Waves in the Wind

by Wade McMahan

  “Think it foolish if you will.” I shrugged. “Perhaps it is, but that is what we plan.”

  Again shaking his head, a frown formed on Torcán’s face, but he remained silent.

  As I leaned forward, my hand encountered Goban’s simultaneously reaching for the last goose wing. I grinned. “Take it, please.”

  “No,” the smith grinned in return. “It’s yours. You paid the farmer, and a tightfisted rogue he is, so take it.”

  We were politely arguing, gesturing back and forth over possession of the wing, when Torcán muttered, “I want to go with you.”

  I dropped my hands into my lap, unsure I heard him correctly. “You want to go with us? But you just said the voyage is foolish.”

  “I said no such thing.” He sat up, crossing his arms over his chest. “I said searchin’ for Tír na nÓg is foolish, not the voyage.”

  “It’s all the same.”

  “You think so?” Torcán stood, his finger pointed down at me. “No. They are not the same.” Eyes alight, his aimed finger swung to the hovel’s door. “What’s out there across the western sea? That’s what I ask. Who knows? Just think of the adventure of it.”

  He began pacing. “Perhaps there are new, undiscovered lands filled with treasure; sparklin’ cities of gold teemin’ with beautiful women draped with fabulous jewels—”

  Goban waved the goose wing at me as an offering, and I shook my head, interrupting Torcán. “That is the making of dreams, and unlikely.”

  “Of course it is likely just a dream. Didn’t I just say that very thing?” He hadn’t, but I remained quiet as he continued. “Still, we don’t know for certain, do we? No man knows what lies across the western sea. Maybe there are unknown lands and cities of gold. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I suppose so, but—”

  “And there you have it. Think of the adventure if such exist.”

  Goban snorted. “It’s likely the only adventure ye’ll find will be alongside us in the innards of a fish.”

  “Maybe so, but what of it?” Torcán chuckled. “You think to live forever my friend? At least I might end my days by providing a fish a fine dinner.”

  He again sat, and looked to me, crossing his arms. “Do you know how old I am?”

  I tried to ignore the sound of Goban devouring the goose wing as I shook my head, and he continued. “Thirty-nine. That’s old for a warrior and well you know it. My sword arm is strong as ever, but I’m losin’ my quickness.” He sighed. “It’s lucky I’ve been all these years, and many fine years I’ve seen.” His eyes grew bright as he leaned forward. “Think of it, Ossian—horns a’blowin’, war drums throbbin’, banners flyin’, warriors screechin’ and singin’ their war songs. You’ve seen it yourself, and what man wouldn’t want to be a part of all that?”

  He sat quiet for a while, firelight flickering on his rugged face. “I lied today, you know. Winning riches as a warrior here in Eire is for young men. I missed my chance.” He reached down, picked up a twig and stirred the coals. “In time, I’ll come upon a likely lad who… Ah, but what of it?”

  Thinking I understood him, I nodded. “And the voyage offers a chance, slight though it be, for riches and glory. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Those are my thoughts, foolish as they are.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Can I go?”

  Rising, I stepped around the fire and took the hand of this sturdy, reliable man I had come to like very much. “Yes, though I must discuss it with Brendan. Your strength will be of value to us and you will take the place of Laoidheach.”

  I had gained a valuable ally for the voyage, but sighed at losing the goose wing.

  * * *

  We rode single-file along the trail with Torcán in the lead and Goban bringing up the rear. Heavy brush crowded the trailside, dense woodlands beyond. Each of us held our own thoughts, when Torcán stopped. I reined in my horse, puzzled.

  He reached into a bag hanging beside his horse’s withers and removed a gleaming brass helm trimmed in red leather, its peak crested with a gilded hawk in flight. It was a beautiful thing, the hawk itself a work of art.

  He saw me admiring it and grinned, his voice low. “You’re thinkin’ it’s worthy of a king, eh?” Seating the helm upon his head, he tightened the leather chinstrap. “In truth, it was made for a chieftain among the Dal Messin. Garbhán son of Fionn, his name was, but he— Well, I claimed it as a prize, seein’ as that unlucky gentleman acquired a bad habit of holdin’ his sword point too low.”

