Ár n-Urraíocht

Hey reddit, long time lurker, first time writer. First time posting anything here, so if I've done anything wrong here in how I post this or whatever, please let me know.

[The following is an approximated translation from a set of recently uncovered annals of Rathbeg monastery on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland, dating from around 841 AD. Strangely enough, this section of the annals was uncovered in what appears to be a souterrian, or subterranean passage, thought to be no longer used in this era, and appear to have been torn from the main book.]

Take heed of what I write here, anyone who is to find this, for what I am to say goes against all common sense to record, and may strike a blur upon your immortal soul, as it has upon mine.

My tale begins two nights ago, as myself, Brothers Fionn, Sean, three Irish warriors and a guide from Rath Beag by the name of Mac Tomais (he gave no first name, preferring this as his title), set out from our monastery to head west, and spread the word of Christ our Lord to the few roving bands of heathen savages left roaming the wilds and woods of Eire. Rumours had been spreading by word of mouth from Ath Cliath of raiders from the north, hulking men with huge blades, crushing axes, and a list for slaughter, sailing up the rivers in boats helmed with monstrous creatures, pillaging the land, burning our churches and taking sacred relics. If these demons were to overcome the coast, we felt it pertinent to bring our gospel inland, so that if we burned in our beds as the raiders looted us, our faith would survive.

As it grew darker on the first day, we found ourselves at the hem of a great forest, blanketing the land in oak and ash. Our guide, not wishing the risk of having us torn apart by bear, boar or wolf (he had been paid half handsomely upon departure, and would receive another respectable bundle upon our safe return) decided that we should make camp beside the forest, and enter it the next day, so that at least if we were torn apart by wild beasts, we would be able to see what matter of beast it was.

A fire was set to light, one of the warriors remarking how dry and dead the wood seemed, thus easier to burn, but once we were warm no one seemed to care. Food was shared, and brother Sean produced flasks of wine from inside his robes.

One by one, my comrades lapsed into slumber, until it was only I and the guide left awake. He had elected to take first watch against any nocturnal intrusions, and I myself struggled with severe sleeping problems. "Fair quiet". He spoke, his voice, deep and warm carrying a puzzled tone. He looked at me, taking in my perplexed expression. "No animal noises. No fox cries or owl hoots. Rare. Strange." "Peaceful, perhaps?" I enquired. "Unnatural. Might be that not only the wood here is dry and dead". He motioned me closer, and drew something from the small pouch hung on his belt. He held his hand out to me, and opened it.

A tiny carved figure tipped into my hand, some pagan effigy of Danu, the earth goddess. I almost flung it to the ground, but he stopped me with a look. " There are things older than God, Brother Daithi. And in the face of these things, it pays to be safe." He smiled at the look of contempt on my face. "Call me a heathen if you like," he said, patting the earth, "but even God had a mother, and he knew to trust in her."

I retired then to fall asleep, putting aside the admonishment I was preparing, at least until we returned from our task. However, while lying awake beneath the open sky, the unnatural silence did begin to sow dread in my mind, until my hand found the little carving of Danu and clutched it tightly.

The next day began with our warriors skirting the woods to find a way around. None of our party, including myself, had managed a restful sleep, our slumber troubled with nightmares. I'd awoken several times, feeling eyes peering out upon me from between the trees, and it seemed as though my companions had shared similar nightly visions. The forest, however, seemed to stretch on for miles, and it became apparent that the only two options we had were to either let our feelings of unease overcome us and return to our homes, or to cast fear aside and head into the woods.

The woods were almost bereft of life. No bird chirps, no scrabbling of squirrels overhead. Even the greenest of branches snapped like dry twigs. The ground we walked on had a hideous, spongy texture, oozing black water like bog muck. My hand, twined already with rosary beads, clutched again the heathen idol. My fellow monks prayed in Latin almost inaudibly.

I increased my pace to catch up with our guide, and fell in step beside him. His ginger brow was furrowed. "Do you think we should retreat?" I asked him in hushed tones. He looked at me. "Perhaps. These do not seem like a place for any of us to be. And strangely enough, I cannot place them on the map in my head".

I looked at him incredulously. " So we've wandered this far, into woods that stink of the Devil's breath, with an inexperienced amateur? Charlatan. Your chieftain will hear of this."

"Inexperienced, you coddled arse? If I had lied, would I want to leave, to have my neck be given to the executioner's axe? No, not experienced. But these woods have grown a cancer in them. Before, where there was deer and bear and bird, there is only flies and slugs, things that feed on rot."

I opened my mouth to retaliate, to scorn him, when a shout came from up ahead. One of the warriors, scouting ahead, hailed us, and began to walk back toward us, dragging something. "A body" he stated, standing up straight, his features twisted in disgust.

The corpse was a young man, thin, reedy-haired. In some primitive design, his body was covered in tiny scars, shaped like eldritch runes. I had seen the Ogham, and the runes of the northmen, but these runes..to look at them hurt the eyes at their shape, the ragged way they had been carved into flesh in a way that suggested they were to hurt, to bleed. The corpse's eyes were wide, abnormally so, like those of a dead fish. And the mouth, the mouth had been stitched shut, not fully, but in a way that suggested the former soul residing within the body would have only been able to elict the barest of responses. Slugs oozed from the open jaw.

