Séamus Daly walked out through the field, scanning for storm damage with the heavy gait of a man worn thin. His expression could be described as tired, but the word hardly did justice to the hollows under his eyes or the uneven tangles of his beard. It wasn't the beard of someone who took no pride in their appearance, at least, it was clean, but of a man who had stopped caring to manage it. It used to be trimmed and neatly kept. That had been her doing.

  He wore a blue work shirt under a battered leather jacket and a pair of denim jeans. The clothes hadn’t seen a wash in weeks, but they weren’t filthy, just lived in. Serviceable.

  His homestead wasn’t farmland, not really. There were no sheep grazing, no lowing cattle or crowing roosters. The only things that grew with any vigor were the flowers his late wife had planted in the small patch by the house. Yet, duty pulled him to inspect the place carefully after last night’s storm. While Séamus might not keep animals himself, the land bordered Brian O'Reay's sheep on one side and, on the other, a particularly feral herd of cows belonging to his disagreeable neighbor.

  Séamus wasn’t convinced the creatures could even be called cows. Wolves in bovine skin, maybe.

  Keeping Brian’s sheep and those monstrous cattle from mixing wasn’t a matter of goodwill; it was survival.

  The first broken fence he spotted had been completely torn down, the wood splintered and scattered across the muddy ground. The design of the fence was standard for the island: vertical posts with two horizontal slats. Now, one of the horizontal slats was missing entirely, and the post had been snapped clean through. Séamus frowned as he bent to inspect the area, but it wasn’t the shattered wood that caught his attention.

  The ground was churned into mud, and in the muck were hoofprints, massive ones. They weren’t right. It was like someone had taken the general shape of a horse’s print and scaled it up, giving it the depth and weight of cattle.

  He didn’t recognize them, but he also didn’t let himself linger on the thought. Rain could do strange things, pooling and warping impressions in the mud. Maybe one of those damned cows had wandered through, stepping over the same spot multiple times.

  “It’ll take some fixing,” Séamus muttered. He pulled out a coil of barbed wire, unspooling enough to patch the gap. The fix was crude, with the wire stretching two-thirds of the fence’s height, but it would do for now. Cows weren’t clever enough to test it, and Brian’s sheep were well-behaved enough not to care.

  As he moved toward the boundary where Brian’s land met his own, the damage only worsened. More fence posts snapped, more muddy hoofprints, and now there was blood, smearing the tracks as they led away from Brian’s barnyard.

  Séamus stopped dead. The frustration that had been brewing in his chest drained away, leaving something heavier. The blood wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to unsettle him. His jaw clenched as a familiar anger rose in its place, not directed at Brian or even the animal that had done this. It was at the world itself. It just kept taking.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The flashing red and blue lights near Brian’s house brought him back to the present.

  Séamus squinted, trudging across the field toward the scene. His steps were heavy, somewhere between worry and resignation.

  He had warned Brian about the storm and told him to get the sheep into the barn and stay inside. Now, Séamus was sure Brian had only done half of that, and he dreaded seeing what it had cost him.

  Frank Delvin and Ricky O’Hanoran, two of the island’s Garda, stood near the barn. Both were younger than Séamus, men who had known his wife in school. They greeted him with somber nods as he approached.

  “Morning, lads,” Séamus said lightly, though his tone carried the weight of caution.

  “Morning, Séamus,” they replied in unison, their voices low. Frank shifted uncomfortably before adding, “I wouldn’t go around the back here... not a pretty sight. Brian got the wrong end of something in the night.”

  “Something?” Séamus echoed.

  Ricky’s face tightened, his eyes rimmed with red. “It’ll probably go down as an accident. He must’ve gone out during the storm. Got caught in the wrong place.”

  Séamus’s gaze dropped to the bloody tracks. “You see these?” he asked, pointing to the marks trailing away from the barn. “That’s no accident. Whatever did this, it wasn’t just the weather.”

  Frank crouched by the tracks, frowning. “You think it’s an animal? Maybe a stray buck from the wild?”

  Séamus shook his head. “We don’t have deer on the island, Frank, and even if we did, these tracks are too big. Too deep.” He paused, considering. “Whatever this thing is, I don’t think it’s normal.”

  Before Séamus could finish his sentence, the low blare of a car horn cut through the morning quiet. His shoulders stiffened as he turned toward the approaching vehicle, a shiny black sedan trundling through the mud with little regard for the mess it left behind. Out stepped Cedric Belgrave, Ballycalva’s self-styled benefactor and mayor.

  Cedric’s appearance was as absurd as ever. His two-piece suit, already spattered with muck, was far too large for his wiry frame, and a silk top hat perched precariously on his head. Despite the storm, his polished shoes gleamed. He swept forward, his cane in hand more for show than support, and beamed at the gathered group.

  “Gentlemen! I heard the storm claimed poor Brian O’Reay last night?” His voice carried a practiced concern that Séamus knew too well, more performance than sincerity.

  The Garda exchanged uneasy glances. “Aye, Mr. Belgrave,” Frank said, his tone measured. “We’re treating it as an accident for now. But Séamus spotted some unusual tracks near the barn.”

  Cedric’s gaze darted toward the bloody prints. He hesitated, just for a moment, before breaking into a smile. “An accident, indeed. But no need to alarm the good people of Ballycalva. Festival season, after all! A few wayward animals won’t spoil our plans.”

  Séamus opened his mouth to protest, but Cedric clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You, my good man, are just the one to sort this out. A hunter of your experience will have the creature dealt with in no time. I'll personally ensure you're well-compensated."

  “I’m no hunter,” Séamus said, bristling. “I shoot birds for sport, that’s all.”

  Cedric didn’t seem to hear him. “It’s settled, then!” He turned to the Garda. “Make sure the islanders know there’s nothing to fear; life goes on as usual. Good day, gentlemen!”

  And just like that, he was gone, his car splashing mud as it sped off. Séamus stared after him, fists clenched, as Frank muttered, “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Séamus .”