Fionn- Defence of Ráth Bládhma

by Brian O'Sullivan

  The decision to settle Glenn Ceoch, leaving Dún Baoiscne and the security of home and clan, was not one that Bodhmhall had taken lightly, even though she’d had limited alternatives at the time. In the opinion of her few supporters, the venture to re-establish a colony at that infamous location was doomed to failure. She had recognised the many valid reasons for such pessimism. The population of the proposed colony had been ludicrously small: Bodhmhall; the woman warrior Liath Luachra; the old servant Cairbre – now her rechtaire; his woman and their three son: Cónán; Aodhán and Bearach. The supporting livestock had also been woefully restricted, consisting of little more than eight cows, four goats, four pigs and a selection of fowl. On the day of their departure, their entire possessions and all of their equipment – including the metal workings – had fit into three ox-drawn carts lent to them by Tréanmór. This unexpected act of generosity from her father had surprised her at the time until she realised that the gesture had not been a kindness so much as a desire to see the back of them as quickly as possible.

  When the little caravan moved out of sight of the only home she’d ever known, Bodhmhall had felt great desolation and struggled to conceal her rising sense of panic from the companions who had so loyally aligned their fates to hers. Over the course of their journey through the Great Wild, a nerve-racking period of thirty-two days with the carts and cattle on the untamed topography,– that sensation had diminished only to return even more strongly when they reached Glenn Ceoch and observed the ruins of Ráth Bládhma for the very first time.

  Their new home was a significant earthwork centred on the summit of a low drumlin. The original settlers had carried out extensive work to create a high, circular earthen bank that enclosed the central courtyard – the lis – surrounded, in turn, by a flat-bottomed ditch. After more than twenty-five years of neglect, much of the original structure had fallen into disrepair. Several sections of the embankment had caved away, sliding into the waterlogged ditch to bridge the ráth’s principle defence and leave it exposed to attack from a number of different quarters.

  Within the lis, there was little visible evidence of the previous colony apart from some rotted wattle, fragments of the ancient habitations buried beneath the fibrous roots of long-established grass. Work on clearing the area, however, had exposed several charred post stubs and a number of human bones, chilling reminders of the settlement’s fate. Bodhmhall had immediately halted all other work and insisted on a cleansing ceremony, removing the remaining bones and burying them solemnly in the neighbouring woods.

  Despite their miniscule workforce, the new settlers had launched themselves into the task of reconstruction with a vigour driven by their dread of the Great Wild as much as by their hopes for a new beginning. Out in the isolated wild lands, livestock and goods were an irresistible draw for wolves and marauders. The shelter of the ráth offered their only realistic hope for long-term survival.

  In many respects, the new colony was fortunate in that much of the original backbreaking labour had been carried out by the original inhabitants. In truth, all that remained – although it was a substantial piece of work – was to repair and to build on the original.

  The initial efforts focussed on creating internal and external revetments to consolidate the earth embankment and prevent further collapse into the ditch. In those areas where slippage had occurred, the fallen detritus was removed and support posts inserted around the inward base. Once this was completed, gaps in the embankment were repaired using upcast from the trench.

  Each member of the new colony had taken an active role in the reconstruction. Despite the gruelling physical labour, Bodhmhall had experienced a fierce sense of personal satisfaction as the results of her efforts came together. Ironically, the toil and sweat had also proven a welcome contrast to the years of stifling intellectual training imposed upon her by Dub Tíre during her druidic apprenticeship at Dún Baoiscne.

  As Bodhmhall’s conradh – military champion – Liath Luachra had assumed overall responsibility for the defence and security of the new settlement. Conscious of the fate of the previous colony and the ever constant threat of attack, she’d insisted on enhancing the earthworks with further fortifications, palisades constructed from split oak poles retrieved from the surrounding forest. She also oversaw the strengthening of the west-facing entrance, expanding the ditch further to create a causeway to the narrow gateway reinforced with sizeable blocks of stone.