  Despite his many failings, Torcán was a bold man I found it easy to admire. My grin matched his as I glanced about. “Why did you stop? If we pick up our pace—”

  His hand waved me to silence, and he winked, still keeping his voice muted. “Listen. What do you hear? Tell me, but do so quietly.”

  About me, the forest was silent, and though I listened intently, I shook my head and whispered, “What? I hear nothing.”

  “Exactly.” He nodded. “Not a sound. No singing birds or scurrying woodland creatures and such it has been for a while. So I ask myself, why is that? We pass along the trail causing a disturbance, yes, but even further back among the trees there’s none of the natural sounds of the forest.”

  Goban walked his horse forward, and muttered, “Right he is.” He cocked an eyebrow at Torcán. “What’re ye thinkin’, then?”

  “Perhaps it’s nothin’ at all,” the warrior shrugged, “but then again, it’s possible there be men out there.” He dismounted, handing me his reins. “I’m goin’ to see for myself. Do you wait here. If you hear my yell, come fast, for I’ll be needin’ you.” He drew his sword, parted the brush and stepped from view.

  I looked to Goban. “Bandits?”

  The smith shrugged and stepped down from his horse. His eyes swept the trailside as he stood, feet spread wide, his hammer in his fist.

  I had attached a leather strap to the Staff of Nuada, and wore it diagonally across my back. Drawing it over my head, I hopped to the ground. If danger loomed, the Staff offered no sign of it.

  Clouds scudded past the sun, bringing a misting rain that contributed to the oppressive silence. Tension built in my shoulders and I rolled them about to ease it while my attention fastened to first one side of the trail, and then the other. Time passed, with it, the clouds and rain, replaced by a chill wind.

  Goban shivered and snorted. “It’s true what they say about Eire’s weather. If ye don’t like it, wait a wee bit, for it’s sure to change, but not necessarily for the better.”

  Brush shook far up the trail and Torcán appeared. Brisk strides brought him to our side.

  He brushed leaves from his cape, and then glanced back over his shoulder. “We’ve been followed for fair—six men, three on either side of the trail.”

  Bitterness rose in my throat. Only a short distance remained until we met Brendan and sailed. I nodded towards the underbrush. “They ride through that?”

  “They’re afoot. We’ve maintained a steady pace, but good men would have no trouble remaining abreast of us.”

  “They plan to rob us?”

  Despite the cool wind, his face dripped sweat, and he reached to his horse for a flagon of water. “I don’t think so.” He gulped the water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The men are warriors, not bandits, and two wear the yellow and black checked kirtles of the Corcu Duibne.”

  Goban kicked the trail, spattering mud on the nearby foliage. Then he looked to me and I nodded. “Tell him.”

  Puzzlement hovering in his eyes, Torcán asked, “Tell me what?”

  In simple, clipped sentences, Goban told how the Corcu held him and Laoidheach as slaves. He went on to speak of how I arrived to free them by killing the two warriors.

  Torcán’s eyebrows knitted together and he pursed his lips. “It seems I keep company with criminals.” Quiet laughter burst from his throat and he stepped forward to clap Goban’s shoulder. “What of it? The Corcu pass their laws out of their asses, eh?”

&nb
sp; He turned to me, eyes alight and grinning. “Come. Mount up. It’s time we dispel their stench.”

  The trailside vegetation seemed to crowd upon us, and I did not share his enthusiasm. “Do you not fear ambush?”

  “Nah.” He leaped to the back of his horse, his cape swirling, and pointed forward. “They no longer follow us. Beyond the bend is a clearing. The six Corcu came together there and are awaitin’ us. Ah now, you’ve got to admire an accommodatin’ reception.”

  Mounting, we paused, looking to our weapons. Goban glanced about. “Can we ride around them?”

  “No,” Torcán growled. “There’s no avoidin’ ’em. We face them now, or risk them killin’ us in our sleep. Now then, listen carefully.” His eyes moved from Goban to me. “Those bastards came here for a killin’ and nothin’ less. They’ll be wantin’ to talk, to brag about what they plan for us. I intend to throw the fight right into their teeth, unsettle them right off so to speak. Ride into them hard and do your best to scatter ’em. You’ll know when. Are you with me?”

