Celtic Blood

by James John Loftus

  One day he would fight a crucial fight that would determine his reputation. He knew it was coming and he wanted to be ready for it. Even if he failed, his will, wouldn’t. Seward often said the best swordsmen were those who trained longer and harder then anyone else. He was right. That was what Morgund would do now. His quest was investing in himself, creating a new, he. It was the suppression of self-doubt, fear, passiveness.

  Morgund realized how he must ensure his life, he must beat his weakness, his fear, and pour his will into his ambition. Morgund, who was prodigious in his application, cut pieces of wood to sword length. In this way he sparred with Simon and John. When defence was breached strikes were pulled, so as not to cause injury. Speed and technique improved together with footwork and judgement of distance.

  Seward had instilled in Morgund the importance of unarmed combat. If disarmed one could continue the fight and often when sword made contact you could kick a part of your opponents body, for instance his leg, easily. A half decent kick could be enough to unbalance an opponent for a decisive thrust. The groin kick was the most brutally effective method. Training was realistic and Morgund learned that physical knocks were necessary to toughen mind and body. It was a vital part of the process but requiring moderation. Injuries required time to heal and too much punishment tended to wear down rather than enhance toughness.

  After a heavy session bruises were bathed in cold mountain streams to deaden pain and to reduce swelling. The other two, older and stronger should have dominated Morgund but Morgund’s commitment was the greater, putting in many extra hours attempting mastery.

  Alone, moving back and forth, practising. Coordinating his body. Singing a song with it, slowly building his melody. Seeking to be as perfect as perfection itself. But also knowing perfection was somehow unrealistic, a goal, he would never meet. But endless striving in attaining it made it seem preordained. He was not an ordinary being, even now, not long begun on his long journey.

  Having been in constant danger he was determined to be prepared for the future which could hold anything. That wasn’t the only reason he trained for now, it had captured his heart. Excellence in this or any art is an obsession. Morgund awoke to this truth. Rest days were important to. On those days he walked down to the river and lay back listening to the flow of the river, the sounds coming from the trees. Today, he was alone with his thoughts at the river. Water splashed over rocks played downstream. In the background the intriguing notes of birds, all relaxing, calming. Cristo joined him.

  Morgund learned that Cristo had been a monk. His family entered him in the monastery young, his life filled with long days of boring quiet, a life Cristo was not suited to, which was ironic considering his current situation. Sylvia had been married to an abusive drunkard who beat her.

  Losing a baby, she decided then to flee, but beforehand she sought a prayer of protection. Two people seeking an escape had found each other. It seemed so fitting and had been, until that dreadful day, when the hunters came. Cristo changed the subject to avoid spoiling their day.

  “If ever there was in a place to avoid strife, this is it. You will see there is contentment and happiness here.” He wanted Morgund to stay, for he knew Edith wished him to, it would be the perfect arrangement, for one day she must wed and Cristo wanted her to remain in the forest.

  “What kind of happiness?” Morgund asked.

  “Listen,” Cristo said and turned his head towards a dense thicket, “Harmonies in the background make you want to listen to them, the birdsong. Happy magic, that’s what kind and here there is freedom from despicable rulers.”

  Cristo swished his hand through the air, “Let us put our feet in the river and have its soft rush run across our feet, it will flow through our hearts, it will repair us.”

  “You show good sense Cristo,” Morgund replied.

  “Places exist where composure can be found,” Cristo said.

  Morgund as he sat with his feet dangling into the water felt he had found such a place. Little did they speak, the mood didn’t require it. The caress of the water made a cure for melancholy. The sensation clung to their feet long after both of them had retreated from it. But with its loss a change of mood.

  On the way home Morgund appeared down, his earlier contentment, gone. “Morgund, things aren’t so bad are they?” He heard.

  Being betrayed by Alexander left him depressed. Having been trapped into believing in his friendship hurt, made him feel a fool. He couldn’t be safe in his homeland. He missed his mother, his familiar haunts. Not yet fourteen, and grievously homesick. All these things troubled him. How could he put it all into words.

