by Erin O'Quinn
“I am such a student,” Quince said unexpectedly. She looked up at Luke with luminous eyes. “I think that is a worthy goal. Perhaps if Luke will tell us his tale, I can set it to parchment—with his help.”
He looked at her fondly, and he brought her hand up to his mouth, letting it linger there for a few extra moments. “Then let me tell it without delay,” he said, and we all laughed, forgetting for a time that our comrades were somewhere out on the turbulent Sea of Éire. Luke cleared his throat and began.
Untold generations ago, when the entire world was ocean, there lived a race of semidivine beings who lived under the sea. Their very name, the “Fomoire,” meant sea dwellers, and even when the oceans subsided and land rose up, the Fomorians became known and feared as sea pirates.
Perhaps it is not so farfetched as we may think, that later generations of the Fomorians selected the rocky realm of Tory as their kingdom. In those days, the island was large indeed, perhaps half the size of Éire itself. Or perhaps it sheared off from the very land we now sit, after the dread dance of the lightning king Eremon. But that is another story for another day.
In those days, Tory was a land of milk and honey, and it was called “King’s Tower,” for their king had built spires to the sky. It boasted the best pastureland, an unending supply of thousands of kinds of fish, and twice as many kinds of fowl. It had lakes and even rivers, for the land was blessed from the beginning by the hand of Cíocal, the king and legendary founder of the kingdom of Tory.
Now in the generations since the Fomorians came to live on land, another semidivine race had sprung up along the coast of a faraway sea, perhaps the distant shores of the Nile or even the Indus. Hearing of the mighty kingdom of the Fomorians, a large company of these men, under the banner of King Nemed, sailed to these shores, seeking their fortune. They sailed in a fleet of forty-four giant ships, and it took four years and four months to reach the kingdom of Tory, for they had many adventures along the way. And they left sons, and their sons’ stories, as they voyaged.
When they arrived at last, King Nemed instructed his followers to take the Fomorians back to the bottom of the sea from whence they had sprung. A mighty battle ensued, as you can well imagine, for the Nemedians boasted sixty thousand warriors, and King Cíocal had even more.
The battle was inconclusive, and so King Nemed moved his men to the mainland, where they began to overwhelm the land-dwelling Fomorians in bloody encounters. At last, King Nemed died. His son Fergus Red-Side decided to return to Tory Island and complete the work his father had left unfinished. By now, the land of Éire bore the mark of the conquering Nemedians. Many lake bursts were created at the burial site of their slain heroes, many plains were cleared, and many forts were established. But Fergus, he of unmatched greed, craved the biggest prize of all—the untold riches of the Island of Tory.
And so all the conquerors left for the treasures of Tory, leaving behind only women and children. How could the greedy conquerors know that the women and children were the real treasure and that they turned their backs on it?
When the followers of Fergus Red-Side reached the island, they found that King Cíocal had died. In his place, the mighty warrior Conand ruled from the highest tower on the highest mountain.
With a blood-curdling cry, Fergus led his followers over the cliffs and into the walled city where Conand’s tower rose almost from the sea. The battle lasted thirty days and thirty nights, and when the cries of battle had died, Conand and his people were strewn like rocks over the desolate shore.
Fergus Red-Side raised his battle ax in triumph, and at that moment a giant wave washed up over the entire island, burying all but the highest tower. When at last the wave receded, Tory Island was only a sliver of land, and Conand and his bravest warriors were become granite statues rising from the roiling sea. Only his great tower remained as a warning to all who would succumb to overweening greed—step not on these shores, or seek death.
Luke finished his tale, and we all sat in silent tribute to the skill of his storytelling.
Finally, Brother Jericho spoke. “Thank you, Luke. God has gifted you in many ways.” We all murmured in assent while Luke ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed.
“Myth it may be,” I said to my friends, “but in a way the warning has come true. The greed of these pirates shall be their downfall, and Tory Island the last home they will ever know.”
