In a low valley, once stood a rundown if wizened old monastery devoted to the fair-haired song-goddess Brigantia. Located to the south-east of the Emerald Isle the roof gleamed despite the ashen appearance as the oak walls that held the roof were well-used. Always, it seemed as though the building, was on the cusp of collapse. The locality for her part was pressed in by a series of boggy swamps and farms save for on her eastern border. The reason dear Reader, was that it was there where the Geraintian Sea lay. This body of water tended to glitter in the morn and evenings due to the suns’ light.
Something which gave the monks no small amount of pleasure to look upon, when not preoccupied with other matters. To the monks, it represented little more than a beautiful sight, in contrast to how it was considered a mere century or two prior. At that time it was shuddered at, and looked away from, on account of countless Viking incursions in the area. So went the story that the monastery had been raided and sacked more than three times, for it was not until the rise of the Bóruma that she had ceased, to have reason to fear the sea. In more recent days some had begun to even consider it a possible alternative route from the land routes. This was because the armies of feudal chieftains discouraged travel, with the most notable and guilty of this sin, being the dread Laird of Amadan.
To the younger monks of Brigantia, daydreams of the north road often times preoccupied their thoughts when not busy with their chores. It seemed to them, where adventure might well be found, and there was naught quite so tempting to an Ériu-man or boy, as adventure.
Or so many assumed, when they gave the decreased number of traveling merchants any thought at all. With those few merchants who passed by, every few years spreading ghost-stories of how those who dared to pass by or near to Amadan. So feared was this dread-laird that few spoke his name, or title aloud very often. The reason for this was simple; since nigh on a decade hence he had assumed an almost god-like status, in their minds. Not that he had ever bothered them, at least not directly. In fact the monks tended to worry more over troublesome local-boys, who spilled buckets, pans and beat one another up or tossed girls into the local well, for no apparent reason.
The most troublesome of all these rapscallions, it must be said was a lad by the name of Bradán, whom had two particularly irritable habits in the eyes, of all the locals both monk and non-monk alike: The first being his habit of performing nasty pranks, when the mood o’ertook him.
The second reason they detested him so, was that he tended to disappear in such a manner that often sent the monks, most notably Brother Lyr, into a frenzy of panic whenever there was work, to be done. Most often, he tended to be found sitting by the beach or by the Dreggún Woods playing his pipes (a gift from when he was four, from Lyr).
At times, it seemed as though he were determined to confirm his reputation for rough-housing. He did so by frequently clashing with the neighbouring boys.
A difficult child, even before the dislike towards him had reached the heights it had. In spite of this disdain for him, several monks and one or two of the boys clung to him all the more tightly. None clung to him more tightly though than young Colum, one of the rowdier if more adventurous youths.
In particular, Lyr with his greying hair (hair which was growing increasingly thin) and sad grey eyes wrenched more pity than any other in the locality. He was known to consistently attempt again and again to the sympathy of those around him, to tame Bradán’s spirit.
“Something must give out,” people were prone to grumbling over and over to themselves. They would mutter this on their way home from tilling the fields or working to chop lumber in the woods.
“Brother this shan’t go on for much longer,” Lyr told the youth one day, worriedly after scraping, pleading and bowing for quite some time to the father of one of the neighbourhood boys, Bradán had given a blood beating to.
“He started it,” Bradán grumbled under his breath.
“You removed three of his teeth,” Lyr retorted wearily as he led the way back to the monastery.
“He threatened me-”
“The words of men spoken in a hot temper have no further value than their material wealth, when death comes for them.” Was the stern interruption from the old man, who recited one of his favourite passages from the Canticle (a passage the boy hated with a passion).
“Fine, be that way,” The boy condemned as he stood his ground.
His stubborn stance drew from the old cook a heavy sigh, one that would have inspired remorse in any other boy.
In defiance Bradán took off from his side. His younger healthier legs carrying him faster than Lyr’s thin, old legs possibly could.
His robe flapping about him, Bradán came to a halt before the river, intent upon being left alone. He knew that few treaded near the sea, save for a select few and they had recently been scared away. The reason for this unreasonable fear was entirely due to rumours of Northmen or monsters from the deep. Rumours he had spread himself, via Colum.
To his annoyance, he discovered another person there seated in his favourite spot. Incensed by this, the boy reacted badly; charging the other boy who was doing little more than tossing rocks into the sea.
“Away from here, you knave!” Bradán shouted as he leapt onto the smaller boy whom he only now noticed in his fury, was also dressed in small brown robes.
