The water was too still. Too quiet. No wind. The face of The Dagda’s vessel cut across the surface with little trouble, so oars pulling it at a surprising speed. Above, the sky boiled in grays soft and cruel. Not unusual for it was not yet time to planting the grain. Yet still it mocked the meaning of this day. Mocked Caoimhín with its joyous dancing so far above, and he was not one to be mocked. Not after the last five harvests.
He wore a tunic specially woven for this moment, its rough cloth colored in a mixture of the darkest earth and the shining deep red of blood. Skins were wrapped around his feet and lower legs, bound tight and painted with protective runes. He wore a pelt to hold back the chill and occasional spray from the ocean, and was glad for this. It would not do for his body to be covered with water on such a day; it might give the wrong impression to his enemies. To those he despised.
His boat was the lead of three. Simple crafts built from carved wood, their interior wrapped tightly with the black, gleaming skins of large creatures from the sea. What had he been told they were? Seals? An odd name for a fish. The boat was barely large enough for him and six oarsmen, three to each side. They carried the same basic look as Caoimhín and had initially wrapped themselves in skins against the chill. But now all those lay on the floor, for the simple act of thrusting their oars into the water provided heat enough for them.
Caoimhín's brother, Mícheál, was at the helm. Their passage was swifter than expected, due to the silence of the wind and the ease of the sea. Behind them, the crafts kept pace carrying men Caoimhín had known since boyhood. Again, all of them with the same dark hair and strong feel, and not one of them unscarred. Not one of them willing to back away from what they knew was to come. He was proud to have them with him.
Caoimhín looked to his left at the endless ocean. It could carry a man to the edge of the world, and he thought for a moment it might be better to aim for that...but what would he then find? Another life to live? Anything? Nothing? Would he even be allowed to make the journey? He could see hints of anger in the water beyond a certain point. The Dagda’s fine boats would not easily cross there.
No.
No, that way was for cowards, and Caoimhín refused to number himself with the likes of them. He had seen too many in recent times. What good was a life lived without honor? Without self-respect? He had learned this lesson in ways hard and brutal. Vicious and cruel. He could not toss it aside on a whim.
He sighed and looked to his right at the black rocks that towered above them. Taller than a hundred men. Brutal and unyielding, slashed here and there by hints of green, with more grass on top. The edge of his past domain. He had once been to the top of those rocks and thought that was the end of the world, but then had looked down to see, so far below, creatures of the air, white birds with wide wings whispering above the water as it thundered up with white foam to shatter itself against them. Small wonder he had thought this was the end of the earth, and beyond nothing but angry water. It was not hard to believe. The wind had pulled at him in ways inhuman, back then. Almost trying to carry him over the edge. But now? Now the silence was there, as well, and the water barely touched the base of the rocks.
No winged creatures danced amongst the crevices and caves it held, today. It seemed all of them were above him. A flock of white birds on the wing, thick in number and so silent it was as if they did not truly exist. They paced his boats, hovering above them, easy and steady, like a soft shield of protection. No cries from them. No mewing. No diving into the water for a fish to feast upon, not like they would do when his men drew in their nets from the water, near home. Then, they would steal anything they could, like rats. But today?
Today, they were his honor guard. Caoimhín chuckled. What a silly thing to believe. Something a child would think. Something Mícheál might still think, him being the sensitive one. The one still connected to the earth. The one who had warned them it would come to this. Who had all but begged Caoimhín to follow his head and not his heart. Who had been labeled coward by many, but who also bore the honorable marks of battle.
Caoimhín cast a gentle look back at his brother. Received a near smile in answer. Younger by two summers, his face was even more open and honest. His hair like the rich earth that brought forth grains. His eyes soft and the color of slate. One could see how their features lightly shadowed each other, but where Caoimhín was like the trunk of Fedlimid, Mícheál was the branches of Aoibhinn, the gentle willow, who stood with her sisters by the narrow stream passing their settlement. The younger man was just as powerful as they in his willingness to bend and not break. It was with no hesitation Caoimhín now thought of him as the bravest of them all. For he had foretold what would happen and had refused to be set aside, not even from the ordeal to come. Not even from today.
No comments:
Post a Comment