“Well said, my friend,” said Brindl, and I saw that all of us wore a slight smile, as if already celebrating the downfall of the evil slave traders.
Just then Konrad set up a shout, and we looked to the sea. There, somehow keeping keel-side up, I saw not six but eight small dark objects riding the swelling sea. Our currachs—and those of the pirates? I rose and started to run, as nimbly as my little pear-shaped body and the rocky ground would allow.
All eight of us stood in the shallow waves, straining to be the first to welcome and shelter the rescuers and their precious cargo. Soon the currachs were so close to shore that the large Glaed Keepers could leap from the vessels and begin to tow them to a safe mooring.
As soon as the currachs were anchored—tied to great rocks at the edge of the tossing sea—Liam was the first to emerge, carrying what looked like a sack of sticks. As he drew nearer, I saw to my horror that his burden was a woman. She was naked except for a tatter of cloth around her loins, her arms and legs thin as the kindling we had fed into our morning fire. And her breasts—ah, God, her breasts looked like flaps of skin, like unformed wings of fledgling chicks.
I resolutely kept my eyes raised to his. “To the fire, Liam,” I told him. “We have prepared places for them to lie. Thank God you are safe.”
He strode ahead, straight toward our fire haven, and I ran to keep up with him. “A mo ghra, I am alive. But me heart feels dead inside.”
When we reached the comforting arm of land that surrounded our fire, Liam tenderly laid the woman on a blanket, and immediately Quince and Persimmon were kneeling over her. Liam put his arms around my shoulders and bowed his head. “She is the worst, Cay. I pray she may live. Dear God, why did I tell ye we should not punish her tormentors?”
I stroked his hair and his cheeks, incapable of answering his deep anguish with any words. “Caylith,” said Persimmon urgently, “bring us your strongest gruit, quickly.”
I knelt to the fire where my cauldrons, filled with healing brew, were staying warm in the embers. Quickly filling a metal cup, I brought it to Persimmon, who took it and tipped it to the lips of the woman. She seemed already dead, and my throat and eyes filled with tears as I watched. Quince put a finger in the brew, and she brought her finger to the woman’s mouth, rubbing it on her lips and inside, on her tongue. Again and again, Quince dipped her finger.
I did not realize I was holding my breath until I saw the woman’s eyes flutter, and I saw her lips trying to form words. I released a huge sigh.
“Cay,” said Quince, almost impatiently. “Take over here while we look at the others.”
I obediently knelt and dipped my own finger in the gruit, making sure the woman swallowed by stroking her throat as I put the liquid in her mouth. This was the very same thing I had done with Nuala Sweeney, Owen’s mother, as she lay close to death on the oversized bed at Ballysweeney back in February.
As involved as I was with the dying woman, I could see that Quince and Persimmon had quickly gone around to all the women, each by now lying on a blanket near the fire. Both women availed themselves of the cauldrons of gruit, and I heard them telling my companions how to administer it.
We had assembled a large store of blankets and linen cloths, and I pulled one over the body of my patient. “There, my darling,” I murmured, as though she could hear and understand. “You are no longer exposed to the cruel eyes of men.”
Her eyes opened and seemed to look at me. They were large and gray toned, very pretty, but they seemed glazed in either fear or incomprehension. Her face seemed smooth, as though she were very young, but there was n
o way to judge her true age. It could have been fourteen or forty.
Liam leaned and laid another woman next to the one I tended. “She needs ye, too, Cat.” I saw right away that the next woman was not near death. But she was stiff with fear, and her eyes rolled in terror. I thought Liam had not understood that she probably was recoiling from him—from his maleness, as though she could not distinguish him from one of her brutal defilers.
“Shush, shush,” I crooned, and I smoothed her hair back from her forehead.
Brindl’s urgent voice was in my ear. “Cay, tell me which preparation is for wrapping wounds and how to do it.”
“If you will watch these two,” I said, “I will do it. Which one?”
