Pagewalker (2 page)

I fell down at least six feet. When I landed
I felt a deep, throbbing pain come from my shoulder and my head. I
had landed hard. The dirt and soil continued to fall on top of me
as I ungracefully made it to my feet. I brushed the dry dirt from
my hair and clothes. Using the inside of my jumper I cleaned the
mud from my glasses and on seeing clearly again, I could observe my
landing place. I had fallen into a large clump of thick, mossy,
clover. My eyes adjusted to the dark and as my vision cleared I
began to see my surroundings clearly.

I had stumbled across my greatest dream. A
room-like cave. The walls were of clean, white chalk stone and the
light from the large hole I had accidentally created bounced off
the clusters of flint embedded within it like mirrors. Beams of
light scattered the room like torches shining in the dark. The dust
was thick and the beams of light almost looked like woven ropes
holding the walls together. There was a small fireplace in the
corner. Nothing but embers glistened in it, as the smoke flew high
into a large chimney above. The fall and sudden gust of air must
have extinguished the fire as I crashed, uninvited into this home.
On closer inspection I could see that the chimney was, in fact, a
hollowed tree trunk that rose high into the forest. The inside was
black with soot and I could not see the top. A little stool was
perched in front of the fire and a stove with a cast iron pot, no
bigger than a teapot, was hanging from a short black iron chain.
The stool was no bigger than a sewing stool, less than a foot from
the ground. The base was as small as a saucer and would only seat a
very small child.

Behind me there was a table with books piled
high on top of it. The work area was so minimal that to even open a
book there would push the towers of literature to the edges and
cause them to topple. Some were piled as high as the ceiling
allowed. Touching the roof, they were jammed so tightly that they
must have acted as a support beam.

I continued to look around the room in pure
awe of its tiny glory. Not in my wildest dreams could I construct
an underground fort as well as this. The floor was clean, despite
the dust in the air and the grassy area in which I had landed. It
was not made of stone but of trodden dirt. Grass and moss grew in
the patches not often walked upon. There was a small bed in the far
corner the size of a cot or a small ‘Moses’ basket. I went over to
the bed and sat on the straw mattress. I could feel the pain
returning in my shoulder and head. I winced as I tried to stand but
fell back onto the bed as the pain shot down my back. I could feel
my eyes heavy and my mouth dry. I had never fainted before but I
was sure this was how it felt. I rested my head against the wall
and slid down the bed so that my legs were extended and I was
practically sitting on the dirt. All was silent as I slipped into
unconsciousness until something snapped me awake.

To this day, and even as I write this, I will
never forget the sound that probably saved my life.

Imagine you are in your bed. You are alone.
It is late at night and you are slowly drifting to slumber. Your
eyes are heavy. Your breathing slows and you sink into the
mattress. Your head has already sunk into the pillow and you are
resting peacefully. Your duvet is tight to your chin and you are
warm and comfortable. Just as your eyes roll back into your head
and you exhale that last conscious breath, imagine the sound of a
small and distant cough coming from the darkest corner of your
room.

Imagine, if you can, my fear at realising
that this was not a dream. It was the sound of someone approaching.
With my eyes wide open, heart beating, palms sweaty and pain
irrelevant, fear and adrenalin forced me to my feet. I tried to
scream but my voice was lost. I backed up the wall, scanning
frantically for a way out. All that could be seen was the dark
tunnel from where the sound had come.

Again the cough came and from the dark, a
whisper,

“Fáilte
?”
It said from the darkness.

I still could not speak, frozen, with my back
to the wall and my arms outstretched grasping the stone behind me,
pressing me tightly against the cold chalk wall.

Again I heard “
Fáilte
?”

Still unable to answer I racked my brains for
how I knew that word.

“Fáilte
?”

Suddenly it hit me, the meaning of the word
that is, not the owner of the voice.

The voice from the dark was greeting me. I
breathed a sigh of relief. A wolf didn’t greet its prey. It simply
attacked. I was still alive so I felt no danger. I still had that
childlike, innocent trust.

“Dia
dhuit
?” I said hopefully. “Uh,
Dia
dhuit
, I think my Irish is very bad, and do you speak
English?”

A slight chuckle came from the darkness,

“Aye, sure I do so, are ye alright? Ye took a
wild wee fall there so ya did.”

“Yeah, I’m ok,” I replied, rubbing my head.
“I’m really sorry about your roof, I had no idea you were under
here. We were playing Druids and Vikings; I was trying to make a
trap to stop them burning the forest,” I began to explain.

“So ye are a druid then, are ye lad?”

“Well yea, for today at least. I was a Viking
yesterday and the day before, but I prefer defending the forest. It
feels better protecting rather than destroying.”

“Ahh I tell you this for a matter of truth,
son. There are few and far between like ye. Ye have a true kind
heart. I can tell it already.”

I coughed out a laugh and began to explain,
“Well I’m not a real druid, you see it’s a game where…”

“Do you like books?” The voice interrupted
me, “Do you read, Druid?”

Startled, I agreed, “Um, yea. My grandfather
lets me read books in his study. I read about ancient Ireland, the
myths and legends.”

“Myths you say?” the voice inquired, still
hidden in the darkness.

The light was shining farther into the room
from the hole above us. The sun shifted in the sky and the line of
shadow was retreating closer to where the voice came from. I could
see feet protruding now from the black, wearing the shiniest shoes
I had ever seen, black leather that reflected the light back to me.
Two large buckles were on either side of each shoe, which on closer
inspection and in hindsight were, in fact, boots.

“Are ye deaf boy? Hello?” The voice snapped
at me.

