Excerpt from my novel FATE.

Holy Water and the Jinx of Retribution

 

Her father, being the exemplary Christian man he was, who had ambitions in his youth of becoming a friar, blessed the house several times on any given day of the week with holy water from one of the several Saint Patrick’s Wells in Ireland, thinking that the Jinx could be warded off through divine intervention and the workings of holy water in the same manner that Patrick had driven the snakes out of Ireland. These wells, steeped in the legend and tradition of having been blessed by the saint himself, were believed to possess miraculous properties.

       Fiadh’s father thought these healing qualities in the holy water could influence the Jinx to move out of the Whaling Station, telling his daughter that it was just a matter of having faith in Patrick ... and that the Jinx should be no problem for a man who could drive the snakes into the Irish Sea.

       But that Jinx ... which had evolved from the deaths of the twin albino whales and their mother, brought in by Captain Crabbe many years prior, carried with it something older than any blessing Patrick ever gave. Locals whispered that creatures born without pigment were touched, marked by the old pagan gods and Druids ... the ones the Irish feared long before any monastery bell was ever rung on the island.

       When the twin white bodies of the whales were hauled up the ramp of the Whaling Station, the villagers said the very air seemed to stiffen, as if Neptune himself were trying to put the breath back into them. Some whispered that the twins bore a curse older than any pagan god, sea-born, or pre-Christian ... a shadow of the old ways, stirred by their unnatural deaths. Their mother’s wails, stranded outside the bay on a sandbar, had barely faded when an uneasy hush settled over the cove ... a coldness hinting at retribution and the unsettled souls of the aggrieved, as though the very earth had acknowledged Captain Crabbe’s brutality. Even Sheela na Gig dared not cry out. 

         From that day forward, the Jinx was deemed responsible for the deaths of every twin born in the village ... and it was not departing from the Whaling Station because of some saint’s holy water. The Jinx of Retribution, as it became known locally, manifested itself in the form of a curse that became a grim torment for expectant mothers in the village, especially if they were carrying twins. New life was cast under a persistent shadow, an ever-present dark cloud of dread, as births had been on the decline for some time in the village ... but the human need to breed persisted in taking its chances in the basic aspects of human nature taking over ... and to Hell with the Jinx. Trust was placed in God Himself ... and Sheela na Gig.

       Though the villagers depended on the whale for their livelihoods, twin albino whales were revered in local folklore as symbols of purity and protection for lost and perished whalers at sea. They believed they were watched over by their compassionate spirits, ensuring that they found peace in the afterlife. According to ancient legends, twin albino whales possessed a distinctive bond with the spirit realm, remaining untainted by the shadows of the deep. Stories were told of their miraculous appearances during times of danger, guiding lost whalers back to safety or leading them away from treacherous waters. It was a comfort to whalers when the sea was so cruel and yet provided their needs.

       Now that very hope was stolen from them when the infamous Captain Crabbe captured twin albino whales, intent on selling them to a traveling circus. But the poor creatures perished from the punishing ordeal of being tied to the sides of The Wail, Captain Crabbe’s schooner, on the journey back to the village. The villagers, at first unaware of the dark omen that was to follow, mourned the whales and cursed Crabbe for his selfishness. But as time passed, a chilling pattern began to emerge. The Crabbe family became the first to feel the curse’s retribution for the capture and deaths of twin albino whales. The balance between the sea and the spirit world had been disturbed. Their spirits, restless and vengeful, would seek vindication for the wrongs done.

       Whispers of the curse circulated among the villagers as small misfortunes befell the Crabbe family. At first, it seemed little more than a string of unlucky events ... like the time when Crabbe’s pregnant wife, Ruth, was found wandering the waterfront, muttering, disoriented, lost in her own thoughts. Or when a sudden illness swept through the Whaling Station, leaving the Crabbe daughters terrified of sensing ghosts around the Whaling Station. Their once-lively laughter was silenced, replaced by nightmares at night and soft, fearful sobs during the day, cowering together because the talk in the village was that they were possessed. Sometimes, Fiadh, Emmet Meagher’s wife, thought she heard the soft crying of girls coming from the back room of what was once the living quarters of the Whaling Station, but she kept it to herself. She wanted to believe Patrick’s holy water was doing its job in warding off evil.
       There was also the time when the village dogs banded together and chased Crabbe’s two daughters through the village, and they did not relent ... not until they had taken up a solemn vigil outside the Whaling Station. The dogs, eyes fixed and unyielding, seemed to wait, waiting for the girls to dare emerge again.
The sight of them only tensed the sisters’ fear, made it coil inside their chests to the point of vomiting. They clung to one another, wide-eyed, hearts thrumming with panic, certain that the slightest movement would summon those dogs inside. In their dreams, they imagined the dogs standing at their bedside. The grey walls loomed ever closer, encasing them in a tightening grip that obscured the outside world, leaving only the suffocating prison of their fears. Their mother was of no help.

       In the end, Crabbe’s daughters were found in the men’s bathroom of Kiplam Mental Hospital, hanging from the rusted water pipes that ran along the ceiling with strips of cloth torn from their tattered smocks ... the smocks that had once been apple green … Do you remember that?

       Emmet Meagher observed his wife continuing the tradition of sanctifying the home with Patrick's holy water, a practice her father had performed during his lifetime and swore by. She moved through every room, especially the back room where so many lives had been taken by Death and the curse of the Jinx, sprinkling, as if to keep something unseen at bay ... which it was, according to her. The holy water seemed to hiss in the air.

