Island of Shadows

by Peter Tremayne

  To and fro the ancient crone rocked the dead Darcon’s body, alternately lamenting and cursing him. Lamenting his death and cursing his stupidity in allowing himself to be outwitted.

  Scáthach stood in horrified disbelief at the scene before turning away, sickened by it.

  ‘Get someone to remove the old woman and Darcon’s body,’ she ordered Ruacán.

  ‘You have not succeeded yet, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach!’ came Eis Enchenn’s shrill voice.

  Scáthach turned back to the crone.

  ‘You have killed him but you will repay his life one-hundred-fold.’

  The girl smiled sadly.

  It was clear that the old one was deranged.

  ‘Go, old woman. There is nothing for you in this place,’ she said softly. ‘Go and end your days in peace far away from this land.’

  Eis Enchenn’s face spat venom at her, a scrawny hand raised the thigh-bone and shook it like a weapon.

  ‘You have killed Darcon; you have outwitted Aife and constricted her with your druid’s geis, but you have yet to deal with me.’

  ‘I have no wish to deal with you, old one. There is nothing for you here,’ replied the girl.

  ‘I will avenge my son!’ cried Eis Enchenn.

  Scáthach stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘Your son?’

  The implication of the crone’s words registered in her mind.

  Suddenly, Eis Enchenn stood up, stood up and grew tall. Her form began to change hideously. As if from nowhere, three black ravens began to circle her head. The hair changed to a raven blackness, held at the temples by a silver band. The face took on an angular, though ageless, form, with two large black staring eyes, so black that it was impossible to discern if they had pupils. The mouth was a sneering gash of red, the face was hard and merciless. The body was tall, it towered over them. A long flowing black robe cloaked it. Around the neck was a chain of bloody severed heads with lolling tongues and wide staring eyes and from each of their mouths there came forth hideous moaning noises. Around the feet of this awesome image it seemed as if a pool of red blood was boiling. In her hand this terrible being still held the human thigh-bone.

  Ruacán was the first to move.

  The Mórrigú!’ he gasped. ‘Goddess of death and battles!’

  Aife had fallen to her knees and covered her eyes.

  The awesome vision drew back her red gash of a mouth and gave forth a piercing, hideous peal of laughter.

  The old druid made to move to Scáthach’s side but the thigh-bone was extended towards him. It was as if the old man had become frozen to the spot.

  The deep black eyes of the being turned back to Scáthach.

  ‘Vengeance is mine!’ came a long shuddering whisper.

  Scáthach tried to reach for her sword but her limbs were like stone.

  In her mind she heard a voice calling her. Buimech’s voice. And realisation flooded her mind. It was useless to challenge one of the gods with mortal weapons. She must rely on her knowledge, but what knowledge would help her?

  She glanced at the others, who stood staring at the being as if mesmerised and unable to move.

  ‘You have thwarted my will,’ hissed the terrible image. ‘In spite of my precautions you have slain my son and rendered my daughter impotent. Yet I am the power and it is my right to punish.’

  Up came Scáthach’s chin defiantly.

  ‘I am told that you are my real mother. Would you destroy your own offspring?’

  Again came the maniacal peal of laughter.

  ‘Yes, if my offspring thwarted my plans. I planned to bring chaos and destruction into the world of men. I planned to set nation warring against nation. For in death and battles I thrive and grow strong. Soon I would have the entire world worship at my feet. Man is a petty, stupid creature who, with only a little prompting, would bathe in blood for me.’

  Scáthach shook her head sadly.

  ‘Mankind may worship at your feet from time to time when madness is upon it but its aspiration for good will always draw it back from the abyss you envision.’

  The human thigh-bone in the gruesome phantasm’s hand rose towards the girl.

  ‘What images of hell can you conjure, Scáthach?’ hissed the voice. ‘For whatever terrifying things you can imagine, your fate will be worse!’

  The girl tried to keep calm, trying to reason how she could overcome this vile creature which had been her mother.

  It was as if Ruacán’s voice was whispering in her ears.

  ‘Yes, she was your mother. There is weakness in that.’

