Not In The Bones

In a small fishing village in northern Ireland long ago, there lived a well-liked druid who
made a living by telling people their fortunes. His seer tool of choice was a set of sheep
knucklebones with carved images on each side. People would pay him large sums of money so
he could tell them what their future would hold or how to avoid falling into trouble.
After rolling the knucklebones, he told one man to quit his job before he hung himself.
The man considered the words throughout the night, unsure if they were figurative or literal, but
decided by morning that it meant nothing and that this man was a fake. The next day, the man
worked all day without incident or even a reprimand. Shaking his head, he whispered, “Foolish
old man.” He went on his way home with a smirk on his face, making a mental note to find the
druid later and demand his money back. The man became distracted, however, and tripped over a
coil of ropes. The man’s feet were swept off the ground, a beam that held the rope fell, the rope
wrapped around his neck, and the man died by accidental hanging. This tragic event, among
others, added to the druid’s credibility, and his business grew.
When customers asked whether they would come to great wealth or fame, the druid was
more careful with his reply. He often just said, “It’s not in the bones.” This statement was vague
enough that most assumed it meant either “No,” or “It’s not clear,” even if it actually was a
“Yes.” This deceptive tactic kept them content enough to come back and ask more, hoping that
they would get lucky and the bones would fall in their favor.
After several years, the druid became more and more selfish, charging more for his
services and giving people more cryptic or vague responses. They were so cryptic or vague that
the only conclusion anyone could make was that he was right, based entirely on his reputation.
One day, several years later, when the druid was too old to hustle anyone else, he turned
away his final client and retired the bones; the knucklebones literally, and his own
metaphorically. He slumped into his armchair with a heavy sigh and stared into the glowing
fireplace. His tired old eyes watched the flames dance and he smiled a weak smile as his
imagination turned the flames into scenes from his youth. He watched figures dancing to the
fiddler’s tunes; his fingers tapped and his head bobbed, imagining the energetic melodies from
years long gone.
As he watched, he saw one of the figures grow taller and cover its head with a hood. The
figure turned and killed all of the other dancing figures, then stared directly at the druid. The old
man shook his head, trying to make sure he was awake and force the sight away. He attributed
the vision to just being tired. He stretched and stuck his feet closer to the fire, warming his toes.
He flicked his gaze back at the flames, the hairs on his neck tingling now. The flames looked
normal now, dancing and licking the air as they should. Shrugging it away, he snuggled deeper
into his arm chair. In just moments, his eyes began to close and his breathing became deeper and
slower.
His eyes snapped back open when he thought he heard someone outside. It was getting
dark now and he wasn’t expecting any other visitors. He slowly and awkwardly pulled himself
out of the chair to stand, cringing at every crack and pop, then shuffled to the door.
He unlocked the door, opened it slowly, and peered through the crack into the darkness
outside. Straining his eyes, he searched through the developing fog.
Not In The Bones

There was no one there.

He closed the door and turned to go back to his chair. Suddenly he heard a horse exhale
and stomp a hoof. He tried to ignore it, blaming his imagination, until he heard the jingling of a
horse’s bridle as it shook its head. Sure that it wasn’t just his imagination now, he returned to the
door and swung it open.
Standing on the side of the road was a single, black horse. A beautiful beast. He admired
it for a moment, looking at the ornately decorated saddle and bridle. He looked around, but didn’t
see anyone standing near the horse. He peered around each side of his doorway towards the
corners of his house, looking for anyone trespassing in the grass.
He called out, “Anyone there?”
No reply. He listened for a moment, but heard nothing. The horse wasn’t tied up to
anything, so he figured it must have gotten free and run off up the hill until it arrived here, as his
house was built in the woods up the hill a good distance from the village. The old druid pulled
his boots on and walked over to the horse.
He reached out for the harness on the horse’s face, but just as his fingertips were about to
touch it, the horse vanished.
The old man jumped back and looked around. In the enveloping shroud of mist, he
searched everywhere for a horse, or a person, or something. Anything.
Aside from his home, the nightly chorus of crickets and a gentle breeze combing the
canopy of the forest, there was nothing.
He put a hand to his head and thought, “I’ve got ta get ta bed.”
He turned and walked back into his house, closed the door, and took off his boots. He
turned around slowly to walk back to the fireplace. He had it set in his mind that he would put
out the fire and go to sleep. He reasoned that he was obviously exhausted, causing hallucinations.
He was used to hallucinations and sometimes enjoyed them; he forced some of his clients to have
them as a way to “commune with the deities.”
As he turned, his eyes scanned over a shadowy figure in the middle of the room and fell
finally on the fire. He paused, thinking it appeared to be more than just shadows cast by the fire,
then looked again. With a jolt, he steadied himself against the door. He looked over a cloaked
and hooded figure, which was standing still, facing his direction. It was the figure from the fire,
but this one seemed very much alive - and very much in his house.
“W-w-wha-What do you want? Gold? Silver? Why are ye here?”
The hooded figure stood motionless.
“Well? Ye snuck into me house. Ye must want something. Take it and get out. Leave me
be! I am old and wish to live out me days in peace.”
The figure still didn’t move.
“Well?! What are ye after?”
Finally, a voice gently rolled out from beneath the hood.
“Closure.”
It was a pleasant, gentle, female voice.
Not In The Bones

