Two strides carried him into the room, where he stood over me looking down impassively. Before I could think what to do, he took hold of the ring at the back of my torc and pulled me to my feet. The old man looked on with a self-satisfied grin. “You scabby old toad,” I spat.
He cackled in reply—which I did not, of course, understand—and, lifting a hand, lay a filthy finger on my slave torc and laughed. Until that moment, I had not given the iron collar a thought.
The warrior marched me outside, where the entire population of the fishing village had gathered. Two more warriors stood waiting to receive us and, as we emerged from the house, the foremost of these stepped forward and honored the old man with a curious salute, touching the back of his hand to his forehead. Then, reaching into a leather bag at his belt, he withdrew two small sticks of gold. He broke both of these in half and gave half of one to the old man; the others he gave to the fishermen who had brought me to the village in their boat.
While the villagers and fisherfolk rejoiced, the warriors returned to their horses, dragging me with them. They mounted, and I was slung like a sack of grain across the front of the big warrior’s horse and hauled in disgrace back to Miliucc’s ráth.
SEVEN
THE DISCOMFORT OF my return was nothing to the humiliation I felt in being captured again so easily, for just beyond the sea bluffs behind the fishing settlement, the Vale of Braghad opened, and at the far end of it lay King Miliucc’s ráth. I had traveled many times the distance around the coast, only to bring myself to a harbor I could have reached on an easy walk the morning of my escape.
My cheeks burned with shame at the recognition of my own witlessness—made all the worse for the realization that my slave collar had given me away. How could I have been so stupid?
Then again, was it stupidity or arrogance which had led me to believe escape would be so effortlessly accomplished?
Both, I concluded: stupidity and arrogance in equal, ample measure. Here was the clever and resourceful Succat, so proud, so assured, full of scorn at the brute ignorance of the barbarians, now returned in disgrace. The warriors had not even broken a sweat to retrieve me. I could have wept at my foolishness, except I did not wish to show any such emotion before my captors.
We soon reached the hill fort, and I was presented to my lord, who, without so much as a cursory glance in my direction, called a command to his men, who seized me by the arms and set about beating me with their fists. I took a blow to the stomach that doubled me over; allowing me to collapse, they proceeded to kick me. I lay on the ground, trying to protect my head with my arms as blow after blow rained down upon me. There was no anger in it, merely skilled, dispassionate efficiency as they aimed and placed their kicks at the muscled areas of my body. When this had gone on for a time, Miliucc called another command, and the kicking ceased.
I thought they would release me then, but they took hold of my legs and stripped off my boots, and while two warriors held me by the ankles, the third began striking me on the soles of my feet with a stout willow wand. I had never felt such pain before. With each blow new and amazing sensations of agony shocked through me. Tears streamed from my eyes, and though I tried not to cry out, the pain tore scream after ragged scream from my throat.
When they finally stopped, I lay limp and sobbing on the ground. The king came and stood over me, spoke a few harsh words, and gestured for the warriors to take me away. I was put back on the horse and ridden up the mountain, where I was dumped outside the shepherd’s bothy. They rode off, and I lay on the ground, whimpering, throbbing, unable to even drag myself inside.
Madog returned at dusk and found me still curled on the ground. He made clucking noises while he examined my feet, then dipped out some water for me from the stone basin and set about building up the fire. When he had the blaze going, he brought out the caldron, filled it with water, and put it on a stone at the fire’s edge. Too sore and miserable to move, I lay on my side and watched as he took his flint knife and cut one of his precious onions into pieces, which he put into the pot along with a few handfuls of dried mutton, some barley, and a sprinkling of leafy herbs and salt.
