All Roads lead to Eoropaidh

The Lighthouse was shrouded in thick, grey fog. Only the strong white light, shining in its constant rhythm as it kept turning round and round in the same pace it had been keeping the last fifty years, pierced through the gray foggy walls. It was not hampered by the fog, not weighed down by its monotonous substance, its warmth not sucked out by the damp, cold greyness which surrounded the white-painted houses and neither was it estranged from its neighboring houses because of the way the fog seemed to alter perspective. The Lighthouse Tower stood, elevated from the darkness below, like a true shimmering beacon of hope for all to see. It was dead quiet. No birds chirping, no man who talked. All was dead silent. The seas beneath the cliffs of the Lighthouse rested also against the rocks, as if it had gone to slumber, resting, playing dead, waiting, begging for the storm to come and whip up its desire for the flesh of men to embrace into its cold, dark abyss.

Peter glanced worriedly out the window. He didn’t like the fog. There was something intimidating about it, something by it which almost brought him to tears. It was aggressive, invasive and persistent, creeping, seeping in through every crack and tear, a wanton desire to penetrate the houses and alienate all living things. Peter moved away, making to go upstairs to his bedroom. The growing belly, the child inside him with its endless need for more nutrition, tired him. No matter how much he tried to eat, he kept looking like a twig with a huge abscess on the middle, jutting out and always in the way. His shirts kept tightening across the very visible belly, and Peter was constantly hungry. He did his best to control himself. No one wanted to house and feed a useless, worn out reject of a slave, especially one who did nothing but eat and sleep all day long. Wherever he turned, they kept offering him food, and he tried his best to hold back, to show moderation. He felt like he kept taking and taking, and gave nothing back. Peter stopped at the foot of the stairs. He’d put one foot on the first step, but then Michael had come over.

“The villagers call the fog ‘Calypso’s Breath’. Legend has it, the goddess, when angered by a sailor, breaths fog to hide reefs and cliffs from his view, playing tricks with the horizon to make him run his ship on ground so she can have her revenge. Only the sound of church bells has the power to part the fog, like a knife slicing through a piece of pie. Speaking of pie, it’s almost done. Why don’t you stick around for a slice? Just a small one?”

“P—pie?” Peter replied quietly. He couldn’t help himself, his mouth watering just by the thought.

“Apple pie” Michael said, flashing a smile. Peter made the outlines of Michael’s well-shaped, white fangs in a flash, and it was enough to send his wavering self-esteem reeling, shattering into a thousand pieces of broken crystal. All in less than thirty seconds. Panic got the better of him, and he made his retreat up the stairs, hastily walking to his room. He closed the door quietly, before removing his slippers, parking them neatly by underneath the chair placed next to the door. He dwelt at the touch of the synthetic fur on the insides of the slippers. The slippers were the finest object he had in the room. Ivory had purchased them to Peter, and they’d have to insist many a time to get him to wear them. He didn’t want to wear them out, so he’d kept them in the shoe box they came with, for several weeks. Then, he’d realized that Ivory might have taken offense by him not wearing them. So he’d begun to show himself with them downstairs occasionally. Peter still couldn’t figure out a proper way to thank Ivory. Peter sat on the floor for some time, just relishing the memory from when he’d gotten the gift. It was the last thing Peter ever had expected. A pair of slippers! For shouldn’t it have been something sickening, something of a morbid joke? A dead crow, half rotten and covered with worms? Or something else, something to convey the message of how unwanted Peter and his baby was? Why was he given slippers? Was it normal? Was there some secret message? How come everybody was acting so laid back, so casual and friendly?

Peter got up and wandered over to his bed. He lay down beneath the blanket, fully clothed. Another privilege they’d allowed him – The privilege to wear clothes. He still couldn’t get over that one. The feel of being warm, clothed and human again, was slowly seeping in, and it was exhilarating. They’d actually demanded that he had to preserve his modesty beneath clothes, and a demand was something he could relate to – a task he felt capable of handling. A demand which had nothing but benefits for Peter, for his well-being and self-esteem. There was a rap on the door. A respectful yet insistent rap. They always knocked, always waited for him to come and answer it. The task of getting Peter to understand how the routine worked – a standard routine in any civilized home, really, - had been a difficult and trying one. For Peter couldn’t understand, wouldn’t understand or simply hadn’t grasped the idea of demons actually being courteous and respectful towards Peter and the fact that the large room was Peter’s private recluse and therefore they had no business storming in whenever they felt like it. The idea that Peter actually held power over them in the sense that he could forbid them to enter, was completely eluding him. At the moment, he simply played along because he’d understood that this was a routine they wanted him to perform. He was supposed to answer the door when they knocked. That was how it was. He asked no questions. He had no business asking questions. He had no business talking at all. He was just a slave.

