Waves in the Wind (34 page)

Before returning to Brendan at
Trá Lí
Bay, I would fulfill my promise to the men of Quirene. Uncertain of what we might find there, our eyes swept the woodlands and shrubbery as we neared the village. Yet, unlike our previous visit, we found men clearing fields or tilling the soil.

Nearby, a man stopped working, holding a hoe waist high in his fists as we rode up to him.

Sweat streaked the man’s soiled, bearded face and I nodded to him. “You know us?”

He was tall, his long muscular arms and stooped back spoke to years of tending his land. Iron lived in his eyes, though his straightforward gaze was wary. “I know you.”

His field evidenced much effort went into its clearing. I pointed toward the truth of his work. “You are a good farmer, I think.”

No doubt banditry lingered in his past, as it did for all the men of Quirene, but his full, unwavering attention held me. I knew him then as a proud, serious man who rightly cared little what I thought of him. He shrugged. “I farm, though the season grows late for planting. In good years my family fares well.”

My hand swept ’round the fields near and far. “We seek the man, Osgar.”

“You will find him there,” the man pointed further down the trail, “beyond the sixth stone fence.”

I reined my horse to proceed, but paused when he asked, “You would have burned our village?”

“Aye, that I would had I found bandits here.”

A grim smile twitched the corners of his mouth, matching his humorless chuckle. “I thought as much.”

Faces turned toward us as we rode the trail, and Osgar saw us coming. Like the first man, he carried a hoe as he strolled through his field and joined us.

“So, Osgar,” I greeted him. “No bandits?”

“No bandits, Ossian.” He shrugged. “After you left we held a vote.” He cocked an eyebrow and jammed a thumb into his puffed chest. “It was I who spoke for abandoning our evil ways and returning to our fields.”

Perhaps that was true, though it was likely blather, for I knew him as Brógán O' Tolairg’s minion. “All the men agreed?”

“The few who did not are now gone, as they were no longer welcome in Quirene.” He shrugged and gave me a knowing wink. “You see, I knew you would come back. It’s little we have in our village, but we’d no interest in seeing it all burned.”

Crossing my arms across my horse’s neck, I leaned forward. You gave O' Tolairg’s wealth to the women of the dead archers as I directed?”

“Aye. That we did, and all now wealthy because of it.” He winked. “There is one, not a comely lass, poor thing, but I make a special effort to visit her often and offer what comfort I can. I believe we will soon come to an understanding, so to speak.”

The larceny in Osgar’s soul was never far from the surface, but I had no interest in his plans for the dead archer’s widow. “And your master? What of him?”

“I have no master, but if you speak of Brógán O' Tolairg, the man is dead. His bones lie buried in an unmarked pit there,” he pointed toward the village, “beyond those trees.”

Goban grunted. “Serves the bastard right, I say.”

“Aye, right you are.” Osgar glanced down and took an idle whack at a weed with his hoe. Then he leaned on its handle, hands lapping over its end, and turned his attention back to Goban. “Well we heard Ossian’s message, so we dug a deep pit and threw Brógán O' Tolairg into it. The man had four dogs, enormous wolfhounds they were, that stood so,” he raised his hand to his chest, “at their shoulders. O' Tolairg personally trained the beasts to become ferocious man-killers. They were fed by his hand alone and only he could control them.”

Leaning back in his saddle, Goban scowled, crossing his arms over his thick chest. “And so?”

“And so, the dogs were thrown into the pit with him. Each day we fed the man but not the dogs. After only three days, Brógán O' Tolairg fed his hounds for the final time.”

Laoidheach winced as the three of us exchanged glances, and then Goban asked, “The dogs, where are they now?”

Osgar raised his hoe, pointing it toward the village. “They share the pit with their master forever.”

* * *

Old men idled upon benches, watching as we traveled through a tiny hamlet in the lands of the Ui Failgi. A young woman with toddlers playing around her skirt glanced up from gathering vegetables in her garden.

I nodded to her as we rode by. “May the Lordly Ones bless and keep your family safe, and may the Earth Mother bring forth bounty from your garden.”

Eyes wide, her face wary, the woman made the sign of the cross and backed away toward her doorstep, motioning for her children to join her.

Sagging in my saddle, I sighed, for a moment feeling very old. What had become of my land, my Eire?

