Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Bending down, she grabbed a nearby stone and flung it but, unfortunately, the recent changes to her body weight affected her aim. The missile landed on a sliver of snow several paces in front of the animal. The beast glanced at it contemptuously before returning its attention to her, a wide snarl drawn along its muzzle.

  Grasping another stone, she threw again and this time her aim was true. The missile struck the animal in the side of the head, drawing an immediate yelp. Startled, and momentarily unnerved, it turned tail and fled back into the cover of the vegetation.

  Muirne exhaled in relief but knew it was a short reprieve.

  It will attack soon.

  She forced herself to start walking again, controlling her breathing and maintaining a slow, measured pace while scanning the forest for any further sign of her pursuer. There was now no doubt in her mind that the wolf was actively stalking her. Unless she was able to find a secure refuge, it was only a matter of time before it attacked. In desperation, she halted to look up at the surrounding trees and wondered if she could climb the higher branches. Immediately, she discounted the idea. Scaling those brittle, lower branches would have been a challenge at the height of her physical ability, impossible in her present condition. In truth, such a course of action would have done little more than stave off the inevitable. The wolf had her scent. He would merely wait her out until sleep or the cold took her and she fell from the tree.

  She struggled onwards, so consumed by the sheer effort of walking that it took a moment to realise she was no longer moving uphill. Raising her eyes she stared around to discover that she’d actually entered the pass she’d been seeking, the cutting spotted earlier from her resting place in the sun. A wide, barren gorge bordered by low granite cliffs on either side, it carved its way through the upper section of the ridge for several hundred paces before dipping gradually, veering downhill in the westerly direction she needed to follow.

  Elated, she advanced with renewed buoyancy, slowing her pace for the downhill section where the thawing ice made the surface dangerously slick.

  It was in this gorge that she finally discovered a potential refuge, a cave at the base of a particularly steep crag to the northern section of the gorge. In fact, it was more of an alcove than an actual cave, a tight hollow beneath the overhanging cliff face, enclosed from behind by the curving rock and, at the front, by a contorted wall of tangled tree trunks. Sometime in the distant past, a cluster of ancient pine trees had tumbled from the summit of the cliff above. Now they lay twisted, interwoven branches wedged tightly together to present a substantial barrier that reduced access to the hollow to a narrow gap between the logs and a bulky rock that protruded from the cliff.

  Approaching this restricted opening, Muirne Muncháem threw a quick glance inside, surprised to find that the interior was larger than she’d expected and the floor comprised not of rock but compacted earth. Further investigation revealed that much of that space was cluttered, strewn with broken slabs of rock, the ancient droppings of previous animal occupants, and a substantial mat of dried vegetative matter blown in over the years by the prevailing wind.

  As she edged into the enclosure, Muirne threw a wary eye back at the wolf. The animal had grown bolder, reducing the distance between them and now stood back along the pass, watching warily from a fish-shaped rock less than forty paces away. As she moved out of sight, it released an anxious whine.

  It’s hungry.

  It would not be long now, she knew. The beast’s hunger was almost at a point where its craving would overwhelm its natural caution and it would attack. Ravenous and tenacious, it would not be stopped, forcing its way through the tight little aperture to get at her.

  Unless she could prevent it.

  She immediately set to building a fire at the entrance, placing it close enough inside the rocky overhang to remain sheltered from the wind or rain. Scooping up the cave’s accumulated debris into a little mound, she overlaid this base with dried twigs and branches. She then proceeded to build a second, additional mound of fuel using larger branches and segments of wood broken from the ancient tree barrier.

  From her satchel, she produced two sharp pieces of flint and holding them at the ready, assessed her situation. It would be a delicate business. The blaze would need to be sufficiently substantial to discourage her pursuer from entering, yet not so large or so high that the ancient trees might, themselves, catch alight.

  A sudden rustling sounded outside. Startled, she panicked and struck the two flints together. Several bright sparks sprinkled over the pile of kindling and it ignited almost instantaneously. A moment later, the first yellow flames had taken hold and a small cloud of greasy smoke rose, tainting the air with a distinct odour of pine.

  As the fire began to take hold, she added some of the smaller pieces of wood, gradually feeding larger portions until it was blazing strongly. Outside the shelter, above the sound of the wind, she heard a frustrated whine and she shivered with relief.

  The temptation to sit and rest for a moment was almost overwhelming but she forced herself to remain standing. Her ordeal was not over. The wolf was still outside, growing ever more desperate. She had merely bought herself a brief respite, a respite she would have to utilise if she was to survive.

  With an exhausted sigh, she reached into her bag and withdrew the iron dagger.

  It was time to get to work.

  ***

  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. She released a low keen of relief and hands tightening about her knees, 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 as close to the snapping flames as she dared.

  The beast was dead.

  She had survived.

  Her child would live.

  Chapter One

  As ever, when winter showed signs of releasing its grip on the land, Bodhmhall was to be found to the north of Ráth Bládhma, overseeing the work being carried out on her lubgort [vegetable garden]. Over the three years since first occupying the ráth, she’d created an impressive series of raised stone-edged, earthen beds that stretched along the gently curving gradient of a nearby, north facing mound. The produce of her garden – an annual bounty of herbs, onions, carrots, parsnips and other vegetables – was of reliable consistency and quality. The nutritional variety it provided also proved popular amongst the inhabitants of the ring fort given a diet otherwise restricted to dairy and cereal products.

