Speaker 0:12

Scotus set off early the next morning for the village of Knock in County Mayo. Knock was the holiest town in Ireland, thanks to an appearance there by the Holy Mother and her entourage back in 1878. Scotus, however, was not going there to feverishly pray, even though it was clear there were many things he should pray for. There was the soul of that poor tourist who was killed in bizarre circumstances in Cannes. There was the speedy recovery to full health of his friend, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Jack Mulligan. There was also the speedy return to her lakeside home of Ashling O'Connor, the girl he once loved so much. He had heard from a neighbour that very morning that she was missing, although there was no evidence of foul play, and it was thought she might have just run away to escape the clutches of that big brute, M. J. McGovern. Indeed, if he was going to pray, it would be that she did run away and came to the realization that Scotus O'Linn was the only man she should marry. He suppressed any further thoughts on Ashling. He had too many matters on his mind. He had other things to worry about, and so often Ock he went to the most holy town in Ireland. The sky over the N17 was burning with dark clouds, the fields a fierce deep green, and the bogs bronzed as he thundered at full speed towards the great church steeple in the distance. He approached the little roundabout at the bottom of the village, and driving up the main street found it strangely quiet. Nothing like the shrine in its heyday when it would be teeming with religious tourists and devotees from all around the world. Even most of the little shops that sold religious wares were closed, and it was indeed a relief to find one open. As he rummaged through county car stickers, Bodhran drums, leprechaun t-shirts, Guinness t-shirts, sheep dolls, tin whistles, rock candy, falchamates, straw hats, big Tom C Ds, a woman finally asked Scotus if he needed some help. I'm looking for a holy crucifix, said Scotus, with nearly as much drama as Van Helsing in Bram Stoker's novel. Good man yourself, she said, in a thick mayo accent. Let me see. What about this? she said, holding up a minuscule little crucifix, medallion size, attached to a delicate silver chain. His first thought was that a vampire would need a magnifying glass to even recognise that particular one, but he said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders, because he didn't want to sound sacrilegious, or indeed to scare them, or indeed to make them think that he was a bit daft in the head. No, I need something bigger. A big crucifix that you could point at something. She looked at him strangely, as did her young daughter, who was also helping out in the store. And what would you be pointing it at? asked the woman of the shop. Just so people could see it. Like if I was doing the stations of the cross or something, said Scotus. I see, said the woman. Not a man who is afraid to show his religious credentials. Pity there's not more like you. Let me see if I have one out the back. Noah keep an eye on things. Young Noula proceeded not to take her eye off Scotus, lest he steal a car sticker, a leprechaun doll or any other little knick-knack in the religious shop. The mother emerged moments later with a big smile on her face, unwrapping a crucifix from the papers that protected the delicate object. I have just what you're looking for. Very nice quality crucifix, she beamed. Handmade locally too, I think, she continued, giving it a little tap so as not to make the hollow sound too pronounced. I'll take it, said Scotus. He emerged from the gift shop moments later with his newly acquired crucifix, and he was greeted by a band of the faithful, about twenty people, mostly older folk, following their spiritual leader and they were staring at the sky at the sun and hoping for a vision, for the man was certain on this date that the Virgin Mary would make another appearance at Noxhrine. Scortus would often be skeptical of such things. He would laugh. He would tell people they'd blind the eyes out of their head if they didn't stop staring at the sun. But he was in no position to mock. He had seen vampires with heaving bosoms and deadly fangs, and now he had his crucifix, and now he had work to do. Scotus believed the first order of business was to find Lord Drochshuil's castle again. He now firmly believed that something bad happened to those two Romanian girls in that fateful night. This happened at a time before the two girls got unexpectedly amorous with Jack and himself. Unfortunately, it was absolutely nothing to do with the irresistible charms of Scotus and Lord Demetra to his bed that night. He believed that Lord Drochshuil had somehow transformed them, perhaps with a bite to the neck, or his infamous evil eyes, from cold-hearted man-haters to hot-blooded fiends. They were now both at large, ready to infect any man or woman in sight. If he didn't put a stop to it very soon, the country