In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Someone was in a very fever,’ observed Fergal. He rode at the head of the fianna with Conor at his right hand only a pace or two behind.

  ‘Keen or desperate,’ Conor replied. ‘All the same, keep an eye on the trail ahead. I do not care to be riding into their camp.’

  ‘We could do worse than to take them unawares,’ Fergal pointed out.

  ‘Aye, so we could.’ Conor seemed to consider the idea for a moment before dismissing it, saying, ‘But then we would not find their dún.’

  ‘We don’t even know if Evil Eye is to be found there in any case,’ Fergal pointed out.

  ‘We don’t know that he is not. He has to be somewhere—why not there?’

  ‘Everyone has to be somewhere,’ Fergal replied. ‘If not, where would we be? That is no answer at all.’

  ‘I will make a wager with you. Balor will be where we find him, and not somewhere else.’

  ‘Ach! And who would be fool enough to take that wager?’

  ‘I was thinking you might,’ said Conor. They talked like this for a while—as much to relieve the apprehension of following the enemy into his lair as for the easy camaraderie—following the well-marked trail through the wood, passing streams and dells and thickets of bramble and black currant heavy with fruit. At each approach to a place where someone might have made camp, Fergal slowed and moved ahead in a tense, cautious silence. But there was never any indication that the enemy riders had stopped … until at last they came to a river: wide, but shallow, and bordered either side by extensive reed beds. Directly across the river in the near distance, rising above the ground fog already seeping across the marsh, rose a fortress mound topped by the high timber walls of a Scálda dún.

  Here Fergal halted and waited for the others to join him. Taking care to remain hidden among the foliage of the surrounding wood, the fianna sat for a moment to observe the enemy settlement. It was of a fairly substantial size—the peaked roofs of several large houses could be seen rising above the top of the wall—and but otherwise the place was unremarkable; and the fact that it lacked ringed ditches and watchtowers proclaimed it, in Dé Danann terms, less a fortress of a lord and more the dwelling of a minor nobleman and his clan. Even from a distance they could tell that the place was of the crude, slapdash construction employed by the Scálda, with high walls of rough, untrimmed timber and a long, narrow earthen ramp leading up to a wide, gated entrance.

  ‘This is no place to linger or we’ll be seen,’ Fergal said, his voice little more than a low whisper. He gave a nod to the many muddy hoofprints along the banks where riders habitually crossed. ‘Do you think they are in there?’

  ‘We’ll have to get a closer look,’ Conor replied, then signalled the others to move on. They crossed the river and worked their way through the reed beds and onto the soft, soggy land of low marshes. Ground cover was sparse here, so they stayed close to the river, following it south and east as it coursed through bogs and hillocks until the land rose again becoming firmer, dryer, and able to support stands of larger trees. By the time they had worked their way back within sight of the enemy settlement, the sun had burned through the low overcast allowing washed-out blue to show through the gaps; the day had begun to fade around them and low clouds scudded in from the west.

  Leaving Dearg and Aedd to guard the horses, Conor, Fergal, Donal, and Galart took up their spears and continued on foot along a lightly wooded path lined with beeches and hawthorn—young trees sprung up where the tall larch and plane trees had been felled to construct the dún. The grove ended at the edge of a haphazard sprawl of fields; filled with old, decaying stubble from a previous harvest, the fields had not been ploughed or planted this year, nor, perhaps even the one before. There were no animal pens to be seen, but there was a clutch of outbuildings huddled at the base of the mound and, from somewhere close by, smoke drifted skyward in a thinly threaded column. Clearly, some activity or another was taking place there and, above the trees on the other side of the field, smoke from at least two more fires signified additional labours elsewhere.

  ‘There’s folk around,’ observed Fergal. ‘I wonder what they’d be burning?’

  ‘Charcoal maybe?’ suggested Galart. ‘Getting ready for winter. Same as at home, I expect.’

  Conor was about to remind the young warrior that as a wandering fianna they had no fixed home, but thought better of it. Instead, he said, ‘Let’s get a closer look. I’d like to see what’s going on beyond those trees.’