  Perched on the crest of the mound, Bodhmhall brushed a fist-full of black hair back from either side of her forehead. With a deft twist of her fingers, she looped the strands into a more controllable shape and bound them in place with a bronze hair clasp. By anybody’s reckoning, she was a striking woman. Tall and slender with a generous mouth and intelligent, brown eyes, her looks had been spared the ravages common to many of her contemporaries: the trials of childbirth and the arduous physical labour required to sustain the community. Daughter of Tréanmór, rí of Uí Baoiscne, Bodhmhall had enjoyed a privileged childhood in the fortress of Dún Baoiscne, something she increasingly appreciated as the years rolled by.

  Standing with hands on her hips, she considered the garden as she planned out the next stages of work. It was too early for her efforts to produce any substantial results (the low temperatures ensured that any growth remained minimal to non-existent) but she was determined to do as much as practically possible to get an early start on the growing season. Experience had demonstrated that turning the cold earth of the raised beds helped to break down the cow manure mixed in over the autumn. When the warmer weather finally kicked in, the soil creatures would already be hard at work, merging precious nutrients to provide the initial spurt of growth for the herbs she needed to replace her dwindling supply of remedies.

  She pointed to a patch of soil at the lowest ridge, positioned so that the gradient might drain the winter rains away.

  ‘There, Cónán.’

  Her hand moved, two slender fingers indicating another area.

  ‘And there.’

  With a sigh of resignation, a dark-haired boy of about eleven years moved forward, lifted a metal-headed hoe and began to turn the soil at the indicated areas.

  Bodhmhall watched him work the earth, mixing in the remaining traces of manure with almost effortless ease. She felt no rancour at the boy’s undisguised frustration. Working under her instruction could be taxing at the best of times and Cónán had demonstrated heroic tolerance to this point. Over the course of the morning, she had directed him from one section of the mound to another, a pattern of activity that, from his perspective, must have appeared meaningless. What the boy did not understand, however, was that his perspective differed substantially from her own. Where he saw indistinguishable lumps of frozen soil, Bodhmhall’s tíolacadh – her ‘Gift’– revealed patches that radiated with varying degrees of biological activity; the teeming life force of worms, ants, beetles, and other tiny creatures. Some of these – the areas that she directed him to avoid – glittered like a hundred, thousand stars in the sky at night; minute, exquisite sparks of brilliance. These, she knew, were the secret of her garden’s success, the powerhouse that converted the base organic matter to a bountiful food source. She was adamant that such potential should be protected as far as practicable.

  It was in her seventh year that Bodhmhall had come to understand how she differed from the other children at Dún Baoiscne. They did not perceive the flickering lights she associated with life in all its forms and therefore struggled to understand her reluctance to partake in the occasional activity that might extinguish such brilliance. Although she worked it out over time, Bodhmhall’s innate stubbornness also meant that she did not attempt to alter her behaviour to align with that of her peers. This approach gained her a reputation for eccentricity but, more importantly, it brought her to the attention of Dub Tíre. And the cold scrutiny of the druidic order.

  But that, of course, had been a lifetime ago.

  Bodhmhall pushed such dark
memories away, buried them deep within the soil of her garden. Over the years, experience had made her adept at dealing with such unpleasant reflections, developing numerous effective mechanisms and distractions to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

  Like the simple action of gardening.

  ‘To your left. Cónán. No, your left.’

  Grumbling, the boy did as he was told.

  ‘Don’t be cranky, a bhuachaill,’ she chided. ‘You’ll be glad of this effort when your stomach is riddled with gut cramp. That’s where I intend to lay the peirsil chatach and there’s no better remedy for the runs.’

  She chuckled to herself for the boy was pretending to ignore her, sighing melodramatically as he helped her to turn the earth. Buoyed by the morning’s accomplishments, Bodhmhall stopped teasing him and turned to gaze up the length of Glenn Ceoch – Valley of Haze – at a view that never failed to give her pleasure.

  To her delight, the morning had dawned with clear skies, the habitual early chill diminished by the unexpected rays of watery sunshine. Bathed in this welcome glow, the valley had taken on a beauty that was even more dramatic than usual, patches of dew-lined pasture and the nearby stream glittering like silver in the soft, yellow hue.

  Glenn Ceoch had been Bodhmhall’s home since departing the fortress of Dún Baoiscne more than three years earlier. A wide V-shaped spread of flatland, it was enclosed on either side by two steep, tree-coated ridges that converged at the east of the ráth to form a steep and impassable barrier. The spring that fed the stream was located on the lower slopes of this formidable buttress, pooling in a small pond of clear water that emptied down onto the valley floor and flowed out to the west.

  Set at the extremes of Clann Baoiscne territory, the isolated Glenn Ceoch was known predominantly for the bloody history associated with the previously deserted ráth. Two earlier attempts at settlement had taken place there many years before Bodhmhall was born. Both had ended disastrously with the colony destroyed, its inhabitants massacred by reavers. Despite the valley’s excellent pasture and the potential of its loamy soil, there had been little appetite for a third attempt. Because of its history and isolation, the territory was still considered too dangerous, a section of the Great Wild best left to the wolves and bandits.