To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

  “No, I am sure she did not,” said Keelin, wishing to allay the hint of doubt she heard in Brian’s voice. He had always been very protective of his emotionally fragile mother. Áine was a lovely, sensitive woman who possessed little, if any, fortitude and faced life’s trials with trepidation. When her husband died suddenly, leaving her with five-year-old Brian and vast landholdings, she collapsed into a grief-stricken malaise. Eirnín, who had been her husband’s closest friend, quickly assumed stewardship of the estate and guardianship of Brian. When Áine eventually recovered, she seemed only vaguely aware of her small son. Then, within months, she astounded everyone by marrying Colman, her late husband’s estate manager.

  They had reached the oak forest and Brian slowed Rónán to a walk. “It was a long time ago. Colman fears me now and is most cordial. Of more immediate concern is the question of how the spy learned of the cottage. Even within our clan, few are aware of its existence. It is likely we know the traitor.”

  “The spy could have stumbled upon it quite by accident,” said Keelin. “Or someone may have unwittingly shared its whereabouts with him.” She was not sure she believed either supposition but suggested them nonetheless. The idea of a traitor within their clan was too disturbing.

  “We may know the answer before this evening is over,” said Brian as they entered the forest.

  Damp, fallen oak leaves blanketed the forest floor and, with each step, Rónán’s hooves sank almost noiselessly into the spongy footing. Bats skittered through the night air, veering disconcertingly close to the horse and riders. But for these small, dark creatures the forest seemed empty and an eerie stillness enveloped them as they rode along. It was as though the tide of nocturnal life ebbed away as they approached and then flowed back behind them, just out of reach. The silence was broken only once when Rónán trod on a dried branch. The sharp snap startled the stallion and he leapt forward, his muscles tense in momentary alarm. Unprepared and pitched backwards, Keelin instinctively grabbed for Brian’s waist to prevent herself from falling off.

  “You must stay alert,” warned Brian, his voice just above a whisper. “We have almost reached the ravine.”

  Keelin smarted at Brian’s mild rebuke but could not fault him. She had not been vigilant.

  Not long afterwards Rónán, without any signal from Brian, halted. They had reached the southern trail of the ravine.

  “My good old man,” said Brian, patting the horse affectionately. “It has been ages since we last used this trail and yet you remember.” He swung his right leg up and over Rónán’s neck and dismounted. Keelin hastily followed, but with less fluidity, and Brian steadied her as she hit the ground.

  “If you can tolerate the cold, it would be wise to leave your cloak here,” said Brian. He had already removed his and draped it over the outstretched branch of an oak. “Without them we can move quickly and with more stealth.”

  Without a second thought, Keelin lifted the woolen cloak from her shoulders and draped it alongside Brian’s. She shivered slightly from both the chill and nervous anticipation. Brian looped Rónán’s reins over the same branch and then walked toward the trailhead. Before them was a massive rock outcropping, a seemingly impenetrable wall. Along its base stood a cluster of scrub oaks. Many years ago Keelin, inexplicably drawn to the outcropping, had found a narrow passage in the rock, hidden completely by the bush-like oaks. The passage led to the seemingly unfrequented trail beyond. From the time of its discovery, the southern trail became the trio’s preferred one, believing it was known only to themselves and the gods.

  Keelin followed Brian to an oak whose branches pressed against the outcropping’s rocky wall. There, Brian stopped and looked down at her.

  “Now remember, keep behind me on the trail. I will approach the cottage alone when we reach it. Stay hidden but alert. Wait for my signal.”

  Years ago, as children, they had created a secret means of communication using animal calls, and they were still fresh in Keelin’s mind. She nodded in the dark and said simply, “Yes.”

  Brian turned and lifted one of the oak’s branches. They both ducked under it and made their way among the trees and through the rocky passage. The trail was narrow but not overgrown as would be expected. Keelin, however, hardly noticed. Brian moved swiftly and it was all she could do to keep up with him. He stopped only once and listened as an owl screeched in the distance. Keelin could feel Brian’s menace and thought she would not wish to be the prey he was hunting.

