Island of Shadows Read online

  The Island of Shadows

  Peter Tremayne

  © Peter Tremayne, 1991

  Peter Tremayne has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Mandarin 1991.

  This edition published in 2017 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Her skin, like chalk.

  Her cheek, a rose.

  While clear and bright her watchful eyes.

  Dexterous as a wind-blown hawk.

  Agile in the hunt.

  In combat — invincible,

  For she is the raven’s daughter.

  Wise beyond a druid’s wisdom.

  Champions tremble at her coming,

  Praising the gods for her leaving.

  Such is the mighty Scáthach of the Island of Shadows!

  -Maelsuthan Ua Cerbaill d. AD 1010

  Chapter One

  The sun was high in the cloudless heavens. It was a hot day with just the faintest of breezes to shift the listless canvas which hung from the tall masts of the ship, pushing it reluctantly over the calm, flat waters, on which a myriad gold and silver lights sparkled in the noonday brilliance. The forward motion of the vessel was scarcely discernible.

  Rónán Mac Méin stood on the stern deck and surveyed the blue stretches of the ocean around him with deep green eyes which reflected the changing moods of the sea. He was a short, stocky man, with greying, close-cropped hair; a grizzled veteran of forty years of sea-faring. His skin was brown, tanned by the sea winds almost to the colour of nut except where a scar spread from the corner of his left eye across his cheek to his thin, grim mouth; a livid scar, lending a fearsome feature to his unsmiling countenance. Rónán Mac Méin was captain of the squat merchant ship, the Cáoc, whose black, ponderous lines bore no resemblance to the jackdaw after which it was named. More was it like a lumbering porpoise than a sleek bird as it bobbed and drifted before the faint winds. Twice that morning Rónán Mac Méin had ordered his men to wet the sails in order to coax more leeway out of the wind. But it was a hot day and the sails quickly dried.

  The Cáoc was a full day out from the coast of Gallia bearing a cargo of wines for the merchants of the kingdom of Mumhan in Éireann. A full day out and the ship was barely halfway to the southern coastline of Mumhan so slow were the winds, so calm the seas. The Cáoc seemed to drift aimlessly.

  Rónán Mac Méin squinted his sea-green eyes into the golden brightness of the hanging orb and sighed.

  It was to be expected. After all, this was the day of the sun-standing, the grian-tairisem, or the summer solstice. Sometimes a ship could be becalmed for days in the breezeless periods. And yet the auguries had shown that it was an auspicious time to make the voyage. Rónán Mac Méin compressed his lips and his eyes darted to the straight-backed figure of the woman who stood in the well of the ship, hands on the rail, staring northwards as if expecting to catch sight of the distant shadowy coastline of Éireann. Yes, it had been Buimech herself who had pronounced the augury two nights ago, calculating the age of the moon and the position of the stars in their girdle around the sun. And was not Buimech the Learned renowned for her wisdom throughout the entire land of Éireann? Buimech who had once faulted the chief druid of Éireann before the High King himself! If Buimech the Learned declared the auguries to be favourable, who was Rónán Mac Mein, a simple mariner, to argue with her?

  Yet the breezes were becoming negligible, the forward motion of the ship was imperceptible. The Cáoc was truly becalmed.

  Once again, the ageing captain let out a deep sigh.

  Better it might have been had he refused to allow Buimech and her husband, Eola, to take passage on his ship. Who knew what ill-fortune a female druid could bring on shipboard? A few more days in Gallia would have ensured the tide and winds. Yet Buimech had said it was an auspicious time to start the voyage. If only he had been possessed of the courage to refuse Buimech passage; if only he had made some excuse. But what excuse could he have given which the all-seeing eye of a druid would not see through and realise the fear which lurked in his mind?

