‘What manner of evil do you fear, daughter of Eola?’ cried the old druid.
Scáthach frowned, not understanding why the old man repeated the question. Then the giant beast was charging down on her. She stayed her mount until the great creature was almost upon her and then she dug her heels in and yanked upon the bridle. The horse responded, moving sideways, so that the creature went lumbering by.
Strangely it halted, not moving on to attack the old druid, who sat calmly on his horse watching the encounter as if he were safe, one hand holding the reins of Flann’s roan mare. The beast turned, as if perceiving that its antagonist was Scáthach and not the old man.
The girl raced her horse in a semi-circle in order to place herself between it and Ruacán again.
‘Get away from here, Ruacán,’ she cried. ‘Reach safety while I try to stay this creature.’
The flat serpent head of the beast lashed out at her, its flickering long tongue slashing against her helmet. She realised, with grim horror, that had she not been wearing her helmet then the tongue, razor sharp, would have lopped off her head like a sharp sword slicing through butter.
Dimly, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Ruacán was not moving. He was quietly sitting astride his horse watching without fear on his ancient features. And Flann’s roan stood quietly beside them, gently nuzzling at the grass as if unaware of the contest.
Once more the girl cried out to him to fly to safety as she spurred her horse into another manoeuvre to escape the flickering tongue of the terrifying creature. Vainly she examined the shining, yellow-green hide of the thing, searching for some vantage point of attack, some area of weakness in the glossy plating of its toughened hide.
The flickering tongue lashed out again, smashing against the side of her helmet and causing her to nearly lose her balance. She sprawled momentarily from her saddle, clinging on only by a tightening of her thighs against the back of her steed. Then she was upright again and urging the horse away from the reach of the creature.
She realised that, for whatever reason, the creature was not interested in attacking the old druid yet, so she need not concern herself with Ruacán’s stupid behaviour in not withdrawing out of the danger zone. But how could she overcome this vile nightmare from her childhood? There seemed no weakness in the beast’s great hide, no point at which the thing was not armoured. And all she had was her javelin and sword. Once cast, she would not be able to retrieve her javelin unless some incredible piece of luck presented itself to her. The idea of being able to get close enough to the beast to use her sword was unimaginable. The flickering tongue was as sharp as a sword itself and only pure luck had prevented her being cut in two, for twice the tongue had caught against her war helmet, An Cruadin, which was well named ‘the hard helm’. Silently, she uttered a prayer of thanks to the skill and craftsmanship of Goibhniu the smith who had shaped the helmet.
She had halted her mount now on a small knoll to examine the creature as it cautiously moved towards her, its great tongue flickering from its flat serpent head. Perhaps there was a way to kill it. If she could cast the javelin into its mouth, upwards so that it went through the roof of the mouth, then it might penetrate its brain.
She was aware of the nervous tension of the horse under her; aware that the cast of the javelin had to be precise and that if the horse shied or even rippled its muscles, then her aim would be a fraction off and prove useless.
Fear was drenching her in sweat as she watched the creature edging nearer, rising on its great hind legs as it approached. Yet, trying to control her fear, she slipped from her horse and gave it a slap across the flank to send it out of danger. Ah, if only she had her shield and the gae-Bolga.
She stood, trembling a little, body tensed for the cast of her javelin, right hand stretched back behind her clasping the shaft, the left hand before her to steady her aim. Her mouth was compressed in a thin line, eyes narrowed as she focused on the terrifying maw of the creature as it edged nearer.
Then, when she judged the moment to be right, she cast the javelin with as much force as she could summon.
Straight and true the javelin headed for the gaping maw of the beast but, as its impact seemed inevitable, the flickering black tongue came forth and swept it aside as a man might swat a fly, dashing the weapon into the ground a hundred yards or more away.
Cold fear swept over the girl now. She stood trembling, unable to run, indeed unable to move. Fear froze her to the spot. She gave a cry of despair as she realised the inevitability of her fate. Once more she was the little girl with the nightmare of the great devouring beast.
