Celtic Mist Ch. 02

Her head dipped gracefully, her braids hanging forward and her lush lashes lowering as her lips drew up water from inside her cupped hands. One linen covered knee was pressed upon the moss-covered stone, whilst the other leg was stretched behind her, her slim ankle and arched foot exposed --- pale and dirty --- her toes touching the ground. The limp white nightgown draped her form loosely but showed a lovely hint of her round buttocks and shapely leg as she reached to gather more water.

All at once her eyelashes flicked up and her uncanny blue eyes confronted his. Hastily Declan averted his gaze and busied himself refilling the canteen. He stowed it in his knapsack as he looked down over the steep ground that they had covered. Far below them stretched a valley of fields demarcated by green lines of foliage covered stone walls. Black and white dots of cows and sheep were visible at the base of the mountain. As his eyes traveled closer --- up the verdant and rugged hillside from whence they had come --- he saw a motion. He froze.

Three horses with riders, several hundred yards down the mountainside!

Declan immediately crouched. "Get ye down!" he muttered. "They're coming!" Aoife dropped behind the cover of a gorse shrub.

Wildly he scanned the rocky landscape about them. "This way --- make haste! Keep low!" She followed his lead as he scrambled half-crouched over stones, striving to keep a screen of foliage twixt them and the riders below. Declan glanced down the slope when there were gaps in cover and noted that the three riders had split ways --- one heading towards them, and the other two swinging wide to either side.

Shite! How had they tracked them? Had they left a telltale footprint? A broken branch? Had something fallen from his pack?

They leapt and climbed up the craggy face of mountain, panting. Behind a massive stone outcropping Declan ducked and signaled her to stop. He dropped to his knees, then to his belly as he peered through a crevice between the stones, endeavoring to stifle the sound of his breathing. Aoife huddled next to him. The narrow view was further limited by the patchy shrubs downslope, but his eyes latched onto the moving spot of the horse and rider.

Declan drew his pistol and pointed it through the crevice.

The seconds passed in synchrony with his hammering heart. Over the next several minutes the figure gradually enlarged, weaving back and forth among the stones, the dark blue uniform of a Kilmaedan Castle guard becoming recognizable. Declan's and Aoife's breathing had now stilled, and they remained frozen behind the rocks. For a long time, the silence was broken only by the occasional ruffling of leaves by the wind...then at last they heard the faint clomp of hooves --- faint at first but growing louder by the minute.

The rider was close enough now that Declan recognized Fitzgibbons. The horse zigzagged up the steep slope for several more minutes, passing repeatedly in and out of Declan's line of sight between the stones. At length, the horse halted.

Fitzgibbons was nigh fifty feet away --- just downslope of their hiding place where the terrain grew too rugged for the horse. The man moved not. The horse snorted. What the devil was he doing? Studying the ground for traces? Scanning the mountainside above him? What if he dismounted and continued up? Declan's hand tightened on the butt of the flintlock and his thumb cocked it full. He had a clear shot. Nay...dinna shoot. Whether he hit or missed him, 'twould only disclose their location to the other guards.

After an interminable amount of time, Declan heard a soft "Hup!" The horse began walking and passed from Declan's view. Intently he listened to the sound of the hooves. Were they growing softer? He stared fixedly between the stones, but the horse and rider appeared no more. Several minutes passed. Aye! The hooves were receding. By and by, 'twas only his own heartbeat filling his ears.

He waited, stirring not.

For some twenty minutes he waited. Then, ever so cautiously rising to his feet, pistol in hand, he peeked over the top of the stone. He had to lean slightly to see round a shrub, but there, further downslope he beheld Fitzgibbons retreating. The other two guards were not visible. "He's heading back down," he murmured to Aoife. "We'll wait, lest it's a trick."

They waited...and waited, both watching round the edge of the shielding boulder. Fitzgibbons continued down, eventually disappearing beyond the curve of the slope. After some time, they spotted a second guard to the east, also descending. The third guard was not visible. For another half hour they held their ground --- Declan's heart rate gradually easing. At last, he holstered the pistol and turned to Aoife. "Aye, I think we'd best go on."

