“Do we get our coracle back?” asked one of the Poolewe men, albeit a little forlornly.
“Don’t worry about it lad.” said Culann moving up next to Bryan. “I’ve lost Fergus. Can we move our curach away to the left a little. He might be behind the Eilean a' Cheò boat.”
“What is he doing there?” asked Bryan mystified, but instructing the sailors to do so.
“I think he’s cutting holes in those curachs.”
“My God!” exclaimed Bryan, then making the sign of the cross. “I mean goodness gracious me.” Just then Fergus came into view, now heading to the rear of the second curach.
At the same moment a commotion erupted on the first Skye curach. Men were yelling and scrambling for utensils to bail out their craft, which was rapidly filling with sea water.
As if on cue, taking a leaf out of Coleman’s book, Brother Bryan stood on one of the rowing benches, and facing the Skye boats, holding a small crucifix high in one hand, bellowed “Hear ye, hear ye, thou men of criminal intent. Thou hast angered the Lord our God! Our Great Father in Heaven has seen fit to punish you. Repent now or you will be caste into a watery grave!” The occupants of the Iona boat stood in shocked silence at this outburst, then eyes widening watched as the closest Skye craft seemed to be rapidly settling lower in the water.
Pandemonium broke out on both pirate boats. Warriors on the first boat, now up to their knees in water, determined their craft was beyond saving. The stronger ones drew swords and knives and proceeded to slash their way forward through their comrades, to where the little coracle was still tethered. Three large men jumped into the little craft. Another five followed. The coracle promptly capsized throwing everyone into the water. The first curach was now settling down with water overlapping its gunwales. Then it suddenly disappeared leaving many men thrashing madly in the water.
The occupants of the second boat watching this suddenly seized their oars and began rowing frantically toward their struggling comrades. All boats by this time were moving faster, drawn by the increasing tidal race that had developed as the land narrowed between Skye and the mainland. The second boat was now much more sluggish in the water as the crew tried to drag their drowning companions from the water.
“Do we help them Brother Culann?” asked Bryan.
“We pick up Fergus first.” yelled Culann pointing to the small, red head now drifting toward the second Skye boat. Everyone was being swept along toward the narrows. “Row lads, put your backs into. We have to save young Fergus, for it was he who saved us.” The lighter Iona curach was swept past the surviving Skye craft by the strengthening current. They lost sight of Fergus behind the Pict boat.
Under the frantic urging of Culann the sailors redoubled their efforts and rowed back around the second Skye craft. They were greeted by the sight of six or so sailors thrashing wildly in the racing water. A few more were clinging desperately to the side of the surviving Skye craft, but there was no sign of the young red headed Pict. “Fergus is gone.” cried Brother Bryan in despair. Culann’s shoulders sagged and he let out a low moan.
One of the Iona sailors grabbed a floundering Skye warrior and dragged him into their curach. Both craft were now being buffeted by increasing waves as they neared the narrowest point of the passage.
The prow of the Iona boat swept past a dark haired Pict who was clinging doggedly to a wooden oar with one arm and waving wildly with the other. Culann made a desperate grab for his shirt as they swept past, and yelled triumphantly as he dragged the waterlogged warrior aboard.
The Skye curach headed toward a rock strewn beach on the mainland. It grounded roughly on a hidden sand bank throwing most of the occupants off their feet, then shuddered free and buried its bow in the beach.
The Iona boat swept past. “Do we keep going Culann?” yelled Brother Bryan, pointing at the beached boat.
“No, pull in to the beach. We’ll give them back their men,” replied the warrior monk. Culann strode to the stern of their boat and looked back from where they had come. He didn’t want anyone to see the tears that had suddenly formed in his eyes. Blinking furiously he tried to see any sign of life in the choppy waters. The sea was empty save for a group of seagulls circling over some wooden debris. So be it. I’ve lost a great friend.
