Contact (Crossover Series Book 2)

by Walt Socha

  “I think yes,” Teltina said. “She knows to check her surroundings as she walks. And if anyone comes across our dwelling here, I’d rather she be elsewhere.”

  What kind of a life were these people leading? Larry shut down that thought and withdrew several small packets made of dried and stretched intestines. “Here are several varieties of seed. Vegetables and flax. We have others, including root vegetables, but they’re all in the ground.” He explained each one, and Teltina made marks on each with a dead coal from the edge of the cook fire. “It’s late in the season, but hopefully they’ll sprout and mature.”

  Larry closed the leather flap on the pouch. “I’d like to ask about the terrain to the south.” He looked at Teltina, whose eyebrows rose. “Are there harbors or bays that could be used for our ships? Any trails or passes through the mountains along which we could move them?”

  She stared for several breaths. Larry felt his stomach twist. Had he somehow insulted her again?

  “Are you still planning to leave?” Her face turned blank.

  Larry looked down at his hands, holding the clay mug with the tea. A refreshing tea. What were his plans? How could he stay in this land of death? And could he leave the refugees to their fate? Hell with it. He shifted his eyes to Teltina, who still sat there staring at him. “I just don’t know.”

  After several more breaths, Teltina nodded, a small smile softening her face. “You must do what your heart and spirit tells you to do.” She turned her head to face south. “There are harbors suitable for salt water boats. When you decide to go south, I will show you the passes.” She paused for several breaths. “There were several farmsteads on that side of the mountains. But Wildlings moved in two or three years ago. There may be danger.”

  * * *

  The cook fire provided a convenient beacon in the twilight as Larry entered the fields around Sanctuary. He’d have to discuss night fires with the crew. Maybe shield the cook fire with a wall of fencing?

  On one of the unplanted fields, Garvan and Cassan ran back and forth through the knee-high grasses. Curious, Larry detoured to watch them. Each held what looked like an arm-length paddle and either swung at or bounced something on the broad end. As he got closer, he could see that the something was a ball about the size of a child’s fist.

  After a few minutes, he figured that they were directing the ball to opposite ends of the field. He watched until the deepening dark made play impossible.

  “What is that called?” Larry said as the youths left the field.

  “I was just taking a break.” Cassan looked sheepish. “It is called hurling. A child’s game.”

  Garvan frowned at Cassan, who was already walking toward Sanctuary, before turning to Larry. “The idea is to knock the sliotar into the opponent’s home.” He held up a leather-covered ball in his left hand and pointed to two poles at the near end of the field with the paddle in his right. “It’s more interesting when there are many players.”

  Larry turned to the opposite end. Through the dim light, another two poles rose at that end, although somewhat leaning.

  “Maybe tomorrow you could show me how to play?” Larry asked. Maybe they all could use a little diversion from planting and building. And from the killing. This field wouldn’t be used this season except as pasture for the horses. Maybe he could clear it. Scythes had been among the trade and farming goods that Dreamcatcher had brought.

  “I would be honored,” Garvan's face brightened in the dim light.

  “Good, let’s check on the others.” Larry looked toward the light of the cook fire. “While we can still find our way home.” As they walked together, he said. “Garvan, could you do me a favor? Teltina’s son, Rory, may be visiting. He doesn’t talk much.” Larry looked down at Garvan. “Could you show him around? And teach him how to play hurling?”

  “I can.” Garvan’s back straightened.

  * * *

  Ragnar watched as the shipwright planed the strakes with an adze, following the twisted grain.

  The man looked up, shaking his head. “This land only produces wood suited for burning.”

  “Our gods are weak here.” Ragnar stepped closer and slapped the man on the back. “That’s why we have men like you to do what the gods cannot.”

  The man spat and then grinned. “I think it is that new man-god of this land that makes the trees twisted.” He looked past Ragnar, pointing with his adze to a long pit dug in the rocky soil. “It will take a week to steam and straighten the strakes.”

  Ragnar’s arm swept from the ship to the plank over which the man stood. “Do what you can. Can you use more men?”