They resumed their flight, now skirting east along the face of the mountain without further ascending --- even more diligent to leave no mark of their passage. As the morning waxed into the afternoon, they crossed to the north face of the mountain, where stretched below them a panorama of hills, woods, and fields. Immediately in the foreground, at the foot of the mountain upon which they stood, was a long, narrow, ghostly blue lake.

Slowly, cautiously they made their way down the mountainside, veering to the east end of the lake as they reached flatter ground. Here they encountered a narrow dirt footpath, and walking alongside it, traveled through a vale away from the lake.

By and by, they found themselves among the ruins of an ancient monastery --- a crumbling church and cloister, a round tower, and a surrounding array of tilting and fallen grave markers. The stones were covered with lichen and moss...and the ground was overgrown with shamrock, grass, thistles, and varied colored wildflowers.

Silently they picked their way among the forgotten structures, startling birds, rabbits, and...as they passed a weathered high Celtic cross...a lad and lass who scrambled to their feet from among the flowers, flushed and yanking their clothes aright. They were a young couple, similar in age to Declan and Aoife --- clearly country folk by their garb. Declan and the lad both put themselves in front of their female companions, by a like instinct shielding them from the strangers' perusal. "Good afternoon," Declan said with a nod.

The lad nodded back. "Aye, a pleasant day."

'Twas another factor with which to contend, Declan realized as they continued: a lovely lass clad in naught but a muddy nightgown walking about in broad daylight was indeed a memorable sight --- one that would surely be remarked upon if the pursuing guards began to question folk in the vicinity. Steering clear of other people was paramount.

The remaining hours of the afternoon saw them tramping through fields, pastures, and woods --- ever on the alert. Declan had no destination in mind, but oriented by the sun, steered them generally north, avoiding villages and houses. On several occasions they did see men, women, and children working in the fields, but at a distance that prohibited a clear observation of Aoife's appearance.

Come late afternoon, as they were weaving their way through a shaded forest of massive old oaks, Declan's growling belly at last prompted a recall of the bread he had stuffed in his knapsack. He halted. "Hold up. I've got some bread." Crouching, he produced it from the bag. 'Twas little more than the end of a loaf, but at that moment it was a wondrous sight. He tore it in half and held out one piece to Aoife. She stood motionless, staring at him, her countenance cold. "Take it, lass," he urged. "Ye need sustenance to keep going."

Finally, she relented and took it from him.

Declan sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree trunk to eat, his body overwhelmed by the conflicting forces of tension and fatigue. Even as he breathed deeply of the cool, rain-scented air, his eyes and ears remained attuned to the woods about them, noting the chirping of birds, rustling of squirrels, and dappled beams of light through the subtle sway of the leaf canopy above. No evidence of their pursuers did he see.

When Aoife at last sat upon the tree too, albeit several feet away from him, his eyes shifted to mark her, relieved to see her eating the bread. Numbly, Declan noted her pale hand resting upon the bright green moss on the bark next to her hip, then the clusters of pearl-colored mushrooms projecting like tiny ears from the tree trunk...then the dots of purple flowers among the moss at her bare toes.

It came to him at that moment that this was the longest time he had ever spent in a lass's company. What would he have felt under normal circumstances, being in the woods with a fair maiden? He could scarce recollect a normal sensation, so basic had his thoughts become --- the simple goal of survival had superseded nigh every other impulse, even suspending his newfound bitter rage.

Declan noticed her small, white toes curling against the mossy ground, and he lifted his eyes to her face to encounter her hostile blue gaze from under long reddish-brown lashes, luminous in a shaft of light from above. In chagrin, he realized that he had been staring at her again, and hastily looked away. Soon he drew his dagger and occupied his attention testing the blade's edge with his thumb as she finished her bread.

After the short respite, they pressed on. Another pair of hours traveling was put behind them, capped by the sun setting and the air growing more and more chill. They climbed over yet another stone wall into a pasture, where they strained their eyes to avoid sheep in the ever-growing darkness.

Onward...onward. Presently, a low moon shone between heavy clouds, rising as steadily as exhaustion was rising over Declan's fear. 'Twas nigh two days since he had slept --- and they had been walking or climbing for half of it. "How are ye faring?" he asked Aoife. "We'll soon need to find somewhere to stop for the night." She made no reply, but he could discern her pace flagging.