  Even if the pragmatic Rónán Mac Méin was not in awe of the druidic powers and knowledge of Buimech, he was in awe of her husband Eola for Eola’s academy of martial arts at Uibh Rathach was famous throughout the world. Not only did the great champions of the Fianna, the High King’s bodyguard, go to Eola for their tuition but champions and would-be champions from many lands took the voyage to Mumhan in search of Uibh Rathach. Eola, with his tall, sinewy frame, and stern, unmoving eyes, was one to put fear in the cowardly and respect in the brave. When Eola made a request, it was an order to lesser men.

  Even Ablach, the mate of the Cáoc, who had been against taking Buimech and Eola aboard from the start, was afraid of them and from his fear sprang forth hatred.

  In the well of the ship Buimech turned and glanced at Rónán Mac Méin. The grizzled captain of the Cáoc stood staring into her eyes for a moment. In spite of the fact that Buimech was beyond her middle years, the face was strikingly attractive, a face beyond mere beauty with its white skin and splattering of freckles, the tinge of red on the cheek bones, bright blue eyes, and flaming red hair matching the redness of her mouth. Those bright blue eyes stared straight into those of Rónán Mac Méin and held his gaze. Softly a smile, a secret smile of knowledge, turned the corners of the woman’s mouth; a smile as if Buimech knew what manner of thoughts echoed in the captain’s mind.

  Rónán Mac Méin bit his lip and dropped his gaze in embarrassment.

  Buimech turned with her soft smile to continue gazing at the sea’s endless vista.

  A moment later there was a soft footfall behind her.

  Buimech did not turn.

  ‘A gentle day, husband,’ she said quietly.

  Too gentle for the likes of our captain and his crew,’ replied a strong male voice. They grow impatient for the wind.’

  They will have it soon, Eola,’ Buimech replied confidently, turning to meet the gaze of her husband.

  Eola was a tall man, above six feet in height, with dark, shoulder-length hair, greying at the temples. On his forehead was the golden circlet of a hero which the High King, Baitin Mac Tigernma, had fixed there with his own hand when Eola had become chieftain of the Fianna at Teamhair. Eola was now approaching two score and ten years and was over a score of years older than when he had resigned from the leadership of the High King’s bodyguard. A score of years older than the time he had set up his academy of martial arts at Uibh Rathach. Even though most regarded him as being beyond military age, yet there was not a champion in all Éireann, not in the world beyond, who could best Eola at any weapon — not sword, javelin nor bow. Eola was their master and he could cast a spear from a galloping horse or a rocking chariot at full speed and still expect to find a bull’s-eye nineteen times out of twenty. He was still a handsome man, with a broad forehead and warm brown eyes, whose well-muscled frame bore itself with a noble dignity. A figure which put to shame many young men half his age and less.

  Eola smiled at his wife.
/>   ‘Are you certain the wind will come?’

  ‘As certain as the moon will rise. But the moon does not rise before the appointed hour and neither will the wind come before the appointed time.’

  Eola knew better than to question his wife further. Had they not been man and wife for thirty years and had he not seen enough examples of her druidic craft to know that when she said a thing was to be then it would be so?

  The hours passed, weary and breathless.

  The crew, with nothing to do until the wind came up, sat on the deck, some playing brandubh, the board game of black raven, while others spoke together nervously, as if they were conscious of their voices disturbing the midday quiet. Rónán Mac Méin had ordered the sails to be soaked again but there was no wind, not even a breath now. The ship was totally still.

  ‘Ho, the deck!’

  The cry of the lookout at the mainmast caused eyes to be turned upward in his direction. The man had flung an outstretched hand to the west. Eyes turned to follow it.

  ‘What do you see?’ demanded Rónán Mac Mein, his voice grating like an ancient capstan in the quiet.

  ‘A cloud! A cloud which speeds over the ocean!’

  There was a murmuring as the sailors ran for the port rail of the ship, eyes staring towards the western horizon.

  It was but a moment before they saw what the lookout, from his higher elevation, had spotted.

  It looked as if there was a great white cloud billowing and rolling towards them at sea level.

