Ban Talah

by A. L. Duncan

  “This torment you endure,” the voice of Tlachtga resounded, “is the pain suffered from man against man since the creation of mortal

  beings. It shall be the shield and the mantle of thy head. No spear shall rive thee. No sea shall drown thee. No fire shall consume thee. Go forth, Ban Talah, in the name of thy kings. To the Tuatha de Danann thou now belongest wholly, and to thy God of life, forever more.”

  Rings of fire engulfed the vortex like serpents in a dance and pulled the phenomenon back into the crevice of the mighty pillar stone of Cnamchaill, sealing the force of the heavens once again from humankind and leaving Ban Talah to kneel alone, weakened by the breath of rebirth.

  THE SORCERER’S BREATH of spell laid upon the land a wintery hold. Within the ensuing weeks, the days drew shorter and the nights colder. Ban Talah had traveled back through Scotland and into England before stopping near a creek an hour west of the abbey, and had finished dressing a freshly killed doe. She tied off the last of the wrapped meat that had been slung over the back of the saddle.

  “What do you think, Lugh? Is this enough to satisfy Friar Aaron’s insatiable appetite?”

  The stallion swung its head around and stared over his nose at her. Talah laughed and patted his backside. She had crouched down by a stream to wash off her dagger in the icy water when a movement caught her attention. Before her, a white raven stood upon a river rock and shivered at the rush of icy water around his feet.

  “Christ!” she exclaimed. “You scared the...”

  The look in the bird’s eyes silenced her and weighed down upon her soul. Her messenger, Bran, had just come from the meadow beyond. His eyes conveyed urgent tidings. Images poured into her mind. Bran was communicating to her what diabolical intent had pressed itself upon the innocent lives of the abbey.

  Talah focused on his memory. Bitter winds blew through the frozen leafed trees and darkened minds steeled by blackened hearts. Horses and men alike stiffened against the icy gale that pushed them back from the cliff fortress, which overlooked Newcastle Abbey below. Standards with the king’s crest and the Holy See whipped and snapped about over an ornate carriage drawn by a team of four horses.

  “The same image I’ve seen in visions,” gasped Talah. “When, Bran? When did they come?”

  “It is too late,” spoke Bran to her heart.

  Talah shoved the dagger back under her belt and scooped up her heavy gloves. Mounting Lugh she quickly departed, following Bran’s lead.

  Lugh plunged into the virgin drifts that covered the glens of rolling moors. Horse and rider were the only color upon a continent of stark bleakness, save the naked woodlands that graciously cut the howl of wind from time to time. Finally, Talah reached the edge of the crag that overlooked the dark seas. Below her, Newcastle Abbey sat in still silence. The sun was high. There should have been tower bells ringing by now calling all to prayer. There was a dark foreboding that arose with the waves and stir of air. It called out to her and burned into her gut. The abbey clung to the cliff wall like an unlit sconce guarding the shores from ghost ships past. She eyed the powdery snows for trodden peaks of passers-by, only here and there finding signs about the drifts, and feeling troubled at not knowing how many made up the host.

  Talah clenched her teeth. “Yah!” she cried, digging boots into Lugh’s sides.

  Down the rocky pass she rode and far into the courtyard until she pulled back hard on the reins and halted at the horrific display of bodies cast at the foot of pillars, lying upon tower steps, and dispersed outside the courtyard and stables. She swung a leg over Lugh’s neck and slid off the saddle. Walking slowly, Talah stared in disbelief and anguish at the militant butchery. She bent down to the familiar meek face of the sister who once carried her sword to her. A blade had run her through. Frozen blood had run down the girl’s jaws from the space where her tongue had once been. Wide-eyed, Talah twisted about and found others murdered the same tortured way. The sudden, impending dread overtook her limbs, making her stumble to her feet.

  Marion!

  Dashing down the veranda, echoes of her cries overlapped each other like chants.

  “Marion!” she shouted. “Marion!”

