel, WATCH US BURN, which is currently out on submission (!) and set in The Cabrach, not far from where I live in North East Scotland.
In my opinion, the baobhan sith (ba-van she) is the perfect mythological creature to discuss topics such as women and patriarchy. Unlike vampires from other tales, the baobhan sith are female creatures that prey only on men – and yet every tale I have read about them focuses on the men they kill rather than the creatures themselves. The men are usually a group of hunters resting in a bothy, and the women who arrive are beautiful, arresting, the most welcome of company on a cold night – until their true natures are revealed. I discovered that a woman would probably rise as a baobhan sith, whereas a man would not, though none of the stories I read explored this in detail – or even touched upon why a woman might want to become the predator for a change…
THE HUNT
Vikki Patis
It was the blood that drew us to her. That iron tang in the air, calling us out from the wilderness.
She was alone, facedown in the leaves, the back of her head caved in. Her dress was torn, mud splattered up her legs, flesh beneath her nails. She had tried to run. She had tried to fight.
We are too late. She is gone.
But they are not. I can still smell them.
The rest of us turned our noses to the air, searching. We caught it at the same time: the scent of meat over fire, of sweat. Of men.
We found them a mile away. The fire was roaring, lighting up the stony shieling. Four of them were huddled around the flames, sharing plates of bread and flasks of whisky, sharp against the tongue.
Four of them. One each.
We smiled, creeping closer, and listened to the conversation that floated through the air. They were a hunting party, not local but familiar with these parts – and the kind of game they had come to expect. They came here with violence in their hearts, leaving destruction in their wake, believing themselves to be the only predators nearby.
‘Now all we need is some female company!’ one of the men was saying.
‘Are you not sated, man?’ another asked incredulously.
‘Never!’ the first man said, and the others laughed, the sound breaking open the night.
‘Be careful whit ye wish for,’ a third man said, voice quiet. We paused, ears pricked, for we recognised his accent. ‘Ye niver know whit evil ye micht be invitin’ in.’
‘Evil?’ another man guffawed. ‘Are we children, afraid of monsters in the dark?’ A clapping sound, the hard thump of a hand on a back. ‘We are men. We fear nothing!’ The others cheered loudly, lifting their flasks into the air. ‘What is it you lot say? Ah, yes: Slàinte Mhath!’
The local man did not drink, only touched a fingertip to the silver cross that hung around his neck as he stared into the flames.
We looked at one another. They asked for us. Let us answer their prayers.
We moved out from the shelter of the trees, our bodies transforming into long, pale limbs. The green fabric of our dresses trailed along the ground as we made our way to the bothy, feet hidden. Long nails tucked into sleeves, hoods obscuring glowing eyes, we knocked.
The door opened to reveal a small room, one we knew well, for folk routinely sheltered there at night. A pot simmered above the flames, and a scattering of belongings surrounded the men. They had already made the place their own. The air was thick with their scent, with the hunt, the kill.
‘Ladies!’ he said, his face a mask of surprise as he saw us standing outside. ‘What on earth are you doing out there at this time of night? Please, come in out of the cold and the dark.’
We smiled. The dark holds no terrors for us. A horse whinnied nearby, hooves battering the cold ground, as the door closed behind us.
‘Thank you for your generosity,’ we said, hands clasped behind our backs. ‘It is indeed very cold the nicht.’
‘Are ye from these parts?’ the local man asked.
We dipped our heads. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Then ye will understand why ye cannae stay.’
The other men gaped at him for a moment before they exploded, speaking in unison, in voices used to being heeded:
‘You cannot be serious, man?’
‘Throwing ladies out into the wilderness?’
‘This is absurd! We will not allow it!’
The local man looked at us, and we at him, and we knew he recognised us too. ‘Then A will sleep wi the horses,’ he said, rising. ‘Goodnicht, and God bless.’ Our eyes followed him out of the bothy, tracking his retreat into the hungry dark, but he was lost to us.
No matter.
‘We apologise, ladies,’ one of the others said when he was gone. ‘I cannot say what has got into him!’
‘He’s always been a funny one,’ another said, dismissive. ‘Come, sit, warm yourselves by the fire.’ His eyes gleamed with promise, with what he thought we would give him. He was wrong.
We looked up, hoods falling back, and locked eyes with the men. ‘We have other ways to warm ourselves,’ we said, smiling to reveal sharp canines as their faces drained of colour. ‘But some of us will have to share.’
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