by Sean Melican
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But first, the crops must be harvested else everyone will starve before spring. Men and women drive the bulls hard, and themselves harder. Children are told to fish in the shallow waters of the shore. Older children are to supervise the younger and keep a sharp eye for boats. A watch is kept at night despite the exhaustion from the day. Even Dichu and Lommán keep torches in their bedrooms, for complete darkness feels too much like a solid, chill substance.
But, on a night when the moon is new and the wind bitter as old blood, men and women gather in the sacred oak grove, sleepy children held in their arms. The old, tangled branches looked like the hands of the Morrigan. When the wind blows the leaves rattle as if she were laughing.
A white bull is slaughtered with a golden knife and its steaming entrails read: nineteen will die but the gods will grant them success. A black shape flickers in the branches. When the druid raises his tamarisk staff – his hands still red – and says the words, it is only a raven that falls from the sky, dead as stone. Its entrails are read, but they are confused for the power that killed it has tangled its organs.
You stand stripped to the waist with the others. The staff is dipped in the quickly congealing blood and magic symbols are traced along the skin. It is warm and tastes of copper. When it is washed away in the morning, it will not be seen but the power will remain for many days. Long enough, it is hoped, to drive the demons from their lair.
Pádraig is left to sleep. He would not approve.
Nine are chosen to protect the children, for three sets of three is a powerful number. The remaining seventy-two will use the demon ship to sail the short distance.
The sky is gray and hard like iron when you kiss Cuan. There is a good possibility you will never see him again. He will remain as one of the nine.
The oars are hard wood but warm and smooth from many hands. Pádraig sits beside you. His movements are fluid and surprisingly strong. He places his crosier and his sword beneath the bench. It is easy to see how hard his hands are when he takes the oar.
“Do you see the seaweed, between the oak planks? It is there to keep the wood wet even when it is not in water. A mark of a Veneti ship.”
“And?”
His eyes are a curious color: blue with a trace of silver. “They are further south than I imagined.” His cross catches the early morning light. It looks gold.
“Perhaps. Or maybe the Veneti fought the demons using this ship and were overwhelmed. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think.” It is a lie, but it comforts.
He smiles a little. “Ever the optimist. In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He makes that curious gesture touching his head, heart, and each shoulder.
The odor of earth and copper is strong. The wood is stained nearly everywhere. Only a few small areas show that it was not always so dark.
You and the priest raise and dip and pull the oar. He talks easily through the effort. “I didn’t choose to sit beside you randomly. You and I, we are the same. Oh, I know you think I am a Roman. Truth is, I don’t think of myself as one but I share enough to be the same.” He pauses. “They will come for us, first, you know. You’ve seen that. I didn’t thank you, by the way. Thank you.”
It comes suddenly: he’d been waiting for it. He knew the moment one warrior was missing that he was in danger.
“You’re welcome.” Another pause. He seems to know why and waits. Years of shepherding must have built up a tolerance for silence. The waves lap gently at the hull. “Were you ever tempted?”
His laugh is a pleasant sound. It is genuine this time. “Christ was tempted too, by Lucifer, in the desert. He was tempted on the cross as well. It would have been easy to step down but he did not. I cannot claim to be as strong as our Lord, but I would like to be. Yes, I know temptation.”
He stares a flock of white birds circling something that cannot be seen from this point. “I take no pleasure in hunting. But athanasy? Yes, I would very much like that. But only God can give such a thing. The demons are the pawns of Lucifer, and he is left only with the power of illusion.”
“Your god is weak. He could have stepped down. Why let himself be killed?”
“He is like the bull you killed last night. A sacrifice. Someone to take the burden of our sins. Yes, I knew. It is not an easy thing to abandon the gods who made your world.”
“But why not simply step down, prove that he is a god? Then everyone would surely worship him.”
“Yes, but that would make faith too easy. You know the sun will rise each day, so its existence means nothing. It is the people who believe in Him despite outward signs that will be saved.”
“But, these demons fear the crucifix and die by the magic water. Isn’t that proof?”
“Jesus turned water to wine once, and walked on water too, so his disciples would know. Even then, Peter doubted him. Sometimes the Lord needs to grant a sign to one generation so that succeeding generations will know of Him. I’d like to think my words have some effect. They may. But this war proves more than a thousand speeches could.” Some time passes. “Did you bring what I asked? Everyone?”