by Walt Socha
* * *
Using only his right hand, Matuso pulled his pack from underneath the sheltering sail. Stifling a yawn, he turned back to the camp. In the center of the clearing, Hatimu sat by the cook fire, adding wood to the glowing embers. To the right, Larry waved his hands at several of the men. Matuso watched as two of them moved into the trees surrounding their camp. Around the perimeter of their camp, people were laying out ground skins and blankets. Matuso smiled. Habits were easily formed; everyone chose the same spots as they had on the previous night.
Hefting his pack with his right hand, Matuso walked to his place between Deirdre and Anya. Kicking away a few smaller rocks he’d missed the previous evening, he dropped his belongings and, one handed, started to pull out a sleeping skin and his blanket.
“May I help?” Anya appeared at this side.
“Yes,” Matuso said. “I just need help spreading this out. I’ll be able to finish on my own.” He stumbled over the Eire words as she grabbed one edge of the skin and pulled it taunt. “Thanks. Are you doing well?”
“I am alive. My son is alive.” The campfire illuminated only part of her face as she looked at Matuso. “But my distant home is only a dim memory. The only memories I have are those of being a slave to her,” Anya nodded in the direction of Deirdre, “and a plaything to her father. Father Ivar says that the man-god Jesus wants us to love our enemies.” Anya continued to stare past Matuso. “But I don’t understand why this Jesus would allow me to be used in that way. I was only a child when my family was sold to Deirdre’s household.”
“I don’t believe in gods.” Matuso watched her head rise. The whites of her eyes flashed small reflections of the fire. “Life is suffering. All we can do is live our lives so that it is more bearable for everyone.”
“I suffer because of Deirdre and her family.”
“It is not dishonorable to dislike her actions.” Matuso watched the firelight illuminate her clenched jaw. “She is blind to your suffering. I will try to help her see.”
Anya did not respond and the gleam of her eyes vanished as she looked away.
“We are captives to the voices in our heads. They tell stories but those stories are not always true.”
“Where do the false stories come from?” Anya’s eyes again reflected fire.
“Some believe they are from devils or evil spirits. But I think they come from our fears. Fears fed by our former experiences or sensations. Some good, some bad.”
“My experiences are all bad.”
“Your child is good,” Matuso said. He hoped it was so. What else could she value?
A small frown flashed across Anya’s face as she turned. “I must attend to Conal.”
As Matuso turned back to his pack, he noticed Deirdre glancing away and busying herself with her blanket. Wetting his lips, Matuso unbuckled his sword belt, dropped it on his bedding and walked to Deirdre. “How are you?” he asked.
“Are you impressed with that sarding cow?” Deirdre removed a pin from her hair and shook it free.
“She’s just trying to survive.” Matuso wet his lips again. “She’s frightened for herself and her child. Were those her parents back at your farmstead?”
Deirdre turned her face away from the direction of the fire. After several breaths, she faced Matuso, her forehead and eyes reflecting red. “She’s just a slave.”
“She’s a slave because evil men took her away from her home. Just like those raiders were taking you.”
Deirdre did not answer.
“Put yourself in her position,” Matuso said.
“The priests of the new god say that slaves deserve their fate because of their past evil.”
“Anya says she was brought here as a slave when she was a child.” Matuso caught a small tightening of Deirdre’s jaw muscles. “Punishing children is not the action of a just god.”
Deirdre did not answer. She lay on her skin and pulled her blanket over her head.
Matuso walked back to his bedding. Beyond, Anya and Conal were lumps under their own blanket.
Chapter 8
July 13
Lifting the edge of his sling to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Matuso sighed. Other than a few breaks to update his map, they had spent most of the day hiking along the sides of the mountains, past the lake, along the upper Caragh River, and into the thick vegetation of a broadening valley.
Larry had taken most of the uninjured men to finish dragging the Seabird up the lower Caragh River to the lake, leaving the rest to lead the refugees overland. But before leaving he’d asked Matuso and Ivar to scout out the valley. Matuso wondered if dragging the heavy boat up the rocky sections of the shallow river wouldn’t be easier than forcing their way through virgin forest and brush.