He settled himself on a large round stone beside the fire ring to stir the pot. Every now and then he would look at me and shake his head. I could see he felt sorry for me, and I was grateful for this sympathy; mute though it was, it comforted me somewhat. I rolled onto my back and lay there listening to the crackling fire and watching the stars kindle in the cloudless sky. In a little while the caldron began to steam and boil, filling our rude courtyard with the scent of mutton stew. When it was finished, Madog dipped out the stew into two wooden bowls. He broke pieces of black bread into the bowls and brought me one.
I had no appetite for supper, but he placed the bowl beside my head and indicated that I should take some. As I did not wish to spurn his kindness, I raised myself up on my elbows and, taking the bowl in both hands, lifted it to my mouth. The stew quickly disappeared, and I found my spirits considerably improved.
Sufficiently strengthened, I dragged myself into the bothy and went to sleep, waking the next morning at dawn. Madog had already gone with the sheep to the meadow. I lay for a while, taking stock of my bruises. Sitting up brought tears to my eyes, and it was some time before I dared move again. Eventually, I got myself outside. The embers were still hot, so I tossed some twigs onto the coals and soon had the fire going once more. A little stew remained in the pot, so I pulled it close to the fire to let it warm.
Meanwhile, I tried to examine my feet. Bending my stiff, aching limbs was difficult; even the slightest movement sent pain racing through me. Eventually, I got one leg crossed over the other and turned my foot so I could see the underside. What I saw made me gasp: the sole was a mass of purple welts and puffed up so much it was almost round. In one or two places the swollen skin had broken, and a thin watery pus wept from the wound. I touched the broken flesh lightly as tears came to my eyes, and I cried for my poor ruined feet.
As I cradled my foot and sobbed softly, the full import of my condition came crashing down. The death and destruction unleashed on my homeland that dire and dreadful night—brutal, swift, and terrible, easily overwhelming the inadequate British defenses—the burning, the killing, the rampaging destruction of whole cities defied belief. Whether my parents were alive or dead, I knew not—nor did they know my fate. If they lived, they might well think me dead. The thought would hasten my softhearted mother to her grave if she was not there already.
My friends—Rufus, Scipio, Julian—had they escaped? Most likely they had been caught and held for ransom in Britain. Or, perhaps like me, sold into slavery to some Irish king. No doubt they were facing the same tribulation I faced now.
All this and more settled like a mountain upon my bruised and aching shoulders, bending me low to the ground. I eased myself down and lay with my arm across my face, feeling the immense weight of a limitless grief crushing the spirit within me into a hard, stonelike kernel.
I was utterly alone. I knew that now. Many were dead, but I was alive, and while I was alive, I would hold my life in my own two hands, trusting no one but myself. Friends deserted, kinsmen failed, God ever turned his hard face away, and in the end each man must look to himself for his own survival.
The rising sun warmed me where I lay, and after a while I felt well enough to raise myself up and sit straight-legged on the ground. Pulling the caldron close, I ate some of the leftover stew and looked around. The day was bright, the sky clean and wide and filled with high, white clouds. Birds darted among the branches of the trees behind the bothy, spilling liquid song into the soft summer air. The quiet of our mountain retreat was a balm to my battered heart, and I embraced it, willing it to do its healing work.
Thirsty upon finishing the stew, I decided to try to stand. Carefully, achingly, I drew my legs beneath me and touched the soles of my feet to the ground. Pain, as fierce and angry as ever before, stole the breath from my lungs. I lay back gasping and panting u
ntil the agony subsided, then rolled onto my stomach and, on hands and knees, crawled to the water stoup, pulled myself up, slid the cover aside, and drank, laving water into my mouth with one hand while bracing myself on the side of the basin with the other.
When I finished, I washed my face and then eased myself down to sit in the sun with my back against the bothy wall. Two things were now clear in my mind: I would have to learn to speak a little of the confounded Irish tongue—enough to express simple needs at least—and I would have to find a way to remove my slave collar or disguise it in some way. Then, and only then, could I contemplate another attempt at escape.
I spent the rest of the day deep in thought, and when Madog returned at dusk, I set to work.