“Oh... M-M-Madam. Closure? Have I wronged ye in some way? Were ye dissatisfied

with me services at some point? I-I-I did me very best to honor gods and man.”
“Be still. Sit.”
The figure pointed to the chair. Her brogue was smooth and sweet, calming him some,
but her commanding tone instilled feelings of intimidation and respect. He didn’t exactly _fear_
her, but he sensed that angering her would be most unwise.
The old man, shaking slightly, slowly moved towards the chair. He made a fist in an
attempt to steady his nerves and then stretched out his fingers as he sat down, keeping his eyes
focused on the cloaked intruder.
She continued, “Ye’ve offered a service, but ye were not aware of it. Ye made a deal with
the devil, in a way, and I’ve come to collect.”
The old man tried to think of rival druids or any enemies he might have made over the
years. Well, there were countless, actually, but he had no memory of this one, or of owing any
debt to any of them. He simply stared at the figure, waiting for her to explain. #
She stood there for several moments, then finally turned and pointed to the fire. The druid
looked at the flames, and as he did so, he started seeing faces. He recognized many of them.
“These were customers from years ago…”
“Aye. What do they all have in common?”
The druid searched his memories as he studied each face as it appeared and disappeared,
but couldn’t think of anything.
Finally, it hit him.
He swallowed forcefully and whispered, “They all died after seeing me.” His eyes grew
wide and looked back into the darkened hood where still no face was visible, then asked, “Are ye
accusing me of murder? I didn’t murder them! They were all coincidence! I never wanted any o’
them to die! I jus’ wanted their money!”
“Accusing ye? No. Thanking ye. Ye saved us a lot of work over the years.”
The old man was very confused now and just stared, mouth open, at the dark trespasser.
“Why would ye thank me? Who are ye?”
The figure stood still and silent.
“Remove yer hood,” he demanded.
“As ye wish,” she sighed, then pulled back the hood.
The old man watched, then sat back and gasped.
There was no head.
“Gods!”
“Close…” the figure whispered.
“What’s the meaning of this? Are you a hallucination? This seems so real. Am I going
mad? Explain, vision of horror!”
“I assure ye, I’m no hallucination.” With that, she swept part of her cloak aside, revealing
a severed head. A beautiful female face with long, curly brown hair was hanging from the
figure’s belt. Beautiful but for the eerie grin that stretched from ear to ear.
Not In The Bones

The druid flung himself out of the chair and scrambled towards the door, covering his
face. He recalled all of the stories and the horrible things such creatures did.
“Dullahan! I-I-I didn’t know you were real! I thought you were all just stories!”
“Be calm. We’re very real. And that’s what I’m gettin’ at. Ye’ve done my job for me for a
long time, escorting people to Death quite masterfully. So we’re thankful for all that ye’ve done
for us.”
The druid lowered his hands and looked back at the dullahan, “Well...I suppose...yer
welcome. Is that it, then? Is that all you’ve come for? Please let that be all ye came for!”
“Sadly, no.”
She moved the cloak aside again, revealing fiery eyes and an even bigger grin, “I’m also
here for yer soul. It’s time.”
The druid gasped again, his face contorting as the statement hit him like a bag of bricks.
His face drained of all color and he grabbed at his throat.
He begged, “Please! Don’t take me, yet! I’m not ready! I’m old but I wanted to enjoy old
age as long as I could!”
She walked slowly over to the old man, then stood there, as if contemplating something,
and then whispered, “I have an idea.”
The dullahan reached under her cloak and pulled out a small bag, and then emptied its
contents into her slender hands.
Knucklebones.
She whispered, “How about I borrow from yer bag o’ tricks? I will do as the bones
dictate. If they fall in yer favor, I will leave ye for ten more years. If they don’t, yer coming with
me. Let’s see what yer future holds.” She rolled the bones on the ground between them and
waited for them to settle.
She whispered again, “Well? What do they say? Do ye get more time?”
The druid studied them, his shoulders shaking and a bead of sweat forming on his temple.
“It’s...It’s…”
The dullahan leaned in close and held her head up close to his, fiery eyes burning
brighter.
“Say it!”
The old man began to weep as he stammered, “It’s...not in the bones.”
The next morning, villagers discovered the old man’s house had burned down in the
night. Nothing remained except the stones of the fireplace and a small pile of ash-covered
knucklebones.

(END)
© 2018, Kevin A. Elliott