Did she feel as he did? Did she suffer this same amorphous agony, this all-encompassing suffering that had no definite pain, no specific place of hurt? This misery that sapped his will to live, that made the precipice behind Brud Stone so tempting. Then came a revelation, an answer from the Gods, so simple, so obvious; he would seek her out, he would have words with her.
Taran stepped away from the stone, resolute, a weight lifted and at that moment, a distant flash of colour amidst the green landscape caught his eyes; Breeta, cresting a hillock in the distance, her hair glowing in the morning sunlight before disappearing out of sight: a sign from the Gods. Supressing the urge to yowl, to carouse in delight, he embraced Brud Stone in thanks before racing to catch up.
He followed her to Scryt Beach beyond the next headland where the long shoreline was soft and sandy. Exposed to the wide water, the waves rolled and crashed onto the beach bringing in seaweed needed to fertilise the soil, accumulating in abundance at the bottom of the cliff.
Approaching stealthily, moving between knolls and hiding behind rocks, Taran watched her as she collected seaweed, his eyes feasting on the sight of her, his belly aflame with excitement and fear, dread and exhilaration. He would wait before approaching her, just for a little while, enjoying this moment, this glorious sight of her, engrossed by the way she moved through the shallow water scooping up armfuls of seaweed, her hair as bright as glowing embers in the morning sunlight, the cloth of her tunic clinging to her legs as she walked back to the shore.
She was smiling; her head turned looking down the beach. Taran followed her line of sight to see Rogan the Younger of the Unyngen settlement striding down the beach towards her and a surge of heat flushed through him, his heart thudding. Although he had never crossed horns with Rogan, Taran knew him more as foe than friend, and generally avoided his company at feast gatherings. Strong and powerfully built, Rogan knew his physical attributes eclipsed most around the settlements of Pente, Pobla and Betarra, crushing anyone who dared to challenge him.
Rogan hailed Breeta in a familiar fashion, and Taran watched with mingled suspicion and dread, his heart constricting as Breeta’s smile widened, spreading across her face. They appeared to be acquainted with one another, which surprised him as Rogan hailed from Unyngen settlement more than three headlands away to the south. Had they arranged to meet here, to be alone, away from the prying eyes of the settlements? Had Breeta already decided that she wouldn’t wait for her betrothed to sprout facial hair and had chosen Rogan as her mate? Why wouldn’t she, Taran thought, eyeing Rogan enviously, the way his tunic hugged his wide chest, shadows and indentations highlighting the sculpted muscles that pressed against the material, threating to split and tear apart against so much contained thew.
He would provide well for her, Taran thought miserably. Rogan would be Chief of Unyngen one day and one such as Breeta, who stood out among the rest like a lone star in a dark sky, deserved to have the strongest, the wealthiest, the very best.
His stomach rolling, Taran crouched behind his rock, eyes squeezed tight recalling the acknowledgement of his existence in Breeta’s smile, the glances he’d received from those clear green eyes that had overwhelmed him like a surging wave crashing on a pebble. But they’d meant nothing, no more than mere looks in his direction. It was time now to supress these feelings that had ruled him, to never allow his eyes to seek her out again. To forget.
He stood up, forlorn and dejected, exposing his position to the two on the beach who remained oblivious to his presence, watching miserably as Rogan reached out, touching Breeta’s hair melting over her shoulder like molten copper. She stepped away from his contact and Rogan moved towards her, grabbing her arm in his hand and pulling her to him, her basket of seaweed falling from her grasp as he bent over her, pressing his face into hers. Lashing out, Breeta dragged her nails down Rogan’s cheek, breaking the skin above his beard, red lines appearing immediately on his face.
For a brief moment, blank surprise swept all expression from Rogan’s face. Lifting his left hand, investigating the damage to his cheek, his right arm simultaneously swung in a wide arc, his huge open hand making contact with Breeta’s delicate face, the force of the impact enough to knock her off her feet and send her sprawling into the wet sand where she lay gasping for air.
