***
Eventually, there came a time when she was simply too tired to do any more. Her body was coated with sweat, her hands worn raw from her labours. Eyes clouded from exhaustion, she clumsily waddled two or three paces to the rear of the cave, panting deeply as she ungainly lowered herself onto one of the flatter slabs.
Outside, the sunlight had all but faded and the gorge was growing rapidly darker. A cold gust brushed through the gap, stirring the flames and throwing a dirty yellow glow onto the bare rock behind her. Despite the sudden flurry and the failing light it remained quite warm within the makeshift refuge. Muirne drew a forearm across her sweat-dampened cheeks and forehead and leaned back against the smooth base of the cliff, appreciating the cool touch of the stone against her neck.
When she’d recovered her breath, she forced herself off the rock, turned and kneeled to use it as a platform for her next piece of work. Grasping the nearby staff, she dragged it onto the flattened stone then, using the iron knife, began to sharpen one end, carving it slowly to a narrow point. Soon she had fashioned a crude but serviceable spear. Twisting the haft in both hands, she lay the point in the ashes of the fire to harden it, watching as the white wood curdled and carbonised.
Eventually, she pulled the staff from the ashes. Raising it to eye level, she held it out before her and examined its length with a critical expression. As a weapon, it had its limitations but, realistically, it was the best she could achieve in the circumstances. If the wolf got past the fire and penetrated her defences, its length might serve to keep its jaws from her. For a time, at least.
Task completed, she lay the new spear aside and slumped back onto the rock. Now there was nothing else she could do but await the dawn and, hopefully, outlast the beast that lurked outside. By morning, she hoped, the wolf would have moved on, compelled by its empty belly to seek food elsewhere in the forest.
A ripple stirred through her stomach as the child shifted inside her. The infant was restless, she supposed. Possibly in response to her own distress.
While she’d been working, she had continued to feed the fire and the stock of larger wood segments was substantially depleted. She could, she knew, break or cut some more from the tangled branches of the fallen pines but she was reluctant to undermine the structure of her principal defence or, possibly, create new openings that the wolf might attempt to penetrate. With a sigh, she continued to stare at the fire, watching how the flames curled greedily around each precious item of fuel from her meagre stockpile.
Muirne yawned.
She was exhausted and desperate to sleep but could not afford to do so. Outside, the predator maintained its vigilance. If she stopped feeding the blaze, it would take its chances as soon as the flames reduced.
Then it would be on her and one day, far in the future, some other passing stranger would discover this cave and find her gnawed bones.
With a scowl, she brushed such defeatist thoughts aside.
Fight, damn you. Stay awake. Save your child!
The exertions of the day were working against her. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of fatigue, her eyelids flickered and drooped. In desperation, she slapped herself across the side of her face then immediately repeated the action across the other cheek. The sting from the blow jolted her to alertness but, despite the tingling sensation, she was obliged to repeat the process several times as fatigue wore her down.
So tired. So tired.
Her eyes closed.
And snapped back open.
It was completely black outside the cave. There was no sound to be heard but the crackle of flames. She jerked upright, staring around in panic. Had she fallen asleep? How long?
She glanced towards the fire, horrified to discover that it had shrunk to half its original size.
Cursing under her breath, she hurriedly leaned forward to grasp some of the remaining lumps of wood and tossed them into the blaze. Staring down at the little pile she’d created earlier, she realised with a sick feeling that there were less than eight or nine logs remaining. Certainly not enough to last till morning.
Groaning, she raised herself awkwardly off the rock. Now she had no choice. She would have to cut more wood from her precious defensive wall.
One more effort. Just one more.
She was reaching for the knife when a ferocious snarl spilled into the cave. Suddenly, the wolf was there, filling the gap as it launched itself over the flickering barrier, black eyes locked directly on her.
With a cry, Muirne staggered backwards, dropping the spear in her panic. The beast cleared the fire, great jaws wide and slavering. Landing on the inside, its snarl transformed to a surprised yelp for it tumbled, not onto the floor of the cave but into the shallow pit she’d dug out of the earth after setting the fire.
Spurred on by her terror, Muirne reacted with frantic alacrity and sheer instinct. Grasping one of the broken stone slabs from the small heap she’d prepared, she hoisted it in both hands, advanced on the hole and flung it down with all her strength. There was an unpleasant, liquid crunch as it struck the wolf on the top of the skull. The animal crumpled.
She immediately hoisted a second boulder and flung it after the first. This time there was a softer crunching noise, no less repulsive, as the missile struck the creature’s side, smashing the ribcage beneath.
Gasping for breath, Muirne grabbed a third rock but, on this occasion, she paused for the creature was sprawled unmoving in the hole below, a viscous yellow liquid pooling around its muzzle. She hesitated momentarily but then launched it, smashing the creature’s head with the gratifying crackle of bone and gristle.
Several moments passed before she finally found the strength to draw back from the hole and stagger against the rock wall. Collapsing onto the rocky floor, she huddled, shivering, heart pounding, mouth sour with the taste of adrenalin.
The beast was dead.
She had survived.
Her child would live.
She released a low keen of relief. Hands tightening about her knees, she rocked silently backwards and forwards.
Some time passed before she finally ceased, roughly brushing away the tears that had formed beneath her eyelids. Hauling herself to her feet, she retrieved her woollen cloak and wrapped it around herself. Approaching the fire, she tossed the remaining wood onto the flames. With a sigh, she curled up as close to the snapping flames as she dared. A moment later, she had fallen fast asleep.
Note from the Author:
This short story finishes here but if you’d like to learn more of Muirne Muncháem and the settlement of Ráth Bládhma, its occupants’ struggle to defend themselves against a ruthless war party (and a deranged druid), three additional chapters follow. Alternatively, that tale is told in Fionn: Defence of Ráth Bládhma, available from most good ebookstores and in hardcopy.
If you’d like to learn more about the Irish mythology and folklore on which this story is based, please feel free to visit me at irishimbasbooks.com. Writing is a solitary business and feedback or comments are always welcome.
Finally, if you’d like to help me write more stories about Ráth Bládhma and the Fionn mac Cumhal characters, I’d really appreciate your honest review. These are probably the most useful pieces of feedback a writer can receive.
Go raibh míle maith agat (thank you).
Brian O’Sullivan
Fionn: The Stalking Silence Page 3
