He went back to the cot and sat down, trying to think, to assemble some kind of plan. He was weak, injured and unarmed. He’d allowed himself as long as he could to regain some of his strength, but the tipping balance had been reached, and it would be downhill from here. He wondered how long before he became feverish. Not long, he thought.
Footsteps and shuffling sounded outside the door. Then the tell-tale turn of the lock. It was later than he’d thought. Time for his meal. His stomach grumbled in response. Bread and cheese and a cup of ale once a day was hardly going to keep hunger at bay, but it was better than nothing, he knew.
The traitor minion entered as usual, bearing the tray with its predictable fare. He made his way over to the cot, his eyes cast down, avoiding Smithy’s gaze. Smithy had decided not to bait the man but still, it rankled that one of his own people was working for Balor. The minion put the tray at the end of the cot, keeping his distance.
“My arm,” Smithy said. “It’s bad.”
The minion looked up at his words, glanced over at him and away.
“My arm needs attention. There’s infection in it now, I’m sure of it.”
The minion stood there looking down at the tray, his body language screaming uncertainty.
“Look,” said Smithy, his gaze directed toward Dog, “I need a healer. Now. It’s very bad. If you don’t get me a healer I could very well lose the arm or even die.”
Dog frowned at him sceptically. Smithy sighed. Big, but not much wit. What was it that Cornish man said to him one time, “In with the bread and out with the cake?” That was Dog. Half baked.
He tried again. “If your master wants my services, which I presume is the reason I’m being held here, then I’ll need the full use of both my arms.” He’d said the words carefully, slowly.
Dog grunted, his eyes narrowing.
“Sure, if you don’t believe me, come have a look for yourself, over by the light.”
Smithy got up and went back to the window and waited. Dog hovered uncertainly by the door until he frowned again and stomped towards Smithy. When he reached Smithy’s side, Smithy turned his shoulder towards Dog, and under the guise of showing his bad shoulder, he used the motion to bring his right arm back and swing at Dog. He hit him square in the jaw and Dog moved backwards with a grunt. Smithy shoved him hard, towards the cot where the minion was cowering in a huddled position. Dog tumbled against the minion and they both fell on the cot. Smithy ran for the door, still left open by half-baked Dog and hared it over the threshold and towards the stairs. Behind him he could hear a roar of anger.
The stone steps were slippery and he fought to keep his balance. His side was screaming now with a pain that matched the one that took hold in his arm. He clambered down, trying to take the steps two at a time, where possible. He turned at the switchback and saw the light of an opening up ahead. He shoved on, conscious of the footsteps closing in. When he reached the entrance, he paused a moment to get his bearings, searching for the door that would lead him outside. The room was empty, save for a table, chairs and two cots placed against a far wall. A few sacks slumped along the floor in another corner. He saw that he was too high up and realised there must be another set of steps to take him down to the ground level. He spied the steps and headed towards them. They were steeper than the other set. He started down, the film of slime that covered them slowing his progress. He reached the end and saw the outside door and halted.
A large length of wood was along its middle to bar anyone entering. He made his way to it and using the last of his strength, tried to slide it back with one great shove, but it only moved a fraction. He tried again and it was nearly free of the brace on the door frame. He gathered his breath for one more shove and a large hand pulled him away. He turned to see Dog, his face contorted with anger and his fist drawn back. Smithy roared in his face. It was instinctive and it stunned Dog for a few seconds, just long enough for Smithy to reach for the dagger at Dog’s side. He withdrew it, brandishing it in front of Dog, who roared back, rushed Smithy, grabbing the wrist that held the knife. They wrestled for control for only a short while before Smithy’s hold gave way and Dog had the knife. Dog shoved Smithy and he lost his balance, falling to the floor, and as he fell, his feet caught Dog’s and Dog tumbled on top of him. Smithy felt a sharp severe pain to his bad side. He opened his mouth to scream his pain as the force of Dog’s body falling on him drove the dagger deeper into Smithy’s side.
31
Saoirse
I began to slow my pacing. It had seemed the best strategy since being shut up in this dark shed. I’d sung songs, hummed tunes, danced a few steps of long forgotten set dancing, all in a bid to keep whatever scuttling present in this shed at bay. Now, I was tiring a bit. I’d no idea how long it had been, but judging by the number of songs, tunes and dance steps it had been at least a few hours.
I dragged myself around the room a few more times, before sinking dispiritedly to the shed floor. Outside, I could hear the lowing of some cows and perhaps the bleat of a sheep. I ran through the few ideas budding in my head on how to get out of the shed. The brief moments of hard hammering had gone nowhere. Perhaps when, and I was very hopeful about this “when”, they came to feed me, I might be able to make them see reason. The laughter that came with this plan now could hardly control itself. Pointed fingers and clutched bellies full kind of laughter. Hardly a plan. No plan at all.
I sighed, drew myself up once again and headed to the door. Once there, I felt around the edge, trying to slide my fingers between the door and the frame. If I could find a way to lift the latch on the outside I could get myself free. I had tried the metal end of my belt before, after the hammering, but that had been too thick to manage it.
