by Walt Socha
Chapter 22
August 6
“Thank you.” Ivar accepted his bowl of breakfast porridge from Hatimu.
The man smiled back then took an empty bowl from Maeve, their fingers brushing.
Ivar hid a grin as he walked away. The quiet former slave had found a friend in the wounded warrior. Ivar’s mouth turned down. What of his own life? His vows forbid physical relations. He could only look forward to dying as an old man in some dark room in a dark abbey before he claimed the reward of an eternal afterlife. He snorted. If he remained with these heathens, he would probably die young and by the sword. Hopefully quickly. One of the new Havenites—Ivar did not remember his name—waved him over.
“What are your chores for today?” the man asked as Ivar settled on the ground next to the young warrior.
“Check on the sheep. Then weeding.” Ivar shifted to avoid a rock that was cutting into his posterior. “And you?”
“Searching for suitable bow and arrow material this morning,” the man said. “But Fergus wants all of us back by mid-day.”
Ivar set his bowl on the ground. Lowering his head, he clasped his hands together. “Lord, thank you for this day and for this meal.” Feeling his companion’s eyes, he added, “And give your blessing on these people.”
“So who is this Lord?” the man said as Ivar took up the bowl and, with a spoon from the pouch around his waist, stirred it.
“The God who gifted us with the clay for the bowl, the wood for the spoon, and the grain and vegetables for the porridge,” Ivar said, glancing to the man at his side. He only replied with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you a follower of Buddha? Or Potts?” Ivar asked before taking a spoonful of the thick gruel.
“I just follow our code. Makes me strong as a person and a better member of our local and extended tribe.” The man scraped his bowl with his spoon. “I hear you island people have many gods and goddesses to choose from. And have some belief in life after death. That I find curious.”
“I follow the one God.” Ivar concentrated on his bowl. How could he save souls that didn’t believe in the reality of an afterlife?
“Thank you for herding and weeding.” The man stood. “And I will see you later today.” He walked toward the cleaning station near the cook fire.
Chewing a mouthful of coarse porridge, Ivar wondered what was to happen at mid-day.
* * *
Ivar drew in a sharp breath as two whistles cut through the overcast day. No third. Thank God that it was just a gathering signal. Pushing off from the ground, he stood and stretched. He allowed himself a bit of pride as he looked back on the row of cabbages. Letting his gaze wander, his stomach sank as he saw that Keelin had weeded almost two rows.
He hurried his pace to catch up to her at the small open shelter where they stored their tools. “Lady Keelin, how did you weed so fast?”
“Who are you calling Lady?” The elder refugee beamed at him. “As for weeding, I find that singing helps pass the time. And keeps my fingers plucking at those plants that would diminish my dinner.”
“Do you know what Larry has planned for this afternoon?”
“No. I volunteered to work on this evening’s meal.” Keelin nodded a farewell and walked toward the low structure that the Havenites had built to cover the women’s latrines. Two other ladies—Maeve and Anya—joined her.
As Ivar turned toward the cook fire and his small midday meal, he saw one figure still toiling, bent over and swinging an implement, in the large unused field to the south. Curious, Ivar changed direction and headed toward the man who now stood, inspecting the ground. It was Larry.
Ivar slowed as the large man, now with the scythe over his shoulder, left the field and headed his way.
“On what project are you working?” Ivar said as he met Larry.
“Clearing the field for training. But also for a diversion for the kids.” Larry shifted the handle of the long curved blade to his left shoulder and slapped Ivar on the back. “And maybe for us also. Cassan and Garvan have been playing a game they call hurling in their off time.”
“I remember that game,” Ivar said. “I used to play it at the abbey when I was young. At the abbey on the other side of the mountains.”
“You lived near there?”
Ivar chewed his lip as heat burned his face. “I was sent there by my uncle after my parents died.” He glanced at the large man walking at his side. Larry’s mouth formed a thin line. “Too many children. Not enough food.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” The big man lowered his head and scuffed the ground as he walked.
