SWORD OF TULKAR (3 page)

“Ourar, don’t let me fail!” I screamed in
side my head, panicking. Dots swam before my eyes; my heart thudded like a great booming war-drum. Cold sweat poured from beneath my arms, drenching my leather tunic.

And then, a weird peace surrounded me,
and I took a deep, releasing breath. Up above me, I saw Ourar floating in the sky near the Moon. The great woman-planet, ruler of tides eye of the Mother, rose above her head like an unearthly diadem. In her hand she held a yew bow as tall as a man. “You can still win, Ardagh,” she whispered, witch-light streaming from her eyes, from the end of her long, floating hair. “Have faith in me and in your own strong arm, my child...” She drew the bowstring.

A ball of flame tore across the vault of the heavens. Rianona ignored me to watch it as it arched before disappearing into the West. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “The light ... the comet ... a sign from the gods!”

“Of your defeat!” In that instant I sprang up, forgetting the pain
in my ankle. I thrust into Rianona’s guard, and my blade tore a ragged line up her side. Rianona cried out as blood welled from the wound, runnelling down her white flesh, and I struck at her again with all my strength. Rianona managed to counter my blow, and Tulkar’s sword shattered on the iron blade of my adversary. This might have been my undoing, but my final blow, falling like a stone on the queen’s wounded side, caused her to drop her weapon. The star metal sword spun over the embankment on which we fought and disappeared amongst the folk of Te-ar.

Instantly I fell upon Rianana, clutching her thick hair. With my free ha
nd I drew the little bronze dagger I always carried at my belt and pressed it to her throat. “Yield!” I ordered. “Or perish.”

A few feet away, amidst the stunned folk of the Gobyrchin clan, Riano
na’s brother stood helplessly staring at me, his eyes dark with defeat –and yet also full of bitter admiration. The Horsehead people clustered around him, chanting, “The queen is vanquished. Hail to the victor!” And the cry grew and grew, filling my ears and senses with the sweetness of victory.

“Kill me,” mo
aned Rianana, struggling weakly in my grip. “I am shamed and do not wish to live.”

I pressed my blade into her flesh, thinking of the murder of my tribe
—the burning houses, the black charred forms that lay amongst them. She deserved to die, but ... My arm dropped to my side. “No,” I muttered between gritted teeth, “I won’t kill you! I’m no lover of bloodshed – not like you Horseheads. You name my folk animals, but you are the ones who behave like ravening beasts!” I made sure I used the same insult she had directed to me.

“We take life for the glory it brings us!” Even in defeat she was impudent.

“Glory!” I spat. “Some glory – to slay innocents by night! To slay women at their weaving!”

Angrily I gave her a shove
; I could hardly bear to touch her. She tumbled to the muddy ground. Contemptuously I tossed my dagger down to the ground beside her. Then I took the hilt of Tulkar’s broken sword and turned my unprotected back to the Horseheads, daring them to strike me. Slowly I was coming to realise that I did not want any blood on my hands, and that this perhaps was the weapon that Ourar had mentioned, which was stronger than metal. Rianona might always be my enemy, but if her people would respect me and mine, and not harry us, then my job was done.

“Wait!” Rianona
’s brother cried. “Do not leave as yet, warrior-woman! You have impressed my people; hear them chant for you. They no longer want my sister to lead them, for she lost the fight without honour.” He kicked at Rianona’s round mud-spattered buttocks. “They ask for your leadership instead.”

“I’m no leader,” I said. “I am but a woman who was forced to act to
save the people of this land…people who would have shared with you had you not drawn your cold swords first and lusted for blood! I’ll lead no people – neither yours nor mine.”

He
sprang up the embankment to meet me and grabbed my arm. He was tall, like his sister, with a clean-shaven jaw and eyes the colour of a late summer sky. “You claim you want peace between our tribes. Such a peace can be negotiated.” He gave me a meaningful look. “We can forge an alliance between us. You are brave and I do not find you unseemly to look on...”

I tore away from him
, repulsed. “I’ll wed no man for some alliance. Rather than seeking to make flimsy alliances, teach your folk to respect those who have come before you, who first farmed and made this land a place your tribe wants to settle. Treat with these people...” I gestured to Ynid’s folk, standing in the dark behind me still with weapons raised and ready should there be any violence. “Don’t try to set me up as some kind of a figurehead. I am not one. I am just Ardagh of the Clan of Unjin that is no more…thanks to you. ”

I strode
down the earthen bank into the night, passing Ynid and Blamac and their archers and spearmen. “Go,” I told them touching their arms. “You have your chance now. They will treat with you. Be brave. I wish you luck, my friends.”

I wandered through black, starless regions, feeling cold and drained. My quest was over. I wondered if my actions had indeed advanced the cause of peace
in our land, and I also wandered what the future could hold possibly in store for me. I was landless, my people dead, and I had turned down an offer of a marriage alliance—I laughed, to think how at one time I would have jumped at such a union, to take me away from my dull life in my father’s holding.

As the night progressed, and
I became dazed with weariness, my feet heavy as if they had been encased in clay, I even began to wonder if my adventures had all been a dream, and I’d actually awake to find myself back in my father’s hut, my pots, trinkets and the ever hungry dogs all around me and a scolding village woman telling me I was late and the goats needed milking.