Now my eyes were fully adjusted to the dim lighting of the shed. Too much so, I thought wryly as I spied shifting and moving little hillocks of straw in the nearest corner. My boots are thick, I told myself. In that corner, leaning against the wall was a long piece of thin metal rod, presumably used to prod the pigs.
I went over and picked it up, tested its weight, and brought it back over to the door. I poked the edge of the door to see if I could find a place to fit it in and use the rod as a lever. I tried first in the middle, but I had no luck. I moved it further down and tried again. I kept trying, moving the rod just a little on the edge of the door and finally, about two thirds down, I managed to squeeze the rod between the frame and the door. I took a breath and swung back on the rod with all the strength I could manage. There was a real resistance. I pushed harder against it and suddenly it gave way. I flew back onto the shed floor with the force that had been released. Breathless, I sat there for a moment, staring at the open door and the awaiting freedom outside. I grinned.
Rising slowly, I dusted myself off and headed into the light. The sudden burst of brightness caused me to hold my hand up against it all while my eyes adjusted. I blinked a few times and then looked around. I could see the farmhouse not far away and the track that had led me here. I moved from the shed, through the small muck filled yard, hoping to skirt the farmhouse and get back on the track. I knew I’d be forfeiting my daggers and shield, but there was no help for it, as the chance of retrieving them safely was nil.
I moved stealthily, hoping my movements wouldn’t attract any attention. I heard voices. Shouting. The door of the farmhouse burst open and a man came striding in my direction, the farmer, running close behind. I froze.
The man stopped, looked at me. “Br— Saoirse!”
I peered at the man. Wiry ginger hair, high cheekbones. A memory stirred. Inchigeela, the guitar player. “Finn?”
A wide smile broke out on his face. He closed the distance between us and wrapped me up in a hug. I stood there, too stunned to react. He pulled away.
“Thank God you’re safe,” he said.
“God?” I said. “Really?” It just spilled out, the irony with all the attending confused emotions and disbelief.
He shrugged. “Figure of speech.�
��
I lifted my chin and gave him an ironic look. “What brings you here, Finn? Or whoever you are.” I squinted at him. “Don’t tell me. Fionn Mac Cumhail.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not likely.”
“Why not likely?” I said and then held up my hand immediately after. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Ogma,” he said. “But we’ll leave it at Finn. That’s for the best. For here and especially across the water.”
I sifted Ogma through my mind, but came up with nothing. No half learned lesson of Celtic tales or anything else that might clue me in to why he preferred Finn. But this wasn’t the time or the place and there were more important matters at hand.
“Goibhniu,” I said. “We have to get him. Balor chased him here and he’s in danger, I’m sure of it.”
He glanced across at the farmer. “Smithy?” he said, his eyes telling me more. “We’ll have to see if we can find him.”
He turned to the farmer and spoke. The farmer listened carefully, nodded and headed towards the farmhouse.
“What language was that?” I asked.
He turned his gaze to me. “The language of the Tuatha de Danann. The True Tongue.”
I nodded. “I couldn’t make them understand that I meant no harm. They don’t speak English.”
“No, not many of us do. That’s one reason few cross over. The other is, well, it’s forbidden for the most part. Though no Gael would probably know that anymore.”
I smiled. “And I bet they wouldn’t care. Not really.”
He gave me a serious look. “Maybe not now. But over the centuries it has been dangerous. Religious people often saw us as a threat. That’s why many more have the language of the Gaels, but so few have English. Many more slipped through and travelled there before Christianity became dominant and even more when English was the primary language. It’s been left to us who have been charged as sentinels across the water to learn and maintain our English and know the customs there.”
“Sentinels?” I asked. “Is Smithy one?”
He nodded. “A reluctant one, but nevertheless he was charged with it a long time ago, well, a long time in your world.” He pulled himself up. “Well, not exactly your world, though, really.”
I gave him a speculative look. “So you know?”
He looked me up and down. “It’s difficult not to know. There’s no mistaking who you are, now.”
I looked at the farmhouse with puzzlement. “But they didn’t know me. Not even that soldier.”
He followed my gaze. “No, well. They weren’t at Tara. At the court. I was.”
“Ah, right.” It all made sense and yet all of it didn’t make any sense. Not one bit of sense in all that I’d understood all the years of my life in Dublin.
“How do you know Smithy is here? And that Balor has him?” asked Finn
I took a deep breath and focused once more on the important issue. “He is. I saw him get out of the boat and enter this world.” And I told him all that had transpired in Cork and since I’d returned to Anu’s. As I relayed the tale, his face grew more and more troubled.
“We have to let Daghda know,” he said finally.
I gave him a puzzled frown. “How will that help?”
“He can help. And it’s important he knows how serious things have become across the water.”
“How will he be able to help, though?”
“He’ll be able to find out where Smithy’s being held and verify who’s holding him. And he’ll send men. Warriors.”
“But that could take a while, surely. Unless you can transform into something?” The last question I’d asked in a hopeful tone. Because that was the best answer. I knew in my bones we needed to go now. That Smithy needed help, now.
