The Saint and the Sorcerer

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The Saint and the Sorcerer Page 9

by J. C. Hanna


  “If you need to think about it lad, then you are not the man for me,” said the Irishman.

  “It’s not that, sir. I have a very specific idea of what I want. I mean no offense. It will do no harm to have a look at what you have to offer.”

  Patrick did not want to trade with the man, but he wanted even less to get on the wrong side of him. The man slapped Patrick on the back.

  “Good choice, lad. You know, you are not half as stupid as you look. You will not regret it. At the very least you will get to see what a real sheep looks like. Something to compare to the slight things that pass for mutton in this part of the world.”

  The man’s grin widened into something almost wolf-like. As the Irishman walked away, Patrick paused. An odd sensation took hold of him. He sensed danger, but he also felt compelled to follow the stranger.

  Chapter Twenty-five: The End of Innocence

  The Welsh Coast, 421 A.D.

  Patrick and the Irishman walked out of the village towards a steep, narrow path that led to the beach. The path zig-zagged down the sheer cliff face. Loose stones and clumps of parched retaining grass shifting dangerously underfoot as they moved.

  When they reached the pebbles on the oceanfront, a small flock of gulls scattered before them with frightful screams. At the edge of the water, just beyond a thin stretch of sand, a small boat sat at rest, half-in, half-out of the sea. A man was standing at the front of the vessel. He was so similar in appearance to Patrick’s companion that Patrick assumed there had to be some familial connection.

  As they approached the vessel Patrick began to feel very uneasy—there was something about the scene that did not sit well. The boat could easily hold the two men, but Patrick found it hard to believe that a flock of sheep, no matter how small, could be hiding anywhere on board.

  “Where are the sheep?” Patrick asked, choking down his concern.

  “My friend must have moved them to pasture, ahead of taking them to the market,” said the man, casually; reassuringly.

  “I see,” said Patrick, trying to suppress his doubt.

  When they were by the side of the small boat Patrick felt that the story was even less likely to be true. He turned to the man to put his concerns to him; with more determination and confidence. He didn’t get a chance to ask the questions that were buzzing around inside his head. A short, blackthorn club, struck Patrick on the side of the head. He fell to the ground. He was instantly rendered unconscious by the blow.

  “Go easy on the goods,” said the man, who stood next to the boat. “Are you after killing him?”

  “He’ll be grand,” said the other man. “Sure if he’s a goner we can throw him to the fish and gulls. He isn’t much of a specimen. We probably won’t get more than a kind word for him.”

  The men dragged Patrick’s limp body onto the boat.

  From the graveyard on the clifftop, Rufus watched the scene unfold on the beach below with much horror and utter impotence. There was no easy access to the shoreline from the graveyard. He readied himself to call out to his grandson but thought better of it at the last moment.

  In the background, Tarish dashed from headstone to headstone—unaware of the drama unfolding on the beach. He evaded the old man’s eye with ease by employing hundreds of years’ worth of experience in avoiding the gaze of humans. The fairy could sense that there was something wrong, but it wasn’t until he was next to the old man that the terrible truth appeared. The fairy did not hesitate for a moment. He leaped off the clifftop and flew at high speed towards his young charge.

  The men slowly pushed the boat back into the water, from where it had rested on the shoreline, until it attained buoyancy. Rufus finally shrugged off his paralysis and he turned and rushed towards the gateway to the graveyard. The last-minute attempt to stop the unfolding catastrophe was ill-fated. His left foot snagged a broken headstone that was poking out of the ground like a decrepit, rotten tooth. He fell headfirst into another headstone. Rufus was out cold.

  Tarish slipped onto the little boat unnoticed. He vanished under a small pile of blankets, and assorted items of clothing, heaped at the front of the vessel.