  Weakness?

  ‘Remember the lessons you have learnt, my child. Seek the answers within yourself. Remember the Plain of Ill-Luck, the Perilous Glen and the Valley of the Shadow. Do all these things mean nothing?’

  Scáthach brought her gaze up to the blazing fury of her mother’s gaze and suddenly smiled.

  Yes she had learnt lessons; she had learnt to accept that things were not always what they seemed and perception was merely a matter of one’s own thought. If one perceived something as terrifying it did not always follow that it was terrifying to others. And this being before her, the awesome goddess of death and battles, was but her mother. Her mother. A wave of sadness overwhelmed the girl. Her fear and anger became edged with pity.

  The awesome brows of the vision drew together uncertainly.

  ‘Why do you smile?’ it hissed.

  ‘There is sadness in you,’ replied Scáthach.

  ‘Sadness?’ sneered the voice.

  ‘Sadness in your motherhood.’

  The Mórrigú’s black eyes widened.

  ‘Speak not to me of motherhood, you who have slain my son.’

  ‘It is your daughter who speaks, mother.’

  ‘You! You are come from my womb but you are no daughter of mine!’

  ‘Therein is the sadness of your motherhood.’

  The being frowned again, not sure of the girl’s meaning.

  ‘Dare you talk to me of sadness and motherhood? You should be quaking in fear before me knowing what I shall do to you.’

  ‘How can I be fearful before my own mother?’ demanded Scáthach. ‘I can only feel pity for you.’

  ‘Pity?’ the voice rose to a shriek.

  The girl nodded.

  ‘You are what you are and I can only grieve for it. You thrive on hate and hostility. Malice and vindictiveness are all that you know. Yet within you there must be some humanity. Did you not lament the loss of your son? What stirred you to that emotion? Is there some hope for you yet, some compassion lurking within you that was born of your motherhood?’

  The being gnashed its teeth.

  ‘Speak not to me of compassion. You stand on the brink of destruction!’

  Scáthach paused. It seemed to her that the thunderous tones were not as strong as they were; the figure was no longer as horrific as before. No longer as tall and awesome.

  ‘I must be charitable to you, for you are my mother,’ she said softly.

  ‘You must fear and hate me,’ stormed the spectre, ‘for that is the lot of all mankind.’

  ‘Not I. I can only weep for you. You are my mother and yet you pretend you have no feelings.’

  ‘Hate me!’ shrilled the voice, yet the voice was weak and fearful, almost imploring hate.

  The frightful vision seemed to be undergoing a metamorphosis. Even as Scáthach stood, smiling sadly and pityingly at it, the tall image began to wither and grow frail; it began to shrink and turn into an elderly woman — not the gruesome frame of Eis Enchenn, but simply a frail old woman. The face changed from malevolence to fear and suddenly, screeching piteously, the being faded and disappeared.

  Scáthach stood staring for a long time at the spot where it had vanished.

  The old druid suddenly touched her arm and smiled.

  ‘Your wisdom and self-knowledge prevailed, my child.’

  Scáthach returned his gaze without speaking.

  Flann, recove
ring from his frigid inactivity, moved forward uneasily.

  ‘What happened? How did it disappear … it was the goddess of death and battles and could have withered us at a look?’

  Scáthach smiled softly at the young warrior.

  ‘It was my mother, Flann.’

  The old druid nodded.

  ‘The goddess of death and battles can only thrive on the fear and hatred of mankind. Pity, especially the pity of her own daughter, whom she had wronged, could not sustain her in this world. She has fled to the Otherworld.’

  Dubh came forward smiling.

  ‘You are truly a wise woman, Scáthach. How did you know how to use the weapon of pity against her?’

  Scáthach’s face was sad and her mouth turned down.

  ‘The truth is, I did not. I really do feel pity for her. In truth, she was my mother and that fact I cannot deny. Just as I cannot deny Aife there as my twin sister.’

  Aife had risen to her feet and was standing with her head hung sullenly on her chest.

  ‘What punishment have you in store for me, Scáthach?’ she whispered.