“This area looks like it had once been cleared,” he said as they broke into a more open area of waist-high grasses and small bushes that stretched over an area several hundred strides wide, bounded on two sides by thick trees. Breaks in the trees hinted at other possible fields to the west. Leaning posts defined the south side. A large pool in the Caragh formed the northern boundary.
“Old farmstead. Needs to be burned off.” Ivar pointed to a mound of thick weeds a few strides away. “A decayed home. In another few years, it won’t even be visible.”
“Where did they go?”
“Possibly illness.” The young priest turned in place as he scanned the area. “Or they just gave up. There is a large abbey to the east. Called Innisfallen. Maybe two or three days slow walk. They may have moved there.”
Matuso whipped his head around to stare at Ivar. “What clan allegiance?”
“Ur Briain, which Larry said was the clan of his father. And the Abbot has Ur Neill blood from his mother, which is a weaker connection.” Ivar stared to the east for several heartbeats. “But allegiances change with the whims of the pretender kings.”
“What do you mean by pretender?”
“Several clans claim kingship by history and by arms.” A weak smile curved Ivar’s mouth. “Some even claim to be Christian, to worship the true God.” He shrugged, his smile fading. “But they all fight. And kill.”
“I met some of your Christians in Iceland.” Matuso clasped Ivar on the shoulder. “I was not moved by their beliefs. Most of us follow the path of Buddha.”
“Who is this Buddha?”
“A man who lived in a far land a long time ago.” Matuso gave Ivar another squeeze before letting go. “He preached moderation and service.”
“You said most. What about the few?”
Matuso paused. Did he even want to get into this? “My people were in the midst of a war when five people of great knowledge appeared from a long journey to save them. Some believe that one of them, Kristi, is a goddess.”
“Who were the other four?”
Matuso let a laugh escape. “One is my father. Another is Larry. Not gods unless gods shit and bleed.”
“Your father?” Ivar looked confused. “You are of noble birth?”
“Not noble birth.” Matuso started to laugh again. Stopped. “It’s actually a burden.” He looked at his companion. “No, it is more of a curse.” Odd that he would voice his fears to this strange priest.
Ivar stared, his face blank of expression. Waiting.
“It is hard to be the son of the most famous man in all of Haven.” Matuso forced in a deep breath. Briefly closed his eyes as he let it out.
Ivar remained still.
“Expectations are very high. I love my parents, but I sometimes wish they were not so famous.” Matuso wondered if his Eire was getting his meaning across. And whether he should even be trying.
“That is not a problem I have.” The edges of Ivar’s mouth lifted briefly before turning down. “But I have seen it in the sons of powerful men. I followed a different path. The path of the man-god Jesus. Maybe because I am not strong with a sword?” He stood a hand width shorter than Matuso, with a thin frame, now slumped, and a face covered by a wispy beard.
&
nbsp; “The sword is not the only measure of a man.” Matuso watched Ivar’s face tighten. The man had his own ghosts.
“So who worships this Kristi?”
“Only a few. Larry and the others just respect her for her skills.”
“Larry is a powerful man. But I agree that he is not a god.” Ivar stood straighter, his chest expanding. “It would be an honor to tell you of the holy man-god Jesus who lived life among us before returning to heaven.”
Matuso noted the eagerness flash across Ivar’s face. He was a kind man. And not deserving of insults. “Thank you, but not today.”
Ivar nodded, but he kept his posture erect. “I heard talk that you traveled from the west. That, I do not understand.”
“There are many lands to the west.” Matuso hoped the relief in the change of subject did not show. “But they are a very long journey away. And travel on the ocean is dangerous.”
“Even here, the local salt waters can be treacherous. Even more so when the Northmen sail upon it.”
“Did they raid here before?”