  Patrick came back to the world of the living under a veil of darkness. The slavers had bound his hands at the wrists at the front. The men had clamped his ankles in primitive, iron shackles, linked together by a short, thick chain. A grey woollen blanket, that smelled of rotten fish, covered him from head to toe. Patrick shifted with mild alarm when something moved about his feet. The source of the movement scurried up the length of his aching body. Patrick half expected a black rat to emerge from the gloom. Instead, a smart burst of light appeared before him; cancelling the darkness at once, and lifting the child’s spirits.

  “Can you untie me?” asked Patrick, with hushed optimism.

  “The time is not right, boy,” said Tarish, with annoyance. “The moment for safe escape will arrive. Patience, boy.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Patrick protested. Then adding, as a shameful afterthought. “Where is my grandfather?”

  “He is safe, back on land.”

  It was an inadvertent lie. The old man appeared fine when the fairy had left him on the clifftop.

  “Where are they taking me?” asked Patrick.

  “Where are they taking us,” Tarish corrected. “They are taking us to Ireland. You are to be a slave.”

  Patrick swallowed hard.

  “Slave?” he exclaimed.

  “Yes boy. It looks like you might have to do an honest day’s work for the first time in your life. Do not be worried, they have no idea that I am here. I will be free enough.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes.

  “Well, that is good news, old friend,” Patrick said, emphasizing the word, friend. “If you are free, then all is well with the world.”

  “Don’t be such a child!” Tarish rebuked. “If I am free then I will be able to free you. When the time is right.”

  Patrick’s face flushed red with embarrassment.

  “After you have done a day’s work. Or two,” added Tarish, impishly.

  “You are such a comfort,” said Patrick.

  “I wouldn’t worry about a life of slavery,” Tarish said, calmly.

  “Why not?”

  “We are heading into a storm. And it’s a big one. This boat is barely fit for calm waters. A storm will surely send her to the bottom.”

  “Well then, I’ll sit back and relax.”

  “I have an escape plan.”

  “I’m heartened to hear that. Do you feel like sharing?”

  “I intend to fly out of here if the boat goes down.”

  “And what about me?”

  Tarish paused for a moment, and then he asked, in a sincere tone of voice.

  “Is there any possibility that you could grow a set of wings before the storm hits?”

  “I will do my best,” said Patrick. “Maybe we could work on a backup plan, just in case?”

  Tarish grimaced before streaking off, leaving Patrick alone in the gloom under the smelly blankets.

  Chapter Twenty-six: Twenty-seven Days Until Amy’s Death

  A day had passed since Branna’s last visit to Amy’s apartment. She had taken her mind off the experience by going shopping. By the time she returned to her apartment that evening, laden with the spoils of her retail hunt, the Irish witch was little more than an uneasy afterthought; lurking in that part of her mind reserved for childhood nightmares, foolish crushes, and long-term planning.

  Amy tried on several of the new outfits in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. She was not happy with the haul. Each of get-ups seemed so perfect when she was in the store; but on closer inspection, they just didn’t seem right. She was going to the event to check-out the costumes that others had carefully and thoughtfully put together. Playing dress-up was not her thing. Black jeans, black top, big black boots, and killer eyeliner; simple, but perfectly effective, and exclusively her. She scanned the room for that very, exclusively
her, attire.

  “Damn it,” she snarled.

  Her favourite black jeans were not lying on the bedroom floor where she had left them. The bedroom floor was the natural dwelling place for black jeans—it was one of the most fundamental and immutable laws of the Universe.

  “I have a system,” Amy complained, to the empty apartment.

  She returned to her bedroom. Within minutes, several drawers, which had been instantly, magically, filled with carefully folded clothes the previous evening, were emptied with manic delight. She looked down proudly at the mess on the floor.

  “Perfect,” she said, with a grin.

  In the last drawer, she found her jeans.

  “There you are,” she said, as she held up the jeans for inspection.

  “Pity you hadn’t run a magic iron over these before you put them away, witch” she hissed.

  Ten minutes later and she was good to go.

  “Don’t wait up,” she said, to Lord Norfolk.

  The cat was comfortably curled up on the seat in front of the television and it did not move.