“Bradán? Do stop hitting me!” Colum screeched his ears flattening onto his head, as he covered himself with his small hands, crying at the blows that rained down onto him.
“Do you understand how it is now? This is my spot.” The larger boy snapped, sitting on his desired spot as though it were a throne.
Rubbing the back of his head, the small lad knew better than to fight back then. It was not always like this, as easily enraged as Bradán was he was at one time also fiercely, protective of his only friend. A Ratvian by birth, Colum had the grey fur, large dark eyes, buck teeth elongated snout and long nails, all so common amongst his people.
There are many stories about how Ratvians came to be, it is said by those from North-Agenor, that Ratvians or Ravar-people were created by a combination of underground maggots coursing through Gaea’s flesh. That they burst out when the wild magicks thrown about during the duel between Zeus and Roma tore open her flesh. Another theory was that Ratvians or cursed ones’ as some on the Gernavian archipelago near Parmenia, called them, was originally humans who had sinned against the gods during the First War of Darkness. They were cursed it is said, for their betrayals of the gods.
Still others believed them to have been created by Khnum near the dawn of time. Created before he had perfected his powers of creation enough, to create his finest creations; men (this was one of the Temple’s favourite ideas).
Bradán much as he was a bully by nature, had no serious compulsions against little Colum, a trait he shared with but a few of the people in the locality. A locality known to its inhabitants as the ‘Cell-by-the-Sea’, and had been established almost four hundred years hence.
“I was waiting for you,” Colum complained, only to ask with a thin thread of hope entering his voice, “Do you want to play to-day?”
“No,” Was the sullen answer.
That put an end to any hope for a conversation for some time. After some time, the human boy who had passed the time, by tossing pebbles into the sea, looked to his friend.
“Colum how do you suppose you got here?” He asked quietly of his friend, unsure of what to do or say.
“Same way everyone else did, I suppose,” Colum replied confused.
“I suppose it is not important.” He said his shoulders now slumped, as they spoke a flock of ducks quacked and flapped their wings, only to dive into the water.
“Do you hear something?” Colum asked him, his ears standing on end on the top of his long-snouted head. “It sounds strange, as though someone is…” He paused uncertainly.
“Is what?” Bradán was in the midst of saying something, only to stop as a loud wolf-like howl burst through the thin evening air.
So bewildered were the two boys that they remained there, for quite some time. Trapped by the warring instincts to flee for the monastery, where they knew it to be safe or to stay where they were.
“What should we do?” Colum whispered to the older boy who was equally terrified and frozen where he stood.
Swallowing his own fear, he said to his fellow prisoner of fear. “I do not know but, I think, we should return to the monastery.”
“Y-yes o-of course,” Colum agreed his eyes wide with anxiety as he scurried after his friend. After swallowing audibly, he hurried behind him, up the path back to the temple where the monks were more than likely preoccupied, with the evening Sessions and prayers as it was Ziusday (the third day of the week).
“Hopefully we could slip by without anyone taking notice of either of us,” Bradán murmured as they moved past the various small huts made of straw and wood that pockmarked the landscape around the monastery.
Colum nodded swiftly, as he followed him closely only to pale beneath his fur when they neared where Prior Brien stood proudly, aquiline nose high in the air. He stood before the doors to the temple, with his arms crossed.
“Oh, no,” Colum gasped breathlessly with his friend gulping also when he saw the scowl on Brien’s old, thin face.
“Oh, indeed young Colum, come along,” Brien grunted with a raised brow that did little, to inspire love or hope in either of the youths.
“But, we had a good reason for our lateness!” The human boy said suddenly, lacking onto one last thread of hope; the howl by the beachside. “There was this howl from near the sea.”
“More like a wail,” Colum corrected sagely.
Clearly Brien did not believe them, if his expression was any indication to go by. He frowned unhappily at them, “Then you two had best never go there again lads. Further you two will have to serve brother Lyr more closely in the kitchens, for the next three months, you will simply put clean the floors and altars every day, is that clear?”
Both of the boys grumbled unhappily, with Bradán insisting stubbornly, “But we really did hear something by the beach.”
It was some time thereafter that he was to next tread anywhere near the sea, due to how busy the monks kept him. It was only be after the third night, after brother Lugh did his weekly singing of one of the many songs praising the valour of the High King Bradán the Bóruma.
The song was one in the ancient tongue of the Romalian people, and detailed the heroics of the Bóruma, on one of his earlier adventures. Most notably, how he defied one of the last pretenders to the ancient Ui’Athulf throne, slew a great Wyrm saved one of his children, only to later kill the pretender. The song though, did have a tragic ending, as it detailed the Bóruma’s death at Cluain Giorria. The song was a favourite of Bradán’s, it never failed to inspire him and enflame his soul.