“This is the first time in this part of our island. We only used to hear tales of their attacks. And recent news tells of their alliances with pretender kings.”
“What of the attack on Jarl Ros? The invaders wore the sign of two lions facing each other. And they appeared to be supported by your Northmen in ships.”
“That is the herald of the Ur Neill, a powerful clan from the north.” Ivar’s mouth tightened. “A clan of one of the pretender kings, although their claim goes further back in time than many others. I suspect that they allied with one of the Northmen groups.”
“Other than the abbey, are there any other large villages or farms near here?”
“I have not heard of any in this valley. But there are settlements to the north and east of here.” Ivar stared nowhere for several heartbeats. “I serve the church through the Abbot. He has much power and is responsible for the people in this region. Perhaps I should discuss my superior with Larry?”
“He would want any information about anyone with influence in this region. You say your Abbot is east of here?”
“Beyond those mountains.” Ivar pointed east.
Matuso’s eyes followed Ivar’s outstretched hand. The main part of the valley appeared to run south, following the river to its headwaters but it bulged east to meet the eastern mountains. These broke apart in a set of small hills that defined the valley’s northeastern boundary.
“We have sufficient supplies.” Matuso pointed northeast. “I think we should see if there are any passes through those hills that could lead to your abbey.”
Chapter 9
July 14
“Ouch.” Matuso slapped the side of his head as he turned to face uphill. A pinecone fell and bounced at his feet.
Howls of laughter echoed between the steep sides of the mountains that flanked the lake. Forty strides up the hill, two forms rose from behind boulders, shaking off dusty tunics and dropping pine branches.
“Good thing you aren’t a deer,” Nanisu said, wiping his eyes. “Or you would be dinner.”
“If I was your dinner, I’d make sure you choked.” Forcing a smile, Matuso readjusted his left arm in his sling.
“You’d be too tough anyway,” Hallur added between wheezing breaths.
“Why is Larry posting guards?” Matuso asked.
“Actually, we’re looking for you.” Nanisu skidded down the slope. “We want to know why you skipped out on moving the refugees and them shitting animals to the lake.”
“Plus we hadn’t expected you to be gone overnight,” Hallur added, sliding to a stop next to Nanisu.
“We did take supplies.”
“We know. But Larry was worried. Scouts reported more warships in the bay.” Nanisu turned and pointed along the lake. “We’re down there.” The low surrounding mountains pinched an oval of land almost across the lake, nearly cutting it in two. A wispy plume of smoke rising from this small peninsula identified their new camp.
* * *
“Where is everyone?” Matuso frowned as he broke from the thick brush that divided the virgin forest of the lower hillside from the tall grasses that covered most of the spit of land.
Less than forty strides in front of him, a collection of lean-tos covered in grasses surrounded the cook fire where Hatimu sat, the young warrior’s injured leg again stretched out along the rock fire ring. Keelin, the elder refugee women, turned a spit with a large roast of deer on it, from which fragrant drops of fat fell. Matuso’s stomach grumbled in spite of his aversion to meat.
“I’d guess most of the men not on sentry duty are still dragging the Seabird upriver,” Hallur said, emerging from the brush behind Matuso. “We left them to find you. They still had a few more stretches of shallow water to deal with.” Hallur snorted. “I suppose I should thank you, given that I’m on dry ground instead of slogging through cold water up to my knees.”
“The women are out foraging for edibles,” Hatimu said as Matuso approached the fire. “The children are searching for dry wood.”
At the sound of cracking branches, Matuso turned. The two older refugee children emerged from the bushes, grinning as they dragged dead branches longer than they were tall. One of them dropped his load and pointed.
Matuso turned in the direction of the child’s arm. Out in the lake, dim in the shadow of the mountain, a ship skimmed toward them. Three oars on each side dipped and pulled in time. A figure stood at the prow.
As the ship approached the shoreline next to their camp, the man in the prow became Larry, his face cracked by a broad smile.
* * *
“Come on.” Signaling to the young priest, Matuso walked away from the men drinking Hatimu’s weak tea. “We both need a bit of a wash.”