* * * * *
The Iona curach pulled into the beach about ten boat-lengths further down from the Skye craft. The sailors and Poolewe Picts stayed with the boat while Culann and Brother Bryan assisted the two shivering Skye warriors back up the beach to their comrades. As they got closer they noticed the Skye crew had already started a fire on the beach to warm their drenched companions. Seeing the small Iona group come into view with their two survivors, the Skye crew let out a load cheer and some raced up the beach to greet them. Culann found it strange that these men now busily slapping them on the back in congratulations, were just a short time ago, threatening them with death.
Culann and Bryan came to the now large fire and held out their arms to greet the warmth like the others. Culann looked back to the beached Skye boat and noticed three inert forms lying face down just above the water line. No doubt unlucky men who were already drowned when they were pulled out of the water. He peered at the figure in the middle. He had red hair and a short gold coloured sword hung from his waist.
Culann dashed over to the three bodies, stood for a moment then cried out in a voice filled with pain “Fergus.” He squatted and gently took the red headed form in his arms. Fergus eyes were closed, his face was deathly white and his lips were blue. Culann wrapped his arms round the body of his young friend and rocked back and forth, crying.
The others noticing this act of grief walked over slowly. Brother Bryan knelt down next to Culann and said “There, there, Brother Culann. At least we have the poor boy’s body. We will take it back to Iona and bury it there. He will lie next to saints and kings.”
Culann was inconsolable. “Why Fergus? Why him? Why not me?” He held his friend’s body tighter and rocked even harder in his grief. Brother Bryan wiped the lank wet hair from Fergus face. The Skye warriors milled around, murmuring among themselves at this outpouring of grief.
Then something extremely extraordinary happened.
Fergus coughed
* * * * *
Pandemonium broke out. “Quickly get his wet clothes off. He’s alive.” shouted Bryan. Culann ran, carrying his limp burden to the fire. There Fergus was stripped of his garments and clothed in dry kit from the Skye curach.
After continual massaging of his arms and legs Fergus feeble breathing became noticeable, but his eyes remained closed. He was still unconscious.
“We need to get the boy back to the infirmary on Lios mór.” said Culann quietly to Brother Bryan who was still massaging Fergus feet.
Bryan nodded and added “I’ll go down to our curach and get the lads to bring it back up here. Best we head off this evening.” Culann nodded assent and Brother Bryan rose and walked quickly down the beach to their curach.
The Skye leader, the same tall blonde bearded warrior who had demanded toll, came, stood next to Culann and looked at the inert Fergus. The leader, still shivering because he had ended up in the water, said to Culann “You’re friend is lucky. I thought he was dead like the others,” pointing at the now two bodies lying near the high waterline.
Culann said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Iona curach being dragged up along the water’s edge toward them.
“Well I would have preferred the deer carcase, but he’s better than nothing.” continued the leader. A couple of the warriors standing next to them grinned. Culann slowly stood up, still holding Fergus still form.
The Iona boat drew up next to them. Brother Bryan and the two Poolewe Picts hurried over to the fireside. Bryan could see Culann and Fergus were surrounded by the Skye warriors, which now only numbered fifteen. “What’s happening?” asked Bryan as he pushed the group until he stood next to Culann.
“I don’t unders
tand it all,” replied Culann still staring directly at the Skye leader, but I think because they lost the deer, they want Fergus.”
“But that’s preposterous” spluttered Bryan. Then turning to the nearest Poolewe Pict asked “Can they do that? Do your people take slaves – just like the Dál Riata Scotti?”
The Poolewe man looked down at his feet “We don’t, but the Skye people do. They are hard people.”
“But we risked everything to bring back twelve of their men from Dunadd,” cried Bryan.
The Poolewe Pict translated this to the Leader, who merely shrugged.
“I think they are from a different clan group. They say they know nothing about men coming back from Dunadd,” revealed the Poolewe Pict.
Culann handed the unconscious Fergus to Bryan; then turned to confront the Skye leader. “Get the Poolewe lad to translate this, . . . I don’t want any misunderstanding.”
Bryan glanced at the Poolewe Pict who nodded he understood.
“Tell him,” said Culann quietly, nodding at the blonde leader, “tell him Fergus belongs to us. He is coming with us, now.”