  For most of its length the trail roughly followed the contours of the ravine, with only a gradual descent. Then, nearing its destination, the trail took an abrupt right turn and dropped precipitously down the ravine’s steep slope. In daylight it was relatively easy to descend the rocky, stair-like steps. At night the going was treacherous. Even though Keelin’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could not accurately gauge the varying drops of the slippery stairs. Her diminutive size was an added disadvantage—the distance to each step farther than her legs could reach without jumping. She fell behind Brian more than once and each time he waited, continuing only when she had joined him. At the bottom of the ravine the trail all but disappeared into a stand of alders. Beyond the trees was a fast-moving creek and Keelin, her heart racing, stayed close to Brian as they made their way a short distance upstream, within sight of the cottage.

  A dim light, most likely from the fireplace, escaped through the shuttered windows. Its only door, positioned between the two windows and facing south, was shut. The clearing in front of the cottage was empty and appeared untrodden, the sandy soil covered only by sparse grasses. Keelin thought she heard the rustling of leaves nearby but could not be sure. The noise from the nearby creek’s rushing water made it difficult to distinguish muted sounds and their origins. Brian, though, had heard something too.

  “Unsheathe your dagger,” he whispered. “If you see any movement, if you hear anything outside the cottage, alert me.” Then, repeating his earlier admonition, he said emphatically, “Otherwise, stay hidden and wait for my signal.” The next second he was gone, disappearing into the shadowy cover of the trees surrounding the clearing.

  Fully intending to heed Brian’s words, Keelin watched and listened. She heard nothing but rushing water, and though the faint light from the cottage windows illuminated the clearing somewhat, it only served to make everywhere else darker and less visible. Frustrated, she could not quell a growing need for action. Crouching down, she left her hiding place and crept along the periphery of the clearing toward the eastern side of the cottage, knowing Brian was approaching from the west. She had almost flanked the cottage when the dim light of the clearing behind her changed almost imperceptibly. She instinctively froze, her heart lurching into her throat. Someone had opened the cottage door. It must be Brian, she reasoned, every muscle in her body tense and ready to respond to his signal. Instead, she heard the clatter of rocks tumbling down an embankment from somewhere beyond the cottage. The image of the spy escaping on horseback flashed before her eyes.

  “Behind the cottage!” warned Keelin, alerting Brian urgently and soundlessly, not using their childhood signals but her powers of the mind. She rounded the cottage running, now heedless of the danger that awaited. She heard rather than saw the startled skitter of a horse and the rider’s sharp intake of breath and angry curse. Suddenly, the horse and rider’s shape materialized, charging her with deadly malevolence. She dove sideways, trying to avoid being trampled, and then something hard hit the side of her head and everything went black.

  

  Keelin hovered on the verge of consciousness, her mind muddled by images and sensations. She imagined someone gently brushing errant strands of hair from her forehead and then kissing it. The delicate scent of roses wafted about her and a fire burned and crackled in the hearth. She felt warm. Overshadowing all was a fearful pounding in her head, forcing her back from oblivion. She opened her eyes.

  “You have decided to rejoin the living,” said Brian, teasing, but
Keelin could hear the relief in his voice. He sat next to her on one of only two rough-hewn wooden chairs in the cottage. She was lying on a crude leather and wood hammock with a rather dirty woolen blanket draped about her. Brian had lit a lantern and it sat squarely in the middle of a small wooden table. A fire glowed in the hearth. They both looked at her left hand which Brian held in both of his. Smiling sheepishly, he quickly released it.

  Keelin tried to lift her head and immediately regretted her foolishness. The painful throbbing intensified and her body felt leaden and without strength.

  “Lie still,” said Brian. “You are concussed.”

  “Yes, I believe so,” said Keelin, lifting her hand and tentatively touching the swelling on the side of her head. Nauseous and feeling quite ill, she dropped her hand to her side. Then she remembered and felt even worse.