At the water’s edge, Matuso untied his boots and stripped off his shirt. The breeze had cooled with the setting sun and he shivered as he splashed the cold mountain water over his face and chest. Untying the bandage around his left bicep he examined the red scar in the dim light. The cold water initially stung the tender flesh, but he sighed as the sweat and oil rinsed away. Maybe after another week he could start exercising it.
“I am confused by your bathing.” Ivar sat on the shore, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Exposing the body to too much water causes sickness.”
Matuso leaned down and, with both hands, soaked his hair. “We will need to talk about disease theory.” Pulling off his boots and rolling up his leggings, he edged his way into knee-deep water, his numb toes feeling their way through the dark water. Leaning over, he dunked his entire head. Gasping, he straightened and laughed. “Ivar, I’ve been meaning to bring this up, but you Eirefolk stink.”
As Matuso rinsed out his shirt, he pretended not to notice Ivar splashing water on his face at the lake’s edge.
Shivering in the night air, and with his damp shirt hanging over his shoulder, Matuso joined the line for the evening porridge. “What ingredients do we have tonight?” he asked as Hatimu filled a clay bowl. Beside him, Keelin squatted, sawing at the dripping roast with her knife.
“Keelin and Cassan came back with thick roots that she said were from the original cultivated fields. Also some wild onions and pot herbs to add to the grains.” The Haven warrior pushed the ladle deep and added more thick gruel to Matuso’s bowl. “Anya added some shoots. I haven’t a clue what they are. Chewed a few. Seemed okay.”
Keelin frowned when Matuso didn’t stop for a cut of the deer haunch. “No thanks,” he said, trying a smile to alleviate her expression.
“People say that some Christian monks do not eat meat. Are you a monk?” Raising an eyebrow at Matuso, Keelin turned the sizzling haunch by jabbing it with the sharp end of a green branch and using it to lever the roast a quarter turn.
“No.” Matuso hesitated. “But my beliefs do not include the eating of animals and fowl.”
“I have no restriction against meat,” Ivar said, appearing at Matuso’s side. “Except
for those days proscribed by the church.”
Matuso caught a faint expression of puzzlement on Ivar’s face before the young priest looked down to accept a slice of the dripping meat from Keelin.
* * *
As Matuso lowered himself into the ring of men and refugees around the cook fire, he felt Larry’s eyes following his every move.
“What’s your assessment of the valley?” Larry spoke in English. The Havenite men looked up, eyes on Matuso.
“All appears quiet,” Matuso said, continuing in English. “My companion thinks there’s a abbey to the east, beyond the mountains. On an island in the middle of a lake.” Matuso nodded in Ivar’s direction. “The reason for staying overnight was to check out a pass to the northeast of the valley.”
“Danger?” Larry asked, sticking to English.
“No recent sign of passage through the lower passes. From a bald hill, we could make out a river cutting through the forest from the west to the north. Probably flows from the abbey’s lake to the estuary. We could see smoke near the river. Probably a farmstead. I’d guess it’s about halfway.”
“Sounds like your Bald Hill is a good lookout point. But is there anything suspicious in the valley?”
“On the way back, we did see faint smoke in the hills at the southwest side of the valley. Almost missed it.” Matuso noticed several refugee women looking at him with furrowed brows. Marcan, who had helped row the Seabird across the lake and now sat with them, leaned close to Gatanu. Gatanu whispered in the farmer’s ear.
“The valley is rich,” Matuso said, continuing in Eire. “We saw signs of former habitation. Some fields showed several years of wild growth.” The women’s faces brightened.
“Any reason not to move there?” Larry stood and walked to the cook fire. Keelin smiled up at the big man and plopped another thick slice of deer into his bowl.
“No. The river continues at the upper end of the lake. We should be able to take the Seabird up it about a mile, about a half-hand’s width walk, before shallow rapids block it. That’s where the abandoned homestead is located.”