Island of Shadows Read online

  Then, at the moment of dawn, Buimech took the torch and moved forward to stand at the foot of the pyre. She called in a loud voice filled with genuine anguish.

  ‘Sorrowful to me to be in life after my husband, Eola, has gone on to the Otherworld. Sad my eye and withered my clay since we have watched at his funeral bed.’

  Then she plunged the torch into the birch scrub and each mourner came forward, a small bunch of twigs held in their left hand which they threw onto the funeral pyre in token gesture, before returning to their place and giving voice to a soft wrailing, rising and falling, falling and rising as they marked the passing of Eola to the Otherworld.

  Behind Buimech, Scáthach shivered softly. Since she was a child she had always had a fear of death. Not of meeting death in battle but of the place of the dead to which her father’s ashes would soon be transported. It conjured up the unpleasant visions of dark, brooding forests, and rotting vegetation, of dank-smelling earth and the scurry of half-unseen creatures of the night. Yet the girl fought back her fears, just as she had fought them back all her childhood for she knew that both Eola and Buimech would scold her for them. So she stood silently, with lips compressed, by the bier whose eager flames were consuming her father’s mortal remains, suppressing the fearfulness that was in her heart.

  It was evening at Uibh Rathach when Buimech led her adopted daughter to a special room in which Scáthach had never been before. It was a room which had its only entrance from the sleeping chamber of Eola and Buimech.

  Buimech smiled sadly at the girl.

  ‘The time has come when I must tell you of what I know of your origins, my daughter.’

  Scáthach was puzzled.

  ‘What has that to do with the assassins of my father?’ she demanded. ‘Rather than listen to such stories, I should be leading a troop of warriors in chasing those assassins and exacting retribution for what they have done.’

  Buimech shook her head.

  ‘Time for that.’

  ‘But they fly farther away with each moment,’ the girl insisted. ‘The sooner I start, the sooner will I have a chance to catch up with them.’

  ‘There is much you must know first,’ Buimech said evenly, unlocking the door to the side chamber and, taking a lighted torch, ushering the girl inside.

  The chamber was a simple store room. Some of Eola’s favourite weapons hung around the walls, while boxes stood here and there. At one end of the room was an ornately decorated casket. It was to this object that Buimech moved.

  ‘Mother!’ There was exasperation in Scáthach’s voice. This is nothing but a delay. I am losing precious time.’

  Buimech did not respond to the girl’s irritation, instead she simply pointed to the casket.

  ‘Look!’ she commanded softly.

  Scáthach bent forward and peered at the box. It was rectangular and of carved wood but a wood such as she had never seen before; a black, shining wood. And it was covered with strange whorls and circles incised over its surface and on the centre of the lid was a curious triskele design.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded the girl.

  ‘That was the casket in which Eola and I found you.’

  Scáthach frowned. Eola and Buimech had made no secret of the fact that she was their adopted daughter. Buimech had always told her that when the time was opportune she would reveal all she knew of the girl’s background. But why now? Why now, when every minute was valuable in tracking down the slayers of her father?

  Buimech took from the cask a golden medallion on which the same triskele design was engraved.

  ‘You were clutching this in your hand when we found you,’ she said quietly. ‘It bears the same symbol as that which was on the box. Take it now and wear it. It will mean much to you.’

  ‘But why tell me this now?’ Scáthach asked, taking the medallion and placing it around her neck, hardly noticing it.

  Buimech turned aside and took a shield which was leaning against the wall.

  ‘Eola slew several of his enemies before he died. Each of them bore a shield, this is one of them. Look at it, my daughter.’

  Scáthach gazed on it; her eyes widened slightly.

  It bore the same curious triskele design as on the casket and the medallion at her neck.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she whispered.

  Buimech sighed softly.

  ‘What it means, my child, is that I think the assassins came in search of you.’

  Scáthach stared at Buimech, hearing the words but not quite taking in their meaning.

  The elder woman reached forward and, setting aside the shield with its strange device, drew the girl into the other chamber and sat her down.

