Cold light flashed off the mud spatter from my pounding feet. The moon broke through shredding clouds, bathing my running form in its silver glare. The dogs’ yelps receded—or was that mere hope? My pace had quickened after tossing away that heavy sword, for sure. Breath seared my lungs, the fear ebbing as the murk of the snarled thicket swallowed me again. I’m not cattle, not coin. I will not be sold. With every céim, every hard-fought stride, the distance from that place grew.
The shouts of my father’s men followed on the night air, spurring me to leap the stagnant pools. Behind, splashes as my pursuers floundered. Their hounds blundered from one ditch into another, the bog’s jumble of dank, heavy odours confusing my scent. Briars tore at clothing and skin as the tangled undergrowth conspired to snare me. My only hope was to put space between us before they too escaped that suffocating greallach.
Once free of the marsh, the path grew firmer underfoot, a drover’s track cutting through dense oak woodland. The wind blowing cool against the back of my fresh-shaved head confirmed my eastward course towards the coast—but where would that lead me? No longer encumbered by the stolen sword, my focus remained fixed on the trail before me. Every moment counted. I run from the silent faces, from the darkened places—a breathless chant matching the rhythm of my naked feet, driving me onwards. I run from your shackles.
A light ahead, a dim flicker from a window—somewhere to hide? Closer, a small building emerged from the darkness, standing upon a raised clearing. Oblong walls of rough-hewn planks, roof-stays jutting like bull horns at the apex. A dairteach—a Christian house. A place of sanctuary, so the slaves claimed. The track remained empty, thanks be to Sionna, and the door swung open at my push.
Inside, all was still, save for my gasping breath. The rank stench of tallow filled the space and my sight adjusted to the darkness after the brilliance of the moon. At first, the strange little hut appeared unoccupied. Safe. Further in, the light of a small lantern danced to the draught of my entrance, throwing a wavering shadow across the oaken walls.
A robed figure moved. The lamp’s shimmer painted a face. My breath caught, stride faltering, edging me back towards the door with a pounding heart.
Eyes, bright in the flame, regarded me. “Falcha.” The voice that uttered the welcome was soft, accented. A man. My skin crawled. From the wolf I fled, into its den I fell. Turas in aisce~all for nothing.
My instinct was to run, but that would deliver me into the hands of my father’s thugs. Gobbán—who else would they send? Trapped once more, my heart raced. The only way was forward. My shaking hand felt for mother’s blade in my belt.
He spoke again at my approach. “Muin do pen!” His warning came just in time for me to duck beneath a low beam. The manner he pronounced the word head, cenn, as pen recalled the foreign captives at my parents’ court. Doubtless he was from across the middle sea, from the island of the Bretans. He rose, the hood of his garment falling. Shorter than me, but many men were. He wore his hair close-cropped. Softness around the eyes. A kind look. He motioned for me to enter deeper into his lair.
“Cabhraigh liom.” He frowned at my words. The captives’ pleas echoed in my mind. “Gouret mi.”
Understanding, he smiled and stepped forwards. My body shrank away. “Pax tibi.” Sound without meaning. “Seeth. Peace,” he clarified, as his gaze moved over me, but not in the lustful manner so familiar. “I thought you were a lad.”
My ears were growing accustomed to his slow, meticulous speech. “Help me.” I repeated, pointing back towards the entrance. “They would harm me.”
“Who?”
“My father’s men.” My eyes darted to the door. “They have dogs.”
He paused for a moment before stretching out his arm. “Give me your cloak.”
What did he mean?
“Quick. Tawer dom do koata. Ledder hull.” With his fingers, he pinched out the lamp on the table. The only light came from the moon’s silvery glow spilling through the narrow window. Unsure, the fine woven shawl slipped from my shoulders into his outstretched arms. Was he trustworthy? What choice was there? “Hide. Be silent.” He pointed to a board dividing the space. “Now, duck behind the screen.” The door closed, leaving me alone.
After stepping over the wooden barrier, I crouched down, as instructed. No sound broke the peace. Without the shawl and my bristín and tunic wet from the bog, cold seeped through me. My body curled itself tight on the oaken planks, striving to fall through the cracks. Eyes squeezed shut, the sting from raw scratches on my arms returned. Long before, I’d learnt how to disappear—stay unmoving, relax, breath measured and quiet. I fold myself small, withdraw from the world, vanish inside my head. I’m invisible.
That morning was a lifetime ago. Mother’s anger at my disobedience. The hazel switch cutting my skin. She had instructed Comol to hold me whilst she left. My foster-brother’s rough hands dug into my arms; his foul reek assaulted my nose. A vile snigger the only sound from that one. The familiar sense of helplessness gripped me, as so often before, when my mother put me to her purposes.
She returned with a scían—a shearing knife—and, grasping my hair, yanked it taut. The sharp edge scraped across my skull and black locks fell about my feet. Without another glance or word, she dropped the implement and stomped from the room.
The moment the boy released me, stooping, my fingers closed around the reassuring hardness of the discarded blade. Time froze and our eyes met for a heartbeat. I see his blood run, hear his screams die.
Not this day. He didn’t move when I stood to dash out through the great hall. My father’s sword hung from the roof post as always, daylight glinting off the green jewel in its hilt. Unsure why, my hand ripped it from its hook as I hurried out the entrance towards the trees. They must not catch me again, but who would offer me sanctuary?
“Sister.” A whisper jerked me awake, stiff and cold. The moon was no longer visible through the opening, and a hooded shadow loomed above me. The present returned and my heart stilled. “They are gone. The dogs took the scent, and I doubled back up the stream.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Bellaus. This is a house of prayer. Here I share the good news of Jesus.”
The Christian cult, my guess correct. Again, like the British slaves.
“Fionnabhair is ainm dom,” I said, placing a hand on my chest. “No longer could I remain in my home.”
“Fe’un-avair,” he repeated in his peculiar speech. “Peace be with you.”
To be continued…
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