In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The horses strained against the ropes and the upswept keel touched the water. ‘Again!’ Conor shouted. ‘Once more!’

  Fergal, up to his shoulders in the wave surge, drove the horses deeper into the wash. The keel groaned on the shingle and a little more of the ship eased into the water.

  ‘Again!’ cried Conor. ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Fergal above the slap and dash of the surf. ‘That’s as far—’ He broke off as a big wave broke upon him, lifting him off his feet and dumping him onto his backside. Fergal clung to the halter rope and came up spluttering. He heard Conor shouting, ‘Enough! The tide will do the rest. Let’s get the horses aboard.’

  Conor took hold of the rail and scrambled up over the side. He found the boarding plank and heaved it over the side, secured by ropes to cleats on the side of the ship. Then he ran back to help Fergal coax the animals aboard. If getting them to pull together was difficult, getting the contrary creatures to walk up that strip of narrow planking was impossible. The ramp refused to remain stationary, swerving and bobbing as the waves lifted and tilted the ship. Conor watched as Fergal tried to force a skittish and reluctant Grían onto the boards. ‘Blindfold him,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let him see it.’

  ‘Right so,’ replied Fergal. ‘And with what do you suggest I blindfold him?’

  ‘Your siarc, brother. Use your siarc.’

  ‘I have a better idea. Let’s be using your siarc, now.’

  Conor did not argue, but stripped off his siarc and tossed it to Fergal, who tied it like an apron around the top of the roan stallion’s head, shielding the animal’s eyes. Conor got on the ramp and, taking hold of the halter, half led and half pulled the unwilling animal onto the deck. The same operation was repeated with each of the others in turn. Búrach was last and as he stepped onto the swaying deck, Huw appeared with Íogmar. The fully laden hill pony showed up his bigger cousins by clipping smartly up the ramp.

  ‘Go get Mádoc!’ Conor shouted. ‘Huw and I will secure the animals.’

  Fergal turned and ran back to the cave, splattering seawater as he went. Conor and Huw gathered the horses’ halters and tied them to a loop of rope fastened to the mast—not an ideal solution, but the best they could devise with what they had on hand. Next, they stowed the camp supplies under a net fixed to the forward platform and, that done, Conor raced back to the cave where Fergal and Mádoc struggled over the slippery shingle with Donal slung between them using his cloak for a sling. Rhiannon came behind, carrying Mádoc’s staff and satchel. With Conor’s help, they soon had everyone aboard and Donal settled as comfortably as possible in a nook beneath the forward half-deck.

  The sun had risen above the horizon, burning a hole in the low-lying sea mist. Conor cast a searching look at the cliff tops towering above them—no sign of Scálda searchers yet—then he and Fergal put their shoulders to the stern and shoved. The ship moved more easily this time; the incoming tide had lifted the vessel. ‘Once more!’ shouted Conor. ‘Then get aboard.’ They gave one last heave and the hull floated free at last. They clambered aboard and pulled in the ramp.

  ‘What next?’ asked Fergal.

  ‘Let’s get the sail up.’

  Mádoc came out from attending Donal and told them how to unfurl the sail, which was wrapped around the mast, and then showed them how to set it on the long spar attached to the mast. He then directed Conor to put out the rudder oar and explained how to ply it to steer the ship. ‘Fergal will hold the guide ropes,’ he said, ‘and you will steer. Just try to keep the sail more or less square to the wind.’

  They were still discussing how to do this when, against every expectation, the sail bellied out and the shallow-hulled craft began to float out into the bay.

  ‘You must remain vigilant,’ Mádoc warned. ‘From the little I know, the wind will pull the harder once the vessel has reached deep water beyond the shadow of the headland, and good luck to you.’

  ‘What else?’ asked Conor.

  ‘That is all I know,’ replied the druid. ‘We have exhausted my small store.’

  Conor perched himself on the tiny pilot’s bench beside the steering oar; gripping the length of use-polished oak, he set his eyes on the thin line of waves he saw forming farther out. The shallow-keeled vessel bounced as it hit the rough water. The sail slacked and snapped; Fergal pulled this way and that on the spar lines until he found the wind again, and the ship lunged ahead.