  “The spy?”

  “Long gone,” said Brian. “No doubt he also heard your warning and, not knowing how many pursued him, wisely decided to escape while he could. By the time I reached you, all I heard was his horse scrambling up the western trail’s embankment.”

  No, the spy had not heard her warning, thought Keelin. Then, almost to herself, she said, “I could not stop him. I am to blame for his escape.”

  “Perhaps,” said Brian, in a voice surprisingly free of anger or accusation. “Though I am not certain the outcome would have been different even if you had not foolishly attempted to confront the spy by yourself.”

  “Do not humor me,” said Keelin, disheartened. “I did not even see the spy leave the cottage. I moved too soon.”

  “You should not have moved at all,” said Brian with finality. “But you would never have seen the spy leave the cottage because he was not there.”

  Keelin looked at Brian uncomprehendingly. She felt disoriented and dull, her mind not keeping pace. “What are you saying?”

  “He had just returned when he attacked you. When I entered the cottage, the fire in the hearth had almost burned out and had not been tended nor the logs replenished for some time. Why? Because the spy was elsewhere. Indeed, I believe he had been escorting someone home, or at least as far as the village road.”

  “Why would he escort someone home in the middle of the night?” asked Keelin. “It makes little sense to me.”

  “It makes sense if his guest was a woman,” said Brian. He leaned over and, gently lifting Keelin’s head with one hand, pulled free the corner of a shawl acting as a cushion with the other. Then, with infinite care, he lowered her head back down, his fingers lingering for a moment in her hair. Keelin’s head throbbed from even so small a movement, but she ignored the pain and eyed the shawl Brian held up for her to see. It was of dark green silk and beautiful, yet it was the shawl’s fragrance that most enchanted Keelin. Perfume, though not unheard of in Eire, was rare and considered an extravagance by all but the very wealthy. And, until recently, she had not known there existed a perfume that smelled like the roses in her mother’s garden.

  “Deirdre wears such a fragrance,” said Keelin. “It is made in Roma.”

  “And the shawl?” asked Brian.

  “The traveling merchants often peddle shawls such as this. I have seen many of similar quality and color. And I suppose the scent may also have been peddled by merchants.” Keelin could not remember seeing anyone wearing a shawl of precisely that shade of green. “It seems odd, though, that she would leave the shawl behind.”

  Brian shrugged his shoulders. “The lass forgot it.”

  Keelin sighed noncommittally. She could not think clearly. It seemed the answer was just out of reach.

  “Perhaps your earlier supposition is correct and a lass from our clan unwittingly told the spy about this cottage,” offered Brian. “The shawl and perfume may very well have been gifts from him.” He rubbed the silk shawl between his thumb and fingertips and the fine cloth snagged slightly on the roughness of his skin. Then he frowned and shook his head. “No, I think not. Rather, it is more likely the lass is somehow complicit.”

  Keelin studied the shawl then met Brian’s eyes. “I pray it is not so.”

  

  CHAPTER twelve

  

  line of horsemen waited in formation at the near end of a large field, left fallow for the year and sprouting nothing but ankle-length grass. They faced a high, makeshift wooden barrier standing halfway across the field. When the order was given, two horsemen charged forward, galloping toward the barrier. One horse and rider, traveling at breakneck speed, reached the obstacle first. Instead of jumping, however, the horse ducked out at the last minute, swerving to the left. The rider was pitched off to the right and fell in a heap on the ground. Meanwhile, the other rider was even more unfortunate. His horse galloped gamely to the base of the obstacle and then planted his hind legs firmly in the turf and stopped dead. His rider was catapulted into the air and almost cleared the barrier without his steed. The man let out a howl as the sharp wooden ends of the barrier gouged his flesh. Again and again, pairs of horsemen charged the barrier, all with similar results.

  “It is time to put an end to this folly before someone breaks his neck,” said Fearghus, wincing at the sight of another horse and rider going down. “Even those horses brave enough to attempt the jump stumble and fall, either atop or on the other side.”

