There was a stillness on board.
Goll gazed at the dead sailor in disbelief.
The lines had been drawn. Goll abruptly realised that he was not facing some simpering woman but a determined foe. A warrior who was stubborn and as resolute as he was. Nevertheless, he made an effort to persuade her to surrender.
‘You are outnumbered, woman!’ He called. ‘Put up your weapons. Your resistance is useless.’
‘You forget that I control this ship, Goll,’ replied Scáthach, waving one arm towards the tiller. ‘Perhaps it is your men who should put up their weapons?’
Goll was stung to anger by what he saw as the insolence of the girl’s reply. He turned to his mate.
‘Take some of the men and storm the companionway. I’ll take the rest and keep that young whelp busy.’ He gestured to where Flann stood ready with his sword.
The mate hesitated. After all, Goll was sending him against someone armed with a bow.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Goll snapped.
The mate sighed and gestured to a few of the men.
‘Follow me,’ he said, moving cautiously forward.
The next moment he was on the ground clutching at the shaft which had embedded itself in his shoulder and cursing the gods. His men hesitated and then another arrow sped from the girl’s bow and embedded itself into the thigh of another of the sailors.
‘Haul back!’ yelled Goll furiously, easing himself behind the mainmast for cover.
He looked about for some means of retrieving the situation. He was being made to look incompetent by a mere girl in front of his crew.
‘With me!’ he growled to his men and broke into a shambling run towards the companionway which Flann held. Goll, while leading the charge, did not attempt to clamber up the steps first but stood aside to allow the men following him to do so.
Flann stood carefully poised, sword point flickering as the first man tried to scramble upwards. He lunged quickly and, with a cry, the man toppled backwards into his companions behind him, blood oozing from his shoulder.
‘Up! Up!’ Goll cried.
His men went up unwillingly only to fall back before the young warrior’s expertly handled weapons.
Eventually the captain of the Nemhain drew his men back to the well of the ship.
From her position, Scáthach grinned at Flann.
That’s taught these dogs a lesson,’ she said triumphantly.
Flann gave an answering smile, but shrugged.
They’ll be back.’
The girl glanced at the white-faced tiller man who had stood watching the fight, clutching at his tiller in obedience to the girl’s instructions.
‘I hope there is no need to remind you of your course?’ she said.
The man swallowed and licked his dry lips nervously. ‘By the gods, lady … ’
She gestured him to silence.
‘How far are we from the coast of Gallia?’
‘With these winds, lady, we will sight the coastline at dawn tomorrow. We shall make landfall about midday.’ Scáthach bit her lip thoughtfully.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Flann.
‘I am trying to place myself in the mind of Goll in order to see how he would overcome us.’
Flann compressed his lips a moment and glanced at the sky.
‘He has time enough. I would be inclined to wait until nightfall.’
The girl frowned.
‘You are right. When darkness falls, then he will make his attack for he knows that I will not be able to use my bow. If I were him, I would launch another attack directly on our front and while we are thus engaged, he could send men around to take us in the rear.’
‘How so?’ demanded Flann. The only way onto the stern deck is up these stairways we defend.’
‘Under cover of darkness a good seaman could surely climb along the outside of the ship and come up over the stern-rail,’ replied Scáthach.
Flann moved to the side of the ship and glanced over. The girl was right. An agile man could easily swing along the side of the ship while their attention was diverted and come over the stern rail. He turned back to the girl.
‘What can we do?’ he asked.
Scáthach turned to the steersman.
‘Do we touch no other land before tomorrow?’
The man shook his head.
‘No small islands?’
‘None on this course, lady,’ he said.
She turned with interest.
‘None on this course,’ she repeated with emphasis, ‘but some that are near?’
The steersman hesitated and then shrugged. He had already committed himself.
‘South, south-west lies an island but no one lives on it nor does anyone make landfall there. It is a desolate place where they say the Fomorii, the gods of the abyss, dwell. The place is dangerous for it is surrounded by great jagged rocks.’
‘And when could we make landfall there?’
The steersman looked startled.
‘Speak!’ snapped the girl irritably.
‘Why, I suppose we could reach there by dusk this evening but it is dangerous what with the rocks. We could not get close to the island before dawn.’
Scáthach chuckled.
‘It sounds just the place.’
Flann was puzzled.
‘Look,’ Scáthach moved across to him, for Goll and his men still remained down in the well of the ship, and there seemed no danger of an imminent attack, it is useless heading for Gallia. We will never get there with what remains of today and then a full night and half a day between us and landfall. If we bring the ship close to the islands, Goll may be worried less about overcoming us than ensuring that the Nemhain doesn’t splinter itself to pieces on the rocks.’
‘But how does that help to extricate us? If the island is deserted and inhospitable … ?’
Scáthach shrugged.
‘One problem at a time. I believe in providence.’
Flann pulled a face.
‘And I in our own ingenuity,’ he countered.
The girl grinned.
‘I will not argue, Flann. But changing course towards the island holds out more hope than keeping on to Gallia. When darkness comes we have little chance of maintaining our defences.’
