Scáthach paused to wipe her brow and gaze back upon the black forest.
‘I am beginning to understand,’ she said to Ruacán. ‘Most dangers that we fear reside only in our minds. I do not fully understand but I believe I begin to understand.’
The old man smiled.
‘Maybe one day you will be of the knowledge, daughter of Eola.’
They rode slowly along the pathway, out of the valley and once more over foothills and through mountain passes. Now there was a brightness in the sky and the tall mountains rose blue, with white snow caps, on all sides, their lower skirts crowded with purple heather and yellow broom.
The girl was more relaxed now, having passed the dangers of the Plain of Ill-Luck, the Perilous Glen and the Valley of the Shadow. Soon they would reach Dun Scaith.
Chapter Sixteen
It was early afternoon when they came through a cleft in the mountains to pause on a broad ledge of rock overlooking the sea which moved restlessly one hundred feet below them. Before them stood the tall impressive grey ramparts of Dun Scaith, the fortress of Darcon the Tyrant, reputed son of the goddess of death and battles. It was an austere construction of great granite blocks with hardly an opening or window in its bleak walls. It rose as part of the granite outcrop on which it stood so that it was almost impossible to see where nature’s building had left off and where the hand of man had constructed the rest. It rose grimly against the heavens, thrusting upwards as if in challenge to the surrounding world.
Scáthach’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the construction. Only one great set of doors gave entrance and these were shut tight and there was no sign of life anywhere within the vicinity.
As she walked her horse forward onto the rocky ledge she realised that the fortress was separated from it by a chasm of some thirty feet or more at the bottom of which, a hundred feet below, boiled a turbulent white-foamed sea. There was no bridge to connect the mainland on which they stood with the rocky island on which stood Dun Scaith … the Island of Shadows.
The girl turned to the old druid, who sat astride his horse watching her, still leading Flann’s roan horse behind him.
‘I thought you said there was a bridge here?’ she demanded.
Ruacán shrugged and smiled thinly.
‘Bridge? I said that we would come to the Bridge of Leaps.’
‘Then where is this bridge?’
The druid pointed further along the chasm.
‘If you want to bridge the gorge, there is only one way forward.’
Further along the ledge, almost hidden by a jutting rock, she now saw a wooden construction. She dismounted, tethered her horse and moved forward to examine it. There was no doubt that it was a bridge but it was a bridge such as she had never seen before, a bridge of strange craftsmanship, made of wood but wood interlocked in curious joints and angles.
Scáthach examined it curiously from a distance.
It was unguarded and invited the traveller to move across unimpeded.
Yet there was something wrong; she felt it instinctively.
Frowning, she turned back to Ruacán who had also dismounted and stood watching her with an expression of curiosity, as a person sometimes stands and watches the behaviour of an animal, bemused by what it will do.
‘This is a strange bridge, old one,’ observed the girl.
The old man did not answer.
‘Why is it unguarded?’ pressed Scáthach.
‘That you should be able to work out for yourself, daughter of Eola.’
She bit her lip in annoyance.
‘Why is it called the Bridge of Leaps?’
Again the druid was silent.
The girl sniffed.
‘So this is another of your tests, old one?’
The old man smiled.
‘My tests?’ he said gently. ‘I make no tests for you that are not of your own choosing.’
The girl scowled and turned to re-examine the bridge.
She saw that the bridge formed a small apex in the middle where there appeared a joint. She wondered what all the hinges and joints were and what their function was. Then a faint suspicion filled her mind. She looked around and searched the stony ledge. There were some small boulders lying nearby. She picked up one of them and weighed it carefully in her hands, but then discarded it for its lightness. Then she picked up another, which was so heavy that it needed both hands to carry it.
Walking to the head of the bridge she stood, feet apart, raising the boulder in both hands until she brought it up first to chest height and then above her head. Her face was red and her muscles groaned at the effort. She stood, swaying for a moment. Then she cast the boulder from her so that it fell almost in the centre of the bridge.
Although suspicious, Scáthach was not prepared for what happened next. There was a snapping sound, the slap of planks on planks and, so it seemed, the entire bridge suddenly drew itself together like a concertina, the planks recoiling like a mighty spring so that the boulder was thrown off and cast into the chasm below. It bounced down the smooth granite sides of the gorge and finally disappeared into the frothy, boiling seas below. If the boulder had represented a person then they would not have survived the fall let alone immersion into the fierce waters which gushed along the ravine.
For a moment Scáthach stood staring in disbelief and then, as if by some unseen hand or some miracle, the bridge unfolded itself, its springs slapping the planks back into place so that once again it stood innocently inviting travellers to cross in order to lure them to their doom in the abyss below.
‘You knew of this!’ the girl cried accusingly, as she faced the old man.
Ruacán shrugged.
‘Let us say that I suspected something of the sort.’
‘And you did not warn me?’
‘On the contrary, daughter of Eola, you warned yourself.’
‘If I had set foot on the bridge, I would have been killed,’ snapped Scáthach.
‘But you didn’t,’ the old man pointed out patiently, if I had done so, would you have let me?’
