by Erin O'Quinn
It was Macha’s turn to be my mount of the day. She stood content on her tether, gravely browsing the much-visited grass where scores of other horses stood tied to the tether posts. Usually, I would see her head toss and her hooves shuffle impatiently after only ten or so minutes. The church was one of the few places where she did not seem to mind waiting.
I hitched my léine high into my belt and leapt astride Macha, pulling her bridle across my body, urging her toward home. Liam had promised to show me more moves with the shillelagh, and by his words I knew that he wanted to do it now. I felt suffused with excitement, as always when we faced each other in the circle of dark stones.
I looked back after a few minutes, and I saw three other riders galloping swiftly along a path of shifting ravines and rounded hills. When we reached our teach, Liam and I raised our arms in farewell to Michael and Bree and we silently tethered our horses at the hay haggard.
We walked into the house together, still silent, and I quickly took off my new clothing. Unmindful of my nakedness, I let it fall to the floor unattended. Liam did the same, stepping over his woolen-and-silk wedding léine to reach for his old, worn breeches.
I slid into my ancient training tunic, now mended at the breast where I had torn it yesterday. Liam had pulled a thin length of leather through the pelt in a cross-hatch pattern until it seemed even stronger than before. We walked to the wall together and selected our shillelaghs, searching each other’s eyes, making hungry love already without a touch, without a sound.
When we stood outside in the bata ring, Liam walked behind me and seized my hand, the one holding the burnished shillelagh. He shook it slightly as if to say, “loosen your grip,” until he was satisfied. And then he raised my right arm and held it at an angle across my forehead, just above my eyes. Clearly it was a defensive stance.
He walked around to face me, his own bata raised as if to strike downward on my own weapon. I began to slow my breath, memorizing my unique connection to the spot where I stood. My knees were bent slightly, grounding me even more deeply to the earth. My eyes were focused on his and yet somehow beyond, into the thoughts behind the eyes.
Today, as always, Liam felt himself to be the hunter, and I the hunted. I was the deer to his swift arrow. Seeming to ignore his passion, I saw it clearly—the arrow flying to its mark. At that split second my weak defense became a steel barrier, and the arrow shot straight up, for my own weapon guided his skyward. Then my bata was resting lightly on the crown of his head. Captured! Who is the hunter, O Liam, and who the hunted?
At that instant, Liam and I reached out to each other, our eyes riveted on each other. Our mouths began to bite and lick and kiss with an untamable intensity. He gathered me up in his arms, strode to our house, and roughly pushed the door open. He turned and closed it with one foot, his mouth traveling all over my face and shoulders, and then he swiftly moved to the bed. He did not lay me down but stood me up on the floor beside the bed.
He pulled down his bríste, stepping out of them as though shedding an old skin. He stood before me with an erection so swollen that my knees turned to water. Still he said nothing, reaching out to my shoulders and pulling the deerskin down almost to my nipples.
“Say it, Cat.” His voice was thick with passion.
I stood before him with my entire body humming and alive, craving his mouth, craving his groin. “I am hungry for you,” I said. I could hardly talk.
He pulled the tunic down to my waist in one sudden movement, and he seized one breast. He took almost the entire breast into his mouth and then noisily, slowly came off it, lingering on the nipple. Then he seized the other breast and did the same, all the while I was crying out and moaning loudly.
“Eat you,” he said with a gruffness that almost frightened me. He picked me up and stood me on the elevated bed. His hands at my waist, he pulled the deerskin down to my ankles and leaned into me, both hands on my butt. He seized my downy-haired mound in his mouth and sucked, then pulled off. Again and again he nuzzled and suckled and licked as though his hunger would never be assuaged. It took only a minute before I was ready, almost frantic, and I told him, but he did not stop in spite of my outcry.
I held his head against my groin very hard, finally stopping his moving mouth. I felt a pulsing between my legs and all the way up inside me, into my butt and even to my stomach. It seemed to go on and on as I held on to him, softly crying his name. At last he looked into my face and stroked my bum softly. He smiled slightly. “Now we go…Michael’s.”
