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Prolific Writer
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Las Vegas, NV
Posts: 274
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Old Idea Revised
This is a rewrite of an old novel and has 102,000 words.
Comments/Critiques please.
FOLLOW THE RAVEN
The summer solstice had passed and Father Sun stood five fingers above the turbulent sea to the west. The burnt orange orb’s rays struggled through the haze darkened sky.
Carron’s fishermen once again failed to bring in more than the bare number of fish needed to feed the village. The great silvery swirls were in the sea but always managed to escape capture. And the fishermen often had to fight gales and storms just to reach the fishing grounds.
All was not well in the land on the western coast of Scotia. Rain, when it sporadically fell, turned everything to slimy mud heavy with fine particles of black ash. Crops failed to reach maturity as did many of the foals, calves, kids, piglets and lambs. Illness frequently descended and, without those who knew the healing manners of the Old Ways, many withered and died. The Priest of Karis’ blessings did no good.
Trevet saw the ships first. While helping his father, wielding the wooden needle to mend a net, he glanced out towards the headland and cried out in fear when the first red, white and yellow square sail appeared. Its fierce bow spirit and shape could not be mistaken.
“Father! A Drakkar! They are coming.”
Arn and the other fishermen leapt to their feet, Trevet racing first to the village’s gates to raise the alarm. Several other townsmen hurried to the towers, one sounding the ram’s horn to alert those assigned the duty.
Alan Barr, the Thanus’s Mormaer, reached the watchtower as the third of the three ships rounded the headland from the Sound of Sleat. With those outside the palisade safely inside, he ordered the gates closed, although he knew there was little chance for his under-armed men to hold off Northmen raiders.
Turning to one of the swiftest youths, Barr called, “Go! Run to Thanus Murdogh and seek help. Tell him what is happening.”
The boy sped to the far side of the village and slipped through the opening that allowed the stream to enter that washed the village’s waste away. The boy would do his best to reach the Laird’s stronghold before the raiders could destroy the village.
Little hope filled the villagers that such would be the case. All they could do was watch helplessly as the dreaded boats came closer, moved by great banks of oars.
* * *
Ian sat on a boulder overlooking the hillside where his father’s flock of sheep struggled to satisfy their hunger on the short, dry grasses. A rare afternoon rain had quickly passed, only adding another layer of mud on the ground and scummy film on the small stream‘s slow-moving water.
Ian would have felt morose if it were not for Dog and the lead ewe running back and forth. Ian had ordered Dog to keep the flock where it was but the ewe wanted to move to another place so the two dodged backward and forward in their regular dance. No matter where she turned, Dog sped to cut her off. The rest of the flock munched the sparse grass and heather, ignoring all else.
Ian had spent most of his fourteen years tending the sheep. He first went with his father when he was six. What little besides shepherding Ian learned had come from the sermons Brother Jonathan preached on holy days from his place at the altar under the sign of the fish. Or from Raghnall, the man villagers called The Mad Old Recluse.
“You are very quiet, Lad.”
“Yes, Raghnall. I am wondering what this is all about.”
The old man groaned as, using his staff, he lowered himself to the boulder next to Ian’s. The ghillies sticking out from under the worn robes showed toes with long talon-like nails. “These are sad times when beauty turns ugly,” the old man said.
“Another of his strange sayings?’ Ian wondered. Sometimes the old man, who appeared and disappeared as if by magic, made great sense and other times seemed to rave like a mad man. Perhaps if he had a woman he would be better off?
That brought another thought. “I have no idea where Raghnall lived or even if he has a woman.” So many years and he knew so little of the man who spent time with him every day he tended the flock.
Ian’s thin buttocks complained at the hardness of the boulder so he lifted his wiry body to stretch. He was tall at sixteen hands and lightly built, weighing eleven stones. His body was well formed but wiry. Villagers had many strange things to say about Raghnall. Most claimed he was a sorcerer while others said that he was just a mad man living on the land like a wild animal. Meoc had told Ian to ignore the rumors and accept Raghnall as a wise man with too years upon his shoulders.
Raghnall had shown Ian many things about living away from the village. He taught him how to set cunning traps for hares, voles and other creatures. Then, he instructed Ian how to properly skin and prepare them to be spitted over a fire; even showing the boy how to make fire with a stone and piece of iron. He had shown him how to make and use a sling at which Ian had become quite adept. And finally, he had helped Ian make a sturdy staff and how to wield it.