       Emmet, he could never quite believe in it ... holy water or Jinx, but he gave some credence to the stories of twin albino whales as guardians. But he let Fiadh be, knowing it gave her peace, and peace in a house made for living mattered more than any belief in holy water. The village had its stories, the old ways, whispers of spirits and grudges held in the shape of twin albino whales, and he knew some of it still lingered here, restless. It was like walking across an old battlefield where souls lay where they fell, calling out to be remembered.

       And then there was the Sheela na Gig, carved in stone above the doorway of the Whaling Station. The Sheela na Gig was originally presented to the Whaling Station by an Irish captain who was in debt, and the subsequent owners placed it above the entrance as a talisman to draw in good luck and more whales. A symbol of both fertility and the harsh realities of life. It stood as a silent observer and challenged the young boys to ponder the complexities of womanhood and the often unspoken fears that come with aging.  Intricately carved in stone, her grotesque smile and piercing gaze fixed on the young boys who stood beneath her watchful presence. This ancient figure, with her exaggerated features and mysterious expression, seemed to carry a deeper message, sparking thoughts about the fate of women as they grow older. The boys, caught between curiosity and a hint of unease, could not help but wonder if this was a reflection of old men's views on femininity and the inevitable passage of time. 

       Emmet had always felt a peculiar tingle when he looked at her, as if she were a sentinel, a guardian of the Whaling Station's secrets, watching the flow of life and death with amusement and patience in the folly of human beings. He told Fiadh...

 ''Let this Sheela na Gig, and you have your rituals. Let the holy water flow. Let's see what good it does.''

And in the end, that made for a good wife ... and a man with one leg could find some comfort in that too. 

       They whispered about her ... the people of the village, about the Sheela na Gig, claiming she held the living memory of the twin albino whales. Legends said their spirits were now bound to the old Whaling Station by the mysterious Jinx. With the Sheela na Gig, they found a quiet observer who could sense the lingering presence who those who walked and swam before. This connection seemed to create a bond between them and the ghostly essence of the whales, as if Sheela na Gig were a bridge linking the living to the supernatural. The weight of their shared history and the mysticism of their story resonated deeply within the village people, forging a profound connection that went beyond any religion. Sheela na Gig carried their whispers in silence.

       But perhaps the Sheela na Gig, with her old silent mysticism and the holy water together, would keep the Jinx at bay, or at least remind them that the house, like the sea, was never entirely theirs to command. Better it was her shield than any anger of Neptune’s or the Jinx’s dark work. 

       The original Whaling Station, its processes and all, was moved further up the coast after Captain Crabbe’s time and the terrible night of his wife Ruth’s murder, the deaths of his albino sons, along with the midwife, taken by Crabbe’s own vengeful hands. His temper was as fierce as the storms that battered the coastline that night, after his albino twin boys had died in the back room shortly after birth.
       At that time, there were whispers in the village that if the Whaling Station was moved, livelihoods would be lost, and that the Jinx of Captain Crabbe would hang heavy over all. But the gossip held a single truth. The curse lingered still, festering like an open wound on a leper’s body, and those who lived there would know its consequences. Emmet Meagher never paid no heed to superstition. A mistake he would come to regret later.

       The house itself, with its weathered stones smelling of salty sea and oak beams, bore silent witness to what had come before and what has yet to come. Above the front door, carved in belief and respect, was the Sheela na Gig ... her twisted, contorted form a reminder of the old pagan ways in Ireland of life and death, fertility and hope, a pagan vigilance, a force that neither the sanctity of holy water nor the fervent recitation of prayers could entirely dispel, for she was intricately woven into the very fabric of the culture. The rituals and symbols of their heritage resonated within her, creating a tension between the spiritual and the secular that was impossible to ignore by a non-believer. The remnants of paganism were not easily cast aside. Sheela na Gig ... the old stone woman carved long before any church bell rang here, a leftover from the days when Irish prayed to whatever power answered first … the kind of thing no one talked about, yet everyone understood.

       Fiadh, Emmet’s wife, would glance at her as she moved and sprinkled holy water about the place, muttering protective blessings, and if Emmet was sitting in his favourite chair, he got a sprinkle too, not in a jesting way, only because he too needed the holy water. Fiadh felt the old power in the image of the Sheela na Gig, making her presence felt. It was a quiet acknowledgment that not all could be measured or named, for God Himself had said no to the worship of false gods... 

 ''You shall have no other gods before me.''
Highlighting total allegiance and cautioning against alternative idols. Consequently, the Ten Commandments of 'emotional commitments', which detract from the pleasures of life designed to represent the ideal standards of loyalty to a God unseen but wants to be heard and obeyed.

       But, and here's the but ... the times when Fiadh was pregnant, she would offer a silent prayer to Sheela na Gig that she and her unborn would make it through in the hope of not dying when life was in the hands of fate. Emmet, always the pragmatist, after spending years at sea, contending with formidable men and whales that merely wished to be left alone, was content to let Fiadh alone. He understood that belief was sometimes a guard stronger than skepticism for Fiadh.
       The Sheela na Gig watched over them both, eternal, patient, an ancient witness to the tides of human folly and the relentless hand of fate, where fertility was nothing but fate itself. The world continued to turn, as it always does. 

       The demand for whale oil waned as crude oil was discovered and wildcat rigs sprouted across the country like a forest of iron. Money and more of it could now be made more easily, as the world’s markets changed. To survive, a man had to bend with it, or be left behind ... where neither Moby Dick nor Captain Ahab hunted for the other ... and whales were left alone.
       Yet nothing in life could be worth profit if it required breaking a promise. Emmet Meagher would come to learn ... as all men do ... that a man experiences his greatest loneliness when he is alone.