In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  15

  After seeing the red fire glow in the sky, sleep proved elusive for the travellers. Their fevered imaginations filled the night with strange howls and yelps, horn blasts and rumblings in the dark. They woke early and ill rested to a fresh wind driving the clouds away and blowing damp, grey mist from the east … and something else: the taste of salt air on the tongue. If any trace of smoke remained from the night before, it was carried away on the wind. The change in the weather only enhanced the fretful, fidgety mood in camp. Even silent Huw went about his chores with lowered brows and a truculent frown.

  ‘We are that close to a Scálda settlement,’ Conor said as they broke fast on more dried beef and trail bread softened in water. ‘I say we go and see what we came to see and then get out.’

  ‘I agree,’ Donal chimed in quickly. ‘We cannot be sitting around here all day.’

  ‘The sooner we’re done,’ Fergal put in, ‘the sooner we can be on our way.’

  ‘Listen to yourselves,’ Mádoc grumped. ‘Have I not said we must be patient? We cannot allow our unease to make us less wary.’

  Both Fergal and Donal looked to Conor, who sat thumbing the red stain on his cheek. Finally, he said, ‘I do not suggest we go charging off into the wood like a pack of wild pigs. Donal and I will go alone and locate the Scálda settlement, see how it lies and how it may be guarded. We find out all we can and then return here to discuss among us what we have learned. Is that wary enough for you?’

  ‘We should go at night lest they see us,’ said Donal.

  ‘Are we cats, then—that can see in the dark?’ said Fergal.

  ‘If we keep quiet and stay off the trails,’ Conor replied, ‘no one will even know we’re around.’

  ‘Well and good,’ said Mádoc with an approving nod. ‘But I would urge one additional precaution—that we remove ourselves from here. Clearly, we are too near the enemy and might easily be discovered.’

  To forestall further discussion, Conor quickly agreed. ‘Where shall we go?’

  In reply, Mádoc sniffed the wind. ‘Smell that?’

  The others tested the breeze.

  ‘Salt air,’ replied Fergal. ‘Are we near the sea, then?’

  ‘Nearer than you know,’ replied Mádoc. ‘In this part of Eirlandia there are sea cliffs along the shore. And where there are sea cliffs, there will be—’

  ‘Caves,’ said Conor, guessing the drift of the druid’s thought. ‘Right so, first we find a sea cave and make that our hold.’ He turned to Fergal and Donal, adding, ‘And then we go spy out the enemy settlement.’

  This plan was approved and they broke camp quickly, doing their best to hide any sign of their having been there. Once the tent was stowed and the gear packed away, Huw and Mádoc led the horses from the picket, and Donal took a leafy branch and swept the ground to raise the flattened grass; Fergal and Conor gathered the horse dung and scattered it among the nettles in the undergrowth. Then, satisfied that only the most discerning eye would notice their tracks, they took their mounts and made their way eastward through the trees, following the salt tang on the wind. A short ride brought them to the coast. The woods thinned to a band of low, stunted scrub and, beyond that, a leaden expanse, so flat and dull and grey it was difficult to distinguish where the sea ended and the sky began.

  The cliffs were steep and sharp, but here and there along the coast the high bluffs stepped down in low terraces. They took the nearest of these down to the shore—rough shingle of slate pebbles and grit. The tide was out, so they had no difficulty making their way along the coast, keeping close to the base of the cliffs the better to remain out of sight from above. They worked south along the cliff face and, when they had gone a fair distance without finding a suitable place of refuge, they turned around and proceeded the opposite way until they came to a ruined headland. The towering rock stacks had tumbled into the sea some ages ago and the shore was strewn with boulders big as houses and seamed with deep crevices like fingers. In one of these reaches, they found a fair-sized hollow—as if a giant had scooped out the stone with a cup. The floor formed a ledge a step or two up from the shingle, and it lay a fair way above the high-tide mark so that the nook stayed dry.

  ‘This will make a decent shelter,’ declared Mádoc. ‘We stay here.’

