Bec (3 page)
The women grind wheat in stone querns to make bread or porridge. Some work on the roofs of the huts, thatching and mending holes. I’d love to build a hut from scratch, draw a circle on the ground and raise it up level by level. There’s something magical about building. Banba told me that all unnatural things — clothes, huts, weapons — are the result of magic. Without magic, she said, men and women would be animals, like all the other beasts.
Most of the men are sleeping, but a few are cleaning their blades and still discussing the night’s battle. It was one of our easier nights. The attack was short-lived and the demons were few in number. Some reckon that’s a sign that the Fomorii are dying out and returning to the Otherworld. But they’re dreamers. This war with the demons is a long way from over. I don’t need fish guts to tell me that!
Fiachna is working by himself, straightening crooked swords, fixing new handles to axes, sharpening knives. We’re the only clan in the tuath with a smith of its own. That was Goll’s doing when he was king. Most smiths wander from clan to clan, picking up work where they find it. Goll figured that if we paid a smith to settle, folk from nearby raths, cathairs, and crannogs would come to us when their weapons and tools needed repairing, rather than wait for a smith to pass by. He was right. Our rath became an important focal point of the tuath — until the attacks began. The demons put an end to a lot of normal routines. Nobody travels now, unless it’s to flee the Fomorii.
When I get a chance, I walk over to where Fiachna is hammering away at a particularly stubborn blade. I watch him silently, playing with a lock of my short red hair, smiling shyly. I
like
Fiachna. He’s shorter than most men, and slim, which is odd for a smith. But he’s very skilled. Stronger than he looks. He swings heavy hammers and weapons with ease. If I could marry, I’d like to marry Fiachna. If nothing else, we’re suited in size. Maybe it’s because of the name Goll gave me, or perhaps it’s coincidence, but I’m one of the smallest girls in the rath.
But it’s not just his size. I like his kind nature and gentle face. He has a short beard — dark blond, like his hair — which doesn’t hide his smile. Most of the men have beards so thick you can’t see their mouths, so you never know if they’re smiling or frowning.
I often dream of being Fiachna’s wife, bearing his young, fighting demons by his side. But it won’t happen. I’m almost of marrying age — my blood came a couple of years ago, earlier than in most girls — but I can never wed. Magic and marriage don’t mix. Priestesses and druids lose their power if they love.
Sometimes it makes me sad, thinking about not being able to marry. I find myself wishing I could be normal, that the magic would fade from me, leaving me free to wed like other girls my age. But those are selfish thoughts and I try hard to drive them away. My people need my magic. It’s not the strongest in the world and I’m in dire need of a teacher to direct me. But it’s better than having no magician in the rath at all.
Fiachna looks up and catches me staring. He smiles, but not in a teasing way, not like Connla would smirk if he saw me looking at him. “You did well with the bees last night,” Fiachna says in his soft, lilting voice, more like a fairy’s than a human’s.
I feel my face turn red. “It wasn’t much,” I mutter, sticking my big right toe out over the lip of its sandal and stubbing the ground.
“You’re getting stronger,” Fiachna says. “You’ll be a powerful priestess soon.”
We both know that’s a lie but I love him for saying it. I give a big smile, like a baby having its tummy tickled. Then Cera calls me and tells me to give her a hand dyeing wool. “Do you want me to help you with the weapons?” I quickly ask Fiachna, hoping for an excuse to stay with him. “I can bless the blades. Put magic in them. Make them stronger.”
Fiachna shakes his head. “There’s no need. I’m almost finished. I’ll work on farming tools in the afternoon.”
“Oh.” I try not to let my disappointment show. “Well, if you need me, call.”
Fiachna nods. “Thank you, Bec. I will.”
Simple words, but as I dip strands of wool in a vat full of blue dye, they ring inside my skull, making me smile.
In the afternoon, while the men are stirring in their sleep and the women are working on the evening meal, a lookout yells a warning. “Figures to the north!”
The rath comes on instant alert. Demons have never attacked this early — there’s at least two hours of daylight left — but we’ve learned not to take anything for granted. Men are out of their huts and reaching for weapons within seconds. Female warriors throw away their looms, combs, tools, and pots and hurry to the rampart. Those outside the rath are summoned in. They come hastily, anxiously driving the animals ahead of them.