'Oh, mother! Mother!’ she whimpered, a little girl’s voice echoing in her ear.
‘Why, what are you afraid of?’ came Buimech’s soft tones, soothing and caressing her.
‘What manner of evil do you fear, daughter of Eola?’ she heard Ruacán asking.
She stood shivering, awaiting the cutting strike of the beast’s long tongue.
‘It is but a nightmare, daughter,’ whispered Buimech’s voice. ‘A shadow on the wall, without substance, without form. It is a dream. Not what is but what you fear might be.’
‘What manner of evil do you fear, daughter of Eola?’ came Ruacán’s voice more urgently.
Scáthach, with closed eyes, bit her lip. She knew what manner of evil she feared: the nightmare creature come to haunt her. And here it was … here in reality …
‘It is but a nightmare that will pass,’ whispered Buimech’s voice, as she had heard it years ago as a young child, starting from her bed of fears with the creations of the Fomorii at her heels.
‘I know what manner of evil I fear,’ Scáthach whispered fiercely to herself.
‘All that we are, or seem, is but a dream within a dream,’ came Buimech’s voice.
It was then that the girl suddenly came to an understanding. She knew what Ruacán had been trying to tell her; why he had not been afraid of the creature and why he had made no attempt to flee. This was her own nightmare, her own particular fear and evil. It had no existence outside her own mind.
Her eyes flickered open to stare at the creature now towering threateningly above her. Yet her fear was now gone. She was of the knowledge. She understood. She threw back her head and cried:
‘I abjure you. I do not believe in you. Begone to the dark depths of the mind and do not come forth again!’
She flung back her head defiantly.
The creature seemed to hesitate and then it seemed to dissolve, becoming opaque, then transparent, before disappearing as if in a cloud of mist.
Scáthach stood looking at the place where a moment before the creature had stood in frightening reality. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling a little.
Ruacán trotted up on his horse. He had rounded up Scáthach’s mount and led it as well as Flann’s horse beside him.
His ancient face was set in grim lines.
‘Sometimes you worry me, daughter of Eola,’ he confessed.
She stared up at the old druid.
‘Why do you have need to be worried, old one. You knew that this creature was not real.’
He smiled.
‘Oh no, it was real enough. You believed in it, so it was real.’
The girl frowned.
‘I do not understand.’
The old druid shrugged.
‘Maybe one day you will understand completely. But it seems that day is a long time coming.’
‘Explain now,’ demanded the girl, ‘that I may understand the quicker.’
The old man smiled softly and shook his head.
That is no way to understand.’ He glanced up. ‘The day grows late and as the perils have gone from this place we may make camp here for the night. Tomorrow we must continue our journey. Go and retrieve the Corr-Bholg while I make camp.’
He slid from his horse and tethered the mounts to the stump of a gnarled tree.
Scáthach hesitated, staring in annoyance at the druid, then she sighed
and went off to retrieve the javelin from where the make-believe creature had cast it. She was frustrated with the old man’s ambiguous and enigmatic sayings. Better if he just came out with what he meant than hiding behind cryptic and baffling statements. She sniffed. Could it be that the oracular obscurity hid the fact that the old one had no knowledge? She felt guilty even as the thought entered her mind because the old druid had showed his knowledge many a time. But what was the point of knowledge if one did riot pass the knowledge on?
For a long while she sat silently watching the old man preparing a meal before a fire he had put together from the dry, rotten wood that lay strewn about. He was boiling eggs which Laoch had given them, with bread and some of the local wine of Aird nan Murchan — a sharp-tasting brew which they called ‘the water of life’. Finally the girl could no longer hide her irritability.
‘How may I face the dangers to come, old one, if you do not teach me?’ she demanded.
Ruacán grimaced.
‘Wisdom is something that cannot be taught, my child. In the dangers that face you, you need only wisdom.’