He was pleased to see me sitting up. He squatted to look at my feet, frowned, and shook his head sadly. As he sat back on his heels, I placed my hand squarely on my chest and said, “Succat,” repeating this a few times until he said it for himself.
I pointed to him. With childlike glee he patted himself on his chest and said, “Madog.” He repeated this many times for me, although I was pronouncing it correctly the second time he said it.
I pointed to the fire. “Ignis.” Then, since he did not understand Latin, I added, “Tán” thinking he might remember the British word.
“Tine,” he replied, repeating it happily.
The similarity of the words instantly buoyed my hopes. If the two languages were so close, the Irish tongue would be easily mastered, for I possessed a great store of British words, since it was what most of the servants and farmers spoke on our estate. Pointing to the hut behind us, I said, “Tugurium.” Madog frowned, so I abandoned Latin altogether and said, “Bwth.”
Delight lit the old shepherd’s wrinkled face. “Bothán!” he cried, almost hugging himself with excitement.
I smiled, too, elated at the easy similarity between the two tongues. Next I pointed to the water basin. “Cerwyn.” Madog frowned, so I tried another word: “Cawg.”
He repeated the word and then paused. Pointing, his mouth working, he rolled his eyes and tapped his head, but the word would not come. At last the effort proved too much, and he threw his hands into the air and grunted in defeat. That was the end of our exercise.
Next day, however, he returned to the bothy with a wide grin of triumph on his ruddy, weather-creased face. “Dabhach!” he exclaimed, pointing to the water stoup. “Dabhach…dabhach!” Plunging his hands into the basin, he scooped up water and let it dribble through his fingers saying, “Uisce!”
“Uisce,” I repeated, then tried the British word: “Dwfr?”
“Da! Uisce, da!” he said triumphantly.
My heart fell. Neither word was remotely similar. In truth, the Irish tongue might not be so easily learned as I had allowed myself to imagine. But there was nothing for it. Casting discouragement aside, I repeated the words until I could say them to Madog’s satisfaction.
This proved a durable game for him. Over the next days he pillaged his raddled memory for more words he could teach me. When he ran dry, I suggested some, pointing to the sky, the sheep, the forest, a stick, a rock—anything near to hand. Often his face would squeeze itself into a fist of thought in his strain to remember, and sometimes the word would pop out. Other times, he would go stumping off to the sheepfold, head down, shoulders bent by the weight of cogitation, returning sometime later with the word he had dredged up from the murky depths of remembrance.
In my idle times, of which there were many, I recited the words to myself, repeating them until my tongue grew numb in my mouth. As the days and weeks went by, I gradually built up a knowledge of the barbarian speech, adding more and more words as Madog was able to supply them. I knew that to speak properly I would one day have to find another to teach me; until then, I worked the old shepherd mercilessly. I made him tell me numbers, colors; the names of animals, plants, and parts of the body; the words for simple actions, for smells, for emotions, for anything and everything I could think to ask.
For his part, Madog warmed to the chore and surprised both of us by his increasing abilities to remember. The more we worked, the greater grew his capacities; words came back to him—often in a rush, as if a disused spring suddenly gushed forth with long-pent waters. On these occasions he danced around the fire ring flapping his arms with infantile delight.
One day I tried my speech on one of the women of the ráth; she had brought us some bread and turnips, for which I thanked her. She looked a little astonished but smiled pleasantly and said something which I did not follow. But I took the bread and said, “Arán.”
Still smiling, she replied, “Is ea siúd.”
“It is that,” I repeated.
Next she took up a turnip and held it between her hands. “Tornapa rúta.”
I dutifully repeated the word and thanked her, saying, “Go raibh maith agat do na tornapa rúta.”
She laughed and took her leave, calling something over her shoulder as she went. I did not know what she said, but considered my accomplishment a triumph and added the new words to my growing store.
