by Kris Kramer
“We stay to the valleys,” Pepin said. “We will be harder to see, that way.”
He held a wicked-looking blade in his left hand, the outer edge serrated and curved, the inner smooth, with a hook at the base. He hadn’t been carrying it when we left the city, which meant he’d probably buried it along with our clothes. But the sight of it gave me pause. I could understand a clerk carrying a blade while traveling alone for safety, but not like this one. This was a weapon made for killing in the most vicious, painful way possible. I’d have asked him about it, but at the time I actually thought it prudent. We were in dangerous lands. Why quibble over the only protection we had?
Just before sunset, we reached Winred Hill, or what was left of it. The homes and farms were nothing more than shells or piles of charred wood. The carcasses of two dogs and a cow greeted us at the edge of the village, and a small mound of dismembered and charred bodies lay smoking in what used to be the center. The Danes had ravaged the place. It couldn't have been long ago, either. The embers were still warm. I approached the mound, ignoring the pungent smell and my own revulsion, and I prayed for the souls of those who died here. I could see women and children mixed amongst the bodies in front of me, and I fought back tears, wondering once again what anyone in this village had done to deserve such a fate. We moved on after that, deciding it was better to camp somewhere else.
Ewen's transformation proved to be no fluke. Gone was the quiet, introspective giant with halting speech and mannerisms, and eyes that never looked directly at you. In its place was an intelligent, good-natured man who chatted casually, almost eagerly, about any kind of topic any of us brought up. I learned a lot about him, almost as much as he learned about himself, having forgotten much about his past. He still had holes in his memory, but he told us how he'd been a Mercian soldier in his youth, captured by Welshmen while scouting the border along Offa's Dyke, the man-made barrier built a hundred years ago between Mercia and Wales. From there, he'd been sold to the Irish raiders on Ynys Mon, who took him to the woman's hut where his nightmare began. Of that, he still remembered little, but he reveled in the other details of his life that had been taken from him, thinking back to his favorite childhood memories, or telling me about the woman he'd been in love with only a year ago, a woman he hoped to see again soon.
He asked me how I'd been able to heal him, and I told him the honest answer - I had no idea. I explained what I saw when I touched him, the dark images that pounded me in the chest as they flitted through my mind, each one forcing me deeper into despair and sickness. Those images were familiar to him, too, but not because he took part in any of them. Neither of us could fully explain what happened, though, beyond attributing it to God working in ways only He could understand. I only wished I did, too.
By the end of the next day, we reached the town of Lodis, which hadn't yet fallen to the Danes, but had busily begun preparing its defenses in preparation for an attack. We were able to stay there the night, sleeping in the stables of the church, under the supervision of a talkative old beggar named Artagnou who frequented the place. The priests there were kind enough to spare some food and drink, and an extra blanket each, to help with the cold. We ate breakfast at a tavern across the road from the church, and made sure to ask about any rumors of nearby Danish war parties. No one knew of any that were dangerously close, though, so we set out once again, staying to the low ground. The second day proved to be as uneventful as the first, and after pushing on into the evening, we reached Manchester just as the sun set and the biting cold swooped across the land. Manchester represented the south west boundary of Northumbria, and more importantly, the farthest reach of the Danes. We stayed at a church again, and according to the priests and clerks, no one had heard of any raids nearby. Hopefully that meant we wouldn’t have to worry about being waylaid by any roving war parties. At least not Danish ones.
Later that night, after Ewen had fallen asleep, I had a chance to finally sate my curiosity and ask Pepin about his knife.
“It belonged to a man in Poitiers,” he told me. “He had been a terrible man once, and he came to the church to renounce his past. He wanted the blade out of his hands, to resist temptations and so he wouldn’t be reminded of the things he’d done with it. So I took it.”
“Did it work? Did he reform?”
“He killed himself.” Pepin shrugged and stared at the blade. “It happens a lot.”