  Suddenly, she stopped before the great oak doors to the nave and altar. She bent down to touch a puddle of nearly fresh blood. Doors were thrashed open to reveal a trail of blood all the way to the altar. Talah’s heavy footfalls echoed within the empty cathedral as she made her way with sullen eyes toward the candle-lit image of a crucified Christ. She felt her tears begin to fall as she recognized Marion’s collapsed form sprawled before the altar steps.

  Talah fell to her knees, grief-stricken. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched Marion’s bloodied lips. She pulled the body close and cradled Marion’s head in her lap as tears of pain and rage swelled beyond charge. The abbey shook as lightning cracked through the clouds at her howling cry.

  At dusk, the air calmed and the seas roared their mournful ebb tide. The only light ablaze next to her small pit was the bonfire of cremated bodies in the courtyard. The only honor and valor left to give them for their martyrdom. Talah sat upon the high ridge that overlooked the sight, her back to the setting sun, the sky a warm glow of pinks nearly lost to the dense mists. She would stand vigil throughout the night, with a spiced cake on a pile of rocks before her. Such was tradition to honor the fallen Celtic-Christians.

  Talah held a hand over the rocks and with a dagger’s point sliced into her palm. After enough blood sprinkled atop the stones’ surfaces, she fed the fire its share. To solidify her quest, to the lives taken at the abbey and others that died before them, she vowed silently that hers shall be the last blood spilled on these plains by the injustices of the cloth, even if it meant her life.

  By morning, the dawn awoke to find Ban Talah kneeling before the pile of rock, which covered the only body she could not burn— Marion’s. Talah caressed a lock of Marion’s hair she had cut before burying the body. She closed her eyes remembering the last time she touched this perfumed golden hair, swept back from a loving face. Placing the lock in a small pouch about her waist she gathered herself with a heavy heart. After crossing herself, Talah removed a Celtic cross from around her neck and laid the chain atop a small standing stone.

  She mounted Lugh and looked down to the hollow little fortress of God that was for so long inhabited with song and spirited orderliness. Already she longed for the voices that could now only echo from the deep recesses of her spirit. Bran, her raven companion, flew overhead and called her back to her present senses, reminding her of the impending quest that must now carry her onward. Before turning Lugh around, Talah raised a hand in Gaelic blessing:

  “The sea by your voice, your form, your wealth and healing. May it mend your thatch of wounds and call upon angel’s dowry to grace your halls in peace, and spirits upon ebb tide guard your quietude as the prayers of Mary and Brighid keep open your doors, forever, to the light of God.”

  Ban Talah rode south into the midst of England, uncertain of the days ahead. She recalled her father, a mortal, once saying that all is uncertain and temporary in the lives of mortals. For Talah, there was something astounding about the lust of life that reached beyond the duality of spirit and soul.

  Chapter Three

  THE LAND HAD not succumbed to its wintry enchantment without a struggle. A gust of wind would now and again rise up to greet any human flesh that would flinch. Ban Talah had stood for some time looking down from atop a high ridge, her eyes red with wrath and heart full of bitter retribution. She was fitted with her signature attire: a white metal mantle, Lisula in hand, and blue Pict war paint known to her ancient people, drawn to the shape of a raven’s wings.

  From where she stood, she could hear the steely cackles of the king’s men below. The mystic tide of such sorceries did not seem to affect the robust malice of their hearts. She could smell their greed on the gales as they laughed and gambled over their spoils of church relics as if they were bounty from an enemy country instead of
their own. Soldiers tossed bibles, scrolls, and other books from libraries into the licking flames of campfires with little regard to their significance other than providers of continued warmth.

  The captain of the troops stepped out of his tent and winced at the cold bitterness slapping against his cheek. Turning his back against the wind, he stretched toward the eastern horizon where dawn had peaked only a short time ago. Talah met his eyes and waited for him to notice her figure before she lifted a stone over her head and held her arm outstretched. Yes, she thought. How delicious it was to sense terror in the captain’s mannerisms.