  Although it was only a five-minute walk to the park, the semi-darkness of twilight somehow lengthened the stroll. The streets were empty. Not at all odd any other night, but with such a massive event so close, she was a little concerned. Had she got the date wrong? The time? She checked the event app. Right date. Right time; and from the attendee locator, there were lots of people in the area heading her way. The uncertainty disappeared as she approached the park. Dozens of young people were streaming towards the event from all directions. Amy grinned.

  “Showtime,” she muttered.

  She pulled her phone from a pocket in her jeans and activated the video. Hitting record, she walked on carefully. She intended to put together highlights from the footage that she shot and then upload it to her YouTube channel. There were hundreds of vampires. Dozens of witches. Zombies by the score. And a few, like Amy, too cool to play dress-up.

  A werewolf stepped into the shot. He howled.

  “Nice, dude,” Amy said, nodding with approval.

  The guy in the werewolf costume moved towards her.

  “If you scratch my tummy, I’ll roll over and play dead,” said the wolf.

  “And we’re done,” Amy said, before turning and walking away.

  The wolf, not at all despondent, moved on to his next victim. Amy turned around when the guy howled again. He was talking to a girl dressed as a princess. After a short time, the girl took the wolf by the hand. The couple walked towards an old oak tree at the back of the crowd.

  “That worked?” Amy said, to herself. “Good for you, dude. Though, Princess Barbie, what are you thinking? Each to their own.”

  As Amy turned to walk away a scream sounded out above the happy din coming from the revellers. It was not a shriek of joy. She scanned the crowd. Most of them continued with their fun; they either didn’t hear the scream, or they weren’t bothered by it. Her eyes landed on Princess Barbie. She was standing by the tree. She was alone. It all made sense.

  “Play with a strange dog and you will get bitten,” she said, under her breath. “Or at the very least, you’ll catch fleas.”

  The girl screamed again. She was looking up into the tree. Amy ran across to the girl. The girl looked petrified. There was blood on her face. Amy reached out and stroked the girl’s face, cautiously. There was no obvious wound. She showed her blood-stained fingers to the girl.

  “Is this yours,” Amy demanded. “Did he hurt you?”

  The girl looked at once confused and terrified.

  “No, it’s… It’s…,” stammered the girl. “It’s his.”

  “Did he attack you?” Amy asked, in a calmer voice.

  “No!” snapped the girl. “Something attacked him.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Amy, as she glanced around aimlessly.

  The girl looked up into the tree. Amy shot her a quizzical look. Amy eventually looked up. She saw nothing. Before she had a chance to interrogate the girl further, more terrified screams sounded out from across the park. People ran in all directions. Princess Barbie began to run, leaving Amy standing by the tree. In every direction, there was utter chaos. There wasn’t a cop in sight.

  “Typical,” Amy hissed, at the lack of blue uniforms.

  Above her, in the tree, there was a sudden but short-lived burst of movement. Branches shook and leaves rustled, before falling perfectly still. As she looked up, someone dropped from the branches and knocked her to the ground. The guy in the werewolf costume pinned Amy to the damp grass. He pulled off the wolf mask. He was in his late teens. Short black hair, blue eyes, and two-day-old stubble. Saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth, and a little of the spittle dripped onto Amy’s face.

  “Get the hell off me,” she protested.

  The boy smiled. As he did, his face contorted into a set of fixed ridges. His canines quickly elongated.

  “Nice cross-over, dude,” Amy said, through false bravery.

  As the boy moved to bite her, he suddenly stopped. A look of agony spread across his face. His lifeless body fell off Amy, to reveal Branna. She was holding Amy’s sword. It was blood-stained. Amy got to her feet in a hurry.

  “What have you done?” Amy asked, with alarm.

  Branna turned towards the terrified crowd.

  “See for yourself,” Branna said.

  As the people fled for their lives, some of them were being attacked—knocked to the ground and then bitten. Sounds of terror filled the park, and in the near distance, sirens from cop cars blared.