By the third day, my newfound zeal at being a champion of God had lost some of its luster. The countless hours of walking gave me little to do other than contemplate how treacherous this adventure could be. And by this point, whatever fire originally fueled my eagerness to see this woman was quickly dying out, only to be replaced by rational concerns. We asked everyone we spoke to about Ynys Mon, but news of the island was ominous and vague, at best. Some said a thousand wicked Irishmen lived there now, with more showing up every day. They were pagans, with sorcerers who turned their enemies into toads, or skinned them, and wore the bloody flesh as protection from the Christians. Some claimed that they were sacrificing their own women in crazed pagan rituals, and that’s why no one had seen any Irishwomen on the island. It sounded ridiculous, but also frighteningly believable. A few key pieces of information did seem to be genuine, though. They were led by a powerful warrior named Cullach, and they were here to wage war on Britain. We were walking into a snake's den, and I'd foolishly thought we could escape without being bitten. Now, though, as we moved ever closer to Ynys Mon, and the Irish raiders who inhabited it, all I could see were the fangs, and I cursed my reckless bravado.
That night, we stayed at the town of Chester, once a large Roman fort called Deva Victrix. The Roman fort and barracks here were bigger than the ones in Eoferwic, and the barracks were still in use today as warehouses, storefronts and homes for wealthy merchants and lords. We stayed at another church, only now, instead of asking about Danish raids, we were forced to relay to them all the news of the Danish attacks farther east. It seems the three of us were the first people to arrive in Chester since Eoferwic fell, and a small crowd came to the church to hear what we had to say. We told them only the most necessary details, and we tried not to embellish any of the story, which is difficult when you’re dealing with Vikings, who to most people stand twelve feet tall and ride dragons across the sea.
After leaving Chester, the terrain changed noticeably, becoming rugged and hilly, and our progress slowed. We were deep into Wales by now, more specifically in the Kingdom of Gwynedd, which covered the entire northern part of the region, including Ynys Mon. The clouds that covered the sky off and on throughout our trip seemed to be absent now, and the weather was surprisingly warm for a mid-November night. Both good omens, though I think I may have preferred reasons not to press on. We pushed through late into the night, finally finding a spot to camp under the shadow of the Welsh mountain of Snowdonia, where we wasted no time finding sleep under the stars.
The following afternoon we reached Caernarvon, the Welsh town where we would find passage to Ynys Mon. The island itself was large, lying just off the shore of northwest Wales. Caernarvon was built on the near side, around the remains of another old Roman fort named Segontium that overlooked the Menai Straits. Parts of the fort were still usable, and a small force of Welsh soldiers stationed at the keep watched for potential invaders from the island. All this we learned from the local townspeople once we arrived.
The soldiers at the fort served the King of Gwynedd, a man named Rhodri Mawr, or Rhodric the Great, and they'd been sent to keep him apprised of what the Irish raiders on the island were up to. According to them, they'd seen very little of the Irishmen, or anything else, in months. They had no doubts the raiders were still on the island, but the local consensus was that they'd settled in for now, hoping to wait out the winter before striking deeper into Gwynedd. In fact, that's exactly what Rhodric feared. He'd already sent a troop of men across the shore during the summer, but they were ill-equipped and they'd underestimated the numbers o
f the Irish camped out on the island. Rhodric's men were driven back, and he'd had trouble gathering a larger force to push them off the island. So the war degenerated into a stalemate, with neither side bothering to cross the straight that separated Britain from the island.
"You must be a ravin’ loon," one of the soldiers told me, when I let him know of our intent to cross over to Ynys Mon. "They'll kill you. Either that, or capture you and sell you as a slave, after which you'll wish they killed you." The other men snickered at us, and Ewen looked away, embarrassed. "You go across that water and you'll get no help from us when those Irish dogs get you."
"I understand," I said, with a tinge of nervousness. "It must be dangerous over there. These raiders probably set upon any traveler who steps on the shore.”