  The most substantial elements of the reconstruction took the little colony more than four backbreaking months of work but, on completion, they had a secure base from which to grow. Over the intervening years, their defences had been tested on two occasions when they’d been attacked by bands of passing reavers. In both cases, the attacks had been little more than opportunistic raids that they’d withstood by simply withdrawing within the walls. After one or two half-hearted assaults, both raiding parties had withdrawn, their urge for booty dampened by the effectiveness of the defences and the evident preparedness of its defenders.

  Bodhmhall shivered as the sun disappeared behind a passing veil of cloud, uncertain as to whether the sense of unease she was experiencing was stirred by unpleasant memories of bitter times or simply the sudden physical drop in temperature. Reverting to one of her tried and trusted methods, she knelt and started to clear some weeds, intending to submerge her anxiety, once more, in the soothing routine of her garden.

  It was not to be.

  The ‘Gift’ manifested itself with its habitual subtlety, easing in so softly that it was on her before she’d even noticed. Her first inkling of its expression was an unpleasant tingling sensation tugging at her nerves like a loose thread snagged on a branch. Instincts stirred by some provocation she didn’t quite fully understand, she straightened up and anxiously scanned the valley.

  Something... there is something ...

  She was only vaguely conscious of her heart rate increasing, the flush of blood pulsing through her veins. Then, all at once, it was as though every sense was intensified, each physical sensation magnified one hundred fold. The cheerful murmur of the nearby stream increased in volume until it had taken on the vociferous roar of a surging flood. The rustle of leaves on the surrounding trees crackled like static before an incoming storm. An overpowering smell of iron filled her nostrils and the very texture of the air seemed to scrape her skin.

  For a moment her sight blurred then abruptly cleared to focus on the thick line of trees that bordered the far end of the valley. For some inexplicable reason, the sight of those trees suddenly terrified her and, somehow, even at that distance, she could feel them shiver as some invisible force brushed through them. Bundling up into a violent squall, the intrusion gathered impetus as it rolled down the length of the valley towards her. Unable to move, she helplessly watched it draw closer, stirring up dead leaves and moss, casting them skywards like a swarm of angry ravens.

  She closed her eyes just before it struck, pummelling her with such ferocity that she was almost knocked from her feet. Somehow, she managed to maintain her balance, standing firm against the onslaught as it screamed and howled like a gale about her. Head bent and shoulders hunched, she channelled her energy into repelling an assault that was not physical so much as mental. Despite her skill at creating such intellectual barriers, she had the vaguest sensation of being probed by some intelligence, prodded like a farmer might prod an animal at a market to see how it would react. When she resisted, her response seemed to provoke an odd sense of outrage, as though the trespassing entity resented her ability to detect it. Enraged, it began to pummel her, to psychically strike again and again.

  She had no idea how long the offensive lasted, how much time had passed before the air grew still, the roar dissipating to a jaded background wheeze. Numbed and emotionally drained from her efforts, she wearily opened her eyes. On the pasture south of the ráth, the small herd of cattle were lowing contentedly in the calm of the early afternoon. Beside them, the stream gurgled happily, like a gus
h of amused infants. Close by, bent over the vegetable garden, Cónán worked with quiet industry. Bodhmhall stared, struggling to understand what had happened. No one else had seen or heard anything.

  Off to her right, on the western ridge, a murder of ravens suddenly took flight, crowing up from the trees in an angry flutter of wings. With a shudder, Bodhmhall forced herself to open her mouth and stuck out her tongue to taste the air. Almost immediately, she withdrew it with an expression of revulsion.

  ‘Bodhmhall’.

  Absorbed in her contemplation, she barely noticed this fresh disruption. Startled, she turned to find Cairbre the elderly rechtaire, standing beside her. The old man was studying her with quiet intensity, his left eyebrow curved upwards in a thoughtful arc. From his expression, it appeared that he had been standing there for some time.

  ‘Are you not well, Bodhmhall? Was it the Gift?’

  Somehow, she found the strength to nod.

  ‘Does it bring good tidings?’

  ‘When does the Gift ever bring good tidings?’

  She immediately regretted her brusqueness. Cairbre was a quiet man, a gentle man and had been a loyal advisor to her family for as long she could remember. He did not deserve such discourtesy and yet she felt almost too overwhelmed and distraught to care. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm her mind.