He got up as fast as he could and tip-toed hurriedly across the floor, across the furry rug, across the small space of cold floorboards and over to the door. He braced himself, and turned the handle. Outside stood Michael. Peter remembered to look down, not meeting the demon’s stare. God, how he reminded Peter of Malachi.

“Brought you some pie” Michael said with a smile, offering Peter a plate with a large piece of steaming hot, juicy pie just fresh from the oven. “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you” Michael quickly added. Peter opened the door wider in silent acknowledgement, and he shuffled over to the bed, awaiting damnation. He watched Michael place the plate with the pie on the seat of the chair. Michael was dressed casually, in Adidas sweatpants and blue tunic. He’d put his hands in his pockets, and had clearly not bothered to brush his hair. He didn’t look so very demonic, Peter thought. He looked rather plain, actually. Downright boring, at Peter found it refreshing. No fancy billowing linen shirts, no heavily ornamented waistbands and strange smelling spices – just Adidas. As a matter of fact.

“I just wanted to say to you, Peter, that it hurts when you just walk away, or in this case, run away without a word. You make me feel like I’ve done something wrong or said something wrong.”

Oh. Peter sighed. It was ‘that’ routine again. Michael was trying to make him think, or even worse, speak. What was he after? Peter couldn’t figure it out. All he saw was the tasty looking piece of pie. It would surely be taken from him if he didn’t play his cards right. Peter opened his mouth to say something. He thought of his child. And then of the hunger burning dully in his stomach.

“I- I’m sorry” Peter managed to force from his own dry lips.

“It’s all right, Pete, but tell me, why did you just leave? It makes me uncomfortable when you do that” Michael pressed on.

“I’m – I’m sorry” Peter repeated, trying to wrap his head around what Michael was saying. Not seeing the solution, Peter chose a safe formula. “I’m so sorry I’m alive. Please forgive me—“

“—we’ve been over this before, Peter. It won’t do. You’re going to have to explain. You must stand up for the action you took. Look at me, Peter” Michael compelled him. Peter sighed quietly, understanding that he wasn’t getting away with this one. He had to speak. His jaws worked for a good long moment, as he tried to muster up courage to speak his feelings, to set the words in order, into an understandable sentence. How he hated this, hated so intensely to have to catch his feelings, to analyze them, break them down to words, and shape them into sentences. The process was, at best, strenuous, and he hated it because it forced him to actually take a look at what he felt, to acknowledge the little voice whispering in the back of his head. The little voice was none other than the remnant of Peter Drinkwater. It was his lifeline; - it told him to run from danger, to barricade himself when threatened, to evade and elude when possible, it told him on a daily basis that he loved his baby, and kept him from slitting his wrists or hang himself from the beams in the roof. Now, it was telling him that he’d fled because of Michael’s fangs. They’d reminded Peter of Malachi and his fangs. He knew he had to tell Michael that.

“I saw your fangs” Peter nearly whispered. He glanced up at Michael, “Malachi has fangs like that” Peter said, looking down again, glancing at the piece of pie on the seat.

“Did the sight scare you?”

“Yes” Peter whispered.

“I know it’s difficult for you, Peter, but we all have them. It’s a...trait we’ve got from our demon father. Nothing more. None of us uses them in daily life” Michael tried a smile towards Peter.

“Malachi does” Peter replied faintly, immediately regretting he’d spoken without permission.

“Did he bite you?” Michael asked, knowing he was pushing his luck.

