Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  As for Scáthach, she was more self-assured now that she had come through her encounters with Goibhniu and Cruitin. She began to realise that the encounters had been a necessary part of her self-development. She was more poised, more secure in her faith in her own abilities.

  She turned in her saddle and called back to Ruacán.

  ‘The path divides ahead.’

  The druid stretched out a frail hand.

  ‘The left hand path, that is the one which leads into Lethra,’ he replied. ‘Through the mountain pass and we will be there before midday tomorrow.’

  ‘At last,’ breathed the girl. ‘So near.’

  Flann nudged his horse alongside the white mare.

  ‘Do you have a plan when you come to Lethra?’ he asked.

  Scáthach shook her head.

  ‘So far I have only thought about getting to Lethra. I suppose the next step is to find out what the mysterious symbols mean.’ Her hand touched the golden medallion at her neck. ‘They should lead me to what I seek.’

  ‘Travellers ahead!’ came a low warning cry from the druid.

  Scáthach peered forward.

  Ahead on the path, coming towards them, was a large wagon pulled by two oxen. A coarse-looking fat man in rough homespuns sat on the driver’s seat pulling at the reins. Behind the wagon, on a worn-looking nag rode a middle-aged man more richly dressed although his clothes seemed to have seen better years.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Flann said, ‘they seem to have come from Lethra and they might know something.’

  Scáthach shrugged and allowed the eager young warrior to go trotting forward to greet the travellers.

  Flann could see that the two men were obviously merchants of sorts. Their wagon was piled with furs and amphora and other items of trade.

  ‘Greetings!’ sung out the man on horseback. ‘Greetings travellers. You are not taking the path to Lethra, by any chance?’

  Intrigued, Flann halted.

  ‘We are, indeed, stranger. Is that where you come from?’

  The rider nodded. He was a tall, languid-looking man, with a sharp clay-face and speculative eyes. He was as tall and white as his partner, who drove the wagon, was squat, plump and pink.

  ‘We have indeed,’ replied the rotund man on the wagon, anger in his voice. ‘Bad cess to it!’

  Flann stared in surprise.

  ‘Why do you curse the place?’

  ‘You must be a stranger to Lethra,’ remarked the languid rider.

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Then take our advice and turn aside from this path. It is an evil land,’ he went on.

  ‘Evil indeed,’ echoed his companion. ‘I spit on the ground at its name.’ He suited the action to the word.

  ‘You’d best explain yourselves,’ Scáthach intervened, trotting up to hear their remarks.

  ‘Why, easy enough … ’ began the tall rider, turning his attention to the girl.

  Then a curious thing happened: his voice caught in his throat as he stared at her. First, it seemed that his eyes were riveted by the gold medallion and then, unwillingly, they travelled to the girl’s face. Then the eyes began to bulge and he started to stammer. His companion seemed likewise afflicted.

  ‘Lady, forgive us … ’ stammered the fat one. ‘We meant no harm … no harm.’

  Suddenly the tall man had urged his horse aside from the path and was galloping down the trail which turned off from the main road to Lethra. Yelling and urging the oxen into a shambling trot, the fat man was almost comical in his attempts to emulate his companion.

  Flann sat in his saddle staring at their departure in disbelief.

  ‘Shall I overtake them?’ he demanded, realising that his mount could easily outdistance the pair.

  Scáthach shook her head, bewildered.

  ‘They are scared. But why? Do you know what this means, Ruacán?’

  The old druid trotted near.

  ‘It means that there is some evil in Lethra which frightens merchants,’ he said simply.

  Flann scowled.

  ‘That much we can deduce for ourselves. But what is the evil?’

  ‘Ah.’

  The druid hunched his shoulders and let them fall.

  ‘Let’s go on,’ urged Scáthach, moving her horse forward. Flann hesitated, glanced at the bland face of Ruacán, sighed and followed. The druid brought up the rear again.

