Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

EIGHT

  I WALKED TO THE sea, following the same track as before, keeping well out of sight from the valley below until it passed from view. On the mountainside the wind blew stiff from the west, bearing the taste of sea salt on the heavy, damp air. Upon reaching the coastal headland, I climbed down onto the strand and this time, instead of turning to the right, I turned left.

  Again the coast was rocky and wild, with great black humps of tortured stone tumbling into the foamy green water as far as the eye could see. The wind whipped hard off the sea, driving a light, misty rain into my eyes. I was soon wet to the skin and so decided to stop for a while. I found a crevice in the rocks which offered some protection from the wind and rain, and climbed in to wait until the weather cleared. I curled up, wrapping my arms around my chest to keep warm, and fell asleep.

  I woke to bright sunlight pouring down through a hole in the clouds as they churned across the sky. The wind still blew, flinging flecks of sea-foam across the pebbled shore. I rose and began walking, searching the way ahead for any sign of habitation, but the shore was barren, and it was all my own. I walked until the sun began to drift toward the sea, and then sat down to eat a little. I drank rainwater from a hollow in a rock before moving on.

  I had gone only a few dozen paces when I heard a dog bark behind me. I turned to see three riders in the distance. Led by the dog, they were cantering along the sea strand.

  Turning, I scanned the cliffs above. They were steep and high, but I reckoned I could climb them—or at least hide in one of the many deeply seamed crevices until the riders had passed by. Wasting not an instant, I scrambled up the nearest rill and reached an eroded pocket, where I stopped and tucked myself inside.

  The riders followed my footprints to the cliffside. I could hear the hound barking below and the voices of the men as they discussed the matter, but I did not risk a look to see what they were doing. The barking quickly ceased, and all was silent once more. I waited. And then, hearing no more, I leaned out for a quick glance below; a single rider remained: judging by his clothing and weapons, a warrior, most likely from Miliucc’s war band. His two companions and the dog had gone; I could not see them but assumed they had continued on down the beach.

  Quietly, and with the utmost stealth, I edged my way higher up the crevice. I had gained a fair distance when my hand closed on a loose rock that came away in my grasp. The rock fell, alerting the rider on the ground. He looked up, saw me, and raced back to the cliff face, dismounted, and began climbing.

  He was the bigger man, but I was quicker. Hand over hand I pulled myself up the ragged face of the cliff, scrambling as fast as I could, letting the rocks fall to hinder my pursuer as they would.

  Sweating and out of breath, I reached the top and, with a last great effort, dragged myself up over the edge and into the long grass. Gathering my legs beneath me, I raced straight across the grassy plain for the line of trees a short distance ahead. I was halfway there when out from the wood charged the two missing riders. The hound uttered a long, baying cry. I turned and raced back toward the seacliff, hoping to descend another way before the riders could cut off my retreat.

  Just as I reached the edge, the pursuing warrior appeared. He clambered up the rest of the way, and I dived for the slope a few paces to his right. My descent abruptly halted when I felt myself caught by the tunic. Thinking that a root had snagged me, I tried to jerk free and was instead hauled back up and over the rim of the cliff and flung like a bag of fish onto the grass.

  The warrior stood over me, scowling, breathing hard from his exertion.

  The hooves of the horses drummed on the thick turf. The warrior looked up as the others galloped in. His attention momentarily diverted, I lashed out with my foot and caught him behind the knee; he toppled backward. I rolled onto my stomach and, squirming, diving, scrambled for the edge of the cliff once more—only to be caught by the leg and dragged back.

  The one who had caught me raised his arm to hit me, but I shouted. “I am King Miliucc’s man!”

  At these words the foremost rider called an order to his comrade. The warrior let his fist fall, aiming for my head. I threw my hands up, and he struck my arm. I shouted again, and the rider called, “Cernach! Stop!”

  My captor hesitated, still glaring murderously at me. He made a reply I could not understand.

  “He is King Miliucc’s man,” the rider said.

