Lockeran (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 2)

by Ruari McCallion

  “Are you hungry, Lockeran?” he asked

  I sniffed and wiped my nose. I sneezed again and wiped my nose again.

  “You’re going to catch your death of cold, out in this weather. Come in,” he said, “come in and get dry and warm.”

  I hesitated, torn like the squirrel between something I desperately wanted and the fear of Men. I wanted to get warm, I didn’t want to be cold and I was so, so hungry. The smell of the food was making me ravenous.

  “Come away in, Lockeran,” he said. “You’ve no need to fear me. I won’t harm you.”

  I could resist no more and I walked over to the monk, naked and dirty and stinking, with my rank and matted hair hanging half way down my back and my beard on my chest and I knew I was mad but I wasn’t as mad as I had been and I didn’t want to be an animal anymore and I walked over to the cave and sat by the fire and had a mouthful of food and it was too hot and I cried, and I cried and cried and cried until I cried myself to sleep and slept for a day and a half.

  The man had brought me out of the woods and out of the hell of madness into which the touch of another, powerful Seer - and my guilt and despair - had cast me. His name was Padhraig and he was a monk from Iona. I did not tell him who I was, and Padhraig didn’t ask. But Wolf remembered me, and I remembered him. He was so delighted when I came to my senses that he leaped up, and knocked me over, covering me with licks and enthusiasm. Padhraig explained that he had realised there was something odd happening when he had first seen Wolf. He settled in well enough and didn’t seem inclined to leave the cave and Padhraig’s care but he was unusually attentive and spent some time hunting and scenting in the woods. He always came back before sunset but, most days, spent an hour or so looking at the woods and whining. That made him realise there was someone - or something - out there. He called me Lockeran, the Wild Man of the Woods, and asked my help in identifying edible roots and berries, and in catching small game - especially the big capercaillie, which he claimed he had never got the hang of trapping. I was surprised at this, because otherwise Padhraig was completely at one with the woods.

  He helped me back into the world, but not back to myself: not the self I had been. He cleaned me up and cut my hair - he had to cut it down to about a thumbnail’s length because it was so dirty that washing alone would never have tidied it up. He gave me his spare robe to wear, the only other one he had, and repaired it when I tore it on the bushes.

  It was as well he did, for when we had been together only a few days a group of Men came from a village a few miles down the glen. I detected them first, when they were still some way off: my senses were super-sharp. I started to panic and wanted to run back into the woods but Padhraig calmed me down and persuaded me to stay, though I was very frightened.

  We went on with our daily tasks, cleaning the cave and preparing food for our mid-day meal, until the outsiders arrived. There were three of them and they crashed their way through the forest so violently that it was no surprise that all the animals fled. My courage failed me and I retreated into the cave where it was dark and they might not see me.

  “Good Day to you, Magister,” the first one said, breathing heavily from the climb. He spoke in a language I barely remembered.

  “Good Day to you, my friend,” the monk replied. “Will you take something with us? We’re just about ready to eat and you’re welcome to share. You look in need of refreshment.” The four of them sat on rocks about the fire while I pretended to tidy the cave.

  “Thank you Magister. Just some bread if you have it, and some water.”

  “And some soup, surely? You’ll take a little soup with your bread?” The other three murmured their gratitude that yes, they would have some soup. Padhraig asked me for three more bowls, which I brought though I was shaking with fear and almost ran back into the cave. Only my faith in Padhraig’s kindness kept me from bolting into the woods and I sat in silence in the dim light while the four outside had their meal, exchanging small talk the while. At length they put their plates to one side and the first one spoke again.