  The girl paused and then shrugged.

  ‘Punishment? Should I punish the lame for being lame? Your weakness is not of your own making. You may go, Aife. Remember there is now a geis between us. We may not harm each other in battle.’

  Her twin looked at her in disbelief.

  ‘But where should I go?’ she whispered.

  ‘Go back to Lethra and continue to rule there, but rule in wisdom and for the good of your people, not for the good of yourself. For if I hear of any despotism in Lethra, if I hear you continue to rule with fear and hate in the tradition of our mother, then I shall come again. The geis between us shall remain but you will no longer rule in Lethra.’

  Ruacán smiled broadly.

  ‘Here is wisdom, indeed.’

  Aife stood hesitating.

  ‘You are truly possessed of great wisdom or great stupidity, Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’

  ‘Then we shall find out which it is in the coming years,’ replied her sister.

  ‘Scáthach!’ It was Dubh who shouted the warning.

  Warriors were pushing into the great hall, uncertain and irresolute, gazing curiously at the slain body of their ruler.

  Scáthach leapt upon the dais and held up her hands.

  ‘People of Dun Scaith! Darcon the Tyrant has been slain. Cuar the jailer lies dead and Eis Enchenn has been despatched to the Otherworld. The tyranny and evil that has lain like a fog over this fortress and this land is gone, evaporated like the morning mist when the sun comes up.’

  There was a murmur of voices, debating, questioning, unconvinced. They stood, unsettled and undecided.

  ‘You have two choices, people of Dun Scaith,’ continued the girl. ‘You can leave this place, or you can stay and I will lead you, if you desire it.’

  They faltered again, unsure, and then one of the warriors came forward and drew his sword.

  Flann’s hand snaked to his weapon and Dubh moved a step forward, growling menacingly in his throat.

  But the warrior placed the sword at Scáthach’s feet.

  ‘You may command my sword, Scáthach of Dun Scaith!’ he said.

  At once there rose a cheer of acclamation from the others.

  ‘Hail to our new chieftainess! Hail Scáthach of the Island of the Shadows!’

  After a time, when Scáthach had despatched the warriors to remove the bodies of Darcon and Droch and ordered food and drink to be brought for herself and her companions, Ruacán said: ‘What do you mean to do as chieftainess of this place, my child?’

  Scáthach smiled.

  ‘I am still the daughter of Eola of Uibh Rathach. And Eola’s martial academy was famed throughout the world. What should his daughter do but follow his example?’

  Flann leant forward across the table, as they sat feasting. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘You would make Dun Scaith an academy of martial arts?’

  ‘The greatest in the world, Flann,’ smiled the girl. ‘For here, I would teach not only skill with weapons but, more importantly skill of the mind. For here would the teachings of Buimech and, above all, of Ruacán the Wizened, be taught. Yes, I will use my skills to teach warriors and champions so that they may set forth to make this world a better place.’

  Flann paused a moment and then he grinned.

  ‘Would you need an instructor? I am told that I have a fair hand with the sword.’

  Scáthach leaned forward and impulsively gripped his hand.

  ‘Dear Flann, I would need both instructor, friend and companion.’

  There was a long pause and Ruacán broke it by turning to Dubh.

  ‘And what of you, Dubh of Ophir? Will you stay?’

  The giant shook his dark head and smiled.

  ‘I have been twenty years away from my land of Ophir and much has happened in that time. I must return lest my people have suffered in my absence.’

  Scáthach smiled.

  ‘We will fit you out with the best ship to be found in Dun Scaith and a crew to handle her.’

  Dubh bowed his head.

  ‘Future generations will hear, in the stories and legends of Ophir, how Scáthach rescued their ruler and safely returned him.’

  A warrior entered and bowed to the girl.

  ‘Your sister, Aife, is ready to bid farewell.’

  Scáthach rose, and accompanied by Ruacán, Flann and Dubh, followed the warrior to the quayside that lay beside the fortress. A ship, with the markings of Lethra, was preparing to sail.

  Aife stood by the gangplank, waiting to embark.