  Once beyond the wind shadow of the headlands, the sea smoothed out; the sharp prow parted the green waves and sent the spray flying. In a little while, the cliffs and bluffs of the headland had shrunk away to little more than a low-lying bank behind them. Conor called out to Fergal, ‘I think we are out far enough. I don’t want to lose sight of land. I will turn the ship.’

  Fergal gave him a wave and prepared to wrestle the sail. It took several attempts—they kept losing the wind—but at last they managed to coordinate their efforts sufficiently to bring the prow around; the vessel swung onto a new heading and proceeded on a shaky course along the coast.

  Rhiannon came to stand beside Conor. ‘You are doing well,’ she told him. ‘You and your man—you could be seamen yet.’

  ‘I will be content to remain a warrior,’ Conor replied.

  She smiled. ‘Either way,’ she said, ‘you will be needing this.’ She held out his still-damp siarc to him. ‘It will soon be dry.’

  Conor, who had been too busy to notice the lack, released his hold on the rudder momentarily and drew the siarc over his head, then struggled one-handed with the laces.

  Rhiannon reached out, deftly tied the laces, then let her hand rest for a moment on Conor’s chest. ‘Thank you for saving me,’ she whispered, leaning close.

  ‘You have thanked me already,’ he told her.

  ‘And I will go on thanking you for the rest of my days—long or short as they may be.’

  Conor lowered his head in embarrassment. ‘I am sorry I could not save Tanwen. But, if I should ever find any more of your people made captive by the Scálda or anyone else, I will do all I can to free them. I give you my solemn vow.’

  Rhiannon smiled sadly and, placing a finger beneath his chin, lifted his head once more. ‘My lady Tanwen will be properly mourned and her life celebrated by my people. She was dear to me and nothing will fill the empty place she has left in my heart.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Conor said again.

  The faéry released him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You must not feel sorry for her. Those of our race see death—hateful as it must be—as a release from the endless cycle of our years. While we do not seek it, we recognise it as a dark friend who opens the door to the next life, a higher life and a better one than we have known before. That is why we both mourn and celebrate the life that the All Wise Mother has given.’

  ‘I would have brought her body back,’ Conor told her. ‘I would never have left her there for the Scálda to find.’ He shook his head, remembering how the corpse had disintegrated at his touch. ‘But there was nothing left—nothing at all.’

  The faéry gave a sad smile. ‘I know. That is how it is with us. In death our true age is revealed. Those of us who have lived long…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘There is nothing left. It is better that way.’

  Conor merely nodded.

  She mistook his simple acceptance and said, ‘You think me coldhearted.’ Before he could object, she continued, ‘Mortals always do—they think us callous and unfeeling. They say our blood is cold and it freezes the warmth of our hearts. They think us cruel. They know nothing about us.’

  Conor regarded her steadily. ‘I do not think you coldhearted.’

  She appeared to comprehend that this was so. ‘Then, perhaps, you are a mortal I can trust.’

  She left him then, and Conor sat for a while thinking about what Rhiannon had said and watching the sail; Fergal eventually succeeded in finding the best angle to catch the wind. He breathed in the clean sea air and then turned for a last look behi
nd them.

  His heart sank like a stone dropped into the salty deep.

  There, blossoming on the horizon, were the red sails of another Scálda vessel in swift pursuit.

  21

  ‘Rhiannon! Mádoc!’ Conor shouted. ‘I need you!’

  He shouted again and the lady hurried aft from her place with the stricken Donal at the prow; Mádoc followed a moment later, lurching unsteadily, holding to the rail all the way to the stern. ‘Can a man have no peace?’ he said, his face clenched as if he had eaten something rotten.

  ‘I would not disturb your peace for all the world,’ Conor told him. ‘But I heartily doubt the Scálda behind us would be so considerate of your sweet slumbers.’

  ‘I am trying to keep Donal alive,’ growled the druid. ‘Scálda?’ He cast a glance over Conor’s shoulder at the pursuing vessel.

  ‘We must get more speed from this craft,’ Conor said, thrusting a hand at the Scálda ship behind them. ‘How—how is it done?’

  Catching sight of the enemy ship, Rhiannon fell back a step; her hands fluttered like lost birds and, turning an anguished face to Conor, said, ‘I don’t know—our seamen, they know such things, but I do not.’