  “Thank you Magister, that was good and very welcome. It’s a long walk up here. But we have something to ask you, if we may?” Padhraig indicated his assent. “We’ve heard that the Lockeran has been seen hereabouts. I - that is, we” he said, indicating his companions and taking in the whole of the land around, “- we think that the Lockeran has been stealing food from our traps. We’ve lost a few that seemed to have gnawed their way out of the traps, always do, but it’s too many of late. One or two would chew their foot off to get out, but not the whole leg at the joint. And he’s taken stuff from actually inside the village, one night two or three weeks ago. One of the young boys saw something, the size of a man and pale, but running on all fours off into the woods. Skelped a stone at him and he thinks he hit him, but you know what lads are like, and this one’s lost more monster fish than your saint Columba could have chased off in a month. But anyway, enough of that. Have you seen anything? We’re worried about the bairns, the women especially, you can imagine. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  I could understand only bits of this conversation as they were speaking in Pictish, not Gaelic, but I knew they were talking about me. I hunkered down into the foetal position but managed to resist sucking my thumb.

  “I understand your concern, yes I do indeed,” Padhraig replied, “but you can see there are just the two of us here. No Lockeran hereabouts as far as I’m aware.”

  “Who is your companion? I thought you were here alone?”

  “No, he’s been here a while. Since the middle of summer.” This could be construed as truth, as I had come into the area just after midsummer, but I had not actually been with Padhraig that long. “He’s a novice, come to learn the ways of the wilderness before undertaking his own tasks.”

  “He didn’t come up the Glen. We would have seen him.”

  “No, he got lost. But luckily he knows something of the country already and he came over the hills.”

  “He must be a fair climber.”

  “As I said, he grew up in the wilds of Erin - Mourne, I believe. They have mountains there too, you know.”

  “Aye, so I’ve heard,” the outsider replied. “May we meet him? He’s very quiet.”

  “He doesn’t speak your language. But of course you can meet him.” Padhraig turned towards the cave and continued in Gaelic. “Come on out, my friend. You can’t hide there for ever. It’ll be all right, I am here, and you look nothing like the one they seek.”

  I knew that Padhraig spoke the truth but I was still very, very frightened: it was some time since I had been in the company of Men and the memory of their hostility to me in my madness was very clear. I pulled myself up slowly and came reluctantly to the cave entrance. With my short hair and clerical robe I couldn’t have looked more like what Padhraig claimed, a novice, nor less like the Lockeran I had been.

  “What’s his name?” the leader demanded.

  “His name?” returned Padhraig, as if the subject had not occurred to him. “Oh, it’s, er, Anselm.”

  “Strange name, Magister,” the leader said suspiciously.

  “Aye, there are plenty of strange names about. Mine is Padhraig, which may well sound outlandish to you, but it suits me well enough.”

  “Aye, it does,” the leader replied, but did not return the courtesy by giving his own name. He was looking me up and down. “A bonny climber he must be, Magister. And lost as well. He’s lucky to be alive, even in summer. How did he find you?”

  “I prayed for his deliverance from the wilderness he was lost in, and God answered my prayer.”

  “I have heard your God is powerful.”

  “Yes. All-powerful. I would be pleased to tell you about Him. But He gave Anselm something to help him on his way.”

  “What was that?’ the three villagers stepped back and looked around, as if expecting an Angel to materialise.

  “The Sight. Anselm has the Sight. God’s mercy and his Gift bro
ught him to me.” The villagers took a further step back, and one of them made the Sign against the evil eye. Suspicion had gone now, and superstition had taken its place.

  “Well,” the leader began. One of his companions urged that they should leave. “Well now, he is doubly blessed, I’m sure. Three times blessed, for he is lucky too.” The one who wanted to go tugged at his leader’s sleeve and urged him away. “Aye, well, he seems harmless enough, so long as he’s with you. But don’t send him to the village on his own. Some don’t like the idea of the Sight; think it’s more a demon’s curse than God’s gift. For his own safety, go with him always. We’ll be away now. Thank you for the meal.” And with that they left, as abruptly and as violently as they had arrived. I cleared the plates and washed all trace of them away.