  Talah allowed the cold winds to call in her warriors, who filed along the ridge beside her. Dutifully, her seven hundred waited until the stone dropped from her hand. All at once, the slope was filled with Scottish, English, and Welsh warriors on foot and horseback swarming past Talah’s unswerving stance, descending upon the embankment like locusts. They trampled toward the camp with war cries, brandishing blades, axes and bows.

  Talah turned on her heel and was given Lugh’s reins by another warrior standing ready. Mounting her war horse, she breathed satisfaction knowing surprise this day was hers. Screams and shouts were heard over the rush of roaring horse hooves and clashing of club and steel. The name Ban Talah issued forth to echo past the ears of those running toward the Cardinal’s tent. Talah knew she must reach that tent.

  From the forest, warriors on foot raged toward those trying to gather their horses. The corrals had been emptied by Ban Talah’s band, which was now encircling the encampment. Petrified, there was little the king’s men could do but stand and fight.

  The shrill crack of lightning startled even the most battle-ready. For this was not just any lightning, but the resounding of Ban Talah’s presence. Many of the king’s men had fought alongside Ban Talah not long ago. Now, they were forced to taste her wrath. Fierce and relentless the battle waged. As Talah fought her way through the throng, her blade found its way through this or that belly or sliced into the head or back of another. An arrow through the chest fell another soldier before he could swipe at Ban Talah. His body collapsed, allowing full view of the king’s captain before Ban Talah’s eyes. His blood-splattered face paled and twitched. The captain gripped his sword with white knuckles.

  “You’re supposed to be dead.” he seethed, stepping away from her glare. “I saw you die.”

  “We all see what we want to see, Peter,” Talah replied. “Would you like to give it another try?” He staggered and clenched his teeth. “What’s the matter? You didn’t think I knew who shot that arrow into my chest?” she taunted, eyeing his golden crest. “That glorious red apron you wear deceived you, my friend. Your face might have been hidden in the tower that day, but the mark of a captain shone itself proudly.” From her belt she withdrew the shaft from the arrow she’d held onto for six years. “Would you like it back, Peter?”

  The captain hollered and attacked her with replenished boldness as she countered and thrust in return. Their personal battle issued on between the many being wounded or killed. Despite weariness, the resentment of six years toward one another heated each other’s vindictiveness. Soon, Talah’s fury proved the stronger and the captain found himself unsuccessful in his attempts to deflect her blows.

  Exhausted, the captain staggered over a body and fell onto his back. Talah was quickly on top of him. Sword tip to his throat, she drew back her other hand which grasped the arrow. His howling scream echoed among the masses as the arrow was plunged deep into his forehead.

  She stepped back a moment to catch her breath and stared at the body before her with disgust. Something around his neck caught her eye. Bending down over him she pulled at a chain, mostly hidden under his mail. Dangling from the chain was a ring. To her anguish, the very signet ring worn by her beloved abbess.

  “Stop that carriage!” a voice rang out. “The Cardinal is in it!”

  Hearing this, Talah’s eyes fell to tiny slits at the name of the cloth that left abbeys like hers in ruin. This is the man who gave the order, she thought darkly.

  With swift eradication she ran, over bodies and around swinging blades. She whistled to Lugh, and the horse quickly appeared next to her as she dashed up an overturned ox cart, jumped into the saddle and began to chase the departing carriage. Through the thick forest the carriage fled with Talah close behind.

  Bare branches lashed across her skin and ripped into her leathers and cloak. Sliding her sword back into its scabbard across her back, she dug into Lugh’s sides and lifted herself off him, jumping to the carriage. The driver twisted about as he saw the horse without its rider. Too late, he pulled a dagger from his waist and let go of the reins to strike at the figure overtop him. Before he could strike again he was being kicked in the jaw and tumbled out onto the pass.

  Talah didn’t have time to breathe before her success turned to chaos. The horses took the curve in the road too sharp, crashing the carriage into the side of a tree and tossing her harshly onto the cold ground. The forest echoed with the sounds of splintering wood and crows dashing from the canopied branches above.

