Dichu sighs and looks away from Padraig, his hand rapidly running across his eyes. He does not speak for some time.
I understand. At least let me provide you with a gift for the journey, and someone to protect you, he says.
Dichu, I appreciate your generosity, but I can’t accept, Padraig says gently.
You will accept or you will not leave my camp, Dichu says. I understand what you have said, but traveling without any protection whatsoever is insanity. I know that God will protect you but there’s no need to refuse any help we can provide God in that regard.
Fine, fine, Padraig says. It had better not be you.
It isn’t me, Dichu says.
Good, I need you too much here. What is the gift?
I have something in mind, Dichu says, leading the way.
Padraig reluctantly follows Dichu down the hill to where the gates had been thrown together. Sitting at the bottom of the hill is a chariot, though not like the Roman chariots to which Padraig is accustomed. It is built more like the carts used to take supplies to market, though reinforced with metal and large enough for two or three men to occupy.
This is the gift? Padraig asks, his eyes wide.
It is, Dichu says proudly.
I wasn’t expecting this, Padraig says.
When these entered the battle, even the Romans would think twice before engaging. You should be safe.
Thank you.
I had it made for you. This way, you will be able to travel this way and have someone along to guard you. Of course I intended it for your use in leaving here and accompanying us in battle, but I think it will serve just as well as you travel.
Your generosity is limitless, Padraig says.
Don’t get yourself killed, Dichu says.
Look at all you’ve accomplished here, Padraig says to him, gesturing toward Dichu’s fortress. Look at how the people have gathered to you. You don’t need to worry about me- you will be able to continue on without me if anything should happen.
That’s a lie and you know it, Dichu says. They’ve gathered to you as much- more- than they’ve gathered to me. You’ve made priests, but we’ll need more. These people, myself included, we are all new to the faith. If something happened to you do you think it would be more than a generation before they turned back to the old ways?
His words have a sobering effect on Padraig.
Nothing will happen to me, Dichu, Padraig says. Somehow I will find a way back to you. This is not the end for me, but unless I spread our faith to other areas we are too easy to overcome.
I understand, Dichu says.
Padraig’s possessions, such as he needs for traveling, are gathered and he returns to where the chariot and his people will send him off. The people stand gathered and Dichu is in their midst with his family. In the midst of them is a man Padraig doesn’t recognize, tall and with the look of an experienced warrior, his eyes fierce and his body heavily scarred.
God be with you, Dichu says to Padraig.
God and Mary with you, Padraig replies. Who is this next to you?
This is Caoilte. He is to be your charioteer and carry you where you need to go. He has orders to protect you as well, Dichu says with a smile.
Caoilte offers a half smile and shifts his eyes away from Padraig as though Padraig were the sun on earth.
I’m glad to hear it, Padraig says. I’ll probably need any protection I can get.
Without us, I think so, Dichu says.
I’ll waste no more of the day, then, Padraig says. Until next time.
Until we see you again, Dichu says.
There are more goodbyes and each seems to be more tearful than the last. Finally Padraig is able to break away from the crowd gathered to see him and he enters the chariot where Caoilte waits for his order. Padraig takes one last look at those assembled and then nods at Caoilte who has the chariot off before Padraig can balance himself against the movement.
Eleven
At first they make remarkable time from Dichu’s stronghold and Padraig is grateful for the chariot’s pace as he is soon far enough away to stop looking over his shoulder at those he leaves behind. The speed of their departure, however, is more for the benefit of those who remain than for the progress of the pair themselves, and so soon the chariot slows to a speed more comfortable for horses and men both. They ride in silence for a while before Padraig finally speaks.
Caoilte, he says. Where are you from?
Near, Caoilte says.
I suppose you are, Padraig says. You are one of Dichu’s men?
I am, he says.
I don’t think I recognize you, Padraig says. I haven’t seen you around that I know of. Have you been with Dichu’s company long?
Caoilte nods.
You are a talker aren’t you, Caoilte? Padraig says.
Caoilte grins at him.
That’s fine, I think I’ll be able to do enough talking for the both of us. Just keep on a while longer and let me know when you think we should stop for the night.
I will, Caoilte says.
The chariot is perhaps marginally faster than walking, though to Padraig it feels even slower, though he acknowledges it does have the advantage of a quick burst of speed when necessary, useful if forced to fight. He also appreciates that it spares their legs, shifting the burden to the horses. The longer the journey lasts, the less Padraig appreciates this. There is nowhere to sit and so he and Caoilte must stand at the front of the chariot.
After a time Padraig adjusts to the motion of the vehicle and is able to rest himself uneasily on the frame. He rocks as the structure rocks and in doing so falls into a rhythm like a sailor in rough seas.
The rhythm is broken when he is dashed away against the railing. He looks around, foggy and wide-eyed.
Is it night so soon? Padraig asks with halfseeing eyes blind to the light.