  They faded back into the wood and, skirting the empty fields, worked their way closer to the Scálda settlement. They soon came to a little stream. The turgid water, like the pond, flowed with water tainted by the runoff from a reeking hillock of muck and manure they could see at the base of the dún. Beyond the manure pile, higher on the slope of the mound, a crude sort of cattle pen had been constructed. Wide at one end, it tapered down to a space no wider than a single beast; at its narrowest part a wooden ramp led up to a pair of posts separated by a stout crossbeam. The ground beneath the heavy beam was stained black and crusted thick with the dried blood of countless animals; yet there were no beasts to be seen, so Conor and the others retreated into the wood once more and made for a place around the far side of the dún marked by the two rising columns of white smoke. Though they crept as carefully as they could so as not to alert the enemy of their presence, there came no sound of any activity from the settlement. All remained quiet—but with a strained, unnatural silence that whispered of desertion and abandonment.

  Directly ahead, the wood gave way to an open expanse filled with stumps where the trees had been clear-cut to make space for three enormous stone structures shaped like gigantic beehives. Each was made of unhewn stone, and partly dug into the side of the dún’s earthen mound; each enormous hive had a small hole or doorway on one side near the bottom and, scattered about, lay stacks of split wood and heaps of white rock in chunks the size of a child’s head. ‘What…?’ began Fergal. ‘They look like forge furnaces—but forge furnaces are never so big.’

  ‘What else can they be?’ said Donal. ‘There is the wood to feed them, but where is the ore?’

  ‘And where is the slag and cinders?’ wondered Galart. His question went unanswered as, after a last look, they moved back into the trees to continue their circuit of the strange Scálda settlement. Around the next bend they came to another work area consisting of a mass of small hillocks. Leaving the others to keep watch, Conor crept out from the shelter of the trees to examine one of these little knolls and saw that it contained a large vat that had been sunk into the earth to form a pit of sorts. The vat was filled with a thick white slurry that stained the sides of the pit and the earth; it stank of singed hair and rotten meat. Between two of the pits lay a few mangled cow hides dry and brittle, but stained with the white slurry from the vats; a little distance away a series of rails—like horse pickets—had been set up, but instead of horses, each had a long line of square wattle frames tied to it. A well-beaten path led from the rail and around the base of the settlement hill.

  Conor retreated to the wood to tell the others what he had seen, and their trek around the dún continued. As they came in sight of the rising columns of smoke visible above the trees, they became aware of a peculiar smell, slight but distinct, carried on the wind. Directly ahead, the wood gave way to an open expanse at the base of the dún hill and there, glimpsed through the trees was a pond made filthy with detritus, the water green and rancid; bloated fish rotted on the pond’s surface amidst floating patches of grey-green scum. On the far side of this befouled pond was a clearing containing several large heaps of something grey and oddly angular which, on closer inspection, turned out to be animal bones: primarily leg bones, horns, and hooves. The haunches, ribs, flanks and other meaty portions had been removed and the poor cuts thrown onto piles to form three massive charnel mounds. At some time in the recent past, one of the mounds had been set alight and the embers sputtered still, the burning flesh and fat, sinew and gristle and
bone sent threads of greasy, stinking smoke into the air. Smaller fires continually sputtered around the base of this heap, spewing dirty smoke across the clearing on the fitful wind. Though Conor would have liked a closer investigation, the filthy smoke, laced as it was with the stink of burning hair and bone brought tears to their eyes and he could not bring himself to creep any closer. So, deciding there was nothing more to be seen, the five spies backed away into the trees once more, and resumed their circuit of the dún hill.

  Painstakingly working their way through the trees and brush at the edges of the cleared fields, they at last returned to the entrance they had seen upon their first sighting of the fortress. The road leading to the ramp was clear and the gates of the dún stood open; one of the gate doors seemed to have broken a hinge; there was no one in sight within. Still, they waited, observing the place and watching for any sign of movement. Finally, Conor said, ‘I think it is deserted.’