Flann heaved a sigh.
‘Very well. I suppose it might present a diversion for Goll and his men,’ he said grudgingly.
Scáthach turned to the steersman.
‘Change your course for the island.’
‘But … ’
The steersman looked decidedly unhappy.
Scáthach went to his side and laid her hand at the sword in her belt.
‘I hope you will not object too strongly,’ she said softly.
The steersman swallowed and nodded.
‘South, south-west it is, lady,’ he muttered and swung at the wheel.
Apparently, in the well of the ship, Goll and the rest of his crew had not noticed the change of course. And, as time passed, it became obvious that Scáthach had been correct. Goll was obviously waiting for nightfall before he recommenced his attempt to overpower them.
Indeed, the sun was low on the horizon and dusk was creeping up from the east when the steersman, now tired and haggard looking, sung out.
The rocks are away to our starboard bow, lady.’
Scáthach moved forward, eyes screwed up to focus.
The island is just behind that barrier.’
Flann from his position braced himself.
‘What now?’
He had an answer for Goll had suddenly realised the change of course by noticing the position of the setting sun and hearing the harsh slap of waves from the rocks that protruded from the sea away to the east.
He gave a roar of anger and began to coax his men closer to the stern deck again.
Scáthach immediately strung her bow and sent out a warning arrow which caused the sailors to halt again by the mainmast, using it as a shield.
‘What
now?’ repeated Flann, preparing himself for the inevitable change.
Trust to providence until we can give providence a hand,’ replied the girl.
The light was fading rapidly now as the sun slid below the horizon. It was then that Goll decided to launch his attack. Scáthach managed to use her bow twice more in the shadows before having to discard it and resort to her sword. There were now half a dozen unwounded crewmen who were goaded on by Goll to attack the stairways to the stern deck. As she had anticipated, Scáthach saw one man slip over the rail of the ship, trying not to be noticed. However, her attention was fully occupied by the group at the foot of the companionway trying to push their way up towards her.
Another man was making his way along the side of the ship and Flann was now hard pressed, falling back a few places from the top of the companionway and thus allowing a couple of men to ascend to the stern deck.
Goll, sensing victory close at hand, urged his remaining men forward and took the lead.
‘Where is providence now?’ cried Flann, irony in his voice rather than bitterness.
The girl was too busy to answer as she fended and parried her attackers.
The steersman still clung firmly to the tiller, his face white, watching the tumult of the struggle swaying this wray and that.
A terrible crunching sound suddenly drowned out the noise of the struggle and the forward glide of the vessel halted so that everyone was thrown off balance. The deck of the ship heaved upwards almost at an angle of forty-five degrees. Then there was chaos, cries of alarm and anger.
Slipping across the deck, her sword knocked from her grasp, Scáthach struck a rail and halted. She paused trying to recover her breath.
The ship must have struck a rock.
She peered around for Flann. He was struggling down the deck, trying to disengage himself from a seaman, and making his way towards her.
There came a grinding of timbers and the ship lurched ominously. Some cried out with fear.
Flann reached her. He was grinning in spite of a cut on his face.
Ts this your providence?’
The girl pu!!ed a face.
‘We will have to see,’ she replied, gasping a little as the vessel gave another lurch.
Flann peered around into the gloom.
‘Can you swim?’
She nodded.
Then I suggest we vacate this vessel. Her bottom is probably ripped open and she will slip off these rocks any moment.’
As if in agreement with him, the Nemhain gave another shudder and her timbers cracked and splintered in protest.
‘Which way is the island?’ asked Flann, as they clutched the side rail of the dangerously pitching vessel.
‘It must lie in that direction,’ the girl replied, indicating the direction with a jerk of her head.
There was more splintering of wood followed by cries of fear from the crew, clinging precariously to the wreck.
Flann reached out to the girl and took her hand.
‘Ready?’
She smiled quickly and nodded.
Together they scrambled over the rail of the ship and jumped off into the sea.
It was dark and the waves were choppy.
‘We must try to keep together,’ yelled Flann above the smack of the water on the nearby rocks.
He began to swim slowly, using easy strokes, and Scáthach fell into his rhythm. They swam for a while silently until they could no longer hear the sound of the sea breaking over the rocks nor the creak of the ship’s timbers. It was black now for it was a cloudy night and there was no moon nor stars to guide them. They just swam on hoping that they were heading in the right direction.
Then a faint sea breeze began to create little foam caps on the waves, the breeze seemed to grow stronger and stronger until the waves grew in size and force. They began to be tossed hither and thither.
Flann struggled to keep close to the girl. Scáthach was weakening against the tumultuous waves. He tried to catch her but a wave, larger than the rest, suddenly swept her away and he was hard pressed to keep himself afloat.
Scáthach tried desperately to catch Flann’s hand but the large wave pulled her away. Suddenly she realised, with a cold terror, that she was alone in the ocean with large crashing waves breaking around her.
