The scout has his back to me but I can see him hesitate, studying the dead man’s features. Reaching one hand over, he prods his father gently and, when there’s no response, more urgently. Then, he’s got the corpse by both shoulders, shaking it violently, shouting, crying, struggling to acknowledge the reality of his passing.
I feel some sympathy for the young buck’s loss. Some nights, on the brink of sleep, old memories slide in, deep-rooted histories that convince me I’m still alive. Such nights bring memories of Lann, of lying together in the furs of our bed at Seiscenn Uairbhaoil. Her body curled close to mine, one leg hooked around my hip, her cheek soft against my chest. Against the background of her steady breath, the gurgle of a baby underlies the silence; Murragh in his cliabhán by the sturdy hut wall.
At such times, I can still smell my family, still touch Lann’s smooth skin.
Until the depths of slumber or daylight comes to snatch them from me.
Watching the young scout’s distress, I remember that feeling of fighting what your eyes and guts are saying, of refusing the certain knowledge that burns you up inside. On the day of the raid, when I found my son, I clutched his body close, as though by holding him tight he couldn’t leave.
Prompted by such arid thoughts, I rise to step out from the shadows, edging closer to my quarry. Absorbed in sorrow, he’s no mind to hear my quiet approach. Stepping up behind him, I raise my axe but his head is buried in the old man’s chest, too engrossed in grief to care.
The blow is short and swift and sharp, a solid bite through compact bone. The force of it sends him toppling sideways onto grass that’s glazed with blood spatter. As the tremors ripple through my arm, I release a roar, a heartfelt, vicious ululation. These scouts are strangers to me but there’s no doubting they were callous men, the kind to slay children, the kind to take my boy from me.
I leave the bodies where they lie. Striding back along the ridgetop, the valley rings with fresh vitality. Father Sun hangs golden high, the birdsong echoes loud and piercing. Even the breeze is sallow, cooing coyly through the rustling leaves.
The tangible tension has now been lifted, although for me there’s little joy. I’m alive but my heart is dead. My chest is tight, my breathing ragged. Each step I take is one step further down my own grey path.
Where the Dark Lands patiently lie in wait.
And yet, on the slope of this foreign hillside, I have a sense that right has been regained. Two callous men now stain the earth. Glenn Ceoch is safe a little longer. I’ve kept my word to my friend Fiacail.
And in the Dark Lands, my son rests easy.
