He will sacrifice us eventually.
But not now.
No, not now. He is not the only member nor the only provider of sacrifices.
How many of Milchu’s have been sacrificed out of the rituals you’ve seen?
There were two in the years I’ve been here.
Then how do you know that we will be sacrificed? Because two were?
It may not happen for years. But it will happen. Look around, Padraig. Do you see any graves here?
Three
Padraig worries the next day. He must go out to his flock again, but behind every shadow there are lurking acolytes. But no one comes for him. The next day is the same and yet he lives. Days pass, then weeks, and death does not find him or Clara or his child. Soon it is time for Clara to give birth. She wakes him in the night and he thinks she is dying, then realizes what is happening and panics. Milchu remains calm and a midwife is brought to assist with the birth.
He watches as his child is born. There is sweat and heavy breath and cries of pain. There are assurances and looks all around and it is a difficult labor. Water and blood, then the signs of new life. Finally it is brought into the world. He is the proud father of a boy and he holds the child just separated from the mother forcibly, and he beams while she looks at her son through her stress and exhaustion. She manages a smile before her head falls back and there is too much blood, and he holds the baby boy as he becomes forgotten in the calamity because that is six milch cows dying.
The struggle for her life is fierce, but her own will is twice as potent as the remedies offered to assist her and in the end she lives, but is not herself for many days. Padraig is forced to return to his flock and for a long time he doesn’t know if she has lived or died. He realizes after he is too far away to return that in his joy and then his fear the boy has no name. When he is finally able to return to his home he sees the familiar shacks but there is no sign of Clara. He gets closer, and the closer he gets the louder his heart becomes. His feet begin to go numb and it feels as though his stomach is pulsating. He can no longer hear anything other than a distant ringing gaining in volume and then he sees her and the world reforms around him in a blur. She is running toward him and he toward her and they embrace and she whispers in his ear Coamh, his name is Coamh.
They make their way to their home and he sits and rubs his feet. The soles are like leather, yet they ache with the length of his journey.
Where is he? he asks. I want to see my boy.
Clara is silent.
Where is he? he repeats. Please. He’s not.
Caomh is fine, she says.
Then where is he?
You won’t like the answer.
Where?
At the dún.
Padraig rises and treks up the hill. Within him there is something unfelt. A great red yearning. Milchu’s face rises up in his vision. Elaborate scenes of violence play through his mind, scenarios of escape. His intent, fantastical or actual, must be primally apparent for the hound growls from his position outside the door. Padraig calls for Milchu and there is no masking the anger in his voice. Murchadh and Suibhne stand at the bottom of the hill, watching. Padraig suspects they do not wait for him.
Milchu walks out of the door of the ringfort. Coamh is in his arms.
Padraig, he says. Do you need something?
Why do you have my child?
Watch how you speak to me, he says.
My child. He should be with his mother.
And he will be as soon as she’s paid for.
We had an agreement.
I seem to be the only one who remembers our agreement. You continue to be mine until the end of the seven years. You still have more than six years left. You may pay for your woman and she can join you in freedom at the end of that time. As for the child, I told you of our laws. The child is not a slave. I would not expect him to live amongst slaves. I told you out of my own magnanimity that I would allow the child to live at my home. Letting him stay with you will distract you from your duties.
You said he would live with us.
Did I? I don’t remember it that way.
Padraig stares at Milchu. The dog growls. Imperceptibly, Padraig moves and the dog is up and barking. Milchu looks down the hill where Murchadh and Suibhne wait. He looks at Padraig.
There’s work for you. Other than shepherding. Murchadh will tell you the details.
Padraig looks at Milchu. In his periphery the dog bounces like an overgrown weasel. Its barking has lost none of its volume. He looks down the hill, then at his son, then finally walks back down.
At night Clara sleeps next to him but he does not sleep. He feels the air being forced out of him as though he is being crushed. He can feel his lungs pressed until there is nothing in them. Burning. Clawing at his throat. No air. It is like someone is standing on him. Darkness clouds his vision and he feels himself slip away. Then he is up. Awake. Breathe. Breathe. The air fills his lungs and he is in his shack and Clara is next to him snoring and there is no one else and no sound outside but the wind.
Day after day he watches his son from afar. He catches sight of his head here. His leg there. In the fields he dreams of him and in their camp he treasures every glimpse. He gets reports from Clara who sees Coamh more often. She gives him news, but otherwise they do not discuss it. He sees that the pregnancy still affects her. She is easily exhausted by work and conversation. The time or two he does try to talk to her he sees it upsets her and he stops. She watches him stare into the camp fire at night long after it is time to sleep, until the embers tire, and he sits so close that when he comes to bed he feels cooked and always smells of woodsmoke. Late in the night there is crying and whether it is one or the other--or both--is anyone’s guess. A loud wailing like the prophetic keening of their new home’s whispered-about women of the mounds.
One morning Padraig sits like something borne out of the earth. In his stillness he ignores the approach of Suibhne down from the ringfort.
Padraig, Suibhne says.
There is no reply. Padraig, Suibhne tries again. There’s work for us.