  Déaglán was unmoved. He knew it was not enough to triumph over Agricola’s army on the field of battle. Eire’s cavalry must breach the Romhanach’s deadly repel formation and deny them an orderly retreat. Only then could Eire’s warriors pursue the enemy to the sea and destroy them, handing Agricola an absolute and ignominious defeat.

  “I have seen horses clear such obstacles in Roma. It can be done. With proper training, some of the horses that failed today will jump the Romhanach’s more formidable repel barrier with ease when the time comes,” asserted Déaglán.

  “I do not share your opinion but will defer to it. Still, I would guess only one in fifty war horses has the skill to make such a jump.”

  As the high priest spoke, a long-legged, more finely boned gray sprang forward and settled into an effortless gallop. The rider had a steady, confident manner and both man and beast moved as one. The barrier was now only ten or twelve strides away. Seconds later, Déaglán and Fearghus watched the gray meet the obstacle and, without the slightest hesitation, clear it, though barely.

  “There is our first one in fifty! More will follow, trust me.”

  Fearghus nodded. “Yes, I do trust you, as you trust me. When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow at daybreak.” Last night Déaglán had agreed to share all he knew of Agricola and Domitian with Deirdre. In return, the priestess would supply Déaglán with critical updates on Agricola’s invasion strategies. Somehow Déaglán was to relay these updates to Eire’s chieftains without arousing suspicion as to their origin. When he had pressed Fearghus to tell him more, the high priest unequivocally refused.

  Now, both men watched huge storm clouds approach the field from the north. Already rain was falling in the distance, a thin gray veil obscuring the landscape.

  “Do you know Deirdre helped me on Sasanach?”

  “Yes, of course. It was I who ordered her to ensure your safe escape.”

  Déaglán was not surprised, though he was oddly disappointed. He wondered if Deirdre would have allowed him to die at the hands of the Romhanach without Fearghus’s order. Shaking the thought off he said, “Well then, your pretext for secrecy is absurd.”

  “Perhaps. Still, I will tell you no more. The Dagda’s secrets must remain thus.” Fearghus looked up at the dark clouds, now almost overhead. “It appears our fine weather has come to an end. This storm will be quite fierce and last for days. Prepare for a drenching during your travels home. Give my best to your sister, Saraid. It has been two long years since I last saw her.”

  

  Déaglán left Tara at daybreak the next morning. A light rain fell as he saddled his horse, dwindling to a mist by the time he set off. He be
gan to wonder if the worst of the storm had passed overnight and Fearghus had been mistaken. By midday, however, the heavens opened up and Déaglán cursed his friend and the downpour. The roads became boggy and Déaglán’s horse sloshed through deep pools of muddy water, stumbling occasionally in the treacherous and uneven mire. The trees that lined the roads blocked out what little light penetrated the thick storm clouds, their leaves heavy with raindrops, and their branches and trunks dark with wet. On the narrow paths, Déaglán had to steer his horse carefully through the gauntlet of the water-laden branches, any contact sending a heavy dousing of collected rainwater onto the already sodden horse and rider. His heavy woolen cloak provided some protection, its hood shielding his face and its wide cape spreading out to cover his shoulders and the horse’s rump and flanks.

  Déaglán’s prolonged absence from the sea compounded his misery. Only spying atoned for his time on land, and he never tired of the deadly game of nerve and wit. But he was wary of the mission before him, knowing it promised neither the sea nor danger. The thought of seeing Deirdre caused him even more trepidation. The young priestess always saw more than he chose to reveal. She had been at Tara several days ago, bringing news of a spy near Loich’s Gap. Déaglán did not see Deirdre, but even the thought of her so near unsettled him. Steeling his mind and returning to the task at hand, he pondered the report. If the spy was no longer at Tara, there was indeed a traitor within Eire’s warrior forces. Tracking down both spy and traitor would be some recompense.