“I th-think he’s hu-human,” I stutter. “But not the same as us. There’s magic in him. Maybe he’s a druid’s apprentice.” That’s a wild guess, but it’s the closest I can get to explaining what’s different about him.
“Does he pose a threat?” Conn asks.
A dangerous question — if I answer wrong, I’ll be held responsible. I think about playing safe and saying I don’t know, but then the boy pulls a petal from the flower and slowly places it on his outstretched tongue. “No,” I say confidently. “He can’t harm us.”
The gate is opened. Several of us spill out and surround the boy. I’ve been brought along in case he doesn’t speak our language. A priestess is meant to have the gift of tongues. I don’t actually know any other languages, but I don’t see the need to admit that, not unless somebody asks me directly — and so far nobody has. I keep hoping he’ll change and become my mother again, but he doesn’t.
The boy is thin and dirty, his hair thick and unwashed, his knee-length tunic caked with mud, no cloak or sandals. His eyes dart left and right, never lingering on any one spot for more than a second. He’s carrying a long knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt, but he doesn’t reach for it or show alarm as we gather round him.
“Boy!” Conn barks, nudging the boy’s knee with his foot. No reaction. “Boy! Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The boy doesn’t answer. Conn opens his mouth to shout again, then stops. He looks at me and nods. Licking my lips nervously, I crouch beside the strange child. I watch him play with the flower, noting the movements of his eyes and head. I no longer think he’s a druid’s assistant. Conn was right — he’s a simpleton. But one who’s been blessed in some way by the gods.
“That’s a nice flower,” I murmur.
The boy’s gaze settles on me for an instant and he grins, then thrusts the flower at me. When I take it, he picks another and holds it above his head, squinting at it.
“Can you speak?” I ask. “Do you talk?”
No answer. I’m about to ask again, when he shouts loudly, “Flower!”
I jump at the sound of his voice. So do the men around me. Then we laugh, embarrassed. The boy looks at us, delighted. “Flower!” he shouts again. Then his smile dwindles. “Demons. Killing. Come with.” He leaps to his feet. “Come with! Run fast!”
“Wait,” I shush him. “It’s almost night. We can’t go anywhere. The demons will be on the move soon.”
“Demons!” he cries. “Killing. Come with!” He grabs my hand and hauls me up.
“Wait,” I tell him again, losing my patience. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Why should we trust you?” The boy stares at me blankly. I take a deep breath, then ask slowly, “What’s your name?” No answer. “Where are you from?” Nothing. I turn to Conn and shrug. “He’s simple. He probably escaped from his village and —”
“Come with!” the boy shouts. “Run fast! Demons!”
“Bec’s right,” Connla snorts. “Why would anyone send a fool like this to —”
“Run fast!” the boy gasps before Connla can finish. “Run fast!” he repeats, his face lighting up. He tears away from us, breaks through the ranks of warriors as if they were reeds, and races around the rath. Seconds later he’s back, not panting, just smiling. “Run fast,” he says firmly.
“Do you know where you’re from, Run Fast?” Goll asks, giving the boy a name since he can’t provide one himself. “Can you find your way back to your people?”
For a moment the boy gawks at Goll. I don’t think he understands. But then he nods, looks to where the sun is setting, and points west. “Pig’s trotters,” he says thoughtfully. For a second I see my mother pointing that same way again, but this is just a memory, not another vision.
Goll faces Conn. “We should bring him in. It’ll be dark soon. We can question him inside, though I doubt we’ll get much more out of him.”
Conn hesitates, judging the possible danger to his people, then clicks his fingers and leaves the boy to his men, returning to the fireside with Tiernan to discuss this latest turn of events.
Run Fast isn’t big but he has the appetite of a boar. He eats more than anyone at the feast but nobody minds. There’s something cheering about the boy. He makes us all feel good, even though he can’t talk properly, except to explode every so often with “Demons!” or “Come with!” or — his favorite — “Run fast!”
