Damn! thought Fergus. I’ll never outrun a deer. Best to head on up the hill and meet my colleagues. At least he now knew where a deer trail was. He ran to the opening where the deer had emerged and started up the steep trail. As he navigated the narrow winding path he could feel the wind growing in strength even through the canopy of pine leaves and branches above. In typical Fergus fashion the lithe young Pict from the east coast increased his tempo as he ran ever upwards. Holding his sword scabbard in one hand and his wooden spear in the other, he turned a corner in the trail and directly in front, not ten paces away, was a large red stag deer trotting toward him.
* * * * *
The burning image Fergus had of this sudden apparition was its massive antlers, reaching almost the width of the trail, and its hot black eyes. Survival instinct for stag and youth took over. Without missing a beat the stag lowered those terrible antlers and charged straight at the puny youth blocking his passage to the rest of his herd. Fergus had no time to draw his sword but jammed the base of his wooden spear into the ground at an angle toward the approaching red blur and crouched down. In a flash the stag thundered past Fergus, the sound of its pounding hooves intersected by a loud crack as the wooden spear splintered. One hoof struck Fergus on the shoulder sending him sprawling. The stag staggered momentarily then disappeared down around the next bend.
Fergus stood slowly with one hand holding his injured shoulder. It was paining but it could have been much worse. He surveyed the scene. The back half of the broken spear lay no more than a body length behind him. Where was the top half? He quickly searched the downhill passage and undergrowth nearby. Nothing. A few paces further on he noticed some strange bright markings on the trail. As he knelt down to examine them he felt a sudden surge of excitement. Bloodstains, the front half of the spear must be in the stag.
He started running back downhill following the blood splatters. His shoulder began throbbing but he ignored the pain and quickened his pace. As he burst out into the clearing he had recently crossed he saw the large red stag tottering near the far side. Its rear legs collapsed. It sat on its haunches and turned its head to watch Fergus walk slowly closer. Its big black eyes watched him approach without showing any fear. The jagged end of the spear protruded from its chest. It did not cry out. The only sound came from blood bubbling from the chest wound as it breathed. Fergus could see it was dying. A sudden feeling of pity swept over him. He drew his sword, with the thought of putting the poor animal out of its misery. Despite his custom of beheading enemies, he could not do it. He re-sheathed his sword. This magnificent deer was not his enemy.
The stag still watched him, eyes following the hunter even as its front legs buckled and it sagged to the ground. Fergus wiped tears from his cheeks. Its eyes were still bright and followed his movements as he squatted in front of the magnificent animal. The eyes now seemed sad. They stopped following his movements. After a short time they still remained open but the spark of life left them and they filmed over. This monarch of the mountain had gone.
Fergus sat down exhausted next to the dead animal. It was too heavy for him to move. The other hunters were expecting him to join them on the other side of the hill. His shoulder began throbbing again. He put his head in his hands and wept.
* * * * *
Gart’s group patiently concealed themselves at the edge of the large meadow. They waited for any animals that might be flushed out of the farther tree line by Fergus. Nothing happened. The wind died. “Where is Fergus?” whispered one of the hunters. “Quiet” said Gart. “He has to come a long way over the top of the hill. Give him time.”
Then the wind sprang up again; from the north. “That’s not a good sign.” sighed Uen. “Now our scent will be carried to our prey.”
“What will we do?” asked another hunter.
“We wait here for Fergus.” stated Gart. It proved to be a long wait. The sun was approaching midday and still no prey and no Fergus. The men were getting fidgety.
“Shouldn’t we go and look for him?” asked one.
“How would we find him?” said Gart. The forest is very thick. We could pass each other within a couple of spear lengths and never know.” They continued waiting.
The cold north wind now growing in strength forced them to find shelter behind a couple of the larger trees. One of the two sailors guarding the coracles climbed up to ask if there was any trouble. “The only trouble is we have seen no prey and we don’t know where Fergus is.” said Gart despondently.
“Well what about that column of smoke I saw over the other side of the hill” asked the sailor.
“What smoke?” asked Uen. “I don’t see anything.”
“You can’t see it from here because the wind is blowing it out across the loch. It seems to be coming from the general area we left Fergus” said the sailor.
“Damn it man.” exploded Gart. “It must be Fergus. Maybe he has caught something and is cooking it.”
“Or maybe he’s in trouble and it’s a signal.” said the sailor.
“By the Gods! You may be right. Quickly back to the boats. We have to investigate.” Gathering their weapons the small group headed downhill through the trees to the shoreline.
They relaunched the two coracles and paddling furiously headed back down the loch to where they had left Fergus. It took less time than before as the light skin covered craft were assisted by the wind, although it tended to push them into the middle of the loch as it drove them south. The sailors redoubled their efforts to bring the craft close into land. Eventually they beached the coracles and leaving one man as usual to guard the boats, headed inland and uphill. The sailor who had deposited Fergus earlier that day pointed in the direction he had seen the young Pict take. It indeed seemed to lead directly toward the smoke they could now clearly see coming from less than half way up the hill.