Conn emerges from his hut at the center of the village, eyes crusty, looking less worried than anyone else. A king should never look scared. He climbs the rampart and strides to the lookout. Stares off into the distance. Connla shouts at him from the ground, “Demons?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Conn grunts. “Human in shape. But maybe they’re dead.”
The dead often come back to haunt us. The demons get the bodies from dolmens or wedge tombs. They use dark magic to fill the corpses with evil life, sometimes stitching bits from various victims together. We’re not sure why they do it. Maybe some of them can’t make bodies of their own and have to steal the bones of our dead. We’ve gone to all the local tombs that we know of over the last year, burning the corpses. But there are many hidden and forgotten tombs. The demons are always finding new bodies. At times, it seems like there’s more dead than living in the world.
Conn watches for several minutes, with more of the clan joining him, shading their eyes with their hands, studying the approaching shapes. I see the more hawkeyed among them — Ronan, Lorcan, Ena — relax and I know it’s all right. But nobody says anything before Conn. It’s his place to give the all-clear.
Finally, Conn smiles. “Not to worry,” he says. “They’re human. Alive.”
Calm settles over the rath and everyone returns to their normal routine. We’re curious about the strangers, but we’ll find out all about them in good time. No point standing around guessing, when there’s work to be done.
They arrive half an hour later, ragged and weary from battle and the road. Four men, three women, and four children. We know them — the MacCadan. When the demons first attacked, Conn sent an envoy to Cadan and asked if he was open to an alliance. There had been bad blood between us, but Conn wanted to make peace so we could fight the demons together. Cadan refused. He said his people could stand alone. We haven’t heard from them since then.
Cadan’s not among the eleven. The leader’s an old warrior — even older than Goll — who limps awkwardly and trembles pitifully when he’s not on the move. He announces himself at the gate as Tiernan MacCadan and requests entrance. The eleven trudge into the rath and present themselves miserably, heads low.
Conn goes straight to Tiernan and clasps his arms warmly, welcoming him. He asks if they’re hungry or thirsty. Tiernan says they are, and Conn gives orders for a feast to be prepared. The women set to the task immediately.
Conn leads our guests to the area in front of his hut and lets them settle. They haven’t brought much — spare clothes, a few weapons, some tools — but it’s plain this is all they have. I know what’s happened, just as Conn and everybody else knows, but nobody says anything. We let Tiernan explain.
The demons overwhelmed them. The end had been coming for a long time but they held out stubbornly, even past the point where they knew it was folly. Their best warriors had fallen to the foul Fomorii, their children had been taken, their animals slain, their crops destroyed.
“Many argued against staying,” Tiernan sighs. “We said it was madness, that we’d perish if we didn’t join forces with our neighbors. But Cadan said we’d lose face if we retreated. He was a proud man, not for bending. But eventually, like all who refuse to bend, he snapped. The Fomorii took him last night, along with three others. This morning, before the sun had risen, we packed our goods and marched here. We hope to fight with you, to offer whatever aid we can, to...”
He trails to a halt. Two of the men are seriously injured, and Tiernan’s no chick. One of the women is a warrior but the other two aren’t. And the children are too young to fight. Tiernan’s trying to make it sound like we need them, that they can make a difference. But really they’re just looking for sanctuary. Taking them in would be a mercy, not a merger.
The men of the rath are sitting in a circle around the newcomers. I’m on the outskirts, only allowed this close in case any magical matters arise. I see doubt on the faces of most. We’re already cramped. We’d need to expand the fort again to comfortably hold eleven more people. That’s hard to do when you’re under attack from demons most nights.
Tiernan senses the mood and speaks rapidly. “We could build our own huts. Our women are skilled, the children too. We’d depend on your hospitality for a few weeks, but we’d work every hour we can to set up on our own. We wouldn’t be a burden. And when it comes to fighting, we’re stronger than we look. Even the youngest child has drawn blood. We —”
“Easy, friend,” Conn interrupts. “We’re pleased you came to us when there are so many other clans you could have gone to. It’s an honor to receive you. I’m sure you will be of great help.”
Tiernan blinks. He hadn’t expected such a gracious welcome. After the years of feuding, it’s more than he dared hope. Tears well in his eyes but he shakes them away and smiles. “You’re a true king,” he compliments Conn.