As soon as the Poolewe Pict finished translating, the Skye Leader threw back his head and laughed. The Poolewe lad then hurriedly translated the response.
“What? Who are you to tell me what to do? We are . . .” he paused and counted his comrades, “fifteen warriors. You are only two monks, two boys from Poolewe and six sailors. You can’t tell me what to do.” At that, he put his hands on his hips and looked around at his grinning fellow warriors.
Brother Bryan’s face hardened “We rescued two of your comrades my good friend. Is that how your treat someone who has done you a great favour?”
“That’s true,” replied the leader rubbing his beard. “However I’m not sure you didn’t use some special magic from your ‘so called God’, to sink our ship. If you want your red headed friend you will have to give me something in return.”
“What do you want?” asked Culann quietly.
“Ah, this monk has a tongue after all,” grinned the Leader. “Well, tell me my friend, what can you give me?”
Everyone looked at Culann, who dropped his cloak, reached over his shoulder and unsheathed Fergus’ long sword. “I’ll give you your life,” voice ice cold.
“You dare challenge me!” yelled the Leader stepping back and drawing his own sword. The crowd murmured approvingly and formed a large circle around the two combatants. This was entertainment. But it would be a bit one-sided. Their leader was chosen because of his fighting skills. He was the best among them. But who was he fighting – a monk? It was not really a fair fight. This was murmured by some of the Skye warriors.
“I don’t care” roared the Leader waving his sword menacingly at Culann. “He challenged me. He will die!” The Leader raised his sword above his shoulder and sliced viciously down at where Culann was standing.
The Skye leader sliced viciously down with his sword where Culann was standing
But Culann holding his sword defensively in front of himself, slid easily to one side as the Leader’s sword blade arced overhead. The Leader swore and swung again - and missed again. The murmuring began again among the Skye warriors. This was no ordinary monk. He has excellent fighting skills.
The Leader changed tactics and lunged forward with the point of his sword. Culann easily deflected the thrust and stepped behind his opponent, sword at the ready. The Leader, now wild eyed, swung around to face his adversary. He was breathing heavily.
Culann held up his left hand. “Your last chance. Will you give Fergus to us now?”
The Leader, red faced with anger, snarled “I’ll give you his head on a shield.” and swung viscously at Culann. The tip of the blade sliced through Culann’s woollen sleeve as he stepped aside, knocking both men slightly off-balance.
Culann recovered quickest and with his arm movement too fast for the eye to follow, drove his sword in and up under the Leader’s rib cage. The Skye Leader shuddered, his mouth gaped open, but no sound came. Culann, one hand still on the hilt of his sword plunged deep into the Leaders side, grabbed his opponents back and gently lowered him to the ground. Then placing one foot on the still quivering warrior, pulled out his sword. The leader’s body lay sprawled on the beach, twitching spasmodically. Blood pumped into the sand. No one said a word. The Leader, mouth frozen wide and sightless eyes gazing to the heavens, stopped twitching.
Culann turned and the Skye warriors moved out of his way. Bloody sword still in hand he strode toward Bryan who was cradling the unconscious Fergus. “We go home” said Culann as he put his left arm around the shoulders of Bryan and marched them toward their curach.
No one attempted to stop them. According to their code of honour, the Leader of the Skye warriors had challenged the tall monk and had been killed in a fair fight. They would not help their adversaries; but neither would they hinder them.
The Iona sailors pushed their curach through the small surf on the beach and out, into deeper water. With the water up to their waist, they clambered on board, joining Culann, Bryan, Fergus and the two Poolewe Picts. Then manning the oars the sailors turned their craft south. As if in compensation for their tribulations, the wind picked up from the north. They raised their sail and headed home.
For years to come, the warriors of Skye did not dare attack any Columban Monks who continued to establish small monasteries on the Isle of Skye and on the mainland at Applecross. These strange fearless men in long off-white robes would fight like demons, and if in trouble, could call on their all-powerful God.