What work? Padraig asks, looking at Suibhne.
We’re to go on a cattle raid for Milchu.
What? Padraig asks, not understanding the word.
A cattle raid. Driving off cattle to add to Milchu’s own.
Whose are they now?
Dálach. Another chieftain who lives a day or two from here. We’ll leave tomorrow.
That night he learns who will be participating. Milchu has had brought to him those landowners under his influence, part of his tribe. Five dozen or so men are assembled for the task. Some bring hounds as large as Milchu’s. Their clothing ranges from rough wool tunics reaching down to their knees, to brightly colored linens of similar length and cross-gartered leggings, to wool trousers and nothing else. Some have padded coats and some have boiled leather, while others take their chances. The men receive swords and daggers of varying lengths, sizes, and states of repair and those who are able to use them receive bows and all of them are given javelins. They eat and drink and wrestle and gamble and one man’s arm is broken. He will be unable to fight; he is deemed unworthy and will live with his shame until the next raid. Suibhne and Murchadh are there with Padraig and several of the others are slaves of some sort, as well. Their conspiratorial looks make Padraig uneasy.
The next morning, before the sun is in the sky, they set out beneath a crude standard which hangs lifelessly from its pole as a hollow bullhorn bellows their intent into the empty country around them. Whether from the gravity of their task or their rowdiness the night before, the march that morning is largely silent except for their feet, the occasional sounding of the horn, coughing and spitting, a grunted word or two, or the occasional barking of the dogs. After most of the day has passed they make camp and sit telling stories of past battles and as
sure one another that they will fight well the following day and no one will ever forget their names.
The next morning there is more enthusiasm, for the promise of combat is now more real, and though the march is much the same, there is an energy present now. By late morning they reach a ridge with gentle sloping hills that lead down into a valley. A river cuts across through a line of trees before the valley rises back up into an ancient looking peak. There is among them one with sharp eyes who sees movement in the distance, and he theorizes they are their opponents come to meet them at the river. They re-form from the half-columned marching blob from their journey into something more resembling ranks for battle, though Padraig sees they seem more suited to skirmish than the strict lines of the Romans. They make their way into the valley and by noon both armies face each other across a thin, fast river which divides them.
Padraig is surprised that they are going to meet the enemy in such a way. He mentions to Suibhne that it would be better to surprise Dálach and drive off his cattle while he is unable to stop them, but Suibhne calls him a coward and no more is said between them. The band across the river are much like Milchu’s, down to the standard, which could only charitably be called inspiring. Both tribes’ horns sound at each other feebly before one man steps forward from each of the armies and makes his way toward the river.
What are they doing? Padraig asks Murchadh.
They’re going to fight.
Then what?
Then we will fight.
Even if our man wins?
No matter who wins.
Why?
This is how it’s done. Our champions fight so there will be stories, and then we join in.
Milchu’s champion is two heads taller than Padraig and weighs at least twenty stone. Dálach’s champion is shorter and slighter only in comparison to Milchu’s. The two men are among the most elaborately dressed in both armies and carry the best weaponry, but are the least armored, wearing only decorative clothing. Each has javelins, a sword, and a small shield. They say something Padraig does not hear. Then they rush each other.
The beginning of their single combat resembles two men trying to pass each other but each blocking the other’s path. Javelins are hurled and dodged and stick out of the ground warping and swinging from their own momentum. Milchu’s man flings a missile intended for his opponent’s chest and it is halted only by the small shield, which the opponent then discards. They are on each other and there is no sword play. The two men are like two hares exchanging brutal blows and their swords become more bludgeoning weapons than anything intended for slashing or stabbing. Both sides cheer on their battered champions as the men become streaked with their own blood. The blood catches the dirt thrown up by their struggle and the resulting cake transforms them into something otherworldly.
The exertion has them breathing like drowning men plucked from the sea and their breaths would be audible to the spectators if not for the frantic barking of the hounds and the taunts. Milchu’s champion is caught off guard by Dálach’s, and the latter’s sword finds the former’s thigh and the big man stumbles. His foe is unrelenting and merciless, continuing to trade blows as the wounded warrior tries to stand up. Dálach’s men jeer and Milchu’s shout encouragement. Just as it looks as though Milchu’s champion is lost, his leg catches his assailant and throws him to the ground, where his waiting sword connects with the other’s neck and blood jets out.
Milchu’s man lies there, breathing heavily. His opponent is slowly crawling with one hand and holding the wound in his neck with the other. The valley is quiet now except for the sound of the river. The victor stands up. He grabs one of the discarded javelins nearby and walks to the loser where he rests in the dirt. He drives the javelin through and only half of a gargled scream punctuates the silence.