  I bowed to his experience and judgment. The man was fearless, a poet’s vision of the pure warrior—a poem Laiodheach never wrote. It appeared the fight was unavoidable, and if we were to survive, it would be due to his experience.

  * * *

  We trotted our horses into the clearing. The Corcu were there, standing six abreast. Torcán urged his horse towards the center of their line, and pulled back hard on his reins. His horse reared, hooves flailing the air in the faces of the Corcus.

  “Stand aside!” he bellowed, his sword swirling above his head. “Move away, or by the gods, we will move you!”

  The warriors shuffled in their rank and exchanged glances. A burly man in bronze armor, their leader I supposed, stepped forward. “You will—”

  Torcán’s sword slashed downward, a blur of flashing steel. The leader fell to his knees, a fountain of blood spurting from his neck.

  Holding my sword low, I kicked my horse’s ribs and guided him on a direct path towards the warrior standing at the far left of their line. He saw me coming and attempted to dodge to my left, but my horse’s shoulder struck the man, spilling him to the ground.

  Spinning about, I dashed towards the next man in line. At almost the last moment I realized he held a pike, directed at my chest. Reining hard right, I slapped the pike aside with my sword. Whirling my horse in a tight circle beside the warrior, I delivered a backhand slash. He shrieked as his severed hand fell to the ground.

  The pikeman was finished, but my first foe was struggling to his feet, so I rode him down again. Reining my horse, I loomed over him.

  He lay upon his back, fear gleaming in his eyes, palms outstretched towards me. “I yield.”

  Leaning down, my sword at his throat, I snarled, “Were you at Rath Raithleann?”

  The man’s eyes grew wider, and he shook his head.

  “You’re lying.” I spat in his face. “I ask again, were you at Rath Raithleann?”

  Eyes closed, he nodded, covering his face with his hands.

  Rage took me as a memory returned: Ceara sprawled upon the ground beside her slain sons. I thrust the sword point deep.

  Furious yelling drew my attention, and I glanced up to see Goban pursuing an enemy who darted into the heavy brush and disappeared. Of the six Corcu, only the pikeman and fleeing man remained alive. Torcán knelt beside a fallen warrior, inspecting the contents of the dead man’s purse.

  Bloodlust still pounded in my ears in the presence of my enemies, and I turned back to the wounded pikeman. Thinking to finish him, I leaped down from my horse. The man was kneeling, head down and sobbing as he attempted to staunch the blood flowing from his wrist. I raised my sword, but hesitated when he looked up. He was no man, but a mere boy, at best fourteen, too young to have taken an active role in the attack upon my village.

  Tears streamed down the lad’s face and he sniffed. But, he had courage too. “Go ahead,” he said. “Strike if you will.”

  Boy or not, fury still held me. He was Corcu spawn, so I might have accommodated him, but by pausing, a measure of reason returned. These men knew we would pass this way and waited for us. How could they know such a thing?

  “That man,” Goban snorted, pointing towards the woods as he strode towards me, “fled like a frightened hare.” He stopped beside me, staring at the wounded boy. “What of this one?”

  “We shall see. Build a fire, will you?” Turning to my horse, I removed my bundle, and from it, rolled bandages and bags of medicinal herbs.

  The boy’s face was deathly white, his body trembling from agony and blood loss. I ripped a strip of bandage lengthwise and bound it tight above the stub of his arm. Blood still oozed from the wound, but the flow stopped.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “What matter it now?” he responded, face downcast, his voice weak and trembling. “I-I’m a dead man.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Now lie down.” He did as I directed and I wrapped my blanket about him. “I shall do what I can for you. What’s your name?”

  His eyes searched mine. “Ross. I am called Ross.”

  “So Ross, tell me. The lot of you have been following, and waited here to attack us. Why?”

  “Y-you know why.” The lad’s teeth were chattering. “We—we thought there was only the two of you. Had we known about him,” he nodded towards Torcán, who was busy scavenging the contents of the Corcu’s packs, “we w-would have brought more men.”

  Goban had the fire blazing, and I motioned for him to retrieve a fallen Corcu sword. I would use it to cauterize the ghastly wound. My attention returned to the boy.