The day finally came when I was able to walk comfortably again, and I accompanied Madog to the hillside to watch the sheep. We spent the day practicing our speech together; on the way back to the bothy, he turned to me and said in the Irish tongue, “This is good.”
“It is that,” I agreed.
“I am here many samhradh,” he said.
“Many…samhradh? What is samhradh?”
“Now,” replied Madog. “This.” He waved an arm to indicate the world around, his gesture taking in the forest, sky, and meadow.
The meaning came to me: “Summer,” I said. “How many summers?”
He was silent for a time, and I could see him working it out in his mind. But the calculation eluded him, and at last he gave it up, shaking his head slowly. Our elemental conversation cast him into a pensive mood. He ate little that night and went to sleep without speaking again; next morning I heard the sheep bleating before dawn and woke to see that Madog had gone. I rose later to a light rain and went out to the grazing land, where I found him hunched on a rock in the rain, his crook across his lap.
He was working with something, and as I drew nearer, I saw that he had his flint knife and was carving notches on the shaft of his crook. I greeted him and watched as he carefully carved a new notch beside the last, brushed the chipping aside, and rubbed it with his fingers. Then, starting with the first notch, he moved his thumbnail along the row of notches to the end.
Absorbed in this task, he paid no attention to me, so I walked out to where the sheep were grazing, picking up a stick along the way. Around midday the rain stopped and the sun came out. I returned to the rock, where Madog still sat.
The flint knife lay on the ground, having slipped from his hand, and he sat gripping the crook, staring at the notches he had made.
“Finished?” I asked.
He raised his head, and I saw the tears running down his face. “Triocha is ocht.”
It took me a moment to work out what he meant. “Thirty-eight?” I asked. And then it came to me. I knelt down before him and ran my finger along the neat row of notches: the years of his captivity. He had been a slave for thirty-eight years.
“A long time,” I told him. He nodded but said nothing.
I left him to himself and returned to the sheep. Every now and then I glanced over to the rock where he sat, wrapped in misery for the waste of his life.
I vowed I would escape—or die trying. I would choose death a thousand times before I allowed myself to become like Madog.
I labored at my words and speech with a diligence born of insatiable ambition, practicing night and day, plundering Madog’s memory tirelessly, amassing a trove of words like a jealous miser. Summer was moving on; the days were growing shorter, the nights cooler. If I was to make another attempt at escape, it would have to be soon—or wait until next spring, and I could not abide the thought of spending the winter on a fre
ezing mountainside watching a flock of poxy sheep.
At last I judged my knowledge of the Irish tongue sufficient; I felt I would be able to make myself understood wherever I went. I knew, too, which direction to avoid. All that remained was to find a way to disguise my slave torc.
I had tried from time to time to remove the collar, but I was not strong enough to bend the cold iron. I pondered this problem while I busied myself weaving a bag out of the tough grass which grew down along the riverbank in the valley where we sometimes took the sheep to drink. I had often watched the servants at home weave such bags, and though I had never done it myself, after several attempts I soon mastered the skill. When the bag was ready, I set about gathering the food I would need, tucking away bits and pieces, taking scraps when Madog was not looking. I saved a fair quantity of dried meat, hard bread, nuts, and such and was soon ready—save for the problem of the torc.
In the end I could do no better than to cover it. This I did by pulling up my tunic and tying it at the neck with a strip of cloth ripped from the hem. The twisted metal ends protruded at the front, and the ring stuck out at the back, but at least it was out of sight. I thought that if chance allowed, I might get a cloak somehow and, by pulling it up around my head, hide the thing better that way.
The next day dawned wet and cool. I made up the fire and heated some gruel in the caldron. Madog and I sat in the rain, dipping bread into the soup and watching the clouds. It looked like clearing by midday, so when Madog left to take the sheep to the meadow, I made a pretense of building up the fire and cleaning the caldron. As soon as he had gone, I picked up my bag of provisions and made my escape.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 7