  ‘Forgive me, Cairbre. The wind brought something new today. Something that leaves a taste of shit in the air. Even the ravens are disturbed.’

  Cairbre, who was more familiar with her Gift than most, reacted to this news with concern.

  ‘Should I alert the others?’

  She shook her head in irritation, exhausted by the never ending burden of the Gift and its unsolicited, unwelcomed associations. Over the years, the tíolacadh had revealed many positive manifestations such as the ‘light of life’ but also negative manifestations such as the one she had just experienced. Either way, she had tired of them many years earlier. In the isolation of Glenn Ceoch, she had hoped to find respite, to avoid much that stimulated the Gift and identified her as a bandraoi, a female druid. She had achieved some success in this objective, experiencing no major expression of it for more than two and a half years.

  Until now.

  ‘I don’t know, Cairbre.’ She poked at a loose sod with the toe of her fur-lined boot as she attempted to work out what had just taken place. ‘I think there is another draoi roaming the Great Wild,’ she said at last. ‘He or she has some deliberate intent but I was unable to tell what it was. It didn’t bear me any specific malice or interest but it was not pleased to discover I could detect it.’ She paused then, inspired by sudden flash of insight. ‘It was seeking something. Or somebody. Whatever or whoever it was, it did not find it here so it moved on.’

  She looked at the old man.

  ‘Is Liath Luachra returned?’

  ‘Not yet, mistress. No sign of her or Bearach.’

  Bodhmhall frowned. Liath Luachra had left to hunt the local forests in the dark hours of the previous morning, accompanied by Bearach, Cairbre’s second son. Vaguely conscious of the warrior woman rising from their bed, Bodhmhall had been too entangled in the viscous threads of sleep to waken properly and wish her safe travels. Now she regretted that lapse. The hunters had been due to return by nightfall that same evening but were a full day overdue. Although there were many reasonable explanations for such a delay, the thought of Liath Luachra out in the Big Wild at a time when a fellow draoi was stalking the land, filled her with unease.

  Bodhmhall took a deep breath. Her mind was still reeling from her altercation with the intruding draoi and thinking of such complications was making her head spin. A sudden realisation helped to draw her back to more stable ground.

  ‘You came to seek me out, Cairbre. What is it?’

  ‘There’s a wan, lady. Seeking refuge.’

  ‘A wan?’

  Even after all these years, Bodhmhall still found the old rechtaire difficult to understand at times. When he spoke, his barely articulate mumble was muffled not only by a dense mat of grey beard but by a thick, guttural accent as well. According to her father, he had been snatched as a child during a raid on the warm lands across the southern sea and this accent was the last vestige of his native tongue, unspoken since his abduction from his people.

  Many years later Cairbre had ended up at Dún Baoiscne, traded on as spoils of war when his previous owner had perished on the battlefield. Purchased from a travelling merchant to provide crude brute labour for the maintenance of the fortress walls, his intelligence and natural aptitude for administration had gradually seen him transferred to lighter, more intellectual duties. Twenty-five years later, despite his tragic origins, Cairbre had adapted well to his environment at the Clann Baoiscne stronghold. Over that time he’d become a trusted assistant to Tréanmór’s household, obtained his freedom and had even taken a woman of his own, another ex-slave who subsequently bore him three sons. All of Bodhmhall’s earliest memories included the old man for he’d become her father’s key administrative advisor. Consistently reliable in the running of the stronghold, he would probably still hold this position if she hadn’t convinced him to accompany her and Liath Luachra to Ráth Bládhma.

  ‘A wan, lady. A young wan.’

  Ah! A young one.

  Bodhmhall nodded, the mists of incomprehension finally cleared.

  ‘Who is she?’

  The rechtaire ran one wrinkled, leathered hand across his forehead then down the silver stubble of hair cut close to the scalp.

  ‘I don’t know her. She would not give her name.’

  ‘She was accompanied?’