  “Yes, well that was your mistake, wasn’t it? But how did you know to wait for us along this trail?”

  The boy bit his lip, and shook his head.

  “Ah, I see. You won’t tell me.” He seemed a simple lad, unschooled in the wiles of men. “So, it must have been magic. You learned of it from a great magician who—”

  “No.” The boy’s eyes closed. “M-magic is Satan’s tool and we have no use for such. A message c-came to us from,” he gasped, “a monk who told us to w-watch this trail and wait. He said you would come.”

  I glanced at Goban, who nodded when I muttered, “Erc.”

  Turning to the boy for confirmation, I asked, “This monk, his name is Erc?”

  The lad didn’t respond, so I leaned forward, looked into his eyes…and sighed. He was beyond answering.

  Chapter 33

  The Odor of Wolfsbane

  We passed through Trá Lí in the murky silence of early morning. Only a spotted dog standing near a cottage noted and yipped at our presence. Holding to the rock-strewn trail, we pressed on, following close upon the bay’s shoreline, mountains clad in autumn foliage towering above our left shoulders. I grew ever more anxious as we neared our destination. Had Brendan waited?

  We rounded a bend in the shoreline and a fisherman surrounded by his nets came into view. His boat drifting within the quiet waters near the shore, he lifted his face as we drew near.

  “So friend,” I called to him. “You’ve a fine morning to be upon the bay. You’ve found the fish?”

  Gray locks strayed beyond his tattered woolen cap, and cool eyes peered at me from a weathered face. “Only a few small ones,” came the typical reply of a wary fisherman who would protect his favored fishing spot. He scratched his grizzled chin, and then nodded. “I know you. I’m thinkin’ ye be that Druid the father’s been waiting for.”

  Relief flooded through me and I smiled. “Yes, I am that Druid. Brendan hasn’t sailed, then?”

  “No. He’s not sailed, nor will he.” The elderly man shook his head. “I fear father Brendan be dead.”

  I recoiled in my saddle as if struck by a physical blow. “But how…?”

  “They say he grew suddenly ill just last night. Only yesterday I sees him walkin’ the shore. As healthy as you and me, he was.” The fisherman offered a knowing wink and tapped his temple with a forefinger.
“An odd thing that, if ye asks me. This morning, monks gather before the good father’s doorstep and even now the poor man may’ve breathed his last.”

  It was as if the fisherman’s voice came from far away as his words and my thoughts cluttered my head. What was that last he said? Perhaps Brendan yet lived?

  “You say there is a chance he is not dead?”

  “Maybe.” The fisherman shrugged. “I only know—”

  I swung my horse to the trail and heard nothing more he said. Only a short ride would bring us to the village, and though the trail was too stony to gallop, we hurried as best we could.

  We topped a rise and the clustered cottages came into view. As we drew near, I could see that at least some of the fisherman’s words were true. Monks gathered before Brendan’s doorstep.

  The faces of kneeling monks turned to us as we reined-in and dismounted. One, a tall, skinny man, intercepted me as I strode towards Brendan’s door.

  He recognized me, as did most of Brendan’s monks. “No, Ossian.” He shook his head. “You may not enter.”

  If the priest was dead, I would see it for myself. I brushed him aside.

  The cottage’s interior was dark, its shutters closed, a single candle offering but a dim glow. A black-robed monk kneeling at Brendan’s bedside rose like a shadow.

  His solemn voice broke the stillness. “You are not welcome here. Father Brendan lies within the Hands of God.”

  Master Tóla taught the dangers of standing between a man and his god, especially for those of a differing faith. In that moment, it was not danger to myself that concerned me.

  “He is dead?”

  A long moment passed before the monk replied. “Soon. His soul slips from this life to the glorious next where he shall stand beside his Maker. Now go. Leave him in peace.”

  Stepping to Brendan’s side, I lay my hand on his damp forehead. It felt hot to my touch and I bent down, placing my ear against his chest. He began mumbling, his words incomprehensible, yet still I could hear the slow, rhythmic pounding of his heart. His breath was in my face. I gasped and stood erect, taking a quick step back.