By and by, when a light misting rain started, he ken 'twas time to find cover posthaste.

His eyes roamed the darkness as they trudged another couple of miles, searching for some place to shelter --- a haystack, the side of a farmhouse, a large tree. A square shape manifested in the blackness ahead of them...a small cottage, it was. The moon emerging from behind the clouds showed the silhouette of a caved in thatched roof.

Declan drew his pistol as they neared, signaling Aoife to wait. A few unkempt shrubs were growing round the stone sides, and there was neither a door in the frame, nor a shutter in the window.

Stepping into the doorway, gun in hand, he peered into the interior. 'Twas clearly long uninhabited...by people anyway. He smelt the stale odor of feral animals. The entire cottage consisted of a single rectangular room, with the collapsed roof beams blocking off one end of the space. Under the side with the still intact roof was a barren hearth and a flat dirt floor with a few sticks and clumps of dry leaves.

"Right," Declan said. "We can sleep here."

Aoife stood rigid, her pale eyes visible in the moonlight.

"Go on, then," he waved gently towards the doorway with the pistol. "'Tis dry, and safe enough, so it is."

With her eyes fixed upon his, she edged past him into the cottage. Declan busied himself gathering sticks and leaves and piling them outside the doorway so that any approaching visitor would sound a warning. Stepping inside, he beheld Aoife in the darkness, standing at the far end, holding a stout stick by one end like a shillelagh. She watched him as he unslung his knapsack and pulled out the great coat. "Here, lass. Use this for a blanket." She moved not. He shrugged and set it upon the floor. "'Tis here if ye want it."

Although the mud-sealed stone walls provided shelter from the wind and rain, the empty cottage was cold; but Declan dared not start a fire lest the light betray their location. Unbuckling his weapons belt, he knelt upon the floor near the doorway, drew the dagger and flintlock from their holsters, and placed them on the floor within quick reach of his hands.

He eased himself down to lie on his side facing the doorway, wincing as his shirt pulled free of his wounds in several spots. A glance over his shoulder showed him Aoife still standing with the stick...he was too spent to ponder if she meant to attack him with it. "You'd best get some rest afore the morn," he mumbled. The dirt floor was hard, but in his present state, lying upon it was the most gratifying moment of the past two days. He pulled his bag closer and laid his head upon it. Ere three minutes passed he was sound asleep...

He jerked awake.

Seizing the dagger and pistol Declan scrambled to his feet. Something had woken him! Peering into the blackness he saw nothing amiss...heard nothing amiss.

Plink! He jumped when a cold droplet fell upon the back of his hand. Then he realized 'twas raining and he was not fully under the cover of the undamaged portion of the roof. With his foot he pushed the knapsack further under the shelter. Some time must have passed since he had first laid down, for he saw that Aoife had at last succumbed to fatigue. In the darkness a few feet away, he could see her lying upon her side, tightly curled up with her nightgown pulled over her bare feet. Her faint, even breathing told him that she was sleeping...thank God.

He bent and felt for the rolled-up wool coat. Shaking it out, he spread it over her, crouching to softly tuck it round her neck. Aye, 'twas long enough to cover her like a blanket. She stirred but mercifully did not wake. Back to his knapsack Declan crawled and stretched out again, where the sound of the steady rain on the thatching soon lulled him to sleep.

*****

.

LONG the journey that I made with her from yesterday till today,

Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon the sea,

The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,

And there was string music on each side of me and my Little Dark Rose!

--- 16^th century Irish ballad "Roisin Dubh"

.

Declan's eyes opened to hazy morning light...immediately he recalled the recent events as he saw the dirt floor stretching away from him to the doorless entryway of the abandoned cottage. He listened intently, but heard only a lark singing outside, and the peaceful breaths of Aoife asleep behind him. The innocuous sounds were an ironic accompaniment to the turbulent emotions that stormed his consciousness.

Declan Muldowney, Declan Muldowney he repeated the incantation.

His throat felt tight as he thought of Ma, Da, and Rory. Ten years ago, he had been unable to save them from Blaylock...could he not forgive the wee, nine-year-old lad he had been? Aye, he could. But he was a man now, and by God, he was not going to fail Aoife! His hands curled into fists. He was going to save this lass from Blaylock and his henchmen, to see her safely somewhere far from their reach --- even though doing so thwarted his urge to find Blaylock posthaste and crush the man's skull with his bare hands.