  She held the old man’s gaze and he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Every winter for the last few years, he’d suffered increasingly from the curse of stiffening joints. On their first winter at the ráth he had developed an awkward-looking walk that helped him avoid the stinging sensation in his knees. This year, he could barely move without the occasional hiss of pain.

  ‘No company.’

  Bodhmhall grunted in surprise. A single girl, a stranger, travelling alone in the Great Wild without escort or protection? She frowned, suspicion already forming in her mind. The arrival of a mysterious visitor in this isolated land so soon after the revelation of a hostile draoi could hardly be coincidence.

  ‘The wan’s with child.’

  Bodhmhall’s expression conveyed her otherwise silent astonishment.

  ‘Near to dropping, I would say,’ the old man continued. ‘Yes. Definitely near to dropping.’

  Unsure how to respond, Bodhmhall bit on her lower lip and gestured towards the settlement. ‘Our guest is within?’

  ‘Yes, lady. I left her in your house with Conchenn.’

  ‘Very well. I suppose we should offer her the hospitality of the ráth.’

  Wiping her hands on the rough material of her tunic, Bodhmhall left her instructions with Cairbre for the final section of the lubgort. Circling the embankment with a heavy heart, she curved around to the entrance of the ring fort and traversed the causeway leading up to the stone gateway. Aodhán, Cairbre’s eldest son, was on sentry duty on the top of the stone structure. Taking a brief respite from his scrutiny of the surrounding countryside, he grinned and gave a brief wave as she passed into the passageway below.

  A tall and pleasant youth, Aodhán had inherited his father’s easy manner but was already an óglach, a competent young warrior. Like his brothers, he had undergone martial training with Liath Luachra since their occupation of Ráth Bládhma. Under the woman warrior’s tutelage, both he and Bearach had become more than proficient with sword and shield while Cónán showed promise with the sling. All three boys were adept with the javelins and harpoons that lined the wooden rack on the gateway rampart, however Aodhán, in particular, had demonstrated an uncommon aptitude for casting weapons. After years of practice, the óglach was now lethal with javelins at distances of up to fifty paces, something the reavers had discov
ered, to their cost, during those early raids.

  The lis, the central area of the ráth, comprised a wide circle that held two round houses, a small stockade for holding the cattle at night and a large fire pit over which a metal cauldron had been suspended. Two sturdy lean-tos had been constructed against the internal wall of the embankment to the left of the entrance. Predominantly used as a shelter for the ráth’s precious metal implements and tools, the structures also contained their supply of firewood, a resource well depleted over the cold winter months.

  As she emerged from the gate passageway, Bodhmhall noted the ongoing consumption of firewood as Conchenn, Cairbre’s grey-haired woman, fed the fire pit’s insatiable flames. The bubbling of the cauldron’s contents, a vegetable based broth flavoured with bones, was audible from the gateway. Clouds of steam coiled upwards into the frigid air like a veil of angry ghosts.

  The smell of food made Bodhmhall’s stomach growl and she realised she’d neglected to eat since rising that morning. Glancing at the sluggish, dark broth, she experienced a sudden, inexplicable craving for the fresh tastes and colours of summer: blooming red strawberries and raspberries, blackberries and blueberries, even the tangy sweetness of rowan.

  Approaching the fire she ruefully discarded such notions. Summer was still some way off and harbouring such fancies was not only pointless but foolish to boot.

  ‘Conchenn. Where is the visitor?’

  Mute from birth, Conchenn said nothing but jerked her head in the direction of the nearest roundhouse. With this, she closed her eyes and raised her hands into the form of a pillow to mime a sleeping person. Bodhmhall smiled at the representation, nodded and turned towards the domed abode she shared with Liath Luachra. Pausing before the oak frame entrance, she stared at the leather flap, oddly reluctant to proceed any further. Privacy was a luxury that most communities could not afford but she’d grown fond of the personal retreat. Over the first year in Glenn Ceoch, she’d invested significant emotional and physical effort into creating that building, arranging the two concentric ring walls of hazel wattles and the insulating layers of straw. She’d also worked hard weaving the thatched reed roof. She had then spent a further two years making that space a home so the presence of an uninvited stranger unsettled her.