  They entered a long narrow valley, as dark as the valley of Bolga before they retrieved the lantern of the lords of light. They began to near its end as night began to fall and so they agreed it was best to halt and camp before journeying further. Dark shapes of bats swooped among the forest branches uttering their piercing shrilling sound. Owls moaned softly in the trees and the rustle of nocturnal creatures disturbed the underbrush. It was not a pleasant place to camp; even the pool by which they lit their fire gave forth inexplicable splashes every now and then as if some water creature were watching them. They ate sparsely and slept fitfully. Scáthach was pleased that she had Flann and Ruacán as companions. She tried not to show her nervousness for the place reminded her of the Place of the Dead. However, the hours of darkness passed without incident. The dawn came and they were up early and moving on.

  The sun made a difference, chasing away the gloom and foreboding of the night. They rode out of the tenebrous forest and across a small grassland plain away from the mountains. Halfway over this plain, on either side of the pathway, stood two poles on which appeared to be some totems or symbols. It wasn’t until they came near to them that they saw that the totems were whitened human skulls.

  Scáthach shivered slightly. What land would mark a welcome by setting up skulls on sharpened stakes to indicate its borders?

  Ruacán said, perhaps unnecessarily for both Scáthach and Flann had realised the import of the signs: ‘This is the land of Lethra.’

  ‘We must be careful, Scáthach,’ Flann said, peering around him while loosening his sword in its scabbard. ‘I do not like the way the people of this land greet strangers.’

  ‘We will follow the path and see where it leads us,’ the girl replied.

  They rode on, following the straight path across the short plain and ascending it as it twisted into the low hills beyond.

  They were moving through a narrow defile, cut through a chalk-like hill, when three warriors came round a bend. Before they could react with a greeting, the three men had drawn their swords and, with angry cries, rode full tilt at them.

  Flann, who was slightly ahead, met the brunt of their attack, his sword ready, for he had been nervously easing it in his scabbard ever since they crossed the boundary of Lethra. Scáthach had time to clamp her helmet on her head and draw her sword before she went to his aid. The two of them went into skirmish laying out left and right. The fearsome-looking helmet caused the attackers to hesitate as they beheld it but they overcame their dread and continued the attack. It took only a few moments for the three attackers to realise that they had met their match and they were soon pulling back. In answer to a cry from one of their number, who appeared to be the leader, they all turned and fled from the scene.

  Flann was about to follow when Scáthach stayed him with a quick word.

  She was sitting astride her mount, her helmet in her hand, frowning as if deep in thought.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Flann.

  ‘Did you see the triskele symbols on the shields of those warriors who attacked us?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  She held out her gold medallion. Flann realised that they were the same.

  ‘That is the symbol that I am seeking. The symbol on this medallion. That is the symbol on the casket in which I was cast into the sea to drown when I was a baby. That is the symbol on the shields of the men who attacked Uibh Rathach and slew my father Eola.’

  Ruacán rode nearer.

  ‘Then what does that tell you, my child?’ he said, smiling softly.

  Scáthach frowned for a moment.

/>   ‘It tells me that the mariner, Rónán Mac Mein, was correct when he estimated that Lethra was where the casket must have come from.’

  ‘Indeed, it confirms that your search should end in Lethra.’

  ‘But why would those warriors attack us?’ demanded Flann.

  ‘Why would the owner of the symbol they wear attempt to kill a young child and then attack the fortress of those who had fostered that child?’ intervened Ruacán.

  ‘We must track down those warriors to find out,’ Flann asserted.

  Scáthach agreed.

  Once more they rode on, following the winding track through the hills. Now they began to come on isolated farmsteads and here and there a village. At each place the reception was the same. Those who showed themselves at their approach hung their heads in cowed or surly attitude never once raising their gaze to the faces of the three. Once, a couple working in the field through which they were riding stared up, saw Scáthach and, to their astonishment, fled just as the merchants had done.

  For a moment, Scáthach wondered whether she was unwittingly wearing the helmet which Goibhniu had made which was reputed to make her enemies see a terrible vision. But she was not wearing the helmet. Why, then, were the people running from her in alarm?