  “Come with me if you want to live,” Branna said, with urgency.

  Branna held out a hand. Amy looked at the crowd one last time.

  “OK, Terminator. I want to live,” said Amy.

  As she took Branna’s hand, the wind was suddenly knocked out of her. It was as if some mysterious force had punched her hard in the gut. She looked in the direction of the boy in time to witness his body burst into flames. The world around her began to fade.

  Chapter Twenty-seven: The Captive

  The Irish Sea, 421 A.D.

  Patrick remained as small and as still as he could comfortably manage under the weighty heap of cloth. His neck ached and his legs were speeding towards rebellious cramps. He twitched uncontrollably with increasing frequency, and he then fell perfectly still in anticipation of his consciousness being discovered. He feared that the men would surely strike him again if they sensed that he was alert.

  Tarish was gone for quite some time and Patrick wondered if the fairy would ever return to free him. At the point when his misery and despair were at their height, the boat came to a sudden, juddering stop. Patrick was convinced that they had collided with something solid; such was the power of the sensation. Cautiously, Patrick peeled back the cloth and he peered out. He squinted in anticipation of a blow that did not come.

  The Irishmen were standing at the prow of the small craft. They struggled to maintain balance as the boat rose and fell on the lively water. They wore expressions of deep concern. They had lost all interest in Patrick as they conversed at a frantic pace.

  “I see nothing,” said the man Patrick had met in the village.

  “At least there’s no damage,” replied his comrade. “She hasn’t taken on water. But she hit something. That was no wave. It was solid. A seal?”

  The other man did not respond to the suggestion. He was too focused on the danger ahead to concern himself with a hazard that had already passed.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” said the man, as he looked out towards the horizon.

  Patrick sat up. In the distance, dark and angry storm clouds were massing at high speed. The sky boiled with clouds of grey and black, and unfocused lightning illuminated the mass of cloud from within. The powerful force of nature was moving quickly, and it was heading in the direction of the boat. As the tempest loomed over the small craft, the sea on which the boat floated turned inky black.

  “Should we head
back?” asked the first man.

  The question was asked through desperation; all on board knew that they could not escape the mighty squall. There was an extended pause before the reply.

  “No mate. It is too late.”

  The storm gathered pace as if cruelly sprinting towards the craft and its eventual destruction. It was unnatural. It was almost as it the tempest was actively hunting the vessel. Within minutes the bank of clouds towered above them, like a mighty wall, or a giant cobra, preparing to strike. Silence and stillness fell over the scene for the briefest of moments. The small boat began to sway gently. The gentle swaying motion grew into a wild, pendulous rocking. The Irishmen sought shelter in the centre of the boat as heavy rain began to batter the vessel. Patrick took shelter beneath the covers.

  For half an hour, the boat tossed this way and that on the angry sea; and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm was gone—or so Patrick perceived from his hiding place. As he peeled back the fabric and peered out once more he saw that the sky was still black and angry. Flashes of thunder-less lightning streaked across the face of the storm, like enraged veins of brilliant white light.

  “We are in the eye of the storm,” said the first.

  “No, my friend, that’s not it at all. Look!”

  The man pointed as he finished speaking. Patrick sat up. In the distance, out on the water, he could see two figures. Patrick instantly recognised the figures as Victoricus and Tarish. His protectors calmly approached the boat; the angel walked lightly across the surface of the water, with the fairy effortlessly hovering next to the heavenly creature’s head.

  “The little one’s a sprite; but what’s going on with the big fella?” asked the first.

  There was no reply.

  “One thing’s for sure,” continued the first, “they are coming this way. And another thing, and this one’s for dammed sure; I’m not waiting around for any, how do you dos.”

  The first jumped into the water. His friend, after a short instant of deliberation, jumped in after him. Their attempts at swimming were desperate, to begin with, but once they regained a little sense, they removed some of their outer garments, and they swam away from the boat at a respectable pace.

 

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