I tend to do that. I drift, daydream, or so
I’m told. My mum and teachers are always on at me about lacking
concentration and `disappearing into my head’ as they call it.

“Oh sorry, I tend to do that, I don’t mean to
be rude but I have no control over my mind. It tends to drift
off.”

“Ah, ha, not to worry. I was just saying,
what myths have you read? Tell me what you know.”

“Well my favourite story is of Finn McCool
the giant of Ulster and when he challenges the Scottish giant
Benandonner to a duel, then gets scared and pretends to be a baby
when Benandonner arrives for the fight. It always made me laugh at
how clever Finn’s Wife was!”

“Ahh hmm, ok, aye, Finn McCool sure was a
wild one, bit of a fool though if you ask me!”

“You say that as if you knew him?”

The voice grunted a dismissive laugh then
stepped forward a little bit. I could see most of him now, all but
his face. He stood no taller than two feet tall. He wore a long
grey jerkin which looked hand made from leather and deer hide, like
a poncho tied at the waist with a leather strap. Hanging from it
was a small tankard. It was a burnished silver tankard, the kind
you see at baby christenings with the child’s name engraved on it.
It was dented and stripped from many, many years of regular use, by
the looks of it. He had another strap over his shoulder. This strap
was made from thick white twine and hanging from it was a green
bottle with a thick cork in it. A golden looking liquid lapped
around the bottom of the bottle as he moved. His arms were covered
in many, many tattoos, circles and leaves from what I could see.
There was writing on his arms too but I could not make it out from
where I was standing.

“Please young’an, sit. Tell me what else have
you read?”

“Oh, well I also love the stories of Cú
Chulainn, the great battles and action. I have read about Conchobar
mac Nessa, the King of Ulster, the exile of Fergus mac
Róich - former king of Ulster. My favourite stories were from
the Ulster cycle because of where I’m from, but I like stories from
the Fenian cycle too!”

The little man took another step forward. His face
was now visible. Dark, deep-set eyes were covered by thick bushy
white eyebrows. His face was hidden also by a thick grey beard. His
head was covered by a flat cap, one too big for his but which
suited him perfectly. In his mouth was a long pipe, still burning a
weed that reminded me of wood chips and burnt peat.

He came closer and, as he leaned in towards
my face, I could taste the pipe weed as if I were smoking it
myself. I could see his eyes now. They were green. Such a deep
green that everything seemed to fade to black and white as I gazed
into them.

Moments passed without anything being said. I
knew there was magic here. In that moment, I knew the stories were
true. The myths my grandfather told me about were all real. I
longed to know more, to hear his stories, to learn as much as I
could about my ancient homeland, to soak up his knowledge like a
sponge. Then without any prompting he blinked and removed the pipe
from his mouth.

“Would you like to see them, meet the heroes
yourself?

Without question I followed.

I stood up, walked over to the table stacked
high with books of all sizes, colour, thickness and age. The little
man was rummaging through a few at the back and lifted a small,
brown, leather- bound book. He brought it to the edge of the work
area. He opened it at the book mark placed about half way through
it. I could read that the title on the top of the page read ‘Tír na
nóg’.

Was I really going to go there? Was I about
the travel to the otherworld?

A shuffle came from above our heads, the
sound of many feet and then voices. The little man and I locked
eyes in fear and shock as my name was shouted by a large group of
children. I could hear the voices of my friends Matthew and Aaron.
They were calling for me frantically. I could hear a tremor in
their cries, as if they were weeping as they called for me. I had
no idea how long I had been gone and had forgotten that we had been
playing.

“The game is over Chris. Come out. The
Vikings won,” called Matthew.

“Come on Chris, wise up! Where the hell are
you?” screamed Aaron in a very shaky and high pitched voice. I
could make out the fear in his call.

Again the little man and I locked eyes. The
deep green fixated me again and I felt a slumber come over me. The
pain in my shoulder and back returned and a headache struck like an
ice-pick behind my eyes. I closed my eyes as the pain brought me to
my knees. I curled up into a ball and held my head and body tight
until the pain subsided. My eye lids scraped over my dry eyes and
light rushed in. As I opened them I could see nothing but the face
of Aaron and Matthew looking down at me. My brother Timothy was
kneeling down at my head, crying. He never cried, I used to call
him a robot because he never showed any emotion. I began to speak,
and as I did so, the children all around me were pushed to the
side, as three men in white and green uniforms knelt down beside
me. I could make out the Emergency Ambulance patch on the chest of
one of the men who had a torch that he was shining in my eyes.
Another man was checking my pulse and listening to my chest.

They rolled me to my side after they had put
a large plastic brace around my neck. They lifted me onto a
stretcher and carried me, for what seemed like ages, to where an
ambulance was parked on the road, about half a mile from the forest
we had been playing in.

Everything was blurry. My vision and hearing
was distorted but I could hear the voice of my Dad shouting at
Matthew and Aaron for being so far away. Then their parents began
shouting at my Dad, saying I was as much to blame as they were. The
rest of that memory drifted in and out of my consciousness. I
experienced only a collection of flashes of ceiling and various
lights. The white ceiling of the ambulance, the white ceiling of
the emergency room, the white ceiling again of the hospital ward
then the white ceiling of my bedroom. Now, I hadn’t actually broken
my back or even broken anything for that matter but they just
wanted to be sure. I was bruised and in pain, but that wasn’t the
worst part. All of us were “grounded” and no one was allowed to
play with anyone else. That’s when things changed. There were no
more big games in the woods, no more fort-building and no more
re-enactments of ancient battles. We played football sometimes and
occasionally held basketball tournaments in the back gardens but it
wasn’t the same. High school had arrived.