So, Odhran says to them around the long wooden table that runs through the center of the hall, what is it that brings you over the hills from Dichu? Last I heard, Dichu had renounced the old ways and turned vassal to some sort of foreign madman.
I am the madman, Padraig says after a sip of his drink.
What?
The madman. The foreigner who caused Dichu to renounce the old ways. I am him.
I’m sorry, I didn’t meant insult you—
It’s fine. You haven’t insulted me.
So why have you come here?
We have come here to bring you the same message I delivered to Dichu. One of hope and peace.
Hope and peace delivered by such a large warrior, Odhran asks, looking at Caoilte who has finally finished his meal and looks at the pair of them intently.
He is here merely to keep me safe, Padraig says.
Of course. You may find a harder time here than you want, though, Padraig. We are proud of our traditions here. I know you have turned Dichu and some of his people, but Dichu’s apostasy is well-known in this area. He turned from the ways of his fathers long ago, so it isn’t strange he would adopt another way before long. I fear it won’t be as easy for you to rule here as there.
I mean to rule nothing, Padraig says, sitting back from the table. I only mean to provide the message I was chosen to bring. All I have brought to Dichu and his people he has accepted because he believes; besides his belief, I have no influence over him. I have no aspirations to be a leader, to replace those who hold sway in this land. I want only to give them the same news that I want everyone else to have.
As you say. Just know that your welcome here will depend on you knowing your place. We’ll have none of your trickery in this village, Odhran says.
Regardless, we plan on staying here a while, so what does or doesn’t happen in this village need not be decided tonight. Tonight we are only enjoying your hospitality. There will be plenty of time for conversations about our purpose here later.
Odhran nods and turns to one of the men sitting at the table, a blonde man with grey eyes and a disheveled beard.
Arailt, he says to him, we’ve had our food and I’m sure our guests want entertainment. Tell us a story.
Arailt nods and rises from the table, all the eyes of those in the hall on him. He begins.
Before our gods came to this land, there were others who lived here. None were as fierce as the Fomoire, gigantic and brutal, who themselves came from the sea long ago. Now, when the gods first arrived, they tried to make peace with the Fomoire. The king of the gods, Nuada, had lost his hand in battle and so could not continue being king. In his stead, Bres was chosen; it was thought that he would be a fair king, as his mother was one of the gods and his father was one of the Fomoire, so he would have the interests of both people in mind.
They were wrong. Bres’s rule was cruel. Under him, the Fomoire enjoyed every privilege while the gods were forced to toil and set to menial tasks. They didn’t just slave for the Fomoire, they were humiliated by them. Year after year this went on, and year after year Bres’s tyranny worsened.
After seven years of this mistreatment, Nuada, the old king, went to Dian Cecht, imploring him to use his great powers of healing to restore his arm, as no one cursed with imperfection may rule. Dian Cecht agreed and sought out Credne, whose skill at metalworking is unequaled. Together they forged a silver arm for Nuada, to replace the one he had lost.
Thus restored, Nuada led his oppressed people against Bres and forced him to flee for his life. The gods were once again ruled by one of their own, and no longer did they work at the ditchdigging and woodcutting. No longer was their hospitality abused until no food or drink remained in their homes and their utensils were all broken.
Bres would not stand to be so ousted, however, and went to his father, Elatha. He had to wait until night, when Elatha comes across the waters in his silver boat, and when the time came he shouted to his father, hailing him and asking him to restore his throne. Elatha refused. He told Bres that he could not have through force that which he could not keep through peace. This answer did not satisfy Bres; he decided he would have this throne no matter the cost.
Since his father would not help him, he approached Balor to help him take back the throne. Now Balor was the son of Buarainech and the witch Cethlenn and had the face of a bull. Instead of the two eyes we mortals have, Balor had four; two where they should be, plus one in the back and one in the front in the middle of his forehead. The eye in the back of his head kept him from being approached from behind, and the one in the front would consume all it looked on with fire, so he usually kept it shut. This is why he is called Balor of the Evil Eye.
Balor raised an immense army to help Bres defeat Nuada, while Nuada raised an army of his own with the help of Lugh, another of his people and a great warrior.
The two armies met at Mag Tuired, and the fighting was terrible. Both sides used all of their skill and all of their power in the battle, so that the scars of it can still be found upon the earth. It was at the height of the battle that Nuada saw Balor towering over his army, and ran to challenge the great beast. Nuada was a skilled fighter, but he is no match for Balor’s eye, which he turned on the king, killing him.
Lugh saw what Balor had done and took out his sling. Balor was still in the process of burning Nuada to death when Lugh sent a stone straight at the giant, the shot so powerful that it not only killed Balor, but knocked the middle eye out of his head through the eye in the back of his head. When the middle eye landed among the Fomoire, it carved through their army until it became clear that our gods had the upper hand. In fact, it kept burning through them as it spun around, finally rolling and burning a hole into the earth, making the Lake of the Eye. The surviving Fomoire returned to the sea, leaving only our gods and the children of both to remain in our land.