“How old is he?” Ian wondered for the umpteenth time. Raghnall’s hair was gray but full to match the beard that never seemed to grow. The piercing grey eyes would search Ian’s beryl green ones as if trying to read his soul.
Ian sighed and tousled his flaming red hair. Why was the world so sad and dreary?
Brother Jonathan, the village priest, always claimed that it was to remind people how weak and sinning they were. How their life would only be better if they had faith in Lord Karis and His teachings.
Whenever Ian asked, Raghnall would gather himself and stare defiantly at Ian to say, “The prēost knows not of what he speaks.”
That was Ian all could get out of him as Raghnall would then lower his head and become silent.
Brother Jonathan would declare the recluse a heretic or blasphemer, Ian thought. In addition, he would certainly chastise me for listening to him.
In fact, the priest constantly told the village youth to avoid the mad old man who wandered the hills. He had even tried to convince Mormaer Barr to have the man driven from the area. The Thanus’ agent shook his head, claiming he was no danger to anybody but himself.
The game between Dog and the ewe ended. Dog lay down nest to Ian facing the sheep, his ears alertly perked. The ewe turned her attention to the important task of filling her stomach with whatever there was to eat.
Ian doubled his fleece-lined jacket and placed it atop the boulder to cushion himself. The two humans quietly watched the changing forms of dreary clouds painted weak hues of yellow, orange and gold from Father Sun at their backs in the west.
* * *
Aine prepared dinner for Meoc. The rich aroma of a lamb stew with beets, leeks and turnips that she managed to grow in their small garden plot filled the interior of the humble abode. She would save some of it and go forth later to take it to Ian.
Meoc hurried to the door upon hearing the alarm. He was supposed to gather up his arms and speed to his post on the wall. He turned to Aine. “They have come.”
“For Ian,” Aine softly replied. “We knew it would come someday, did we not?” Her voice was filled with sadness as she understood what danger the Northmen presented to Ian.
Meoc embraced his wife, sharing her dread. “I wonder how they found us.”
He straightened and said, “No matter. It is fortunate that Ian is in the hills tending the flock.”
“How do we warn him to flee to Raghnall?”
“I do not think we will need to, Wife. Raghnall has his way of knowing things and will look over him.”
Tears filled Aine’s eyes. “He is no longer young and his druid powers have weakened. Can he really help the lad?”
Meoc took her hand and said, “Remember, Woman. Ian has the blood of his father and mother. If Raghnall guides him properly, he will do what he is fated to do.”
“I would hold and hug him one last time. I know he is not mine but he suckled at my breast and he is my son as if I bore him. We have done our best to do as the prince and princess bade us to do,” she sobbed.
Meoc eyes glistened, determined to be strong and manly. If he showed great concern, someone would notice it. He too was not all that certain that, after so many years living alone in the hills, the druid would be able to defend the boy. Meoc had not faced the man in many years but listened intently when Ian recounted his meetings with Raghnall the Druid.
Shrugging aside his misgivings, he hugged Aine. “I must go, woman. I will do the best I can.”
She watched him don the leather chest piece and helmet before gathering his bow and quiver of arrows.
“Perhaps they are here simply to raid.”
Meoc straightened and with one final look at the woman he had lived with for nearly fifteen years, turned and rushed off to his position atop the village’s defensive wall.
* * *
The three dreaded ships stowed their long oars and one tied up to the wharf, the other two mooring side-by-side with the first. A party of well-armed men came ashore and their leader and two of his lieutenants walked towards the main gate.
“You will bring forth all of your male children of fourteen years,” Captain Bjarki Egillson, leader of the raiders, shouted to those atop the wall.
“Why must we do this thing?” called out Brother Jonathan, the village priest.
“Are you in charge of this place?” Egillson called back.
“No, I am,” shouted Mormaer Barr. “But his question is mine. What business is it of yours about our children?”
“We seek a special child. If you do not bring your male children of fourteen years to us, we will destroy your pitiful village.”
“We will think this over,” Mormaer Barr called back. He knew that there was no possibility of fending off the mighty Northmen but tried to give the messenger time to reach Thanus Murdogh and bring help.
“You have only until my warriors disembark before we turn your pitiful huddle into ashes,” the Viking chief responded.
* * *
“They seek you.”
The tone of Raghnall’s voice sent chills through Ian. He had never heard or seen the man so concerned. Ian turned to the old man, trying to discern if he was just mumbling or serious.