  I observed Padhraig’s practises with increasing interest and talked with him in greater depth about the Christian faith. The Druids had had a saying: “All the Kings shall become one King, and all the gods will be one God.” It was a prophecy I was well acquainted with. Some of the priests at Innisgarbh had converted to Christianity and I was not completely ignorant of the basis of it. Padhraig introduced me to the Gospel of St John, “The Gospel of God’s Love” he called it, and the day came when I - Anselm, as I had decided to be thenceforth - asked for baptism, and to be admitted to the Monastery at Iona. I confessed that I had been raised a Druid, that I was a Druid priest, and said something of my life as a mercenary. Padhraig decided that detail could wait for another day. He felt there would be no insurmountable obstruction to admission to Iona as I was literate and intelligent, and had undergone training that he thought was a good preparation for the rigours of monastic life. I did not enlighten him that, in my opinion, it was unlikely that the monastery would be anywhere near what I had gone through at Innisgarbh.

  The final decision on my admission to Iona would depend on the Abbot, but Padhraig could take care of the baptism himself. We went up the hill a short way to a rocky pool that the river had carved out for itself. We went in together; the water was icy cold. Padhraig prayed over me as I knelt in the stream, and immersed me fully three times, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Then he embraced me and welcomed me into the family of Christ.

  “Your old life is dead. Lockeran - and whoever you were before - is no more. All your sins have been washed away. You have been reborn as Anselm. Remember this day.”

  ***

  Anselm, monk of Iona, will return in Cromm’s Children, where the horror that was rooted in Innisgarbh reaches full bloom.

  The Legends and the History

  Lockeran

  A legendary “Wild Man of the Woods”. A very similar figure, named Lailoken in Welsh legend, was a madman and prophet who was supposed to have lived in the Caledonian Forest in the late Sixth Century. He is also associated with Myrddin Wyllt, a Merlin-like character, who is himself associated with the Battle of Arfderydd, which took place in 573 near modern Carlisle, in Cumbria, NW England, according to the Annales Cambriae (The Annals of Wales). He was either fighting on or was an adviser to the losing side. When he saw the King killed, he went mad and ran into the woods. In the Scottish legend, he went mad when he heard voices from heaven, in the middle of the battle. The Battle of Arfderydd was between King Rhydderch Hael, who was a Christian, and Gwenddoleu, who was described as a ‘heathen’ - a sun-worshipper. Gwenddoleu lost and was killed.

  There is a story of St Kentigern (aka St Mungo), who is patron saint of Glasgow, and Merlin/Myrddin. Again, the wizard had gone mad and fled into the forest after seeing the death of his king and lived for nearly the whole of the rest of his life as a madman. He became beast-like, growing fur instead of clothes and sporting long, matted hair. He encountered Kentigern towards the end of his life and engaged in a series of conversations with him. On the last day, he prophesied that he would meet a “triple death” - falling, stabbing and drowning - and begged Kentigern to baptise him into Christianity, so that he would not be condemned for all eternity. The saint refused at first but Merlin persisted and at last, he had his way. Later that very same day, Merlin was chased by a group of shepherds, whose sheep he had been worrying while he was Lailoken/Lockeran (or by Rhydderch Hael’s men, who had discovered where he had been hiding). He tripped and fell off a cliff into a river, where he was impaled on a stake that was being used to secure a fishing net, and was drowned as well. The legend is attached to a spot in Southern Scotland named Stobo Kirk, which is six miles south-west of Peebles.

  Penda of Mercia

  Born around AD 606, Penda became King of Mercia in about 626 and was killed in battle nearly 30 years later. He was known as a warrior king, who took Mercia to a position of pre-eminence in 7th Century England. At a time when the country was converting to Christianity he remained an adherent of the Old Religions - probably a sun-worshipper, which would be similar to Druidism. St Bede, author of “An Ecclesiastical History of the British People”, did not like him and painted him in a pretty dark light - hardly surprising, as Bede’s patron was the King of Northumbria and Penda was that kingdom’s greatest enemy, throughout what was an extraordinarily long reign, for the time. Bede described Penda as "a most warlike man of the royal race of the Mercians”.