Soon after the battle, Bres was found cowering and hoping to not be seen. His life was spared on the condition that he teach the gods how to farm, a skill they had never seen before meeting the Fomoire. And that is how the Fomoire were defeated by the gods.
Arailt finishes the story and sits back down, a smile on his face as those next to him slap him on the back and praise his storytelling.
What do you think of that? Odhran asks.
Not bad, Padraig says. As far as stories go.
To think that they were later defeated, as powerful as they were, by our own ancestors. I mean, our ancestors. Though we still honor them, of course. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from the Fomoire, it is that the gods don’t care who rules the land as long as they are given their proper respect.
It was a good story, Padraig says. It is getting late- where would you like my companion and me to sleep?
It is getting late, Odhran says, his face looking concerned. Arailt, have you seen Conall and the others? They should have returned to the village by now.
I haven’t, Arailt says. Would you like me to check to see if they are near?
I would.
Some of your men are missing? Padraig asks.
They’ve been gone for over a day now. It isn’t unusual for them to spend a night away from the village, especially if they’ve roamed far, but for them to be gone so long worries me.
What were they doing?
Oh, sometimes they take to the roads and— oh, but we don’t have you settled yet. You are free to stay in the hall tonight if you wish. We can always speak more in the morning.
We will.
The men take their leave of Padraig and Caoilte. The fire is reduced to hot embers, just enough to cast a slight glow throughout the otherwise dark room. Padraig lies on his back and looks at the ceiling, and closes his eyes.
A mountain rises up in Padraig’s vision, so high the peak rises above the clouds. He stares up at the immense formation, trying to see the summit, knowing someh
ow that he must. His ears are filled with a great roar and he looks around. There is nothing around him but the mountain, rising round and domed so it is unable to be scaled.
The roar grows louder and louder and he searches for the source but still nothing appears. He realizes the sound comes from above him and looks up, but there is only clouds and rock.
Louder and louder is grows until his ears ache and it feels as though liquid runs from them, and looking up at the cloudline he sees water running down the mountain--thick, dark, cold water writhing and falling and full of the noise of crashing water on the beach. Then he notices the water is not coming from the mountain. The water is the mountain, the rock liquefying and running as it rushes toward him, leaving nothing behind.
He runs.
He makes his way across the immense plain, once-green grass turning to twisted, red, rocky shapes around his ankles. The last of the mountain crashes into the land with the sound of a boulder breaking and rushes after him. He turns for a moment and falls and knows there is no escape.
Padraig wakes up in the dark with a start. He almost speaks but Caoilte hears him come out of his dream and indicates with a quick noise not to talk.
They hear the voices outside the hall. Murmuring turns to near-shouting before a forceful sound to silence themselves comes from what sounds like Odhran.
Padraig, Caoilte says, his voice as low as he can make it.
What is it, Caoilte?
I think they are talking about us.
What about us?
I don’t know, but it sounds like they are arguing over us, from the bits and pieces I’ve heard.
Padraig sighs and sits up.
A great way to start our journey, he says. Do you have any weapons on you?
Caoilte shakes his head.
You’d better find one, then. Who knows how long it will be before they decide to come in.
Caoilte walks to one of the smaller tables against the side wall and turns it over. He grabs one of the table legs, a thick, rectangular piece of wood almost as long as his arm, and tears it from the table. The sound is greater than expected and the voices outside stop.
Padraig and Caoilte halt their breathing, their ears straining to hear the men outside. Caoilte slowly moves toward the door, taking care to keep each step light enough to be silent. Padraig backs away from the entrance, leaving Caoilte to his duty. The slightest scraping of the earth outside is heard and a rapid shuffling of movement.
There is nothing from outside. The two wait, daring to exhale and inhale.
A burst of motion comes through the door as a half-dozen men charge through, shouting a battle-cry. Padraig has time to see they have daggers in their hands before Caoilte swings his improvised club, the heavy wood making contact with the side of the first man through the door. There is a sound like a tree branch falling in the woods and the man drops.
The two men behind him each swipe at Caoilte with their daggers. The first Caoilte blocks with his arm, catching the assailant at the wrist and turning the blade away, while he twists away from the second and it only manages to scratch his upper arm.
The club comes down on the man who draws blood, knocking his dagger from his hand and leaving the bone just past the elbow poking out of the skin.
Though another of the men joins the fight against Caoilte, Padraig is unable to keep his focus on his bodyguard when two of the men come after him, murder in their eyes. He moves around the central table to keep some distance, and watching them realizes he has seen them before. These last two are the survivors of the fight near the forest, and Padraig connects the worry of the villagers and the sudden attempt on his life.
One of the men leaps across the table, but Padraig is too quick. The man who leaps at him recovers and takes one side while the other man moves around the other way. The two are backing him toward a wall, the wall with the fireplace, Padraig realizes.
When his back is against the wall, Padraig waits for the men to come one more step, then puts his foot into the ashes of the fire and kicks it toward the nearest man. The still-hot ashes land on the man’s bare legs and he screams. His companion looks over to see what is happening and Padraig puts all his strength behind his fist as it connects to the man’s nose. His attacker drops to the ground, cradling his nose, as the other comes at Padraig. The priest’s eyes never leave the dagger as it approaches.