It was only a short time later when they came to a small grass covered clearing. In the middle was a small fire with smouldering embers still producing a thin line of smoke. Near the fire was a large red stag lying on its side. A red headed form lay curled next to the stag, its head on the dead deer’s neck. As they approached the form suddenly sat up. “What took you so long?” said Fergus smiling.
* * * * *
Fergus related how he came upon the stag and how it died. The hunters stared in awe. They had never heard of one man killing a stag before. “Well that’s fantastic,” said Uen “but how are we going to get this beast home? It will take the best part of a day to cut it into manageable pieces, and then we wouldn’t be able to fit it into the two boats”
“Cut a few branches and make a sled.” suggested one of the warriors. We should be able to slide it down hill to the boats.” They quickly cut four long branches, stripped the leaves and constructed a two rail wooden sled with smaller wooden cross beams. They tied the entire unit together using some of their leather belts. The stag was then loaded onto the sled and with men at the front pulling and some at the back pushing, made their way back down to the boats.
Another dilemma faced them on the shoreline. The carcase was too big to be carried by any one of their small boats. “Why don’t we add some more wooden rails to the sled and float it behind the boats.” suggested Gart. This was quickly done and when the enlarged sled, now a raft, carrying the stag was launched into the water, the stag floated, albeit with the sled/raft slightly underwater. Not glamorous but it worked. Finally, using more leather belts and straps, the raft was lashed between the two coracles. The sun, glimpsed through the low scudding clouds showed it was mid-afternoon. This time of year produced shorter days and longer nights. It was not the time anyone would want to spend the night out of doors.
The little flotilla moved out, back toward Poolewe.
* * * * *
Fergus was greeted by Bryan and Culann together with the Poolewe Clan who celebrated with food and drink well into the night
There was great rejoicing when the hunters returned home, just after su
ndown with their large red deer. Venison was a highly prized food, even more so than beef. Many people wanted to congratulate Fergus but he winced every time someone slapped him on the back. His shoulder still hurt.
Bryan gathered Culann and Fergus together after their evening feast. He was concerned that their continued stay at the village would bring more hardship to the people, particularly in the harsh winter. He wanted to return to Iona as soon as possible.
Culann advised they now had a rudimentary smith working, but needed much more time to train the locals in metalworking. Bryan thought on that for a moment and waved them over to Alpin sitting among the fishermen. Explaining his concerns Bryan suggested to the Chieftain it would be better and easier if he would allow two of Culann’s trainee metalworkers to accompany them back to Iona. There they could receive even better training and return with a full set of metal tools in the summer.
Alpin after conferring with some of the other elders agreed. “But how will my men get back from your Iona?” he asked. Culann advised that has already been discussed. The men would bring one of their small coracles. It could be towed behind the larger curach. The trainees could return in easy stages when the more favourable summer weather prevailed.
It was then agreed by all that the Iona group plus the two Poolewe trainees would leave the following day. Although the winter weather was not recommended for sailing, the winds were now coming mainly from the north. That would assist them sailing south to Iona.
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Chapter 7 - The Long Way Home
The Picts from the Isle of Skye demanding the deer hindquarter as toll from the Iona curach. Meanwhile Fergus deftly destroys their boat.
The women of Poolewe worked through the night to prepare and cook one of the deer’s hindquarters as a farewell gift to the Iona travellers. That should sustain them for four or five days. Although the team planned to leave at daybreak it was around Terce (mid-morning prayers around 9 am) before they launched their curach. Tearful farewells and ‘safe-trips’ were given by all the Poolewe inhabitants.
It was raining, but only lightly, with the wind from the north as the curach made way using oars up Loch Ewe, their little coracle merrily bobbing behind. The Poolewe fishermen accompanied them in their boats to the mouth of the loch.
There the larger curach turned west then south and with the wind favouring them, hoisted sail and began the journey home.
The mountains of Skye on their right were hidden from view by the frequent rain squalls. Spray would occasionally sweep right over the gunwales as the wind strength increased from the north. The water in the bottom of the curach would also be added to by the frequent rain storms that soaked boat and crew. Fergus volunteered to bail water from the boat. His left shoulder was now purple with severe bruising following his encounter with the stag, and was unable to help with the rowing.
The wind decreased in strength toward midday and visibility improved. As the curach continued south they passed Gair Loch on their left, then the islands of Rona and Raasay on their right. On the mainland, half-way between Loch Torridon and the beginning of the narrow passage of water separating Skye from the mainland (now called Kyle of Lochalsh) the sun suddenly burst between the cloud cover and a wonderful, beam of sunlight bathed the very picturesque bay on their left. The summer trees had all lost their leaves and the upland meadows were visible stretching to the fir tree line in the distance and the hills beyond. All occupants of the curach stopped to watch the golden glow. “Lovely country.” murmured Brother Bryan.
“We call it Aporcrosan” [1] said one of the Poolewe men softly.
[1] The bay or sound is known today as Applecross. Its name is an Anglicization of the Pictish name Aporcrosan, 'confluence of the [river] Crossan' (Obar Crosain in modern Gaelic). In 672 a monastery was founded here by the Irish monk St. Máelrubai (Old Irish form) or Maelrubha, who came from the monastery of Bangor, County Down. He was the monastery's first abbot, dying on 21 April 722 in his eightieth year.