“So what is Fergus planning this afternoon?” Ivar asked to change the subject.
“We need to start training.”
* * *
Ivar stood at the rear of the crowd forming at one end of the freshly scythed field and watched as Larry and Fergus conferred in whispers. Off to the side lay a pile of trimmed saplings, each about two strides long, and several leather bags.
Most of the men and Garvan had gathered, missing only those on duty at Sui Finn or the east pass. The Havenite warriors milled about, joking or stretching.
“Do you know why we are gathering?” Marcan appeared at Ivar’s side.
A growing silence interrupted his answer. All faces turned toward Larry and Fergus, who stood together now facing the gathering men.
Ivar narrowed his eyebrows as Larry spoke in the language he called English, the sound of the strange words familiar from overheard conversations among the Havenites.
Fergus whispered in Larry’s ear and he continued in Eire. “We will start daily weapons training.” His eyes found Ivar’s before shifting to the man at his side. “Marcan, what weapons are you familiar with?”
Marcan stood silent for several breaths. “Lots of experience with the axe.” He snorted. “But only in fights with trees.”
He staggered as someone on his other side clapped him on the back. But he stood straighter as the warriors nodded and broke into grins.
“Good, I've got a war axe you can use.” Larry’s eyes shifted. “Ivar, what about you?”
Ivar looked down. What did he know about fighting? His only experience in violence was getting beat up by the other boys at the abbey. That and throwing rocks at wolves threatening the sheep he had herded as a child. “I can only use a sling.” His eyes remained down.
“Show us,” Fergus said.
“My sling is in my personal bag.” Ivar looked up. Neither Fergus nor any of the other warriors laughed.
“Get it while we continue organizing.”
Ivar stood frozen, as the men jostled into smaller groups. Larry led Garvan to one side of the field. Fergus pulled an enormous axe from a leather bag and placed it in Marcan’s hands. Now ignored, Ivar turned back to Sanctuary. Fergus wanted him to get his sling? A rope with a patch of leather tied at the center? Ivar would look the fool surrounded by men swinging iron. Maybe it would be best to get the humiliation over. Ivar quickened his pace. Maybe it was time to leave. What good could a man of God do in a group of heathens? None showed any interest in his words of salvation.
By the time he returned, sling in hand, one group of men were moving in unison at the far end of the field, swinging wooden staves, Cassan’s mimicking movements didn't quite match the older men’s. In the middle of the field, Larry and Garvan pummeled the air with fists. Nearby, Samatu held up a shield and stepped forward and back. Matching his steps, Marcan slammed his axe, cutting edge buried in a small log and secured with leather, into Samatu’s shield.
Fergus looked up as Ivar approached. The warrior sat with several men at the edge of the clearing shaving shorter staves into the shape of swords. “Aim at that tree over there.” He pointed to a gnarled oak at the edge of the field.
Ivar tied one end of the sling around his middle finger, holding the free end between his thumb and forefinger. Rooting around in the grass with his foot, he dislodged a small rock about the size of a child’s fist. With Fe
rgus’s eyes cutting into him, Ivar picked up the rock and placed it in the leather pouch. Facing the tree, Ivar took a breath, swung, and let the free end loose, letting the stone fly.
The rock hit the tree with a sharp thump that reverberated in counterpoint to Marcan’s axe swings.
“Do that again,” Fergus said, his voice flat.
Heart pounding, Ivar scuffed up another rock. Please God, don’t let me look like a fool. He loaded the sling and threw.
Another sharp thump. Across the field the men dancing with the staves stopped. And stared. Larry and Garvan also stopped. Ivar’s heart pounded.
Fergus stood, jogged to Samatu, and took his shield. He moved toward the edge of the clearing, checked behind him, and held the shield out with his right hand. The front of the shield faced Ivar. “Again.”
Ivar hesitated. What if he hit the man?
“Well?” Fergus gestured with his left hand.
Ivar kicked up another rock and loaded his sling. Hoping his shaking hands weren’t visible to the watching men, he swung and let loose.
The rock hit the shield with a sharp crack.