would have a crisis, if not a full-scale epidemic on its hands. But it was a dark deed he'd have to carry out. It was well-established fact that the only way to prevent such a plague was to destroy the source. The castle would have to be minus its lord. And that's why Scotus met the sign of the cross as he departed the town of Nock. And that's why Scotus was dripping with sweat and crying for his mammy, even though he never had a mammy. He was driving around Connockt all day before he finally found that old castle again. What struck him the most as he carefully parked behind some bushes was how decrepit the old structure appeared in the daylight. It was no ashford, that's for sure. But it cast an evil old shadow around the whole countryside, and it was a great wonder that some Irish rebels had not taken it upon themselves to burn the sorry site to the ground back in the early part of the century, along with the blood-sucking Anglo-Irish gentry that inhabited its walls. There was, he estimated, a good hour of daylight left in the day, enough for him to discover the dark secrets of Lord Raccool's castle, for if he was a vampire, he wouldn't be out in the sunlight, but carefully tucked away in his coffin in some hidden chamber below. Scotus then grabbed his new crucifix and began to approach the foreboding old ruins. Lord Racul was far from asleep in his coffin. He was there to greet Scotus at the castle door. He had the welcome mat out as if he was an extra in an Irish tourist board commercial. Even the smell of freshly baked Irish soda bread wafted through the air, and there was a nice turf fire burning as the evening sun began to decline over the mountains. Happy I am to see you again, exclaimed Lord Raccoul, extending the hand of friendship. But Scota said nothing, and just pulled the knock crucifix from his pocket and pointed it before him. He walked with determination towards the distinguished old gentleman, shoving and stabbing the holy relic in the direction of his host. I know who you are, Dracoul. The game is up. On hearing this the man with the aquiline nose broke into a turbulent fit of laughter. Minister, if it's out chasing vampires you are, you might want to ditch the plastic crucifix that was made in Hong Kong. What? said Scotus in disbelief. They rob me blind and knock. Lord Rakul proceeded to pull a sturdier metal crucifix from his pocket and handed it to Scotus. The secret ingredient is the iron, said the Lord, to the jaw struck young politician. The Deeny she absolutely abhorred a sight of metal. The Dinish? said Scotus. Ten minutes later Scotus was sitting in Lord Dracoul's study, drinking tea and listening to a very strange story. The Lord spoke of the demented history of Castle Dracoul. It was built on an ancient ring fort back in the eleventh century by a local chieftain called Turlock, who being Christian held little regard for the pagan superstitions and the dire warnings from locals that destroying such a monument would result in grave consequences. This act of hubris, of folly, very much angered the Dinishhi, the supernatural and ancient race for whom the fort was sacred. The Dinishi were a mysterious race that many, including Turlock, had forgotten even existed. They proceeded to terrorize the inhabitants of the castle, and they had a particular fondness for taking off with pretty young women. The Daini Shi were a highly vain race, said Lord Raccoul. They aspired to true beauty in all its purest forms. They were highly partial to intricate artwork and haunting music. In matters of the flesh they would only accept the most beautiful women to be their brides. Legend had it that they not only stole the chieftain's wife, but the brides and daughters of every chieftain thereafter. Without any hears, the family soon fell into ruin, and new powerful families would acquire the castle, often at a good price, but they too would meet a similar fate. The Deenishy rarely forgave, and vengeances would be carried out over generations. Was it any wonder then that Lord Raccoul himself never decided to marry? It was at this stage that Scotus wondered if he was drinking tea or whiskey, or indeed something stronger again. But the bizarre story continued. During the swinging 60s, Lord Raccool was well known for the wild parties he would throw, and rock stars and celebs would travel from far and wide, from all corners of the globe, to be there. This was a castle for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. There were some in Scotland and England that had similar reputations, but all were light years behind Castle Druckcool and the debauchery stakes. But every now and again, just as the party was in full swing, a scream of terror would be heard from one of the castle rooms, a scream most of the guests would be too stoned to even hear. The end result never differed. An ancient room was found empty, the window open, the lace curtains blowing in the wild westerly winds. But a playboy model, a bee Hollywood actress, or a