  “What is it that troubles you?” Cristo asked.

  The darkest of his fears was the long term danger … and now his life was such a misery. Who to trust? How best to restore his fortunes. The destiny of his family was in his hands, there was no one else. Wondering if such a thing was important, knowing somehow it was. Looking into Cristo’s eyes, he realised he had to say something and said, “Shadows walk across my soul.”

  “Not yours only.” A sympathetic nod, a step or two, then. “Thinking of past wrongs does no good.”

  Morgund didn’t want to mention homesickness as a cause, he was not prepared to admit to such a childish complaint. “Bitterness of betrayal so tart. Memories so cruel,” he said.

  “Let them go then, Morgund. Latching onto them won’t do you any good. Perhaps after a while torments will relent. They do, you know.” Cristo realised, as one who had experienced it, that a great wrong had been done and it disturbed him.

  He also guessed correctly that it was in part homesickness and mother anguish. “Scotland,” letting the word play upon his mind, “Broken wastes, full of wild men, strange beasts, winged serpents, and it is said that Scotsmen drink the blood of Englishmen” Cristo’s attempt to cheer up Morgund failed for Morgund only heard him indistinctly.

  Cristo spoke on. If Morgund heard him Cristo didn’t know it. Morgund did hear, he thought they were sounds without sense. These words didn’t improve him. But Cristo’s friendship was a thing of value and he was willing enough to realise it and be thankful for it. Once inside, Morgund felt better and after talking with the boys and Edith, for a time, better still. They always lightened his spirits, they were his best tonic.

  That night Cristo sat up and talked with Morgund. Cristo knew Morgund didn’t like to talk about his upset but he also knew that if given the opportunity and showed enough friendship, he would talk and that Morgund would improve, thereby, so he forced his way on verbally explaining his theory.

  “You have plummeted to the depths of despair and have come back to lead a normal life.”

  Morgund liked hearing that he seemed whole and sound.

  “But you are contending against inner matters that are threatening to overwhelm you.

  “Yes, my mind plays upon hardships.”

  “These memories will lose their sharpness and you will learn from them.”

  “How?”

  “By using them as a tool for growth.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “Morgund, you feel lacklustre now but you will not always feel so.”

  “But how will I learn?”

  “The answer will come from within.”

  “I would like to be restored to a normal condition, with regard to my nerves and confidence.”

  “You know how best to rectify it. It is too much you’ve been called upon to do when too young. All men in danger come to a threshold of distress thereby losing harmony. Conquering and overcoming leaves a shadow, but also leaves a strength as well. You know yourself better now, which is a decided advantage.”

  “My mind dwells on death, my father’s and on others. I have seen many. My own death seems imminent and it is frightening. It is a plague on me.”

  “Your appointment with death is quickening to its moment, with this realisation, you’ve passed into manhood. Rest and strengthen, be sound enough to face your next conf
lict, for something tells me it will arise.”

  The candle had burned low by this time, the signal they depart to their beds. Once there Morgund thought long about Cristo’s advice. Appreciating Cristo’s intelligence, his willingness to help, he decided to take each day as it came while continually preparing for threat and pay back in whichever way he could, Cristo for his kindness. Cristo possessed a wealth of knowledge.

  This new life felt temporary, here would never be home, however he appreciated it, for now. One day he would stride forth back into Scotland and face whatever fate held for him there, or be tormented by his lack of manliness till his dying day. Until then, however, it was pleasant.

  Each night brought new topics. Morgund learned much about the world, its history, generals, great battles fought in the past, all well told. The croft filled with tale telling and debating. Information from the outside was especially pleasing, and covered from every angle. They had not been to town for many months so any news was old. Cristo stocked with winter furs decided they would travel to town and catch up. One of the boys would stay behind with Edith.

  She did not like this, complaining bitterly. “Father that is unfair.”

