My voice bounced within the confines of the small room, “In this great land, my land, where farmers till and toil, a man with a sword has his place and purpose, for farmers are bound by land and family, and I was without either. The short sharp iron gave me a way to carve my niche and fill my belly, I did not prosper, but I did survive. Battles were my bread and their spoils my butter, for morality does not feed the body. The scarred furrow of war was the trough at which I drank, and at this trough I did drink deeply.”
Silence settled in the room around us, my thoughts returned from my world to theirs. Her head was bowed, and her hands rested on the rough-hewn countertop. I had spoken for the first time of my parents and my homeland. I looked down upon the delicate plant that lay before me, and my thoughts journeyed home once more. Vividly my mind’s eye beheld the savage Norsemen, and once again my mind’s ear heard the screams from the darkness, but to these thoughts and memories, I could never give a voice.
As the lass looked down at the plant that I had been holding, a solitary tear fell upon its coiled roots, and the grey soil that still tenaciously clung to it turned mud black.
“Do not cry for me,” I said softly, “For I have shed enough tears for both my homeland and my clan.” I spoke no more, for although my words did purge my soul, they came with a price of awakened pain and sorrow. There would be no more speech, but memory tumbled and rose within my mind like a gollum made from the clay of what was once my birth land, and this effigy conjured from events long past emerged and walked with a life and power both terrifying and unstoppable.
At a young age I had my fill of blood and killing, and had in pocket enough coin to buy some land and make a family. The nature of thirst and hunger is a craving for what is missing, and family and land were the things of my childhood that I did not have, now I felt them for the first time within my grasp and attainable. I traveled back over hill and sea to the place from which I was born. The time of two moon cycles brought me home to the town called Kilkenny. From where I had come, I had at last returned.
I mixed openly for a fortnight with the local farmers and the people of this region. They knew me not, but my warrior past was marked upon my body and did at times bring glances of fear and suspicion. I enjoyed watching as they passed their days and lived their lives of commerce and trade. I knew I was no farmer, but I had some skill around a simple forge. I pictured myself settled as the local smith, creating shoes for the large plow horses and repairing iron tools. By night’s quiet comfort, I took meals within the local inn and drank the grains that grew in fields of wonderful peace.
I made conversation and soon made friends, as fear gave way to acceptance and suspicion fell to trust. I felt at the right place at the right time. I had for the first time a people and a clan. I felt sure that the short sword at my waist would soon find rest, and I would be free of this thing called war.
But that was not to be.
I was slow with drink and well relaxed within the tavern walls when the cry went up and the alarm was sounded. A boy much younger than I ran in and screamed that the raiders from the north had landed upon our soil once more, and would soon set upon us. It had been two decades since their last foray; a raid that had robbed me of both my parents, and a time still remembered with dread and terror.
Instantly the room cleared as all inside rushed to secure the safety of their wives and children, to collect, to assemble, and to fight. I was given the courtesy of the warning but was not asked for anything in return, for to them I was still a stranger, but to me they were my people. In the confines of this empty room, I continued to drink my ale and checked the sharpness of my hungry sword. By the time of four cups, I was stripped and naked, my sword and my mind my only armor. With the last of my woad flower dye, I painted my body for battle and emerged with the breaking dawn.
Men collected their families and brought them to the square. The wives, the children, and the elderly huddled in mass while men who were merely farmers gathered rusted weapons and farm implements. I walked among them naked with deep blue skin and sword in hand, the savage demon within me prepared now for its release. They questioned not why I chose to fight, for they had taken me in by full measure. I was ready for blood, and Death’s dour purpose was written clearly and terribly upon my features for all to see.
I moved with the men, some of great bulk, for farming is not an easy living, and we flowed down to the river from where the enemy had emerged before. Their fleet had landed by sail, and moved swiftly up the Barrow River by arm and by oar. They took route by the left fork, a river called Nore which was named for their last incursion. My heart beat faster as my eyes saw the dragon headed prows moving high and swiftly toward our group. Six ships in number, it was a battle we would not survive.
At first blood it was clear that my people were brave but not skilled, and they fell quickly and painfully before the first onslaught. I killed two raiders in succession, but their fierceness in battle was greater than any sagas told. By sheer number we dispatched the first of their party, but the other long boats had now joined the fray.
The largest of our party held me in a tight grip and spoke with the intense clarity of one who has already seen his death, “They come for plunder and for slaves. Young prince, the treasure of our land now flees to the hills of Dunmore. There lies a cave that will hide and shelter, go back and get them to its safety. We will hold, we will delay, and we will die here among the banks.” Without thought I saw the wisdom of his words and turned and obeyed his orders without a question.
With distance the cries of this battle did soften and grow silent, and in three hours I had caught up to the wandering mass. The children, the women, and the old ones moved painfully slow. Some carried babies, some carried parents, and all carried fear. Our pursuers gained ground, but at last I saw the great mouth and led them through its darkness. This great womb opened, and inside we numbered almost one thousand. Amid the crying I spoke for silence, and as I listened I heard the Norse men closing on our hidden place. Inside I urged them deeper and ran back to the opening hoping to lead the enemy away, hoping that the treasure of my land would be held safe by its mother.
In the bright light of day as my eyes adjusted from the darkness, they were upon us. I charged the invaders and knew that nothing would be safe. I moved fast and dodged the arrows that came my way, with a loud cry I set upon them cleaving limb from body. A strong right arm stained the ground on which it fell, and I continued my killing until a blow from behind cut through my arm and shoulder. I staggered and turned, and saw that the one-armed Norseman had pried his sword from his severed right arm and struck me with his left. More blows fell, and with darkness descending deeper than the cave, I thought that I heard Death call me by name.
In agony they held me roughly up and vision came to me again. Their Norse tongue was rough, but I knew its meaning. Alive I at least was of some value, although I had come at a dear price; for six were dead and three were wounded. I was lashed to a rough wooden shield to make my carry easy, and all but two descended into the darkness. With swords drawn and thirsty, they entered, and the slaughter of the innocents began.
From Dearc Fearna, “The Cave of the Alders,” the screams and cries reached my ears but truly Dark Fear, as it sounds in the Saxon tongue, was now a more fitting name. For over one hour the painful cries rose from the mighty opening, as if mother earth herself screamed her pain. But no birth would come from this womb, finally still and silent, all inside were dead, left where they had fallen, a lesson perhaps for those that chose to resist or maybe a simple economic statement that nursing mothers, children, and the old, make poor slaves. Either way in the business of slaughter the Norse brood was methodical and efficient, for I lay now, its lone survivor.
Half mad and half dead they carried me on shield to the waiting ships. My journey through hell had begun. I was empty, a man without a tribe, a man without a country. I jumped back from the darkness of my recollections