Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You say “father” and not “mother”,’ observed Scáthach. The druid nodded.

  ‘Indeed. In those societies, too, some believe that women are not equal to men either in office or in property. In some places women do not inherit property nor take office. Nor are they even allowed a voice at the clan assembly.’

  The girl laughed.

  ‘You are joking, old man.’

  Ruacán shook his head sadly.

  ‘No. That is the way of some societies.’

  ‘But it is nonsensical,’ Flann intervened. ‘You say, because someone’s father was king, then, by right, they become kings? Yet what if they are unfit to be king? What if their minds are unbalanced, what if they are not capable of pursuing the commonwealth of the people? What if they are evil or despotic? What of those things?’

  Ruacán shrugged.

  ‘Under the law of some societies, they are still allowed to be king, still allowed to rule.’

  ‘I never heard the like,’ Flann said, still disbelieving. ‘No man or woman should claim such office simply because their father, or, indeed, their mother, held such office before them. To do so is to ensure that the people are poorly led by tyrants who will not strive to promote the common good. A leader can only lead when the people desire him or her to do so.’

  Scáthach was reflective for a moment.

  ‘Are you saying, Ruacán, that this land of Lethra is such a place where these forms of government pertain?’

  ‘Look around you, Scáthach,’ invited the old druid. ‘See how the people cower and are fearful of the approach of strangers? Hear the language they use? It is the language of slaves.’

  Flann whistled softly.

  ‘It is a strange world where people allow such government. May the gods safeguard the freedoms we have in Éireann.’

  Ruacán smiled wryly.

  ‘So, you have prayers for the gods now, Flann Mac Fraech?’

  Flann coloured slightly.

  ‘It is just an expression of speech, old man,’ he said irritably.

  ‘We should be continuing our journey,’ Scáthach intervened anxiously.

  ‘Indeed,’ Flann assented at once. ‘We must also find out who this Aife is and why you are mistaken for her.’

  They saddled their mounts and set off again. The countryside was bare of crops and they saw many a field and homestead burnt, the remains charred and blackened. As before, few people who saw them in the distance stayed to welcome them, and some that did hung their heads and would not gaze on the travellers, answering their questions in monosyllables. No one would answer their questions fully or comprehensibly.

  Finally, they stopped a child who was playing in the ruins of a stone farmhouse. It was a fair-haired boy about seven years of age, with blue eyes wide with innocence and a ready smile. He seemed out of the usual mould of children they had seen in the country and when Flann accosted him he came forward with a broad smile on his open features.

  ‘Hello?’ he greeted, staring at them solemnly, each in turn.

  ‘Hello, boy,’ smiled Scáthach, edging her horse forward to speak to him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I am called Dias.’

  ‘Well, then, Dias, answer me this: why did you not run away when you saw us coming?’

  The boy smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Why should I?’

  Scáthach chuckled.

  ‘No reason. It’s just that most people in this land do.’

  ‘They are silly then.’

  ‘Indeed they are. But do you know why it should be?’

  ‘No. People from here are like that.’

  It was Ruacán who caught this subtle inflexion in the child’s voice.

  ‘You are not from Lethra, then?’

  ‘No. But my mother is. That is why we are here. She has been away many years and wanted to come back to see her father. I have never been here before.’

  ‘Ah,’ Flann was obviously disappointed by the information. He had been hoping to gain some news about the strange country.

  ‘Tell me,’ pressed Scáthach, ‘do you know who Aife is?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the boy immediately.

  The three exchanged a look.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Flann.

  ‘She is the High One and … ’

  ‘Dias!’

  A woman came from behind the ruins and grabbed at the child.

  ‘Haven’t I told you never to speak with strangers here? Come!’

  She turned, and although Scáthach called to her to halt she simply shouted back over her shoulder, ‘We are strangers here. We know nothing!’ Then she was gone among the ruins.

  Flann glanced at Scáthach.

  ‘At least we have found out who Aife is. But that doesn’t seem to help us.’

  ‘Let’s go on,’ the girl sighed.

  Towards evening they came to a river which provided an ideal place to camp. A clump of trees gave shelter while the river gave fresh water and the leaping salmon were quickly speared for supper. It was a pleasant enough evening and the food was good. They sat for a while around the fire discussing the strange land in which they found themselves and asking Ruacán to expound more on his knowledge of how other peoples of the world governed themselves.

  Finally they turned in and sleep overtook them immediately.

  How long he had been asleep he did not know. However, Flann Mac Fraech came half-awake in the darkness, bathed in sweat and with his heart beating rapidly. He wondered what had disturbed him. He lay listening for a moment or two before realising that he was listening to a low, long, sobbing moan … a wail of despair and desolation. It grew fainter and fainter as if someone was being carried away into the distance. Flann Mac Fraech now came fully awake.

  Chapter Twelve

  Flann sat up and gazed around the encampment. The first thing he noticed was that Ruacán was missing. His bed roll was still stretched beside the fire but of the old druid there was no sign. Frowning, Flann rose and reached for his sword. It was dark, very dark. The fire had died down to mere embers and cast little light. He saw that Scáthach appeared to be still sleeping soundly and he moved carefully over to her and touched her gently on the shoulder.