Taking to the beach of the Geraintian Sea, once there, he found nothing. Neither any hint of the cause of that sound nor anything of any real interest to him. Disappointed by this, he picked up a stick, and began to pretend to be a warrior from the Bóruma’s court. It was not until he was finished attacking a tree near the beach.
On his way back after all his games when he heard a sound, one he thought was the same as the wail but this time it was merely a single choked sound, followed by a loud cry.
Looking about for the origin of the series of sobs that trickled his ears only to end up searching the area for the source of the noise, which he found behind a couple of trees. It was a woman.
‘Is that not the widow Ríonal?’ Bradán mused recognizing the plain-looking all but newly wedded young woman barely a decade older, than he. The widow of a local farmer by the name of Fionnán, she was now widely pitied throughout the local area.
Quite the fall for a woman who had somehow managed to woo one of the more successful farmer-heirs. From what Bradán knew, Ríonal had married for love and had had a young daughter. Their daughter had fallen ill, at six months old only for her husband to leave for the north, to find medicine or a worthy physician. He had yet to return even after a year and a half, with his daughter dying five months after his departure, while his widow gossipmongers (such as Lyr) whispered that the shock had caused her to miscarry, a second child.
She sobbed louder and louder, with more grief than he had ever thought anyone capable of. It was unsettling he thought, when she had finished, she looked about (Bradán had hidden himself behind a nearby tree) when satisfied no one was there, she hurried along back to the village. Unaware of the boy who headed back several minutes after the red-haired, tall black-robed woman.
“Ríonal? Ríonal! There you are, where have you been?” shrieked old Eibhlin, the old mother of Fionnán.
“Nowhere, Eibhlin,” The young woman replied softly.
Scurrying along, having hidden more out of a mixture of fear and distaste for the lady Eibhlin who had made her own dislike for him known countless times. She had done so both with her cane and fists, and also by reporting the slightest oversight of his to brother Lyr, in the past.
The rest of the day passed by for Bradán in a flurry of chores and contemplation the latter was focused, not around theological musings, but rather his new discovery. The monks breathed many sighs of relief at his sudden discrete change from rambunctiousness all of them convinced that this was a change for the better. In fact, Brien went so far as to congratulate Lyr for finally taming the boy’s wayward spirit.
“I do not think much has changed only that something else has caught his attention and distracted him from the rest of us.” Lyr stated more astute than the others in regards to his charge. “Mark me words he will be up to more mischief tomorrow.”
Despite these negative words, Lyr approached him quietly with some trepidation in his eyes, without the boy noticing him.
“Hullo there Bradán, if I may could I have this seat?” He asked cautiously of the youth who nodded absently, Lyr took a seat upon the short stool next to Bradán who was sitting in the kitchens, cleaning dishes. “I would like you to speak to me Bradán, you have yet to say a word all evening.”
Bradán remained silent a heartbeat longer focused as he was on the large bowl, he was scrubbing only to pipe up almost shyly. “Lyr, what do you know of the widow Ríonal?”
“Why do you ask?” The lad shrugged, “Well, all I know is that some think her cursed,” Lyr said uncomfortably, eyeing the lad sharply he added, “I hope you have not taken a liking to her.”
“Of course not! I just-I merely wondered I think it was, she who wailed loudly the other day.” Bradán answered strongly, disgusted by the notion of liking a girl, any girl at all. At fourteen, while he could certainly feel attraction towards them, he had yet to meet a single female he could tolerate for much more than a few seconds. They all seemed flighty and spent more time giggling, and gossiping, so that he had yet to meet one he truly liked.
“I doubt that.”
“I am no liar!” Bradán snapped furiously.
“I did not say that you were,” Lyr replied calmly, “I only meant that I doubt that the lady Ríonal could cry.”
“Why is that?” the boy wondered, confused by such a statement.
“Because she was stone-faced at her daughter’s funeral,” Lyr explained obviously pleased at the chance to gossip.
Bradán felt lost as to what to say or think. As he listened he feared that were he to tell more he might be brought before Brien who would take measures to forbid him going to sit by the sea.
He was fortunate in that he woke before everyone else the next day. After his morning prayers, he considered fetching Colum only to reject the idea as it felt as though he would be invading Ríonal’s privacy.
He would then be made to wait several hours; the only consolation being that he had had the foresight to eat some cheese, and bread before he left. In the midst of one of his games, against the same tree from the day before, he at last heard what he had waited so long for; someone’s voice. It was that of Ríonal.