  “The next spring you can come with us, Edith,” Cristo placated. “We will camp in town for a few days and you can see shops and buy clothes.”

  “I want a sword on this trip” John said.

  Cristo turned to him, “What is this? Are you planning to leave us and become a knight? What do you want a sword for?”

  “I want one too,” Simon chimed in.

  “I thought this sword play was mirth, now each of you want a live blade. It’s an expensive piece of equipment, I can’t buy you both one, not straight away, at least.”

  Simon looked at John. “John, I’ll toss a coin for who gets the first sword.”

  “A fair way to decide. You toss, I’ll call,” John replied.

  John winning, spent the rest of the night imagining his sword, eagerly anticipating this trip to town three months hence. One by one, the days gained themselves on, by and by, it was three months hence. The furs were good, so well laden, they travelled to make trade, to the city and to find a smithy. They watched him work, made comments, were fascinated how a metal object gradually changed until it become a thing of beauty and of nobility, a sword. The smithy handed it to John. Holding it mesmerised with rapture, he didn’t speak but his face said it all, if only those who loved him would have realized the danger he was in. John was now a part of a sacred brotherhood of soldiers, knights, even kings. The sword was their symbol of power. Those that held it were to be feared.

  That these men were feared because they could kill or get others to kill escaped his notice. He held a dangerous misconception. Back at home John allowed no word to betray him and his life continued much the same. Only his eyes changed but no one noticed.

  One day Morgund looked out at the distant green, the cool beauty drawing him. Unencumbered by duties deciding to descend the ladder and see it up close. Taking a bow and a quiver, intent on practising his archery learned from these Englishmen. If he shot a deer it would feed them, venison was always welcome. At the base of the cliff threading his way out to the sand bar near the river. A ford allowed him passage to the far bank. Reaching the place he’d started for, which had looked closely hugged by trees, in fact it contained numerous fields, thick with flowers.

  He couldn’t explain the treeless openings, different soil perhaps, or, or, what? He wondered over their existence, although not coming up with a solution, enjoying them immensely. They gave views of open skies allowed warmth from the sun to bathe him. Kept on walking, taking in changes, trees some bent, fallen, in shadow, some light.

  Open spaces began to restrict with the land becoming thicker in forest, not totally obscuring the sky yet, but if the trees continued to close in around him, he wouldn’t see five metres, let alone the sky. Further on, trees tightly interwoven so that with each few steps he had to take to them with his staff to make a way through.

  Abruptly entering a clearing of lowly vegetation Morgund came near a hillock with a large broken conifer. He went there. Continuing walking passing a while without incident, growing bored with the sameness of it all when a stag appeared, noble beast only slightly too distant to expend an arrow at. It disappeared. Firstly it had raised its head from beside a sapling. Thinking it might still be on the other side of it Morgund moved cautiously forward. Passing the small tree he saw it again. The deer had resumed grazing, it had leapt the log as he had thought. Whether it was unconcerned or unaware that danger was present Morgund was unsure. An unmistakable feeling that the deer had seen him, it was preposterous of course, but nevertheless he felt this. It raised its head again, this time appearing to gaze closely at him. He stopped and the deer moved off a few strides.

  The wind changed and blew from his back. The stag must get his scent and flee. It did not. He was intrigued. Hugging the earth and creeping towards it, whilst it was below his line of sight, he gained on it, until he could hear it. Then there it was just ahead. The hackles on his neck rose. He surmised the animal was unfamiliar with man therefore it did not feel threatened. Deer were notably curious and it appeared this was the explanation for it came towards him. How close would it come? He wondered. It stopped. Looking startled, head up, and its nose testing the air.

  Whatever had disturbed its peace, no longer did, the head went down, it began to feed. Morgund unslung his bow and slipped a dart next to the notch. Slowly he took the bow up until he aimed his arrow at the deer. Suddenly the animal unleashed a burst of speed and was gone. Morgund smiled. He had imagined the creature possessed of unnatural intelligence. He had almost expected it to speak. His mind was open to superstition, he realised.