“Yes” Peter replied meekly. The question had prompted a memory from his days in Midsomer Mallows. He had been tied on hands and feet by his master. And he’d been bitten, until his entire body was a patchwork of teeth marks. It had ached so bad, Peter didn’t know what to do with himself. All he could think of, was how witches on trial during the seventeenth century, had been pricked continuously with a needle, as so to reveal their insensitive spots as any proper witch ought to have. It usually meant that the Devil had touched them on just that spot. The supposed witches usually ended up bleeding to death whenever their torturers managed to sting their main arteries. Was Peter a witch too? He remembered thinking this thought at the time. In the present, he looked up at Michael for a brief moment, then said: “Malachi gave me a gift. He has given me a child. He’s very kind. It’s the first time he’s ever given...” then Peter trailed off, remembering his place, regretting down to his very tows the fact that he’d spoken, had ever tried to say something intelligible. Demons weren’t interested in conversation, not with lowlife scum like Peter, how could he have forgotten. Peter wanted to hit himself, to undo the harm he’d done by speaking.

“I hate to break it to you, Peter, but he gave you no gift. I’ve been told you have what Calypso would call ‘a touch of destiny’. It basically means that it all was predestined to happen. When soul meets soul, one doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. I think it’s unfair for Malachi to have all the credit. You did about as much as him as well, if not more. You’re the one who has to carry the baby to its birth. And that’s a lot of hard work. Don’t underestimate yourself – what you’re doing right now for yourself and the baby is immensely important. When you’re happy, he’s happy. When you’re content, so is he. And if you worry, then he worries too. It’s an important stage – for you’ll never be as close to one another as you are now. Now, why don’t you come down stairs and have pie with us? Michael offered with a warm smile. “You know, you should try to use the light switch by the door here a little more often” Michael added, “it wouldn’t hurt to have some light so you can see where you’re going”.

“I—“Peter replied, fidgeting with his hands, “I can’t pay for the electricity, I mean, I haven’t got much money. Maybe—“he swallowed nervously “maybe I could get a job—“

“—get a job? In your state? You’re still very weak. You don’t need to work, Peter, you need to relax and prepare for the baby. Like, how are you going to arrange your room? Where’s the cradle gonna be? And clothes. You’ll need to go shopping. Maybe you want to set up a wall here, separate into two rooms so you can have some privacy too. Have you thought about that?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that” Peter replied with a shy smile, “I won’t live through the birth any way.”

“Who told you that?”

“N – no one” Peter replied, suddenly frightened. Had there been accusation in Michael’s words? Peter took a step away from Michael.

“Do explain, Peter. Why do you feel that way? Does the child tell you that?”

“N-n-no. I only as-assumed because it’s a demon and – and Malachi said I’m just for use and throw, so I assum – assumed that when the child’s finished with me, it will throw me away, that I will die upon giving birth and that then I will finally go to Hell, and then – and then – then I’ll suffer there for the rest of eternity, like Malachi said, but until then – until then – I don’t want to think about that, for I just want to love the child and feel like I’m of real use and pretend the baby loves me too, for it feels like that sometimes although I’m not sure for—“ Peter suddenly became aware of himself and that he was talking away. He felt so good though, to be relieved of the multitude of feelings he kept inside. He decided to say one last thing: “I’m so sorry, you’re of course not interested in all of this gibberish.”

“Oh but Peter, I am! I will gladly listen to anything you have to say because you so seldom speak. The only time I can get words out your mouth is when I back you up in a corner like I’m doing now, and—“Michael was interrupted as Andrea shouted to him from down stairs, telling him the pie was getting cold. “Come on, let’s go downstairs for some pie. What say you?”

“I – I wouldn’t want to intrude” Peter replied, quite weary from the distress he was experiencing through having such an extended dialogue.

“I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll even get you a piece of pie which is still hot” he nodded against the plate on the seat. Peter agreed silently, and walked towards the door. Just as he passed, Michael patted his right shoulder in a friendly gesture. The touch seared into Peter’s skin, like it branded him with Michael’s fingerprints, forever tattooed there, with the words ‘whore’. A whore for letting others touch him, Malachi would say. Whore, whore, whore! And the child? Would it think ill of Peter? It was quiet, lulled to sleep by Peter’s movement, the child resting safely in its little bubble. Peter said nothing, but made his way down the stairs. The pleasant smell of pie straight from the oven filled his nostrils, and he once again felt famished. The others, Jacob, Ivory and Andrea, all rose to offer Peter their chairs once they spotted him. Peter was herded into one of the soft, old chairs, and he sat down, accepting a new piece of pie. He sighed heavily. How was he ever to repay all of this kindness they showed him, when they wouldn’t accept sex? He made some attempts at taking the dishes, until he was told they had a dish washer, he diligently attended when Ivory and Andrea was put to the tedious task of folding clothes, finishing way before they did. He set the table, arranged the fireplace, helped with laundry, dinner, anything which might show them that he was an asset and not just money thrown out of the window. But was it enough? Did he do enough to prove himself? Were their smiles and appreciation of the things he did, true? Or were they just biding their time, waiting, growing more and more annoyed every single day with his incapacities as a human? The questions he’d asked himself about Malachi and his performance towards the demon which was never good enough, lingered still, and was now directed towards his new mentors.

