MicroHorror

The man had to duck as he entered the bar.

“Hi. You do rooms, right?”

All eyes turned. American.

“That we do, sir. How long would you be wantin’ one?”

One of the three domino players laughed and called to the landlord, “Maybe three meters longer than any you’ve got, Michael.”

“And a bit wider, too,” suggested another.

The American looked bemused. He carried his six-foot-seven well.

“Two, three nights, tops. And I’ll need a meal.”

“They stopped serving about twenty minutes ago…”

He was about to protest. It was only nine o’clock.

“…but I’ll talk to Missus. It’ll be no trouble, I’m sure.”

He found the Irish propensity for too much irrelevant information irritating.

“Dom, show this gentleman the room.” Michael turned to the register. “Just come down when you’re ready then, Mister…”

“Yana-browf-sh-ki.”

“Right then, so…” said Michael. “See you in a minute, sir.”

Michael told his wife to serve double portions of whatever was still on and laid a place. The American sat, with his long legs folded to either side of the chair. Having demolished the Irish stew and two helpings of apple tart with whipped cream, he looked a deal tamer.

“So,” ventured Ardel McArdel, “What would you be doing in Kilnaquiln?”

“Lookin’ for my ancestral home, I guess. Kilnaquiln Manor. D’you know it?”

“Everybody knows it,” Ardel said and warning glances told him to leave it at that.

“Was that it among the trees as I drove down into the village?”

Looks were exchanged, this being the fairest excuse for a town within fifty miles–village indeed, ancestral home–“Aye, on Knock Quiln itself.”

“Well, it’s sure been good meeting you folks, but I’ve had a long day so I guess I’ll turn in. I’ll go visit with the folks tomorrow. It looks like a fine house.”

When he’d gone Ardel broke the silence. “He’s joking, isn’t he? Is nobody for tellin’ him? There’s been nobody but wild cats in the auld manor for centuries.”

“Sure, he’ll find that out for himself,” said Michael.

“He’ll be fine,” said Colm.

“He’s maybe not even a Quillan,” added another.

“He’s a Quillan all right, plain as the head on that Guinness,” said the landlady. “Look at the size of him and the grey of eyes of him. That cold, they’d drain yer very soul in a wink.”

“His name’s Yana-browf-sh-ki,” Michael mimicked, and everybody laughed.

“Aye, but he said ‘ancestral’, didn’t he? And he could see it, Michael–like it was a house–not a ruin–a house. I’m tellin’ you–he’s one. It’s where the Quillans come to die.”

“That’s superstitious nonsense, woman. Hold your tongue.”

“Shouldn’t somebody tell him?” said Ardel.

Even the American’s long legs couldn’t make short work of the path up Knock Quiln. He’d had to leave his car several miles below at Felin Farm. From there he cut over stiles and across fields til he reached the lonin that led upwards. This path rose oblique and rocky, back and forth between dry stone walls. Windswept, tenacious trees with twisted bark and gnarled roots dug into the soil for dear life. That and gorse were the only vegetation on the windward side of the hill but they grew thickly together, taking on the appearance of a tangled maze. At last, where the land flattened out on the approach to the house, they closed, impenetrable and hostile.

Quillan Janabrowski woke in just such a thicket. It was now late afternoon. He remembered struggling up towards the house. Then something had attacked him–something that came at him shrieking and yowling. He’d stumbled–hit his head… Eyes… He thought he’d seen hundreds of pairs of eyes… Clearly he had hallucinated.

He shook himself and casually twisted round to lick his balls. The thought crossed his mind that this was… an unusual circumstance. As he looked up, he found himself encircled by cats–peculiarly long-bodied, lithe cats, all with piercing grey eyes–and exceptionally tall tails.

• Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin