Thorn and Thistle
Conn woke feeling strangely bleary-eyed and stiff along his right side. He lay there in the shadows taking the sum of his surroundings and gathering the courage to stand. Rolling to his chest he moved in one cohesive movement to a seated position. He was careful to put only a small amount of weight on the injured paw. It hurt, but it did not pain him the way it had the night before. He stood slowly, keeping the weight on the right foreleg as light as possible, then gradually increasing it. He was able to get about two-thirds of his weight onto the leg before the pain was simply too strong and he knew that any more would cause greater injury. He ducked down and moved out of the cover of the thicket, the thorns of the brush pricking at him but causing no harm given the denseness of his fur. Clear of the tangle, he found Coll with his nose in the air. He was either scenting for prey or scenting for those who perhaps thought of them as prey. Either way, it was a good idea. Conn approached him quietly, turning in the opposite direction and began to scent the air as well.
The two hounds turned to face each other. By mutual and unspoken consent they moved out again, taking a route that led them further away from the creek and deeper into the woods. As the day grew longer, their hunger and thirst took on a keener edge. Finally, the need for water overcame the instinct to continue creating distance and they began to nose the ground in search of a source. Conn picked up the scent of a stream. It was not close, but it did have the advantage of running in a path that continued to lead away from where they had started. Leading with his lumbering three-and-a-half legged gait, the blond led the way to the much needed water. The trail took them through thicket and thorn bushes, around several large oaks, and ended at last on the edge of a small stream. The stream was so thin it was really little more than a trickle, but it was running water and it was enough to slake the thirst of both hounds. What was even better was that the little trickle seemed to have recently provided a similar treat for a doe and her fawns and a couple of rabbits as well based on the scents hanging in the air. As Coll stepped in to drink his fill, Conn dipped his nose to the wet earth and began to scent the path for the doe and her fawns. Unfortunately the scent turned to blood not far down the water's edge. It appeared that another predator had found the prey, or at least part of the group. before he and Coll had arrived. He retraced his steps and began with the rabbits' scent. Coll picked up his lead and began to work the scent with him.
They followed it from the side of the stream opposite that which they had approached from. The trail soon led them off to the left and continued on deeper into the woods. It grew fainter as they neared a large stand of pine, but picked up again as the overwhelming odor of pine dissipated and the saliva-inducing trace of rabbit picked up again. They had traveled for perhaps fifteen to twenty minutes when Conn stopped short. Coll came up beside him. They had found their quarry's lair. Following a pattern they had developed before joining the hunter, Coll circled to the rear of the rabbits' den. He used his paws to thrust dirt, leaves and other debris into the opening, moving rapidly with the intent to close in the hole and panic the rabbit, or hopefully rabbits, that were inside. Conn waited on the other end, his massive jaws dripping in anticipation, ready to snap on whatever came out on his side of the burrow. Coll had just about completed the task when a small rabbit burst through his end. His rear paw was thrusting another blast of debris back as the rabbit shot out. It was sheer luck that his claws raked the side of the rabbit, sending it to the ground in a spray of gore. Almost simultaneously, a large female came bolting out of the open end near Conn with a babe held by the nape of its neck between her teeth. She made it no more than six inches from the burrow before Conn had clamped down on her back, his saliva matting the fur clear down to her belly. He carried the still quivering body around to Coll, not noticing as the baby was dropped from the now lax jaws of its mother.
Conn was overly pleased with the short hunt. If Coll was a bit less impressed, it was only because he had not spent the last day in agony. The grey, however, was relieved that Conn had participated in the hunt, it would make traveling much easier if they could work together for their needs. Coll wondered how long it would take for Conn to be better. He felt a sense of urgency. Cait might whelp any day now and he wanted to be there, but they couldn't go back to the pack until it was clear that Conn was fine. He still wasn't sure why it was so important, but somehow Thom's killing stick and Conn's leg were tied together in ways that boded the blond no good. At least no good while the blond was injured. The grey stood and stretched. It was time to move. He could only hope that his need to be with Cait would lead him to her now that they were on their own and did not have the pack to follow.
Conn rose and moved off with Coll. It was good to be able to move at a reasonable pace again. He might not be able to race through the woods at full bore, but at least he did not feel as broken as he had yesterday. With any luck another day of moderately nursing his leg and he would be able to really keep up with the grey. He wondered what they would do then. Would they try to find the hunter and the pack or would they continue on their own? He liked being off on their own, but there was definitely something he would miss in leaving the hunter behind. He could feel the scratch of Maire's rough nails between his ears. He would not really mind going back.
Thom and the hounds were up at first light. He moved quickly, packing up what little he had taken out for the night. He gave the hounds a portion of the deer meat in an attempt to save time. He did not really have it to spare, as empty as the larder was at home, but he wanted to move quickly and that meant no time for hunting up breakfast. The pack, fed and watered at the creek, were ready to go by the time Thom had eaten and completed his packing. They set off down the stream, in reverse of where they had been going, Thom looking for any signs of passage, the hounds scenting for Coll and Conn.
It was a good measure later when Thom stopped them all. He couldna' be sure but the scrub on the other side appeared to be pushed about a bit. It looked like something had clamored out of the creek and made its way through the brushy barrier. Thom thought they had passed through this break. He waded through the creek, coming ashore near the crushed brush. One of the older hounds took to baying. Thom was right, they had come through here, yet he still could not figure out why.
He thrust himself through the brush. Thorns clung to his clothing and thistle burrs attached themselves to his socks, making every step uncomfortable as his boots and pants pressed back into his legs and ankles. Thom found a rock and picked the burrs off, scarcely drawing any blood from his fingertips as he removed the thorns as well. Gazing from his small perch he made out the evidence of the limping tracks he had seen yesterday on the other side of the creek. He smiled at the small triumph. He had guessed correctly. The hounds were indeed running. The question that remained was, "Bloody hell, why?" Shaking off his consternation he shoved off the rock and began to follow the tracks. The hounds ran off ahead of him, baying occasionally. Eventually they came to a deepset thicket. Here he found the remains of a rabbit, a bit of blond hound fur and the evidence of a slight trace of dried blood.
They had not stayed here, that much was clear. He continued on, carefully following each loop and tuck in the intricate dance they were provided by the two hounds' circuitous route. Eventually he came upon the place they must have rested for the night. Thom examined the area carefully. It did not appear to have much to recommend it. It certainly did not have many secrets to reveal to him. He still had no idea why the hounds were running or where they were running to.
He continued following them until he reached the trickle of water. There the pack broke into wild dance. They immediately broke when Thom approached. He followed them at a good distance, his heart racing, he was going to bring Conn home. For the first time in over twenty-four hours he felt the dread lift from his heart. He found himself smiling as he followed the pack discreetly. They had separated out into the usual pattern for a kill, surrounding the quarry. He caught the direction of the wind and moved to stay downwind of the two hounds, then stepped up to get a better look. He was instantly deflated. There were two fawns hiding within a dense area of brush, sizeable enough to be worth taking down, but they were not the prize he sought. One of the pack hounds howled into the thicket, forcing the fawns to move out from their place of cover. As they bolted forward, two other hounds converged right and left forcing the deer to run along Thom's sight-line. He picked up the gun out of habit and eyed the one in the lead, bringing it down easily. With the ease of long practice he had the gun reloaded and cocked in time to catch the other fawn as the pack skillfully turned it back the other direction. It was leaping past him again, and he took it down with a single shot. It was going to cost him time to clean, skin and dress the two animals, but he needed the meat. He would just have to work fast and pray that the injury was enough to slow Conn down. After all, it wouldn't really help if he came home with the hound only to end up without enough in the larder and the lot of them starving to death over winter. With this last thought in mind he began quickly dressing the fawns.
Coll and Conn caught the faint edge of the distant sound of the gun firing. It was enough to encourage them to increase their pace to a trot. Conn noticed the bit of wince that crept up his foreleg as he forced it to take more weight and adjusted his lope to relieve the leg. He needed to run, but not at the expense of hurting himself more. It would not help him at all if he did not heal quickly. They kept the steady loping pace throughout the day, skipping an afternoon hunt and moving well into dusk. They stopped only when they found pools or springs to drink from and even then only long enough to slake their thirst. As night fell, they gave into hunger and worked together to bring down a few squirrels . It was not really enough, but they were too tired for more. In the morning they would spend the time to really hunt. Conn licked his injured paw absently as he settled down to sleep, noting the ridge where the paw had been sliced open. Then he closed his eyes and followed the scent of the stag through his dreams. Coll lay open-eyed, reluctant to let sleep come. He could smell the faint scent of stag in the air and wondered just how close it might be. He was too tired to find out at this point. The grey turned so that he was facing outward, his body a shield in front of Conn, and finally let himself drift off.
Its Cold Out Here....but Beautiful....
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Participles and Portents (66)
City Lights and Empty Skies
It was a lovely crisp night. The city was brimming with life. She herself felt lighter than air. Her hair swung in a neat curve just below her shoulder, making a silken line against the flecked oatmeal colored linen jacket. She shivered; something more practical would have been a good idea, but a heavier coat would have ruined the look of the slim brown dress and tall brown boots, and tonight was special. It was more than special, it was extraordinary. She was literally standing across the street from The Abbey Theatre: The National Theatre of Ireland. She stared at the neon blue sign and fairly glowed. Turning as he called her name, her smile deepened, flowing all the way down to her toes. They were going together. He had brought her to Dublin, and Fiona had given her this gift. The one experience she most wanted and she was sharing it with someone who would truly understand what it meant to her. How much better could life possibly get? She took his arm and they crossed the street, grinning like children headed to the fair. At the lip of the sidewalk he kissed her, the warmth spreading like fire through her veins. Somehow they were both breathless with anticipation. His eyes were dancing as held the door open for her.
She stepped through and found herself holding the silent phone in the dark. Its emptiness echoed so loudly in her head that it felt like the roar of a passing freight train. The phone fell from her limp hand. The sudden light was blinding.
She found herself at the park. The party was in full gear and she was surrounded by virtually everyone she knew. All of her loved ones and friends milled about, and he was there at her side, smiling and laughing. But he was not really there at all, not in ways that could matter. Quick flashes, like a slideshow of broken moments flew past, punctuated by conversations with the boys and explanations never given. Then she was back in Dublin across from the theatre, her heart beating wildly. She ran through traffic, urgently pressing to get to the door. She wrenched it open. It was empty. The only light was a small pinlight focused on the golden shield decorating the lobby wall. It drew her like a moth to flame. She walked to it, reaching out to do the unthinkable, to touch this old theatrical relic. As her fingers grazed its cold metallic surface, her vision blurred and she felt as if the room started to spin. She could sense herself losing her balance and sinking to the floor, knowing there would be no one there to catch her.
The wet sand tangled in her hair and left grit in her teeth. She pressed herself up. Ian and Sean stood not more than a hundred feet away near the sea's edge. Seeing them gave her new energy. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward them. They were here. As she neared them, she could hear their voices. Her heart swelled with the joy of seeing them, of hearing them. She was gulping air, tears streaming. She was completely unable to speak. Almost stumbling in her frantic gait, she reached out to touch them, but as she did so the sea rose. The wave was a tower, easily as tall as the boys. It crashed down, soaking the trio, blinding her. It receded, leaving only Lin and the impression of eight deep prints in the sand. The clear impression of two wolfhounds that no longer stood on the shore.
The wind whipped around her, sending her long tresses into a wild dance and kicking her skirts into a frenzy. She was shivering with cold, standing at the edge of a stand of oaks. Before her was a view of rolling hills, lush and green and an impressive fortress that could only be Tara. At her side was Grainne. The Irish setter broke from the cover of the woods, her lithe form moving swiftly across the green, the red-gold silk of her fur streaming as she ran toward him. Lin turned in confusion and stumbled back into the woods. She instantly smelled the blood.
It filled her senses completely. The light filtering through the canopy was creating dappled shadows that made the paths appear fractured and somewhat inpenetrable. She followed her instincts, moving with an abundance of caution, or perhaps it was trepidation. Gradually the scent became overpowering and she slowed. She peered out from the foliage and noted the thin line of a creek and the old warrior kneeling at its edge. Beyond him lay the man from the field. The man from the street? His life was pumping out in spurts between the fingers he held to his side. She watched as the old warrior carried water cupped in his hands to the younger man and then let it slip through his fingers to dampen the earth below just a few steps shy of reaching him. The look they exchanged was clear, it signaled death. Repressing a sob, she retreated. The scene was played out. She held her hand to her mouth to force the sounds to stay in and tried to retrace her steps. Looking up she saw Grainne in the distance. The red-gold hide was unmistakable even through the filtered light. She moved toward the setter, the dog an anchor in this forest of the macabre.
She heard a cracking sound, like a branch breaking underfoot and glanced to her left. She could just make out the form of a wild boar, one tusk missing or hidden from view. He was staring at her with menace. She hefted her skirts and ran, no longer worried about any noise she might make. She stumbled over roots and rocks. She felt the branches pull at her hair and scrape her skin. She could hear the pounding of the boar behind her, She flashed on the image of the dying man and ran harder, losing one of her slippers to the wood. Rocks were now slicing her foot as she bolted with desperation for the light that represented the green of the rolling hills, believing, however unrealistically, that her salvation lay simply in escaping the woods. She could see Grainne out on the green and feel the boar gaining on her.
She burst from the wood, sweating and panting from the heated run. Her clothing was glued to her body, her hair drenched. She stood at the top of one of the rolling hills, looking down at ruins. The fortress was gone. She realized then that her jeans and thin cotton shirt were no match for the cool of the night. The setter was gone. Only the cuts on her hands, face and foot remained from her frantic run through the woods. A bird screeched overhead. It sounded more like a human scream than anything else. It made her wince to hear it. She walked down the hillside toward the ruins, sinking into the grass. As she moved down the hill, the light of the moon left her until she found herself in darkness. She followed the curve of the hill in the dark toward the ruins she had seen. She emerged at the edge of the sea.
She walked directly to the spot where Ian and Sean had been. The pawprints were brimming with blood. She knelt in the sand between the two sets of deep impressions, overcome at last. The light of the moon was a single shaft of light that seemed to pierce her through as she stretched out to lie between the tracks and the blood. The icy-cold of the wave broke the dream or perhaps it was the ice-cold cloth that Fiona pressed to her forehead. Lin found herself being rocked in her mother's arms. She was soaked with sweat, as were the sheets her legs were tangled in.
"Thank goodness," whispered Fiona into her hair. "Hush," she breathed before Lin could speak. "It's over, whatever the nightmare was, it's over now."
"I don't think so," stated Lin bleakly, not looking at her mother. She leaned farther into the comforting arms. "I think we are living it." The pair rocked for several minutes until Lin's heart rate settled and she rested somewhat peacefully against Fiona. The cold rag had long since been discarded.
"Let's get you changed and see if we can straighten out this mess of a bed."
"All right."
Lin complied, moving slowly. Fiona helped, working to untwist the sheets and set her daughter free. Clear of the bindings, Lin made her way to the sink. remembering with a sudden flash her earlier visit that night; the taste in her mouth. She grasped the porcelain trying to gain her mental balance. Both dreams had been too vivid, too personal. The last had been brutally invasive. Dreams, she reminded herself, were not life, she could just let it go. Steadier she turned on the tap and splashed her face. Then she rummaged through her pack for a tee shirt she could wear. She changed, using the discarded cloth to wipe down quickly. Dreams, she reminded herself again as she looked in the mirror, there was nothing that had to be remembered and nothing to gain in the memories. Let it go. By the time she was done cleaning up and dressing, Fiona had removed the top sheet and laid out the blankets that remained. She had put one over the bottom sheet, leaving one to use for cover. It would be a cooler night, but that was fine. Lin doubted that sleep would come again. She wasn't about to risk another dream this night.
"What was it?" Fiona asked softly.
"It was nothing really. It was mostly just the boar and Grainne, only this time the boar chased me. I ran, ran to Tara, but it was all ruins. Then you woke me." Lin was not about to go into all of it, not the first dream or the fullness of the second.
"Grainne and Tara again? Well, I guess that settles where we need to go tomorrow. Try to sleep, dear. I know it won't be easy, but tomorrow could prove to be a trying day," Fiona lay back attempting to follow her own advice.
Lin stared into the darkness reliving portions of her dream. Somehow at that moment, Tara seemed like the last place she would ever want to go.
It was a lovely crisp night. The city was brimming with life. She herself felt lighter than air. Her hair swung in a neat curve just below her shoulder, making a silken line against the flecked oatmeal colored linen jacket. She shivered; something more practical would have been a good idea, but a heavier coat would have ruined the look of the slim brown dress and tall brown boots, and tonight was special. It was more than special, it was extraordinary. She was literally standing across the street from The Abbey Theatre: The National Theatre of Ireland. She stared at the neon blue sign and fairly glowed. Turning as he called her name, her smile deepened, flowing all the way down to her toes. They were going together. He had brought her to Dublin, and Fiona had given her this gift. The one experience she most wanted and she was sharing it with someone who would truly understand what it meant to her. How much better could life possibly get? She took his arm and they crossed the street, grinning like children headed to the fair. At the lip of the sidewalk he kissed her, the warmth spreading like fire through her veins. Somehow they were both breathless with anticipation. His eyes were dancing as held the door open for her.
She stepped through and found herself holding the silent phone in the dark. Its emptiness echoed so loudly in her head that it felt like the roar of a passing freight train. The phone fell from her limp hand. The sudden light was blinding.
She found herself at the park. The party was in full gear and she was surrounded by virtually everyone she knew. All of her loved ones and friends milled about, and he was there at her side, smiling and laughing. But he was not really there at all, not in ways that could matter. Quick flashes, like a slideshow of broken moments flew past, punctuated by conversations with the boys and explanations never given. Then she was back in Dublin across from the theatre, her heart beating wildly. She ran through traffic, urgently pressing to get to the door. She wrenched it open. It was empty. The only light was a small pinlight focused on the golden shield decorating the lobby wall. It drew her like a moth to flame. She walked to it, reaching out to do the unthinkable, to touch this old theatrical relic. As her fingers grazed its cold metallic surface, her vision blurred and she felt as if the room started to spin. She could sense herself losing her balance and sinking to the floor, knowing there would be no one there to catch her.
The wet sand tangled in her hair and left grit in her teeth. She pressed herself up. Ian and Sean stood not more than a hundred feet away near the sea's edge. Seeing them gave her new energy. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward them. They were here. As she neared them, she could hear their voices. Her heart swelled with the joy of seeing them, of hearing them. She was gulping air, tears streaming. She was completely unable to speak. Almost stumbling in her frantic gait, she reached out to touch them, but as she did so the sea rose. The wave was a tower, easily as tall as the boys. It crashed down, soaking the trio, blinding her. It receded, leaving only Lin and the impression of eight deep prints in the sand. The clear impression of two wolfhounds that no longer stood on the shore.
The wind whipped around her, sending her long tresses into a wild dance and kicking her skirts into a frenzy. She was shivering with cold, standing at the edge of a stand of oaks. Before her was a view of rolling hills, lush and green and an impressive fortress that could only be Tara. At her side was Grainne. The Irish setter broke from the cover of the woods, her lithe form moving swiftly across the green, the red-gold silk of her fur streaming as she ran toward him. Lin turned in confusion and stumbled back into the woods. She instantly smelled the blood.
It filled her senses completely. The light filtering through the canopy was creating dappled shadows that made the paths appear fractured and somewhat inpenetrable. She followed her instincts, moving with an abundance of caution, or perhaps it was trepidation. Gradually the scent became overpowering and she slowed. She peered out from the foliage and noted the thin line of a creek and the old warrior kneeling at its edge. Beyond him lay the man from the field. The man from the street? His life was pumping out in spurts between the fingers he held to his side. She watched as the old warrior carried water cupped in his hands to the younger man and then let it slip through his fingers to dampen the earth below just a few steps shy of reaching him. The look they exchanged was clear, it signaled death. Repressing a sob, she retreated. The scene was played out. She held her hand to her mouth to force the sounds to stay in and tried to retrace her steps. Looking up she saw Grainne in the distance. The red-gold hide was unmistakable even through the filtered light. She moved toward the setter, the dog an anchor in this forest of the macabre.
She heard a cracking sound, like a branch breaking underfoot and glanced to her left. She could just make out the form of a wild boar, one tusk missing or hidden from view. He was staring at her with menace. She hefted her skirts and ran, no longer worried about any noise she might make. She stumbled over roots and rocks. She felt the branches pull at her hair and scrape her skin. She could hear the pounding of the boar behind her, She flashed on the image of the dying man and ran harder, losing one of her slippers to the wood. Rocks were now slicing her foot as she bolted with desperation for the light that represented the green of the rolling hills, believing, however unrealistically, that her salvation lay simply in escaping the woods. She could see Grainne out on the green and feel the boar gaining on her.
She burst from the wood, sweating and panting from the heated run. Her clothing was glued to her body, her hair drenched. She stood at the top of one of the rolling hills, looking down at ruins. The fortress was gone. She realized then that her jeans and thin cotton shirt were no match for the cool of the night. The setter was gone. Only the cuts on her hands, face and foot remained from her frantic run through the woods. A bird screeched overhead. It sounded more like a human scream than anything else. It made her wince to hear it. She walked down the hillside toward the ruins, sinking into the grass. As she moved down the hill, the light of the moon left her until she found herself in darkness. She followed the curve of the hill in the dark toward the ruins she had seen. She emerged at the edge of the sea.
She walked directly to the spot where Ian and Sean had been. The pawprints were brimming with blood. She knelt in the sand between the two sets of deep impressions, overcome at last. The light of the moon was a single shaft of light that seemed to pierce her through as she stretched out to lie between the tracks and the blood. The icy-cold of the wave broke the dream or perhaps it was the ice-cold cloth that Fiona pressed to her forehead. Lin found herself being rocked in her mother's arms. She was soaked with sweat, as were the sheets her legs were tangled in.
"Thank goodness," whispered Fiona into her hair. "Hush," she breathed before Lin could speak. "It's over, whatever the nightmare was, it's over now."
"I don't think so," stated Lin bleakly, not looking at her mother. She leaned farther into the comforting arms. "I think we are living it." The pair rocked for several minutes until Lin's heart rate settled and she rested somewhat peacefully against Fiona. The cold rag had long since been discarded.
"Let's get you changed and see if we can straighten out this mess of a bed."
"All right."
Lin complied, moving slowly. Fiona helped, working to untwist the sheets and set her daughter free. Clear of the bindings, Lin made her way to the sink. remembering with a sudden flash her earlier visit that night; the taste in her mouth. She grasped the porcelain trying to gain her mental balance. Both dreams had been too vivid, too personal. The last had been brutally invasive. Dreams, she reminded herself, were not life, she could just let it go. Steadier she turned on the tap and splashed her face. Then she rummaged through her pack for a tee shirt she could wear. She changed, using the discarded cloth to wipe down quickly. Dreams, she reminded herself again as she looked in the mirror, there was nothing that had to be remembered and nothing to gain in the memories. Let it go. By the time she was done cleaning up and dressing, Fiona had removed the top sheet and laid out the blankets that remained. She had put one over the bottom sheet, leaving one to use for cover. It would be a cooler night, but that was fine. Lin doubted that sleep would come again. She wasn't about to risk another dream this night.
"What was it?" Fiona asked softly.
"It was nothing really. It was mostly just the boar and Grainne, only this time the boar chased me. I ran, ran to Tara, but it was all ruins. Then you woke me." Lin was not about to go into all of it, not the first dream or the fullness of the second.
"Grainne and Tara again? Well, I guess that settles where we need to go tomorrow. Try to sleep, dear. I know it won't be easy, but tomorrow could prove to be a trying day," Fiona lay back attempting to follow her own advice.
Lin stared into the darkness reliving portions of her dream. Somehow at that moment, Tara seemed like the last place she would ever want to go.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Participles and Portents (65)
Circles and Arrows
Thom followed Coll's tracks with relative ease. He did not even need the pack's unerring ability to track his scent. The grey had left a solid trail of prints, steady in the separation of pattern and weight, as he maintained a rhythmic pace in his pursuit of Conn along the outmost edge of the wet bank and into the damp forest paths. It became a bit more difficult along the forest floor, but even here the weight and heft of the grey had left its mark. The hunter took his time, noticing where signs of the larger blond began to appear. After a time it became clear that Conn had set chase to something, yet Thom could not find a trace of what that something might have been. There were branches broken and foliiage bent at odd angles that Conn could not have caused, but no identifying tracks. It was an odd puzzle. The hounds had ponded on ahead of him some minutes ago as the scent of their quarry had become stronger, he assumed. He hastened his pace hoping to find the two hounds they sought together, both in good health. He was trying not to imagine anything wrong. Unfortunately he could think of no reason for their failure to return other than something having gone far afoul.
He found the hounds circling each other. They were sniffing at a patch of ground. They parted as he approached. His initial impression was that something large had fallen in that spot. He bent to a knee to examine the place. He saw a small rut with a jagged stone cutting into its edge. The light was just strong enough through the canopy to filter down and reveal the darkened edge of the stone and a deeper color in a streak soaked into the earth. He ran his finger gently along the stone; it came away with a slight trace of red. Blood. Something had likely caught itself in this rut and fallen, its foreleg cut on the jagged edge. He wondered briefly if it might have been the prey, but knew in his gut that it had to have been Conn. He rose and looked about him. The tracks were too distrubed by the pack to make out much more. He motioned them to stillness and moved away from the direct area. He gazed around in the filtered light, looking upward through the canopy. He thought they had perhaps an hour and half more of decent tracking time. Why would the two hounds have moved? He had to assume that Coll had found Conn. He could fairly well understand the grey not leaving the blond if it had been wounded. But why would the hounds leave the site? He moved on a bit farther looking for signs that would tell of the direction they moved in. He picked up a set of tracks, one even with the depth made earlier in the tracks he had assumed were Coll's, another with a stride that revealed a favored right foreleg. So, Conn's leg was injured. How bad he couldn't know, he could only assume it was not grievous as the hounds were on the move. It was off that they were not moving back in the direction Coll had come. That would have been the logical return route, butt they were moving on down the path. He motioned the pack forward; with one hound injured they had a good chance of catching up with the pair.
They followed the limping tracks along a wide looping curve of a trail, his suspicions of where they would end up growing as they turned toward the creek. He almost laughed when they emerged at the exact place where Conn had last been with the pack. It was an oddly smart place to exit the woods if the two hounds were trying to avoid being found by their pack. Why they would be avoiding the pack made no sense. Was it possible that that they actually were?
There were too many prints to distinquish among them and the scents far too overlayed for the hounds to make sense of them. As a group the pack simply kept circling; they appeared confused. Thom stood, uncertain. Then he took in the long line of the creek. Did Coll take Conn through the water? Was he giving the hound too much credit for thinking through what could possibly be a deliberate escape from the pack? In all of his experience no other animal had ever done more than simply run when the instinct for danger had overtaken them. Why would the hounds have any reason to consider the pack a danger? It did not make sense, yet it was the first thought that came to mind when he realized they had circled back to a place that clearly obscured their trail. Or had they? Perhaps Coll had simply come out of the forest too soon and he had not been there. If that were true, then the two hounds would be working their way down the creek looking for the pack. This certainly seemed more plausible than the idea that the two hounds were deliberately hiding from him.
Thom ran along the embankment looking for the now familiar limping tracks tracks that would indicate the hounds were headed back. All he could see was the jumble of the pack's coming and going prior. He moved up to the area Coll had traversed when seeking Conn. There was a clutter of tracks here too, but none in the opposing direction that he could discern. He stopped and turned. The pack was still milling about at the creek. He needed to decide what to do, where to search next. It was clear to him that he still needed to search - going home to Maire without Conn just did not seem like an option. What were his options? He could spend the time backtracking to see if Coll had returned with Conn to the site where he had been and had told him to come to. It was most logical that they would go there. His alternative was to search in the other direction. He watched the pack. Not a single hound seemed focused on the return direction; they were either at the edge or in the creek.
Logic be damned, he thought, he was going to search the other way. He was going to follow his gut. He didn't know why but he was certain the hounds were running. He knew Conn was hurt. He could not leave him out here injured. Maire would give him a full lashing if he came home without the blond. If he left him here hurt without making every effort to find and help him she would have his head on a pike. Surely he was up to the task of tracking two hounds, one of them limping? He sighed wearily. There would be no more tracking this evening, the light was fading fast. Thom settled the pack for the night. Tomorrow they would start the hunt for Coll and Conn and with any luck tomorrow they would finish it as well.
Coll let Conn rest. He investigated the area, getting a feel for where they might head next. He hunted on his own as well, bringing down a fat rabbit and a squirrel. He ate the squirrel and carried the rabbit back to Conn. The blond had not risen since settling in the thicket. The squirrel he had left theire earlier was untouched. Coll laid down the rabbit and picked up the squirrel. He moved off into the woods a few paces and buried it deep. Then he went back to Conn. He nosed him awake and then pressed the rabbit on him. The blond ate in huge gulps, clearly starved. Coll left him, and when he returned it was with another rabbit, not nearly as large, but still more to fill the blond's belly. Conn wolfed this offering down as well.
When he had finished crunching the last bone, Conn cocked his head to look Coll in the eye. The hounds shared a moment of intense contact. Then the blond crawled out of the thicket and rose shakily, his right foreleg in the air. Coll moved to Conn's side and gently pawed at the leg, pressing it downward until the larger hound finally lowered the limb to the ground. Conn appeared to almost hop as the leg took on close to full weight, then he redistributed the weight, shifting heavily to the left. He stood for several heartbeats looking very much like a statue of a wolfhound until Coll stepped out and they began to move together through the woods. Coll kept the pace steady. They moved together with a shared instinct keeping them in motion for roughly two hours. Finally, they found an area of dense underbrush. Conn clambered into the deepest recess he could wedge into, finding some comfort in the thick bed of pine needles. Once settled he began to lick his injured paw, as if this would somehow ease the ache and heal the twisted muscles and torn skin.
Coll watched him, hoping that a night's rest would make the blond faster. He did not know why, but it seemed urgent that they find a way to disappear. He thought briefly of Thom and the pack. He pictured Cait as he had last seen her. He wondered how she fared. Was the woman taking care of her? How were the pups? Would he be back in time to see them born? And then it hit him. He wasn't going to be back. He was running away from Cait and the pups by running away with Conn. He looked at the blond, licking the wounded leg. He thought of Cait. There was nothing he could do. His place was here, he had to help Conn. He watched as the blond finally put its head on its paws to rest. As soon as the blond was safe, he would go back to Cait and the pups. He might not be there to see them come into the world, but he could still be there. Satisfied, Coll settled himself into a comfortable position and let himself drift to sleep.