At the edge of the village stood a lone cottage, seemingly abandoned, its grounds unkempt. We would ride by it, following the trail leading toward the southwest and our still distant destination. Movement drew my attention; an impossible vision stood framed within the cottage’s only window.

Yet, she was no vision. Indeed, she was real enough. Flowing, dark red hair curved about a fair, oval face, and the world’s darkest violet eyes held me as though I sat before her judgment. She nodded to me, a tantalizing half-smile curling perfect lips as she stepped from view.

Unmindful that my friends rode on, I reined-in, my heart skipping as I waited, hopeful she might reappear at the window.

“Ossian. Why have you stopped? Come on, me stomach’s already griping and we’ve far to ride before we camp tonight.” It was Goban, looking back over his shoulder, waving me forward, concerned as always with the food around which his days revolved.

I ignored him, my attention returning to the window.

Laoidheach walked his horse back to me, his hand hovering above his knife’s hilt as he scanned the shrubbery surrounding the cottage. “What is it?” he whispered.

“You mean you didn’t see her standing there,” I pointed, “in the window?”

“See her who?” Then a grin broke out on his face. “Oh, I see.” He shook his head as demons danced in his eyes. “No, I didn’t see her, but if you’d like, Goban and I will travel on and set up camp while you remain here to conduct business with the…um, lady of this house.”

“Ach, your evil tongue wags like a viper’s.” Dismounting, I tossed him my reins. “Do you wait here. I will be only a moment.”

Pursued by his chuckling, I was striding toward the cottage when he called out, “If it’s meeting her you plan, when the door opens I’m thinking you’ll be meeting her husband’s hairy knuckles.”

It is a dark day, indeed,
I was thinking,
when a man’s friends
… My steps faltered. Perhaps Laoidheach was right. Perhaps she was married. Then I remembered her face and straightened my shoulders. I would soon find out.

Five quick steps brought me to her door, heart racing, and I gave it a rap. There was no response. Weight shifting from foot to foot, I raised my fist to rap again and hesitated. If she were to open the door at that moment, I would look like an over-anxious, foolish adolescent.

Forcing my mind and body to remain calm, I delivered three solid knocks. The force of my blows swung the door wide, hinges screeching, to reveal a single, empty, dust-covered room. A simple chair sat in a corner, festooned with cobwebs. A lump formed in my throat, born of dismay and confusion. Without doubt, no one had entered the cottage in months.

* * *

Day after day we traveled, avoiding people to the extent possible, and potential trouble. We made a hasty stop in a village of the Corcu Ochae to replenish supplies, and pushed on. More than once over our evening fire we discussed the mysterious woman in the window, but none of us could make sense of it.

Morning mist shrouded the mountain valley as we followed a trail single file beneath towering ancient trees. Only the soft hoof-falls of our horses broke the silence. It was a familiar trail, the same one I had followed a month before when I left Brendan to journey to Rath Rathleann. A long day’s travel would bring us to
Trá Lí
Bay.

Wrapped within our own thoughts, we proceeded at a slow pace. I led the way with Goban close behind and Laoidheach trailing, leading the packhorse.

Back from the trail, within a small clearing in the undergrowth, she appeared again, fog swirling about her, standing alongside a massive, moss encrusted tree. Long red curls tumbled across bare shoulders, her blue gown draping to her feet. Her face, eyes and small smile I well remembered, and I stopped, filled with wonder.

“Blast!” It was Goban. “Why are ye stoppin’? I almost rode into ye.”

I pointed to the clearing. “There, you see her?”

Leaning forward in his saddle, Goban stared toward where I pointed, but just then, dense fog swirled about her, and she vanished in the mist.

He tilted his head. “I’m not sure. For a moment I thought I saw… No. It was merely a wind gust churnin’ the fog, nothin’ more.”

Dismounting, I turned to hand him my reins. “I shall soon find out.”

“No.” Unmoving, he did not reach for my reins. “Ye mustn’t go in there. Perhaps ye saw a woman, perhaps not. But if ye did, it is said that banshees, evil creatures that they are, sometimes transform themselves into beautiful women to lure travelers from the trails. Those who follow never return, for they are devoured by the banshee.”