“And, I hope, a true friend,” Conn replies, then barks orders for beds to be made for the MacCadan. Some don’t like it — Connla’s face is as dark as a winter cloud — but nobody’s going to argue with our king, certainly not in front of guests. So they obey without question, shifting beds, clothes, and goods from one hut to another, bunching up even closer than before, squashing together, making room for the new additions to our demon-tormented clan.
P
REPARATIONS for the feast are at an advanced stage, and the sun is close to setting, when there’s a call from another lookout. “I see someone in the distance running towards us!”
Conn raises an eyebrow at Tiernan. They’ve been talking about their battles with the demons. I’ve sat in close attendance. Our seanachaidh fled not long after the attacks began, so I’ve been charged with keeping the history of the clan. I’m no natural storyteller, but I’ve a perfect memory.
“It’s not one of ours,” Tiernan says. “We brought all our living with us.”
“Is it a demon?” Conn shouts at the lookout.
“It doesn’t look like one,” comes the reply. “I think it’s a boy. But the speed at which he’s running... I’m not sure.”
Conn returns to the rampart with Tiernan and a few of our warriors. I slip up behind them. I normally avoid the exposure of the higher ground, but a lone demon in daylight can’t pose much of a threat.
As the figure races closer, we see that it’s a boy, my age or slightly older, running incredibly fast, head bobbing about strangely. He lopes up to the gate, ignoring Conn’s shouts to identify himself, then stops and looks at us dumbly. Dark hair and small eyes. He smiles widely, even though Conn is roaring at him, threatening to stick a spear through his heart if he doesn’t announce his intentions. Then he sits, picks a flower, and plays with it.
Conn looks angry but confused. “A simpleton,” he grunts.
“It could be a trap,” Tiernan mutters.
“Demons don’t send humans to lay traps,” Conn disagrees.
“But you saw how fast he ran,” Tiernan says. “And he doesn’t look tired. He’s not even sweating. Maybe he’s not human.”
“Bec,” Conn calls, “do you sense anything?”
I close my eyes and focus on the boy. Demons have a different feel from humans. They buzz with the power of their own world. There’s a flicker of that about this child. I start to tell Conn but then something strange happens. I sense a change in the boy. Opening my eyes, I see that the light around him is different. It’s like looking at him through a thick bank of mist. As I squint, I realize the boy is no longer there. Instead, I’m staring at my mother.
There’s no mistaking her. I’ve seen her so many times in my perfect memories. She looks just like she did on the day she gave birth to me — the day she died. Haggard, bone-thin, dark circles under her eyes, stained with blood. But love in her eyes — love for me.
As I stare, numb with wonder — but no fear — my mother turns and points west, keeping her eyes on mine. She says something but her words don’t carry. With a frown, she jabs a long finger towards the west. She starts to say something else but then the mist clears. She shimmers. I blink. And I’m suddenly looking at the boy again, playing with his flower.
“Bec,” Conn is saying, shaking me lightly. “Are you all right?”
I look up, trembling, and think about telling Conn what I saw. Then I decide against it. I’ve never had a vision before. I need time to think about it before I discuss it with anyone. Focusing on the boy, I control my breathing and try to calm my fast heartbeat.
“I th-think he’s hu-human,” I stutter. “But not the same as us. There’s magic in him. Maybe he’s a druid’s apprentice.” That’s a wild guess, but it’s the closest I can get to explaining what’s different about him.
“Does he pose a threat?” Conn asks.
A dangerous question — if I answer wrong, I’ll be held responsible. I think about playing safe and saying I don’t know, but then the boy pulls a petal from the flower and slowly places it on his outstretched tongue. “No,” I say confidently. “He can’t harm us.”
The gate is opened. Several of us spill out and surround the boy. I’ve been brought along in case he doesn’t speak our language. A priestess is meant to have the gift of tongues. I don’t actually know any other languages, but I don’t see the need to admit that, not unless somebody asks me directly — and so far nobody has. I keep hoping he’ll change and become my mother again, but he doesn’t.
The boy is thin and dirty, his hair thick and unwashed, his knee-length tunic caked with mud, no cloak or sandals. His eyes dart left and right, never lingering on any one spot for more than a second. He’s carrying a long knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt, but he doesn’t reach for it or show alarm as we gather round him.