  Finally, they came to a tavern and halted. It was a poor enough place, not like the rich hostels of Éireann. There was an atmosphere of dreariness; many of the windows were unglazed and there was only a thin column of smoke, more like the smoke of a candle than a fire, trickling from the chimney. Still, smoke meant a fire and fire meant warmth and food. They felt the need to break their journey and, if at all possible, to gain some information.

  They dismounted and entered the musty-smelling tavern room. The fire was, indeed, frugal, a few sticks of dampened wood smoking in the hearth. It seemed deserted but Flann’s imperious cry brought forth an ageing man who was bent double. He was unshaved, and unkempt, his eyes never left the floor, and his manner was nervous.

  ‘Yes, yes, masters,’ his voice cackled wheezily. ‘What can I do to serve you?’

  ‘Food and ale,’ demanded Flann.

  ‘Ale we have but our stock of food is poor. Our last cow was taken to pay taxes and, alas, we have nothing but oatmeal. A bowl of oatmeal I could serve you.’

  Flann exchanged a glance with Scáthach.

  ‘This is a strange tavern, a tavern without food?’ commented the young warrior.

  ‘Indeed, master. Indeed, but our taxes are so heavy and … ’ he shrugged. ‘I do not complain, master. Do not think I intend criticism.’

  ‘This is a soulless land,’ sighed Flann.

  The old man chanced a quick glance at him, immediately dropping his eyes again to the floor.

  ‘Are you strangers in Lethra, masters?’ he asked.

  ‘This is the first time we have come to your country, old man,’ agreed Flann.

  ‘Then you do not know how things are here.’ The old man sighed deeply as if with the pain of long suffering.

  ‘Tell us,’ invited Flann, ‘but first bring us that ale. Three cups of your ale.’

  The old man shuffled off to obey while the three sat at a dust-covered table.

  ‘What ails this country?’ whispered Scáthach to Ruacán.

  The old druid shrugged.

  ‘That, I believe, you will find out.’

  The hosteler returned with the cups of ale, but it was a bitter, cheerless brew and it did not slack their thirst.

  ‘Now, what ails this land of Lethra,’ pressed Flann.

  ‘Well, master,’ began the old man, suddenly giving another of his bird-like glances at Flann, but this time his glance fell on the medallion worn by Scáthach and he raised his pale eyes to her face. He whitened, his jaw dropped. For a moment or two he started to trembled. It was with a great effort that he seemed to recover himself. Once more his gaze fell to the floor.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Flann.

  ‘I am sorry, master,’ mumbled the man unhappily.

  ‘You were about to say what ailed this country of yours.’

  The man shuffled his feet.

  ‘Ailed it? Why, nothing ails it, master. Lethra is the greatest country under the sun. We have a glorious leader who gives us joy when she journeys among us.’

  He turned and shuffled off quickly leaving them staring after him.

  Suddenly his head shot out from behind the door.

  There is no charge for the ale, masters. No charge.’

  Then his head disappeared and they were left alone.

  ‘By the sons of Mile,’ breathed Flann, ‘now this is a curious place.’

  Scáthach smiled ruefully.

  ‘I am inclined to agree with you,’ she assented. ‘What do you say, Ruacán?’

  The old druid shrugged.

  ‘You will get no information from the tavern keeper. We must press on until we can find someone who will provide the information you seek.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Logical enough.’

  Flann stared distastefully at his ale.

  ‘This is undrinkable. If this is all that is left tavern keepers to provide for travellers after the ruler of this country takes their taxes then it is a poor place indeed.’

  Scáthach stood up.

  ‘Let’s ride on then.’

  For some hours they rode on until, passing by a small copse, Scáthach managed to bring down a rabbit with a quick cast of her javelin. They halted and lit a fire. A fresh, sparkling stream nearby offered them crystal cold water to drink. It was a pleasant enough meal.

  They were resting when the snap of a twig announced that they were not alone. Through the underbrush came a large, red-faced man; he carried a short sword, and a bow, with a quiver of arrows at his belt.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded, staring at them. ‘Poachers on the domain of the High One?’

