The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (5 page)

     Thankful he still carried his small flint and iron, he was able to create the sparks to ignite the kindling. Soon
the fire was burning steadily as darkness encroached. He placed Ceola in the nest of bracken and covered her with his woollen tunic. He listened, now encouraged by her soft, rhythmic breathing, as her rest seemed less troubled than for several days. His thoughts now were for food and water, realizing that Ceola would die soon without them. He also knew he would have to wait until sunrise before he could search for what they needed. Suddenly a great weariness descended upon him as the massive strain of their escape took its toll on his body and mind. Climbing beside Ceola, he was quickly into a deep sleep, the warmth of the fire, and the springiness of the bracken, ensuring they spent the night in comfort.

     Bright sunlight awoke him the next morning, and he awoke with a start, his heart pounding, until the familiarity of his surroundings was established. Ceola still slept, her small face twitching
, and her eyes moving rapidly under her closed lids. As he looked upon her, Murdoc’s heart threatened to break as he realised what she had endured.

     The gloomy and threatening atmosphere of the previous evening had dispersed with the coming of the new day,
and the sunlit clearing now looked bright and unthreatening. He intended to rest for a while now they had found a sheltered spot under the overhanging rock face, knowing it would provide some protection should the weather worsen. He knew Ceola needed to convalesce for a few days, and his intention now was to find food and water. Feeling her skin, he was encouraged by its warmth.  She still slept, and after smoothing her hair and stroking her face, he left to look for provisions.

     Aware that his chances of catching and killing game were remote, he decided their best chance of nourishment would come from produce provided by the forest. He was not to be disappointed, and soon returned with a huge pile of blackberries wrapped in his cloak.

     The sun was shining again and he was bare-chested and enjoying its warmth as he placed the fruit on the ground, then gently roused Ceola and lifted her from her bracken bed, knowing that that the fruit would provide moisture as well as nourishment. Supporting her, he gently encouraged her to eat, as he once again considered the fragility of their situation. His heart ached for her. He thought about her troubled sleep, wincing as intrusive and horrific images of the raid assailed his thoughts yet again.

On the day of the raid, he and Ceola had been in the fields furthest from the village, chasing a stray pig that had escaped from its enclosure then run amok through the barley crop. The pig had eluded their comical lunges, much to the squealing delight of Ceola, before finally escaping into the rough scrubland beyond the village boundary. After a brief but fruitless chase, they had returned to the village where, from a distance, they had observed the sight
that now plagued their dreams. Aghast with shock, he hade witnessed the raiders herd almost everyone he knew in his world, into the village clearing. Mercilessly abused and butchered, the bodies were defiled even in death, as they were dragged through the fires, or towed behind the raiders’ ponies until they no longer resembled human bodies.

     After his initial torpor, his senses had sharpened, and his instinct to do something had driven him towards the village. It was only Ceola’s hysterical
plea for him to return which had saved them both from a certain and violent death, as his protective instinct towards her had served to overcome his fey recklessness. Returning to her, he swept her into his clutches and ran from the village, his intention to reach the distant forest and escape. He stooped to pick up the tip of an abandoned ploughshare as he stumbled into the wild tangle of concealing scrubland.

Looking now at the ploughshare, he considered its use as a weapon. The thoughts of the raid had evoked his anger, so he lifted Ceola back to the fern couch and placed the berries beside her. After walking to the stone outcrop, he began to scrape the ploughshare against the rock face. This he did until its edges began to crudely sharpen and burnish through the rust. For another hour he worked on the blade in this manner as Ceola sat quietly watching him in the sunshine, her mouth smeared with the blackberry juice

     When satisfied that the blade was serviceable
, he placed it on the ground and went to look for a suitable shaft. He found an ash sapling that was as high as he was, and as thick as Ceola’s arm. The plant’s position in the shade of other trees had ensured that it had grown straight in its search for light. A nearby pine tree provided him with a globule of dried resin.

     He returned and cut a notch in the end of the shaft with the newly fashioned spearhead. Next, he lit a fire and placed the piece of pine resin within its hottest part. Carefully removing it with the aid of a twig when the fire had softened it, he placed the sticky glob inside the notched shaft until it oozed out around its base. He wiped off the excess and entwined a cord from his tunic around the head and shaft to secure the union.

     As soon as the resin had cooled and hardened, he picked up the spear and tested its weight and balance in his hand. He looked to Ceola and smiled.  ‘Look, I’ve a spear. I made it like I make the arrows for the village. No-one can hurt us now.’  In emphasis, he threw the spear at a nearby tree. Its flight was true and the spear effortlessly pierced the bark and stuck firmly into the timber.

     As he walked to remove the spear,
Murdoc’s mouth was set in a grim line. His rage began to gather as thoughts of the atrocity seared into his mind. His latent fury turned real as he pulled the spear from the tree and ran away from Ceola’s earshot as his self-control finally crumbled.

     He didn’
t know whether to laugh or cry—of course if he did that Ceola would think him insane. He placed his fists against his temples and shook his head, trying to expel his inner demons, but the thoughts continued to assail him. All his friends, all his family, were dead because of him—the
old
, the
weak
, his
brother
, his
WIFE!
—while he looked on and did
NOTHING!
He should have run into the village and died like a man helping his people—instead of fleeing like a stinking coward into the woods. Ceola too, would be better dead— rather that, than live like a hermit in the dark forest.

     Turning his attention to the forest floor, he struck it repeatedly with his spear as if attacking an unseen adversary. He continued until his fury was spent, then dropped to his knees, wailing, with head bowed and the spear clutched to his chest.