  Penda’s first major victory as king was in 628, when he defeated the kingdom of Wessex at the Battle of Cirencester. He formed an alliance with the British kingdom of Gwynedd, then ruled by Cadwallon ap (son of) Cadfon, who was also a sworn enemy of Northumbria. The two attacked Northumbria in 633 and defeated it at the Battle of Hatfield Chase. Edwin, the Northumbrian king, was killed. Penda took Eadfrith, Edwin’s son, hostage but killed him - or had him killed - a few years later. In 634, Cadwallon was defeated and killed by Oswald, the new king of Northumbria. Eight years later, in 641, the armies of Oswald and Penda met in battle at Maserfelth (Oswestry, Shropshire), in the borderlands between Mercia and Gwynedd. The Mercian army was victorious and it is reported that Penda killed Oswald himself. That victory left him as the major power in the country. He imposed his will on East Anglia, setting up a vassal king, and killing King Anna in 653, possibly as punishment for sheltering Caenwalh of Wessex, who Penda had overthrown in 645 in punishment for Caenwalh’s repudiation of Penda’s sister, to whom he had been married.

  Hardly a year of Penda’s reign went by without a major battle but he met his end at the Battle of Winwaed, in 655 (possibly 654). It was reported that he had taken an army of “30 Legions” to finally eliminate King Oswy, brother of Oswald and ruler of the Northumbrian kingdom of Bernicia, and towards whom Penda seemed to have a particular animosity. It is highly doubtful that Penda could have assembled an army that large, no matter how much he hated Oswy; depending on the method of calculation, “30 legions” could have added up to between 100,000 and 150,000 men. It could be that the numbers were exaggerated in order to make the Northumbrian victory seem even more remarkable than it actually was - and it was pretty impressive (see below). The defeat was as disastrous a result for Mercia as the Retreat from Moscow was for Napoleon.

  Elmet

  An ancient British kingdom, located in what is now West Yorkshire and in the south-east of modern Lancashire. Its last king, Ceredic ap Gwallog, died in 617, after the kingdom was invaded by the Northumbrians under Edwin. The kingdom was formally incorporated into Northumbria in 627. However, the name survives in some placenames even today, and a study published in Nature magazine (19 March 2015) found that the local population of that part of West Yorkshire seemed to be genetically distinct from the rest of the population of both Yorkshire and the rest of England, indicating that the population that has been longest resident in the area may be descended from the British of the 7th Century.

  The Battle of Winwaed

  In AD 654 or 655, catastrophic defeat in the Battle of Winwaed broke the power of Mercia and handed it to Northumbria, under King Oswy. It was a major turning point in Seventh Century Britain. It marked the destruction of the last overtly Pagan kingdom in
England, although some British kingdoms remained unconverted to Christianity for some time after. The power shift made possible the Synod of Whitby, which led Northumbria to swing from the Celtic Church, centred on Iona and Lindisfarne, to the Roman Church.

  The strongest candidate for the River Winwaed appears to be Cock Beck, which is in present-day Leeds, in West Yorkshire. It runs through Pendas Fields - a housing estate - to join the River Wharfe and on to the Humber.

  The claim in some historical documents that Penda’s army consisted of “Thirty Legions” - over 100,000 men - is hard to accept, given the population of Mercia, of the English kingdoms as a whole, and the circumstances of the time. More believable is an alternative translation of Bede, which mentions “Thirty warlords”. A war-band could consist of anything from 50 to 1000 or so. I have put the size of Penda’s army at 20,000, which would have been huge for the time, vastly outnumbering anything that Oswy could muster from his kingdom of Bernicia. I have mentioned two “warlords” in particular: Cadfael of Gwynedd, who had come from nowhere to ascend his country’s throne on the death of Cadwallon in 644, and Manwgan ap Selyfan, or Mangan O’Sullivan, King of Powys. Mangan had been usurped and then regained his kingdom. The precise date of his death is uncertain but seems to have been around 655; Beli ap Eiludd took power in that year, so it is credible to number Mangan among the fallen at Winwaed. The date of Cadfael’s death is not entirely clear; it has been claimed as 655, after he withdrew his troops from the Mercian army, but it has also been reported that he died of the Plague in 664. His desertion of Penda earned him the nickname of “Battle-Shirker”.