She gestured to a woman lying some four or five feet away, covered with a piece of linen cloth, and I hurried to examine her. I peeled back the cloth and saw fresh blood on her thighs, as though a recent wound had opened. I ran to the fire with a length of linen, and I began to soak it in my largest cauldron. Soon the cloth was permeated with the dark brown liquid, and I rushed back to the bleeding woman.
Lifting her left leg, I soaked her exposed groin with the cloth. I tore a thin piece from another strip and bound the dressing loosely, so as not to cause more bleeding. As I worked I could not help cursing and muttering, willing God’s own vengeance on the heads of those who had despoiled and hurt these precious souls.
At last, I paused and looked around at the scene before me. Every one of my friends was kneeling with a fallen woman, and all of them were wound dressing, or giving gruit, or applying healing paste. I counted the victims—yes, there were fifteen of them, as Silver Weaver had reported to us. And of them, only the one Liam had first carried seemed to be on the thin edge of living or dying.
I walked to where Quince and Persimmon stood, conferring with each other. “I think we may begin to prepare supper,” Quince told me. “The women may rest or sleep while we eat, and then we can attempt to feed them, as much food as they will accept.”
“Yes, the delicate fish that na Cnoic have netted will be fine fare for them—and for us, too.” Persimmon took a last look around and then put one arm around her sister, and one around me. “Well done, ladies. Let us prepare supper.”
Then the three of us moved in three different directions to make it happen.
* * * *
Hours later, Liam and I sat side by side near the fire. We had no blanket to draw around ourselves, and so we stretched our hands to the flames, pretending to be warmed. “Darling, try to sleep,” I told him. “For tomorrow you must return.”
“Yes,” he said. “I…bring back men I should leave on the hard rocks.”
Again, I was wise enough to say nothing. Liam would have to work it out in his own mind, how his adamantine will had decided the men’s fate. He himself had decreed that they were to live, perhaps even to be redeemed by the grace of God. I knew that Father Patrick’s solution would be the right one and that it would finally remove the burden of guilt that Liam now felt.
“Lay back, dear love. I promise you, it will all seem better in the morning. Tell me a bit about your adventure today, and I will lie here next to you.”
“Tá go maith, a chuisle.” He lay on his back, and tonight the canopy of stars blazed overhead as if reminding us that heaven was indeed close and comforting.
“The sea, very wild. The landing, close to giant rocks. I think about the great rock where we found me uncle Owen, where the cleansing rivers ran.” Liam was thinking back a few months ago when we tracked Owen Sweeney to the site near Claudy, home of giant rocks that seemed to be a lone king surveying the valley below with his protective circle of sentinels.
I remembered stretching out my hand and feeling the tallest rock as though a heart may have been beating below its moss-streaked surface. And I thought about Luke’s story today, the jutting rocks that still reared from the sea on the beach of Tory Island, the last king and his surrounding warriors.
“We…so fortunate to have the marines an’ the big Saxons. They steer the little boats like…like a child’s plaything. They learn how to do it when ye came to Éire, long time ago. In little boats wi’ red sails, like the sign of me father come back to me…”
His voice trailed off, and I realized that he was asleep, through sheer exhaustion or because of the emotional struggle he had been through today.
I lay next to him, facing the sea, looking skyward for the Great Elk that my armsman had once told me about, and the Lesser Elk, his son, who stalked the northern sky. I lay listening for any sound of discomfort from the women who lay near me and my friends, under the warmth of blankets. I heard only rhythmic breathing, and soon I, too, was asleep, my head cushioned on Liam’s chest.
Once during the night I rose and went to Gray-Eyes. I put my hand on her shrunken chest and felt her heart, now beating with a strong, even rhythm. I pulled the blanket close around her and returned to my husband, my own heartbeat.
Chapter 27:
The Taking of Tory
Our stalwart rescuers who had returned with the women had left six men behind on the rugged island, and none of them small in stature—Flann, Roe, Archer, and three Glaed Keepers. They were charged with standing guard over their twelve prisoners until the rest of the party returned with the currachs.