  ‘I told you that the strangers came here for a purpose; that they appeared to be looking for something … or someone. Years ago, when you were cast upon the seas in that casket, you were clearly meant to die. Eola and I found the casket by the will of the ocean god. The triskele symbol, carved on that casket, and on the medallion which you now wear, my child, is the only clue as to the land of your origin. And now, from the sea, strange warriors arrive with their shields bearing the same symbol. They search and destroy. I believe that those who sought to put you to death as a baby have now learnt that you still live. They were sent to kill you, Scáthach.’

  The girl gazed up at Buimech, still scarcely comprehending what she heard.

  After a while she said: ‘Tell me how you found me and what you know of my origins.’

  It was a while before Buimech finished her account.

  ‘Such is the story of your coming, Scáthach,’ she ended with eyes unnaturally bright. ‘All this was written in the heavens at the time. I knew it. Yet I thought there was still time, time for you to grow a little more before your destiny took charge.’

  The girl regarded her step-mother sadly.

  ‘It is sad that I have caused the death of Eola.’

  Buimech shrugged.

  ‘It was written,’ she repeated, but the indifference she tried to display was betrayed by the uneven tone of her voice. ‘Now it means that you must begin to tread the path the heavens have set out for you. You must leave Uibh Rathach and seek the land whence those marauders came. You must learn the meaning of the triskele symbol and how you are connected with it. You must find out why you were cast away to die on the high seas, why the warriors who bear the triskele symbol are still afraid of you, so afraid that they must search you out to kill you.’

  Scáthach pursed her lips in perplexity.

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Understanding will only come when you have learnt the meaning of the symbol.’

  ‘But how am I to find out where these assassins came from?’ protested the girl. ‘Had I left at once, while their trail was fresh … ’ She shrugged helplessly as she realised the futility of the task. ‘Ships leave no trails to follow across the sea.’

  A soft smile crossed Buimech’s face.

  ‘Nevertheless, you will follow them. And you must set out from Uibh Rathach alone.’

  ‘Alone?’ the girl protested. ‘But there are many who would volunteer to accompany me from Uibh Rathach to avenge Eola’s death.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is your destiny to go alone.’

  ‘I … I do not think I am ready,’ Scáthach said.

  ‘Not ready?’ smiled Buimech sadly.

  ‘I am ready in arms but I still retain the fears of my youth, my mother.’

  ‘Then you must find ways to discard them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What causes you fear?’

  The girl hesitated.

  ‘I am afraid of the place of the dead ones …

  ‘That is natural, my daughter. But one day you will learn that death is simply part of life.’

  ‘I fear my inabilities: I fear that powerful monsters lurk in the shadows against which my sword is powerless.’

  Buimech sighed.

  ‘One day you will learn to meet the monsters from the shadows and slay t
hem. Then you will truly be the champion of Uibh Rathach. You are ready, Scáthach. You are ready to commence your journey and go in search of your destiny and let us pray to the gods that you will find yourself along the road.’

  For a few moments Scáthach was silent and then she bowed her head to her mother.

  ‘There is none wiser than my mother, Buimech,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me what path I must tread.’

  ‘Your first step on this path, my daughter, is to find a sailor … he must be an old man now. Seek out Rónán Mac Mein. He was the captain of the ship called the Cáoc in which Eola and I were travelling when we found you.’

  ‘How could he help?’ frowned the girl.

  ‘By his knowledge of the tides and currents of the sea. From such knowledge he might be able to tell you at what spot the casket was placed in the sea. By following the tides and currents you will discover the shore of the land of your birth and thence the meaning of the symbol and why death is stalking your path.’

  ‘Where can I find this Rónán Mac Mein?’

  ‘You must ask for him in the taverns of the sea-ports of Mumhan.’

  Buimech reached forward and drew the girl to her in one long, hard embrace.

  ‘Go now, my child. Begin to tread your allotted path. This is where I must stop. For it is written.’