Looking about him the lad found nowhere to hide, suddenly as her sobs grew more distinct,
the widow Ríonal stepped nearer and nearer to the surf, but a dozen meters away from where he hid behind the tree.
Her black dress flowed about her in the wind, the maiden hiccupping loudly in between her tears she pulled her feet out from her boots.
As she did so, Bradán stood there stock-still. Stick in hand he gaped at her, the knowledge of what she was planning settled into place in his mind with mounting horror.
The quiet sound of her sliding into the sea; was the only answer he received to his unspoken query, for a brief moment he considered leaving her there, or running screaming for help. But then some voice, an observant one not unlike the perceptive one of Brien the Prior noted that she would likely already have drowned by the time, help arrived to assist her.
Before he realised it, he was up to his knees in the water, then up to his waist. Dipping and struggling first to keep his head above water so as to suck in the necessary air, before he dipped down to look for her below, the surface of the water.
It took a scant few seconds before he found her, with the edge of his fingertips which caught onto the cloth on the back of her billowy dress.
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From there he kicked forward, inwardly grateful for how much time he spent near the beach instead of indoors praying. Reaching past the cloth blindly to find her back, he encircled her chest with his arms to try to pull her up, kicking out with all his efforts.
At first nothing seemed to happen, then to his infinite horror something did; he seemed to be getting dragged further down. Filled with panic and a lack of air, when a sharp elbow struck back, hitting him in the gut, as Ríonal began to resist his efforts to help her. His anger, along with his fear mixed together inside his bosom alongside the pain as he kicked out beneath him, with renewed desperation.
Battling for air and life itself, he thought of Lyr and Colum and the desire for life overcame him, as she began to kick out with her own legs. Her arms moved about to try and dislodge him, but she could not succeed as he had her from behind, too firmly for her to do so.
Before either of them was fully aware of it immediately, they broke the surface. Bradán gasped in a huge mouthful of air as he pulled her along, his lungs and stomach burning with pain and the need for oxygen.
Ríonal floating before him coughed out water, only to suck in huge gulps of her own of cool air. After two long minutes of intense breathing, both physically numb with the fulsome relief of still being alive, the thrashing and raging began.
“Let me go, you stupid dunce!” Ríonal screamed with all her strength as she began to kick at him, elbow him in the face and otherwise claw at his exposed arms and hands furiously.
“Ow! Ow! Yeowch! Why are you clawing at me, woman?” Bradán howled in pain, so that he instinctively let her go.
“What do you think, fool boy?” The widow snapped furiously, tears forming in her eyes.
“Ow! Please stop you, ungrateful witch!”
“Why would I wish for your aid, Bradán the bully?” She shot back only to twist the knife in his heart, the one that was always present when the nickname came up. “Aye, I am aware it is you, always eager to harm your fellow men!”
The words stung and in that instant Bradán hated Ríonal, he wished to let her go, so as to punish her for her barbed words.
But more than he knew that he would never be a monk, at least not a good one. He knew no one respected him and that he had let down the gods, and had failed to live his life according to the Canticle. It was why he could not fail Ríonal by letting her die, for he had already lived a life of failure.
“Let me die! You little savage, let me go for the love of the goddess you obviously scorn so much!” Ríonal cried out kicking and elbowing him as best she could.
“Somebody help!” Bradán tried calling out, hopeful for some assistance with keeping this madwoman from making the greatest mistake of her life.
“What did you expect might happen, no one ever comes here,” Ríonal rasped back at him to his irritation, “Now let me go!”
Bradán debated what to do, he was a fit enough lad, tough and well-built for his age however Ríonal was by no means petite. Muscled and of medium build, she was used to a life of farming and heavy labour, whilst also being extremely determined. His arms bore the proof of her eagerness to end her own life.
“Explain it to me, why do such a thing” He cried out loudly, “Would you really spite me so?”
“What does this have to do with you?” She asked incredulously, ceasing her struggles for the moment in her confusion.
“Once they discover I was unaccounted for at the time of your death, they will immediately blame me.” Bradán lied sharply hoping to now use her conscience, against her.
“What are you ranting about?”
“Explain it to me.”
“No, I will not you fool boy.” She shot after spitting out the water that had found a way into her mouth.
“Explain it and I will let you go,” He began only for his voice to drift as he strained to regain his breath.
“Just what?” Ríonal wondered.
“Can we discuss this on land? When you finish if you still wish to end your life you still could, without me stopping you!” Bradán pleaded desperate to return to land.