* * * * *
Fergus regained consciousness just before sundown. Actually his eyes fluttered open and he mumbled “Where are the milk bags? Who has taken my milk?” He didn’t seem to recognise anyone.
Bryan and Culann knelt down close to the lad’s mouth, straining to catch his words. Bryan looked perplexed. “What is he talking about? ‘Milk’ what does he mean, milk?”
Culann smiled slightly before answering. “I think he is dreaming about Lindisfarne. Every morning Fergus would swim to the mainland, collect two large leather bags of milk and swim back to the island. He is used to being immersed in cold winter water.”
“Well it’s a good sign his eyes are open and he is talking – even if he is not making sense. I feel we should get him back to Iona as soon as possible. He needs good care urgently.”
“If that’s the case shouldn’t we take him to the Infirmary at Lios mór?” suggested Culann
Bryan turned away from the others and whispered to Culann “I understand our sailor friends feel we have been away from their home on Iona for too long. They want to get back quickly. We have already exposed them to enough danger for one journey. I think it best to head for Iona. Then if necessary, we can get another boat to Lios mór.”
Culann nodded thoughtfully and turned to Fergus lying beside him and stroked his white face. “He still feels cold. Perhaps we should cover his head with one of my hoods.” They bundled Fergus head in Culann’s spare hood and wrapped him in a fresh dry cloak.
Night came. The crew shared the small parcel of food given to them by the people of Poolewe. Fergus eyes still fluttered occasionally, but he couldn’t eat. Culann wet the lad’s lips from time to time from his water bottle.
Dark scudding clouds covered the moon and stars most of the time. The sailors however navigated the south west passage between the heel of the Isle of Sky and the mainland easily. The white-water breaking on either shore was clearly visible as were the dark menacing mountains of Skye.
It was a long night. This was still mid-winter and the days were short and the nights seemed endless. By sun-up they had passed through the dangerous passage and left Eilean a' Cheò behind.
Once more in open ocean they still had the mainland on their left but by setting their course south-west, the sailors searched for the outlines of the islands Rum and Eigg on the western horizon. All they could see was a forbidding dark cloud bank towering ever upwards.<
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The helmsman shouted over the gusting wind to Brother Bryan “I fear we are in for some very bad weather sir. The wind has changed from the north and is now coming from the south and west.” Bryan looked at the sailor’s outstretch arm pointing to the fast approaching storm clouds. “Methinks we should pull into shore until this nasty business passes.” Even as he spoke the master sailor waved instructions to his crew to lower the sail which was flapping dangerously. “Man the oars my boyos. We will make for yonder shore.” He then dragged the steering oar hard over and pointed their little craft at the mainland.
The curach pitched up and down, buffeted by waves and increasing wind squalls. Spray from the waves lashed the boat’s occupants forcing them to squat low in the curach and turn their faces from the wind. Culann and the two Poolewe Picts began bailing the water from the boats bottom with their drinking mugs.
The sailors dragged harder on their oars. They were side on to the fierce wind gusts, but were of tough stock. The master sailor shielded his face and eyes as much as he could. He was sitting higher than anyone facing the elements while controlling their direction with his steering oar mounted aft starboard.
Brother Bryan sat cradling Fergus who stared upwards without saying anything as water sloshed around them.
The wind howled and fierce spray drummed against the leather sides of the curach. The boat pitched sideways alarmingly, but each time the helmsman turned it into the wind, righted it and then turned it back again toward he guessed the shore lay. By this time however no one could see the shore. Rain lashed down in near horizontal sheets. Visibility was down to a couple of boat lengths.
Culann and the Picts increased their bailing efforts but the water inside the curach kept rising.
Suddenly the helmsman gave a heart stopping scream and yelled “Hard a-starboard lads or we are done for!”
Culann looked up to see immediately ahead huge white-water waves destroying themselves against a black cliff. He turned to warn Bryan and Fergus, but before he could do anything the unstoppable swell smashed their little craft onto the murderous rocks. His last fleeting thought before everything went dark was of Fea. The tempest howled louder as if in victory, obliterating everything.
The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight Page 9