  “The king’s daor,” sneered the warrior, meaning “slave.”

  “Then it is for the king to punish him. It will be dark soon.” With that the rider wheeled his horse and began riding away.

  Cernach gave a growl of frustration, reached down, and yanked me roughly to my feet, shaking me once or twice for spite. He dragged me to the second rider, who passed him down a length of braided leather rope with which he tied my hands. Thus secured, I was led away, and Cernach disappeared over the cliffside to retrieve his horse on the strand below.

  It was dark before we reached the ráth. Even so, I was taken to stand in the yard outside the king’s hall. Larger than all the others, it housed his queen and children and some of the more intimate members of his retinue, which I estimated to be twelve or fifteen men, mostly warriors. Upon our arrival they all came spilling out of the hall to gather behind the king, who stood in the flickering torchlight, gazing impassively at me.

  After a moment he said, “My slaves do not escape.” Just that, nothing more. But I understood. He lifted his hand, and four great brutes of warriors advanced bearing stout branches pulled from the fire.

  The foremost approached and swung at my head with the flaming brand. I ducked as the flame whiffled through the air. He swung again, and I dodged to the side, but my hands were still tied and the warrior on the other end of the rope pulled tight so I could not move as freely as I might. A second man approached from the side, swinging at me. I darted away, and he missed, but the first warrior caught me a glancing blow on the shoulder. The searing heat made me cry out.

  Sparks flew from the end of the firebrand, and this delighted the crowd, which now consisted of the entire population of the ráth. A third warrior, taking up a position behind me, thrust his torch at my legs. The fourth joined the others to form a loose circle around me, and they began taking it in turn to swipe at me with their burning torches.

  I moved to the side and kept moving, dodging and feinting as the fiery cudgels whirled around me. The circle tightened, and the strikes came faster.

  A blow caught me on the arm and another on the hip. The crowd roared its approval. I kept moving, circling. The firebrands riffled and fluttered in the air. I could feel the heat on my skin when they passed near. More and more often they found their mark—one struck my hand, another found my shin, my back, my side. Each strike left a burn mark on my ragged clothing or skin. The rope prevented me from evading all the blows, but I stayed on my feet and kept moving—eluding one brand only to have another catch me. One of the warriors struck me hard on the shoulder, and another landed a solid thump to my chest. The flames licked my throat.

  The circle tightened further. I could no longer avoid the swift-flying branches, and the warriors began striking at will. I covered my face with my arms and tried to keep moving, but my feet soon tangled, and I fell. I climbed to my knees. The rope jerked taut, dragging me forward.

  The strokes were coming thick and fast now. One after another. Crack! Crack! Crack! Again and again. They stood over me, raining fiery blows. I curled into a ball and rolled in the dirt to keep from getting my clothes and hair set alight.

  The beating proceeded with rhythmic precision—as if they were chopping wood, hoeing weeds, or thrashing grain. Even when, one by one, the firebrands went out, the men beat me with the smoldering ends. They were not glancing blows now but solid, hurtful thumps and knocks. I ground my teeth to keep from crying out and endured the pain as best I could.

  Just when I thought I could take no more, the king spoke a word, and the frenzied thumping stopped. They lifted me to my feet, but I c
ould not stand, so they dragged me to one of the nearby horses and threw me across the back of the beast. As before, I was carried up the mountainside and dropped outside the shepherd’s bothy.

  Madog emerged from the hut as soon as the warriors had gone; he stood for a time clucking his tongue and shaking his head. Then he built up the fire and fetched some water from the stoup. I drank and eased my battered body into a more comfortable position. Madog sat with me for a little while, but as there was nothing he could do, he gave soon up and went back to bed.

  I lay by the fire and felt the fierce ache spread through my body—one weal melding with another until I was a single great palpitating bruise. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but could not for the pain.

  Thus I lay awake all night, unable to move, watching the fire and wishing I had that arrogant king and his cowardly warriors trussed up and spitted to turn slowly over the flames. I would listen to their screams, exulting in their agony as I tossed more sticks onto the fire.