  ‘We are no poachers,’ replied Flann, scrambling to his feet indignantly. ‘Indeed, we did not know that this copse belonged to anyone. We are three travellers wanting food and drink. The taverns of this land seem unable to provide either. A poor country for travellers indeed.’

  ‘So you thought you would help yourself by poaching? Thieves!’ sneered the gamekeeper, for they had decided that such the man must be.

  Scáthach moved forward, she had been standing partially behind Flann.

  ‘We are not thieves,’ she said softly.

  The red-faced man stared at her a moment. If anything his face grew redder, his eyes bulged. He opened his mouth and made some inarticulate sounds.

  ‘What ails you, man?’ snapped Scáthach.

  ‘No … nothing, lady,’ stammered the man, his eyes dropping to her medallion and a low groan escaping his lips. ‘Forgive me, I did not see you there otherwise I would not have been so bold.’

  Flann exchanged a puzzled look with Scáthach.

  ‘What do you mean, man?’ he asked.

  The red-faced gamekeeper dropped to one knee, doffing his game.

  ‘Forgive me, Aife,’ he muttered.

  Scáthach’s frown deepened.

  ‘Aife?’ she queried. ‘What manner of address is this?’

  The gamekeeper, hearing the displeasure in her voice, shied like a nervous horse.

  ‘I did not mean offence, High One. I meant not to be so familiar nor bold. Have pity on me.’

  ‘Fellow,’ interrupted Flann, ‘you are speaking in riddles.’

  ‘Forgive me, lord,’ he scrambled to his feet and began to back away nervously. ‘Forgive me for disturbing your meal, the fruits and meat of the forest are yours … indeed, yours is the right to eat freely of anything the world provides.’

  He turned and fled as he was still speaking so that the last words were caught faintly from across his shoulder.

  ‘Hi!’ yelled Flann, astonished at the fellow’s behaviour.

  But the man had vanished.

  The young warrior turned with a frown to Scáthach.

  ‘Is it my imagination
or are all the people in this country mad?’

  ‘Not mad, my son,’ Ruacán interrupted, ‘but it seems that many mistake Scáthach for someone else.’

  Scáthach smiled.

  ‘Of course, what a slow fool I am, to be sure. But who do they take me for? This person, Aife?’

  Flann cracked his fist into the palm of his hand.

  ‘Indeed! And this Aife seems to be a person of power. They must think all women warriors are like this Aife who rules over them. Strange, though, how they give rank to people. Never have I heard such terms spoken in such profusion before — lord, lady, master, High One. Do people truly speak in such terms to others? In Éireann no man bows his neck before another man. Why, we are all the sons and daughters of kings.’

  ‘It is truly a strange custom, Flann,’ agreed Scáthach. ‘I have never known its like. Have you heard of such customs, Ruacán?’

  The old druid nodded.

  ‘Alas, I know that not all people believe as we do. Among our people, every office is open to election, from the most petty chieftain to the all-powerful High King of Éireann. Only the most worthy in our society are elected to these offices and under our Brehons, the judges, no one can become negligent or despotic. But, alas, some societies are primitive and believe that there is such a thing as inheritance, a law of primogeniture, that the first born must inherit the estate of his father, that is the office of a king or his property.’

  Flann gave a grimace of disbelief.

  ‘This I find hard to believe. How can one inherit property for a start?’

  Ruacán shrugged.

  ‘Some societies do not hold land as we hold land. They do not believe in the common ownership of land run by the clan and governed by the clan assembly and chieftains. Some societies believe that individuals can own land.’ The young warrior shook his head.

  ‘But that is ridiculous. An individual can work the land but by the consent of the clan. No person can own land nor even dispose of his cattle or sheep without the common permission of the clan.’

  ‘There are some places where this happens, my son,’ the druid pressed. ‘And in those places some believe that if your father was a king, then it is your right also to be king and rule the people as your father.’