Little I believed him, my hand gesturing towards the trees. “That was no banshee, and I sense no danger from her. I tell you it was a woman, the woman in the window.”

“And so, how is it possible that the same woman who mysteriously disappeared in an empty cottage a few days past, just now reappeared alongside us in the forest?” He leaned down and placed a hand on my shoulder. “How well will your
senses
serve ye while you’re turnin’ on a spit above her fire? Don’t you see? If she’s not a banshee, then what manner of spirit is she?”

She is a woman of indescribable beauty, more lovely than I could ever hope to imagine
, I wanted to say, but I held my heart and tongue in check, for Goban was right. What manner of spirit was she? My very essence told me she posed no threat and drew me towards her. For a moment the fog raised, and I sighed. She was gone, and it would be foolish to wander about in the forest seeking her.

“Little it matters,” I nodded and pointed, “for you can see she is no longer there. Perhaps she is a banshee, though I think not. Regardless, whoever or whatever she is, she’s gone now.” Turning, and mounting my horse, I nodded. “Come. We should arrive at
Trá Lí
Bay by sundown.”

* * *

The sun, a glowing orange ball, sank into the western sea as we rode into
the village
. A few people went about their business, ignoring us.

Eventually a crowd of monks came toward us with Erc at its head.

“Ride on strangers, we have nothing for you here,” he called, waving his hands.

“Brother Erc,” I replied, trying to remain cordial in the face of his insufferable arrogance, “it is Ossian. Do you not know me?”

“So,” his eyes squinted, “yes, of course. Satan returns, eh?” He turned and spat on the ground. “What do you want?”

“We had a bargain, remember?” I pointed towards the bay. The unfinished boat remained where I last saw it, though there were no signs of work taking place. “Have you given up on making the voyage, then?”

“Given up?” Erc snarled, “Hardly. The fools hereabouts, they…” He paused. “What they or we might do is no business of yours.”

“Oh, but it is. I remind you again of our bargain. My companions and I have returned to fulfill my part in it.”

“Companions you say?” Erc’s lips curled. “You mean the girly looking one and the dwarf who has taken a mud bath?”

Goban bristled and reached for his hammer. I motioned him to be still and dismounted.

“Brother Erc,” I said, stepping close, my eyes bearing down on his. “What you say to or about me is of absolutely no importance to me. However, when you belittle my friends, then I am going to look to you, not as a religious man, but merely as a man. What say you?”

There was much he wished to say, his hatred of me burned in his eyes, but he glanced away, and growled toward my friends. “My profound apologies for my ill-considered insults. Your pagan friend, he… His views are an abomination in the eyes of God.”

The monk was insufferable. Fortunately, only Brendan’s views mattered. Stepping to our packhorse, I removed a leather satchel. Much I had learned from Goban about the value of gold. Opening the satchel, I displayed the wealth within, though not all the gold—only the headband, cup and a few coins. “I have brought you and Father Brendan gifts.”

Erc’s eyes nearly popped from his head when he saw the gold and he snatched the satchel from my hands.

“Yes,” he chortled. “Yes, yes, I’d like to see those petty chieftains faces when I show them this. I could buy their villages with this. No more…‘O Erc, we can’t afford to give you this, O Erc, we can’t afford to give you that, O Erc, our men are too busy to help with the boat.’ They’ll move their asses now, they will.”

He made to scuttle off without even a thank you, but I called after him. “We have ridden hard to get here and need to eat and rest.”

Erc turned to the monks behind him. “Give them whatever they ask for.”

He ran off, doubtless to tell Brendan how percipient he was to send me off to search for treasure.

We made our way to the cottage that served as the monks’ dining hall, settled beside a good log fire and immediately Goban took charge. He turned to the monks who had followed us and held up his hands.

“Now ye heard what that fellow Erc said. One,” he said counting on his fingers, “we need beef. Big pieces of beef, cooked just right; two, some venison would be nice; three, kill a young pig and roast it until the skin crackles, and, while we’re waiting, bring two whole hams with mustard relish, and none of your barley bread, but three wheat loaves and your best butter. And ale, not the stuff the villagers drink, but bring it from Erc’s own store, a whole barrel…no, two barrels.”

The monks’ jaws dropped. “But sir,” one protested. “That’s enough food for an army, and such food you demand…not even Father Brendan eats so well.”