  ‘Well, sister,’ she said warily.

  Scáthach halted at arm’s length and smiled at her mirror image.

  ‘Well, sister,’ she replied.

  There was an uncomfortable pause between them.

  ‘It is sad that the geis stands between us,’ Aife sighed. ‘Alas, I shall never know which of us is the greater warrior.’

  ‘Isn’t it better that such a thing never be known?’ asked Scáthach.

  ‘Perhaps; perhaps not. Still, the prohibition has been pronounced. And I shall return to be the High One of Lethra and rule as you have ordained. But one day … ’

  She smiled enigmatically.

  ‘Farewell Scáthach of Uibh Rathach.’

  ‘Farewell Aife of Lethra.’

  They did not touch each other, did not clasp each other’s hands. There was still much between them. Then Aife turned and walked onto the ship. The mooring ropes were soon parted, the sails set and the vessel began to draw away from the stone jetty.

  For some time Scáthach stood on the quayside watching the sail of the ship dipping and bowing until it disappeared out of sight behind a headland.

  When she turned from the quayside back to her companions, Ruacán detected the tears in the girl’s eyes.

  ‘It is sad to find a sister and to lose her,’ he said softly.

  She sniffed and made no reply for a moment. Then she reached forward and took Flann’s hand.

  ‘Ruacán,’ she said, ‘I shall soon have family enough to occupy my thoughts. I have developed the gift of prophecy, the gift of Buimech. Before the year is out I shall bear Flann a child.’

  The young warrior gazed at her astounded.

  ‘The child will be a daughter … I shall call her Uathach. She will grow in beauty and her lover will be the greatest champion ever to come out of the land of Éireann.’

  Ruacán nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Truly, my child, you have developed the gift of foreknowledge. You no longer need a druid to guide you on the path for you are possessed of the gift of the imbas forasni, the light of foresight. Now you are the greatest warrior in the world, the one to whom great champions and warriors from all the corners of the world will come to learn their art. You have no need of my skill any longer. I must be on my way.’

  Scáthach gazed at him sadly.

  ‘I did not mean to c
hase you away with my stupid boasting, Ruacán,’ she said.

  The old man laid a hand on her arm for a moment.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘But we have been through so much together, old man. I may still need your companionship and advice.’

  The old druid chuckled.

  ‘What need have you for an old man when you have Flann Mac Fraech for your companion?’

  ‘We would like you to stay,’ pressed Flann, colouring a little. ‘I know that I had suspicions about you in the past but I hope you will forgive me. Do not leave on my account.’

  Ruacán placed a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder.

  ‘I do not do so, my son. Take advantage of your happiness while you can. Mortal lives are short.’

  He turned and pointed to one end of the quayside.

  ‘My curragh waits. I must go.’ He smiled from one to another, bidding farewell to Dubh, to Flann and then to Scáthach. ‘We have come a long way together. Now you must continue on your road alone. I can give you nothing but this, my child: when you are in pain and doubt, examine your heart and be true to it. Learn what you are and be such. If you ever become a stranger to yourself then you will lose all you have gained.’

  The girl bowed her head to the old man and he reached forward and touched her lightly in the centre of the forehead with his hand.

  Then he turned and made his way down the stone steps of the quayside and climbed into his curragh.

  Dubh turned away to seek others to organise his ship in preparation for his voyage home to Ophir but Scáthach and Flann stood on the quayside, hand in hand, watching the old druid rowing away from the Island of Shadows. Abruptly, without warning at all, and even though the sky was blue and without cloud, a wind rose across the sea, and it became blustery. They strained their eyes anxiously across the great troughs and billows.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Scáthach, ‘why did we let the old one go? He will be drowned.’

  But Flann was staring with a curious frown.

  ‘I do not think so. Did you ask yourself why his curragh was suddenly at the quayside when he wanted it? Did we not leave his curragh on the shores of Gallia when we made our journey to Lethra?’

  Scáthach frowned, realising that it was so. Once again she wondered how the old man could have crossed the chasm to get into the fortress to effect her rescue?