He shook his head. "No, it's not like that. Some still come and go, but not many. About the only people who can go to the island safely and come back alive though are merchants. These Irish are heathen animals but I guess they’re heathens with money to spend. I don't know what they would do to a priest, though. I hear they have some Irish sorcerer with 'em. Godless bastards." He spat.
"Rhodric'll grind ‘em up," another soldier said, wearing a green sash across his chest with a small, brown boar stitched into it, "soon as they try to come this way."
“Although it can’t hurt to let ‘em live,” a third one chimed in, “until they finish buying all the criminals we got.”
That sparked some laughter, and Pepin, Ewen and I looked at each other as if missing out on a joke. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Some of the Irish on the island pay bounties for criminals. The worse they are, the more they pay. But they have to be alive.”
“That’s a rumor,” one said.
“The hell it is. A trader named Eardric came to my uncle’s place, asking about any murderers in the area. Said he was rounding ‘em up and taking ‘em to the island. You ask me, they’re recruiting so when they attack they’ll have some right crazy madmen on their side.”
"Well, how would one get across if they don’t have any murderers with them?"
"Ferry," the first one said. "Can’t let you use ours, but you can go find the same one the merchants use. It’s a bit up the coast, past the village. Ask for Elthan. That's the easiest way, if you got a coin to spare."
We left the fort and headed north along the grassy shore, attracting stares from curious townspeople as we passed. They knew we intended to cross the strait, and a few called us mad for doing so, but we ignored them. In fact, we barely spoke a word while walking toward that ferry, but I suspect it was because we all seemed to realize the enormity of what we were about to do. It was far easier to be bold when we still had a journey to make. But now that we’d arrived, we had no choice but to stare our decision in the face. We were safe here, on this side of the strait, out of reach of these Irish barbarians and their bloody rituals. Once we crossed, though, we were on our own. Three against a thousand – if rumors were to be believed. And I suddenly realized how right Eadwyn had been about this woman. What was my plan if she turned out to be what he thought her to be? Was it worth risking all of our lives just to talk to a whore?
I should have stopped right there. I should have turned around and gone back to the fort, or Eoferwic, or even Rogwallow. I should have told Ewen and Pepin to stay away from me and my dangerous impulses. But I didn’t. I walked down that shore and I found a man named Elthan. And I told him to take the three of us across that strait. I did it because I’d healed Ewen. I did it because I’d been given a gift from God, and if I didn’t follow through with this quest, this journey He’d laid out before me, then that gift was wasted.
So we crossed the water. And everything changed forever.
Chapter 19
The ferry took us across the strait late that evening. Ewen wanted to travel by night, where we could move without being seen, and Pepin and I agreed. We hopped in a battered, leaky longboat, and the ferryman, Elthan, pushed us out into the deep water using a long pole. The strong current carried us a little farther south than he intended so the three of us pitched in to help Elthan row until we reached the shallow water on the far side. At that point, Elthan took the pole back out and jabbed it into the ground, methodically pulling us up into a small inlet, and then to a short, rickety dock where we finally disembarked. We watched the horizon carefully, but nothing moved in the fading light of dusk, and as darkness settled in we readied to leave.
Elthan told us that the stories were true – the Irish really were paying bounties for murderers or anyone who showed violent tendencies. He said they also paid well for large men who could handle a weapon, or who could learn, and he eyed Ewen carefully when he said this. He agreed with the soldier who thought these men were being used as slave fighters, and that the people of Gwynedd would see them again one day soon. He never asked us why we were traveling to the island, but he told us that he’d stay here at the small shack used as a dock house until morning in case we needed a ride back. After that, though, we’d have to signal him by flying a yellow flag on the roof. He showed us the flag, which was almost as long as I was tall, and attached to a long wooden pole resting against the wall inside the small building, and he said once he saw that, he’d fly an orange one on his side. That meant he was on his way. With those instructions, he bade us farewell, and we began our uneasy trek into the heart of the island.