gorgeous groupie would always be missing. Sometimes the women would come back, their eyes dilated with lust, but with a lost, dark, evil look in those very same eyes. Because once you were marked by the Dini She, you were no longer the same person. You were not even human. It got so bad that Lord Rakul gave his last party in the late seventies. In fact nothing of the like ever happened again until Until when? demanded Scotus. Enough I have said, said the Lord. Dimitra and Radika. What happened to them? What did you do to them? Did you give them bad drugs? Lord Rakul went silent, and it was many moments before he could gather his thoughts and speak again. There's one particular member of the Dinish, whose evil deeds know no bounds. I dare not mention his name, for I fear in doing so I would invoke his presence. I believe he marked your friends. I haven't seen women the like of that in here since McJagger brought a bevy of babes back in sixty nine. Three marks from the Diniche, and there was no coming back. Then you are theirs. Scotus shook his head. Indeed he thought he might have to give the very head a good pump to wake himself up. He was used to hearing nonsense in places like the pub, after a lad had a good scatter of beer in his belly, or in Dal Erin when a politician tried to dig himself out of a hole. But this was nonsense to beat the band. The Deeny She are the real vampires, said Lord Raccool. I am truly convinced they were the true inspiration for Bram Stoker. As any country farmer will tell you, the Dinichi are real. They do exist, and not only do they exist, they play absolute havoc with the poor people of Ireland and are still stealing human women to be their brides. These are highly unsupported theories, said Scotus. The Deen she, from what I remember at school, was just the Irish word for fairies. Fairies, the people of the mounds, the Tutha Donnan, the good people take your pick. They all refer to the same race, but far from good they are. Well from any tale I've heard, they sound nothing like vampires. With all due respect, Lord Raccoul, but I think you are just spinning me a pile of pallets. I apologize for thinking you a vampire. I will leave now. Ten good reasons why the Dinish are like vampires I can give you, said Lord Rakul, his voice now very animated.

unknown 14:58

Ten?

Speaker 14:59

How about one good reason? said Scotus. They are afraid of the sacred. As are most supernatural beings. I need more than that. They can transform into mist. What has that to do with the price of bread? So could Dracula, said Lord Racoul. And where's your proof that the she can do this? The Book of Invasions details how the Tuta Dadanan arrived on these shores in clouds of mist. That's two very weakish theories to be honest. They are afraid to cross running water. And vampires are too. I never recall reading that and I've read Dracula several times. Read it again. Dracula could only travel to Whitby on a ship called a Demeter. He had to transform into a dog to jump ashore. That's a bit better than the other two, but hardly a groundbreaking theory. The sheik and ship shift into hounds too, as many old Irish legends attest. I need more than this, Professor Holdracula. How about this one? They love the taste of human blood. They do? First I've heard of that. Documented in lots of old folk tales, including those collected by Lady Jane Wilde. Ever read the works of Jane Wilde and her husband William? Parents of Oscar? Can't say I have. Dr. Wilde was a fellow countyman of yours. As Minister of Supernatural Affairs all over that stuff you should be. Point taken. I'll try to find a time to read it. They can bewitch people with their evil eyes. Oh the good old Rucool. You've already told us that one, Lord Dracoul. I'm surprised you have not mentioned the old chestnut Dracula, which is galed for poison blood, it even rhymes with Dracula. I don't go for sensationalism, my friend. I prefer that my theories have a solid academic underpinning and are open to rigorous scrutiny. You said ten good reasons. I have not liked any yet. The Dini Shi are also the undead. That's kind of an all compassing term. More clarification needed. Read the description of the Tuta Dannan from Keating's History of Ireland. Keating was quoted from the eleventh century Book of Invasions, the Lower Gaula Airmen. Stoker, I believe, read it too. Could you refer me to the relevant text? Irish history tends to be long and tedious, and a bit too much feeling sorry for ourselves and martyrdom for my liking. I'll save you the trouble. Memorized it I have. Lord Racoul drew his breath, as if an actor on stage. He took a good slug of wine, washed it around in his mouth, and then swallowed savouring the taste, before breeding in again. He then quoted the eleventh century manuscript. Could set the ministers of hell at work and raise a slaughtered army from the earth and make them live and breed and fight again. Few could their arts withstand our charms unbind. When he had finished