Flickered images of Thom's killing stick, the feel of Cait beneath him, and Thom holding the broken hound bounced through his dreams. A loud crack ripped through his consciousness and brought Coll to his feet. His heart was racing wildly. He stood there rigidly alert, listening for any movement, scenting for any variance from the scent of the bed they had found and their collective scent. He found nothing but scents and sounds of the forest and of Conn. He gradually settled back down to the ground. He was wary and full of a sense of danger. He felt awkward in that he could not pinpoint the source of the danger. The feeling unnerved him. He found himself letting out a low gutteral growl from deep in the back of his throat. He wasn't sure if it was a warning or a complaint. Either way it promised to be an exceptionally long night.
Thom followed Coll's tracks with relative ease. He did not even need the pack's unerring ability to track his scent. The grey had left a solid trail of prints, steady in the separation of pattern and weight, as he maintained a rhythmic pace in his pursuit of Conn along the outmost edge of the wet bank and into the damp forest paths. It became a bit more difficult along the forest floor, but even here the weight and heft of the grey had left its mark. The hunter took his time, noticing where signs of the larger blond began to appear. After a time it became clear that Conn had set chase to something, yet Thom could not find a trace of what that something might have been. There were branches broken and foliiage bent at odd angles that Conn could not have caused, but no identifying tracks. It was an odd puzzle. The hounds had ponded on ahead of him some minutes ago as the scent of their quarry had become stronger, he assumed. He hastened his pace hoping to find the two hounds they sought together, both in good health. He was trying not to imagine anything wrong. Unfortunately he could think of no reason for their failure to return other than something having gone far afoul.
He found the hounds circling each other. They were sniffing at a patch of ground. They parted as he approached. His initial impression was that something large had fallen in that spot. He bent to a knee to examine the place. He saw a small rut with a jagged stone cutting into its edge. The light was just strong enough through the canopy to filter down and reveal the darkened edge of the stone and a deeper color in a streak soaked into the earth. He ran his finger gently along the stone; it came away with a slight trace of red. Blood. Something had likely caught itself in this rut and fallen, its foreleg cut on the jagged edge. He wondered briefly if it might have been the prey, but knew in his gut that it had to have been Conn. He rose and looked about him. The tracks were too distrubed by the pack to make out much more. He motioned them to stillness and moved away from the direct area. He gazed around in the filtered light, looking upward through the canopy. He thought they had perhaps an hour and half more of decent tracking time. Why would the two hounds have moved? He had to assume that Coll had found Conn. He could fairly well understand the grey not leaving the blond if it had been wounded. But why would the hounds leave the site? He moved on a bit farther looking for signs that would tell of the direction they moved in. He picked up a set of tracks, one even with the depth made earlier in the tracks he had assumed were Coll's, another with a stride that revealed a favored right foreleg. So, Conn's leg was injured. How bad he couldn't know, he could only assume it was not grievous as the hounds were on the move. It was off that they were not moving back in the direction Coll had come. That would have been the logical return route, butt they were moving on down the path. He motioned the pack forward; with one hound injured they had a good chance of catching up with the pair.
They followed the limping tracks along a wide looping curve of a trail, his suspicions of where they would end up growing as they turned toward the creek. He almost laughed when they emerged at the exact place where Conn had last been with the pack. It was an oddly smart place to exit the woods if the two hounds were trying to avoid being found by their pack. Why they would be avoiding the pack made no sense. Was it possible that that they actually were?
There were too many prints to distinquish among them and the scents far too overlayed for the hounds to make sense of them. As a group the pack simply kept circling; they appeared confused. Thom stood, uncertain. Then he took in the long line of the creek. Did Coll take Conn through the water? Was he giving the hound too much credit for thinking through what could possibly be a deliberate escape from the pack? In all of his experience no other animal had ever done more than simply run when the instinct for danger had overtaken them. Why would the hounds have any reason to consider the pack a danger? It did not make sense, yet it was the first thought that came to mind when he realized they had circled back to a place that clearly obscured their trail. Or had they? Perhaps Coll had simply come out of the forest too soon and he had not been there. If that were true, then the two hounds would be working their way down the creek looking for the pack. This certainly seemed more plausible than the idea that the two hounds were deliberately hiding from him.
Thom ran along the embankment looking for the now familiar limping tracks tracks that would indicate the hounds were headed back. All he could see was the jumble of the pack's coming and going prior. He moved up to the area Coll had traversed when seeking Conn. There was a clutter of tracks here too, but none in the opposing direction that he could discern. He stopped and turned. The pack was still milling about at the creek. He needed to decide what to do, where to search next. It was clear to him that he still needed to search - going home to Maire without Conn just did not seem like an option. What were his options? He could spend the time backtracking to see if Coll had returned with Conn to the site where he had been and had told him to come to. It was most logical that they would go there. His alternative was to search in the other direction. He watched the pack. Not a single hound seemed focused on the return direction; they were either at the edge or in the creek.
Logic be damned, he thought, he was going to search the other way. He was going to follow his gut. He didn't know why but he was certain the hounds were running. He knew Conn was hurt. He could not leave him out here injured. Maire would give him a full lashing if he came home without the blond. If he left him here hurt without making every effort to find and help him she would have his head on a pike. Surely he was up to the task of tracking two hounds, one of them limping? He sighed wearily. There would be no more tracking this evening, the light was fading fast. Thom settled the pack for the night. Tomorrow they would start the hunt for Coll and Conn and with any luck tomorrow they would finish it as well.
Coll let Conn rest. He investigated the area, getting a feel for where they might head next. He hunted on his own as well, bringing down a fat rabbit and a squirrel. He ate the squirrel and carried the rabbit back to Conn. The blond had not risen since settling in the thicket. The squirrel he had left theire earlier was untouched. Coll laid down the rabbit and picked up the squirrel. He moved off into the woods a few paces and buried it deep. Then he went back to Conn. He nosed him awake and then pressed the rabbit on him. The blond ate in huge gulps, clearly starved. Coll left him, and when he returned it was with another rabbit, not nearly as large, but still more to fill the blond's belly. Conn wolfed this offering down as well.
When he had finished crunching the last bone, Conn cocked his head to look Coll in the eye. The hounds shared a moment of intense contact. Then the blond crawled out of the thicket and rose shakily, his right foreleg in the air. Coll moved to Conn's side and gently pawed at the leg, pressing it downward until the larger hound finally lowered the limb to the ground. Conn appeared to almost hop as the leg took on close to full weight, then he redistributed the weight, shifting heavily to the left. He stood for several heartbeats looking very much like a statue of a wolfhound until Coll stepped out and they began to move together through the woods. Coll kept the pace steady. They moved together with a shared instinct keeping them in motion for roughly two hours. Finally, they found an area of dense underbrush. Conn clambered into the deepest recess he could wedge into, finding some comfort in the thick bed of pine needles. Once settled he began to lick his injured paw, as if this would somehow ease the ache and heal the twisted muscles and torn skin.
Coll watched him, hoping that a night's rest would make the blond faster. He did not know why, but it seemed urgent that they find a way to disappear. He thought briefly of Thom and the pack. He pictured Cait as he had last seen her. He wondered how she fared. Was the woman taking care of her? How were the pups? Would he be back in time to see them born? And then it hit him. He wasn't going to be back. He was running away from Cait and the pups by running away with Conn. He looked at the blond, licking the wounded leg. He thought of Cait. There was nothing he could do. His place was here, he had to help Conn. He watched as the blond finally put its head on its paws to rest. As soon as the blond was safe, he would go back to Cait and the pups. He might not be there to see them come into the world, but he could still be there. Satisfied, Coll settled himself into a comfortable position and let himself drift to sleep.
Flickered images of Thom's killing stick, the feel of Cait beneath him, and Thom holding the broken hound bounced through his dreams. A loud crack ripped through his consciousness and brought Coll to his feet. His heart was racing wildly. He stood there rigidly alert, listening for any movement, scenting for any variance from the scent of the bed they had found and their collective scent. He found nothing but scents and sounds of the forest and of Conn. He gradually settled back down to the ground. He was wary and full of a sense of danger. He felt awkward in that he could not pinpoint the source of the danger. The feeling unnerved him. He found himself letting out a low gutteral growl from deep in the back of his throat. He wasn't sure if it was a warning or a complaint. Either way it promised to be an exceptionally long night.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Participles and Portents (64)
Tails or Tales
Maire woke to the sound of whimpering and scratching at the door. She rose and found Cait nosing the door, scratching it with her paw and whimpering loudly. "All right, miss, out ye go. Better out than in," she smiled. At least the hound had the good sense to take her business outside, she thought, as she dressed.
She was soon outside as well, making her round of morning chores. She was surprised to find Cait standing at the edge of the property where Thom and the pack had left a few days ago. The hound was rigid and whimpering. Maire went to her, running a hand from the tip of her head down her back. Cait shivered in response, but her stance did not change; she remained focused, her whimper increased to a whine. Something had a grip on her and Maire suspected it had to do with her man and the hound's mate. They sensed things, the hounds did. She had seen it before when the hounds warned of weather or other dangers pending. Cait was definitely sensing something was not right with her world. It set Maire's teeth on edge. She stood there with the hound, her hand gripping her fur until the knuckles turned white, and stared off into the distance. She wanted to know what Cait felt. No, the truth was she wanted to feel that everything was fine. She sighed. It wouldn't do either of them any good to stand here all day and speculate. It was time for a bit o' breakfast for them both. Perhaps the thought of food would distract the soon-to-be-mother and end the keening noise. With any luck that would be the case. Maire did not think she could take much more of the sound echoing through her head. 'Twas not so bad outside, but inside the house it would be unbearable, like being at a true Irish wake. The thought was enough to make her innards boil over with images of grief to come or her brain to implode from the sheer pain of considering facing that much loss.
"Let's go, girlie. 'Tis time for ye to help me break our fast." Maire gave the hound a reassuring pat and turned for the house. The hound looked at her, then out to the forest. She paused for a good two minutes before turning and loping to catch up and heel at Maire's skirts, following her back into the small house. Inside Cait stayed right at her heel as Maire fried up some eggs and a half rasher of bacon with several slices of bread. She chopped up some of the bread and poured the bacon drippings on the fried bits. then layered egg and crumbled bacon over this and set it aside to cool. Next she plated her own breakfast, poured some tea and set her table. Then she put out a bowl of water and the first dish for Cait. As the hound approached, she held up her hand in the motion that meant stand still. Cait immediately obeyed. Maire said a blessing over their food, including a heartfelt request for protection over her Thom and the pack. When she finished, Cait continued on to her place. The two "women" ate their breakfast in companionable silence, if one didn't count the sound of Cait's slurping as conversation, that is.
Finished with her meal, the hound made her way back to the hearth rug to lay down. Maire cleaned up and poured another cup of tea and fetched her book. She bent to her knees by Cait and stroked her from ears to tail along her back, long smooth soothing strokes. Then she pressed her hands softly against her distended belly. She's gotten even bigger overnight, thought Maire. The poor thing is fit to burst with Coll's seed. She could feel the pups move under her hands; it felt like two for sure. Given Cait's size she would be having them soon, very soon. She gave her a few more soft strokes, then rose and settled in her chair.
"How about we take the mornin' off and I read to ye and yer little ones?" She was nearing the end of Gulliver's Travels. It was a shame Conn was missing it, he would have liked it, thought Maire. "I'll read it to him when he gets back." Inspired with that thought, she began to read aloud with enthusiasm for Cait. For her part Cait seemed to listen for the first few minutes before she dozed off to the lilt of Maire's voice.
Maire woke to the sound of whimpering and scratching at the door. She rose and found Cait nosing the door, scratching it with her paw and whimpering loudly. "All right, miss, out ye go. Better out than in," she smiled. At least the hound had the good sense to take her business outside, she thought, as she dressed.
She was soon outside as well, making her round of morning chores. She was surprised to find Cait standing at the edge of the property where Thom and the pack had left a few days ago. The hound was rigid and whimpering. Maire went to her, running a hand from the tip of her head down her back. Cait shivered in response, but her stance did not change; she remained focused, her whimper increased to a whine. Something had a grip on her and Maire suspected it had to do with her man and the hound's mate. They sensed things, the hounds did. She had seen it before when the hounds warned of weather or other dangers pending. Cait was definitely sensing something was not right with her world. It set Maire's teeth on edge. She stood there with the hound, her hand gripping her fur until the knuckles turned white, and stared off into the distance. She wanted to know what Cait felt. No, the truth was she wanted to feel that everything was fine. She sighed. It wouldn't do either of them any good to stand here all day and speculate. It was time for a bit o' breakfast for them both. Perhaps the thought of food would distract the soon-to-be-mother and end the keening noise. With any luck that would be the case. Maire did not think she could take much more of the sound echoing through her head. 'Twas not so bad outside, but inside the house it would be unbearable, like being at a true Irish wake. The thought was enough to make her innards boil over with images of grief to come or her brain to implode from the sheer pain of considering facing that much loss.
"Let's go, girlie. 'Tis time for ye to help me break our fast." Maire gave the hound a reassuring pat and turned for the house. The hound looked at her, then out to the forest. She paused for a good two minutes before turning and loping to catch up and heel at Maire's skirts, following her back into the small house. Inside Cait stayed right at her heel as Maire fried up some eggs and a half rasher of bacon with several slices of bread. She chopped up some of the bread and poured the bacon drippings on the fried bits. then layered egg and crumbled bacon over this and set it aside to cool. Next she plated her own breakfast, poured some tea and set her table. Then she put out a bowl of water and the first dish for Cait. As the hound approached, she held up her hand in the motion that meant stand still. Cait immediately obeyed. Maire said a blessing over their food, including a heartfelt request for protection over her Thom and the pack. When she finished, Cait continued on to her place. The two "women" ate their breakfast in companionable silence, if one didn't count the sound of Cait's slurping as conversation, that is.
Finished with her meal, the hound made her way back to the hearth rug to lay down. Maire cleaned up and poured another cup of tea and fetched her book. She bent to her knees by Cait and stroked her from ears to tail along her back, long smooth soothing strokes. Then she pressed her hands softly against her distended belly. She's gotten even bigger overnight, thought Maire. The poor thing is fit to burst with Coll's seed. She could feel the pups move under her hands; it felt like two for sure. Given Cait's size she would be having them soon, very soon. She gave her a few more soft strokes, then rose and settled in her chair.
"How about we take the mornin' off and I read to ye and yer little ones?" She was nearing the end of Gulliver's Travels. It was a shame Conn was missing it, he would have liked it, thought Maire. "I'll read it to him when he gets back." Inspired with that thought, she began to read aloud with enthusiasm for Cait. For her part Cait seemed to listen for the first few minutes before she dozed off to the lilt of Maire's voice.
Participles and Portents (63)
From Grey to Black
The morning did not so much dawn as drizzle. It was a grey and overcast day that greeted them. Seated at their table over a traditional breakfast of grilled tomatoes, eggs and bangers, they tried to make plans for where they could possibly search next. Ian's journal made short references to Finvarra and Aine, both rulers of note of the Sidhe. Lin had a vague remembrance of Finvarra as being linked to Connaught. Roary was certain Aine was seated in Knockany, also of that region. The journal also had several passages dedicated to cromlechs. These, as Ian described, were typically constructed of three or more unhewn stones placed to form a small enclosure with a stone over the top forming the table. The top stone was known to have a slope, though the angle varied too much to be predictable. Cromlechs were sometimes found within small circles of stones. He had underlined this last part. A few notes included place names: Phoenix Park, Howth, Kilternan, Mount Venus and Druid's Glen. Finally he had included short notes on pillar stones and perforated pillar stones with a very brief reference to Tara. There were simply too many options, and it felt like they had spent far too much time searching already. How on earth were they supposed to know what to do next?
They tried to approach it logically. Ian had written the most about the cromlechs, so they decided to concentrate there. New Grange was too highly trafficked and had turned out to be a bust of sorts. Besides, Roary had developed a distinct aversion to the place. They decided to rule out places that were likely to have the most visitors and also those that were the farthest away in an effort to conserve time. Phoenix Park was well known for its political associations and, as such, was the first off the list. They dropped Druid's Glen next, sitting as it did within the resort community. They excluded Mount Venus mostly on a whim by its name alone, settling on visiting Howth and Kilternan. These two cromlechs should be close enough to visit in a day if necessary. They eyed each other warily, all silently praying that they had made the right choices and this would be the last day of the search. They asked for packed lunches and, once they had paid and packed, set out for Howth.
The cromlech sat almost linearly between the castle of Howth and the ruins of St. Fenton's church. Lonely and desolate on its own, roughly a half mile from the castle, the wild grasses surrounded the old burial site. Still in all, it was impressive, seeming almost square and over eighteen feet to an edge. It sloped to the east, and unless Fiona was mistaken, the table, or top, appeared to be quartz. Its weight must have been massive, thought Lin, as it lay broken in half. It reminded her of the Chronicles of Narnia and the fated moment when the sacred table had split asunder when the hero-cum-godlike figure had been sacrificed. She shuddered, reminded of the visceral description of the desecration in the book. That was a story full of images of the fey, and here they were seeking them outright, three adults who long since had been taught that such tales were only for children. Her breath caught on the word, children, her children. Where were they? What were they doing? And what had they become? She stumbled as her vision blurred with unwanted tears. Fiona caught her quickly by the elbow. They exchanged a long knowing look, mother to daughter. "Try not to worry. No matter what, those boys will always know what they are to each other, voices or no, hands or paws," assured her mother. She squeezed Lin's cupped elbow and strode ahead, eager to reach the glinting rocks.
As Fiona neared the Howth cromlech, she could sense the wildness of the stones. The grey clouds hung overhead, forcing the sun's rays to shoot out like fingers to pick the sparkle out of the quartz and make it appear to pump with life. She fingered the star stone in her pocket and whispered a silent request for guidance and perhaps deliverance. Striding directly to the stones, she reached out to place her hand on their rough-hewn upper edge. As her palm made contact with the cool surface, the clouds moved, sending a finger of light directly into her eyes. She shifted her weight to avoid the light and brought herself abruptly into full contact with the cromlech. Her eyes moved from the light into a full sheet of black. It felt as if she had been eclipsed. The cool of the stone flooded from her hand and up her arm, running through her body. The sensation was three parts soothing and one part completely unnerving. Unfortunately the unnerving part came last and lingered. As the sensation traversed her senses, so did a flicker of images slip through her mind's eye. She caught a glimpse of a fibula of bone; an arrowhead; a bed of shells; bodies in full dress, their tartans wrapped about them and pinned with great Celtic knots at the breast; rolling hills of green; a standing stone; ruins; and again the standing stone, followed by a grey wash which turned to a blur and a blast of light as the sun found her eyes yet again. She stood there, reeling, her hand on the stone her only anchor.
"I've found not a bit of anythin', not even a carvin'," reported Roary. "Fiona, have ye found something? Do ye need help o'er there?"
Fiona looked at him blankly as his words sunk in. She pieced them together like a child reading for the first time. Then she took a deep breath and stepped back from the cromlech. "I'm fine," she replied, "But I think we've found another deadend, no pun intended."
"I've a mind that yer right. Shall we move on to Kilternan then?"
"Lunch, definitely lunch first," was the only response he received.
Lin for her part still stood where her mother had left her, arms folded about herself staring off into nothing as if she could see something other than the grey day and the vastness of the field.
They decided to skip the packed lunches and made their way to a local pub. Over steaming bowls of Irish Stew, Fiona tried to describe what had occurred at the cromlech. She wasn't sure why, but she felt strongly that the images were not from that place. She was certain that they were of the place that they needed to go. She did not discuss with them the star stone or her silent plea, but she held it tight as she told them of her certainty that they were being guided. Unfortunately the guidance did not provide enough information for any of them to define a new destination, though it seemed to rule out another cromlech site, as to their knowledge there were no standing stones at these sites.
"Perhaps we should move farther afield. We've no cause to believe that the other silk would be near Dublin. That seems too easy anyway, doesn't it?" Lin asked.
"Aye, sounds logical enough. Are ye thinking we should head for Connaught? Perhaps chase down Finvarra and Aine?"
"Perhaps. It seems like the best direction now," said Lin without much enthusiasm.
"Wouldn't it be better to try and find out something more about the sites before we start clocking more travel time?" suggested Fiona. "After all, if I am right, they would have to have a pillar stone for the site to be the one we are seeking. Surely any documented Sidhe site would reference a stone like that."
They talked it through and agreed that time spent researching their remaining options would certainly be better spent than driving off pell-mell without any knowledge of what they might find upon their arrival. They had done enough of that when they took the trip to Rathconnan. They made their way to Drogheda and the libary there. Roary spoke with the librarian and got permission to use the Internet while the two women attacked the stacks. They spent the next two hours rummaging the shelves, taking notes from books and re-shelving those they had reviewed while Roary diligently reviewed sites and blogs for anything related to the topic at hand. Eventually they were shown the door as it was time to lock up.
They piled back into the car and by silent agreement made their way to a quiet restaurant. They brought in their notes to discuss over the meal. The waiter came by with the menus and noted the day's specials: a lamb-chop with the veggie of the day and shepherd's pie. In an effort to lighten the mood Roary suggested they all try ordering something different for a change so the waiter might have a more challenging night. Neither of the women seemed to get what was supposed to be an inside joke, so he let it lie in the air between them. And it did, the discomfort of humor gone afoul of the mark making the day's bleakness stand out even more starkly than before.
In the end Lin ordered salmon cooked in parchment paper with dill and caper sauce with a side of asparagus, Fiona got the lamb-chop, and Roary the shepherd's pie. Surprisingly Lin ordered a bottle of wine to share with Fiona which left Roary the lone Guinness at the table. They waited until the drinks had arrived to discuss their findings.
"Basically, if we are to try for Finvarra and Aine, it's off toward Connaught as he's for Knockma and she's for Knockany," stated Roary.
"I've found clashing data on the sites and not much o' that to begin with. Some accounts say it's worth a visit, some say there's no way o' tellin' that ye've found a spot to visit. All-in-all, I found no real description o' either the King or the Queen's Lording sites," he finished.
"I spent a long day looking up information on standing stones," commented Fiona. "They are referred to as pillar stones or Galluans and sometimes Leaganns. Some antiquarians have inferred that they were idol-stones from the ancient religion, some that they were monuments and others that they were merely landmarks or boundary markers. There are quite a few myths and legends about the stones and their magical properties and links to the Sidhe." Fiona stopped then and took a sip of wine.
"There is one at New Grange. I think we can safely rule that one out. Another is located at Ballynacraig; I did not find much information about that one. Apparently there is another one at the old Greirson estate in Glanismore. Of course, most of the texts said they can be found throughout Ireland, so that leaves quite a bit of land to cover." She ended on a heavy sigh.
"I've not much to add, except there is another pillar stone at the ruins of Forradh near Teach Cormac. It's only interesting because it is supposedly the Lia Fail," added Lin in almost a faint whisper.
Roary's eyebrows rose, "Isn't that supposed to be in Scotland?"
"It did once stand near Rath Righ, and I suppose it could be true that it was stolen and taken off to Scotland at one time. But really, can you imagine the High Kings and Chieftains of Ireland allowing it to stay there? So according to the scholars it now stands in Forradh, ready to continue its service in crowning the kings and princes of Ireland."
"Well, that sounds pretty impressive. Could that be our stone?" asked Fiona
"Och, it seems unlikely. There's not much at Tara to see anymore, just the hills where things used to be really," sighed Roary.
"Still, it sounds interesting," pressed Fiona.
"I think we have two real options, Finvarra and Aine or Tara," stated Lin. "The question is, which way do we go next?"
No one seemed prepared to answer the question that hung in the air, Luckily the plates arrived and they could leave the subject to tuck into their dinners, which were remarkably succulent. It surprised Lin how fabulous the food tasted. The salmon's texture was perfect, its smoky flavor offset perfectly by the perky zest of the dill and caper sauce. She amazed herself by finishing every bite without exchanging another word with her mother or Roary. Apparently they were equally as impressed or perhaps hungry as they did not speak either.
The meal was followed by coffee and profiteroles, a rather sticky sweet dessert that they all shared, much to the waiter's chagrin. Apparently he would have preferred a larger tab. They tipped well enough to make sure he was not overly disappointed by the shared dessert and left to make their way back to the bed and breakfast they had stayed at the night before. Luckily she had room, as they had not confirmed, since they had not really known where they would end up. Pleased that she was now full for the night, their host offered them a nightcap, which they politely refused. Before they separated for the night, they agreed not to press the decision of where to go just yet. They would all get some sleep and perhaps be inspired enough in the morning to wisely choose the next destination.
Fiona set about getting ready for bed briskly. She was not certain if sleep would come, but she knew she would need to read awhile if it was to come at all. Her mind was too busy to settle and the reading might help her focus on something less compelling than the Howth cromlech's effect upon her and her inability to sort out its messsage.
Lin tried to concentrate on reading, but the words kept swimming on the page. When she tried closing her eyes, she kept seeing her boys replaced by two wolfhounds, a blond and a grey, and the sea gulping them up. As the wave enveloped them, her eyes would snap open and she would lie there with her pulses racing. Finally she gave in and took one of the melatonin tablets that Fiona carried with her. Eventually sleep claimed her and with it came dreams of hounds playing in a clean stream, wrestling in a hidden glen beneath a dense canopy of leaves, and of hounds hunting. Her dream followed the pounding paws, the lolling tongues, the sudden leap and the tearing of muscle as teeth sank ino frightened prey and the warm tangy taste of blood flooding her mouth. She woke up sweating and just made it to the sink in the room where she vomited. The pink and green of the salmon and asparagus made an awful visual against the white porcelain and left an acrid taste in her throat. Her mind still twisted around the dream, she rinsed the sink and used her hand to cup some water to rinse her mouth. Then she brushed her teeth vigorously and washed her face. She stood for a moment staring into the mirror braced by both hands. Then turned back to the room.
Fiona had fallen asleep with the light on. Rubbing her chilled arms Lin crossed over and turned out the light. She felt her way back to bed in the dark and pulled the covers up to her chin. Staring out into the inky blackness of the room, she knew they had to finish this horrible quest soon. The trail of silent tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and down to the pillow. It was going to be a very long night.
The morning did not so much dawn as drizzle. It was a grey and overcast day that greeted them. Seated at their table over a traditional breakfast of grilled tomatoes, eggs and bangers, they tried to make plans for where they could possibly search next. Ian's journal made short references to Finvarra and Aine, both rulers of note of the Sidhe. Lin had a vague remembrance of Finvarra as being linked to Connaught. Roary was certain Aine was seated in Knockany, also of that region. The journal also had several passages dedicated to cromlechs. These, as Ian described, were typically constructed of three or more unhewn stones placed to form a small enclosure with a stone over the top forming the table. The top stone was known to have a slope, though the angle varied too much to be predictable. Cromlechs were sometimes found within small circles of stones. He had underlined this last part. A few notes included place names: Phoenix Park, Howth, Kilternan, Mount Venus and Druid's Glen. Finally he had included short notes on pillar stones and perforated pillar stones with a very brief reference to Tara. There were simply too many options, and it felt like they had spent far too much time searching already. How on earth were they supposed to know what to do next?
They tried to approach it logically. Ian had written the most about the cromlechs, so they decided to concentrate there. New Grange was too highly trafficked and had turned out to be a bust of sorts. Besides, Roary had developed a distinct aversion to the place. They decided to rule out places that were likely to have the most visitors and also those that were the farthest away in an effort to conserve time. Phoenix Park was well known for its political associations and, as such, was the first off the list. They dropped Druid's Glen next, sitting as it did within the resort community. They excluded Mount Venus mostly on a whim by its name alone, settling on visiting Howth and Kilternan. These two cromlechs should be close enough to visit in a day if necessary. They eyed each other warily, all silently praying that they had made the right choices and this would be the last day of the search. They asked for packed lunches and, once they had paid and packed, set out for Howth.
The cromlech sat almost linearly between the castle of Howth and the ruins of St. Fenton's church. Lonely and desolate on its own, roughly a half mile from the castle, the wild grasses surrounded the old burial site. Still in all, it was impressive, seeming almost square and over eighteen feet to an edge. It sloped to the east, and unless Fiona was mistaken, the table, or top, appeared to be quartz. Its weight must have been massive, thought Lin, as it lay broken in half. It reminded her of the Chronicles of Narnia and the fated moment when the sacred table had split asunder when the hero-cum-godlike figure had been sacrificed. She shuddered, reminded of the visceral description of the desecration in the book. That was a story full of images of the fey, and here they were seeking them outright, three adults who long since had been taught that such tales were only for children. Her breath caught on the word, children, her children. Where were they? What were they doing? And what had they become? She stumbled as her vision blurred with unwanted tears. Fiona caught her quickly by the elbow. They exchanged a long knowing look, mother to daughter. "Try not to worry. No matter what, those boys will always know what they are to each other, voices or no, hands or paws," assured her mother. She squeezed Lin's cupped elbow and strode ahead, eager to reach the glinting rocks.
As Fiona neared the Howth cromlech, she could sense the wildness of the stones. The grey clouds hung overhead, forcing the sun's rays to shoot out like fingers to pick the sparkle out of the quartz and make it appear to pump with life. She fingered the star stone in her pocket and whispered a silent request for guidance and perhaps deliverance. Striding directly to the stones, she reached out to place her hand on their rough-hewn upper edge. As her palm made contact with the cool surface, the clouds moved, sending a finger of light directly into her eyes. She shifted her weight to avoid the light and brought herself abruptly into full contact with the cromlech. Her eyes moved from the light into a full sheet of black. It felt as if she had been eclipsed. The cool of the stone flooded from her hand and up her arm, running through her body. The sensation was three parts soothing and one part completely unnerving. Unfortunately the unnerving part came last and lingered. As the sensation traversed her senses, so did a flicker of images slip through her mind's eye. She caught a glimpse of a fibula of bone; an arrowhead; a bed of shells; bodies in full dress, their tartans wrapped about them and pinned with great Celtic knots at the breast; rolling hills of green; a standing stone; ruins; and again the standing stone, followed by a grey wash which turned to a blur and a blast of light as the sun found her eyes yet again. She stood there, reeling, her hand on the stone her only anchor.
"I've found not a bit of anythin', not even a carvin'," reported Roary. "Fiona, have ye found something? Do ye need help o'er there?"
Fiona looked at him blankly as his words sunk in. She pieced them together like a child reading for the first time. Then she took a deep breath and stepped back from the cromlech. "I'm fine," she replied, "But I think we've found another deadend, no pun intended."
"I've a mind that yer right. Shall we move on to Kilternan then?"
"Lunch, definitely lunch first," was the only response he received.
Lin for her part still stood where her mother had left her, arms folded about herself staring off into nothing as if she could see something other than the grey day and the vastness of the field.
They decided to skip the packed lunches and made their way to a local pub. Over steaming bowls of Irish Stew, Fiona tried to describe what had occurred at the cromlech. She wasn't sure why, but she felt strongly that the images were not from that place. She was certain that they were of the place that they needed to go. She did not discuss with them the star stone or her silent plea, but she held it tight as she told them of her certainty that they were being guided. Unfortunately the guidance did not provide enough information for any of them to define a new destination, though it seemed to rule out another cromlech site, as to their knowledge there were no standing stones at these sites.
"Perhaps we should move farther afield. We've no cause to believe that the other silk would be near Dublin. That seems too easy anyway, doesn't it?" Lin asked.
"Aye, sounds logical enough. Are ye thinking we should head for Connaught? Perhaps chase down Finvarra and Aine?"
"Perhaps. It seems like the best direction now," said Lin without much enthusiasm.
"Wouldn't it be better to try and find out something more about the sites before we start clocking more travel time?" suggested Fiona. "After all, if I am right, they would have to have a pillar stone for the site to be the one we are seeking. Surely any documented Sidhe site would reference a stone like that."
They talked it through and agreed that time spent researching their remaining options would certainly be better spent than driving off pell-mell without any knowledge of what they might find upon their arrival. They had done enough of that when they took the trip to Rathconnan. They made their way to Drogheda and the libary there. Roary spoke with the librarian and got permission to use the Internet while the two women attacked the stacks. They spent the next two hours rummaging the shelves, taking notes from books and re-shelving those they had reviewed while Roary diligently reviewed sites and blogs for anything related to the topic at hand. Eventually they were shown the door as it was time to lock up.
They piled back into the car and by silent agreement made their way to a quiet restaurant. They brought in their notes to discuss over the meal. The waiter came by with the menus and noted the day's specials: a lamb-chop with the veggie of the day and shepherd's pie. In an effort to lighten the mood Roary suggested they all try ordering something different for a change so the waiter might have a more challenging night. Neither of the women seemed to get what was supposed to be an inside joke, so he let it lie in the air between them. And it did, the discomfort of humor gone afoul of the mark making the day's bleakness stand out even more starkly than before.
In the end Lin ordered salmon cooked in parchment paper with dill and caper sauce with a side of asparagus, Fiona got the lamb-chop, and Roary the shepherd's pie. Surprisingly Lin ordered a bottle of wine to share with Fiona which left Roary the lone Guinness at the table. They waited until the drinks had arrived to discuss their findings.
"Basically, if we are to try for Finvarra and Aine, it's off toward Connaught as he's for Knockma and she's for Knockany," stated Roary.
"I've found clashing data on the sites and not much o' that to begin with. Some accounts say it's worth a visit, some say there's no way o' tellin' that ye've found a spot to visit. All-in-all, I found no real description o' either the King or the Queen's Lording sites," he finished.
"I spent a long day looking up information on standing stones," commented Fiona. "They are referred to as pillar stones or Galluans and sometimes Leaganns. Some antiquarians have inferred that they were idol-stones from the ancient religion, some that they were monuments and others that they were merely landmarks or boundary markers. There are quite a few myths and legends about the stones and their magical properties and links to the Sidhe." Fiona stopped then and took a sip of wine.
"There is one at New Grange. I think we can safely rule that one out. Another is located at Ballynacraig; I did not find much information about that one. Apparently there is another one at the old Greirson estate in Glanismore. Of course, most of the texts said they can be found throughout Ireland, so that leaves quite a bit of land to cover." She ended on a heavy sigh.
"I've not much to add, except there is another pillar stone at the ruins of Forradh near Teach Cormac. It's only interesting because it is supposedly the Lia Fail," added Lin in almost a faint whisper.
Roary's eyebrows rose, "Isn't that supposed to be in Scotland?"
"It did once stand near Rath Righ, and I suppose it could be true that it was stolen and taken off to Scotland at one time. But really, can you imagine the High Kings and Chieftains of Ireland allowing it to stay there? So according to the scholars it now stands in Forradh, ready to continue its service in crowning the kings and princes of Ireland."
"Well, that sounds pretty impressive. Could that be our stone?" asked Fiona
"Och, it seems unlikely. There's not much at Tara to see anymore, just the hills where things used to be really," sighed Roary.
"Still, it sounds interesting," pressed Fiona.
"I think we have two real options, Finvarra and Aine or Tara," stated Lin. "The question is, which way do we go next?"
No one seemed prepared to answer the question that hung in the air, Luckily the plates arrived and they could leave the subject to tuck into their dinners, which were remarkably succulent. It surprised Lin how fabulous the food tasted. The salmon's texture was perfect, its smoky flavor offset perfectly by the perky zest of the dill and caper sauce. She amazed herself by finishing every bite without exchanging another word with her mother or Roary. Apparently they were equally as impressed or perhaps hungry as they did not speak either.
The meal was followed by coffee and profiteroles, a rather sticky sweet dessert that they all shared, much to the waiter's chagrin. Apparently he would have preferred a larger tab. They tipped well enough to make sure he was not overly disappointed by the shared dessert and left to make their way back to the bed and breakfast they had stayed at the night before. Luckily she had room, as they had not confirmed, since they had not really known where they would end up. Pleased that she was now full for the night, their host offered them a nightcap, which they politely refused. Before they separated for the night, they agreed not to press the decision of where to go just yet. They would all get some sleep and perhaps be inspired enough in the morning to wisely choose the next destination.
Fiona set about getting ready for bed briskly. She was not certain if sleep would come, but she knew she would need to read awhile if it was to come at all. Her mind was too busy to settle and the reading might help her focus on something less compelling than the Howth cromlech's effect upon her and her inability to sort out its messsage.
Lin tried to concentrate on reading, but the words kept swimming on the page. When she tried closing her eyes, she kept seeing her boys replaced by two wolfhounds, a blond and a grey, and the sea gulping them up. As the wave enveloped them, her eyes would snap open and she would lie there with her pulses racing. Finally she gave in and took one of the melatonin tablets that Fiona carried with her. Eventually sleep claimed her and with it came dreams of hounds playing in a clean stream, wrestling in a hidden glen beneath a dense canopy of leaves, and of hounds hunting. Her dream followed the pounding paws, the lolling tongues, the sudden leap and the tearing of muscle as teeth sank ino frightened prey and the warm tangy taste of blood flooding her mouth. She woke up sweating and just made it to the sink in the room where she vomited. The pink and green of the salmon and asparagus made an awful visual against the white porcelain and left an acrid taste in her throat. Her mind still twisted around the dream, she rinsed the sink and used her hand to cup some water to rinse her mouth. Then she brushed her teeth vigorously and washed her face. She stood for a moment staring into the mirror braced by both hands. Then turned back to the room.
Fiona had fallen asleep with the light on. Rubbing her chilled arms Lin crossed over and turned out the light. She felt her way back to bed in the dark and pulled the covers up to her chin. Staring out into the inky blackness of the room, she knew they had to finish this horrible quest soon. The trail of silent tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and down to the pillow. It was going to be a very long night.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Participles and Portents (62)
Darts and Darkness
They sat in silence for quite sometime, the crimson silk spread on the grass looking remarkable, both lovely as a promised embrace and as frightening as a welling gash upon the rich green blades of grass. It was hard to take their eyes from it, doubly hard to speak. No one made a move to touch it so strong was its power over the trio. Finally, with trembling hands, Lin let her fingertips skim across the plush grass carpet to catch the edge of silk and draw it to her. She looked up, catching Roary's eye, and she knew in that instant that her experience had been his as well. Her hand folded into the silk and without taking her eyes from his she rolled it. Holding it in her palms, she broke the intimate contact and turned to Fiona, holding it out to her. Fiona held up a hand and indicated with a gesture that Lin should add the silk to her own pack. She placed it carefully in an inner pocket where it would be separate from everything else that she carried. Then she stood. It was time to go. It was past time to ease her way from this place of loss and gain, of fears and things she did not want to name.
They made their way to the car; all the while the silence held. It gripped them in a hold too tight to break. The unexpexted sound of Clannad filling the car jolted them all when Roary turned the engine over. Not one of them could remember having set the I-Pod up. The music swelled around them and broke the heavy grip of the mound. "Is anyone else hungry?" inquired Fiona, "I, for one, am starving."
They drove to the nearest village and found a small pub. Clutching her pack which now contained two of the three silks they so desperately needed, Lin followed Fiona and Roary into the din and clamor of the busy place. It was full of people. A futbol game was being televised. One long table along the thin side of the bar was full of what appeared to be a vacationing family. A small boy, perhaps nine years of age, sat at the bar jawing with the barkeep and an older man who seemed to barely be keeping his balance on the stool. At first glance the boy appeared to be an American, but the smooth roll of his accent as he spoke and his ability to understand the sot's heavy Dubllin dialect marked him as a local. They watched in a bit of a stupor as the boy seemed to entertain the two men with his take on the game. When the lad came by, they ordered their meals, fish and chips with pints and shots all the way round, continuing to focus on the scene at the bar. When Fiona tilted the shot glass back and coughed over the fiery liquid as the Dew slid down her throat, Lin's shock finally registered.
"I can't believe you talked her into a shot and a pint! She doesn't drink anything but wine and little enough of that usually."
"Twasn't me, I simply put up me order and then it was a matter of ye both simply agreeing to the same."
"I guess we weren't paying much attention."
"Speak for yourself," breathed Fiona now that she had her breath back. "I just decided to try something new, though I can't see why you drink that stuff. It is truly vile." She picked up the Guinness and took a sip, setting it down with her face in a twist. "How do you drink this?" She shoved the glass toward Roary. "If you don't mind that I've tasted it, it's all yours."
"I'll order ye a bit o' wine," smiled Roary.
Lin glanced over and noticed the boy playing darts with the old man. He seemed good for someone so young, or perhaps he seemed good because the old man was so wide of his mark. Her jaw fell a bit when the large family rose and the old man gave the boy a hug and a flag from one of his darts before the boy joined them. The family were clearly tourists and she had thought the boy a local. As they passed her, the boy was speaking to his mother, his accent almost totally changed, replaced by a faint taint of the Midwest. She was floored, as were Fiona and Roary. They all started laughing at the same time, the pent-up tension from the day releasing in a flood of giggles. It felt good to laugh and find themselves comfortable with each other again.
Dinnner arrived and they talked about nothing in particular, just enjoying the night and the feeling of release. They had a second round of drinks with Fiona declaring she would end up driving at this rate. Roary assured her that he was far from being in his cups and finished her Guinness before starting on his last. When they had paid the tab and left, they found the night had settled in. The dark was broken only by the full moon which was ringed by an aureole of color. The amber, crimson and indigo whirls that spun out from its glowing orb were entrancing. They stared at the moon for a few moments, each to their own thoughts, before setting off in the car to find their beds for the night.
In the morning they would need to decide where they would go next, but for now it was enough to have finally accomplished part of their bizarre quest. They parted ways in the foyer. Fiona's last questioning gaze made it clear that she had hoped Roary would explain the day's events but she would not press him yet. Roary let himself into his room and sank slowly to the bed, head held in his hands. What was he going to do? He simply did not know. He fingered the paper through his jacket. Twas probably best if he just did nothing at all, things would be as they were meant to be. He stood and prepared for bed, then turned out the light. He slipped between the cold sheets with a shiver and said a silent prayer for a dreamless sleep in the darkness.
They sat in silence for quite sometime, the crimson silk spread on the grass looking remarkable, both lovely as a promised embrace and as frightening as a welling gash upon the rich green blades of grass. It was hard to take their eyes from it, doubly hard to speak. No one made a move to touch it so strong was its power over the trio. Finally, with trembling hands, Lin let her fingertips skim across the plush grass carpet to catch the edge of silk and draw it to her. She looked up, catching Roary's eye, and she knew in that instant that her experience had been his as well. Her hand folded into the silk and without taking her eyes from his she rolled it. Holding it in her palms, she broke the intimate contact and turned to Fiona, holding it out to her. Fiona held up a hand and indicated with a gesture that Lin should add the silk to her own pack. She placed it carefully in an inner pocket where it would be separate from everything else that she carried. Then she stood. It was time to go. It was past time to ease her way from this place of loss and gain, of fears and things she did not want to name.
They made their way to the car; all the while the silence held. It gripped them in a hold too tight to break. The unexpexted sound of Clannad filling the car jolted them all when Roary turned the engine over. Not one of them could remember having set the I-Pod up. The music swelled around them and broke the heavy grip of the mound. "Is anyone else hungry?" inquired Fiona, "I, for one, am starving."
They drove to the nearest village and found a small pub. Clutching her pack which now contained two of the three silks they so desperately needed, Lin followed Fiona and Roary into the din and clamor of the busy place. It was full of people. A futbol game was being televised. One long table along the thin side of the bar was full of what appeared to be a vacationing family. A small boy, perhaps nine years of age, sat at the bar jawing with the barkeep and an older man who seemed to barely be keeping his balance on the stool. At first glance the boy appeared to be an American, but the smooth roll of his accent as he spoke and his ability to understand the sot's heavy Dubllin dialect marked him as a local. They watched in a bit of a stupor as the boy seemed to entertain the two men with his take on the game. When the lad came by, they ordered their meals, fish and chips with pints and shots all the way round, continuing to focus on the scene at the bar. When Fiona tilted the shot glass back and coughed over the fiery liquid as the Dew slid down her throat, Lin's shock finally registered.
"I can't believe you talked her into a shot and a pint! She doesn't drink anything but wine and little enough of that usually."
"Twasn't me, I simply put up me order and then it was a matter of ye both simply agreeing to the same."
"I guess we weren't paying much attention."
"Speak for yourself," breathed Fiona now that she had her breath back. "I just decided to try something new, though I can't see why you drink that stuff. It is truly vile." She picked up the Guinness and took a sip, setting it down with her face in a twist. "How do you drink this?" She shoved the glass toward Roary. "If you don't mind that I've tasted it, it's all yours."
"I'll order ye a bit o' wine," smiled Roary.
Lin glanced over and noticed the boy playing darts with the old man. He seemed good for someone so young, or perhaps he seemed good because the old man was so wide of his mark. Her jaw fell a bit when the large family rose and the old man gave the boy a hug and a flag from one of his darts before the boy joined them. The family were clearly tourists and she had thought the boy a local. As they passed her, the boy was speaking to his mother, his accent almost totally changed, replaced by a faint taint of the Midwest. She was floored, as were Fiona and Roary. They all started laughing at the same time, the pent-up tension from the day releasing in a flood of giggles. It felt good to laugh and find themselves comfortable with each other again.
Dinnner arrived and they talked about nothing in particular, just enjoying the night and the feeling of release. They had a second round of drinks with Fiona declaring she would end up driving at this rate. Roary assured her that he was far from being in his cups and finished her Guinness before starting on his last. When they had paid the tab and left, they found the night had settled in. The dark was broken only by the full moon which was ringed by an aureole of color. The amber, crimson and indigo whirls that spun out from its glowing orb were entrancing. They stared at the moon for a few moments, each to their own thoughts, before setting off in the car to find their beds for the night.
In the morning they would need to decide where they would go next, but for now it was enough to have finally accomplished part of their bizarre quest. They parted ways in the foyer. Fiona's last questioning gaze made it clear that she had hoped Roary would explain the day's events but she would not press him yet. Roary let himself into his room and sank slowly to the bed, head held in his hands. What was he going to do? He simply did not know. He fingered the paper through his jacket. Twas probably best if he just did nothing at all, things would be as they were meant to be. He stood and prepared for bed, then turned out the light. He slipped between the cold sheets with a shiver and said a silent prayer for a dreamless sleep in the darkness.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Participles and Portents (61)
Laughter and Calm
The pub had been unusually quiet. The player they had expected had not arrived, most likely he would be in on the morrow having stayed to enjoy a paying crowd at the town ahead. The boyo's were subdued without the benefit o' a bard to stir them up and not a spot o' futbol to argue o'er. Not that Padraig minded much, it made for a steady if not heavy flow of funds and the easy clean was a welcome relief on a Friday night. He cleaned with an efficiency born of practice and pride. The gleaming wood, polished floor and sparkling bottles winked back at him and he smiled broadly. Aye, he loved his little pub, that he truly did.
He gathered his jacket, his pack, his small cooler and the retreiver which he had come to think of as his walking stick and took off in the waning hours of the night to visit the bird. The walk to the cavern was a joyful stroll, one that as of late he had come to look forward to. He and the bird had struck up a friendship of sorts and he often marveled on this change and the strange swell in his chest he felt when he thought of it. 'Twas not as if he understood the bird, that was unlikely to ever come to pass. They had, however, since that time when the bird had first walked, come to find a rhythm in teasing each other and in resting comfortably that made the company quite enjoyable. In fact, truth be told, he dinna half so mind takin' care of the swan, though he wouldna' be tellin' Roary that.
Padraig found his adopted pet settled in his usual spot. He walked over, whistling as he did so, and the bird raised its elegant neck, giving him its usual haughty one-eyed stare. "Och now, none of that or I won't be sharing any of what I've brought with ye, ye naughty bird," laughed Padraig. The bird rose, rocking in a rather ungainly way from side to side as it found its footing, calling out in its strange honking way. "Tis good to see ye too, friend," smiled the barkeep. He opened his pack and pulled out a thermos of clear water, pouring a few drams for the bird and setting it out about ten paces away. The bird cocked its head and looked at him hard, spreading its wings in what might have been an exasperated shrug. Padraig noticed that the right wing lifted to its full height and width, yet the left still rose only partially, but he thought perhaps a bit wider. The bird took a few bumbling steps forward, then gained a bit more stability and seemed to make the last few steps with growing confidence. At the cup he stopped and drank, honking at Padraig and using his beak to flick water at him. "Vera funny. Now if yer highness will wait here, I'll see to yer lunch." laughed Padraig.
Padraig went out to the now familiar ledge with his walking stick, flipped it about in one smooth move and assumed the position bent out over the sea. Moments later he was reeling himself and his catch in. He paused to take in the grace of the bird's two friends diving for their own dinner not far out from where he stood. They no longer complained at his presence; this too made the visits a welcome break in his pattern. He smiled and made his way back into the cavern, picked up his pack and made his way down to the bird.
He laid out the swan's dinner in a fresh bed of ice, poured out some more water and then took out his own meal. It was going on four o'clock in the mornin'. He ate his meal and told the bird about his day, describing the boyo's and their inane chatter, his pleasure in cleaning the bar, the clear night and the walk to the cavern. He waved his hands about as he described the bird's two friends circling and diving into the sea. The bird seemed to listen attentively until its long neck snapped out swiftly and nicked the last bit of crust from his waving fingers. "So ye are after me dinner, are ye?" grinned the man, reaching over to snatch up a bit of the seaweed from its pocket of ice. A furious honk was the response, followed by the man's laughter. He held it just above the long-neck's reach, singing a silly song as he dangled it about. The bird stretched its neck and danced about like a cobra from a basket, suddenly lifting its body in a lunge and snagging its food. He laughed as the bird settled down, taking the time to move closer and check its wing. The wound had healed over but was still raw and red. It looked like it would be painful to move. He took a balm from his pack. He dinna know if it would help, but he used it on his aching joints and he dinna think it would hurt. He eased back and looked the bird in the eye, asking silent permission. The bird stared back, then turned its head, elongating the area where the balm would be applied. Padraig took this as permission, smiled briefly and scooped out a small bit which he rubbed softly into the wounded area. He felt a nip on his ear. It was light, but enough to let him know that the swan had finished with his ministrations. "'Tis enough then?" he crooned. "It's time for a bit o' medicine for yer friend then."
He moved back to his pack, put away the balm and pulled out a blanket and his flask. He puffed up the pack and positioned it as a pillow. "Cheers and g'night to ye my friend," he toasted the bird and took a long sip from his flask. He capped the flask and straightened out the blanket. The swan stared pointedly at the flask. "I've created a bit o'a problem w'ye haven't I? Sorry, boyo, but I'm thinkin' that ye shouldna' be havin' what's in this flask too regular like. Perhaps we'll celebrate when that wing is a bit better, aye?" The swan stared at him a bit more, then tucked his head into his wing and settled down to sleep. Padraig took another draw on the flask, capped it and then tucked it to his chest. He gazed at the bird thoughtfully, then closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the cavern sounds lull him into sleep.
She was a vision with tumbling dark hair and emerald eyes, her lips a deep ruby red, skin like alabaster, the sea-colored dress flowing like silk around her ample curves. She whispered to him in a rich, throaty ancient Gaelic. She moved to her knees next to him, her hair tumbling around his face. He could feel the cool of her breath, taste the salted sea tang that carried a musky lush flavor that made him think of the forest. Her amply endowed form brushed across his chest as she leaned in chanting in the Gaelic he recognized but did not understand, then she kissed his forehead. It felt liike a benediction. Her lips held there as the chant was completed, her fingers tangled in his bit of hair, he felt a slight pull and then she simply melted away leaving only her scent behind her. He fell into a deep untroubled sleep, the kiss still warm on his skin.
A nip at his collar and tugging brought hm to his senses. His eyes slowly opened, gaining focus on the bird that was tugging at him. It appeared that he had overslept, at least according to his feathery roommate. Padraig roused himself as the bird pulled back. He drank from the bottle of clear water and poured some for the bird. Then he made his way to the ledge, cleaned out the retreiver and scooped up a fresh bach of feed for the bird. The two swans were swirling in the air above him. He took the offering in to the bird and laid out a fresh nest of ice from the cooler before putting the new weed into it. He pulled out a wedge of cheese and bit of bread from his pack and joined his friend for breakfast. As he ate he let his dream wash over him. Reaching up he felt his forehead where her lips had been and was surprised to find the spot exuded an intense heat. He withdrew his hand quickly; his mind was playin tricks on him. Perhaps he shouldna be spendin nights here with the bird, it must be makin' him strange. Yet he had found that he slept better here on the rock than he did in his own fine bed. 'Twas an odd thing this kinship he had grown to feel with the cantankerous bird, yet he was grateful for it.
He packed his items, said goodbye to the bird and began to make his way out of the cavern. As he passed through the twisted passage that led from the cavern back to the light of day, he felt the cool breath of the darkened path and the offsetting heat of the kiss that burned on his forehead. When he reached the light he almost stumbled into the welcoming arms of its harsh reality. He emptied his flask into the retreating tide and made his way back to the pub and a life he knew he could predict.
The pub had been unusually quiet. The player they had expected had not arrived, most likely he would be in on the morrow having stayed to enjoy a paying crowd at the town ahead. The boyo's were subdued without the benefit o' a bard to stir them up and not a spot o' futbol to argue o'er. Not that Padraig minded much, it made for a steady if not heavy flow of funds and the easy clean was a welcome relief on a Friday night. He cleaned with an efficiency born of practice and pride. The gleaming wood, polished floor and sparkling bottles winked back at him and he smiled broadly. Aye, he loved his little pub, that he truly did.
He gathered his jacket, his pack, his small cooler and the retreiver which he had come to think of as his walking stick and took off in the waning hours of the night to visit the bird. The walk to the cavern was a joyful stroll, one that as of late he had come to look forward to. He and the bird had struck up a friendship of sorts and he often marveled on this change and the strange swell in his chest he felt when he thought of it. 'Twas not as if he understood the bird, that was unlikely to ever come to pass. They had, however, since that time when the bird had first walked, come to find a rhythm in teasing each other and in resting comfortably that made the company quite enjoyable. In fact, truth be told, he dinna half so mind takin' care of the swan, though he wouldna' be tellin' Roary that.
Padraig found his adopted pet settled in his usual spot. He walked over, whistling as he did so, and the bird raised its elegant neck, giving him its usual haughty one-eyed stare. "Och now, none of that or I won't be sharing any of what I've brought with ye, ye naughty bird," laughed Padraig. The bird rose, rocking in a rather ungainly way from side to side as it found its footing, calling out in its strange honking way. "Tis good to see ye too, friend," smiled the barkeep. He opened his pack and pulled out a thermos of clear water, pouring a few drams for the bird and setting it out about ten paces away. The bird cocked its head and looked at him hard, spreading its wings in what might have been an exasperated shrug. Padraig noticed that the right wing lifted to its full height and width, yet the left still rose only partially, but he thought perhaps a bit wider. The bird took a few bumbling steps forward, then gained a bit more stability and seemed to make the last few steps with growing confidence. At the cup he stopped and drank, honking at Padraig and using his beak to flick water at him. "Vera funny. Now if yer highness will wait here, I'll see to yer lunch." laughed Padraig.
Padraig went out to the now familiar ledge with his walking stick, flipped it about in one smooth move and assumed the position bent out over the sea. Moments later he was reeling himself and his catch in. He paused to take in the grace of the bird's two friends diving for their own dinner not far out from where he stood. They no longer complained at his presence; this too made the visits a welcome break in his pattern. He smiled and made his way back into the cavern, picked up his pack and made his way down to the bird.
He laid out the swan's dinner in a fresh bed of ice, poured out some more water and then took out his own meal. It was going on four o'clock in the mornin'. He ate his meal and told the bird about his day, describing the boyo's and their inane chatter, his pleasure in cleaning the bar, the clear night and the walk to the cavern. He waved his hands about as he described the bird's two friends circling and diving into the sea. The bird seemed to listen attentively until its long neck snapped out swiftly and nicked the last bit of crust from his waving fingers. "So ye are after me dinner, are ye?" grinned the man, reaching over to snatch up a bit of the seaweed from its pocket of ice. A furious honk was the response, followed by the man's laughter. He held it just above the long-neck's reach, singing a silly song as he dangled it about. The bird stretched its neck and danced about like a cobra from a basket, suddenly lifting its body in a lunge and snagging its food. He laughed as the bird settled down, taking the time to move closer and check its wing. The wound had healed over but was still raw and red. It looked like it would be painful to move. He took a balm from his pack. He dinna know if it would help, but he used it on his aching joints and he dinna think it would hurt. He eased back and looked the bird in the eye, asking silent permission. The bird stared back, then turned its head, elongating the area where the balm would be applied. Padraig took this as permission, smiled briefly and scooped out a small bit which he rubbed softly into the wounded area. He felt a nip on his ear. It was light, but enough to let him know that the swan had finished with his ministrations. "'Tis enough then?" he crooned. "It's time for a bit o' medicine for yer friend then."
He moved back to his pack, put away the balm and pulled out a blanket and his flask. He puffed up the pack and positioned it as a pillow. "Cheers and g'night to ye my friend," he toasted the bird and took a long sip from his flask. He capped the flask and straightened out the blanket. The swan stared pointedly at the flask. "I've created a bit o'a problem w'ye haven't I? Sorry, boyo, but I'm thinkin' that ye shouldna' be havin' what's in this flask too regular like. Perhaps we'll celebrate when that wing is a bit better, aye?" The swan stared at him a bit more, then tucked his head into his wing and settled down to sleep. Padraig took another draw on the flask, capped it and then tucked it to his chest. He gazed at the bird thoughtfully, then closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the cavern sounds lull him into sleep.
She was a vision with tumbling dark hair and emerald eyes, her lips a deep ruby red, skin like alabaster, the sea-colored dress flowing like silk around her ample curves. She whispered to him in a rich, throaty ancient Gaelic. She moved to her knees next to him, her hair tumbling around his face. He could feel the cool of her breath, taste the salted sea tang that carried a musky lush flavor that made him think of the forest. Her amply endowed form brushed across his chest as she leaned in chanting in the Gaelic he recognized but did not understand, then she kissed his forehead. It felt liike a benediction. Her lips held there as the chant was completed, her fingers tangled in his bit of hair, he felt a slight pull and then she simply melted away leaving only her scent behind her. He fell into a deep untroubled sleep, the kiss still warm on his skin.
A nip at his collar and tugging brought hm to his senses. His eyes slowly opened, gaining focus on the bird that was tugging at him. It appeared that he had overslept, at least according to his feathery roommate. Padraig roused himself as the bird pulled back. He drank from the bottle of clear water and poured some for the bird. Then he made his way to the ledge, cleaned out the retreiver and scooped up a fresh bach of feed for the bird. The two swans were swirling in the air above him. He took the offering in to the bird and laid out a fresh nest of ice from the cooler before putting the new weed into it. He pulled out a wedge of cheese and bit of bread from his pack and joined his friend for breakfast. As he ate he let his dream wash over him. Reaching up he felt his forehead where her lips had been and was surprised to find the spot exuded an intense heat. He withdrew his hand quickly; his mind was playin tricks on him. Perhaps he shouldna be spendin nights here with the bird, it must be makin' him strange. Yet he had found that he slept better here on the rock than he did in his own fine bed. 'Twas an odd thing this kinship he had grown to feel with the cantankerous bird, yet he was grateful for it.
He packed his items, said goodbye to the bird and began to make his way out of the cavern. As he passed through the twisted passage that led from the cavern back to the light of day, he felt the cool breath of the darkened path and the offsetting heat of the kiss that burned on his forehead. When he reached the light he almost stumbled into the welcoming arms of its harsh reality. He emptied his flask into the retreating tide and made his way back to the pub and a life he knew he could predict.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Participles and Portents (60)
Fignments and Fragments
Thom took the hounds back along the thin stream of the creek that ran through the woods. Two hounds were rigged with harnesss and pole contraptions with stretched canvas that acted as a means of carrying the meat and skins from the deer they had taken. With any luck the rest of the pack would be similarly laden by the time they turned home. He would settle for just three more hounds. It would be tight to be sure, but it would see them through the harshest part of the winter. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fine fresh pine laden air and the crispness of the morning. He felt unusually bouyant and optimistic. This group of hounds had a new kind of synergy, he felt remarkably proud of how well they worked together as a team. Smiling to himself, he realized he counted himself as a part of that team. He thought of his hounds as an extension of him and he as an extension of them. It seemed this was the way the world should work and he could not imagine wanting another way of life anymore than he could imagine a live devoid of his Maire.
As they hiked, the hounds randomly left the trail; whether to chase a rabbit down or to wrestle with each other along the way, it was all just a part of the rhythm. Thom planned to get a few hours away from the last hunt site before they started in earnest again. If any of the pack took up the scent earlier he would know. But he doubted it, he wanted a stag. It would bear more meat and the horns would sell well, he knew.
Coll was loping along the embankment enjoying the breeze through his fur, the way it tickled along his flank. He spotted one of the younger hounds, a grey like himself and sped up a bit. The younger grey was standing at the edge of creek. Coll leapt to make a flying tackle and sent them both into the water. They thrashed and wrestled, taking turns dunking each other. They reared up, with their front paws locked around powerful necks, leaning in for leverage and pulling the weaker down under the cool water. Apparently the water frolics were a bit too noisy as Thom came shortly to interrupt their game. Appropriately chastened, they climbed out and immediately shook the water from their coats, sending a thick spray all over Thom and some of the pack who stood nearby. 'Tis a good thing it's a fine day or this bath ye've given me would be most unfortunate," laughed Thom.
They continued on in this leisurely way for roughly another hour, when Conn, apparently scenting something of interest, separated from the pack. Thom let him go, assuming he would be back as soon as he had satisfied his curiousity. He watched as the blond moved out of sight, feeling curiously hesitant to see him go.
Conn smelled something unfamiliar, something that stirred him, but that he could not identify. The scent eluded him. It was there and then it was not. He followed its fleeting traces trying to unlock the puzzle. Soon the gossamer thin traces began to take a heavier form. He still could not place the smell, but it was delicious, more inviting than the doe, solid and enriching. It occurred to him briefly that he should have the others with him. But he shrugged the thought off. He did not even know what he was chasing. He could always backtrack once he knew the prize. The scent grew thicker, he could almost taste the prey. Yet still he could not identify it. At the edge of his peripheral vision he caught the movement of what seemed to be a large animal. Whatever it was that he sought, that had to be it. From the edge of his vision he could make out a glossy white hide that seemed to stand tall, taller than him, He turned his head for a better view and the animal shot forward.
Without a moment's hesitation Conn gave chase. He darted around the trees, over the upraised ancient roots, leapt the rocks strewn here and there in a pathless maze as he maintained a constant eye on the retreating beast he still had yet to identify. The scent had changed somewhat; added to the already heady aroma was the distinct smell of fear. He growled low in his throat and picked up speed. He was closing ground now, perhaps thirty paces away. He could make out hooves on the hind legs, perhaps a stag or a horse of some kind? Shouldn't he have been better able to scent those? His rear paw grazed a raised root, bruising the top a bit. He winced at the unexpected contact but kept his focus and his speed. He was now only twenty paces or so away and the scent of fear had heightened from his quarry. His own blood was pounding loudly in his ears, his excitement filling him with the power to increase his speed. He could amost feel the pulsing rhythm of the animal's exertion to increase its own pace. Just a bit more surge and Conn knew he would be in a position to pounce. He could already feel the power of sailing through the air, savor the feel of his claws sinking into the rear haunches as he pulled the prey down before he moved quickly into a throat attack. As he savored this thought, the saliva pooling in his mouth, he increased his speed for the last forward rush that would jettison him onto the beast's back. His powerful hindquarters pressing hard and driving him forward with massive thrust, his right foreleg hammering to the ground and finding the small indentation, the sickening feel as he twisted hard to the right and fell to the ground. He was overwhelmed by the dual shock of his quarry disappearing from view and the pain that ripped up his leg from the twisted joint, the instant shortness of breath from the hard impact. He lay there stunned at his loss, in pain, out of breath and gave himself leave to whimper.
Thom and the pack had moved on along the creek's edge. It had gone on over an hour's time and still the blond had not returned. He was beginning to get uneasy. Maire would have his head if he dinna return with Conn in fine form. He whistled to Coll and the grey came to him. "Go and find yon Conn fer me, we'll rest here awhile," he gestured to the rest of the pack. He was pleased when the grey started immediately back down the bank. It seemed clear that the hound knew what he had asked. He would wait a bit and if the two hounds dinna return he would take the pack to find them. 'Twas a shame to waste an entire day, but he dinna seem to have much choice, not while there was a chance that his Maire's Conn might be returned.
Conn gradually shifted so that he was lying on his barrel chest. He licked his twisted paw, cleaning the blood from it. A sharp edge had cut the area above his claws, not deep, but enough to make it well up crimson. After inspecting the still throbbing area he shifted, using his left leg, to a sitting position, then slowly eased weight onto his right. At about three-quarters pressure he gasped out with pain and pulled back. Then he simply lay back down and licked his sore paw, hoping somehow that this comforting motion would erase the injury. This was how Coll found him after following the oddly scented trail that smelled uniquely of Conn but also of something else, something he could not define. He pressed his muzzle into Conn's neck to get his attention. The two hounds gazed at each other intently. Coll licked Conn's injured paw and then nudged him in the belly as if urging him to stand. Finally, after much effort, the grey succeeded in getting the blond to rise. Conn stood there on three legs, his right foreleg curled protectively up. Coll circled him with interest three times, then paused and gently pressed on the raised foreleg trying to push it to the ground. Conn growled a warning from deep in the back of his throat and Coll stepped back.
It was Coll that sensed the approach of the hunter. He and the pack were still a good distance, but he could feel Thom as he turned the pack to begin their own search. What Coll sensed was not what he expected, what he sensed was danger. It did not make sense, but somehow it seemed that more than anything he needed to make sure that he and Conn were not found by Thom and the pack. This thing that was wrong with Conn, it made things wrong with everything. Why there was danger he did not know. All he knew was that his every instinct told him that they need to hide and hide well. Their scent trail was too easy to follow. Conn had left one that was thick with the chase and his too would be easy to track. He managed to convey a sense of the urgent danger to Conn and the two hounds moved, as quicky as they could, further into the dense woods. Coll was looking for a foil against the scent. He wasn't sure what they would be able to use. Conn was in no condition at all to roll in anything useful even if they found it. His thoughts bounced around turbulently. Finally he led them back in a wide arc to the water where they had last stood as a group before Conn's disappearance. He led them into the area where the hounds had milled about and then down into the creek where they proceeded to rinse themselves in the slow running water and then to walk down stream.
They followed the creek until they found an opening in the dense cover along the bank and here Coll led them out. Conn would have lain down right there, but Coll pressed him onward. He was merciless, pushing the blond hound another two hours before he found what he thought was a relatively safe and secluded (if uncomfortable) thicket where Conn could rest. The great blond hound crawled in, wincing as his right paw turned uncomfortably, then settled and let sleep take him from the pain. Coll, for his part, could not rest. He was too worried about being found. He almost absentmindedly caught two squirrels, consuming one and leaving the other for Conn. When at last his attempt to maintain a constant vigil fell into slumber, he was trapped in a repeated vision, a movie of only two scenes. In the vision Thom was lifting a lifeless grey hound, one leg dangling at an odd angle and putting him into a wide deep grave. The visions shifted then to a vision of Thom's gun, its barrel hot in the night air, a constant circle of a vision, ever repeating the broken hound and Thom's killing stick, leaving its impression on the young grey as it slept.
Thom took the hounds back along the thin stream of the creek that ran through the woods. Two hounds were rigged with harnesss and pole contraptions with stretched canvas that acted as a means of carrying the meat and skins from the deer they had taken. With any luck the rest of the pack would be similarly laden by the time they turned home. He would settle for just three more hounds. It would be tight to be sure, but it would see them through the harshest part of the winter. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fine fresh pine laden air and the crispness of the morning. He felt unusually bouyant and optimistic. This group of hounds had a new kind of synergy, he felt remarkably proud of how well they worked together as a team. Smiling to himself, he realized he counted himself as a part of that team. He thought of his hounds as an extension of him and he as an extension of them. It seemed this was the way the world should work and he could not imagine wanting another way of life anymore than he could imagine a live devoid of his Maire.
As they hiked, the hounds randomly left the trail; whether to chase a rabbit down or to wrestle with each other along the way, it was all just a part of the rhythm. Thom planned to get a few hours away from the last hunt site before they started in earnest again. If any of the pack took up the scent earlier he would know. But he doubted it, he wanted a stag. It would bear more meat and the horns would sell well, he knew.
Coll was loping along the embankment enjoying the breeze through his fur, the way it tickled along his flank. He spotted one of the younger hounds, a grey like himself and sped up a bit. The younger grey was standing at the edge of creek. Coll leapt to make a flying tackle and sent them both into the water. They thrashed and wrestled, taking turns dunking each other. They reared up, with their front paws locked around powerful necks, leaning in for leverage and pulling the weaker down under the cool water. Apparently the water frolics were a bit too noisy as Thom came shortly to interrupt their game. Appropriately chastened, they climbed out and immediately shook the water from their coats, sending a thick spray all over Thom and some of the pack who stood nearby. 'Tis a good thing it's a fine day or this bath ye've given me would be most unfortunate," laughed Thom.
They continued on in this leisurely way for roughly another hour, when Conn, apparently scenting something of interest, separated from the pack. Thom let him go, assuming he would be back as soon as he had satisfied his curiousity. He watched as the blond moved out of sight, feeling curiously hesitant to see him go.
Conn smelled something unfamiliar, something that stirred him, but that he could not identify. The scent eluded him. It was there and then it was not. He followed its fleeting traces trying to unlock the puzzle. Soon the gossamer thin traces began to take a heavier form. He still could not place the smell, but it was delicious, more inviting than the doe, solid and enriching. It occurred to him briefly that he should have the others with him. But he shrugged the thought off. He did not even know what he was chasing. He could always backtrack once he knew the prize. The scent grew thicker, he could almost taste the prey. Yet still he could not identify it. At the edge of his peripheral vision he caught the movement of what seemed to be a large animal. Whatever it was that he sought, that had to be it. From the edge of his vision he could make out a glossy white hide that seemed to stand tall, taller than him, He turned his head for a better view and the animal shot forward.
Without a moment's hesitation Conn gave chase. He darted around the trees, over the upraised ancient roots, leapt the rocks strewn here and there in a pathless maze as he maintained a constant eye on the retreating beast he still had yet to identify. The scent had changed somewhat; added to the already heady aroma was the distinct smell of fear. He growled low in his throat and picked up speed. He was closing ground now, perhaps thirty paces away. He could make out hooves on the hind legs, perhaps a stag or a horse of some kind? Shouldn't he have been better able to scent those? His rear paw grazed a raised root, bruising the top a bit. He winced at the unexpected contact but kept his focus and his speed. He was now only twenty paces or so away and the scent of fear had heightened from his quarry. His own blood was pounding loudly in his ears, his excitement filling him with the power to increase his speed. He could amost feel the pulsing rhythm of the animal's exertion to increase its own pace. Just a bit more surge and Conn knew he would be in a position to pounce. He could already feel the power of sailing through the air, savor the feel of his claws sinking into the rear haunches as he pulled the prey down before he moved quickly into a throat attack. As he savored this thought, the saliva pooling in his mouth, he increased his speed for the last forward rush that would jettison him onto the beast's back. His powerful hindquarters pressing hard and driving him forward with massive thrust, his right foreleg hammering to the ground and finding the small indentation, the sickening feel as he twisted hard to the right and fell to the ground. He was overwhelmed by the dual shock of his quarry disappearing from view and the pain that ripped up his leg from the twisted joint, the instant shortness of breath from the hard impact. He lay there stunned at his loss, in pain, out of breath and gave himself leave to whimper.
Thom and the pack had moved on along the creek's edge. It had gone on over an hour's time and still the blond had not returned. He was beginning to get uneasy. Maire would have his head if he dinna return with Conn in fine form. He whistled to Coll and the grey came to him. "Go and find yon Conn fer me, we'll rest here awhile," he gestured to the rest of the pack. He was pleased when the grey started immediately back down the bank. It seemed clear that the hound knew what he had asked. He would wait a bit and if the two hounds dinna return he would take the pack to find them. 'Twas a shame to waste an entire day, but he dinna seem to have much choice, not while there was a chance that his Maire's Conn might be returned.
Conn gradually shifted so that he was lying on his barrel chest. He licked his twisted paw, cleaning the blood from it. A sharp edge had cut the area above his claws, not deep, but enough to make it well up crimson. After inspecting the still throbbing area he shifted, using his left leg, to a sitting position, then slowly eased weight onto his right. At about three-quarters pressure he gasped out with pain and pulled back. Then he simply lay back down and licked his sore paw, hoping somehow that this comforting motion would erase the injury. This was how Coll found him after following the oddly scented trail that smelled uniquely of Conn but also of something else, something he could not define. He pressed his muzzle into Conn's neck to get his attention. The two hounds gazed at each other intently. Coll licked Conn's injured paw and then nudged him in the belly as if urging him to stand. Finally, after much effort, the grey succeeded in getting the blond to rise. Conn stood there on three legs, his right foreleg curled protectively up. Coll circled him with interest three times, then paused and gently pressed on the raised foreleg trying to push it to the ground. Conn growled a warning from deep in the back of his throat and Coll stepped back.
It was Coll that sensed the approach of the hunter. He and the pack were still a good distance, but he could feel Thom as he turned the pack to begin their own search. What Coll sensed was not what he expected, what he sensed was danger. It did not make sense, but somehow it seemed that more than anything he needed to make sure that he and Conn were not found by Thom and the pack. This thing that was wrong with Conn, it made things wrong with everything. Why there was danger he did not know. All he knew was that his every instinct told him that they need to hide and hide well. Their scent trail was too easy to follow. Conn had left one that was thick with the chase and his too would be easy to track. He managed to convey a sense of the urgent danger to Conn and the two hounds moved, as quicky as they could, further into the dense woods. Coll was looking for a foil against the scent. He wasn't sure what they would be able to use. Conn was in no condition at all to roll in anything useful even if they found it. His thoughts bounced around turbulently. Finally he led them back in a wide arc to the water where they had last stood as a group before Conn's disappearance. He led them into the area where the hounds had milled about and then down into the creek where they proceeded to rinse themselves in the slow running water and then to walk down stream.
They followed the creek until they found an opening in the dense cover along the bank and here Coll led them out. Conn would have lain down right there, but Coll pressed him onward. He was merciless, pushing the blond hound another two hours before he found what he thought was a relatively safe and secluded (if uncomfortable) thicket where Conn could rest. The great blond hound crawled in, wincing as his right paw turned uncomfortably, then settled and let sleep take him from the pain. Coll, for his part, could not rest. He was too worried about being found. He almost absentmindedly caught two squirrels, consuming one and leaving the other for Conn. When at last his attempt to maintain a constant vigil fell into slumber, he was trapped in a repeated vision, a movie of only two scenes. In the vision Thom was lifting a lifeless grey hound, one leg dangling at an odd angle and putting him into a wide deep grave. The visions shifted then to a vision of Thom's gun, its barrel hot in the night air, a constant circle of a vision, ever repeating the broken hound and Thom's killing stick, leaving its impression on the young grey as it slept.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Participles and Portents (59)
Scent and Innocence
The woods were damp from the prior day's rain, making the ground soft beneath their paws and the scents fresh and sharp. Thom had let the pack hunt for their breakfast early but had now gathered them in. It was time for them to work together on his behalf and somehow the thrill of the singular kill was outweighed by the thrum of the pending group chase. Conn and Coll shifted restlessly, milling among the other hounds, ready for release. Thom took a piece of cloth soaked in stag scent and gave each of them in turn a snout full of it. Conn thought it odd that the hunter would choke them on this false scent when they needed to find a real trail but soon lost this thought in the hum of excitement that emanated from the pack. The hunter stood and gazed at each of the hounds intently and then dropped his hand in silent signal. It was up to them now to find and sight his prey. The hunter would follow their lead. Conn and Coll took off as a pair while the others went off in varying directions, none more than thirty paces or so apart, all silent as they moved, scenting carefully.
They hunted in silence, keeping track of each other by instinct alone. As the day progressed, the sun rose and the damp gave way to humidity, making the air thick. The hounds slowed, and as nature moved them they made their way to water and drank. Here the hunter found tracks, not those of a stag, but a doe and her fawns. With gestures he redirected his pack to follow this new trail. "This is better," thought Conn, "This is real, not some foul rag unattached to the earth." The pack separated as before, engrossed in the hunt, crossing each other's paths, but maintaining enough distance to keep the potential net tight. A soft growl alerted Conn that Coll had picked up the trail. He joined him and began to follow the scent - it was weak, but true. They walked alone in silence, completely absorbed in the rush of scent and the pulse that pounded through their veins as it grew stronger. It diverged near a large oak and they parted, each following a part of the trail. Finally, through a tall stand of oak and pine, Coll stopped. He could sense how near he was. The scent pulled him toward the trees, and he crouched low and crawled nearer. Peering through the lower branches and bramble, he could just make out the doe. His chops wet, he turned silently and returned to fetch the hunter and the pack. Conn in his turn had also found his prey, two fawns tumbling in a small open patch of the woods. The doe was a few hundred paces away grazing. He crouched down to watch, knowing that Coll had already gone for the others.
As he waited he could feel a heightened sense of reality grow. He sensed the presence of each pack hound as they slowly took their places along the perimeter of the dying place, for this was where the doe and her fawns would indeed be killed. They would trap them in their peaceful glen and the hunter would take them down or one of the pack would. It did not matter, all there would be taken. He felt his saliva begin to thicken. His pulses racing and muscles quivering, he was unsure how much longer he could wait when he finally felt Thom's presence.
Then Coll stepped into the little glen. The doe's head shot up, and she turned toward her fawns with a start, only to see Conn step out snarling, blocking their path. She turned to run the other way and was instantly blocked by another hound. The fawns remained locked eye-to-eye with Conn, too frightened to move. The doe dashed around the glen desparately seeking an exit only to be blocked time after time by another hound, until finally the crack of Thom's gun signaled the end of her flight. The sound of the gun snapped the fawns into action. They leapt foward attempting to flee. Conn caught one easily by the throat and ended its life in a single tear. The other made it to the edge of the glen before his large paws landed on its hindquarters, bearing it down. It thrashed in panic, then Thom was there to end its spastic grasp at life with a single pull of his gun.
He leaned down and gave Conn a rub between the ears, heedless of his bloodied muzzle. "Tis a good thing I brought ye with, ye and yer brother have made a fine addition to our group," he fairly sang. The hounds milled about excited from the chase and heady with the scent of blood, as Thom cleaned and gutted the carcasses. He stripped the meat, salting and wrapping it for transport. With such an early kill they would not be able to stay out too long. He thought Maire would be pleased, a full larder and the house full again as well. He fed the hounds the innards and prepared to move off. He did not like the idea of camping in the kill site, it was disrespectful of the lives given to support his own. Conn relished the liver and kidneysThom had given him; the heart had gone to Coll for the doe, as was his due. The organs were so fresh it seemed they still pumped with life. The forest smelled so good, metallic with the scent of blood and wet with the rain. He licked his chops and settled down next to one of the hounds to sleep until called.
The woods were damp from the prior day's rain, making the ground soft beneath their paws and the scents fresh and sharp. Thom had let the pack hunt for their breakfast early but had now gathered them in. It was time for them to work together on his behalf and somehow the thrill of the singular kill was outweighed by the thrum of the pending group chase. Conn and Coll shifted restlessly, milling among the other hounds, ready for release. Thom took a piece of cloth soaked in stag scent and gave each of them in turn a snout full of it. Conn thought it odd that the hunter would choke them on this false scent when they needed to find a real trail but soon lost this thought in the hum of excitement that emanated from the pack. The hunter stood and gazed at each of the hounds intently and then dropped his hand in silent signal. It was up to them now to find and sight his prey. The hunter would follow their lead. Conn and Coll took off as a pair while the others went off in varying directions, none more than thirty paces or so apart, all silent as they moved, scenting carefully.
They hunted in silence, keeping track of each other by instinct alone. As the day progressed, the sun rose and the damp gave way to humidity, making the air thick. The hounds slowed, and as nature moved them they made their way to water and drank. Here the hunter found tracks, not those of a stag, but a doe and her fawns. With gestures he redirected his pack to follow this new trail. "This is better," thought Conn, "This is real, not some foul rag unattached to the earth." The pack separated as before, engrossed in the hunt, crossing each other's paths, but maintaining enough distance to keep the potential net tight. A soft growl alerted Conn that Coll had picked up the trail. He joined him and began to follow the scent - it was weak, but true. They walked alone in silence, completely absorbed in the rush of scent and the pulse that pounded through their veins as it grew stronger. It diverged near a large oak and they parted, each following a part of the trail. Finally, through a tall stand of oak and pine, Coll stopped. He could sense how near he was. The scent pulled him toward the trees, and he crouched low and crawled nearer. Peering through the lower branches and bramble, he could just make out the doe. His chops wet, he turned silently and returned to fetch the hunter and the pack. Conn in his turn had also found his prey, two fawns tumbling in a small open patch of the woods. The doe was a few hundred paces away grazing. He crouched down to watch, knowing that Coll had already gone for the others.
As he waited he could feel a heightened sense of reality grow. He sensed the presence of each pack hound as they slowly took their places along the perimeter of the dying place, for this was where the doe and her fawns would indeed be killed. They would trap them in their peaceful glen and the hunter would take them down or one of the pack would. It did not matter, all there would be taken. He felt his saliva begin to thicken. His pulses racing and muscles quivering, he was unsure how much longer he could wait when he finally felt Thom's presence.
Then Coll stepped into the little glen. The doe's head shot up, and she turned toward her fawns with a start, only to see Conn step out snarling, blocking their path. She turned to run the other way and was instantly blocked by another hound. The fawns remained locked eye-to-eye with Conn, too frightened to move. The doe dashed around the glen desparately seeking an exit only to be blocked time after time by another hound, until finally the crack of Thom's gun signaled the end of her flight. The sound of the gun snapped the fawns into action. They leapt foward attempting to flee. Conn caught one easily by the throat and ended its life in a single tear. The other made it to the edge of the glen before his large paws landed on its hindquarters, bearing it down. It thrashed in panic, then Thom was there to end its spastic grasp at life with a single pull of his gun.
He leaned down and gave Conn a rub between the ears, heedless of his bloodied muzzle. "Tis a good thing I brought ye with, ye and yer brother have made a fine addition to our group," he fairly sang. The hounds milled about excited from the chase and heady with the scent of blood, as Thom cleaned and gutted the carcasses. He stripped the meat, salting and wrapping it for transport. With such an early kill they would not be able to stay out too long. He thought Maire would be pleased, a full larder and the house full again as well. He fed the hounds the innards and prepared to move off. He did not like the idea of camping in the kill site, it was disrespectful of the lives given to support his own. Conn relished the liver and kidneysThom had given him; the heart had gone to Coll for the doe, as was his due. The organs were so fresh it seemed they still pumped with life. The forest smelled so good, metallic with the scent of blood and wet with the rain. He licked his chops and settled down next to one of the hounds to sleep until called.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Participles and Portents (58)
Mud and Flames
The rain was oppressive. It had made the last few days and nights feel like time had dragged far more than was natural. As she struggled through the muddy yard, boots sucking in the wet ground and skirts gathering weight with every step, her spirits sank ever lower. She was used to these times alone, but this time felt so bleak. It was as if she was on the edge of a precipice, hanging by threads, just waiting for horrible news. She shook her head; wet curls sent a spray of water around her much like one of the hounds after a bath. At this she smiled. She wondered if Thom and the pack were faring any better with the weather now that they were over a couple days'walk from the place.
At the pen she found Cait panting with her muzzle in the wire. The poor dear. She really seemed so pitiful all alone with the others gone. Yet, Thom had been right, she was unusually heavy with pup. Maire let her out and Cait wound herself around the woman's legs. The she-hound was not acting at all like herself. She had never been an affectionate one before, always stand-offish. "Perhaps motherhood is changing her?" Maire thought. She looked down into the liquid caramel eyes and mused, "Perhaps not just the pups.The hound has a look of loneliness about her." It felt to Maire, somehow, that the she-hound missed her mate. Och, there she was again, ascribing human emotions to the hounds, her Thom would have a laugh at that. He would surely think she had gone soft in the head. Still, Cait looked so plaintive. She let the hound follow her about as she completed her tasks, mud sucking at her with every step.
Finally done and wet through, she made her way back to the pen to put Cait away. She opened the gate and gave her a pat, "In ye go." But rather than the obedient response she expected, Cait rolled back onto her haunches and looked up at Maire, seeming to plead for more time with her. "Truly after all this time, now ye've decided to spare me a bit o' attention?" Maire gazed at the hound. "All right then, as it is just us two women-folk, we'll make do together. But don't ye be tellin' my Thom on me, ye ken?" Cait stood tail wagging and eyes suddenly bright.
Maire made her way to the pump through the clinging mud and retrieved an extra bucket of water. "Ye willna' be likin' this I'm thinkin', but that mud isna 'comin' in my house," she grinned. Cait followed her to the porch and sat patiently while Maire slipped out of her muddy garb and down to her shift. She sluiced herself off and dried with the bit of towel she had left there, then opened the door. The hound rose expectantly. "Ye'll be stayin' there for the moment," stated Maire pointedly. The hound cocked her head and stood still.
The woman slipped inside and quickly donned her scrubbing clothes, found a brush, soap and old rags, then hurried outside. Cait stood exactly as she had left her. At the sight of the soap and the brush she began to back away on the porch. The fear in her eyes left no doubt that she remembered her last bath. "Come now girlie, tis na so bad, an' after ye will have a lay by the fire an' a few o' me biscuits," crooned Maire as she approached her slowly. The hound slowed her retreat just long enough for Maire to catch her by the scruff and drag the bucket over with her other hand. Cait jerked as the first sluice of cold water ran down her haunch, but gradually steadied under the soothing stroke of the brush. Maire took her time, getting the great clots of mud out and brushing through the tangles in her wiry fur, using the water carefully to make sure she was free of suds so as not to dry her more sensitive motherly skin. She was not quite fast enough with the rags, though, as when she turned to get the cloths, Cait gathered herself and shook with all her might, sending water droplets in a wild rain and soaking Maire as much as the rain outside had earlier.
"Och, well, at least we're both clean," she laughed. She rubbed the dog down and marveled at the swell in her belly, the engorged teats. Cait was bound to have either a big litter or a litter of big pups. It was likely that she was going to have them soon as well. Yet that hardly seemed possible given the time she was seeded. Was it even possible?
Deeming the hound dry enough she wadded up the cloths and ushered her into the house. Cait walked right to the fire, circled twice and lay down as if she had been there a thousand times before. "Perhaps ye'll make a fine guest after all," thought Maire as she went to change yet again.
The rain was oppressive. It had made the last few days and nights feel like time had dragged far more than was natural. As she struggled through the muddy yard, boots sucking in the wet ground and skirts gathering weight with every step, her spirits sank ever lower. She was used to these times alone, but this time felt so bleak. It was as if she was on the edge of a precipice, hanging by threads, just waiting for horrible news. She shook her head; wet curls sent a spray of water around her much like one of the hounds after a bath. At this she smiled. She wondered if Thom and the pack were faring any better with the weather now that they were over a couple days'walk from the place.
At the pen she found Cait panting with her muzzle in the wire. The poor dear. She really seemed so pitiful all alone with the others gone. Yet, Thom had been right, she was unusually heavy with pup. Maire let her out and Cait wound herself around the woman's legs. The she-hound was not acting at all like herself. She had never been an affectionate one before, always stand-offish. "Perhaps motherhood is changing her?" Maire thought. She looked down into the liquid caramel eyes and mused, "Perhaps not just the pups.The hound has a look of loneliness about her." It felt to Maire, somehow, that the she-hound missed her mate. Och, there she was again, ascribing human emotions to the hounds, her Thom would have a laugh at that. He would surely think she had gone soft in the head. Still, Cait looked so plaintive. She let the hound follow her about as she completed her tasks, mud sucking at her with every step.
Finally done and wet through, she made her way back to the pen to put Cait away. She opened the gate and gave her a pat, "In ye go." But rather than the obedient response she expected, Cait rolled back onto her haunches and looked up at Maire, seeming to plead for more time with her. "Truly after all this time, now ye've decided to spare me a bit o' attention?" Maire gazed at the hound. "All right then, as it is just us two women-folk, we'll make do together. But don't ye be tellin' my Thom on me, ye ken?" Cait stood tail wagging and eyes suddenly bright.
Maire made her way to the pump through the clinging mud and retrieved an extra bucket of water. "Ye willna' be likin' this I'm thinkin', but that mud isna 'comin' in my house," she grinned. Cait followed her to the porch and sat patiently while Maire slipped out of her muddy garb and down to her shift. She sluiced herself off and dried with the bit of towel she had left there, then opened the door. The hound rose expectantly. "Ye'll be stayin' there for the moment," stated Maire pointedly. The hound cocked her head and stood still.
The woman slipped inside and quickly donned her scrubbing clothes, found a brush, soap and old rags, then hurried outside. Cait stood exactly as she had left her. At the sight of the soap and the brush she began to back away on the porch. The fear in her eyes left no doubt that she remembered her last bath. "Come now girlie, tis na so bad, an' after ye will have a lay by the fire an' a few o' me biscuits," crooned Maire as she approached her slowly. The hound slowed her retreat just long enough for Maire to catch her by the scruff and drag the bucket over with her other hand. Cait jerked as the first sluice of cold water ran down her haunch, but gradually steadied under the soothing stroke of the brush. Maire took her time, getting the great clots of mud out and brushing through the tangles in her wiry fur, using the water carefully to make sure she was free of suds so as not to dry her more sensitive motherly skin. She was not quite fast enough with the rags, though, as when she turned to get the cloths, Cait gathered herself and shook with all her might, sending water droplets in a wild rain and soaking Maire as much as the rain outside had earlier.
"Och, well, at least we're both clean," she laughed. She rubbed the dog down and marveled at the swell in her belly, the engorged teats. Cait was bound to have either a big litter or a litter of big pups. It was likely that she was going to have them soon as well. Yet that hardly seemed possible given the time she was seeded. Was it even possible?
Deeming the hound dry enough she wadded up the cloths and ushered her into the house. Cait walked right to the fire, circled twice and lay down as if she had been there a thousand times before. "Perhaps ye'll make a fine guest after all," thought Maire as she went to change yet again.
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