The Fire in the Oaks: A Novel of St Patrick's Confession

by James Corkern

  ​He walks onward, watching but not seeing, as his feet travel the path and soon he has traveled further than he expected and he is off the trail. It is then that he hears it the first time, the noise that starts low and rises in pitch mournfully and he is afraid. He knows what accompanies the sound and he searches around him, but there is only the imagined echo among the trees.

  ​His pace quickens and he hears it again. There is no mistaking the sound and he knows what it means. Claws and teeth and death alone in the forest without a weapon. He laughs to himself, to meet such an end after all he has been through. The laugh is cut short when he tells himself: No, this is not the end. He knows in which direction he intended to travel and he keeps the sun where it should be. He knows that if he doesn’t find his way out of the forest by night he is as good as dead, especially if it has his scent.

  ​He hears it again and this time it is closer than before and he fears the worst. The trail which is not a trail, but just a gap between trees probably never before traveled, takes a turn and then he sees it in front of him and he freezes in place. It stands before him. It is grey and white, and though he has frozen he knows that this fools neither of them for it has his scent and it is over now. Yellow eyes stare at him almost playfully and it is cautious, taking only a step toward him.

  ​Perhaps it has met men before, he thinks. Perhaps it has seen what they can do and it will think I am one of them, even though I have no hope against it.

  ​It doesn’t move for a time and neither does he. Then it comes forward a bit more, and it begins to move side to side. It jumps, reverses and jumps back and he realizes the thing is trying to flush him out, trying to make him run. He stands his ground and looks at it.

  ​You are going to have to do better than that, he says to it.

  ​It continues its tactics and then stops. It stares at him and again he sees more play than hate in its eyes and he wishes it would make a difference. Then it comes at him.

  ​It a flash it is on him and he knows the thing must weigh seven or eight stone, but it hits him like it weighs twice that. He fights at it with his arms and he keeps its mouth from his neck by force of will and fortune. He has it by the neck and while there is no restraining it, he uses his position to keep it from getting to something vital. As they struggle, he sees its mouth flecked with blood and he realizes his arms are cut in several places, though it is impossible to tell how badly with the thing all over him and trying to tear and crush.

  ​It turns its head just so and he is able to keep it pushed away with his left arm and knocks its head with his right. It lets out a yelp and he smashes it again with his fist and this time there is a growl and it is on him with a fury he can barely hold out against.

  ​The momentum of the fight carries them as a bundle across the bed of the forest and he is knocked against a tree and his breath almost leaves him. He kicks it square in the chest which catapults it away from him, and as it prepares to charge him again, he reaches down and grabs the nearest object to him. A branch. It comes for him again and Padraig breaks the branch against it, but if there is any damage caused by his attack it shows no sign.

  ​It knocks him down onto his back and he feels his head slam against something hard. For a moment his vision is gone and he fights only with instinct. He realizes there is a stone underneath him.

  ​He uses the animal’s momentum to swing it underneath him and then with his weight on top of it he lifts it up. With all his strength and weight he slams its struggling body against the rock. Again and again he hits it against the rock and finally the jaws stop snapping and it stops making noise. Soon it is motionless under him.

  ​He stands and looks at it not moving, and though his arms and hands are a series of open wounds, he is amazed at his good fortune. The massive wolf twitches slightly and blood slicks its fur and pools on the stone.

  ​Padraig lets out a long sigh, the breath leaving him as he tries to return to a state of rest. He stops breathing. The sound, the sound of life, the sound of breathing, continues. The wolf is still not moving. Slowly, Padraig turns around.

  ​He is facing four others. Great shaggy things. The one he has killed would not be the greatest among them. As he watches them, two advance on him while the others each take a flank. Padraig looks to his left and to his right, but there is nothing but more forest. He dares a quick glance behind him and sees his target, but the wolves see his movement and take the opportunity to start at him.

  ​Wasting no time to watch his approaching death, he sprints toward the large tree he has spotted behind him. He reaches it and uses his momentum and his scrambling arms to lift himself up. His feet are just off the ground when the wolves hit him, one jumping and knocking the breath out of him while another bites at his feet. He just gets his feet out of its mouth before it can tear him down. He pulls himself onto the first thick branch above their heads, his lungs burning.

  ​They yap at him from below for a time but eventually stop. They stare up at him as if pondering his next move. He rests for the moment, wondering himself what it will be. As far as he can see, there is nowhere to go. The beasts pace around beneath him.

  ​He looks at his hands and legs. His leg is torn around the ankle and fresh blood runs down his foot and drips onto the tree, trickling down the rough bark. Mercifully, he notices that the blood on his arms and hands is slowing and congealing, turning into a dry mass of sticky brown, tangling the hairs on his hands and arms.

  ​Below him the wolves are ever patient. The largest of them, a grizzled gray male the size of a small bear, notices the dead wolf on the ground near the tree. It walks over and sniffs it, then paws at its corpse.

