Emily's House: Book 1 of the Akasha Chronicles

Chapter 41: The Face in the Bucket

Chapter 41: The Face in the Bucket

It was a whole night and day before Macha returned. In that time, Dughall had forced himself to eat all of the briny meat and putrid water. Macha had been correct. His skin was plumping up. He looked slightly less gruesome than he did but still not acceptable to walk among humans again.

“Macha, my favorite gnat. What have you brought me to feast on?”

Macha flew down through the small opening to Dughall, all the while levitating several dead rabbits tied together by their legs. Dughall thought he saw one of them still twitching.

“The Devil take you pixie woman, I am not eating half-dead hare.”

“Raw meat has more energy in it,” Macha replied. “It will help you regain your strength faster. Blood is good for one like you.”

“I have already tested my ancient gut as much as I care to by swallowing that retched ox. You will cook those for me.”

“If you wish, but it will prolong your stay in this crypt, my intolerant one,” Macha quipped.

With that, she began her work. She used her small but extremely sharp knife to skin the hares and gut them, removing the entrails. With the wave of her hand, she produced a large copper pot and set it over a fire that she conjured with the clap of her hands. She made a horrific stew of the rabbits in the pot with melted snow from outside. The stewing rabbits produced an odor most foul. Dughall was certain that his ancient intestines would surely seize up and cause his demise in one bite of Macha’s putrid stew.

Macha practically forced the fetid stew down Dughall’s throat. For two more days, Dughall endured her force-feeding him the blood, guts and meat from the poor hapless hares that happened to have been in Macha’s path.

Dughall also endured Macha rubbing the rank cream that Cian had created for him all over his body. Her small hands were more like cold claws than human hands. It felt like nails scratching him all over on his delicate mummy skin.

But for all the torture that Dughall endured, the results were nothing short of miraculous. His hands looked more and more normal. The skin, less yellow and more white and luminous. He no longer looked like a skeleton but instead like an extremely thin older man. Dughall was finally ready to see what his face looked like.

“Macha, fetch me a bucket of water so that I may look upon myself.”

As Macha placed the bucket in front of him, Dughall braced himself for what he might see. He sucked in his breath and looked down into the smooth water of the bucket.

The man he saw staring back shared little resemblance with the face of the man that he once knew himself to be. The man in the bucket had long, shaggy hair, not well-groomed short hair in the Norman style. The reflection had sallow cheeks and all the bones in the skull were clearly visible under the thin, papery skin. It was not the firm but fleshy masculine face that he once knew. To Dughall, he looked like the lowliest old beggar.

But at least he looked human. He would need to set aside his vanity. Bide your time, Dughall, he thought to himself.

“I am ready.” He said it to himself as much as to Macha.

With that, he put on the fresh linen clothing and furs that had been put in his icy tomb so many years before. Covered from head to toe in fur, he looked the part of an old nomad from the north.

Macha levitated Dughall out through the opening in the ceiling and into the wide-open snow covered north. Dughall squinted and covered his eyes. So much light. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the light of life again.

Dughall wasted not a minute more. He knew he must make his way south. He trudged, Macha flittering beside him, for many days as he made his way to the ancient continent of his ancestors and of his former self. On to his destiny.