Rogan stood a head taller than Taran and half a man wider. He liked to fight and squash those weaker than himself into the ground, preferably with many onlookers to admire his might with awe. This day, Rogan of Unyngen’s brute strength was no match for the outrage that propelled Taran forward like a charging ram, blinded by violent passion, oblivious, uncaring of the danger he raced towards, sacrificing his own welfare to protect this woman they said could never be his. It didn’t matter, in that moment he was prepared to die for her.
Rogan turned around at the sound of Taran’s war cry, watching with open-mouthed incredulity as Taran charged across the beach towards him, head down, shoulders braced, building momentum and crashing at full velocity into Rogan who stood as immovable and hard as Brud Stone. In one fluid movement, Taran’s world turned upside down, his legs flipping over his head, the world spinning as he flew, somersaulting through the air like a seal thrown by the black and white behemoths of the deep. He landed head first into the midst of the crashing waves, tossed and rolled, inhaling mouthfuls of water as he was dragged back to shore and deposited at Rogan’s feet coughing, spluttering and regurgitating sea water. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Rogan dragged him onto the beach pushing him face down into the sand, holding him down until he was fighting for air.
‘Do not take on a battle you cannot win, little man,’ Rogan said, pulling Taran’s head up out of the sand. ‘What is she to you anyway that you would risk fighting with one such as I? Fool,’ he added before shoving him away like a carcass not worthy of his picking, leaving him blinded, coughing, spitting and blowing sand from his nose and mouth. ‘And you,’ he heard Rogan continue, ‘you would rather wait many summers for a boy when you could have this now. Soon, I will be Chief of Unyngen and you will still be waiting for the hair to grow around your boy’s manhood.’
Rogan walked off. Taran remained on his knees, his streaming eyes dislodging sand, his stomach in revolt retching up salty water and bile. Humiliation prickled every pore, thankful at least that he couldn’t see the disgust on Breeta’s face.
He felt a touch on his shoulder, its unexpectedness sending a quiver through him and he almost moaned in response.
‘Thank you Taran.’
He swung his head in the direction of her voice, squinting at her face through slitted, blurry eyes. ‘You know my name?’ he asked in wonder.
‘Of course I do. Do you think I haven’t noticed how you follow me?’ She laughed, the sound like a trickling burn. ‘But you never speak.’ He felt her arm reach around his back. ‘Stand,’ she said, helping him to his feet. ‘There’s a small burn that runs to the shore.’ He felt her hand wrap around his, pulling him forward. Blinded and in pain it was the most exquisite moment of his life.
She led him further down the beach to a small rivulet that traced its way from the headland and trickled off the embankment in its languorous meander to the sea. Breeta guided him towards it, had him lie down on his back and began splashing fresh water into his eyes. He luxuriated in her nearness, feeling her bones press against his as she leaned over him, the weight of her Christian ornament heavy on his chest, her lips on his lips.
It stopped the breath in his lungs. It stopped the beating of his heart. Was this the great death they spoke of, he wondered, when all sense of reasoning has left your mind?
‘Why don’t you ask for my hand?’ he heard her ask. His stinging eyes were closed, so this must be a dream, or Rogan had knocked him into the blackness and he was in that other life beyond this one, drifting in an eternity of rapturous bliss.
‘I don’t love this boy they’ve penned me for,’ she continued and he felt the grip of her hand. It felt real. Hot. She felt close and ali
ve, her voice in his head. She said, ‘I love you. I know you. I see it in your eyes.’
His eyes, burning and gritty and awash with tears, focussed as best he could on that face he yearned so much to see in this one moment of all moments, but it was like trying to find the horizon in a thunderstorm. He blinked, the sand grinding beneath his lids; felt her hand rest over them, closing them as her lips pressed down on his. In that one crystal clear moment he realised he would do anything, everything for this woman. They would be together, despite what the others, what the elders said, and nothing would split them apart.
‘Ask for me Taran,’ she said, ‘why should so many live a life of sadness. Me. You. The boy. All of us because of one meaningless promise between old men long ago. What about how I feel in here?’ He felt his hand, guided by hers, press between her breasts, felt the leather cord of her black cross graze against his skin.