Then I understood. He was apologizing, in a sense, for his own urgency this morning. He knew that his haste had left me unsatisfied. I remembered what he had told Michael just a while ago. “I listen.” Yes, he listens, and he watches, too. And he learns—much more quickly than I.
I stroked his downy cheek with one finger, then the curve of his sensual mouth. “I love you, Liam. Yes. Let us go to Michael’s.” But I could not take my eyes off his huge bata. We would make love again later, I knew. I could wait.
* * * *
As soon as Liam and I entered Michael and Brigid’s teach, I saw Torin’s lanky body straddling a high-backed bench next to where Michael was sitting. At his feet, her gown billowing around her, sat Swallow. I walked to them and leaned forward to kiss Torin’s cheek. “Greetings, O brother,” I said, a tease in my eyes.
“Dia duit, a Cháit. I believe you know my friend.” He looked down fondly at the top of Swallow’s bright hair and stroked it lightly. I could see right away that Torin was asking me to forego the jesting for once and just accept his forthright feelings.
I sank to my knees next to her, my own léine rippling onto the gleaming floor. I hugged her to my chest. “Hello, my friend. What news?”
“Cay, my mother and I have been working on the clothing you ordered. She likes you more than most.”
“And you know that because—?” I prompted.
“Because she does not question our friendship. Because she speaks of you with admiration. Highly unusual.”
I laughed softly. “Your mother is quite like my Auntie Marrie. I am sure she shows love in very subtle ways. Sometimes even a shrug can be a sign of acceptance.”
“Oh, Caylie, I hope so. She has not yet met Torin—my Lugh—but she disapproves quite by habit.”
“Then she must meet him. Sooner is better than later.”
“I know. But I have been putting it off. I suppose I am dreading her caustic tongue.”
“Like anyone, I think she fears what she knows not. You and Torin must find a way to be with her naturally. Let her discover him as if by accident. There is an idea brewing like barley beer in my head. Let it bubble for a while, and I will share it with you.”
Then Brigid sat down with us. It was quite a sight. Three women, their clothing spread colorfully around them, sat on the floor as if it were a velvet expanse in a royal bally. “Caylith, I like that color on you,” she said, acknowledging that I had worn her gift. “Swallow, Cay tells me you will be a member of our Triús, the five ladies.”
“I will? Caylith needs to tell me about it. We spoke warily in front of Mother, and I caught the hint that it will not be quite, um, ladylike.”
Brigid and I laughed merrily, and I told Swallow what we would be doing. “You must have Torin make you a shillelagh, Swallow. And you, too, Bree—take Michael to a stand of blackthorns and ask him to select a bata for you. Each person’s weapon needs to fit her size and even her temperament. When we meet on Thursday I will show you both what I mean.”
Swallow’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Why not make a bata right now? Are there blackthorns close to your teach, Bree?”
She smiled with delight. “Yes. Take your swain with you, two hundred or so feet upriver, close to the bank. There is a nice stand of sloe bushes close to a solitary old oak. He will see it right away.”
“He will need only a long knife,” I said. “Now shoo. Do it right away, while the light is bright and the day is pleasant.”
She rose and leaned a bit, whispering in Torin’s ear. I could see his telltale slow smile and the humorous glint in his eyes. He rose and, taking her arm, escorted her out the door.
“Where is Ryan?” I asked Brigid.
“He and Brother Galen have gone off to find a store of beer,” she said. “Séamas has a secret source, I think.”
“I, for one, could do without the beer. And I think it is a bit soon for Liam, too. But…”
“But what, Cay? Have you told Liam not to drink so much?”
“Absolutely not. I think I will never niggle and naggle at Liam. He will be his own best counsel on certain subjects. I think he will drink as much as he thinks he needs in order to express, um, certain things. And after a while, he will not need it at all.”
“And what do you need, Caylith? To be more open with him?”
“Time. I respect your own counsel to me, a chara. Time is my friend, and it will teach me what I need to learn.” I looked up at Liam. He had pulled a bench next to me and close to Michael, and the two of them were talking earnestly in Gaelic. I leaned back into his soft woolen léine, listening to the ebb and flow, the lovely lilt of their native tongue.
