Bogman 2

For most people, life begins in warmth. He however, cannot imagine what that must have been like, he was born in cold.

Sometimes he dwells on it, the strangeness of it all. How others don’t remember coming into this world. They don’t shudder with thoughts of that hideous gasping first breath. They don’t recall the people that pulled them to the bright light and wiped the muck from their eyes. Their first screams of indignation at being pulled into an existence all too foreign to them.

They pulled him from the bog fully formed and screaming. His body numb and cold, so bloody cold. That is the thing that he remembers clearest, the cold that made them think he was dead at first. And maybe he was. fuck but he did scare them with his screams. It’s not every day you pull a breathing man from the bog, not even in Ireland, not even in the strange places and hidden towns where folk go missing in the night.

They had washed the mud from his skin, performed a perfect little baptism. The ceremony bestowed by workmen and confused onlookers alike. At some point someone had thought to call a hospital but then they noted the hawthorn trees and the mist all about. So instead they marked their heads with the mud before turning and leaving him. Their only gifts the cold and a name. He didn’t blame them for that. He would have felt the fear of god too at such a time. still he held a deep distaste for the name they gave him, one he could not refute or abstain from any more than a drowning man abstain from flotsam. He clung to it though it sickened him, sticking in his throat with its heavy impracticality. They called him Fear Portaigh, the Bogman.

Bogman was broke, painfully so. The last traces of yesterday’s beers clung to his mind like a hazy fog making it hard for him to fully grasp his situation and what to do next. He had no money for beer to fight the haze or water to dissipate it and the last dregs of dinner he had the day before was now threatening to make a reappearance. This of course was something the Bogman could not afford.

He ran a hand through his tangled black hair and lit his last cigarette. The taste of it not helping or hindering his stomach but at least giving him the routine he needed to think. Right now he was in the arse end of nowhere, a small lost town that had found itself missing somewhere between Belfast and Ballycastle, not that he was in any mood to find out. Why he was even in the north was another question that needed to be addressed. Bogman knew they didn’t like odd things up here even more than most, things that didn’t fit perfectly were easy to discard. He remembered meeting Kieran and the others to talk about business and maybe go looking for some fun but that was about it. The Bogman prided himself on his memory, after all he did not have much life to remember, so it perplexed him that the night before eluded him so.

The cigarette was nearing its end and the Bogman had decided he was not going to be sick. Wherever he was it was unlikely that Kieran would be far. Besides as things go, they tended to work out well in the end. He had a good feeling about today. Bogman had a sense for good luck, a feeling that started in his belly and worked its way up to his gullet and that was not his dinner thankfully. He could feel luck, taste it in the air and fondle it like a pack of cards. It was something he couldn’t explain to other people just something he felt. He saw it in the odd beam of sunlight that pierced the thick duvet of clouds, and tasted it in the last drag of the cigarette in his lips. Even his legs felt springy at the thought of taking a walk and stretching his legs. He would see if he could find some of the others and perhaps if he right about the day he would even make a penny or two.

The Bogman sighed eagerly and put out his cigarette on the palm of his hand, the pain of burning chasing away the cold feeling that lingered there. He flicked away the dud and stood, dusting off the muck and filth from the ground before heading up into the town.

“yer not from here” the old man said, looking at the Bogman with open hostility in his beady black eyes. One bushy white eyebrow was raised in a high arch and he clasped his walking stick with shaking fervour.

“And you are prone to cliché” responded Bogman, his irritation beginning to grow. “I just want to know if you saw a big red headed bloke…”

“I’ll be calling the churchman when things look dodgy lad. You better clear out before that happens.” A large bellied onlooker stopped to watch their conversation, his disproportionately small dog shivering beside him. The Bogman noticed and cursed under his breath.

“Sorry about that fella. Didn’t mean to upset you or nothin”

“Feck off back to Donegal, ye ugly ponce” said the old man spitting a thick glob of yellowing phlegm angrily onto the ground. The Bogman put on his best apologetic smile and moved on. This exchange had been the first of several to go that way and Bogman felt a headache beginning at the edge of his eyes.

 It was true that so far his luck had not been wonderful though he was still in a mostly good mood. The feeling was still with him and he just knew that something was going to go his way today. It was with this attitude that he decided to approach the pub. In all cases pubs are an interesting place for the Bogman. When times were good they were a place to fight the coldness away with whisky shots and laughing friends. When times were bad they were a place to skirt around and mull in, thinking about days when things were better. Bogman pushed open the door and immediately was aware that this pub was one of the latter ones.