  ‘What about a charm? Do you have any magic for speed over water?’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Shaking her head, she glanced again at the Scálda ship and backed away. ‘You must do the best you can. I am sorry.’

  Conor watched her scurry back to the shelter of the platform, then turned to Mádoc, who was staring at the enemy ship with half-closed eyes. Conor followed his gaze: he could now make out the mast and the shape of the hull beneath.

  ‘Well?’ said Conor. ‘Can you do anything?’

  Mádoc opened his mouth to reply, but the ship lunged into a wave just then and Mádoc grabbed for the rail as bile gushed up his throat. He spat over the side and hung there, head down, heaving.

  ‘Fergal!’ Conor shouted. ‘We have trouble.’

  ‘Eh?’ Fergal cast a glance over his shoulder, and Conor pointed to the ship looming on the horizon. He took in the sight, then looked back to Conor. ‘Tell me what to do and it will be done.’

  Turning back to Mádoc, Conor said, ‘Well? Can you do anything?’

  The druid straightened; wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he said, ‘Can I do anything? How little you know the power of an ollamh.’ He paused, his wrinkled face crumpled in thought. At last, he said, ‘Do nothing. Only watch what I can do.’ So saying, the druid hobbled back to the prow to rummage around in the camp supplies.

  Conor looked around. The enemy ship was now close enough to make out the dark shapes of warriors crowding the deck. ‘Mádoc!’ he shouted. ‘They’re getting close.’

  The old druid returned with his leather satchel and with Huw in tow: the latter carried the cooking cauldron. He directed the boy to put the cauldron against the stern post and then, with a gesture, sent him back to the prow. He then dipped into his druid bag and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in birch bark and tied with a leather string. Huw returned with a bundle of kindling and a flint and iron striker and, while he busied himself lighting a fire in the pot, Mádoc, eyes closed, cradled the little bark-wrapped parcel between his palms and breathed silent words on it. At least, to Conor, it appeared that was what he was doing; the old man’s lips moved and he exhaled, but no words reached Conor’s ears.

  While Mádoc made his incantations, little Huw worked away and soon had a small blaze going inside the cauldron. It smoked somewhat and the smoke was snatched away by the wind. Conor, meanwhile, kept an eye on the Scálda chase vessel, which seemed to gain on them with every rise and fall of the waves. But still the druid stood with his eyes closed, speaking to the parcel in his hands.

  Fergal, standing at his station, fought to keep the ungainly square of cloth filled by pulling the spar ropes first one way and then the next; he called back over his shoulder, ‘What is happening back there?’

  Conor turned to the druid. ‘Mádoc? The Scálda are getting close.’ He could see individual warriors leaning out from the ship behind them, spears in their hands, which they thrust and lofted, eager for the first opportunity to make a throw. ‘Mádoc! Did you hear me?’

  The druid made no reply, but remained in his rigid pose seemingly lost to the world. Meanwhile, the Scálda pursuit drew swiftly, inexorably closer.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mádoc?’ said Conor, raising his voice. ‘The Scálda are almost upon us now.’

  Mádoc lowered his hands and, casting a sour glance at his interruption, said, ‘I heard you the first time. Do you think this is easy?’

  ‘I think it slow.’

  ‘Then you do it!’

  ‘Mádoc, please—’ said Conor, gesturing to the ship behind them. He could now hear the shouts and jeers of the Scálda warriors. ‘Just do your work.’

  ‘If you will allow me.…’ He turned and, seeing that the fire Huw had made had burned down to hot embers inside the cauldron, Mádoc knelt before it and, with a last word spoken to the parcel, dropped it onto the glowing coals.

  The little bundle smouldered for a moment and burst into flame as the dry birch bark ignited. It burned brightly for a moment and then subsided. Conor saw the flames die and felt his hope die with them. He prepared for battle. Grabbing Huw by the arm, he pulled the boy to his station and put the steering oar into his young hands. ‘Hold the course,’ he told the boy. ‘Keep it steady.’

  Then he ran forward to fetch his sword and see if he could find something to use as a shield.

  ‘Now what?’ called Fergal as Conor flashed past him.

