She stirred from a fitful sleep, a strange unease prickling her skin. It was not the usual lonely dread, but something sharper, more immediate. Distant shouts, ragged and raw, clawed at the quiet. Then, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of something heavy approaching, growing louder, closer, accompanied by a rising chorus of jeers and the unnerving drone of bagpipes.
Fear, cold and sharp, seized her. She threw off her thin blanket, scrambling from her cot in her tattered, unbleached nightgown. The thudding stopped abruptly outside her door. A guttural roar ripped through the night, followed by a sickening crack that tore through the sturdy oak. Splinters flew, and the door, groaning on its broken hinges, burst inward, revealing a monstrous black log wielded by a dozen brawny, torchlit figures.
The cottage was instantly choked with the acrid smoke of pitch and the reek of damp earth and stale beer. Silhouetted against the lurid glow, the young men of Ballynahown streamed in, their faces contorted by a gleeful, righteous fury. Finn, the miller’s son, his eyes wild, grabbed her arm, his grip like iron.
"There she is, boys!" he bellowed, his voice thick with triumph. "The barren one! The one who shames us all!"
Clara cried out, a thin, reedy sound swallowed by the mob’s roar. She fought, clawing at their hands, but they were too many, too strong. They dragged her from the cottage, into the biting night air, where more villagers had gathered, their faces grim or morbidly curious in the flickering light.
A gasp tore from her throat as two men held her fast. Another, a hulking brute named Cormac, stepped forward, holding a crude wooden bowl. The smell hit her first – an overwhelming, fetid stench of sheep dung, warm and sickening.
Cormac’s calloused hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back sharply. Then, with a sickening squelch, he smeared a handful of the sticky, foul-smelling ordure into her scalp, kneading it into her tangled hair. She choked, gagged, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the filth. The mob cheered, a bloodthirsty chorus.
"Cleanse her, boys!" someone shrieked. "Cleanse her of her barrenness!"
Then came the unbearable, ultimate degradation. Two women, old and unsmiling, stepped forward, their eyes cold with judgment. They ripped at the thin fabric of her nightgown, tearing it from neck to hem, exposing her. Clara whimpered, trying to curl in on herself, but they held her rigid. Cormac dipped his hand into the bowl again, and with a horrifying deliberation, smeared the rank, warm sheep dung onto the thatch of hair between her legs. The violation was absolute, a searing brand on her very soul.
The sound of bagpipes swelled, joined by raucous horns and the ear-splitting clang of pots and pans. They shoved her towards the heavy log that had shattered her door. Ropes were lashed around her waist, binding her to the immense, splintered wood. The weight of it was immense, pulling at her, threatening to drag her down.
"Now, hag!" Finn roared. "You’ll carry your shame for all to see! Drag your burden, as you’ve burdened this village with your empty womb!"
With shoves and kicks, they forced her forward. The raw bark and splintered edges of the log scraped against her legs through the torn gown. Her bare feet, already numb with cold, stumbled on the rough, muddy track. The dung, a greasy, putrid crown and a burning shame between her thighs, squelched with every step.
The procession began. Through the main street of Ballynahown she was dragged, the heavy log her cruellest companion. The screech of the pipes was a demented lament, the horns a bellow of triumph, and the banging of pots and pans a cacophony of judgment. Neighbors pressed against their doors, their faces a blur of pity, condemnation, or outright glee. Children, wide-eyed, pointed and whispered.
"Skellig!" the mob chanted, their voices growing hoarse but more fervent with every street corner turned. "Send her to Skellig! Skellig! Skellig!"
The words were a death knell. Skellig Michael, that jagged monastic isle out in the raging Atlantic, a place of stone and wind and isolation, where only the most devout hermits or the utterly banished could survive. It was a living tomb, a fate worse than death for a woman who lived by human connection, however tenuous.
She dragged the log past the last cottage, past the last familiar lane, to the muddy track that led away from Ballynahown, towards the sea. Her arms were numb, her legs trembling uncontrollably, but the chant continued, a relentless drumbeat against the drum of her fading hope.
"Skellig! Skellig! Away with her to Skellig!"
They stopped her at the very edge of the village lands, where the track turned wild and desolate. The ropes were cut with a final, brutal flourish. The log lay there, a silent monument to her humiliation. The mob, their ritual complete, stood back, their faces still flushed, their breathing heavy. The pipes gave one last mournful wail, and then, slowly, the sounds began to fade. The villagers dispersed, their shadows lengthening in the pre-dawn glow.
Clara stood alone, her body aching, her skin crawling with the stench of her degradation. The cold night wind whipped her tattered gown around her, cutting through to her bones. Her hair was matted with dung, her pubic region burned with shame and the lingering filth. Ahead lay only the bleak track, the promise of the unforgiving sea, and the chilling, echoing chant of "Skellig." She was no longer just Clara of Ballynahown, the seamstress. She was the one sent to Skellig, a pariah, a woman broken and discarded by the very community she had served. Her duty, unfulfilled, had finally exacted its terrible price.