As Goll predicted, Run Fast isn’t able to tell us any more about his clan, where he lives, or how great their need is. Under normal circumstances he’d be ignored. We’ve enough problems to cope with. But the mood of the rath is lighter than it’s been in a long while. The arrival of the MacCadan has sparked confidence. Even though the eleven are more of a burden than a blessing, they’ve given us hope. If survivors from other clans make their way here, perhaps we can build a great fort and a mighty army, keep the demons out forever. It’s wishful, crazy thinking, but we think it anyway. Banba used to say that the desperate and damned could build a mountain of hope out of a rat’s droppings.
So we grant Run Fast more thought than we would have last night. The men debate his situation, where he’s from, how long it might have taken him to come here, why a fool was sent instead of another.
“His speed is the obvious reason,” Goll says. “Better to send a hare with half a message than a snail with a full one.”
“Or maybe the Fomorii sent him,” Tiernan counters, his bony, wrinkled fingers twitching with suspicion. “They could have conquered his clan, then muddled his senses and sent him to lure others into a trap.”
“You afford them too much respect,” Conn says. “The Fomorii we’ve fought are mindless, dim-witted creatures.”
“Aye,” Tiernan agrees. “So were ours to begin with. But they’ve changed. They’re getting more intelligent. We had a craftily hidden souterrain. One or two would find their way into it by accident every so often, but recently they attacked through it regularly, in time with those at the fence. They were thinking and planning clearly, more like humans in the way they battled.”
Conn massages his chin thoughtfully. Our one great advantage over the demons — besides the fact they can only attack at night — is that we’re smarter than them. But if there are others, brighter than those we’ve encountered...
“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Fiachna says quietly. He doesn’t normally say much, so everyone’s surprised to hear him speak. He’s been sitting next to Run Fast, examining the boy’s knife. “This boy doesn’t have the scent of demons on him. Am I right, Bec?”
I nod immediately, delighted to be publicly noticed by Fiachna. “Not a bit of a scent,” I gush, rather more breathlessly than I meant.
“He’s telling the truth,” Fiachna says. “His people need help. Run Fast was the best they could send. So they sent him, probably in blind hope.”
“What of it?” Connla snorts. I can tell by the way he’s eyeing Run Fast that he doesn’t like him. “We need help too. Our plight’s as serious as theirs. What do they expect us to do — send our men to fight their battles, leaving our women and children at the mercy of the Fomorii?” He spits into the dust.
“He puts it harshly but there’s wisdom in what my son says,” Conn murmurs. “Alliances are one thing, but begging for help like slaves... asking us to go to their aid instead of coming to us...”
“Perhaps they can’t travel,” Goll says. “Many might be wounded or old.”
“In which case they’re not worth saving,” Connla laughs. Those who follow him laugh too — wolves copying the example of their pack leader.
“We should go,” Goll growls. “Or at least send an envoy. If we ignore their pleas, perhaps ours will also be ignored when we seek assistance.”
“Only the weak ask for help,” Connla says stiffly.
Goll smiles tightly and I sense what he’s going to say next — something along the lines of “Well, it won’t be long before you ask, then!”
Luckily Conn senses it
too, and before Goll utters an insult that will demand payment in blood, the king says, “Even if we wanted to help, we don’t know where they are, and I don’t trust this empty-headed child to find his way back.”
“If the brehons were here, they could counsel us,” Fiachna says.
“Brehons!” Connla snorts. “Weren’t they the first to flee when the demons arose? Damn the brehons!”
There are mutters of agreement, even from those who don’t normally side with Connla. The lawmaking brehons deserted us when we most needed them, and few are in the mood to forgive and forget.
The men continue debating, the women sitting silently behind them, their children sleeping or playing games. On the rampart the lookouts keep watch for demons.
Goll and Fiachna are of the opinion that we should send a small group with Run Fast to help his clan. “It’s no accident that he arrived on the same day as the MacCadan,” Goll argues. “Yesterday we couldn’t have let anyone go. But our ranks have been bolstered. It’s a sign.”
“Bolstered?” Connla almost shrieks, casting a scornful glance at the four men and three women of the MacCadan.
“Connla!” his father snaps, before the hotheaded warrior disgraces our guests. When he’s sure of his son’s silence, Conn leans forward, sipping coirm, thinking hard. Like any king, he dare not ignore a possible sign from the gods. But he’s not sure this is a sign. And in a situation such as this, there’s only one person he can turn to. “Bec?”