Finn laughed. “No, I have no ability to do that. My strengths are elsewhere. But I can get a message to him quickly.”
“Quickly, as in as quick as a text? You have mobiles over here?” The look on his face gave me the answer. “No, well, I didn’t really think so.”
“It will be quick, I promise. We should find out where Smithy’s being held by this evening. Tomorrow at the latest.”
I nodded. I had no choice but to hope that it would be the case.
The morning dawned grey and overcast. I’d hardly slept. The feather tick, though not the worst on offer, hadn’t helped as it was laid on a plank bed that left me in no doubt of the increased size of my hips and other parts of my body. My mind was equally unable to rest and I spent most of the night staring at the wooden ceiling and listening to the snores of the others in their small rooms above the kitchen.
It had been a curious reunion in the kitchen when I’d entered with Finn. The farmer and his wife both gave me their apologies, speaking through Finn. To Finn, their deference bordered on obsequiousness, and it wasn’t long before I realised they regarded him as their chief, overlord or something along those lines. I vaguely knew the structure of ancient Irish society, but what would be ancient to me was probably not even conceptualised in their structure. He was wearing the clothes I’d seen him in when we were in the pub, but with a sword hung awkwardly at his side, and his movements told me that it wasn’t something he felt accustomed to.
There was no sign of the soldier. Warrior. He was gone and when I asked Finn about him, he only said that he’d told him to go, that he wasn’t needed. It was only after a bit of prodding that he told me the man was a steward of sorts. His steward. There was more to the story, but I failed to muster the energy to ask for it.
After the apologies were made, the farmer brought some paper, ink and pen to the table at Finn’s request. Finn took a seat and composed a message. The script was a series of characters and slashes that seemed indecipherable. When he’d finished, he went outside. From the window I could see a small bird (wren?) flying down towards him to land on his arm. He placed the rolled-up paper in its beak, though it seemed overlarge and too heavy, and the bird took off. No shapeshifting, but quick enough, I thought.
There was no reply by the time we’d gone to bed that night and now, in the light of the next day, I found myself praying that there would be one soon. I had no clue who I was praying to. All my ideas, what I’d rejected, what I’d accepted, had been turned upside down and I knew only the shape and form of the religion I’d been raised in and that prayer was part of it. I rose from my bed and tiptoed quietly down the stairs and outside. The door creaked when I opened it, I paused, listened for stirring above, but there was nothing.
The light was breaking over the horizon and the grey day grew a little brighter. I was surprised when I saw the farmer, whose name I now knew was Diarmuid, emerging from the shed. I shouldn’t have found it unexpected, because it was evident he’d just done the milking. But then Finn trailed out after him and my astonishment became even greater. I just couldn’t make Finn out. I couldn’t reconcile the stellar musician I’d seen in Inchigeela with the overlord/chieftain persona he assumed here. The clothes, now a mishmash of trendy jeans and practical boots no doubt from the hands of an Otherworld craftsman and the sword that had been at his side yesterday, only served to confuse me.
Spotting me, he raised his hand in greeting and began to head towards me. He was nearly by my side when a bird flew towards him, something in its beak. He looked up and held out his arm. This bird, which I could see now was a large rook, landed gracefully. Finn removed the scrolled paper from its beak and released the bird back into the sky. The rook took flight with a loud caw and then vanished from sight a moment later.
I watched as Finn unfurled the scrolled paper and read it. It was all I could do to contain my impatience. Finally he looked up and frowned.
“What is it?” I said drawing up to his side. “Is there news about Smithy?”
“Yes. Daghda has found out where he’s being held.” He felt silent a moment, deep in thought.
“Where? When can we go there?”
He turned, looked at me. “A place just north of he
re.”
“Not far then?”
He shook his head. “A half day’s ride, if that.”
“Then let’s leave now. We can be there before noon.”
“No, Saoirse. We wait for Daghda.”
“But surely we can meet him there. He’ll be coming from Tara, right? Wouldn’t Tara be north of that place, if you say it’s not far? Are the distances different? The place names?” I floundered a bit. The geography was potentially another handicap I hadn’t contemplated.
“Yes, Tara is the Tara you know in terms of direction and distance.”
“So, we can do that. It would be what, meeting them about halfway? Where is he—somewhere in Tip? Or its equivalent here?”
He gave a small laugh. “Close enough, but never mind. Yes, I suppose we could meet them there. It would save time.”
I smiled, relieved I’d been able to convince him. “Good. Then let’s get ourselves ready and underway.”
He looked down at me and sighed. “We’ll have a bite to eat and then go. I’ll let Daghda know of our plans.”
32
Saoirse
We ate quickly. The farmer’s wife had already risen and was in the kitchen by the time we’d returned after reading the message, the farmer ensconced at the table, his son beside him, so that it took her no time to serve us a quick meal too. Once fed, I looked to gather my things, realising that I still hadn’t recovered my daggers and shield. I asked Finn about it and he spoke with the farmer, who looked abashed, rose and went upstairs. A few moments later he returned, the daggers and shield in his hands. He handed them over to Finn. They exchanged a few words before Finn examined them carefully and then looked over at me.
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