Fergus dropped the shield and shook out his arm, the grimace on his face turning into a grin. “I am familiar with the sling only as a child’s toy. But…” Fergus’s eyebrows rose as he walked toward Ivar. “Let me try.”
Ivar untied one end of the sling from his right hand and handed it to Fergus. With Ivar’s help, the warrior secured one end and loosely held the other. Picking up a rock, he fitted it into the pouch. Adjusting his grip on the loose end, he whipped the sling in a circle and let loose.
A whistle and flurry of leaves erupted from the tree as the projectile flew through the outer branches and into the forest beyond. “Suggestions?”
Ivar snapped his head around and stared at Fergus. After a breath, Ivar closed his mouth, heat scorching his cheeks. “I find it best to stand facing sideways, then twist as I throw keeping body and arm forward.” Ivar twisted in place, ending with his body and left leg forward. “But that’s just my way.”
Fergus tried another stone, mimicking Ivar’s stance. It skimmed a finger width past the trunk of their target. “We will make one of these for everyone,” he said to the watching men before turning to Ivar. “Can you lead a daily practice session? Maybe for a hand of sun?”
Ivar stared at Fergus. The tall dark man wanted him to lead warriors?
“Tomorrow, I am going to start training on the staves with the women. Would you also direct their sling practice?” Fergus paused. “And even Fennore also?”
“Ahh…yes,” Ivar said, aware of everyone’s eyes. By all the saints, now what had he gotten into?
* * *
Fergus blew one sharp whistle and waved everyone off the practice field toward the center of their settlement. The men broke up, some gathering up equipment while others reviewed fighting stances and footwork.
Larry broke from the men and, with Cassan and Garvan in tow, moved to one end of the field, dragging a long leather bag and an armful of saplings. Puzzled, Fergus walked toward them. What was the old man up to now?
Larry lifted a trimmed sapling about four strides long and, holding it vertical, pushed one end into the ground with his weight. He wiggled it around, working its way between rocks. He did the same with a second post about three strides away. Garvan and Cassan lifted a third pole over their heads and Larry lashed it to the two upright posts about two strides high above the ground.
“Now what are you planning?” Fergus said as he approached his father.
“Need some entertainment.” Larry turned to the two kids. “Why don’t you show Fergus how to play while I set up the other goal?”
Fergus forced himself not to laugh as the two pulled short paddles out of the leather bag and talked over each other as they explained the rules. There followed a spirited demonstration as they batted the small leather ball with the paddles they called hurleys, Garvan’s enthusiasm no match for the older youth’s skill and coordination.
After a few minutes, Fergus asked to use one of the hurleys. Pulling a third paddle out of the bag, Garvan explained how to hold the sliotar aloft with the flat end. Taking the hurley, Fergus bounced the small ball on its end of the hurley a few times before he batted it between the upright poles. Garvan cheered. One of Cassan’s eyebrows rose. As Garvan ran to retrieve the sliotar, Fergus swung the hurley. Then he swung it again, holding it with a different angle. Swinging the wooden bat, if it was a bit heavier, would be a great conditioning exercise for swordplay. Or for bashing some asshole in the head.
Maybe his ancient relative was on to something. Even if it was just another way to practice killing people.
* * *
Bouncing the sliotar at the end of his hurley, Fergus headed back to Sanctuary followed by an excited Garvan and a puzzled Cassan. As he walked into the cooking area, the men either jeered or clapped at his efforts. Or both. He stopped, caught the sliotar in his left hand and bowed. “Cassan and Garvan need players.” Fergus nodded to the two boys and then returned his attention to the men. “Divide yourselves up tomorrow after training. These young men are going to teach you a bit of entertainment.” And some useful exercise. Passing the sliotar and hurley to the two beaming boys, Fergus walked to the supper line, slowing to match steps with Jessie.
“So you’re going to interrupt our war with the locals to play games?” Jessie asked as both men halted at the end of the queue.
“We need a break.” Fergus knuckled Jessie’s hair. “And maybe we ought to see if anyone has a pair of shears?”