reciting, there was a sealess look in Lord Racul's eyes, the look of a madman, but a pleading look too, a look that said, Now do you believe me? I'm sorry, but I'm not buying any of this. Not buying it, said Lord Rakul. Raise a slaughtered army from the earth, make them live and breed and fight again. What part of that do you not understand? They are the undead, minister they are the undead. I'm sorry, it's pseudo history, it's mythology. I can only deal in facts. Lord Racoul was out of breath now. The arguments had drained him. Scotus saw him visibly wilt before his eyes, a spent force if he ever saw one. He also thought him a little mad, a little dual hally. Too much drugs in the sixties, perhaps. Scotus thought it would be best to leave, but as he turned to do so, Lord Rakool spoke again. Wait What is it? asked Scotus. The Deeny She also have fangs. Fangs? Fangs! Fierce one's too Well now I know you are just totally taking the piss, said Scotus. I really have to go now. Don't tell me you have not read Sheridan Lafenou. The name rang a bell with Scotus, but he could not remember where he had come across the half Irish, half French name before Stoker. Another Dubliner wrote Carmella perhaps the greatest vampire story of all. I remember now. I saw the fellow. Hot stuff, that's for sure. Hammer House of Horror made a great version. I think it was called The Vampire Lovers. How could he have forgotten that one? The BBC showed it one night when he was a young lad. He had heard a preview on the radio, 2 FM, or one of those pirates radio stations from Dublin that were all the rage back then, and where the DJs were a little bit more hip. While the synopsis on medium wave or long wave or whatever wave it was didn't provide any profound exegesis of the script and certainly made no mention of the Irish writer whose short story inspired a film, his ears did prick up when he heard the words vampires and nudity. His interest was further intensified when it was quickly followed by the phrase, gollops of nudity. Well he tore home on his bicycle that day from the grocery store in which he worked, mostly packing potatoes, which sounded like a menial job. But it did require some expertise, specifically recognizing the difference between Curz Pink's Champions and Records and picking them and packing them into separate bags. He tore home because they lived in one channel land, and that channel was RTE, which never showed Hammer House of horror films. He tore home and he climbed up the chimney with a contraption of an aerial he had been working on, and how he didn't fall and break his neck he'll never know to this day. He turned the aerial west, he turned it south, he turned it north and he turned it east, and he even pointed at various angles in between, and each time he hopped down to check the old black and white television in the kitchen, and each time he was greeted by the sound of static and crackle and black dots buzzing away. He said the rosary and the angelus and some novenas, and even prayed to the angels and saints in heaven that he would get a signal, a signal from across the channel in England, or wherever the BBC was beaming its gobs of nudity from. But it soon became clear that the angels and saints up in heaven had no interest whatsoever in helping out, no interest whatsoever in providing safe passage across the Irish Sea to pornographic television waves all the way to the west of Ireland. And then at night when he was all alone in their damp old house, and the cold blasted balts of a wind blowing outside, and him perish from the frosty night, and him very, very sad, there was a breakthrough. The miracle happened, just as Ingrid Pitt was lying in all her pristine glory in an old-fashioned tub, like a luring lanan she, displaying the purest breasts he ever saw, and a fanny that even through the old black and white telly smelled like the finest fresh grass of summer. All poor Scotus could do was collapse on the floor in tears and tump at that floor and say, Thank you, God, thank you, good sir. It was perhaps the only happy memory from his childhood, and perhaps something that even renewed his oftentimes feeble fate in life and the angels and saints in heaven above. Is everything okay? asked Lord Rakoul. It's a wonderful story. It's one I have a great affinity for, at least the film version. But I don't follow the relevance of this. Although written by a Dubliner, Carmilla was set in Stiria, was it not? Welcome to Styria, my friend, laughed Lord Raccool maniacally. Welcome to Styria, County Galway. Come again said Scotus. Before Carmilla, said Lord Racul with a gleam in his eyes, Lefan wrote The Child That Went With the Fairies. Perhaps you should read that also, Mr Olin. But one little teaser The fairies in that story had fangs. It was late and Scotus got up to go. Here take this, said Lord Rakul, handing him the iron crucifix. You are going to need it, but even that I am dearly afraid is not enough to fight the battles you face, my friend.