“We’ll have to go into town tomorrow for supplies. Peter, why don’t you come? We could use an extra hand” Jacob said while he enjoyed his slice. It was an excuse, or a technique they’d all more or less developed in order to include Peter in their daily chores, to gently force him to integrate. They didn’t really need his help, Jacob knew, but it was vital, yes, Peter’s life and mental health rather depended on him getting his life back in order, and that he got outside, interacting with other, regular people. Peter did little to hide his fears when he was inside the house, but outside in the village, his face grew into stone. He wore a subdued mask, staring into the ground most of the time, his eyes roaming, looking for possible dangers. He hardly spoke to anyone, and made no effort to keep the conversation going once he’d been approached. If it became too much, he would withdraw, hiding behind whomever of the demons which stood closest. Going to town, represented a real challenge for Peter, for he had to confront his own humanity by interacting with other humans.

“Yes, Sir” Peter replied politely, delighted to feel needed. He’d gulped down the last piece of his slice before everyone else was half way through with theirs, and Israel immediately offered him another one. Peter accepted without thinking, and sat back into the plush chair, immediately digging his fork into the sweet-smelling piece of cake. The others continued as if nothing had happened, stealing glances of Peter who was completely immersed in devouring his pie, smiling secretive to each other in silent agreement. It was satisfying to watch him, though he never once did glance up to meet their faces. For an outsider, it could be perceived as arrogance, but the feelings emanating from him, told them all that he stared at his plate and ate in silence thinking no one saw him or heard him if he just acted as if he was invisible.

The fog did not seem to want to let go off its grip. Calypso obviously had her hands full getting her revenge over some poor sailor out there. As night fell across the Butt of Lewis, it became pitch black outside, and several of the brothers decided to watch TV in the TV-room.

Christopher, one of many writers of the Sparrow Family, went to his study to punch down some last minute inspiration. He’d won many awards for his literature, and taught the art of writing at the Guildhall School of Arts in London from time to time. He made his living from writing literature novels which often were set at sea, either above it, on a boat, an oil rig or beneath the sea, thrillers set in submarines and Davey Jones’ Locker, and so on. Christopher was a well-educated man, who had traveled across the world, seen it all and done it all.

Israel and Jacob turned to look at Peter. He’d fallen asleep in the plush chair, and they decided to stay and watch over him. Jacob put more wood on the open fireplace, and then slunk back into his chair with a book. Israel was lost in thought, and kept staring out the window.

“The storm is coming” he said contemplatively, “it will soon be the end of all of us, like John predicted three hundred years ago. The time of dragons will soon be upon us, but damn it all, I cannot see the connection. Are they with us, or against us?”

“It’s a new breed, not meant to roam the face of the Earth or the skies above. The time of dragons passed with the medieval knights, but now they’re reintroduced by some heavy magic shit which is beyond our control” Jacob replied.

“One of our fathers is going to fall. But I cannot tell whether it’s Jack or the Thyrion” Israel said worriedly.