  Morning found me still awake but incoherent with pain. My limbs had grown stiff, and I could not move. The fire had burned to embers, and I was cold, but it hurt too much to try to reach more fuel, so I stared at the cooling ashes until Madog awoke and came out. He built up the fire again, gave me another drink, and then left to take the sheep out to the grazing land. Before he departed, he paused to stand over me one last time.

  “You should not run away,” he said, then turned on his heel and moved off, leaving me to my torment.

  He did not speak to me that night when he returned, nor the next morning either. This, I concluded, was my punishment for leaving him. During the day the shadow of the high trees drew across me as I lay there on the ground, and it was to me the shadow of a powerful guilt: not for trying to escape my slavery—I would do that again in an instant—no, I felt guilty for deserting Madog, for running away without a word of farewell.

  My coming had been the saving of him, in a way. Under my urging he had recovered more and more of himself—his speech, his memories, his life. My companionship—contemptible, selfish thing that it was—had nevertheless allowed him to regain some small, sacred shred of his former humanity. Running away again as I did had shown him just how little I cared about him. He liked me, he honored me, and I esteemed him not at all. He knew that now, and it cut him deep.

  I dozed through the day, my conscience squirming with shame, and awoke as the sun passed behind the western ridge of the mountains. Although it hurt to do so, I roused myself and sat up, nearly swooning from the pain. I dragged myself to the water stoup, drank and washed my face, and then crawled to the woodpile and pulled out some loose sticks and branches to feed the fire.

  Each of these simple chores required a rest until the pain subsided and I could breathe again. I pulled up my tunic and looked at myself. Chest, ribs, and stomach were a lumpy mass of bluish-black bruises; likewise my thighs, shins, and arms. My once-handsome clothes were blackened from soot and singed through in a dozen places. The warriors had been most thorough in their beating; there was scarcely a place on my whole body where I could put a finger without touching discolored flesh. And when I could not put it off any longer, I got up to pass water; it hurt so much I could hardly unbuckle my belt, and when I was at last able to relieve myself, I was alarmed to see that my piss ran red with blood.

  I sat down and cried. When the tears ceased, I crawled back to my place by the fire and dragged more fuel to the flames. By the time Madog returned with the sheep, I had a fine fire going once more. A small thing, but it pleased the old shepherd to see that, battered as I was, I had at least made an effort to help with the daily chores.

  He brought with him a lamb that had fallen from the rocks earlier in the day and broken its back. He had put the poor creature out of its misery, skinned and cleaned it with his flint knife, and brought the carcass back to the bothy for us to eat. I watched as he quartered it and put two meaty haunches on spits.

  We sat opposite one another across the fire ring as the sky grew dark, watching the meat sizzle, turning the spit from time to time, smelling the oily smoke, and listening to the rooks croak and call as they flocked to their treetop roosts. As the meat cooked, we pulled juicy bits from the spitted haunches and ate.

  “Where did you go?” asked Madog at last. The smoke swirled up from the roasting meat, rising silvery blue in the evening air.

  I looked up to see him watching me across the flames. “To the sea.”

  He shook his head gently. “They will always catch you there.”

  I accepted this in silence, and we sat for a while longer. The first stars came out, and the moon peeped through the high, thin clouds. “Did you ever try to escape?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “But if I did, I would not go to the sea. They will always catch you there.”

  “Where would you go?”

  He looked down and busied himself with the spit.

  “Please, Madog,” I said, “tell me. If you wanted to escape, where would you go?”

  He thought for a moment. “I would go that way,” he said, indicating with a jerk of his head the unseen mountains rising behind us.

  “Into the forest?”

  He nodded.

  “But that would be very…ah…,” I faltered, searching for the word.

  “Baolach,” Madog suggested.

  “Dangerous? For fear of wolves and such?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then is not escape through the forest a very dangerous thing?”