  ‘I will go,’ Scáthach said, fighting back the tears. ‘But I will return having taken vengeance on those who slew Eola. I will bring you back their heads so that you may display them as a warning to any who would slay by treachery.’

  Buimech shook her head, holding the girl by the shoulders at arm’s length.

  ‘No. You will not return. Neither will I be here. For this much is written. I cannot see whether you will succeed or fail. The gifts that were given me by the gods are finite. But this much I know: Eola’s death was an act to shame both the gods and men. His was an unlawful slaughter and therefore there is only one form of protest open to me. Soon I will follow Eola to the Otherworld.’

  Scáthach opened her mouth to object but snapped it shut again. She knew that such a protest was useless. Buimech was choosing the ancient form of protest, a ritual as old as Éireann itself — a ritual fast to the death so that the whole world might know and be shamed by the unlawful killing of her husband. She knew that nothing she could say would dissuade Buimech from her intention.

  ‘Burn the memory of the triskele symbol into your memory, my daughter,’ whispered Buimech. ‘Remember its every curve and line, lest you lose that medallion. Then take your weapons and go and may the gods that brought you safely to Eola and me guide your footsteps in your quest.’

  Scáthach drew herself up to her full height and gazed softly into the face of her step-mother. Her mouth was compressed tightly and she blinked back the tears that threatened to flood down her cheeks. She knew now that it would be for the last time that she beheld Buimech’s features.

  ‘May the gods be with you, mother … my mother.’ Then she turned away, full of grief and controlled fury, her mouth set into a thin narrow line. Already the triskele symbol was engraved vividly upon her memory. She did not need the piece of gold metal around her neck to remind her. Every detail, every line, was as sharp in her mind’s eye as if she had the object before her. She took up her weapons, her sword, spear and shield, and strode through the still smoking ruins of Uibh Rathach. It had been the only world she had ever known, a world of kindliness and comfort. Now it was no more. Gone were those she had loved as her only parents. Who would comfort her now when she feared the shadows of the night and the terrors of the place of the dead, when she feared the shadows of her own mind? Now she had no one, no one but herself on whom to rely. The survivors of Eola’s household stood watching her go in silence. She walked with her shoulders back, head high, looking neither to right nor left, not acknowledging them. But they knew. They could see the tears streaming from her eyes in spite of the firm set of her jaw. She turned out of the gates of the great fortress and marched down the valley road towards the seashore.

  Chapter Three

  The sun was high in the heavens as Scáthach reached the crossroads. She halted and gazed around her. The main road, the one which she had been following, led from the west due eastward in a straight line. It was a long, uninterrupted and uninteresting track; mile after mile of predictability. But at this juncture another roadway turned off to the south into a wild and desolate countryside, a grey, stony land of granite and jagged hills. Desolate, yes; but with the sun shining on the land, it seemed possessed of a fierce beauty.

  For four days now Scáthach had travelled along the coastline of Mumhan, one of the great kingdoms of the land of Éireann. Four days inquiring at each port for news of the ancient sailor, Rónán Mac Mein. Several people had heard of him, for apparently his name was renowned among the sea-ports, but it had only been at the last village that the keeper of the local hostel had definite news.

  Take the road to Dun na Sead, the fort of jewels, and you will find him there.’

  ‘Where is this place?’ Scáthach had demanded.

  ‘It lies on the tip of one of the remote peninsulas of the country,’ the hosteler had replied. ‘It is a port, a small port at the end of a remote road. It is there, at the fort of jewels, that you will find Rónán Mac Méin for he was born there and he has returned to die there.’

  The girl had pressed for further directions and finally set off with light enough heart, swinging along the road, blood tingling in anticipation of the nearness of the object of her search. Finally, she had come to the crossroads from where the roadway to Dun na Sead left the main highway and swung southwards down the peninsula towards its furthest tip.