Sean vomited, and our guide looked troubled, but brother Fionn looked over the body with a morbid curiosity. He caught me staring and looked up. " Interesting, is it not? I haven't seen anything like this before on a mission. Mostly a few savages clinging to their trinkets and burning offerings to a golden calf, of sorts, but this..this is new. Different." I nodded. Then, hesitantly, implied we should leave. He laughed. "The Lord loves not those who flee from his challenges. And this, my dear brother, is an very peculiar one. You may go, if you wish. I can take the lead". Herein lies the stain on my soul, for instead of balking and listening to my conscience as I should have, I succumbed to pride. " The Lord will provide" I muttered, and we trudged onwards.

The forest seemed to repeat itself over and over, and every so often we would find another corpse, much the same as the young man. Several times I did almost swallow my pride and flee, but as it grew closer to evening time, the trees parted way, and we found ourselves in a clearing.

Unlike the rest of the forest, the clearing was covered in soft, green grass. At the centre, a small, raised hillock, topped with standing stones. Looking down, I noticed that the black water still oozed from between the blades of grass, and slugs squirmed along. My stomach turned. The forest was upfront about what it was. The place was far more insidious, rot hidden beneath fine linen. Mac Tomais stood his ground and turned to us. His red, weather-beaten face had taken a deathly pallor. "We should not be here".

Brother Fionn snorted derisively. " A hill? A few slugs? Some stones? Petrifying. Maybe next we'll see a woodlouse or two."

"Brother, this is an unholy place. The air itself has died. You can taste it, the staleness, the absence of life. All that lives here is that which feeds on rot. This is a place the Níos Sine have touched, of those older than God". Fionn looked at him contemptuously.

" Heathen nonsense. None are older than God. God made the earth and all that walk it. Look, this is some pagan chapel from before they knew his true name of our Saviour, and the true faith".

Fionn pushed past Mac Tomais towards the mound, and, looking fearfully at our guide, I hurried behind my fellow monk, attempting to persuade him otherwise, but to no avail. He clambered up the mound, past the standing stones, which seemed to be made of some crystallised rock, stained with old blood the cover of rust, etched in the same heretical glyphs as the bodies. As I reached behind him, I heard him let out a soft moan of astonishment.

At the centre of the mound stood a huge, glistening carving in jet black stone. The carving was easily two heads taller than any living mound, and around its base lay corpses with the same mutilations as earlier, each holding a knife of the same jet material as the carving, thrust into their own necks. Now we understood the cadavers. Not a warning, but a self-sacrifice to this blasphemous thing.

The carving was an exquisite monstrosity almost the exact semblance of a man, entirely hairless, and with angled slits at either side of its jaw instead of a mouth. On either side of its neck were instead where its mouths, three in a row on either side, were located, lined with long, thin teeth. Bulbous warts surrounded them, almost real enough to glisten and throb. The carving's hands were outstretched in a gross parody of our Lord, and from its feet upwards, a forest of tentacles, like those of some hideous sea monster, caressed its body.

A simple ogham stone was laid in front of the statue, and a prior knowledge of the ancient language allowed me to translate it:

Ár n-Urraíocht. Our Sponsor.

My eyes throbbed to look at it, and I felt bile tickle my throat. I grabbed Fionn and tried to sway him, but he merely stood still, repeating the same thing over and over. "Older than God". I turned my back on the detestable thing, vomited, and began running backwards to my comrades. "We are leaving. Now".

Nudging Mac Tomais, I enlisted him in helping me to recover Brother Fionn, although catatonic, from atop the mound. With a look of anger caused by our foolishness, he threw Fionn's arm over his shoulder and began to carry him.

Dusk began closing with approaching rapidity in as we fled from the damnable mound, snapping twigs and bursting slugs underfoot. Unlike the night before, this night was alive with whispering. Through the trees we could see glimpses of emaciated, wide-eyed people, their skin etched in runes, murmuring in a guttural tongue as they surrounded us.

Our warriors drew their swords in readiness, but skeletal beings leapt on them from the trees, stabbing at them with their jet-black knives. Brother Sean stumbled blindly on a tree root, slipping and landing face down in the mud. On our blind panic, we ran past him, leaving him to the mercy of the wide-eyed savages.

We had almost reached the treeline, luckily unscathed, when I heard a cry from behind me. I turned around apprehensively, eager to escape, aware of how we'd already lost members of our trope to the wasted troglodytes.

Brother Fionn stood over Mac Tomais, who lay upon the ground, his mouth frozen in a bloody grin, screeching in a high pitched voice like a maniac: "Older than God! Níos sine ná Dia! Níos sine ná an Domhan!"

His guttural, inhuman screeching was matched by howls from the forest, chanting somehow in the same hideous tongue. And from behind them..

[Here the writing becomes scratchier, more erratic]

The jet black stone was not a carving, but the equivalent of a blanket for a mottled, fleshcoloured thing, crawling with slugs, with the savages dancing around it in perverse rhapsody. To look hurt my mind, searing my eyes, burning at my soul. I could not bear it. I fled, running through the night and day, my hand clasped around the figure of Danu. The same figure that remains by me, even now.

["Daithi"'s tale ends here. Upon comparison of this account to the official records of Rathbeg, the only mention of any Brother Daithi references a mad monk, returning from a mission with his hair whitened by madness, preaching of heathen gods, who eventually became overcome by madness and took his own life.]