  ‘Aye, I’m thinking the same thing,’ agreed Fergal, ‘and maybe not so very long ago.’

  ‘Whatever they were doing here is finished,’ Galart added. ‘What were they doing, do you suppose?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Conor replied. He looked to Donal who only offered a shrug. ‘But, as you say, whatever it was it is finished, and the Scálda have moved on.’

  ‘More to the point,’ said Fergal, ‘Balor Evil Eye is not here, and it is him we’re after. Unless you want to go inside and search the—’ Seeing the look on Conor’s face he halted abruptly. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of going up there.’

  ‘We wouldn’t all have to go,’ Conor said. ‘I’ll go alone.’

  ‘And leave us here wondering whatever happened to our old friend Conor when you fail to come back?’ said Fergal, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘I say we leave now and move on while we still have a little daylight left.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Conor. ‘Warn me if anyone approaches.’

  ‘I’m not for staying behind,’ said Donal, moving out from the cover of the trees. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  Fergal looked at Galart and sighed. ‘Come on, we cannot let them have all the fun without us or we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  20

  Feeling every inch the intruders that they were, the four Dé Danann hurried past the field of vats to the long ramp leading to the entrance to the dún, pausing at the gate to watch and listen. They saw no sign of activity and the only sound they heard was the incessant clatter of crows from somewhere inside. Conor, satisfied that there were no Scálda lurking in the shadows, slipped in and pressed himself to the back of the gatepost. Donal followed and took his place next to him; Fergal and Galart joined them a moment later. As observed from the open entrance, the yard was silent and, save for a half-starved brindled cat that hissed at them as it disappeared behind a pile of rags, deserted. The surrounding buildings—four large houses, a wattle-and-daub hall with a high, pitched roof of haphazard thatch, a granary, several storehouses, and a small forge—appeared empty, too. Many of the doors were open and no sounds came from within.

  There were more buildings half hidden behind the hall. Conor gave a nod and they proceeded to investigate, pausing at the open doors of the buildings they passed. All were vacant and empty but for rubbish and detritus—broken jars, scraps of cloth or leather, worthless furniture. The hall was the same. The board had been removed, and the benches overturned; the hearth was cold, the ashes of the last fire sodden from rain seeping in through the roof; the floors were covered with rushes rank with mildew and animal urine giving the great empty space a sour stink. One whiff, and Fergal observed, ‘No one here but the rats … filthy rats.’

  ‘It looks like they left in a hurry,’ said Galart.

  Just then a great squawking arose from somewhere outside. Conor, having seen enough, retreated to the yard to see a flock of rooks and ravens swirling over the dún. The screeching emanated from someplace behind the hall. ‘Let’s see what all the noise is about.’

  Fergal rolled his eyes, muttering, ‘And then let us be gone and be glad.’

  Passing down the narrow gap of the close-set buildings, they slipped around to the back of the hall where they found several more storehouses, a large stable, and a fenced horse pen. The contents of that pen had drawn the carrion birds, and it drew the Dé Danann now.

  The sudden appearance of the men sent a multitude of rooks and crows and ravens, squawking and flapping in all directions—and not these only: among the swirling gyrating flock were magpies and gulls, jackdaws and jays. A few larger birds—buzzards, red kites, and an eagle—glanced up and glared at the men, but did not take wing as they continued their grisly feast on the mound of bloated human corpses.

  Conor started forward and then stopped to stare. The others stood frozen in place. Heaped in the centre of the cattle pen were the decaying remains of a score or more human beings. Men, women, and children, their bodies discoloured and swollen in the early stages of putrefaction. Some were naked but for the scrags and hanks of hair that still clung to their exposed skulls; many others still wore the tattered shreds of clothing that had covered their emaciated frames. Among the rags and scraps of cloth could be seen the distinctive checks and stripes of cloaks and siarcs, breecs and mantles, once colourful, now faded and grey with rot and decaying matter.

  ‘Badb’s breath,’ coughed Donal, ‘they were Dé Danann!’

  Fergal muttered a curse under his breath and Galart stifled a cry.