The two sides rush at one another, cheers of triumph on the lips of Milchu’s men and cries of anger coming from Dálach’s. The dogs run ahead of the armies and the fastest of them tackle some men mid-run as the sides close. The ceithern meet and set to slaughter, and the fight is much like that between the champions. Padraig feels the air from a javelin and then a hot sting across his cheek but in the chaos can’t spot the thrower. A surge passes through him and he tosses his own javelin hastily toward one of the enemy. Something slashes across his shoulder and he doesn’t see what becomes of his javelin, but as he whirls around Murchadh slashes the throat of his assailant before Padraig can be gutted. In the close quarters fighting, it seems as though every step is accompanied by a blow or a slash from a dozen half-seen hands. Padraig grabs a club from among the wounded men and swings it low into the shin of one of Dálach’s warriors. The man cries out almost loud enough to drown out the crunching of his bones and falls face-first into the ground. He pulls a crude knife and attempts to drive it through Padraig’s foot but a blow from the club shatters hand and knife together and Padraig moves on. He looks around for any threats but hears the cheers of his fellow combatants and finds only the dead, the wounded, the victorious living, and those fleeing as fast as they are able. The whole affair lasts perhaps two minutes.
Five of Milchu’s are dead and seven of Dálach’s ceithernach are also slain. More are wounded and as the enemy routs their cries can be heard. The victors set to helping their wounded and two more die soon after of their wounds. Those who remain can walk and the now-bedraggled host sets out toward their opponent’s cattle. They sing as they walk, exhausted but exuberant.
They reach the cattle and make camp, and one of the cows is killed. They eat it and it is the best meal Padraig has ever had. Already the more gifted among them tell the tale of their champion’s victory and the great man sits next to Milchu at the fire and grins through an unrecognizable face. All talk and share discarded weapons from their enemies and remember the dead. Padraig hears them talk of the dead and asks where their dead reside. Through their laughter the men tell him that they have gone to Tir na nÓg, though others disagree and say their dead are now with the fey in the cnoc.
Murchadh shows him a tunic he has taken off a dead man and Suibhne shows off a chest wound, more impressive in its grisly horror than it is deep. The battle talk continues for a while longer and then all sleep as though they will never wake.
In the morning they are still in high spirits, though sore and bruised, and there is no more talk of ageless lands. The cattle impede their progress and they do not arrive back at Milchu’s ringfort for three days. Once there gifts are given to those freemen who answered Milchu’s call and the company disbands back to their own farms.
Clara greets Padraig joyfully and takes his dirty clothes and washes the blood from healing wounds on his arms and his chest and cares for the gash across his face. They lie together and listen to one another’s heartbeats and sleep. In the morning she asks him about the battle and he tells her of the fight between the champions.
No, she says, I want to hear about the battle. But Padraig has no songs and remembers only that he was afraid.
All men fear death, she says.
I’m supposed to accept death, he says.
And yet you fought to live.
I did.
There is nothing wrong with wanting to live, she says to him.
Saint Michael guarded me, he says. I was sure I would die and I asked him for help and he delivered me.
Is he your god?
He’s one of God’s angels. He aids soldiers and intercedes for them on God’s behalf.
Ah, she says. The people here have their own god for that. She is the Crow, one of the great queens.
A demon, he says.
She shrugs. I’ve seen many crows above the dead. But never your Michael.
He kisses her after they have said goodbye and sets off to his flock. He is alone among the sheep and asks God for help. He hears nothing but the wind and the sheep but the sun breaks through the clouds and he feels better all the sam
e. Later in the day he naps and in his nap he sees a dead forest before him of a type and scale he has never seen before. Strangers speak a Latin he has never heard and the ground is covered in snow. Ice hangs from the branches of the trees, but beneath the trees it is like it is raining. A man is saying something Padraig can’t hear and he looks up at the sky full of heavy grey clouds. As though spurned on by his sight, the clouds roil like disturbed silt at the bottom of a pond. He is drowning in them and now the forest and the men are gone and there is only deep dark water forcing its way through his mouth and his nose. His sightless eyes try in vain to find up, but there is no up only down, down in all directions. In the depths of that place there is something lurking and he knows its presence even though his senses are dead to him and he inhales deeply because even the burning of his ruined lungs and the still darker blackness to come is better than whatever it is beneath him.
He awakens like one sure he is dead and is relieved to discover the truth. There is no dark, enormous forest. There are no clouds, nor clouds masquerading as ocean. No terror. No suffocating darkness.
Four
Seasons pass. Years stretch out behind him and each one seems quicker than the one before it. Caomh grows from a baby into a child of five and he speaks no Latin. Clara and Padraig watch him develop, but as the years pass he sees less and less of them. Even Clara no longer is needed at the ringfort once Caomh outgrows nursing. They have no more children. Their child--so close and yet unobtainable--has taken the light from them and they are as able to relight themselves as an extinguished candle. More slaves are brought in as Milchu’s wealth accumulates. There have been sacrifices and cattle raids and endless days of waiting as they anticipate an end to their servitude.
Clara sleeps. Padraig does not. Sometimes he stays up all night and only closes his eyes after days, when he can no longer bear to stay awake another second. When he is in the pastures he sleeps, but the perpetual insomnia comes when he is at home. The fire was once the focus of his thoughts. Now it is the dún. He emerges out of his nightly vigil one morning when he sees that Murchadh approaches.
The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession Page 3