‘Oh god of the ocean!’ she began to pray silently. ‘Oh great Manánnan Mac Lir, help me. Help us. You who protected me while I was a babe, cast adrift on the ocean, and brought me safe to the arms of Eola and Buimech, help me now!'
There was no answer to her pleas and the sea, if anything, began to increase in ferocity. The waves and winds screamed in her ears. She was hard pressed to keep herself from going under. The water was pounding her relentlessly, its giant hands slapping at her until her senses began to grow numb. She began to think: ‘So this is wrhat drowning is like.’ Then she was drifting, drifting into insensibility. A silent blackness shut out the icy waters and the pounding waves.
Chapter Seven
Scáthach came to with the sound of the sea in her ears. Yet it was not the fierce fury of the pounding waves which had carried her into unconsciousness but the gentle lapping of the tide on the shallow' sandy seashore. She also became aware of the warmth of the sun on her face and a gentle breeze tugging at her hair. A further sound caught her attention, The snap and crackle of a fire and a sensation of heat on one side of her body. She lay a moment drinking in the realisation that she had not drowned. This much was clear. She blinked a moment and opened her eyes to gaze on a blue expanse of sky in which a few white clouds drifted. Then she made the mistake of trying to sit up and a groan escaped her lips as a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her.
A shadow fell across her and she tried to focus her eyes on it.
An old man crouched beside her. He had an ancient, weather-beaten face, lined as the granite lines the western cliffs. Bright blue eyes twinkled at her. His tough brown skin was surrounded by a shock of white hair. His face bore a kindly, concerned expression. He wore a druid’s tonsure on the crown of his head and his flowing saffron robe confirmed that he was of that priestly calling.
She tried to sit up again and once more the dizziness seized her.
‘Careful, my child,’ the old man intoned softly. A gentle hand on her shoulder pushed her back. ‘Lie still a moment until you recover your senses.’
Scáthach’s mouth was very dry and, as if he discerned her desire, the old man raised a golden bowl of clear water to her lips. He raised her head with one hand. She swallowed gratefully and eagerly but the old man did not allow her more than one swallow.
‘It is not wise, my child.’
She stared up at him mutely. She trusted his benign expression, the gentle concern.
She tried to form words. They seemed an age in coming.
‘Flann!’ she managed to gasp, at last.
The old man smiled and nodded.
‘Your young companion? He is safe. But he has grazed his head on a rock and has not recovered consciousness yet. But have no fear for him.’
Scáthach continued to stare up at the old man.
‘Who … who are you?’ she managed to get out.
‘I? I am called Ruacán the Wizened.’
‘And where am I?’
‘You are getting better by the moment to ask such questions,’ smiled the old man.
Scáthach pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting back the dizziness. Her warrior’s training under Eola had made her tough and determined enough to withstand what would lay others low in sickness for days. She shook her head from side to side in an effort to shake the dizziness from it and looked about her.
She was on a sandy beach, on a rocky shore, not far from the mild blue waters of the sea. An open fire on which a medium-sized cauldron steamed crackled on the beach. On the other side of the fire was stretched the prone figure of Flann Mac Fraech. He looked pale as he lay there and above his left eye was a bluish bruise.
Ruacán saw her sudden look of
anxiety.
‘I have said, do not worry. He will be all right after a while. Come, my child, take some more water and if you feel better then you may take a little of the herb broth that I have made.’
Silently, Scáthach reached out for the cup of water and took a swallow.
‘How did we come to this place:’ she asked.
The druid nodded towards the sea.
‘You were both borne ashore in the arms of Manánnan Mac Lir, the ocean god, or else how would the sea give you up?’ he said enigmatically.
‘We were washed ashore?’ the girl demanded. ‘Then what of the ship?’
The bright eyes of the druid gazed at her. She suddenly shivered as if she felt the strange mystical aura of the man. It was as if he could read her mind as another might look at the sky and discern the weather.
'Ship? Alas your ship has gone down.’
He turned to the cauldron and began to fill a bowl with the aromatic brew.
‘Sip this, my child, and you will soon feel fully recovered.’
‘And did you find us lying on the seashore?’ pressed Scáthach.
‘I found you, yes.’
‘And so we owe our lives to you.’
The old man chuckled.
‘You owe your lives to providence.’
Scáthach glared at him sharply. Did he know more than he was saying? Why, oh why, did druids never say what they meant directly?
‘But your mother was a druid,’ the old man suddenly said.
Scáthach stared at him for a moment in startled wonder.
‘What did you say?’ she whispered. How could he have read her mind so well.
‘Have no fear, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ the old man went on. ‘It is simply a sleight of hand which makes me appear to know more than I know.’
‘Then how do you know who I am?’ demanded the girl.
The bright eyes twinkled.
‘How? Easy to tell. You wear the tore of a hero, and the patterns tell me that it is the tore of Eola of Uibh Rathach. I have heard tell that Eola adopted a child, a girl child, named Scáthach. It is logical that you are therefore that person. And being that person, your mother was of equal fame — Buimech the druidess.’
Island of Shadows Page 8