“Come! We must leave.”
Ian could not remember the man having such a commanding way. He somehow transformed to become more erect and alert. Ian gathered up his backpack and turned to follow him, hesitating and calling out, “What of the sheep?”
“Leave them, Lad. They will find their way home or someone will come for them.”
“Where ...?”
The recluse turned and glared at Ian. “Now is not the time to question and argue. When we reach my abode, I will explain everything.”
That surprised Ian as he had never been invited to where Raghnall lived. In fact, he had tried several times to follow him but he always failed as Raghnall simply disappeared.
They went quickly, Raghnall moving as if he sailed across the ground, his heavy robes hiding his legs and feet. Ian tried to move the same way but could not quite accomplish it. Ian’s alarm quickly dissipated as he figured the old man was playing a game. How could he possibly just leave the flock? It was the most important responsibility in his life.
Ian stopped. “I cannot leave my father’s sheep. I cannot dishonor him.” He was surprised to find Dog by his side instead of watching the flock. “What do you do here? Go back to your place.”
The dog simply sat and stared up into Ian’s face. It seemed to Ian as if the dog was telling him something. “You have never disobeyed me before.”
“Come, Boy. We cannot stay here. This is what Aine and Meoc would wish of you.”
The old man no longer seemed so old and weak. His bearing was still of one of great age but his eyes were clear and his voice strong.
The cave was not far. Raghnall stopped at a boulder on a hill larger than others and grasped his staff with both hands. He lifted his face and muttering some words. The veins in his neck swelled as he strained.
To Ian’s amazement, an opening appeared where the rock had been and transformed into an entrance. Raghnall breathed heavily from his exertion and urged Ian to enter. “Hurry, Lad, I do not have the strength to keep it open very long.”
Ian shook his head in wonder and obeyed, Dog at his heels.
When the entrance closed behind them, the old man stood straighter and the single candle was joined by others around a room filled with things one would find in any regular home.
With several differences. Jars and containers filled several shelves. A fireplace had no logs or peat in it but, at a few words muttered by Raghnall, suddenly contained a blazing fire -- with no smoke. A big black cat sitting on the mantle glared at Ian -- and Dog -- as if irritated that they trespassed in his place.
Clearly exhausted, Raghnall collapsed into a seat before the fire. “Please bring to me the pitcher over there?” the old man asked, pointing to a shiny object in a niche. “And two goblets,” he added.
Ian looked for a place to drop his backpack, leaning his staff next to it against a wall made of tightly fitting stones. He then did as Raghnall bid, carrying the pitcher to a small table between two chairs, filling both goblets before standing there with one in his hand. Ian watched as Raghnall almost emptied his before sipping his own. It was mead but with a flavor unlike Ian had partaken of before.
“Sit! We have many things to talk about.”
Ian did so, filled with wonder -- and many questions.
“There are many things you need to know, Lad. But first, I have something I must give you. Wait here.” He struggled to rise, energized by the drink and walked to the back of the cave. Raghnall opened a heavy wooden chest, to withdraw a small, leather bag. Loosening the leather ties, he told Ian to hold out his hand and emptied an amulet into his palm.
“This was your fathers.”
Ian started. Was? Was my father’s? “What …?” As the words left his mouth, a tingling sensation grew from the object through his hand, up his arm and all over his body.
Raghnall pulled back his cowl and his eyes, once gray and now deep black, stared at the amulet.
“Wrap your fingers about it, Ian. Let it talk to you.“
The object fit in Ian’s palm. It appeared to be made of a shiny black stone with endless depth. Three intertwined crescents of gold were etched into the stone.
“This is the sign of Morrígan, the Triple Goddess,” Raghnall said.
“A heathen sign of the old ways,” Ian said. He quickly dropped the pagan emblem on the table. “Brother Jonathan warns us of dealing in such pagan things.”
“Do not speak that way! There are many things you do not understand, Boy. And, as I have often told you, do not scoff at what you do not understand.”
Ian hastily apologized. Of all those he knew besides his mother and father, he respected Raghnall for reasons he could not explain..
“Sit, Lad. Pour me more to drink and I will tell you what you need to know.”
“Yes, Sir,” Ian replied, staring at the amulet on the table while he poured more mead into Raghnall‘s goblet. He saw but did not realize what he was seeing when the pitcher stayed full even while being emptied.
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