  “I have enough to work the wood. But more thralls to dig and feed the steam pits would help.”

  Ragnar nodded to his man and turned to the farmstead. Several riders approached from the east. Even at a couple hundred strides, he could tell they were Ur Neill with their coarse linen jackets, dyed a poor blue with piss and plants. “It appears that our friends have not collected any help,” Ragnar said, seeing that all the visitors rode horses. He nodded to his shipwright and walked toward the main dwelling.

  The men had dismounted and hobbled their horses as Ragnar approached, all but two joining his men around the central cook fire in the middle of the farmstead. “Greetings, my Ur Neill brothers,” Ragnar said in Eire to the two men who now stood at the entrance to the house.

  “This is Aedan.” Cormac indicated the second man. “He has brought a story from the abbey. And gold.”

  “Enter and drink.” Ragnar stepped into the interior. “Orla, three mugs.”

  At the cook fire, Orla looked up, her face tightening as the men entered.

  Ragnar swept his arm toward the table as he took a chair on the side nearest Orla. “Drink. Then I would hear your tale.”

  The two men watched Orla serve the beer, their eyes drifting up and down her body. “Still content with her?” Cormac asked.

  “Still cooks well.” Ragnar sipped his beer. “Now tell me of the abbey.”

  “Aedan is the mouth of my kinsman the Abbot.” Cormac nodded at the tall thin man at his side. “He has brought gold to pay for the loss of your ship. I think the Abbot prefers to settle this without meeting you.”

  The Abbot’s man pulled a leather pouch from beneath his robes and placed it in the middle of the table. About the size of a clenched fist, it thunked as he set it down, making the table vibrate.

  Ragnar kept his eyes on Aedan’s face. The abbot must have a very small head. But if the metal were gold, the contents would more than cover the cost of his ship. And the pact with Cormac was too fragile to argue weight. Besides, he had more important tasks than dealing with some man-god cleric. “What news from your abbey?”

  “We did not know your ship was attacked until a woman and two children approached the village across from the abbey and asked for protection.” Aedan lifted the mug to his mouth and swallowed. Twice. “They claimed to be the family of Brocc, who has a farmstead a bit more than half the distance up the Laune River.”

  “My men did not have orders to attack the farmstead,” Ragnar said. “The survivor, Gunnarr, has been punished.”

  “Your ship was attacked by strangers at a shallow bend in the river. The Brocc woman said that all the men on the ship were killed. But the captives, including the Brocc woman and her children, were taken back to the farmstead.” Aedan nodded to Ragnar. “I assume she didn’t see your survivor escape. Once at the farmstead, she realized that one of the attackers was a heretic to her man-god Jesus, a woman named Teltina.” Aedan drained his mug.

  Ragnar signaled Orla for more beer.

  “The strangers, the heretic woman, and two of Brocc’s thralls traveled into the mountains to the west after burning the ship.”

  “Are these strangers still in those mountains?”

  “We do not know. However, the river Caragh flows from a valley in those mountains. We suspect they reside there.”

  The man paused to watch Orla fill his m
ug. He licked his lips.

  “I think these are the same strangers that killed Doalty and his men,” Cormac said. “They must die.”

  “Agreed.” Ragnar stared at the tabletop where Cormac had previously sliced a sliver of wood with one of the hard iron arrow points. “But what of the two strange Knarrs that escaped after they almost sank one of my warships? And my small missing coastal ship? My men confirmed that the mouth of the Caragh is not navigable. And it is a long way to drag a ship into those mountains.” He stared at the sliced wood. Not navigable because of snags. Snags in the middle of the river’s mouth...

  Ragnar slammed his fist on the table. Aedan’s eyes widened. Cormac’s hand slipped beneath the table. A gasp erupted from near the cook fire. “By Hel, they will die slowly,” Ragnar bellowed.