  Seeing how dry and secure was their stony stronghold cheered the warriors, and they set about establishing themselves in the cave without grumbling this time. As soon as Íogmar was unloaded and everything carried into the cave, Conor surveyed the situation and said, ‘We will leave you to finish here. Donal and I will take a look around hereabouts. We won’t be gone long.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ offered Fergal.

  ‘Someone must stay behind and protect the camp,’ Conor told him. ‘Today, that is you.’ So saying, he and Donal climbed onto their mounts and returned to the cliff top and the fringe of scrub wood lining the coast to the south.

  ‘We saw the fire to the west of us, I think,’ Donal pointed out as they proceeded toward the shelter of the wood.

  ‘Aye, but I’m thinking we should explore the coast a little while we are here—just to get the measure of the place. There may be fishing camps nearby.’

  Donal agreed and led the way along the cliff top; he had not gone far when he reined up. ‘A fishing camp like that one, Conor?’ he asked, pointing down to the beach far below.

  As he spoke, the sun poked through the clouds and shone full on the shore below where lay six small boats roughly size of the leather curraghs the Dé Danann fishermen built; nearby, two of the larger Scálda ships lay on their hulls. The sails of one of the ships had been stretched over the mast and pegged to the sand to form a rough shelter. Some way farther up the beach, they saw more ships and beyond those, still more—covering the strand and lining the entire length of the cove.

  ‘Badb take me,’ muttered Donal, ‘there must be a score of them at least!’

  They dismounted and hunkered down in the rough saw grass growing on the bluffs. They watched and after a while, two men emerged from beneath the sailcloth shelter. Dressed in long, knee-length siarcs and baggy breecs, the two ambled up the beach along the line of ships, pausing now and then to inspect one or another of the vessels before moving on.

  ‘Guards maybe?’ concluded Donal. ‘Not fishermen, I think.’

  Conor agreed and, looking the opposite way up the coast, saw with some relief that the beach ended at the foot of a massive sea cliff thrust out into the sea. ‘At least our camp is cut off from them here,’ he said. ‘They won’t see our cave from down there.’

  When, after another lengthy watch, no one else appeared on the beach, Donal and Conor remounted and resumed their scouting foray, moving quickly across the scrubland to the cover of the woods. Once within the shelter of the trees, they slowed and turned south, slowly working their way ahead with quiet caution. The sun quartered the sky and they began to see signs of habitation: beaten paths and wider trails carved into the wood, timber cut down and removed, brush cleared. ‘We’re getting close,’ observed Donal, pointing to a wide and well-rutted trail. Here they stopped, dismounted, and led their horses into the brush; they tethered Ossin and Búrach to low branches so they might graze while waiting.

  Conor and Donal crept back to the trail and knelt to examine the ruts. ‘They used wagons and teams here,’ observed Donal, pointing to the wheel marks and hoofprints in the chewed-up earth.

  ‘Hauling timber, I’d say,’ offered Conor; he picked up a piece of tree bark as big as his hand, and indicated more of the same scattered along the way—along with twigs and branches.

  ‘For building a stronghold, maybe,’ suggested Donal.

  ‘Let’s see.’

  They reclaimed their mounts and proceeded along the edge of the trail. In a little while, they glimpsed, in a clearing beyond the trees, a fortress with uneven walls made from unworked tree trunks. What the walls may have lacked in regularity was made up by their substantial girth; the gaps between timbers
were crammed with what appeared to be a mixture of mud and straw, giving the place an odd motley appearance. Smoke from at least two fires formed a dark haze above the settlement, building to a dirty cloud before dissipating on the wind.

  Conor and Donal crept as close as they dared, then lay down among the wet ferns and myrtle to observe and learn what they could of the place. The first thing they marked was that along the entire length of the walls crouched tight clusters of crabbed huts made of mud and sticks. From these, Scálda women came and went intent on their daily chores; some carried their brats wrapped up like bundles on their backs, and others toted baskets of stuff—though neither of the spies could determine what the baskets contained.

  ‘They cannot be living in those pig stys,’ muttered Donal.

  ‘Shh!’ Conor hissed, and gave him an elbow in the ribs for good measure.