  She did not move.

  He drew his brows together and shook her, this time more roughly, and hissed: ‘Scáthach!’ in her ear. ‘Scáthach, wake up. All is not well.’

  There was no movement. Her breathing was deep, perhaps a little too deep for normal sleep? He shook her for a third time. Her body rolled limply this way and that as if she had no control over it. Not even her eyelids flickered. Truly, he realised with horror, she must have been drugged.

  Compressing his lips, Flann gazed around. He could see nothing in the darkness.

  Where was Ruacán? Had the old druid betrayed them in some way? But why? For what?

  Once more he heard the soft moaning sound from far off.

  He rose from the recumbent form of Scáthach, turned and set off in the direction of the sound.

  An early morning breeze was now rising through the trees and above them the clouds were being chased across the sky. Now and then the silver disc of the moon shone momentarily through the clouds, lighting the woods and casting strange pale shadows.

  Flann had not gone far before he heard whispered voices. He paused and listened, trying to catch the sense of the sounds.

  ‘May the Fomorii take the accursed object … ’ A voice came clearly from nearby. ‘How can we muffle it?’

  ‘Wrap your cloak over it,’ came another voice.

  ‘Why should Aife want such a thing anyway? It is unnatural.’

  Flann crept closer and saw three warriors crouched around something which lay between them, something which let forth a pitiful moaning sound.

  ‘It was your idea to rob the woman of this,’ one of them was saying to a fellow. ‘Let us get on the right side of Aife, you said. She would like the shield and spear carried by the stranger woman.’

  The
other man grimaced.

  ‘We would have had them earlier had you not fled when we sought to attack them.’

  Flann’s eyes narrowed.

  So these were the three warriors who had attacked them earlier! What were they crouching over? What was it that was moaning softly. Surely it was not Ruacán? But who else could it be?

  The moon shone momentarily and by its ethereal silver light he saw Scáthach’s shield on the ground with the gae-Bolga, her terrible spear, next to it.’

  For a moment he felt a strange tingling against the nape of his neck. The shield was moaning! What was it the old druid had said? This was An Seancholl Snidheach, the strong-ridged hazel, given to the ocean god by The Dagda, father of the gods. And it was said that the shield could shriek a warning when its owner was in danger. Could the shield truly be moaning? Or was it some odd trick of the morning breeze?

  He shook his head in wonderment and then realised that whatever the magical accomplishments of the shield, the three were thieves for they must have stolen the shield and spear while Scáthach lay sleeping. Indeed, perhaps they had drugged Scáthach in order to steal the weapons from her. There seemed no other explanation.

  Anger flared in him. Raising his sword, without any preamble, he made a sudden dash at them, scattering them in all directions in a sudden onslaught. They went with cries of alarm at the unexpectedness of the attack.

  ‘Thieves!’ roared Flann, swinging round, sword at the ready.

  Two of the strange warriors recovered from their fright almost immediately and came back to him with drawn swords, engaging his attention. They thrust and parried his attack and, after a moment or two, Flann realised he had been foolish to attempt to engage them on his own. And, in his anger, Flann did not perceive the third warrior creeping round behind him in the gloom, moving cautiously towards his back. Only a momentary realisation of something hard striking the back of his skull registered with him before he crashed into a dark, velvet-lined pit.

  When he came too his first conscious sense was of a blinding, bright light. He groaned and tried to raise a hand to ward it off. Sharp stabbing pains in his head, like tiny dagger pricks, made him groan again. He dimly heard a woman’s voice say: ‘He is awakening. See what he has to say, Droch.’

  He blinked and tried to open his eyes.

  It took several efforts to focus. He became conscious that he was lying on a couch or bed, upholstered in soft cushions covered in silk. Then he took in the fact that he was in a room. Such a room he had never seen before. It was a fairly large room, though not too large, made, it seemed, entirely of marble with multi-coloured veins running through its creamy surfaces. Here and there colourful tapestries hung and rich ornaments stood. To one side of the room, a series of arches, supported on intricately carved and fluted columns, gave access onto a patio or verandah beyond which was a cloudless blue sky and brilliant sun.

  A man hovered into his vision.

  Flann blinked again and stared up.

  ‘Where am I?’ he demanded.

  The man was elderly, bald yet with tufts of white hair above his ears. He wore a robe of saffron colour with a silver half-moon disc, on which was inscribed a familiar triskele pattern, hanging around his neck.

  ‘Drink,’ the elderly man ordered, ignoring his question. He held out a small cup of gold towards Flann.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something to take away the pain, warrior,’ replied the man, placing a hand behind Flann’s head and raising it so that he could drink. The liquid was of a syrupy consistency, tasting sweet as he drank but leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  ‘Lie back a minute and you will feel better.’

  ‘Where am I?’ demanded Flann again. ‘What happened?’

  The elderly man smiled.

  ‘You will have the answers all in good time. First things first. Who are you?’

  Flann felt the little stabbing pains receding in his head.

  ‘I am Flann Mac Fraech,’ he said, reaching up to massage his brow.