The ka-thump ka-thump of his heart seemed so loud that it must be audible outside his body. Breathing deeply, Declan forced his thoughts back to the immediate predicament. He rolled to his belly, groaning to himself as the burning bands of pain awoke over his back. Turning his head and resting it upon his forearm, he regarded the sleeping lass.

She was lying upon her side under his dark grey coat, parallel to him...as if they were sharing a bed, he thought wistfully...but separated by some four feet of floor. Her face was pale under the dried mud smears, and the morning light illumined the red of her thick russet lashes and brows. Once again, Declan's eyes picked out the scattered freckles on her cheek that had --- when he had been staring at her upside-down face --- traced the constellation of Corvus. He followed her cheek down to her lips. Now parted in slumber, how sweetly plump and pink they were!

As he gazed at her, he presently noticed that the mud smudges upon her cheeks were streaked with dried tear tracks and realized that she must have wept silently whilst he slept.

Aye, she had just cause --- her family had been slain just two nights previously...and she had been most vilely mauled. This reminder extinguished his momentary indulgence of amorous sensation.

Picking up the pistol and dagger, he rose quietly to his feet and slipped out of the cottage, leaping over the pile of sticks and leaves outside the doorway.

He discovered himself in a grazing pasture with scattered sheep at the far end. No other farmhouse or people were in sight. Why had this house been deserted? 'Twas very like the Lanigans' cottage where he had first seen Aoife --- indeed like many a farmhouse throughout Ireland. Was there a tale of woe behind this house too?

A scan of the vicinity showed a few shrubs and gnarled trees, but nothing that seemed a viable source of food. Declan stepped up to a shrub alongside the cottage, pulled out his cock, and began to piss. A motion to his left caught his eye, and he turned his head to see Aoife in her nightgown stepping outside. Immediately her eyes fell upon him, and she made a flustered retreat inside.

He hastily finished and rebuttoned his breeches flap. Upon entering the cottage, he found Aoife standing in the far corner with her arms folded across her chest. She seemed wary, watching his motions without meeting his eyes. "Are ye well?" he asked by way of greeting.

She spoke softly but clearly. "Might a poor soul have a moment's privacy? Or will you watch me at knifepoint whilst I piddle?" Her eerie blue eyes raised and challenged his.

"Oh, by all means..." he faltered. "I'll stay here." He stepped aside, making way for her to pass. After she disappeared round the corner of the cottage, Declan crouched and rolled up the coat, which she had placed atop the knapsack. Alas, the idea of her piddling had now taken root in his mind as a most charming sight to behold, if a lad could count himself so fortunate...he flushed as he lingered over the vision. So distracted was he that he did not immediately note how long she had been gone. Not wishing to be boorish, he sidled closer to the doorway and called out, "Aoife?" No reply. He called again --- still no response.

When he stepped outside, he saw her some fifty yards away in the pasture --- running. Shite! He grabbed the knapsack and sprinted after her.

Never had he encountered a lass so stubborn...nor so fast! Down the pasture he chased her --- sheep scattering. "Hold up, then!" he called as he overtook her, catching her upper arm to bring her to a stop. She jerked free of his hand, scowling, then began to march away from him. "Aoife," he said, striding beside her, "Think on it. How would you defend yourself on your own if they caught ye?"

She responded not.

They continued in silence, as yesterday walking abreast through the countryside. Declan, now revived by the night's rest, was newly attuned to the sensations of his body. For one, the wounds on his back were burning something fierce, obliging him to carry the knapsack in front with his arms. For another, his belly was loudly protesting its empty state. Although she spoke not, he wagered Aoife was equally famished. "We'll need to find food soon," he said. "I have some coin."

Her response was to veer sharply to the right. He observed her in confusion till he saw her purpose: a few paces away, snared by its wool in a clump of scraggly shrubs was a lamb...its distressed babyish baaahs intermingling with the bleating of the ewe that stood alongside. Declan watched as Aoife bent to untangle its matted coat from the branches and set it scampering free to its mother.