“And why would that matter?”
“Got a few young ladies here.” Fergus looked around. Deirdre and Anya had already been served and were sitting on one of the benches. Deirdre looked up, caught his eye and looked down.
“Yeah.”
Fergus caught Jessie’s glance at the same two women. “You still inspecting Anya’s muscles?”
“Like she’d bother with the son of a rapist,” Jessie said in a low voice as the line shifted and he shuffled forward.
“Hey, what kind of talk is that?” Fergus matched Jessie’s steps.
Jessie did not answer, but glanced again at Anya.
Fergus followed his friend’s eyes, frowning as a couple of Havenites stopped and took the ladies’ empty dishes. His jaw tightened as Deirdre favored the two men with a brief smile.
Chapter 20
August 3
Larry stood among the gathered Havenites below the solitary cairn that lay on the mountain slope west of Sanctuary. They had decided to build a mound of stones rather than to dig a grave for the man killed in the second naval encounter with the Northmen. The soil was too rocky. Except in the flat bottomland, digging was almost impossible.
Larry barely knew Fergus’s crewman. Just that he was a Susquehannock. In his late teens. Out for an adventure. He hadn’t planned to travel as far as Eire but had volunteered to join in the rescue. To save Larry’s worthless ass. Now three shiploads of Havenites were stranded on this island of death. And all were his responsibility. Five dead. Plus who knew how many locals. Larry forced his mind back to Matuso’s eulogy. He had recited the words from the most recent entries in the book of remembrances, describing the highlights of each deceased man’s life and finishing with the most recent casualty. The one whose body lay under the cairn.
“Our brother’s body returns to the earth but lives on in our memories.” Matuso closed his book and, after wrapping it in oilcloth, placed in the satchel hanging on his shoulder. It would eventually be sent back to Haven to rest in the Hall of Remembrances.
One by one, each of the Havenites added another stone to the cairn as a personal touch.
“May I speak?” Ivar took a step forward from the circle of Havenites and refugees surrounding the cairn.
Eyes turned to Larry. He nodded.
“I know you follow a different path. But your beliefs, however mistaken, cannot hide your concern for others.” Ivar paused, his gaze
moving around the circle.
Larry followed Ivar’s eyes. All the Havenites not on guard or lookout duty stood in a loose semicircle facing Matuso. Most Eirefolk attended, although Deirdre and Anya stood together a few paces from the others. Up the slope and apart from all, Teltina and her kids watched. Liaden and Davnat remained in Sanctuary, having volunteered to prepare a meal. Larry’s jaw clenched as he watched Ivar’s eyes fix on Teltina. Did Ivar share his Abbot’s prejudice? What good were priests if all they taught was hate?
“My God knows all. So he knows the good you are doing in this land.” Ivar’s eyes sought Larry’s. “If you accept his truth…” Ivar stopped talking as Larry’s eyebrows narrowed.
Larry shifted his gaze. The faces of the Havenites appeared as blank stones. And probably just as receptive to the cleric’s talk of his god.
The young priest hesitated. Let a breath out. “I will pray for your fallen,” he said, adding his stone to the mound before stepping back into the circle.
“Thank you for your words.” Larry forced a smile at the young priest. He let it turn genuine as one of the Havenites clapped the man on his back, causing him to stagger.
His smile faded. “Let us return to the cook fire and feast to his and the other fallens’ memories.” Larry stepped forward and added one last stone to the cairn.
* * *
As the crowd drifted away from the raw mound of piled rock, Matuso rearranged a few of the stones. He would return tomorrow to restack some of them as several had already collapsed. Maybe he'd even add another layers or two to the waist high pile. Not that it would matter to the deceased. But the memory of the fallen man would linger longer if his grave remained a prominent landmark instead of just another shallow pile of stone. Another hand repositioned a chunk of sandstone. “You confuse me,” Ivar said, turning to face Matuso. “You claim to not believe in a life after death, but you take care to bury your dead.” Ivar bit his lip. “When you can.”