If I listened without straining to understand, I could pick up the thread of their conversation. Michael was asking Liam about the plainspokenness of Jesus. Did he really speak so simply and directly, or did the monk make him sound that way so that we could understand complicated ideas? Liam told his cousin that, yes, Jesus was a man of direct speech but profound thought. The monk had read the apostle Matthew’s own words from a copied scroll. So if Jesus was not simple and direct, Matthew himself was.
I looked at Brigid, who was also following the conversation. “Bree,” I said softly, “I think Michael will come back next Sunday.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And even the Sunday after that. Time is our friend, little one, as you just reminded me.”
Then Galen’s bulk filled the door, and Ryan entered after him, waving a wineskin over his head. Our social afternoon had begun in earnest.
Chapter 11:
Three Fine Batas
Ryan entered the teach just behind Galen. He was dressed, as always, in his range-riding clothing. I guessed that he had no change of clothes, and I made a mental note to make sure he received new breeches, as well as a leather hat and leather cloak, as soon as Mockingbird had finished her consignment. They would be waiting for him the next time he came to Derry.
Galen sent up a shout. “A toast to the wandering son of a wandering son. May his cattle graze in bountiful pastures.”
He took a long swallow from the ’skin and passed it to Ryan. “Sláinte!” said Michael, taking it right out of Ryan’s hands. “An’ here is to your saddle, lad. Long may it hold your bum.” Then he, too, drank deep.
By now, Ryan understood that his own drink would have to wait, for Michael handed the wineskin somberly to his wife. “Health to you, Ryan,” she said. “Long may your wit be legend in Ulster.” After taking a bit of a drink, she wrinkled her nose and handed it to Liam.
“To your wineskin, me lad. May it overflow with merry beer.”
When Liam handed it to me, I lifted it gaily and told him, “An’ to your bone whistle, O Ryan. May it overflow with merry tunes.”
At last the ’skin belonged to its owner. He raised it high. “To me friends. May they outlive me enemies.” He tilted back his head and squirted, long and hard, until the thick brown stuff ran down the sides of his mouth and soaked his mustache.
We were all laughing, shouting, and drinking when Torin and Swallow came back, and most did not notice their entrance. I saw that the fair Swallow’s face was flushed and he was looking down at her with a rather softhearted grin. I wondered briefly whether Liam and I ever looked like that before we were married. Probably, I concluded wryly.
I caught Brigid’s eye and gestured toward Swallow’s new bata. She nodded and spoke a few quiet words to Michael, drawing him outside.
“May I see it, Swallow?” I asked, looking at her weapon with admiration. I saw that it was almost as pretty as my own, twisted and softly gleaming with a natural luster, studded with little nubs where Torin had cut off the side thorns.
“Torin, my armsman Gristle told me once that batas may be burnished by fire. Could you explain more to me?”
“Not exactly by fire, colleen,” he said gruffly. “No, ’tis really the smoke does the burnishing. Take your stick and rub it with butter or grease. Then wrap it in damp moss or grass and place it over the smoke hole, or safely inside your cook fire outside. There the smoke may sift through it without burning. Let the smoke slowly work its way into the wood, perhaps a day or two. When ye remove it and unwrap it, ye will see it has a deep glow. An’ sure that glow will deepen with age.”
He was answering me, but he was looking at Swallow.
“Sit down here, Torin, and Swallow,” I said. “You have made a nice weapon, and you seem know all about batas. I would know why you carry a sword but no shillelagh.”
Torin sat gingerly on a high-backed bench, and Swallow sat next to him. “Ah, lass, ’tis not a long story, nor an interesting one.”
“I would hear it anyway, O brother,” I insisted. I saw that Liam was watching us with a grin.
“Me mother calls me Torin but me real name is Lugh or Lugaid. The name seems to mean ‘white’ or ‘bright,’ like a sword. I think I was named after the god Lugus, an’ sure he was called ‘Sword Shouter’ by all who spoke his name.