‘Was it wisdom which taught me that the beast just now was not real?’
‘Yes. And when you reflected properly you found it so. I did not teach you that.’
‘But … ’
‘Child, be reflective. That is all I ask. You can gather facts like a farmer gathers hay. Yet if you simply gather the hay and leave it in a pile, the hay rots and is unusable. Wisdom lies in how one uses the hay. The knowledge of that is more important than gathering the hay.’
Scáthach sighed impatiently.
‘I need not a lesson in farming, old one.’
‘No,’ replied Ruacán, ‘you want someone on hand to explain things to you instead of perfecting your mind to reason out explanations for yourself.’
‘That is not so,’ the girl was stung to reply. ‘I can reason as well as most … better than most, I warrant. It is just that there are some things beyond understanding which only a druid knows.’
Ruacán had taken the eggs from the cooking pot and suddenly handed the girl one.
‘See that flat stone? If you have reason then you will be able to stand the egg upon it.’
‘Stand the egg upon it?’ queried the girl, puzzled.
‘Yes. If it is reason you have then you will be able to stand the egg upright so that it doesn’t fall over.’
The girl took the egg in her hand and frowned at the smooth flat surface of the stone to which the druid pointed. Half-heartedly, she tried a couple of times, but the egg fell over each time.
‘It is impossible,’ she snapped. ‘What druid’s trick is this?’
‘No trick,’ smiled the old man. ‘It is simply a matter of reason and you say that you have reason enough and merely want an explanation of facts.’
The girl bit her lip.
‘It cannot be done,’ she said sharply.
The druid took the egg from her and then, turning to a bag of salt, he poured a quantity onto the flat stone; then, with a gentle turn, he stood the egg up on its end in the salt so that it did not fall.
‘Trickery,’ scoffed the girl. ‘Anyone can do that.’
The old man smiled softly.
‘Ah yes. Anyone can do it after being shown the way.’ The girl bit her lip, her cheeks reddening. She bowed her head and thought a while before making further comment.
‘I have much to learn,’ whispered the girl. ‘There is much knowledge that should be stored in my mind.’
‘Child, the fuller the ear of grain, the lower the stalk bends; empty of grain, the stalk grows tall and strong. Don’t clutter your life with facts unless you have the wisdom to use them.’
‘I should be more humble in your presence, Ruacán,’ sighed the girl.
For a moment the old druid flashed a look of anger at her.
‘Humble? No! Humility is as much the child of pride as exaltation. Those who humble themselves only wish to be exalted, child. Humility is often feigned submission, a subterfuge of pride which persuades others to lower themselves so that the humble render others submissive. No, child. You must be neither humble or proud but at one with everyone.’
The girl looked uncertain.
The old man reached forward and touched her arm.
‘My child, flow with life. Do not fight the currents. Merge with life. Do not seek to move the mountain from your path but climb it or pass round it.’
The old man stood up and stretched, drawing his cloak more tightly round him.
‘And now it is time for rest for we must continue when the sun rises.’
‘And will we reach Dun Scaith tomorrow?’
‘We have yet to travel by way of the Valley of the Shadow and the Bridge of Leaps.’
He turned and went to his bed roll and she could ask him no more.
Only a perceptible change of light across the gloomy valley announced the dawn. There were no bird songs to hail the coming of the light and they rose in quiet to break their fast and saddle their horses. It was not long before they were ascending out of the Perilous Glen on a road which took them through foothills and across mountains before descending again in zig-zag motion into a valley even more dark and gloomy than the previous one.
‘Is this the Valley of the Shadow?’ asked the girl.
Ruacán grunted assent.
‘What need I be afraid of here?’ pressed Scáthach.
‘Of yourself, daughter of Eola,’ replied the old man.