There are many churches dedicated to Maelrubha on Skye and throughout northern Scotland, the saint's name sometimes taking distorted forms (e.g. Loch Maree and its holy island of Eilean Ma-Ruibhe (site of an early church and holy well) are both named after the saint.
As they past the site the cloud cover came over again and everyone turned their attention south. By early mid afternoon they approached the passage separating Raasay Island and its smaller neighbor Scalpay. Then as they watched, two boats emerged from that passage ahead but bearing toward them. The two boats had no sails but as they came closer it was apparent they had at least ten oarsmen plus at least ten warriors with spears in each vessel.
“Do you think they are friendly?” asked Bryan.
“If they were friendly they would wave.” said Culann sagely.
“Well it’s lucky we have our sail. We should be able to outrun them is necessary.” Everyone continued watching the two boats on their starboard closing the distance between. All boats seemed to heading to that narrow passage between Skye and the mainland. The sailor in charge of the Iona curach altered course from south to south by east. The north wind faded in strength. The sailors adjusted the sail to catch the now fluky wind. The sail began flapping.
The wind died.
“Quickly,” yelled the head sailor “man the oars.” The six sailors unshipped their oars and quickly gained a rhythm, oars biting into the grey-green swell. The curach leapt forward again. The two foreign boats were ahead of them seemly trying to crowd them onto the mainland shore. “Would it be better to ship the sail?” asked Bryan.
“No sir,” replied the head sailor “the wind may pick up at any time. Best leave it up for now.” The two boats were coming closer. A warrior standing in the bow of the leading craft cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled something.
“What is he saying?” asked Bryan. “Beg pardon your worship,” said one of the Poolewe men “he’s saying we are in his territory and we should pull into yonder bay.”
“And why should we do that.” responded Bryan.
“Well your worship, they are from Skye. They are hard men, not very nice people. They probably want you to pay some sort of toll.”
The two foreign boats were now slightly ahead of the Iona curach and closing.
“We don’t have anything of value.” said Bryan “what could we possibly give them.”
“We could give them the hindquarter of deer.” suggested Fergus.
“What? Give them that magnificent piece of venison that you caught with your bare hands.” asked Bryan. “We won’t have anything to eat if we do that.”
“Frankly Brother Bryan I couldn’t eat it anyway. But perhaps Brother Culann could lend me his Gladius,” said Fergus.
“Really? What do you think Brother Culann?” asked Bryan.
“I think it is the only option we have. And I think Fergus has another mad plan in his head. Am I right Fergus?” asked Culann.
Fergus smiled slightly and said nothing as Culann swapped him his Roman Gladius for Fergus’s sword. The young Pict strapped the short sword in its scabbard to his waist. The nearest Skye curach was now only a little further than two boat lengths away. Its partner moved up alongside it.
“Ok then,” said Bryan to the Poolewe men, “show them the venison hindquarter and tell them they can have that in exchange of our safe passage.”
The Poolewe men held up the large hindquarter of venison and shouted the offer. The warriors on board the other boats conferred and then yelled their agreement.
“Put the deer onto the small coracle behind. I will swim it over to them.” said Fergus.
“That’s too dangerous lad. Maybe we should land on yonder shore to transfer the hindquarter.” said Bryan.
“No the lad knows what he is doing.” said Culann. “We are more at risk and greatly outnumbered on land.”
The sailors by this time had ceased rowing. The three boats drifted closer together. Men on th
e Skye boats had dropped their spears and crowded closer to the sides of their respective boats to view their prize. The Iona sailors pulled the small coracle by its tethering leather strap close in behind their curach. They carefully lowered the large venison hindquarter into the smaller vessel with the larger end in the bottom of the craft and the thinner leg overlapping the side.
Fergus had removed his cloak and stood for a moment dressed only in his loose shirt top and trousers. Then he jumped feet first into the sea next to the coracle. Everyone watched fascinated as his red head disappeared under the waves, only to reappear a few heartbeats later. He raised his left hand and the sailors threw him the coracle’s long leather rope. Fergus turned toward the nearest Skye hide covered curach and paddling using one hand and both feet toward it. Eager hands reached down and grabbed the offered rope when he reached the bow. Two Skye warriors clambered down the side of their boat and attempted to attach the carcass to ropes held by their colleagues above. The small coracle rocked alarmingly and amid cries from their colleagues to be careful lest their precious cargo slip away into the sea. More ropes and hooks were handed down and the warriors tried again.
While the occupants of all three boats were watching this drama play out, Culann was anxiously observing Fergus, as unnoticed he had quietly drifted down one side of the Skye curach. His left hand held onto the straps that were lashed down each side to help attach the cowhide covering the wooden frame of the boat. Only his head and neck and left arm appeared above waves. His right shoulder was hidden, but from time to time seemed to move vigorously for a few heartbeats, then stop as he floated once move toward the stern of the boat.
Suddenly a great cheer went up from the Skye boats; the stag hindquarters had finally been hoisted aboard. The now empty coracle was still attached by rope and bounced high out of the water. Fergus had disappeared.
The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight Page 8