She moved his hand and he could feel a plump swollen fleshy weight in his palm as she pressed his hand against her breast. He cupped it gently, massaged his fingers against it, feeling and soaking up every sensation it aroused in his blind dream.
‘I’ve been watching you as well,’ she said, bending down close to his ear. He pulled her down into him, revelling in her weight, her heat, her smell, the softness of her flesh. He tried to open his eyes, to catch a blurry vision, just enough to know that this was real. To see those sea coloured eyes looking into his. ‘I’ve watched you dig turnips out of the ground,’ she said, ‘and I’ve watched you scale fish. I watched you the day you cared for the lame pony.’ He felt her hand sweep across his brow. ‘I loved you that day. I knew then that I’d come across the wide water for you. I’ve learned to speak your language so that I can say these words to you.’
His heart exploded in that moment, lights flashing behind his eyes lighting up the blackness.
‘Breeta!’ DerLei’s voice, thick with anger. ‘What goes on here?’ He felt Breeta being wrenched away from him, the heat of her body gone, the sound of her sweet words replaced by a surprised yelp of pain.
Taran struggled to stand up, his raw eyes struggling to make sense of the blurred scene before him moments before a sudden pain against his jaw sent him reeling backwards into trickling burn.
‘Rogan the Younger came to me to tell me of the mischief between you both,’ DerLei continued, his voice low and hoarse. ‘I did not believe him. Then I see this!’
‘Did you see the bleeding wound on his face when he came to you DerLei?’ Breeta asked, her voice trembling with rage. ‘Did you ask him how he came to be marked so?’
‘I care not about Rogan the Younger’s face! I care only for the words he spoke to me, and I see that they were truth.’
‘Truth!’ Breeta spat the word out with disdain. ‘I will tell you truth DerLei of Pente. I will not be marrying your boy. I will be an old woman by the time his thing is hard enough to put into me.’
Taran heard a smack, the sharp crisp sound of flesh against flesh.
‘You will not talk to me so, woman.’
‘I will talk to you as I please, as I was brought up to do. My mother was a strong woman-’
‘Yes, she was a strong woman, Breeta,’ another woman’s voice interrupted, ‘but she never spoke out of place as you are doing now, bringing shame upon our family.’
‘Shame?! Do you think, sister, that she would have allowed this betrothal had she been told the truth? That I was to wait for a boy so young to grow to manhood before I can marry?’
‘This was a bargain made many seasons before you were born,’ DerLei broke in, ‘in words spoken by the elders after many voyages across the wide water. Agreements and exchanges have been made over the generations and will continue to be honoured. It keeps the bloodline clean. Strong. You must understand and accept this Breeta,’ DerLei explained, his words, his tone calmer. ‘You are betrothed to Alac and in time, will wed him as agreed by the elders.’
Taran, still blinded, half crouching, half sitting where he had fallen, heard Breeta take a deep breath. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will not be betrothed to someone I have no feelings for. I will wed Taran of Betarra.’
Taran heard a shocked, sharp intake of breath. ‘You cannot make such decisions sister.’
‘I can and I will. I was brought to this place as a breeding sow. So, then, I should have the choice in my breeding partner. I’m still bringing new blood to your settlements, why do you care who fills my belly with child.’
‘Breeta! Why do you talk with such words? Father will be outraged if he hears of this.’
‘Father is on the other side of the wide water! Father threw us into a boat and pushed us off to an unknown settlement many days travel away from our home to live, to spend the rest of our days with people who not only speak with a different tongue, but whose customs and ways are also strange to us. I don’t care if Father is outraged. I was outraged when he put me into that boat with barely a wave goodbye. So I will now make my own choices.’
Taran heard the squeaking of sand, felt a shadow fall over him and a hand in his. Breeta’s hand. She helped him upright.
‘This is my choice. Taran of Betarra will be my mate,’ she stated obstinately, her grip tight on Taran’s hand claiming him as hers and all he could do was stand there, wet, half-blinded and mute, ecstatic beyond words.