The valley was crowded with a dark wood in which strange birds flitted and called, sometimes moving so close that their damp wings brushed her face. The air smelled musty, like the earth of burial grounds. She had been taken to the ancestral burying grounds as a child by her mother in order to bring flowers as tokens of remembrance. It was a visit she had come to fear for she feared the graves and places of the dead. Indeed, she came to fear death itself. Death was the ultimate thing to fear and this place, this Valley of the Shadow, was a place of the dead; a fearful place. Cobwebs spread from tree to tree and across the path so that their coldness suddenly spread across her face.
She snatched at them with anger, brushing her cheeks. She would not show fear again and yet she hated the silken webs of spiders and the high-pitched cry of night bats. Then, she abruptly heard a sound of flapping and something struck her in the face. She felt tiny pin-pricks in her scalp and forehead, and something like a wet, chilly tissue covered her face, preventing her from breathing. She gave a choking cry, raising both hands to claw at the thing on her face. Her heart pounded in fear and revulsion. Her flesh crawled as she felt the small, bloated body beating against her hands, felt the wings flapping. She tore the creature from her and flung it to the ground.
The creature lay stunned on the path. To her horror she saw that it was a fairly large species of bat, its flapping wings were nearly two feet in length, and its body almost a foot long. It had large ears, broad at the base but narrowing abruptly to sharp, recursive tips. It also had thick woolly fur extending onto its wring membranes, which appeared ash-grey in colour.
With a cry of distaste, she drew her javelin and spiked it as it lay stunned on the ground. It gave a high-pitched, penetrating squeak, flapped its great wings for a moment or two and then lay still.
‘Not all one’s fears can be so easily dismissed,’ remarked Ruacán.
The pathway had narrowed through the trees so that only a single horse could move through the great avenue of dark wood. Wolves started to howl from far away yet their voices seemed to grow nearer and nearer.
‘I dislike this place,’ she whispered apprehensively. ‘But I will not be afraid of it.’
‘If you are not afraid of it, then it will not exist,’ she heard Ruacán say behind her.
‘Then I command it not to exist!’ she cried in sudden anger.
She bit her lip in annoyance as there was no change in the spectacle of the grim forest.
‘You still fear it,’ observed the old druid.
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br /> The girl hesitated and then nodded agreement.
‘Since I was a child, I have feared death,’ she admitted. ‘And this is how I visualise death.’
‘And these are the shadows you fear?’
‘If this is death, this is what I fear.’
‘Yet what is death? It is as much part of life as birth. Rather should we fear birth, daughter of Eola. If a baby had a glimpse of its trials and travails during its life, would it ask to be born? Death is no different from life. It is simply another door through which we must go. If we fear to enter that door then we must fear every second, minute and hour of each day we live, and our lives will be that much poorer. Do not fear death any more than life.’
‘Yet I fear it.’
‘You fear the moment of death, you fear pain?’
‘I think that is what I fear,’ agreed the girl hesitantly.
‘Did you fear the moment of your birth?’
Scáthach shook her head.
‘I had no control over the moment of my birth.’
‘Neither have you control over the moment of your death,’ replied the druid. ‘If you are at one with life you will not fear death. If you have lived a full life at peace with yourself then you will not fear death, my child. Death is as natural for us as life, it is the other side of the coin. This valley is not death, these shadows are your own fears which you have conjured.’
The girl sat thinking for a moment and then she sighed and nudged her horse onwards. After a moment she suddenly peered forward eagerly.
‘I see a light ahead, the end of the forest.’
Ruacán chuckled softly.
‘Then you have lost your fear of death.’
The girl swung round, her face a complex expression of surprise and bewilderment.
‘I have understood it,’ she said in wonder.
‘And in understanding there comes a realisation that there is nothing to fear.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It is so,’ replied the old man firmly. ‘Fear, which also leads to hate, is born from ignorance. Cast aside ignorance and you will cast aside fear and hatred. See, you have passed through the Valley of the Shadow.’
They emerged from the tall, dark, silent woodlands and into a bright countryside over which hung a canopy of azure and the sun, a bright golden disc, shining with a dazzling heat.
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