When the darkness of night finally paled to gray, and the first red rays of the Sun—he whom our folk loved most of all—stretched out like long spears from the scarlet East, I released a sudden gasp of surprise and awe. My wandering feet had carried me over long empty miles to the mouth of Haddery Burn cave, high on the rocky hillside. “It must be Ourar’s doing,” I muttered, stumbling up the slope and into the cavern.

The cave smelt dark, dank and musty
—abandoned and unused. I fell to the floor, crying, “Ourar, are you here? I must speak with you – have I done well? I hope I’ve helped, done what was needed... Gods I am tired...”

There was no reply
, only the echo of my own strained voice. Blindly I clambered to my feet and hurled myself forward, tripping over debris. Suddenly my feet met with a tangle of bone and I halted. I’d found Ourar. I gazed down at the bleached skeleton, no longer as fearsome as it once was. Empty eye sockets stared into mine.

Ourar? There was nothing here – no presence – no spirit; merely a heap of empty bones from which life had long fled. Feeling empty
, I suddenly wondered if Ourar had ever really assisted me. Perhaps she was only the creation of my mind, born from the shock of finding my folk murdered.

Sadly, I leant
over and placed the hilt of Tulkar’s sword into the skeletal hand, a final grave-offering. “Take it back,” I whispered. “I will never need it again.”

I left the cave and wandered down the slope to the foot of the hill. I did not know where to go, and did not care, for a crushing
tiredness gripped me. Groaning, I tumbled to the ground, hugging my knees to my body.

And then I heard it. Jingle, jingle, like fey ghost b
ells on the wind. Lifting my head, I quickly scrambled up as a shaggy pack pony burst out of the morning mist, followed by a group of small dark folk—a man, a woman, a pack of children of all ages and sizes. I stared amazed as cried “Tulkar. Oulagh. You’re back!”

I rush
ed into Oulagh’s waiting arms. Tulkar grinned at me while the children clustered around, poking and giggling. “I never thought to see you all again,” I wept, embarrassed by my tears but too worn to contain them any longer. “Tulkar, I must tell you, I broke your sword!”

“I know,” he said. “Do not worry, Ardagh. The sword’s pur
pose has been served.”

I shook my head.
“You know? But how? News could not have spread so quickly!”

He shrugged. “Let if suffice to say I know
. Now come – you look weary and hungry! Climb up on our beast and we will take you to Fyn camp where we have made a new smithy. The Dov-folk from the next valley are already buying many bronze axes and cauldrons.”

I mounted
the pony, still confused by Tulkar’s knowledge of my adventures. As we moved off, I glanced back at Haddery Burn, the start of my quest. And there, for one brief second, I saw a slender dark-haired woman standing in the cave mouth. She waved at me (or was it just vines tossing above the cave mouth?) and then she vanished.

Was it Ourar
? I hoped so, but could not be sure. I was tired. I was certain of nothing. Not until I looked away from Haddery Burn and gazed into the knowing eyes of Tulkar the smith.

Beneath the Moon the moor was dark

while in the shadows leaned the stark

and gaunt grey pillars of the ring

bent close as if whispering.

Who knows what strange tales pass

from stony lips to blowing grass

that grows about the stony feet

where rain and time have hardly beat

their fists, upon those standing stones,

uprooting one, revealing bones

of a tiny child, burnt and brown,

buried till the stone came down.

The bones of a child who died long ago

to encourage the sun and make crops grow.

Young man inhumed

under a standing stone

Twenty four by his perfect teeth.

An archaeological exhibit

in a cheerless

museum

amid musty urns,

spearheads

…and dust.

I examine his bald

round pate

and wonder…

what cruel fate killed him

so young.

Was he dark?

Was he fair?

Did he love?

I fear he died

with his song of life

still unsung

Poor neolith—

a flint arrowhead

is still

most carefully balanced

between his white

and perfect

ribs.

A white woman whirls in the meadow

On nights when the Moon’s nearly dead,

Her white gown blowing, her white arms glowing,

And a milk-white wreath on her head.

She sways and she dances so gaily,

Her hair webbed against the horned Moon,

But her eyes like night have swallowed the light

As she whirls to a soundless tune.

But at dawn when the sun crests the hilltops.

Filling the meadows with light,

There’s a great aged stone, standing alone,

Windbitten, leaning and white.

I am Nuca-a wizard—

I live in Kerlescan

The Place of Burning

where the dead flame

in rings of longstones

and spirits soar skyward

to escape the long teeth

of charred black menhirs

that grind and champ souls.

I live in a mud hut…

I speak with the spirits…

I light the hot fires…

and sing to the moon

which rides like an old skull

across star specked heaven

above the Place of Burning

where I-Nuca-dwell.

Grey dolmen, capstone bleak and bare,

What ancient hands set you there?

What hands laid a princess deep below,

Where only the tender grasses grow,

Beneath your arches cold and grey,

Dark shadowed in the light of day?

O did you weep a stony tear

As they brought her hence on branch-wrought bier?

And did you mourn as they dressed her hair

With beads of amber, round and fair?

Beneath your arches cold and grey,

Dark shadowed in the light of day?

O did you whisper words to deafened ears,

And wipe away her unseen tears?

As the bronze on her dress turned to rust

And her comely face all fell to dust

Beneath your arches cold and grey

Dark shadowed in the light of day?