  Rónán Mac Méin drew his breath sharply. Never in all his years at sea had he witnessed such a phenomenon. The murmuring among the sailors was growing now and one or two of them were looking anxiously towards the druidess, Buimech. The grizzled captain joined with furtive gaze the anxious glances. Buimech had crossed the well of the ship with her husband and together they stood calmly, examining the oncoming white cloud.

  ‘What manner of misfortune is this?’ demanded one of the sailors, calling out to Rónán Mac Mein.

  The grizzled captain forced a smile.

  ‘By the gods! Have you never seen a heat cloud before?

  Have you never seen the haze rise over a meadow on a summer’s morning?’

  ‘That I have,’ replied Ablach, the mate, before the sailor could answer. ‘But not such a haze as this which moves in such a manner without the wind.’

  ‘But it means that the wind is coming,’ insisted Rónán, with more confidence in his voice than he felt.

  Again he glanced at Buimech, hoping to have some confirmation of his assertion. The druidess stood ignoring the consternation of the crew, standing with folded arms watching the approaching cloud with a faint smile on her lips.

  The white billows grew closer, stretching well up above the height of the main mast and spreading a great distance across the sea, rolling inexorably forward like the waves of the restless ocean.

  ‘Hands to quarters!’ yelled Rónán Mac Méin. ‘Stand by to wear the ship!’

  It was wise to prepare for any contingency.

  The cloud rolled forward, bursting over the ship like a great tidal wave, rolling over and encompassing it. It seemed suddenly that the great orb of the sun was blotted out, and the Cáoc was enveloped in a cold, clinging dampness which caused its captain to shiver. The ship was entrapped in a dense mist of milky whiteness, so thick was it that it was painful to take a breath. Visibility became confined to simply a yard or two.

  ‘Break out the torches!’ cried Rónán Mac Mein, but his voice seemed muffled in the surrounding gloom.

  He heard voices calling but they, too, were faint and muffled. No one acknowledged his command.

  He cursed softly and began to stumble forward to the locker in search of tinder, flint and steel.

  Then he halted. A strange smell began to pervade the ship. A sickly sweet smell of rotting seaweed, a strong pungent odour which caused him to catch his breath and retch at the putrefaction. Then he heard a low rumbling noise, like the sound of far-off thunder.

  Abruptly, the mist was gone. The cloud that had passed over the Cáoc was sweeping away.

  Rónán Mac Méin stood staring after it, hardly believing the evidence of his own eyes. The great bank of mist was rolling in a circle, sweeping around the ship and then turning back to the west in the direction in which it had come.

  The strangest aspect of this was that not once had he felt the hint of a wind, not once had there been the touch of a breeze. The Cáoc stood just as becalmed as it had been before. Within minutes, the great white cloud had disappeared beyond the sea’s western rim. The grizzled captain stood staring after it, still as a statue. Finally, slowly, he licked his lips and whispered: ‘May all the gods of the Dé Danaan stand between me and evil!’

  ‘Deck ho! Something in the sea.’

  The cry of the lookout at the mainmast was sharpened with fear.

  ‘Where away?’ demanded Rónán, drawing himself together.

  ‘Port side. Something in the water!’

  The captain hurried to the port rail and stared down at the calm blue waters. A dark, rectangular object was bobbing on the sea. His eyes narrowed. It was like a casket of some sort, about four feet in length and two feet in width and perhaps two feet in depth, though part of it was under the water so that it was difficult to assess the exact measurement.

  The casket seemed to be drifting towards the Cáoc.

  ‘Haul it in,’ ordered Rónán, returning his wondering gaze to the western horizon.

  There was now no sign of the cloud; no sign of anything disturbing the hot, breathless day.

  It took a while before the casket was drawn up over the side of the Cáoc and deposited in the well of the ship.

  Rónán came down from the stern deck to where his crewmen had surrounded the object.