  ​The large wolf starts feeding on the corpse, great jaws tearing into the other wolf’s flesh, chunks of still warm meat coming loose. When it has had its fill it turns back toward Padraig, its snout smeared with the blood of its meal, and the other three wolves have their turn, snapping and growling at each other as they make short work of the ruin of the dead wolf.

  ​Hours pass and the sun begins to set. Padraig still sits in the tree, the wolves still underneath. His leg oozes slightly when he moves too much, but otherwise he has stopped bleeding. His throat is dry and he feels weak from the bloodloss and hunger. If the wolves stay through the night and into the next day, he thinks he won’t have enough strength to escape them. He will have to escape in the night but they watch him intently even in the fading light and seem to be in no hurry to lose interest, any hunger they feel having been satisfied for the time by their fallen packmate.

  ​He tests the limb, seeing if it will hold his full weight, and stands tentatively. The branch groans but holds and he is able to lift himself to the next one. Suddenly energized by his efforts, the wolves begin moving again under the tree, growling at him and jumping around its base.

  ​He sees the branch above him is a proper thickness for his task. It is healthy and wet; it takes some effort to break it loose from the tree. He almost loses his balance at one point and he feels the panic flow through him as he tries to right himself. Finally his footing is steady again and he is able to break off the last of the branch and holds it in his hands. It is as thick as his wrist at the wide end and then tapers as it goes, the whole length of it being twice as long as his arm.

  ​He thinks through his plan again, knowing that if he fails there will not be another chance. Better than dying of thirst, he thinks. The big wolf is staring up at him from under the branch, his teeth bared. All four of the animals seem to know he is ready to try for escape, and they are riled by the promise of a kill.

  ​Positioning himself on the branch, he judges the distance to the ground. He doesn’t think the fall will kill him. He hopes it won’t. Padraig jumps.

  ​Padraig sees the surprise in the big wolf’s eyes a second before it realizes he has angled his body at it. The whole of his weight falling from the branch hits the wolf on the back and it is too slow to move out of his way. Its spine crunches under Padra
ig’s weight and he feels the impact travel through his feet, his legs, and his knees, the shock of sudden pain traveling through them.

  ​The other wolves move to assist their yelping leader and Padraig, ignoring the pain, brings the branch to bear. The first wolf to him is smacked in the face by the heaviest swing Padraig can manage, and it immediately retreats. The next wolf comes at him and Padraig swings again but is off balance from the first blow and it doesn’t have the same impact. He feels the alpha wolf moving beneath him and uses his weight to bring his body, elbow first, back onto the animal’s throat, and it stops moving after a final shudder.

  ​The wolf that he hit ineffectually is upon him again and all he can do is use the branch to try to keep some distance between it and him. The wolf he struck hard is coming back into the fight and the fourth wolf, up to this point more wary than its companions, gives signs that it too is going to join in.

  ​Padraig finally gets enough distance between him and the one wolf on him, and he plunges the branch, thin-end first, into the wolf. Though the end is thinner than the rest of the branch, it is not sharp, and the strike only works by throwing his weight behind it, driving the blunt branch through the wolf until the other side of it bulges against the fur.

  ​The sight of their companion meeting its end causes the other wolves to halt their advance. They stare at Padraig, bloodspeckled and haggard, and their leader motionless and the twitching wolf bending the branch in Padraig’s hands. One by one, they turn and flee into the woods. Padraig lets the branch and the attached wolf fall and then crumples to the ground.

  ​He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he awakens, but the wolves are cold and the sun is soon to rise. He tries to stand and when he feels his leg want to give way, eases himself back down. If the leg is broken then that is the end of it. He readies himself to try to stand again. If the leg is broken, there is no more. Only starvation and death. Or more wolves. He rises cautiously this time, taking care not to exert his leg more than necessary in the process. He gets to his feet and the leg holds. It aches and he knows using it will probably cause more harm, but it holds for the time being. He can walk.

  ​It takes him hours to get out of the forest and in those hours he pauses only once, when he comes across a stream running through the forest. His lips are cracked and his tongue is swollen as he stops for a moment and drinks from the stream. The water wets his lips and he lets the stream run over them but drinks only a little as he fears the weight of the water in his stomach during his long journey.

  ​That is his only pause and when he at last wrenches himself away from the stream he continues onward. After a while longer there are no more trees and he is walking in the open air.

  ​The land reminds him of the pastures of his youth, a great stretching plain moving past the edges of the forest and almost to the horizon before ending in a range of hills peppered with groves of trees.

  ​He smells the smoke on the wind before he sees the faint glow of fires. He walks in that direction, but this takes him longer than he anticipates and he wishes he had lingered longer over the stream and perhaps had a bit more to drink. By the time he gets close to where the fires had been there is no glow, and he realizes that those who made the fires have gone to sleep. He stumbles around in the dark, following what he thinks is the general direction of the fire.

  ​He travels on a little further when a voice comes to him from out of the darkness.

  ​Who are you? a man’s voice asks.

  ​Padraig.

  ​I don’t know any Padraig. From where do you come?