  Standing with aching limbs Talah gathered herself to stumble over to the toppled heap with drawn sword. Throwing open the broken carriage door, she stood stunned at the emptiness. The Cardinal had escaped. Staggering back a few steps, the flow of exhaustion and soreness overtook her. The emotion of defeat sent her to her knees. She fell with her back against a nearby trunk, hoping that the cold ground would ease her burdens.

  Eventually, Talah emerged out of the forest and rode through the bloodied encampment. Her band of warriors had been successful in their attack, which so surprised the enemy that, like a sudden storm, it raged no more than an hour. Talah lost only a few lives while everyone at the encampment was killed. Everyone except the Cardinal. Upon seeing their leader, all cried out in victory.

  “Ban Talah! Ban Talah! Ban Talah!”

  Warriors whooped and clicked their war cries and Talah answered them with a nod of respect. Others hollered with fists and weapons waved high over their heads. Today was indeed a great day for victory. Swinging her leg over Lugh’s neck, she slid off the saddle and stood unsympathetic to the body of the captain, arrow still buried in his skull.

  Kneeling down she reached for the chain and ring about his neck and snatching it away, held it high over her head. Talah let out a war cry that initiated new cries and hollers that echoed through the rolling moors. In Talah’s mind, this raid was just the beginning of the quest to regain the valor lost to the many Celts who were killed. It was by what passion all Celts would be called out to defend. A passion of the spirit all Celts lived by and a passion they all had sworn to die by.

  THE HALLS OF the Holy See in Rome echoed in fuming retort to the news from England. Magistrates and patriarchs from all over Europe had received tidings of Ban Talah’s hostile attack and had met to discuss restoration and rebuttal. The murders of the clergy at the many abbeys and other churches were also hotly debated. And a certain Cardinal was present to make sure all blame was with Ban Talah. Disputes arose at the legendary name being issued as an enemy of the Church.

  “I cannot see how this is even plausible,” declared one. “The stories I have heard about this warrior are exemplary. She has always defended England with the utmost and sincere loyalty.”

  “She is a Celt and a Pict warrior—one of the few left of her race,” raged another. “It is obvious where her loyalties lie.”

  “King Henry has been against the Church since the beginning of his reign,” said yet another. “Who is to say she is not acting on his orders? And in his attempt to cleanse impurities he has himself become a scourge upon the face of England.”

  The magistrate, who was the eyes and ears of the pope, sat quietly listening to all the chatter impressed upon all the Holy doctrine. “Need we be reminded of the pope’s edict, gentlemen?” he said finally. “We must demand swift elimination of these heinous pagan acts in whatever manner the situation dictates. It has been wi
tnessed by one of you that this pagan woman has insulted our churches in the most devilish of ways. And he is the only survivor of the latest attack that killed nearly six hundred.” As gasps and whispers arose the Cardinal stood to the gesture of the magistrate. “Would you care to describe for us what you witnessed, Cardinal?”

  Under the red-brimmed hat, the Cardinal’s deep voice reverberated distinctly and deliberately. “When I arrived at the abbey on the shores of Newcastle, the tongues had been cut out of all the clergy and all brutally murdered. Pagan crosses were scattered about everywhere. And then upon the journey back to Canterbury our band was besieged by witchery from this woman warrior, which disarmed the men of their courage and bloodied them on the very ground upon which they stood.”

  Murmurs rose from the silence and burst into varying degrees of opposition.

  “It has been my observance,” continued the Cardinal, “in council with the king of England that he has taken ill and thus fallen to this woman’s charms and enchantments, and so given to liberties with her pagan practices to bend the laws of the Church investiture. I should say that he is no longer in his right mind and therefore all pacts should be further arranged through his eldest living son, Henry III.”

  An archbishop from upper Burgundy reflected on this a moment before speaking up. “If this King Henry of England has desecrated the Church by allowing these savage acts, surely this is evidence he has turned against the Church and deceived us with lies, siding with these Celts despite testimony the lay people’s control of the Church of England—knowing full well its practices of Paganism and Catharism.”