     He continued sobbing until near to exhaustion. Finally, weary and spent, he gained his feet, and then slowly composed himself before returning to Ceola.

      It seemed that the food and warm sunshine, as well as a restorative sleep,
had combined to strengthen her, and her seemingly improved condition, as well as his cathartic explosion of rage and emotion, served to lift his spirits. She looked at him. ‘I heard shouts. I thought the monster had come back.’

     He smiled at her.
‘Don’t fear the stag my little mouse—it’s only a monster in the minds of silly men like me.’   

    
Encouraged by the spark of life he could see now in Ceola, he decided they would stay in the clearing for the time being to allow their strength to grow, even though they had only travelled a short distance into the forest.

     For the next three days, the weather remained fair, and they stayed within the protective confines of the rocky outcrop and bracken barrier. A diet of berries and hazelnuts, although mundane, was sufficient to maintain their strength while they rested. Murdoc was aware they could not stay there forever
, and on the fourth morning he decided it was time to move. He realised they could not live in the forest indefinitely, yet his immediate plans didn’t extend much beyond finding the forest road built by the Romans. He hoped the road would give them an easier passage through the tangle of trees to where he believed others of their folk had settled to farm on arable land that lay in isolated swathes within the unyielding clay of the forest.

     He looked at the trees, intending to move northwards to where he believed they would find the road. The trees were green on their north facing side and this would be his guide. After lifting Ceola from the bracken, he was about to tell her of his intention to continue into the forest when the grunt of a pony stopped him dead and caused the skin on his back to crawl like a
fleshy caterpillar up towards his shoulder-blades. 

     He slowly turned
to observe the source of the noise, and saw that fifty paces away, in full view, a group of riders had ridden into the clearing. Incredibly, they had still not spotted him. Ceola had also seen them, and fixed them with a fearful wide-eyed stare.

    
‘Stay still,’ he breathed, ‘they may yet miss us.’

Three weeks after Dominic had found the ruins, he had still not seen another mortal soul. The woods surrounding his new home had proven rich in game, however, and supplied him with surplus meat, which he preserved for consumption later in the year. The cellar beneath the upper dwelling had proven ideal for storage purposes and provided him with a cool and darkened environment to keep his supplies fresh. He had completely weatherproofed the aboveground structure, using materials at hand to repair the roof. Inside, he had constructed rough furniture, including a springy, bracken bed covered by several hides and pelts to keep him comfortable and warm at night.

     He was in an area of the forest unknown to him, so each day he explored new ground and set his snares, careful on these occasions to avoid leaving a trail that could lead undesired company to his dwelling.

     The forest had its own microclimate and absorbed the worst extremities of the weather, so that at root level there was little dramatic change whatever the season. Dominic saw the woods as a physical breathing body—an elemental God. A God who would be generous and forgiving as long as it was not taken for granted. He trusted the forest and loved it in a way that he had never loved any other living thing.

     On a quiet morning, when he walked deeply into an unexplored part of the woods, his thoughts again strayed to the day he had witnessed the aftermath of the massacre.

On this day, two months earlier, he had made his way to one of the villages on the forest edge where he often traded, and had noticed a plume of smoke coming from the vicinity of the community. He approached cautiously to discover the result of a callous raid. Apart from those taken as captives, all of the occupants of the village were lying dead amongst the smouldering, ruinous buildings. The condition of the victims had sic
kened even the hardened Dominic—a hunter who was not squeamish, and skilled in the arts of butchery. He had looked for survivors but found none. Relieved when the time came for him to end his hellish search, he returned stunned and shaken to the sanctuary of the forest.

     The gruesome discovery had confirmed the rumours that had been circulating in the v
illages he occasionally visited—that savages had landed on the eastern and southern shores and taken land by force. More had followed and taken more land, forcing many disposed Britons westwards as refugees. The days had passed swiftly since his awful experience in the sacked village, and since then his caution and stealth had been utilised for the avoidance of human, as well as animal predators.

Now, he walked through the unfamiliar terrain until deciding he had explored enough for one day. He had taken note of the signs of game and had discovered a huge sandy mound riddled with rabbit burrows. This, he knew, would provide him with a ready source of fresh meat, and not for the first time in his life he thanked the Romans for introducing the creature to his isle. A rocky bluff came into sight and this interested him. He knew from experience that here he would find eggs. He stopped abruptly, his breath locked, as he saw the first humans he had seen since the day of the massacre.

     A man and child were st
anding beside a pile of bracken. To his astonishment, he realised he recognized the man: he knew him as Murdoc, and could see he was agitated. Approaching voices warned Dominic to hide. He faded into nearby shrubbery where, although hidden, he had a view of the events that were to unfold. His caution turned to deep concern, as he saw Murdoc put his hand over the girl’s mouth and slip to the floor with her.

     He quickly
notched an arrow, realising that whatever was threatening Murdoc could also be a danger to him. In his hands, his unique bow was a formidable weapon producing a high percentage of successful kills, and he was confident he could help Murdoc now.

     Riders came into view, confirming his fears. They stopped beyond a huge ash tree that grew some distance away. By their garb, he deduced they were strangers and would have little knowledge of
the woods. Quickly, he made his decision to strike, knowing they were about to discover Murdoc and the child. He released an arrow at the leading rider, murmuring with satisfaction as the man gave out a choking cry, before falling backwards over his pony. He thought of past events and dedicated the slaying—the first of many he intended—to the slaughtered victims of the village.