  ​The forest. I was lost in the forest near here. I’m hurt. I saw the lights from this camp, but wasn’t able to reach it before the fires were put out. I’ve been wandering, trying to reach here.

  ​There isn’t a camp here.

  ​There isn’t?

  ​This is a village, the voice says. What are you doing in the forest?

  ​I was traveling, but my companion and I were attacked. Only I survived. I’m hurt.

  ​Better come with me, then, the voice says.

  ​Padraig’s eyes adjust in the darkness and he can make out the shape of a man standing not far from him. The man is framed against the vague shapes of buildings behind him, a village perhaps the size of the one he had served in Gaul.

  ​Eogan is my name, the voice says. Come with me, my home is nearby. You can stay there until morning.

  ​Thank you, Eogan, Padraig says, following after him.

  ​They reach the home, a small stone building near the outskirts of the town, and going inside Eogan starts a fire while offering Padraig a seat.

  ​You are hurt, Eogan says, finally seeing Padraig’s wounds. It looks like you were mauled by a bear.

  ​Wolves, Padraig said.

  ​And you are still alive? Impressive. You are a lucky man, Padraig. How long ago?

  ​Yesterday, the day before. I can’t remember. I’ve lost track of the time.

  ​It looks like they’ve stopped bleeding, Eogan says.

  ​They have.

  ​Good. Though I suppose if you had been bleeding all the way here you wouldn’t have made it in the first place. You’d either have died out there in the forest or attracted more wolves. I’m surprised the ones that did this to you didn’t kill you.

  ​I’m just as surprised. I must be hard to kill, Padraig says.

  ​Maybe, Eogan says. Maybe. Rest here. I have to go and finish my watch, but rest while I’m gone. I don’t expect you’ll be getting away even if you were inclined to steal.

  ​I suppose not, Padraig says. Thank you.

  ​You’re welcome. Now sleep. I’ll be back.

  ​Padraig lays down his head and he is asleep without chance for reflection. When he wakes it is well past sunrise. He rubs the crust from his eyes and tries to look at the sunlight, then hears a scratching from outside. He finds there is nothing outside of the home, but turning a corner he comes upon Eogan lifting squarely cut blocks of stone into a gap in a room Padraig had not entered.

  ​You are awake, Eogan says.

  ​I am. Thank you again for helping me.

  ​As I said, you’re welcome.

  ​Do you not sleep?

  ​I did. My watch ended not too long after you fell asleep, but you sleep late.

  ​I don’t usually.

  ​I meant nothing by it, Eogan says. It looks like you needed it. Are you hungry?

  ​I am, Padraig says.

  ​Give me a bit and I’ll come make some food for us.

  ​Padraig nods.

  ​We had a storm not long ago and I guess this wall was already weak. My father’s father built this place and from time to time it shows its age. I’ll get it patched and get to you. Make yourself at home.

  ​I will, thank you.

  ​Padraig goes back into the house and sits. He takes the opportunity to say his prayers for the morning, however late in the morning, and when he has finished he waits for Eogan, trying his best not to slip back to sleep.

  ​At last Eogan returns into the house. He pours himself beer which he drinks and refills. The meal is simple and it doesn’t take long to prepare, but for Padraig it is the finest food he has ever tasted and he feels better once he has finished and is warmed by some of Eogan’s beer.

  ​What were you doing before you were attacked by wolves? Eogan asks when they have finished eating.

  ​I was travelling.

  ​Where?

  ​Anywhere.

  ​A strange place to travel to. Why were you traveling?

  ​I have a mission.

  ​Which is?

  ​I have been called to spread the word of God throughout this land.

  ​I see. I’ve heard of your type. There are a great many people coming through with that message these days. You meet them on the road, the Christians, speaking of their god and of the deaths of the old gods.

  ​One must live to die.

  ​You are right. They
also do as you have done- saying the gods do not exist, that their god is the only true god.

  ​I suppose we all say so.

  ​Our god here, the one who watches over us, he does exist.

  ​Does he?

  ​He does. Maybe the gods of the other villages are false gods. I’ve never had enough interaction with them to know, so I suppose it is possible. It is said they worship the things in the mounds and things from over the sea and things that long for blood, so it might be true what you Christians say about the demons and the false gods, but as I say we’ve none of them here.

  ​What do you have here then? Padraig asks

  ​I suppose I could show you, Eogan says. I’d think the seer would be awake by now and I’m sure he’d love to talk to you. We’ve gotten only a few of your kind, but most didn’t stay long. He’s done his best to try to reason with your kind.

  ​Padraig agrees to go to see the town’s seer and the two depart Eogan’s house. It is day and Padraig sees the village for the first time aside from the blocks of shape from the night before. The village rests between two gentle hills with a main road running in between the houses and other buildings. Most of the buildings resemble the simple stonework of Eogan’s house, little more than fences turned in upon themselves and given a roof, but some of the buildings seem to have more planning in their structure and rise above the others. Children play through the street and adults walk past them unconcerned as they go about their days.

  ​The main thoroughfare, continuing on past its narrow branches and digressions, takes them to the home of the seer Eogan had spoken of.