It isn’t, Caoilte says. Look before us upon the plain.
Padraig looks with reluctantly adjusting eyes and sees before them there is a family, a father and wife and several children, who kneel on the ground cowering before a group of men. The men have beards filled with bits of leaf and debris, and clothes which sit upon them as though they have been in the same place for weeks, months, the only dye left in them the stains of use.
What are they doing? Padraig asks.
I have my guesses, Caoilte says.
Have they seen us yet?
Caoilte shakes his head.
Well, then, I suppose we should do something about it.
Caoilte smiles.
The chariot breaks into a charge as Caoilte drives the horses. With the noise of the wheels and horses from the burst of speed, the bandits take notice as the distance closes. Weapons, not seen as the pair assessed the situation, are in their hands and with their focus on the chariot the family scatters to the side of the action.
Caoilte is prepared for the men and their weapons, however. Padraig clutches to the bucking chariot for his life as the speed continues to increase, the horses straining against their harnesses. Before they are to the group of bandits, Caoilte’s hand moves as though he has batted a fly away. A shaft of wood longer than a man’s arm explodes through the first bandit’s chest and he looks down at it before his knees begin to collapse beneath him.
Before he hits the ground the chariot is in the midst of them and another man is caught in the throat by a javelin from Caoilte. Arterial blood sprays across Padraig’s side of the chariot before they are past the band of men, now scrambling in its wake among the slumped corpses of two of their own.
The men who remain huddle together preparing for the chariot’s next charge, hurling insults in lieu of suitable weapons. The family is nowhere to be seen, fled no doubt to the woods which stand nearby. Padraig is almost sent over the side again as Caoilte maneuvers the chariot to its lim
it, the horses turned perpendicular to the chariot itself as its left wheel lifts uncomfortably into the air. There is a moment when Padraig fears the whole thing will turn over onto itself, but then they are clear of the turn and hurtling back toward what is left of the bandits.
This time there are no javelins thrown. The horses charge straight for the group, blinded by Caoilte’s driving. The horse and chariot both smash through the center of the group and send men sprawling. Two are not so lucky and are crushed beneath the hooves and the wheels, and there is a sound Padraig will remember until his dying day.
By the time the chariot is able to turn again, the survivors have fled.
That is bad for us, Caoilte says, pointing to the fleeing men.
Why? Padraig asks.
Because they will return. Maybe with more.
Night comes and the bodies have been buried at Padraig’s insistence. Caoilte rubs his shoulders and looks past the horses feeding and resting, and looks over the fresh graves. Padraig stares into the fire and smooths refuse from his beard, before grabbing another large piece of wood with little effort and placing it with those already burned. Caoilte’s eyes turn to him.
We did not treat them in the old way, he says.
We did not, Padraig says. I don’t bring the old ways with me.
They are under the ground with them, Caoilte says.
Padraig looks at Caoilte and then graves then back to Caoilte.
They are under the ground and beyond that there is nothing to it, Padraig says. Not until the resurrection of the body.
Why, though?
So as to not destroy the bodies, Padraig says. When the body is reunited with the soul, what will those without bodies do?
Will everyone be reunited?
Not all, Padraig says. Those who believe will.
Did these believe?
I would guess they did not, Padraig says after a time. But I don’t presume to know God’s mind nor who he would want with him in paradise. So we bury the bodies.
I see, Caoilte says.
All night they wait for the reprisals that do not come. The sun comes through the trees in the early morning, waking Padraig in the sickly drunkenness of early rising. Caoilte is already preparing for travel. He stacks the provisions in the chariot along with what remains of his weapons and a few stray items. The horses are already in their positions.
Why did you let me sleep? Padraig asks.
You looked tired, Caoilte says.
You should have woken me.
You woke when you needed to without me.
Padraig joins Caoilte and they set out again. Padraig continues to hear sounds coming from the woods, branches breaking and birds displaced, and soon it is clear to him that the sounds are too regular to be animals.
He looks behind them, shifting his position in the chariot, but he sees nothing. They ride on and from time-to-time Padraig again tries to catch sight of whatever is causing the disturbance.
Don’t do that, Caoilte says in a low voice.
Do what? Padraig says.
Keep shifting. They will see. They will know that we know.
Who will see?
The men. They are following us. They’ve been following us. I did warn you.
You did. What can we do?
Caoilte shrugs.
Surely there is something we can do, Padraig says.
What?
We could attack them. You could deal with them like you dealt with the others.
It won’t work, Caoilte says, shaking his head.
Why not?
Look, Caoilte says. He motions quickly with a jab of his head. They are in the woods. We are in a chariot. If we ride into the woods, we will crash and if that doesn’t kill us and they don’t run away, then they will kill us.
So go to the edge of the woods.