  “It is that,” he agreed. “But you can hide. There are many good places, and they will not hunt more than a day or two.”

  We spent the whole of the night talking and eating, and in this way made peace with one another again. As dawn edged into a low, gray eastern sky, Madog yawned and rose. “I am glad they did not kill you,” he said.

  The simple, heartfelt sentiment moved me deeply. I thanked him and meant it. He merely nodded and picked up his crook and went down to the sheepfold, lowered the top two timber poles, and led the sheep up the track toward the high meadow. I slept then and did not awake until late in the day. I rose and went to the basin, hobbled and shuffling like an old man, and bent stiffly to remove the cover. I drank and washed and then went into the nearer trees to relieve myself. I was pleased to see that my piss ran clear once more. I knew then that my bruises would heal and I would live to escape another day.

  But that day would have to wait until next summer, I concluded. Already the nights were drawing in; soon the gales of autumn would arrive, and none but a fool would trust a boat to the unchancey seas of Mare Hiberniae when the wild wind blows. I would have to spend the winter on the mountain with Madog and his sheep.

  The thought produced a melancholy that laid my spirit low. I remembered all that had been taken from me: my home, my family, my friends, the easy life I had known. Down and down I sank, into an unfathomable sadness—a sorrow as full and deep as the sea separating me from my homeland. Away in Britain, I imagined, life had resumed much as before the raid, and I was all but forgotten. Julian, Scipio, and Rufus were riding the coastal road and plaguing the girls at the Old Black Wolf, laughing and drinking, their old friend Succat nothing but a distant, swiftly fading memory.

  For two days I lay beside the fire and wallowed in this sick bereavement for my former life, wishing I could by some miraculous power simply rise from my bed and fly across the sea and that all I had lost would be returned to me. I vowed I would escape again as soon as I was well enough to walk. Ah, but no, there was nothing for it. By the time I was hale once more, the ships would be securely anchored in snug harbors awaiting the gentler tides of spring.

  I resigned myself to enduring this hardship as best I could, and decided that my time was best spent learning as much as possible about the mountains and forest surrounding our bothy. Thus, when I was well enough to resume my wood-gathering chores, I took to walking farther and farther into the forest, searching out unexplored paths and following them as far as
the short days allowed. In this way I gathered a fair knowledge of the place Madog called the Wood of Focluit—a great forest that covered, so far as I could tell, the whole of the northern part of Éire.

  All through the bleak, cold days and endless nights of winter, I consoled myself with the thought that by the time the sun reclaimed the heavens for its own, I would be ready.

  NINE

  ONE MORNING I awoke to a fine white powdering of frost on the ground and a crisp, cutting edge to the air. Shivering, we rose and built up the fire, and as we went about our chores the dark clouds came in a long line, concealing the tops of the mountains. The air took on a tingling of ice, and I knew that snow would not be long in coming.

  I had no cloak, but Madog had saved the fleece of the injured lamb, and, using brine and oak bark, I had tanned this after a fashion; at least it did not stink too badly. Draping this skin over my shoulders and fastening it with a string of plaited rawhide, I busied myself fetching wood, building up our stack, which already towered above the bothy. On my second trip into the forest, I saw a wolf.

  Now, I had seen wolves before, once or twice when hunting with Rufus and the others—always at a distance, however, and always running away. This one was young and hungry and unafraid.

  I caught sight of its lean, ghostly shape gliding silently among the dark boles of the trees, and I froze, the small hairs prickling on the back of my neck. It is never a good idea to try to outrun a wolf. Huntsmen say it is best to stand your ground and hope for the best.

  After circling me several times, the animal disappeared. I dropped the armload of wood I had collected, save for one stout stick which I kept to use as a club. I waited, gripping my weapon and peering into the mist-filled shadows. When the beast did not show itself again, I quickly gathered the wood and made a hasty retreat to the bothy.

  As soon as Madog returned, I told him what I had seen.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am that,” I replied.