‘You must work out your own salvation, I can only advise.'
The girl sniffed and turned back to the bridge, is there any other way across the ravine?’
‘None,’ replied the druid.
‘And there is certainly no way to cross by this bridge if we want to survive.’
‘That is true.’
She turned and sat down on a boulder, chin resting on an upraised fist, and stared moodily at the chasm while she considered the situation.
‘What name did you say was given to this bridge?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Didn’t you call it the Bridge of Leaps.’ The old man nodded.
‘That is what I have heard it called.’
A slight smile crossed the girl’s face.
‘A curious name for a bridge.’
Ruacán was silent.
The girl stood up and went to her horse where she had left her javelin. She picked it up and gazed at it and then, holding the shaft with both hands, pressed her full weight on it, feeling its strength and flexibility.
Then she walked back to the chasm and measured the distance with her eye.
‘If I don’t cross this place, Ruacán, then I will have failed. But fail I won’t.’
‘How so, daughter of Eola?’ the old man was smiling.
‘Because I shall obey the name of the bridge,’ she replied with firm decision in her voice.
Once again she tested the staff of the weapon and then turned to the old man.
‘It seems that we must part here for a while, Ruacán. I am going to enter Dun Scaith and rescue Flann. If I am successful, we will return here. Take care of the horse. Watch for us.’
The druid nodded slowly.
‘It will be as you say, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach,’ he said softly.
The girl walked to the chasm and stared down for a moment, then she measured with an eye the stretch of the gorge. Firmly, head high, she walked slowly back across the l
edge as far as she could go. Then, holding the shaft of the javelin just under the spearhead with both hands, the butt uppermost, she began to run towards the edge of the ravine. Her long legs strode the distance, accelerating the motion of her body. Then she was within a yard. Down came the butt of the javelin, hard on the rocky ledge, and her lithe body was being pulled upwards into the air, slowly, as if time were suddenly standing still, upwards and over, muscles tightening in her shoulders and neck. Her body reached the apex of the curve, arching and twisting over like a salmon in mid-leap. Then she was falling feet first and landing in a crouch on the far side of the gap.
She remained for a moment squatting on her haunches as she recovered herself. She had not let go of the javelin and she now stood and hauled it across. Upright, she turned to the druid on the far side of the ravine and smiled.
‘Now I see why it is called the Bridge of Leaps,’ she smiled.
The old druid nodded.
‘Never was there such a hero’s leap,’ he assented.
The girl shook her head.
‘Oh yes, yes there was. A greater hero than ever I shall be taught me the Salmon Leap. Eola of Uibh Rathach was my teacher.’
‘But his pupil has outshone him this day,’ replied Ruacán. ‘May the gods go with you into this fortress of shadows, daughter of Eola.’
She raised her arm in acknowledgement and turned towards the grey forbidding walls of the fortress.
The great wooden gates were shut tightly. There was no chink nor crack in their thick planking, nor even a sight of any means of opening them.
Scáthach paused before them and examined them with critical eye.
There was no means at all of gaining entrance which she could see. The tall granite walls of the fortress were unscaleable. She gave a mental shrug. Well, if there were no way in but through the doors and these were barred against her then there was only one thing to do.
She raised her javelin in both hands and brought the butt once, twice and thrice against the wooden doors. The sound went booming into the inner recesses of the fortress.
For a while there was no response. Only silence greeted her. Impatiently she raised the javelin to strike again.
‘Stay, little girl! No need to make such a din.’
The voice was a hideous high-pitched cackle.
Scáthach frowned and peered around but could see nothing.
‘Who speaks?’ she demanded.
‘I speak, little girl,’ came the voice.
Peering upwards, above the gate, she saw a block of granite had been swung to one side, making an aperture of about a foot square. From this dark recess a hideous gargoyle of a face was grinning down from under matted dirty-white hair. The one eye stared down which was uncannily bright and burnt with a curious red glow.
‘And who are you?’ demanded the girl.
There came a peel of high-pitched laughter which caused her blood to run cold for a moment or two, and a tingling at the nape of her neck.
‘Who am I? Why, I am Eis Enchenn. I am the door keeper of Dun Scaith. And who stands so proudly before that door?’
Scáthach threw back her shoulders, sticking her chin out defiantly.
‘I am Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’
‘Are you now?’ the voice was a little sharper, the head stuck quickly forward, reminding the girl of the action of the head of a snake.
‘I demand entrance,’ cried the girl.
Again came the cackle of the harridan.
‘Do not be so high and mighty here, little girl. This is the fortress of Darcon, son of the Mórrigú, goddess of death and battles, ruler of the Island of Shadows.’
‘And is he afraid of me, which is why he must bar his gates to me?’ sneered Scáthach.
The old hag gave a shriek of outrage.
‘Rather you should be in fear and trembling, mortal, for if you looked upon Darcon’s countenance your soul would flee from this world and seek refuge in the Otherworld.’
‘Is he so ugly?’
She thought that she would provoke another shriek of anger but the old hag suddenly began to croon, her head moving from side to side as if she were rocking to and fro.