As the man makes another attempt to slash at Padraig, Caoilte approaches from behind and, taking a step back with his right leg and moving into the swing with his left, strikes Padraig’s attacker directly in the head. The man doesn’t make a sound as he collapses. Caoilte kicks the man with the broken nose and grabs Padraig by the wrist.
We have to leave, Caoilte says.
I agree.
They walk past the men Caoilte has dealt with and Padraig averts his eyes from what his guardian has done.
At the entrance to the hall, Caoilte stops Padraig and then cautiously puts his head outside the door.
It looks like everyone else is in their homes, he says.
Go for the chariot, then.
They make their way for the chariot, and Padraig sighs when he sees that the horses and the chariot sit where they left them, completely unbothered.
Hurry, he says to Caoilte.
We don’t have all our provisions, Caoilte says.
We’ll worry about that later. Leave it.
What they have left with them is secured and Padraig takes his place next to Caoilte once the latter has harnessed the horses. As they are about to set out, they hear the village alarm sounded, and the noise of people pouring out of their homes as the survivors of their attack alert the population.
The chariot rolls through the village. The people swarm in its path, trying to block it.
We’ll go through, Caoilte says.
One of the villagers is armed with a spear and as they pass thrusts it through the spokes of the wheels. Padraig feels a jerk, a sense of something being wrong, and finds himself in the dirt looking at the chariot on its side, one broken wheel lazily rotating as it faces the sky.
Caoilte is a few feet from him and springs to his feet, grabbing one of the javelins which lie strewn about them. He runs to Padraig and pulls him up by his arm as the villagers close in. Padraig hears the horses cry out and then there is nothing but the shouts of the people.
Padraig’s head aches and everything seems to happen in flashes. Caoilte stabs at the men who attack them. Several more fall and the two of them run through the gap left by the crowd. The people pursue them into the night as Caoilte pauses long enough to send the javelin back into the crowd, stopping the frontmost man.
They run. Padraig’s lungs burn and his head screams at him but still they run. After a time the sounds of the pursuing crowd fade and yet they continue onward. It is not until late, approaching dawn, that they finally stop to rest. The two men pant and Padraig lies on the ground, heaving and trying to catch his breath.
The sun rises and at last Padraig can breathe again, though his legs ache and he is so tired he doesn’t think he can take another step. Caoilte sits on a fallen tree and his breaths are short.
Caoilte, Padraig says.
Caoilte doesn’t respond.
Caoilte.
The warrior turns his head and looks at him.
Padraig, he says.
What do we do now?
I don’t know, Caoilte says, wincing.
You are hurt.
I am.
Let me see.
Caoilte turns and his tunic is dark everywhere below his chest and sticks to his skin.
We had to get out, he says.
We did.
Caoilte falls off the log and Padraig runs over to him, watching the stain continue to spread as he kneels over his guardian.
Please, Caoilte says.
Please what?
Please.
Caoilte, tell me what you want.
Don’t leave me with them, he says. Don’t send me to be with them, to live in the mounds.
You won’t be with them, Caoilte. You wait for the resurrection. Your body and soul are united.
Please, Padraig. It is where they live. Let me be free of them in death at least. Promise me.
I promise.
They sit in silence for a time, Padraig holding Caoilte’s hand as the breathing becomes more labored. He prays over him and Caoilte tries to pray too but most stop when it becomes too difficult. Padraig stops now and then to listen for the sounds of pursuit; no one comes.
He is in the middle of one of his prayers when Caoilte’s grip tightens on his own, the man’s breathing intensifying as though being weighted down and struggling for air. His grip relaxes and a last breath rasps through his lips. Caoilte’s eyes stare indifferently into the sunrise.
Padraig spends the better part of the morning finding suitable wood from the forest, first carrying bundles and then dragging heavy pieces to Caoilte. Once the wood is gathered he rests for a time but is troubled by the accumulating flies and the sounds of something slinking in the forest. With difficulty and the last of his strength, he moves Caoilte on top of the pyre he has built.
It takes him longer to get the fire started, but finally the flame takes and catches to the wood, soon enough consuming the rest of the pyre. He rests against Caoilte’s log and watches the fire grow, moving only when the smell of hair and flesh becomes too strong for him.
When the fire has passed its peak, but before it becomes a pile of ash and remnants, he moves on, unwilling to stay until the final moments. Padraig finds a place nearby, a shelter of sorts formed from a low rise of the earth too modest to be called a hill, but which blocks him from any travelers coming from the village. He sleeps and for once there are no dreams.
Twelve
He is in the woods now and he remembers the silence. At first there is something familiar about it, something comforting. But the silence of the woods is not the silence of sheep in the pasture. There is no sun warming his face. There is no gentle breeze. He walks without the presence of summer storms and instead of the grass under his feet there is only dirt and stone and broken branches and leaves. The forest is a dry, dead thing compared to his pasture and the silence then becomes more eerie than comforting. A stifled, sickly wind brushes through the branches and it sounds like abandoned paths and lonely deaths.
The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession Page 14