Small groves of trees dotted the landscape, and we took care to stay in those groves as much as possible. Ewen led the way, taking us in a northwesterly direction, always watching the horizon for any sign of the Irish. Even though no one pursued us, I felt eyes on my back no matter which way I turned. I kept my hand wrapped around my crucifix, a reminder of the strength that brought me to this evil place, but even that wasn’t enough to keep my knees from shaking and my stomach from turning over at every strange sound.
As we walked past a short ridge, something fluttered in the wind, coming from the valley alongside. We worked our way around the edge, and saw the source of the noise – a small clearing, hidden behind the trees and a few low hills, with dozens upon dozens of banners planted into the ground. Each banner was nothing more than a plain, narrow, red cloth, about two paces long, tied off to the top of a stick jabbed into the moist dirt. They towered over us, each one slightly taller than Ewen’s reach, and they were arranged in three concentric circles around a trio of rectangular stone altars. Each altar lay flat, about waist high, and in the bright moonlight I could see dark splotches of what I guessed to be dried blood splattered all over them. A fourth sat in the middle, standing on one end, with runes carved into the smooth rock face, though I couldn’t make them out from here.
“What is this?” I shuddered.
“I don’t know,” Ewen whispered back. “Pagan ceremonies. Ignore it.” Before I could explain to him how difficult that would be, Ewen bounded away through the night, forcing Pepin and I to scramble to keep up. The image of those banners stayed with me, though, making me wonder what kind of power this island really held. The moonlight was strong here, much stronger than what I was used to, and druids prayed to the moon, or something to that effect. I didn’t believe in druid magic, of course, but on a night like this it was harder than usual to remember that.
Not long after, Ewen slowed and moved up a short hill, crouching as he neared the top. He laid flat on his belly, and motioned Pepin and I to do the same, and we crawled forward until we were both able to see past the hill and into the next shallow valley. That’s when I saw the village, or what was left of it.
“This is it,” Ewen whispered.
Irregularly shaped black circles and squares covered the ground, reminders of the homes or buildings that once filled the valley before burning down. Strands of rope hung from the branches of nearby trees, some of them shaped into nooses, each with part of a skeleton hanging grotesquely from them. Only two buildings remained – the church, which was built of stone, and a small house that looked more like a hut thrown tog
ether from an assortment of wood, cloth tarps, and rope. I immediately thought of Winred Hill, and I wondered if this is what that place would look like a year from now, once time had cooled the embers and scattered the ashes.
“Is she in there?” I motioned to the hut and Ewen nodded. Even in the moonlight I could see that his face was pale, and his hands were balled up into fists. “Ewen, it’s okay. There’s no one else around. We’re safe.”
He didn’t even look at me. “We’re a long way from safe,” he said, echoing my own unease.
“We need to find some wood and make a torch,” Pepin said.
“Someone might see us,” Ewen said, alarmed.
“Then we make a small one.”
“No,” I said. “Ewen’s right. Let’s not take any chances.”
“You want to go in there without being able to see?” Pepin asked, incredulously. “We don’t know what kind of evil haunts this place. Even if it is just a woman in there, she could stab you in the back for sneaking in and you’d never know. You say don’t take chances, I say you are taking a big one.”
I looked at Ewen, but he seemed to have relented, so I nodded. “Fine. A small one. But we wait until we get closer to make it.”
The three of us stayed low to the ground and descended into the valley, where Pepin found a piece of wood suitable for a small torch. Luckily, he had a flint and a small tin case of what he explained to us was tar. He used a piece of cloth to smear the tar around the tip of the stick, and then wrapped the cloth over it, tying it tightly. He used the flint to light it, and the torch flared brightly – causing us to look around in a panic – before it settled into a consistent flame. The difference in lighting was drastic, and I suddenly shared Ewen’s worry that we could be seen from a long distance. Luckily we were in a valley, so for anyone to see the torch, they’d have to already be in sight of the village. But I still felt those eyes on my back, as if the island itself were spying on us.