  They maintained their watch through midday and, as the sun began its long slide into the west, Conor indicated he wanted to move and view the ráth from the opposite side. They withdrew quietly, edged back into the wood, and then slowly, painstakingly, worked their way around the fortress where they were able to get a view of the gate, which was wide and low and nearly as stout as the walls.

  A road of pounded earth issued from the fortress and as the two spies resumed their watch, there came a team of horses dragging a number of trimmed logs—thin birches and slender hazels. Another team, coming close behind, dragged scavenged oak limbs, dried and broken. Conor took this to mean that the trimmed timber was for building, and the dried oak for fuel. He raised his eyes to the twin columns of thick smoke billowing steadily from the heart of the settlement. To Donal’s questioning glance, he whispered, ‘Blacksmith forges?’

  Donal shrugged.

  For a long while nothing more happened. No one came or went from the settlement, but just as Conor was getting ready to suggest they move again, he heard the slow, steady clop of horse hooves on the road. Conor put a hand out to Donal, pulling him down into the brush. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered.

  They waited, and in a moment a large, heavy wagon came lumbering around the bend and into view. Pulled by a two-horse team, the vehicle’s sides had been let down and the flatbed loaded with what appeared to be iron hoops—dozens of them, all bound together in stacks half a man high. The team, led by a driver with a whip walking alongside the lead horse, bumped along to the gate and rolled into the fortress. A few moments later, four men appeared and hauled the massive gates closed—cutting off any glimpse inside the stronghold.

  When nothing else happened, Conor backed away from his post, motioning Donal to follow, and the two made their slow way back to where their horses were hidden. ‘What are they doing with all those hoops?’ said Donal as soon as they were mounted and away from the settlement.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Conor. ‘Shield rims, maybe?’

  ‘If those were rims for shields,’ said Donal, ‘a fella would have to be a giant to carry one, so he would. Do you think they have giants now?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  Donal glanced around the wood, and then at the sky. ‘We’ll be losing the light soon—we should get back and tell the others what we’ve seen.’

  ‘Aye, we will,’ Conor said, ‘but first, I want to see where that road leads.’

  They made a wide circuit of the ráth and then worked their way back to where the road curved away to the west through more heavy woods. Keeping out of sight of the road itself, they followed it some distance until they saw another thick dirty column of smoke rising into the sky directly ahead—this one easily twice or three times the size of the first, indicating a very large fire. ‘There,’ said Conor. ‘I think that’s what we must have seen on the clouds last night.’

  They dismounted, secured the horses as before, and continued on foot toward the place marked by the dark pillar of smoke. Closer, they began to hear the distinctive ring of hammer on anvil. The land rose away from the road, and Conor followed the rise, keeping the smoke in view, edging nearer by degrees until they came to a place where the surrounding wood had been cleared in a great swathe from the immediate hillside—and all the nearby hillsides as well. Whole trees had been hacked down and dragged away. The sound of the hammers was louder now, and it was coming from just beyond the crest of the hill before them. ‘Whatever they’re doing,’ suggested Conor, ‘they’re doing it over there.’

  With that, he started off at a low, crouching run toward the hilltop. Dropping onto his hands and knees as he neared the crest, he crawled forward and lay on his stomach to look over the other side. The entire hillside had been dug out and carted away, quarried for the red rock under the earth. The excavation had created a wide basin, on the floor of which stood a roofed platform abutting an enormous beehive-shaped structure made of stone; from an opening in its top belched smoke and flames and sparks, while all around the great stone hive toiled a score of large-boned, swarthy men, naked save for leather clouts around their waists and brócs on their feet. They moved with the slow, methodical rhythm of men used to and well suited for their drudgery. More labourers worked at smaller fire pits supplied with bellows; others plied a range of anvils.

  Donal and Conor took all this in without a word. While they watched, another wagon appeared on the road and entered the enclave; pulled by a team of four, it contained a load of red rock in large wicker baskets. This cargo was dumped onto a mound at the edge of the platform, and the vehicle was then loaded with iron hoops just like those they had seen at the first stronghold. The wagon departed and, as the sun slid down behind the trees, Conor gave Donal a nudge and retreated from the hilltop.