  Chapter 23

  August 8

  “I don’t care if you are a woman. You don’t have to hit like one,” Fergus said to Anya, trying not to let his exasperation show in his voice. And failing. “I attack. You parry and counter. Again.” Fergus took one step forward, swinging his padded stave in a slow roundhouse arc. The young woman tapped his stave with hers before dropping it to the ground. He let the padded end of his stave slide off her upper arm and, adding an extra twist of his torso, bounced it against her head. A gasp erupted from the women standing in a loose line on the practice field.

  At Larry’s urging, all four of the younger Sanctuary women attended the training. No one had suggested that Teltina do so.

  “You all just spent the last hour practicing parries and strikes.” He stepped forward and looked down at the glaring woman. Although she was mid-height, the top of Anya’s head only reached his throat. “Now use them against me. I am not here because I like sweating in this leather suit. The next time you are attacked in this shit hole of an island, I want you to fight back. Not lie down and get raped.”

  Anya’s mouth contorted into a thin rippling line.

  “You insult her.” Deirdre stepped forward, her stave pointed at Fergus’s face.

  “You’re just as bad.” Fergus brought his stave down hard on her protruding stave, knocking it out of her hands. “Swing it. Or thrust it. But do not leave it pointing in the air. Consider yourself raped.”

  Muttering sounded from Maeve and Niam as he turned his attention back to Anya. “Again.” Fergus stepped back several strides. “Now fight like you are defending your family.” He held his stave forward in a ready stance. “Think of Conal.” Lunging forward, he again brought his stave around in a slow arc.

  Instead of countering, Anya stepped back, eyes streaming.

  Screaming both in frustration and to get her attention, Fergus pressed his attack on the retreating woman. He swung, getting under her arm and smacking her side. She cried out. “Hit me,” Fergus bellowed, letting the anger fill his voice. He glimpsed a motion to his right. Then a blow rang his head. Fergus turned. Deirdre's arms were over her head, swinging a second blow. He countered, blinking against the blood blurring his vision. Movement from the left. Pain erupted in the back of his knee. Still swinging against Deirdre, he stepped back and the leg collapsed. Another blow and his unpadded back exploded in hot agony. He twisted away, dropping his stave to use his hand to break his fall. Another blow across his back dropped him to the ground. All around him, skirts flared through the dust raised by moving feet. Heart pounding, he scrabbled on hands and knees as blow after blow rained down on his back.

  “Training's over,” a voice cut through the footsteps and heavy thuds. Fergus collapsed onto his belly as the light dimmed.

  * * *

  “Fucking youngsters,” Larry said under his wheezing breath. He leaned on his knees, forcing deep gulps of air into his lungs. At the edge of the field, Jessie and Matuso alternatively waved their arms or pointed to the crude playing field boundary that had been dug into the rocky ground. The players, all the men and the two older boys, stood waiting. Larry’s eyes drifted around the field, noting a few of the young women were watching. No wonder the guys were arguing. He suppressed a smile. Samatu and Hatimu watched from the sidelines. As Larry expected, Fergus was nowhere to be seen. Two more—no, three—spectators appeared from the forest path at the south end of the field. Taking another gasp of air, Larry straightened and squared his shoulders. It was Teltina and her kids.

  He signaled Samatu to take his place and walked in her direction. “Hi Rory,” Larry said, his eyes on Teltina. “Do you want to join in the game?” He waved his right hand toward the field where a laughing Cassan, balancing the sliotar on the end of his hurley, dodged around a panting Samatu.

  Eyebrows pinched, Rory wiggled his fingers.

  “He says it looks complicated,” Teltina said, eyes bouncing between the field, her son, and Larry.

  “There are just a few simple rules,” Larry said. “There are two teams. Each trying…”

  “Hi.” Garvan appeared at Larry’s side. “Want to play?”

  Rory’s fingers danced.

  “He’s not sure what to do,” Teltina said. Her eyes caught Larry’s.

  “He talks with his hands,” Larry said, turning to face Garvan. “But he listens with his ears.”

  “Can you teach me?” Garvan asked, raising his eyebrows as he stared at Rory. “And I’ll show you how to hurl.” He faced the field where Jessie and Matuso still gestured. “They argue too much. There are extra hurleys and sliotars. Let’s go to the far end of the field and I will show you how to keep the sliotar in the air.”