  ‘I’m getting our weapons. We will soon need them.’

  ‘It comes to that, eh?’ said Fergal, risking a hasty look over his shoulder. ‘Aye, it comes to that.’

  Conor dived under the low platform where Rhiannon sat huddled over Donal’s inert form. She had her long hands on his body—trying to keep him from being rolled and tossed by the movement of the ship.

  ‘I need my sword,’ said Conor. ‘Gasta—where is it?’

  Rhiannon regarded him for a moment. ‘I saw no weapons among the things from the cave.’

  Conor rocked back on his heels. What had he done with it? He had it with him the whole night through … right up to the time he had waded into the water in the frenzied effort to launch the ship. And that was when he and his sword had parted company; the renowned blade lay even now on the black-pebbled, wave-washed shingle—forgotten in the haste to launch the ship. Conor muttered a curse for his carelessness. That sword was a stout companion through many battles and he would miss it sorely—and likely very soon. He hurried back to the stern.

  Mádoc’s ministrations had not achieved much, if anything—aside from producing a quantity of pale, silvery smoke and a foul stench. The charm—if that was what it was—had made no appreciable difference. He took his place beside Mádoc and drew his knife.

  The druid saw the blade in Conor’s hand and said, ‘Will you fight an entire shipload of Scálda warriors with a knife?’

  ‘If I must.’

  Mádoc favoured him with an approving gaze. ‘You do not lack for courage, Conor mac Ardan—good sense, maybe, but not courage.’

  ‘Be about your business, bard—and let me be about mine.’

  They watched the Scálda ship for a moment as it feinted slightly to the landward side of their vessel—a preparation, Conor assumed, for making their attack.

  ‘As soon as they are close enough, they will throw spears,’ Conor said. ‘You and Huw get below the platform. Fergal and I will collect what weapons we can and—’

  ‘So impatient,’ huffed Mádoc. Drawing a deep breath, he turned his face toward the Scálda ship and, stretching both hands above the cauldron, cried, ‘Behold!’

  The smoke issuing from the rim of the bronze pot suddenly thickened and changed, becoming less smokelike and more vaporous. The substance flowed up over the rim of the cauldron and spread over their feet and across the deck. Huw, his eyes wide, backed a
way from the pot as more and more of the stuff poured out, bubbling up so fast that the entire deck was soon awash in thick, grey-white fog.

  Almost at once, the hull filled up; dense white mist spilled over the rail and down the sides of the ship, building and cascading like a waterfall, spreading out onto the sea in rushets and rivers that grew as they spread, gathering and multiplying, building and rising. Very soon a solid bank of fog grew up between the two ships; the bank became a barricade and then a wall and still it grew, mounding and mounting until the sun was merely a dim white spot and the sea could no longer be seen.

  ‘Go and drop the sail,’ Mádoc instructed. ‘With a little luck, the Scálda may pass us by.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we shall see what we shall see.’

  Conor hurried forward to help Fergal wrestle down the sail, and the vessel coasted for a while and then began to drift on the current. ‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Fergal, gazing skyward as the last patch of blue sky faded from view.

  ‘I think it is working already,’ said Conor. ‘Listen…’

  The shouts and jeers from their pursuers had diminished greatly; what had been plain and clear was now muffled and indistinct, and seemed to come to them from a distance. The ghostly fog continued to build and deepen until the voices of the foemen were shrunken small and very far away. Even as they stood listening, the voices passed from hearing and an unnatural silence descended upon them, broken only by the waves lapping against their hull.

  Mádoc came to where Fergal and Conor stood listening. ‘This will last until evening,’ he said. ‘We will remain out of sight until then.’

  ‘All well and good,’ said Conor. ‘Only now we are becalmed.’

  ‘Nor can we see to steer our way along the coast,’ Fergal pointed out.

  ‘Is this gratitude?’ Mádoc huffed. ‘Next time we will let the Scálda catch us. Perhaps you would prefer that.’

  ‘Peace, druid,’ said Conor. ‘You have saved us with your craft. I merely look ahead to the completion of our escape.’

  ‘Think you then,’ grumbled the bard, ‘when the fog diminishes we can flee under cover of darkness.’