  Once safely under the cover of the trees, Conor said, ‘We have seen their forge and quarry, and something of what they are doing.’

  ‘Right so—but what are they making? That would be worth knowing.’

  ‘You speak my thoughts exactly, brother,’ said Conor. He glanced at the sky; the light was fading fast in the deep wood. ‘But that must wait. We should start back. Mádoc and Fergal will be wondering what happened to us.’

  ‘Aye to that,’ agreed Donal. ‘I tell you the truth, all this spying sits ill with me.’

  ‘Something warm in your belly will cheer you,’ said Conor, swinging himself onto the back of his horse. ‘Let’s go see what Huw has cooked for us.’

  ‘Ach,’ replied Donal with a sniff, ‘with our luck it’ll be seagrass and limpets or some such. The horses eat better than we do.’

  ‘And complain less also.’ Conor pulled the reins and turned his mount onto the wooded path.

  ‘They’ve got nothing to complain about,’ replied Donal, following Conor’s lead. ‘See me home in one piece, and I’ll never complain about anything again.’

  ‘If only,’ replied Conor with a laugh. ‘Then our time here will not have been ill spent.’

  16

  That night, safe within the stone walls their sea cave, with a small fire to cheer them and beds of saw grass spread with the sheepskins, the travellers ate the peas and barley porridge Huw and Mádoc had prepared and discussed what Conor and Donal had seen. Outside, the waves washed the shingle, tumbling the pebbles with a constant low rattling, and the sough of the wind among the high rocks could be heard above the crack and tick of their driftwood fire.

  ‘They are smelting ore and making iron,’ Donal said, breaking a piece of dry bairgen into his porridge, ‘that much is certain. But it is not weapons they are making just now.’

  ‘Tell me more about the hoops,’ said Mádoc, tilting his bowl to his mouth.

  ‘What is there to tell?’ replied Conor. ‘They are hoops—empty bands of metal, curved into a circle and joined—hundreds of them.’

  ‘Why do they want all those hoops?’ said Fergal.

  They discussed the various possibilities, but the list was short and none of the suggestions seemed likely. In the end, they looked to Mádoc for an answer. The druid rubbed his grizzled head, put his thumb in his mouth, and closed his eyes
and chewed. A few moments passed, and then he gave a little shiver, opened his eyes once more, and spat. ‘The mystery remains,’ he told them. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Then we will have to learn the answer another way,’ said Conor. ‘We’ll go back tomorrow and see if we can find a way to see into that settlement of theirs.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ volunteered Fergal. To Donal, he said, ‘You can stay here and guard our rock.’

  ‘Both of you should go with Conor,’ said Mádoc. ‘Huw and I can look after things here. We saw no one on the beach today, and there will be no one tomorrow, for it will rain.’

  ‘Then it is settled.’ Conor raised his bowl and gulped down the last of his gruel, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. They talked of other things then, and as Huw took the bowls and pot outside to wash, Donal induced Mádoc to tell them a story. The old druid complained that it had been so long since he had sung anything, it would be a very poor song. But Fergal and Conor took up the appeal and at last persuaded him to sing. The old druid sat searching his memory and decided that a song to remind his listeners of what they were fighting for, and why, would be no bad thing. After a moment, he said, ‘Hear then, if you will, the “Tale of the Coming of Danu to Eirlandia.”’

  The warriors lay back on their fleeces to listen, and the old druid closed his eyes and, in a low and somewhat shaky voice, began. This is what he sang:

  ‘In former days, in the Birthing Time, there was no man—nor yet any woman—in Eirlandia. No voice had been heard on the soft sweet air, save that of rooks and robins, seagulls and sandpipers, and all the other air-sowers. No footprint had been seen on the soft sweet earth save that of the bear and badger, and the ox and otter, and all the other field and forest creepers. Never a word had been spoken, never a hearth fire kindled, never a cup of ale offered in friendship, never a comely smile imparted, and never a sword stropped in anger. As it was in Eirlandia—called Ériu then—so it was in Albion, in Prytain, in Cymru, and all the other lands unknown and unseen by any now alive to see them.