  ‘Ah. You are of Éireann?’

  ‘I am of the Cruithne of Éireann,’ confirmed Flann, wondering at the ease with which the pain had receded.

  ‘And what brings you to Lethra?’

  Memory had come back now and Flann tried to struggle up.

  The elderly man reached forward and placed a hand, which was surprisingly strong, on his chest, pushing him back on the couch.

  ‘Stay still. You are too weak to move yet.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Flann demanded.

  ‘I am Droch, adviser to the High One.’

  ‘High One?’ Flann tried to remember where he had heard the title before but his head ached abominably and he could not remember for the moment.

  The old man, Droch, did not amplify.

  ‘What are you doing in Lethra?’ he demanded.

  Flann pulled a face.

  ‘Information for information,’ he replied. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are in the fortress of the High One, the ruler of Lethra.’

  Memory came back. Of course, the High One was Aife, the person who Scáthach was mistaken for. So Aife was the ruler of Lethra? No wonder people were scared of Scáthach’s presence. But it was strange that they had not realised that Scáthach was not their ruler when they saw her up close.

  ‘And how came I here?’ he demanded.

  ‘You were captured by members of the bodyguard to the High One.’

  ‘Ah! The three thieves who tried to make off with the shield and spear of … ’ the young warrior bit his tongue and stared at Droch. ‘Yours is a strange land where travellers are attacked and robbed by the bodyguard of your ruler. I demand to see your ruler.’

  Droch smiled thinly.

  ‘So you shall, Flann Mac Fraech. But all in good time. Why are you travelling in Lethra and who are your companions?’

  Flann’s expression became stubborn.

  ‘I want an explanation for this transgression of the laws of hospitality.’

  Droch threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘Laws of hospitality? You are not in your land of Éireann now. Here we recognise no such laws. Our law is expediency, warrior of the Cruithne.’

  ‘Then I am come among barbarians,’ Flann replied angrily, ‘I will say no more until I see your so-called “High One”.’

  Droch sighed.

  ‘So be it. The High One is not as patient as I am.’

  He rose from the couch and stared down a moment.

  ‘I would have more respect in the presence of the High One, warrior of Éireann.’

  Flann twisted his mouth into a sneer of distaste.

  Droch shrugged and left the room.

  No sooner had he done so than Flann swung himself from the couch. A spasm of dizziness almost immediately overcame him. He shook his head and tried to pass it off. He was certainly weak. He reached for his belt and then shrugged ruefully. It would have been too much to ask for his captors to have left him sword or dagger. He eased himself from the couch and stood, swaying for a moment. Then he moved carefully through the arches.

  The verandah beyond proved to be a balcony. It was several storeys above the ground while below, in a courtyard, warriors idled or strolled. Even if he could lower himself down, he could not contend with all of them. He frowned, noticing that all the warriors carried shields with the peculiar triskele symbol which had interested Scáthach. On all sides great buildings towered, brilliant white in the sunlight. Flann had never seen such a rich and prosperous-looking city before.

  He could see great circular areas of cut grass on which white stone benches stood. There was one immediately in front of the building in which he stood and in its very centre stood a monolith, about twelve feet in height and four feet wide. It was square in section and, at first sight, plain. In colour it was golden and Flann realised, with a gasp, that the metal was gold. The artifact must be priceless. He could see dark shadows on it and realised that it was inscribed, but for what
purposes he had no idea at all.

  Some of the warriors stood on the circular green, weapons to hand. Yet Flann could see no women, nor children nor other people than the armed men.

  Here and there, through the magnificent white buildings, he could see a glimpse of avenues, mostly deserted. It was a city that resembled no other to his experience for the lack of people, only the warriors, made it a place of mystery and sinister foreboding.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ asked a familiar voice behind him.

  He swung round, his eyes widening.

  ‘Scáthach!’ he cried in dismay. ‘So they have captured you as well?’

  The girl stood, looking momentarily unfamiliar in a gown of white silk, embroidered in golden thread and jewels. It was unlike her usually utilitarian warrior’s costume. She frowned a moment, uncertainly, and then smiled at him.

  ‘As you see, Flann.’

  Flann’s mind was working now, remembering his waking, of the girl being drugged and Ruacán missing.

  ‘Was it the old druid?’ he demanded, angrily, moving forward to where she stood. ‘Did Ruacán betray us?’

  The girl shrugged indifferently.

  ‘You know the ways of druids,’ she said.

  Flann bit his lip in anger.

  ‘I warned you I would never trust a druid.’

  ‘No, my love,’ smiled the girl softly. ‘That is as it should be.’

  Flann drew his brows together and stared at the girl, suddenly perplexed.

  ‘What?’

  Scáthach countered his bewildered expression with a smile which Flann could only describe as lascivious rather than alluring.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Something troubles you.’

  ‘You called me — “my love”. You have never called me that before.’

  The girl shrugged as if it were a matter of no importance.

  ‘Well, if I have not, I have thought it.’

  She turned back into the room with Flann following her in bewilderment.

  ‘Tell me, Flann, did you tell them anything?’ the girl asked.