  She paused and sat for a moment on a roadside boulder which obviously marked the boundary division of a clan land. She could not interpret the Ogham which marked the territorial division for the characters were worn and faded with age. For a while she rested in the gentle heat of the sun, eyes closed as she relaxed in its comfort. She had scarcely slept these last four days. She felt exhausted. Four days and nights she had existed on nervous energy, her mind too active to succumb to sleep. But now, now her body was demanding what her mind had refused to give. Sleep. She needed sleep. She felt herself drifting. Then she shook herself, realising that it would not do to tarry for long. She must reach the port before dark and she had not been able to ascertain exactly how long it would take to travel the roadway into Dun na Sead.

  She stood up, stretched a moment and set out again, moving away from the main highway and following the road among the granite hills.

  For the last four days her mind had been filled with thoughts and memories of Eola and Buimech. Above all, she kept going over the story of how Eola and Buimech found her cast away in a casket on the high seas. Ever since she was old enough to understand, Eola and Buimech had not kept from her the fact that she was not their own child. That had not mattered to her. Eola and Buimech had expended on her all the love and care that any natural parents could. She had wanted for nothing. But that was not to say that she had been spoilt or pandered to.

  Both Eola and Buimech had always been there to comfort her in times of need but they had also taught her to stand on her own two feet, to be independent in all things. And they had imparted many of their skills to the girl. From Eola had come the skill of how to handle weapons, of how to defend oneself with minimal injury to one’s opponents. For the true code of a champion was not to inflict injury but to defend oneself and others from hurt. From Eola had also come the skills of the hunt. Buimech had taught her the reflective side of human nature, and how to cure pain and sickness with a druid’s skills, and to understand and live at one with nature instead of seeking to dominate it. Indeed, from both her foster parents had come the philosophy of the great harmony of the universe. That everything was related and needed to be treated with respect. For out of disharmony comes crisis and destruction.

  Scáthach hoped that Eola and Buimech had taught her well for she would have
need of their skills before her journey was through; of that she was sure. She worried as she thought more, for deep within her she was afraid that she was not entirely at one with herself and nature. From her childhood she had possessed fears of shadows, of things intangible and unseen and, in spite of Eola and Buimech, they remained with her. She hoped, desperately, that she would overcome those fears as Buimech said she would, but …

  The raucous laughter halted her in her tracks. Her day-dream shattered as she beheld the broad, stocky figure of a man in her path. He was an ugly man, bearded, with bulbous nose and a sneering expression on his dirty features. His clothes were ill-cared for. He wore a tarnished helmet, carried a buckler on one arm and an impressive workmanlike sword in his right hand. The girl’s eyes narrowed. The man was clearly no warrior.

  ‘Well, well,’ the man’s voice was as ugly as his appearance. ‘What have we here? A little girl, but finely dressed and with shield, sword and spear as if she were a champion?’ The man seemed seized by laughter again. ‘Champion?’ The idea apparently amused him. ‘Champion of what, my little maiden?’

  Scáthach frowned in annoyance.

  ‘You are blocking my path.’

  Once more the man guffawed.

  ‘You are perceptive in your youth, little girl. You wear the clothes of one used to the comfort of life. Therefore, my understanding of it is that you carry a fine purse as well. It is only your purse I want … for the moment.’ Then the man caught sight of the gold medallion around her neck and pointed to it with the tip of his sword. ‘And I’ll take that as well.’

  The girl’s eyes now narrowed.

  Robbers. She had heard from Eola that such creatures haunted the coastal roads; evil men, aye, and women, thrown out of the society of their dans, outcasts who had transgressed the laws with no thought of compensating those they harmed. By no tension of her muscles did she betray her sense of readiness as she eyed her opponent, weighing up his grasp on his sword, the way he carried it and his shield, in an assessment of w'hat type of fighting man he might be. In fact, it seemed she made no move at all as she stood there, feet wide apart, her shield slung on her back in the carrying position, her sword in her scabbard hung from her left shoulder while in her right she carried her two javelins. Her bow and sling of arrows were also slung. To one whose eyesight was untrained it seemed that she was simply encumbered by the weapons she carried.