‘My, my. We have heard of the coming of Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. There are those among us who did not think that you would reach here. But you have met your tests well. You are a worthy opponent.’
‘And not one prone to flattery,’ the girl said shortly.
Eis Enchenn, the one-eyed hag, chuckled softly.
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not.’
‘Will you let me in?’ the girl pressed, growing impatient.
‘Do I have to force my way in?’
‘Why have you come here?’
‘If you have known of my coming, and of my name, you will know of my purpose.’
The harridan shrieked with laughter.
The young one, the handsome young warrior. That is why you have come. My, my, girl. But there are many more like him in the world just as there are fish in the sea. He is not worth your attentions. He is not worth your love.'
Scáthach found herself flushing crimson.
‘Who said I loved Flann Mac Fraech?’ she demanded hotly.
‘You do not? Why then are you here?’ shot back the crone.
‘Because he is my friend,’ retorted Scáthach.
Eis Enchenn wheezed with laughter, rocking back and forth again.
Scáthach’s patience vanished. She drew back her javelin, aiming it at the face of the old woman.
‘Do you let me in or do you die?’
‘No, no. Do not give way to anger, little girl,’ admonished the harridan. ‘If you were lucky enough to kill me then who would let you in?’
‘My patience is not infinite,’ replied Scáthach. ‘I will not ask again. Beware of my anger if I have to force my way inside.’
‘Well, well,’ mused the crone. ‘Indulge an old woman. I have no quarrel with you, Scáthach of Uihh Rathach. I will let you in if you answer me three riddles.’
The girl fumed with impatience. Nevertheless, she lowered her javelin and stared back. Her threat to find another way into the fortress was a bluff and she knew it. It would take a long time to scale the great walls and even then she did not know if she could do so.
‘Three riddles and you will open these doors?’
‘That is the bargain.’
‘What three riddles?’ demanded the girl.
‘Do you agree to answer them?’
‘And if I do, who is there to judge that the answers are correct?’
‘Would I deny the truth?’
‘You might.’
‘Shame be your portion, little girl. I’ll not deny the truth if your answers are correct.’
Scáthach sighed restlessly.
‘Very well. I will answer your questions, Eis Enchenn, and woe betide you if you do not concede the truth of the answers.’
‘Very well. The first question is — you see the chasm behind you. How deep is the water there?’
Scáthach half turned to the ravine and then shrugged. ‘As deep as the bottom,’ she replied.
The harridan gave an angry squeal which caused the girl to realise that she had given the right answer.
‘That was too easy,’ snapped Eis Enchenn. ‘Too easy.
Now let me think. Yes … yes. Tell me how many types of tree grow on the Island of Shadows?’
Scáthach glanced around, drawing her brows together in thought.
The harridan began to chuckle wheezily.
‘Ah, you have no answer for that one, do you, little girl?’
Scáthach suddenly smiled as an answer occurred to her.
‘Yes, I do. Two types of tree grow here — the green and the withered.’
Eis Enchenn gave a yell of anguish and began rocking back and forth.
‘Come now,’ Scáthach pressed. ‘I grow tired of this game. Let me in or demand of me the last of your riddles.’
‘You will not answer this question
, little girl. I have been too soft on you so far but this riddle you will not be able to answer. Tell me … what is blacker than the raven’s wing?’
Scáthach pursed her lips as she stared upwards at the mocking face of the crone.
‘Come, come,’ called Eis Enchenn, mockingly, ‘have you no answer? You must answer all three questions to be allowed in. You have accepted the rules of the contest and you must answer.’
She went into a fit of shrieking laughter.
‘When you have ceased choking yourself to death, old woman,’ called Scáthach, ‘I am ready to reply.’
The harridan was still at once.
‘What is your answer?’ she wheezed.
‘Death is blacker than the wing of a raven, and black death will be your lot unless you open these portals and let me in.’
Once more the girl raised her arm and readied her javelin to throw.
‘Wait, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach. Wait. I will open the portals and admit you. You have answered all three questions well. I cannot deny that.’
The gruesome head disappeared from the small dark aperture and the granite block slid noiselessly into place.
After a few moments there came a great creaking and the soft scream of wood over stone. The great doors seemed to break apart in the centre and move inwards. The opening was as black as pitch and from the interior of the fortress came the vile smell of corruption, of dank rotting earth, which caused the girl to take an involuntary step backwards.
This was truly one of her childhood fears but, to her surprise, she found her fear gone. Instead her blood tingled with excitement at the nearness of her journey’s end. Flann was within reach. She would rescue him. Her journey to this place had dispelled her fears, as Buimech had foretold it would. She was no longer afraid of corruption, no longer afraid of the shadows and monsters conjured from them. She was Scáthach of Uibh Rathach and she bowed her knee to no one.
She took her helmet from its thong at her waist and placed it upon her head, then she slung her javelin on her back and drew forth her sword.
The doors drew inwards, opening as if to a yawning maw of malignancy and decay, but it did not bother her. Sword in hand she strode forward.
Island of Shadows Page 22