“You worry too much, Israel” Jacob told his twin brother. The twins were the second pair of twins born to Jack and the demon Thyrion. First came John, then the twins Daniel and Nathaniel and then Israel and Jacob. Unlike their elder twin siblings, Israel and Jacob had enjoyed the experience of marriage to women and something close to usual family lives. They’d both seen daughters born, watched them live out their lives for then to grow old and die. Jacob’s youngest and currently only living daughter was a two hundred and twenty year old witch living on Iceland. And she was showing no sign of dying just yet, though she looked like a shriveled leaf. One of Jacob’s daughters fled the sphere of humans to live with her lover in another realm. She too, a witch. Jacob seldom saw her these days. As to where Daniel and Nathaniel early had fled from Jack Sparrow’s nest to chase demons and runaway souls in the heavens and hells, Israel and Jacob had lingered, understanding the necessity of guarding their human father while he kept producing more offsprings to the demon Thyrion. They’d covered for John who, in his despair of not being able to rid Jack of the demon, had withdrawn to chase his own dreams, to give it all some time, as Jack had seemed convinced that there was no stopping the Thyrion. It was as if the demon held some kind of power over all his offspring, including Jack. No words were needed to command them, and he effectively immobilized them whenever he went to seek out Jack and the Black Pearl. Jack had stopped fighting the demon a long time ago, had resigned himself to his fate, it seemed. Now, three hundred and fifty years later, the balance was shifting. The circle was coming to a close. The dark past of the Thyrion was catching up with the future of the Sparrows, leaving the half demons’ gift of foresight useless. It was like Calypso’s Breath, only thicker, denser and more fatal. For all of them.

Peter dreamt of Malachi that night. Or rather, of Malachi’s body, longing for the touch, the feel, the warmth, the pulsating veins and the beating heart in his chest, the slender fingers caressing Peter’s swollen belly, stroking it lovingly. And Malachi would be tender towards him, and kiss him on the lips, gently, so very gently, kiss his eyelids, the forehead, nuzzle Peter’s long curls, whispering ‘I’m proud of you for carrying my child’, stroking the belly again and again. Peter woke to darkness, thinking immediately that he was back in the cellar of the Windy Whistle Farm. The idea of once again being there frightened him, and he realized he needed light to confirm his surroundings. He didn’t find the usual candlestick which would be lying tucked beneath his pillow in the makeshift bed of the Windy Whistle Farm, and he felt his way until he found the edge of the grand bed. He slipped out of it, and made his way, slowly remembering where he was. But he was upset, and didn’t stop until he had reached the door. It was pitch black, but instead of turning on the lights, he opened the door and was relieved to find the usual sight of the corridor and the stairs leading down to the living room. He was truly at the Lighthouse Farm. Good, that was satisfying but only quite. He heard the clicking noise of someone punching rapidly on a keyboard. It turned out Christopher was still up, working on his story. There was faint noise coming from the TV room also, and Peter gathered that Ivory and Andrea was still up. He had no idea what time it was, but the sore feeling between his legs wouldn’t stop. It was a tingle he’d felt often when he’d dreamed of Malachi and all the ‘could have beens’ while he was his slave at the Windy Whistle Farm. There was suddenly creaking in the stairs, and Andrea stopped to gaze up at him.

Andrea Sparrow was a handsome, captivating man. Though he was some and hundred years old, he looked like he was in his mid thirties. His auburn curls elongated into stylish sideburns, and he had an elegant and discrete mustache which gave him an extra touch of masculinity. Like his brothers, he had a slender waist and build. Thinking himself to be alone, he’d already buttoned up his shirt half way, and the nipples hidden underneath would occasionally show as Andrea moved, and made his way up the stairs. He walked slowly as if not to scare Peter, and he smiled friendly at the young male, but he failed at hiding the horniness in his eyes. He ignored Peter though, and went to the bathroom. Peter sauntered back to the relative safety of his room. He lingered as he heard the toilet being flushed down. Moments later, Andrea appeared through the door way, and he was surprised to find Peter waiting for him. Peter ventured closer, and Andrea came to a halt, curious of what it was that Peter wanted. Peter’s jaws worked soundlessly. He wanted so desperately to say something, anything to make Andrea linger. He didn’t want to dream about Malachi again. Andrea was bold. He reached out with his arms, and cupped Peter’s face with his hands, bringing Peter’s gaze up to meet his own. He gave Peter a very gentle kiss on the lips, though it was never the less filled with passion and painted with a hint of lust. It was not vulgar; it was far from a French tongue kiss, but a simple, solid kiss. Andrea felt Peter melt beneath the kiss, and he embraced the young pregnant male with carefulness, making sure the touch was loose so Peter knew he could break it off whenever he felt like it. Peter needed to be in control, and Andrea was willing to submit.

Peter trembled. He knees went soft, and he felt frightened and his body was on fire. He broke the kiss with a shudder, and slowly backed away from Andrea’s touch. He did not dare to look Andrea in the eye. Andrea suddenly reached out and grabbed his right wrist, stopping Peter from moving. Peter froze, feeling his insides go cold. What did Andrea want?