It was apparently empty, apart from a pair of leather skinned old men huddled in the corner over dark ales. A vaguely offensive country song was playing sadly in the background, the singer caught in the middle of comparing his woman to a prize horse. The only other thing to catch the eye was a large 20 bore shotgun that was hung above the bar, a thick wooden cross sat beneath it inscribed with words that Bogaman had head too many times for his own liking ‘through god we vanquish aberration’. Bogman quickly turned his attention to the person behind the bar.

The bartender was a young and intimidatingly pretty girl, though Bogman found all women intimidating to some degree. She had her light brown hair tied back in a tight bun that showed off her narrow features and tired eyes. She had the demeanour of a rather old house budgie that has become used to the cage, or perhaps suffered some trauma on its first outing and had since decided that the world beyond is not worth the effort.

“What can I get you?” she asked and Bogman at once found his wits leaving him.

“Beer” he said, forgetting he had nothing to pay for it with. She at once went about getting him one as he eased himself onto a creaking stool. She placed the frothy beer before him.

“three eighty please.”

“fuck that’s high” Bogman responded, more than a little shocked. She shrugged in response and raised an eyebrow at him.

“churchmen set prices not me.”

“you seen a red haired man?” Bogman said suddenly

“once or twice” she said “I heard the redhead gene is dying out though.”

“you seen a big fat one recently?”

“eh not really” she said drawing out the last word “why? You looking for someone?”

“Yea old friend, he’s not from around here either.” Bogman said aware that he may be giving more information than he should.

“Well there were a couple of lads roaming around here last night but last I heard the churchman arrested them.” she said glancing at the untouched beer then again at Bogman “you gonna drink that or not?”

“Why’d he arrest them?” he asked again trying not to sound too invested. She shrugged again but her eyes narrowed.

“You shouldn’t be asking questions like that around here. Your accent is already weird.”

Bogman gulped and his eyes darted to the shotgun and back. He knew that each of the pellets in those cartridges would be pure iron and twice folded, the prophets name carved on each. The bartender noticed his gaze and her mouth opened slightly. She glanced towards the old men, making sure they were still immersed in their conversation. When neither of them looked up she lent close to Bogman and he could smell the scent of her perfume, a cheap sweet smell that made him giddy. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper “get out of here if I were you. Churchman here en’t kind to your lot.”

“I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Feck if he cares. Ditch your mates and go! There is nothing for you here.”

“What if I needed to find them?”

“Then you would be an idiot.”

“I am.”

“If you absolutely have no other option then I would tell you too look up by the old fort, that’s where the cells are” she pulled away from him and looked around nervously “and drink your damn beer.”

“Oh I can’t pay for it” said Bogman overly apologetically

“What? Then why’d you ask for it?”

“I forgot.”

“Well what have you got?”

“Umm let me see” said Bogman emptying his pockets onto the counter “empty shotgun cartridge, pack of cards, penknife with missing corkscrew and two pennies.”

“Jesus almighty but you’re a mess” she said shaking her head

“Eh at least I have me health” Bogman grinned stupidly. “Oh wait” he said rummaging in another pocket and pulling out a small see-through packet with small white pills in it. The bartender raised an amused eyebrow. “you know that’s illegal here?”

“is it?!” said Bogman looking worried “well I guess that drives its value up.”

She sighed in response before holding out her hand. The Bogman reached out placed the packet in her hand, their fingers brushing for the most fleeting of seconds. That touch scared back the cold more than any whiskey. He thought about telling her that but he didn’t think she would understand. For a moment he felt bad about giving her the last of his pain killers and making her think it was something else but he had done much worse in the past. He picked up and downed his beer in one long gulp before turning and trudging from the bar.

The long trek up the hill to the castle was a lonely one. The cold was beginning to set in and its bite was especially wicked to the Bogman. He wrapped his frayed coat tighter around himself as he climbed the long hill. He saw the church before he saw the castle. It was nestled in a sweet grove of bare apple trees. The graveyard that spread around it was lovingly tended. Bogman increased his pace till he saw the rising ruins of the fallen fort. At some point there would have been tourists here to see it. Maybe back then this town wouldn’t have been so lost. There were no tourists now and the eerie emptiness of it all unnerved the Bogman. What made it worse was that he could see the evidence of recent life around him. footprints and scraps of rubbish littered the floor, a beer can crunched under his feet. He would have felt anxiety now were it not for the twisted knot of luck he still nursed in his heart. He knew something would go his way today he just knew it. He had never been wrong before so why would he be wrong now.