“To make short of it…When I got to York, me Welsh brothers got in the habit of calling me ‘Lleu Llaw Gyffes,’ for they saw a flash or two of me sword from time to time. I could see, or hear, that Lugh and Lleu were the same, so I took to wearing me sword more an’ more. Until ye see the result. I wear it all the time.”
“Torin could shave me mustache blindfolded,” said Ryan, “using only his sword.”
I had been blessed with a fine memory, unless it was for scholarly pursuits, and I remembered clearly when I had first met Torin. He was showing off in front of me and Jay Feather, and he spoke sarcastically to an iridescent black raven, “Sit before me and attend me as the next high king of Éire—Torin, to be called Lugh Mac Lóegaire.”
“Yes. Lugh Mac Lóegairie” I said with a teasing smile. “I remember your first doting subject, the raven Talon.”
Torin shot me his “danger eye,” and then his face softened into a wicked smile. “Ye be altogether too sassy, colleen.” He spoke in rapid Gaelige to Liam, and I barely caught something about what my husband should do with my bold mouth. He and his brother laughed and slapped each other’s backs while I quietly fumed. Torin would pay, and Liam would pay, too, for encouraging him.
But the incident had given me an idea. “Swallow,” I said so that only she would hear me. “Does your mother know that Torin’s real name is Lugh?”
“No. I have told her about him briefly, but I have referred to him only as ‘Torin.’”
“Then I have a plan,” I said, and I spoke with her earnestly for about five minutes while she listened, nodding her head from time to time.
“I have nothing to lose, Caylith. If she becomes angry, it will be at you for deceiving her. For remember, I am unaware of your mischief.”
We laughed together softly. I saw Michael and Brigid walk back inside, and Bree was carrying a fine dark shillelagh. I was already standing and I leaned close to Liam’s ear. “A mo chroí, will you come outside with me a moment?”
I asked for and received Michael’s long knife. Liam and I walked outside, and I seized his large hand. I led him to the spot a few hundred feet upriver that Bree had indicated. Right away, I saw the stand of blackthorns, their rampant growth slowed somewhat by the shade of the oak canopy.
“Brindl needs a bata,” I explained. “Magpie needs a bata. You are the only one who can help them, for Thom and Raven know nothing of shillelaghs. I know you remember each of them—their size, if not their inner nature. Will you do it? Can you do it?”
Liam stood before the sloe bushes for a few minutes, seeming to look inward as he contemplated the fine, shining branches. He held out his hand, and I obediently handed him Michael’s long knife. He sliced off a branch of blackthorn then quickly pared off the protruding thorns. He held it by the bulbous top and gave it a few practice swings. Handing it to me, he said, “For Brindl.”
I saw right away that it was almost exactly the same size as my own. The heft was different, for Brindl was used to swinging a three-foot sword, and this bata was thicker and heavier than mine. I judged it to be perfect.
Again he stood gazing at the blackthorn, and he sorted through several branches before seizing on a particular twisting, handsome branch. He lopped it off just where it started to swell into a bulbous growth. Then he proceeded to trim off the thorns as he had with the other shillelagh. He held it at arm’s length before deciding where to cut it short, and with a rapid slash, the weapon was the length he wanted.
“For pretty Magpie,” he said with a grin. I accepted the weapon and swung it a few times. Yes, it was short enough to fit Magpie, and pretty enough to please her eyes. I set both shillelaghs on the ground and told Liam, “Go raibh maith agat. They are beautiful. You have made two fine weapons.”
He swept me against himself with one strong arm and kissed me. Just as his tongue began to probe my mouth, I felt his groin stir under the woolen léine. His mouth was hot and insistent, and my mounting passion brought me closer and closer to his body. He thrust and moaned, and I sucked his searching tongue until we were both finding it hard to breathe. At last, I pulled away with some effort.
“Correction. You have made three fine batas today. We will test this one at home.” He rewarded my jest with his tantalizing half smile. Then each of us bent and picked up a shillelagh. Stopping where Angus and Macha were tethered, we set them with our horses’ gear to take with us tonight before we left.