  The two boys ran off.

  “That went well.” Larry watched as the two boys headed for the far end of the field.

  “Thank you,” Teltina said. “Rory has not interacted with anyone his age for years.” She turned. “I hear there was some excitement this morning?”

  “Fergus will recover.” Larry looked for signs of humor, but Teltina’s face only showed concern. “I think he may have been a bit hard on the women. But he will heal.”

  “I met Anya on the way here and she told me the story. She was quite upset at first. But by the time she finished, she was almost laughing.” Now Teltina smiled, her eyes shining.

  Larry looked away, his gut tight. Damn, how could a simple facial expression affect someone as old as him? “Will you sup with us this evening? It is about time for our evening meal.”

  “I would be honored.” Teltina shifted her gaze to the far end of the field. The men were gathering up equipment. But the two boys walked in circles, bouncing sliotars on their hurleys. “As will Rory and Agnes.” She stopped, turning in place. “She seems to have run off with Fennore.”

  They started walking back to Sanctuary with Larry very conscious of the hand’s width of space between their swinging arms. “I have a request.” He slowed to watch her expression. “I am carving shorter bows for the women. We hope to have them all familiar with bows, staves, and slings. Ivar is teaching the sling. I will take over training with staves. Would you help the women with bow skills?”

  Teltina returned his gaze for several steps. “I would be honored.” A grin split her face. “But I have a condition.”

  Larry stopped. After an additional step, Teltina did also.

  “I would have one of your bows,” she said. “Almost full size.” She held out her hand at shoulder level.

  Larry exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Then the honor is mine.”

  “Good.” Teltina resumed walking. “I will also cut some leather. Several of the women will need to bind their breasts.”

  Larry barked out a laugh. “I'm not sure the men will like that.”

  Teltina raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But I have noticed that they treat the women with respect. Is this part of your belief system?”

  “I am not good at describing Haven’s way of life. Matuso is much better with the words.” Larry met her eyes. “But it involves minimizing pain and suffering. And not seeking pleasure for its own sake. We follow what is described as a middle way. Avoiding excesses is thought to m
inimize suffering. And treating everyone with dignity is part of that.”

  “What of the gods?”

  “We have no gods.” Larry broke free of her gaze. Smells from the cook fire wafted past. “At least most of us do not.”

  They walked in silence toward the huts. Larry shot quick glances to the woman at his side. She wore neither frown nor smile.

  Catching his eye, she said, “Just thinking.”

  As they entered the central clearing with its cook fire and surround seating, Larry saw that most had already been served. As they stood in line for their bowl of venison stew, Larry wondered why no one looked their way. No, one person was watching. Fennore ran up. “You can eat dinner with me,” she said to Larry.

  “Thank you.” Larry said. “But I would be rude to let Teltina eat alone. But please join us.”

  Fennore’s eyebrows narrowed. “Mother says Teltina is evil.”

  “Wait. I do not think…” Larry paused when a hand touched his shoulder.

  “It is true I don’t believe what your parents believe.” Teltina wore a smile, but her voice sounded tight. “But I hope I am still a good person.”

  “I will look for you tomorrow morning,” Larry said to Fennore. “And we can breakfast together.”

  Fennore lowered her head. “No.” She turned and fled into the gathering dusk.

  Larry glanced toward her parents. Marcan shrugged his shoulders as he returned Larry’s gaze but Sheeva’s eyes were locked on her bowl. Next to them, Agnes sat looking over her shoulder at Fennore’s retreating form.

  “I am sorry,” Larry said to Teltina.

  “It is sometimes hard to be young.” Her smile didn’t include her eyes. “Niam is waiting to fill our bowls.”

  Larry turned and held out his bowl. The young woman filled it, making only brief eye contact. Stepping back to allow Niam room to fill Teltina’s bowl, Larry scanned the surrounding benches. All but one were occupied. Maeve and Hatimu sat on one end, leaving room for two to sit.