I was expecting his query, so I’m able to keep a calm face. I’ve had time to consider my answer. I believe we’re meant to go with Run Fast. That was what the vision meant. The spirit of my mother was telling me to follow this boy.
“We should help,” I whisper. Connla rolls his eyes but I ignore him. “We’re stronger now, thanks to the MacCadan. We can spare a few of our warriors. I believe Run Fast can find his way back to his people, and I think bad luck would befall us if we refused their plea.”
Conn nods slowly. “But who to send? I don’t want to command anyone to leave. Are there volunteers...?”
“Aye,” Goll says instantly. “Since I argued the case, I have to go.”
“I’ll go too,” Fiachna says quietly.
“You?” Conn frowns. “But you’re not a warrior.”
Fiachna holds up Run Fast’s knife. “This metal is unfamiliar to me. It’s tougher than our own, yet lighter. If I knew the secret of it, I could make better weapons.” He lowers the knife. “I’ll stay if you order it, but I want to go.”
“Very well,” Conn sighs. “But you’ll travel with a guard.” He looks around to choose a warrior to send with the smith. There are many to pick from, but he’s loath to send a husband or father. So it must be one of the younger warriors. As he studies them, his expression changes and a crafty look comes into his eyes. He points to Connla. “My son will protect you.”
Connla gawks at his father. Others are surprised too. This quest is a perilous one. The land is full of demons. The chances of survival are slim. Yet Conn’s telling his own flesh and blood to leave the safety of the rath and serve as guard to a smith. Most can’t see the wisdom of it.
But I can. Conn wants his son to succeed him. But Connla is largely untested in battle and not everyone respects him. If Conn died tonight, there would be several challengers to replace him and Connla might find powerful allies hard to come by. But if he completes this task and returns with a bloodied blade and tales of glory, that would change. This could be the making of him.
And if the quest goes poorly and he dies? Well, that will be the decision of the gods. You can’t fight your destiny.
While Connla blinks stupidly at his father, the teenage twins, Ronan and Lorcan, rise. “We’ll go too,” Ronan says, brushing blood-red hair out of his eyes.
“We want to kill more demons,” Lorcan adds, tugging an earring, excited.
Conn growls unhappily. The twins are young but they’re two of our finest warriors. He doesn’t want to let them go but he can’t refuse without insulting them. In the end he nods reluctantly. “Any others?” he asks.
“Me,” a woman of the MacCadan says, taking a step forward. “Orna MacCadan. I’ll represent my clan, to repay you for your hospitality.” Orna is the female warrior I spotted earlier.
Conn smiles. “Our thanks. Now, if that’s all . . .” He looks for any final volunteers, making it clear by the way he asks that he thinks six is more than adequate.
But one last hand goes up. A tiny hand. Mine.
“I want to go too.”
Conn’s astonished. Everybody is.
“Bec,” Goll says, “this isn’t suitable for a child.”
“I’m not a child,” I retort. “I’m a priestess. Well, an apprentice priestess.”
“It will be dangerous,” Fiachna warns me. “This is a task for warriors.”
“You’re going,” I remind him, “but you’re no warrior.”
“I have to go in case there’s a smith in this village who can teach me to make better weapons,” he says.
“Maybe I can learn something too,” I reply, then face Conn. “I need to do this. I sense failure if I don’t go. I’m not sure what good I can do — maybe none at all — but I believe I must travel with them.”
Conn shakes his head, troubled. “I can’t allow this. With Banba gone, you’re our only link to the ways of magic. We need you.”
“You need Fiachna too,” I cry, “but you’re letting him go.”
“Fiachna’s a man,” Conn says sternly. “He has the right to choose.”
“So do I,” I growl, then raise my voice and repeat it, with conviction this time. “So do I! We of magic live by our own rules. I was Banba’s charge, not yours. She lived here by choice, as do I — neither of us were of this clan. You had no power over her, and you don’t have any over me. Since she’s dead, I’m my own guardian. I answer to a higher voice than any here, and that voice tells me to go. If you hold me, it will be against my will and the will of the gods.”
Brave, provocative words, which Conn can’t ignore. Although I’m no more a real priestess than any of the cows in the fields, I’m closer to the ways of magic than anybody else in the rath. Nobody dares cross me on this.