  Conor felt his crimson blotch of a birthmark throb and burn with a sudden heat like molten iron flashed through him, blinding him. Dé Danann! he shrieked inwardly, his mind reeling. Dé Danann! These were his countrymen, his people—and that they should be so abused and mistreated in life and degraded and dishonoured in death pierced him to the core.

  Then the wind shifted and the full force of the stench hit them all at once—the sickly sweet feculent stink of rotten meat combined with the nauseating tang of burst entrails—that cloying, pungent reek of dissolution and corruption, the signature scent of death.

  Fergal gagged and Donal spat; Conor felt the gorge rise to his throat and bile surged into his mouth; Galart puked in the dirt.

  Many of the corpses had been worked over by the birds and vermin and were now little more than hollow husks of ruined skin stretched over bones; other bodies were still being torn to crimson strips as the birds greedily ripped gobbets of flesh and muscle from the dead. Most had their eyes and tongues plucked out and gazed in empty mute astonishment at their own demise and that of their doomed clan. Here and there the shocking white gleam of bone, picked clean, protruded from an arm or a leg, a skull or rib cage; the sinuous serration of a spine lay exposed to the air and elements, its covering of skin and muscle stripped away and devoured.

  Sensing no danger from the men, the black, circling squall of birds began settling once more on the funereal heap, reviving the poor broken bodies with a kind of squirming, hopping, flutter of wings and clacking beaks. Soon the decaying mass was covered with a feathered cloak as the scavengers squabbled and scrapped over the choice morsels their dry, croaking calls and outraged screeches rising in a ceaseless clamour. Conor, unable to look away, took in the sight; slack-jawed, rendered silent and cold by the shocking brutality of the display he could but stare in shock and disgust, and a slowly mounting rage. For there was little doubt in his mind that these doomed wretches had all met death around the same time, perhaps even on the same day.

  Galart, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, drew a long shaky breath and flung out his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Why?’

  Fergal, seething at the atrocity, turned his gaze from the horror. ‘Who knows why the Scálda scum do anything?’

  ‘But why bring them here to kill them?’

  Conor spat and turned abruptly. ‘I have seen enough.’

  Without another word, the three trooped back down the hill to the shelter of the woods where Aedd and Dearg waited.

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Dearg, hurr
ying to meet them as they came walking through the grove. One glimpse of their faces, however, brought him up short. ‘What is it? What did you see?’

  Fergal regarded him, his mouth worked, but no words came out and so he turned his face away.

  ‘Not now,’ Conor said, his voice husky and low. ‘Not here.’

  Aedd came running to join them. Struck by the change in his swordbrothers, he and Dearg exchanged a worried glance. ‘What happened up there?’ he wondered.

  ‘Just do as you’re told,’ Fergal snapped. ‘We’re leaving this place. Now!’

  Aedd stared at them and would have asked more, but Donal, coming next, said, ‘Get on with you, lads,’ said Donal. ‘We’ll speak about it later.’

  They took their mounts and rode back through the wood to the trail, leaving the abandoned dún behind them. Once on the trail, they resumed their search and rode on without encountering any more Scálda settlements. When at last the sun began to fade into a bleached white sky and low grey clouds moved in from the northwest, they set about making camp in a little clearing near a nameless river where they would be well hidden, but could keep watch on the trail lest any enemy pass. It was not until later that night when they were all gathered around their fire—as much for the light against the darkness they felt in this place as warmth from the worsening weather—that anyone felt like speaking. It began with a simple question. ‘Where do they get all the animals?’ wondered Galart. ‘The cattle and oxen and sheep—where do they get so many?’

  ‘Hmph!’ snorted Fergal. ‘The same place they got the Dé Danann—from the farms and holdings they have raided all summer. That’s where!’

  ‘Animals?’ said Aedd. ‘Was it animals you saw up there?’

  For the benefit of Dearg and Aedd who had not witnessed the degradation of their countrymen, Conor said, ‘It is not just a few cattle, mind—or even a few dozen. They were slaughtering animals by the score.’ In a low voice, he added, ‘And not just cattle. There were people, too.’