Page 22 of The Wild Hunt

As I step inside the pub, the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and cheerful chatter wrap around me like a cozy blanket. I spot Bridget's friends at their usual table, their faces lit with friendly smiles. They wave me over, and I make my way through the throng of patrons.

“Bridget won’t be long!” Ryan, one of Bridget’s friends, calls out. I settle into a chair, grateful for the warmth of the fire crackling nearby. Sean stands up, offering to fetch me an ale.

“Thanks, Sean,” I reply, watching as he weaves through the crowd.

Nora leans in, curiosity dancing on her face. “So, are you looking forward to Samhain?” she asks.

“Samhain?” I echo, trying to connect the dots. “Oh, you mean Halloween?”

“Yes,” she replies, her tone teasing. “Though it’s so much more than just a celebration for costumes and candy.”

My curiosity piques as she continues, “On Samhain, the veil between worlds is believed to be at its thinnest.”

“That sounds… intense. Do people really believe in that?”

“Absolutely,” she says, her brown gaze steady. “It’s part of our history here. There are countless tales—some warn against wandering alone at night, lest you encounter a wayward spirit. Others tell of the fae, who might lead you astray if you’re not careful. But then legend also says it’s the night of The Wild Hunt.”

Sean places the ale in front of me, taking a seat beside me as I frown at Nora. I vaguely recall my great-grandmother mentioning it. “The Wild Hunt? I’ve heard that term before, but I don’t really know what it means.”

Nora leans closer, while Sean scoffs at her, as though he doesn’t put any weight behind the tales. “It’s a legend that goes back centuries, rooted in the old world. Some say it’s led by the fae, others claim it’s the spirits of fallen warriors or even the Gods themselves. But all the stories agree on one thing: during Samhain, the Hunt rides.”

The air seems to take on a buzzing energy around us as she continues. “On that night, they race across the sky, chasing souls. If you’re unlucky enough to be caught in their path, they might sweep you away with them, into another realm. Those who disappear during the Wild Hunt… they’re never seen again. Not in this world, at least.”

A cold shiver traces my spine as I try to imagine what that would even look like. “But, do people actually believe in this?” I ask skeptically, looking around at the group as they watch my reactions in return.

Nora gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug, but her gaze remains intense. “Belief isn’t the question. The Hunt is meant to be something more primal—an embodiment of chaos, of nature untamed. Imagine it, the sound of horses’ hooves, the baying of hounds.”

I stare at her, my heart beating faster. “And what do you do if you hear it?”

She giggles, flipping a strand of her hair over her shoulder. “Pray you’re not in their path,” she says simply, her gaze locked on mine. “The oldies used to leave offerings—food, wine, sometimes even personal belongings—anything to appease the riders and avoid their wrath. If the Hunt takes notice of you… running won’t help.”

My mouth feels dry, the eerie thrill of her words taking hold. “So what are you supposed to do? Just hide?”

A small, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Enough!” comes a sharp, angry voice next to us, cutting through the laughter and chatter like a knife. I look up to see Bridget, her expression fierce as she locks eyes with Nora. It’s the angriest I’ve ever seen her, a stark contrast to the warmth she usually carries. But as her gaze shifts to me, the fire in her eyes extinguishes, replaced by a kind smile.

“Don’t mind her,” Bridget says softly, motioning for me to relax. “Nora loves her old stories, but they’re just that—stories.” She shoots Nora another look, one that says she’s had enough of the eerie tales for the night. Then, with a quick motion, she nudges Nora to move down the bench so she can take the seat between us.

“Sorry about that, I was delayed closing up the bakery,” she says as she settles in, her voice lightening the mood. “How was your day?”

I can’t help but return her smile, the tension melting away as I push the story out of my mind. “It was good! I got some workdone on my second piece before heading down here. What about you?”

Bridget chuckles softly, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Just as I was about to close, this frantic customer rushed in. She had spilled flour all over herself while trying to bake a cake for her son’s birthday. I couldn’t help but laugh!”

I lean in, intrigued. “What happened next?”

“She was still covered in the flour when she ran in, desperately needing a cake. So, I whipped up a quick one while she cleaned herself up. By the time she left, we were both in stitches, and I sent her off with some extra cookies for herself. You know, a little kindness goes a long way!”

She pauses for a moment, glancing toward the bar. “Oh, and on my way here, I stopped by to check the specials. Tonight, they have a seafood chowder that smells divine. But if seafood isn’t your thing, they’re also serving roast with all the fixings.”

I nod, my appetite piqued. “I love a good roast. I might have to try that instead.”

“Good choice,” she says, her smile widening. “I’ll have the chowder, then we can share if you want to try a bit!”

“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, feeling grateful for her easy going nature. As the rest of the table engages us in conversation, the laughter and warmth of the pub wraps around us, and I can’t help but feel at home here. Maybe Cianán was right. Maybe I need to stop trying to forget, but instead remember who I once was.

I used to be fun and have dinner outings with friends. I was happy and full of life. The old me would have asked Nora a hundred questions, wanting to know all the local tales and folklore. Just like I used to sit at my great-grandmother's feet and listen to all her stories.

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