  In a glade, dimensioned of narrow width he stopped and sat. As Morgund thought about the deer and the landscape, he was thinking how he would, forever, remember this journey, this beauty and calmness he had experienced. Long, hungry now, he wished he brought the deer down, his stomach pinched. To his right clustered a group of fir trees, evenly spaced, or nearly so, the ground here, heavily strewn with pine needles. Morgund passed between a gap in the branches. He trod into shadows, and through low hanging vines. On the soft footfalls the scent of pine was delightful. Another wood, where the conifers were interestingly shaped and high, their bark, dense and rough.

  When he was in the full sunlight again, swaying limbs and the sun low on the horizon. On a gradual rise parkland grew less and the forest thick. The quality of the trees deteriorated scrappy saplings in poor soil, impenetrable thorny bushes so care was needed to negotiate through. The lower ground cover here was prickly and dangerous. His footing was unsure as the ground was precariously interspersed with furrows and logs. He thought of turning, but had come too far to do so, so he persevered and was rewarded by coming out on lower slopes hardly forested at all and kindly proportioned. The hour was late and darkness stalked. Morgund ran downhill to the river and back towards the ladder and finally arrived home in darkness. He felt a special appreciation to be indoors and sheltered, basking in warmth, safe, partaking of food and company. Edith questioned him on his journeyings and he told of the places he had seen. Subsequently, he took her with him on trips, not too far, close by and it was good for them.

  Each day now backs were bent working to dislodge weeds, from their vegetable garden, they worked hard. On this day it was midsummer and hot. Edith fussing over them, took them out drinks. When they came back inside after the working day a cup of cider was taken. Each afternoon they savoured it.

  Edith poured Morgund’s, as she did, she winked at him boldly and he winked back and laughed. Morgund decided then to stay here. One night, he had his first kiss and a promise was made.

  Morgund and Edith sat on a haystack behind the house. “Ask what meal you want made and I will prepare it for you Morgund. You know I am a good cook. I will make a good wife, you know that.”

  She prompted him when he didn’t reply. “You
know that? You know I will be a suitable wife for you. If I made a wish it would be that I could marry you, my dearest wish. Answer me. My wish is to marry you. Do you agree that we should be sweethearts?” Her eyes were huge. He could almost hear her heart beating within her chest.

  In reply, he kissed her. No greater contentment could Morgund have had Joy swept every particle of him. Only she existed. They spent hours entwined together lying hidden in fields sharing their closeness feeling swept up in the power of their passion. This idyllic journey would fade but the awe he felt at her beauty would never leave him. It brought a smile to his lips years later whenever he thought of it, of how much he had loved her. Everything about her fascinated him. Scotland seemed far away.

  All went well until she saw another young man. She accompanied them all into town trading furs. Edith allowed herself to fasten her affections onto another boy, a young townsman who sought to turn her head and succeeded. She wanted a dramatic turn to her love. She was young, she wanted Morgund to pine for her, to win her back. She didn’t understand the gift she had. True friends, true friends who suited each physically and in temper. When they got home she appeared to pine for the townsman, seeing what Morgund would do. Morgund saw it for what it was and he thought they’d be close again, but events changed all.

  There was not much to do after planting so time was on their hands. John still the only brother with a blade had become quieter and more thoughtful since. Cristo falsely believed that he had achieved some measure of maturity. None were aware that he had lost touch with reality, that he possessed a disturbing idea. They would learn what he thought and that day would come soon.

  The three young men set off on a trip of long duration to a place where the forest was open, and trees were wide and majestic. It was a royal place. It should have dissuaded them from staying there, for no doubt it would be the haunt of noble men. On the very edge of the forest, they were.

  Deciding on a foot race, after marking out a course, they lined up. They were off, feeling young and fit and strong. When one got ahead of the others he slowed taunting those behind him. Their yells dominated the forest as were the sounds of other men swallowed by their noise.