He climbed the cracked stone steps up towards the ruins, stopping to read a vaguely interesting information board on the way. The board said something about a clan under attack from another clan and how the attacking clan had promised to let them live if they opened the gates. The leader of the castle after long deliberation finally decided to open the gates. The part with the ending seemed to have been rubbed off over the years. Bogman guessed it tuned out alright for them. He continued upwards, wringing his hands against the cold that now felt like it was pressing all around him. A thin layer of mist had settled in and the tips of the grass had turned white. Bogman reached the top and blew into his hands to try and fight back some warmth.

He was standing in a large open area inside the walls. The gate must have collapsed at some point. The mist was thicker now and Bogman could make out the shape of four tall poles in the centre of the courtyard. The castle ruins sat imposingly behind them. The bar tender said that the cells were inside. Bogman started to walk towards the castle but stopped suddenly when he noticed something. There was something attached to each of the poles. Bogman took another step forward growing horror churning in his stomach.

It was them, his friends. He stared in fixed shock, his hand coming up to his mouth and running through his hair. They had been nailed to the poles. Kieran was in the middle, unmistakable with his red hair and large physique. Blood ran down from the wounds in his arms and a slash by his neck. His body looked stiff and white and cold, so bloody cold. Bogman dropped to his knees tears growing in his eyes. Each of his friends were there too and all had a wooden placard hung around their necks. Jess with her intoxicating glee, Damian and finally Eva who looked far too small up there. The placards they wore had only one letter written on them and Bogman already knew what it said, F. He couldn’t fight the tears, couldn’t fight the cold that threatened to overwhelm him. Why did he still have this luck within him, what could possibly happen that would be lucky now.

“The work of god can be hard to behold” came a voice behind him “but it is glorious too is it not child” Bogman didn’t move. The voice was clear and arrogant and close behind him. “I see you kneeling before his work and it makes me proud. Come stand child and I will bless you” Bogman began to stand but he did not turn. The person was close behind him now and Bogman could hear the swish of robes as he moved. “There are tears in your eyes” said the man as he drew closer “wipe them away, there is no need to cry for these things, they are not of our world, they are not of our god.”

Bogman’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. “What happened?”

“What do you mean child?”

“To the people that used to live here?” There was a short pause and the man behind Bogman seemed to be considering the question.

“Oh you mean to the clans. Funny you would ask that. I have not had to tell that tale for a long time.” the churchman was close now, so close that Bogman could grab him if he turned.

“They were pagans, worshippers of old and strange gods and when the armies of the saviour came they refused to open the gates. Then finally after a long time of deliberation the lady of the house asked the saviour’s armies If they would harm anyone once the gates were opened. Naturally he agreed and the lady opened the gates.”

“Then what happened?” asked Bogman though in his heart he knew the answer.

“Well they were all brought into the yard and stripped then left to freeze.”

“So they lied to them.”

“No of course not! They promised not to harm them and they didn’t. They left them to the judgement of the almighty.” The churchman finished. He sounded happy, cheerful even. Bogman felt the luck tighten inside him, churn like a tidal wave against a thick stone wall. He turned to look at the churchman and they locked eyes. He was middle aged and wrinkled with pale blue eyes and tufts of white hair that made him look almost comical. He smiled at Bogman but his smile began to fade slowly.

“Wait a second… who are…”

Bogman’s hand was at his throat and the churchman tried to scream. All that came out was a terrified gasp. Bogman roared and pushed him to the ground, both of his hands squeezing the old man’s throat. Spittle flew from his lips and he tried to say something. Bogman heard the words through the haze of fury but they barely mattered to him. he tightened his grip, and the churchman died.

Only Bogman knows the day he was born. it was in muck and filth and cold, sucking in air as labourers hands pulled him from the grasping peat. It was in cold he was born and in cold he would die. He would not leave that fate to his friends. It took him a hours to haul down the poles and carry the bodies one by one down the castle steps to the church. There he piled them up and placed beneath them many broken pews. And when the flame burned high, Bogman felt its warmth.