  His expert seaman’s eyes had been accurate as to its dimensions and closer examination showed it to be a casket of carved wood, a wood the like of which he had never encountered before; a black, shiny wood, which seemed as light as cork. Strange whorls and circles were inscribed all over the box while on its lid stood a strange triskele-shaped design.

  There is a gold latch here, Rónán,’ muttered one of the sailors, pointing to the clasp which seemed to keep the lid in its place.

  ‘Could it be a casket of treasure?’ muttered Ablach, a greed entering his speculative gaze.

  Another member of the crew laughed sharply. ‘Is there no sense in you? With the lightness of the box, how do you expect a great treasure to be stowed inside?’

  ‘Let’s open it,’ Ablach suggested.

  Rónán Mac Méin moved forward, shouldering the others aside, and reached down, flicking back the latch. Then, pausing momentarily, he lifted up the lid which fell back on hinges.

  Inside was a bed of silken cushions of bright colours. Lying wrapped in a long green shawl, fringed with golden threads and tassels, was a small baby which opened its wide light green eyes and chuckled at their staring faces. It was no more than a few weeks old, with a faint covering of red hair on its pink scalp. It gurgled contentedly there, both little hands clenched into fists. In one fist it held a small golden chain to which was attached a medallion. Even without picking it up, Rónán could see that it was a reflection of the triskele symbol borne on the lid of the casket.

  ‘By the gods of the De Danaan!’ whispered Rónán softly.

  For a long while no one spoke as they stood in a stupefied circle gazing down at the chuckling child.

  ‘This is a bad omen,’ declared Ablach. ‘First we are becalmed, then came that awesome cloud and now we find a child in the middle of the ocean, far away from landfall. The child must be some spirit of ill-fortune.’

  ‘Throw it back whence it came!’ another seaman suggested in agreement.

  ‘No! That you shall not do.’

  The soft yet commanding tone of Buimech cut through the sullen murmurs of agreement which echoed from the crew.

  Rónán stared at the druidess.


  ‘Do you have knowledge of this?’ he asked, gesturing at the casket.

  ‘I have,’ replied Buimech, ignoring Eola’s worried frown as he stood at her side.

  ‘Knowledge or not,’ cried Ablach, ‘the child will be sent back to the place whence it came. We want nothing of sorcery or evil!’

  Buimech raised a slender hand to quell the muttering of their discordant voices.

  ‘You will not throw the child back. That much is written in the sky as surely as you can tell the ages of the moon at night.’

  ‘What would you have us do, Buimech?’ asked the grizzled captain with reluctance in his voice.

  ‘Give the child to me and proceed on your way to Mumhan.’

  Rónán laughed sourly.

  ‘One task is easy, but the other … how will we proceed when there is no wind?’

  ‘The wind will come,’ Buimech assured him.

  Ablach stood scowling at the druidess.

  ‘I say the wind will only come when we have thrown this child of ill-omen back to the waves and appeased the anger of Manánnan Mac Lir, the ocean god, who will then cause the wind to blow for us!’

  He took a pace forward, a gnarled hand on a wicked looking knife in his belt. His face showed his evil intent.

  ‘It shall be as I say,’ Buimech insisted without raising her voice.

  ‘Then I say you shall be given the child and both of you shall be cast over the side,’ sneered Ablach, drawing the knife.

  ‘Sheath the knife, sailor, or you will never see the green shores of Éireann again.’

  Eola stepped forward before his wife. He spoke measuredly and softly. His stern eyes gazed reflectively at the seaman. The man blinked at the tall warrior. He stood uncertainly. Yet what had he to fear? Eola was unarmed. No sword nor knife was carried in his belt. And Ablach was far younger than the man. True he had heard that the man had once been a warrior but that was long ago. Yet why did the old man seem so confident? Ablach hesitated and licked his lips. A soft smile hovered on Eola’s lips; the smile of hidden knowledge, for in that moment the sailor had given away his hesitation, his uncertainty. And in uncertainty there was defeat.