That won’t work either, Caoilte says. At the edge of the forest they will be able to hide. We won’t, and we won’t be able to move fast. If they have any sense they will kill us from behind cover while we are exposed.
I see, Padraig says.
You shouldn’t want them dead, Caoilte says.
What?
You are eager to see them dead.
I’m not, Padraig says.
You are. You shouldn’t be, not with being who you are.
Padraig does not reply for a moment.
You are right, Caoilte, he says. I don’t know why I wanted us to get them. We already saved that family.
I know, Caoilte says.
You should know, you are the one who saved them.
I know why you want to get them, I mean, Caoilte says quickly.
You do?
There’s anger in you. I can see it. I know it.
What do you know about it?
Caoilte stares at the path in front of them more pointedly than before.
I had a family once, he says. I had a wife. Several sons. Two daughters. We had cattle and sheep and, Caoilte hesitates, and even slaves.
They ride on in silence.
Keep telling me, Padraig says.
I’ve heard you were a slave, Caoilte says. I didn’t mean to offend you.
You can continue. I want to hear.
Our family did well, he says. That changed.
What happened?
There was a rival clan, Caoilte says. We have been rivals for ages. Our father’s father’s father’s father’s father and theirs argued over land, or a woman, or cattle, who remembers? Some of our elders even said we were cousins long ago, that our ancestor was their ancestor’s brother. As I said, who remembers? We are rivals, and that is all any of us know. I told you that my family did well—our whole clan did well, from when I was a child until when I had a family of my own. As it so happens a lot of that was because of the other clan. We had cattle and sheep because we took theirs, we had slaves because we took theirs, and even turned some of them to slavery. We had land that had once been their land. Our success in our feud over the years made them bitter, and our success in general created enemies we did not recognize, enemies who soon found common cause with our rivals.
They attacked you?
It wasn’t a battle, Caoilte says. Battles are fought in the day. Battles are fought between men. This was murder. They came in the night and they killed and they burnt and...
What? Padraig asks.
And now I am alone. The land is gone. The family is gone. So when I met you for the first time, I looked at you and I saw that in you, too. You hide it well, but the anger comes out. Like when you want to get the men.
Padraig is silent for a moment, giving his words thought.
The first village we should visit is not too much further, Padraig says finally. We should be able to get there by midday.
Caoilte nods and nudges the horses onward.
Eventually the men following them seem to disappear, and Padraig is able to relax. They reach their destination in the early afternoon. As Padraig stretches his legs beside the chariot, he is glad that they have reached the end of their journey, at least for the time.
Caoilte sees to the horses while the people of the village come out of their homes. The main street is little more than a dirt path and the houses crowd around it, lumps of stones with thatching thrown over, the whole group of them looking like the grave marker of some forgotten giant. A man steps apart from the gathering crowd and approaches Padraig.
Welcome, he says. My name is Odhran. May I ask who you are?
Odhran addresses Padraig but never takes his eyes off Caoilte, except to glance at the remaining javelins stored at the side of the chariot.
I’m Padraig. This is Caoilte. We have traveled here from the lands of Dichu.
We know Dichu, Odhran says. He and his people live across the hills from here, through the for
est.
They do, Padraig says.
Odhran nods and looks at last at Padraig. His eyes remain open and friendly but there is a hard quality to his stare. After a moment, he looks up at the trees and the sky.
The sun will be down soon, Odhran says.
It will.
We haven’t much, but what we have you are welcome to. It is always wise to welcome unexpected travelers, for you never know who you’ll meet on the road. You’ll see up the road there, in the side of that little hill— that is our hall, where we gather. Most of our homes are too small, you see. If the two of you would like to make your way there, I’m sure there will be a warm reception.
We thank you for your hospitality, Padraig says.
Caoilte has finished with the horses and the chariot. The two make their way to the place Odhran, who doesn’t leave their side, indicated. The hall, built into the side of the hill, looks like a great turtle’s head poking tentatively out of its shell.
Inside, the air is cool and the room is dark except for the little light coming through the thin windows at the front of the building, the side not buried into the earth. Padraig blinks his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness.
My apologies, Odhran says. It can be dark in here at the wrong time of day, because of the way the building faces. We’ll build a fire soon in the fireplace on the other side over there. It should be easier to see, then.
Thank you again, Padraig says.
True to his word, soon enough a fire is built and the glow of it fills the building along with its comforting smoke. The crowd that dispersed soon after their arrival returns again, the day’s work having been completed. They are eager to learn more about the strangers in their village.
Food is prepared over the fire and drink served, and Padraig and Caoilte eat along with the villagers. Padraig, though hungry, stops when he feels he has eaten as much as he is entitled to as a guest under their roof, but Caoilte continues on eating until the men around him stare in fascination. Their fasciation turns into admiration when they see him turn his appetite toward their drink, and soon the mild suspicion of the afternoon turns into the warm friendship of intoxication.
The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession Page 13