“Very well,” Conn says angrily. “We’ve pledged an ex-king, our smith, two of our best warriors, a guest, and my own son to this reckless cause — why not our young priestess too!”
And so, in a bitter, resentful fashion, my fate is decided and I’m dismissed. With a mix of fear and excitement — mostly fear — I trudge back to my hut to enjoy one final night of sheltered sleep, before leaving home in the morning, to face the demons and other dangers of the world beyond.
The River
THERE are no attacks during the night — an encouraging omen. We depart with the rising of the sun, bidding short farewells to relatives and friends. I want to look back at the huts and walls of the rath as we leave — I might never see them again — but that would be inviting bad luck, so I keep my eyes on the path ahead.
It’s a cloudy day, lots of showers, the coolness of autumn. Summer’s been late fading this year, but I can tell by sniffing the air that it’s finally passed for certain. That could be interpreted as a bad sign — the dying of a season on the day we leave — but I choose to overlook it.
We march east at a steady pace, staying close to Sionan’s river. Our boats were destroyed in a demon attack some months back, so we can’t cross the river here. We have to go east, cross where it’s narrow, then make our way west from there.
The earth is solid underfoot and there are plenty of paths through the trees, so we make good time. Ronan and Lorcan are to the fore of the pack. I’m next, with Orna and Run Fast. He’s eager to move ahead of the rest of us but we hold him back — otherwise he might disappear in the undergrowth like a rabbit. Connla and Fiachna are behind us. Connla’s sulking and hasn’t said a word since we left. Goll brings up the rear.
I brood upon my reasons for leaving the rath as
we march, feeling uneasier the more I think about it. Mostly I chose to leave because of the vision of my mother. But there was another reason — fear. The rath seemed to grow smaller every day. I felt so confined, I sometimes found it hard to breathe. I had nightmares where I was trapped, the wall of the fort closing in, ever tighter, squeezing me to death. If our worst fears come true and we fall to the hordes of demons, I don’t want to die caged in.
Is it possible I created the vision to give myself an excuse to leave? I don’t think so. I’m almost certain it was genuine. But the mind can play tricks. What if this is folly, if I’m running away from my fears into worse danger than I would have faced if I’d stayed?
If it wasn’t a trick — if the vision was real — why would the ghost of my mother send me on this deadly quest? She wouldn’t have urged me to risk my life if it wasn’t important. Maybe she wants to help me unravel the secrets of my past. I’ve always longed to know more about my mother, where I came from, who my people were. Perhaps Run Fast can help me find the truth.
If that’s just wishful thinking, and my past is to remain a secret, maybe our rath is destined to fall. My mother’s spirit might have foreseen the destruction of the MacConn and acted to spare me.
Whatever way I look at it, I realize I left for purely selfish reasons. The MacConn need me. I shouldn’t have abandoned them because I was afraid, to hunt down my original people or save myself from an oncoming disaster. I should go back. Fight with them. Use my magic to protect the clan as best I can.
But what if there’s some other reason my mother appeared, if I can somehow help the MacConn by coming on this crazy trek? Banba said we should always follow the guidance of spirits, although we had to be wary, because sometimes they could try to trick us.
Ana help me! So many possibilities — my head is hurting, thinking about them. I should stop and give my brain a rest. Besides, there’s no point worrying now. We’re more than half a day’s march from the rath. We couldn’t return to safety before nightfall. There’s no going back.
Everybody was quiet during the morning’s march, thinking about those we left behind and what lies ahead. We stopped to rest and eat at midday. Ronan and Lorcan caught a couple of rabbits, which we ate raw, along with some berries. After that, as we walked slower on our full stomachs, the talk began, low and leisurely, with Fiachna asking Orna a question about the three-bladed knives she favors.
There were lots more questions for Orna after that. Those from our rath know all there is to know about each other. Orna and Run Fast are the only mysteries in the group, and since Run Fast simply grins and looks away when you ask him anything, that leaves Orna as the focus for our curiosity.
She’s had four husbands, children by three of them. She says she likes men but has never been able to put up with one for more than a couple of years. Goll laughs at that and says the two of them should marry, since he won’t live much more than a few years.