Taran played that moment over in his mind, recalling, savouring the words Breeta had spoken that day, the sound of her voice echoing in his head as he laboured across the uneven, sloping field towards the Priest’s chamber, the distance seeming to stretch longer with each gruelling step. No smoke rose from the small hillock, the entrance to the underground cell a black void in the twilight with no welcoming torchlight to guide him across the encroaching darkness.
Maybe she slept, he thought. She slept.
He recalled the memory of her so many summers before, in the days after their vows made in front of Brud Stone. Their union frowned upon, few had come to witness their rites as they etched their marks in the rock, their love, their commitment to each other marked in stone. Afterwards, they’d come here, to this small enclosure to hide away from the others, the air of the small cavern filled with the scent of burning peat and heather plucked from the field to make the bed they slept on, spending their days tangled in each other’s limbs.
‘Come,’ she’d said, arms out to him as she lay on the grass bed, the light from the fire dancing over her naked body, her blazing hair as luminous as the flames.
He’d felt mad with joy, as intoxicated with happiness as if he’d drunk a jug of heather wine, so charged with love he felt it would burst out of him like the sea from Aennod’s Glup, his ecstasy shuddering through him like thunder.
These memories inflamed his anguish, intensified his fears, the dread of his loss becoming more acute with each staggering step.
He couldn’t live without her, not now that he’d known such bliss. She was his life. She carried his child in her belly.
‘Breeta!’ he cried, his voice hoarse, desperation bursting from his chest, his heart darkening with each excruciating step.
He was close. She should have heard him by now. She should have come running to him by now. He reached the entrance, dropping the spear shaft to the ground, using the curving walls of the passage to help him along into the dark chamber. ‘Breeta,’ he called hopelessly.
He felt the space open up in the darkness, his senses telling him he was alone, no sound other than his own rasping breath and beating heart, his dread, his fears, his loss more intense than the wound in his side, the hole in his heart blacker than the impenetrable darkness that consumed him.
He was alone.
Tuesday, Dawn
‘Breeta!’
A kaleidoscope of pain, fear and anguish swirled in a black spiral of urgent desperation pulling Deidre back to consciousness and propelling her upright.
Breeta.
Her head swooned, hot splashes of light brightened the darkness in her eyes, difficult to gauge up from do
wn, intensifying her sickening disorientation. Pain. If she could feel pain, she was still alive she reasoned. But the pain didn’t stem from her hip, this was a different pain. Her pain. Deidre lifted her hand to the source and felt a large lump on her forehead, felt dirt and gritty grime on her face. She stretched her eyelids, they were open yet she was still blinded, blinking sightlessly into the darkness, into complete and absolute black.
There were long seconds of bewilderment, her head heavy and lolling on her shoulders, the pain shifting in her skull like a ball bearing in a can. She pressed her hands down heavily on the stone floor in an effort to balance her equilibrium, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, a cloying stickiness in her throat making it hard to swallow.
Rolling onto her knees in the dark, she stood up, hands out, feeling the air around her until her fingers hit the stone wall, groping around until she found the opening to the passageway, a faint hint of light drawing her forward to the outside world.
Cold morning air hit her face as she surveyed the expansive field sloping down towards the small inlet, the small bay calm, barely a breeze, the world still sleeping. The scene wore an aching maudlin beauty suffused by the timeless light of an opaque grey sky.
Breeta. She should have been here in the chamber. She should have been here waiting for her. For Taran. She’d seen her run over the headland, hiding in the mists and shadows of the early morning. She’d made it out of the settlement; she should have been here.
From this vantage point on the high slope of the field, Deidre could see past the small inlet and out to the rocky stub of The Peg standing alone in the sea, severed from the headland of Muddow’s Table. It was looking out from this position that George had drawn his double sketch showing the archway that had once adjoined the outcrop to the headland. Just barely, she could make out the cave half way down The Peg’s stump, the black void only a smudge from this distance.
George had stolen McKenzie’s boat trying to get into that cave, although the Twins didn’t confirm if he’d ever made it or not and she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t understood the relevance then, and thought like everyone else, George Hart was just a crazy madman. She realised now that George had been searching for Breeta for all those years.
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