The land rats who had been forced to stay on the shore—including myself—were burning to learn the details of yesterday’s rescue and the taking of prisoners. Those who had returned early this morning would be almost at the island by now, I thought—Liam and Thom, the remaining nine marines, and three Glaed Keepers. I was satisfied to know that Klaus and Konrad, my twin mountains, had been chosen to bring back prisoners, so that they, too, could savor a taste of adventure.
When they returned later this afternoon, we could be sure that one or more of them would have a merry tale for us around the fire tonight. We all needed that tale, for it would be the climax of our adventure, the resolution we all ached to enjoy.
Those of us who remained today were tenderly caring for the wounded women. Many of the former captives were sitting by now, slowly eating or being washed or combed by a gentle hand. I was sitting cross-legged next to Gray-Eyes, who was still lying on her back. I was waiting for her to raise her head again to ask for another sip of healing potion.
She had not once tried to speak, and I had not pressed her. I was gratified by her smallest sign of progress—a raising of her brows, a quirk of her mouth, a slight lifting of her head—that told me her strength was returning.
The other woman that Liam had laid next to her yesterday, the one who had quailed from his strong arms, was already sitting, taming her own matted hair with my comb. She had told me that she and several of the others were all from the same small village, all seized the same day by men covered in blue markings.
“What is your name?” I asked her.
“I am called Windy by my family,” she said shyly. “Although my given name is Windollin.” I guessed her age at sixteen or seventeen.
“And is this your kinswoman?” I wanted to find out what I could about Gray-Eyes.
“No. She had already been taken when we were thrown into the little boat. She never did speak to any of us. I think she was already sick.”
“What others are in your family?”
“No one here, thank God. They did not even consider my brothers or my parents. They—they pushed them to the ground, they began to kick them in the stomach—oh!” and she began to cry, her slender shoulders heaving as she covered her face.
“Shush, shush, child. You do not have to answer. Do not think about it. You are safe now.”
I watched her for awhile as she tried to pull the comb through the tangles of her brown hair. Not wanting to upset her more, still I felt compelled to solve some of the mysteries surrounding these women.
“What is the name of your village?”
She recovered quickly from her tears as though willing herself to push the memory back into some dark recess of he
r mind. “We called it Rib Chester, part of a walled town on the river—the River Ribble. Close to the sea.”
I thought I remembered the name from somewhere—perhaps Luke or the teacher James had once told me—it was part of the great Roman system of castra, or forts that extended throughout northern Britannia as protection from the Picts and other barbarian tribes. The location made sense, for the slave seekers would not want to venture more than few days’ currach sailing from their own base. That meant their own home was probably Alba—Pictland, from her description of their blue-marked bodies.
“And how long have you been…imprisoned?”
She lowered her eyes, and again I saw the pain flit across her face. “It could be two months, or even three. We were taken at the first spring festival.”
“Do you remember any—um, any other man apart from the pirates who may have come to your island? Perhaps to gaze upon the women?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Once. But I do not remember much about him. He was a man.”
I patted her arm reassuringly. “That is all right, Windy. Just get better.”
I saw Gray-Eyes trying to lift her head, and again I put the cup next to her lips with one hand, raising her head with the other. This time she drank two or three swallows, more than she had taken before. She opened her eyes and gazed at me, and I smiled down at her, feeling strangely triumphant.
When Brindl knelt next to me and my two wards, I told her in an undertone about my line of questioning with Windy. “I am keen to know, Brindie, if we may trace this vile man who keeps the slavers plying their trade—the one who rewards them with valuable coins for their victims. Will you ask your own wards, and spread the word to our friends to do the same? They do not have to answer our questions directly. I simply want to know who remembers what.”
“I think I see your reasoning, Cay. Heaven knows I have seen your mind work often enough. I like what you are saying.”