“You swear this?” Ríonal murmured glancing back at him as best she could, he nodded only to be prompted, “Swear the oath aloud.”
“I swear it.” He snapped irritably only to bite back, “What of you? Should you not also swear not to kill yourself until after I have been given chance enough, to help you?”
Slowly, as though frightened that if he let go of her, she might break into a thousand pieces. Without a second’s hesitation, Ríonal plunged back into the sea, or at the least attempted to.
This time Bradán was prepared for her, as he had not trusted her, catching her by the arms. Despite his best efforts he could not seem to pull her half as well as he had planned. With a well-timed kick behind her, Ríonal struck him in the thigh, earning a gasp of pain from the lad.
“Help! Help!” Bradán screamed as loudly as he could, praying that somebody would hear him, right before he plunged back into the water. The rush of water into his nostrils and ears, was not a feeling he relished all that much then given how unprepared he was for it.
Reliant upon all his strength he kicked at the water, even as his grip on Ríonal’s arms slackened.
Lungs burning, he was about ready to give up all hope for even his own life, one that while not terribly impressive or particularly good, he still fought to cling to with all his heart and soul. But then, as if sensing his desperation, he felt Ríonal start to give way, she seemed to be pushed from the sea, even as he felt someone grab a hold of his own waist to begin tugging at him.
Soon they not only broke the surface, but found themselves, all but spat out from the sea. Once back on the beach, Bradán collapsed onto the sand on his back with his arms sprawled out to either side of him. He gasped for air, doing his best to ignore the throb of pain that shot through him from his arms and legs, where he had strained his arms and legs.
The woman who had struck him, sat shivering with her face determinedly set towards the Geraintian Sea, her shoulders hunched.
“Why kill yourself?” Bradán gasped straining for air.
“You have undoubtedly heard the rumours.” She spat harshly, face turned away from him.
“Are they all true?” Bradán queried mind still whirling, from how close they had come to losing their lives.
It was then that he became conscious of a third person’s breathing. Except this person was panting much more loudly, and laboriously than he or the young woman was. He leaned up to glance over in the direction just a few feet from Ríonal, the boy was shocked to discover Eibhlin. Seated next to her good-daughter, the old woman gave him a quiet nod, from where she sat.
“So is it true that she lost her baby?” Bradán asked unsure of what to ask or how to address, either woman, especially Ríonal. Should he treat her delicately? Or perhaps sharpness would be better? Or some sort of middle ground between the two reactions? A burst of longing for Lyr and his tactfulness filled the boy.
But there was no such luck to be had for the hero of our tale. “Yes a terrible tragedy, my grandchild whom her mother loved as much as I love Ríonal herself, was lost.”
Surprised by this straightforward affirmation of love for a girl everyone in the community, claimed to have a tempestuous relationship with old Eibhlin.
“But everyone claims that, you despise her,” Bradán stated confused by her remark.
“You should cease listening to that buffoon Lyr’s gossip, instead of your own head lad,” Eibhlin said sharply to him.
“Eibhlin what are you doing here?” Ríonal inquired miserably.
“Never you mind what I am doing, I was frightened out of my wits. Did you plan to send me to an early grave, you young fool?” Eibhlin growled down at her as her eyes flashed with barely restrained fury at her good-daughter.
“I did not do it to spite you,” Ríonal replied earnestly, she bit her lower lip before she added. “I simply-how could you possibly understand the-”
“The loss of a child?” Eibhlin interrupted sharply, only to turn away from her. “Then you can remain at home. From this day forward, you will not come near the river again. You will, do your duty as my son’s wife.”
Ríonal scowled at her only to hang her head in shame. “Very well, Eibhlin.”
Bradán inadvertently brought attention unto himself, by coughing. This resulted in Eibhlin turning her head to glance at him, from over her shoulder. “Brother Bradán, you may return to the monastery now. We have no further need, of your services.”
“Yes, madam,” Bradán grunted disappointed by the fact that he would not get to see and learn more about this family.
As he ran back thither to the monastery, the full realisation of just what he had achieved that day, near the river at last penetrated his mind; he had saved the lady Ríonal. Pride and a kind of leonine sense of his own grandness filled him, the more he thought about it.
So eager was he that, when he arrived in the kitchens, he was shouting for Lyr.
“Lyr! Lyr! I am a hero, you have to hear my tale!”
“Yes, yes what did you do that was so heroic lad?” the old monk asked amiably, while he pounded away at the flour on the table before him. “And cease your shouting. It is improper for a monk to behave in such a hooligan manner.”
“Never mind the rules of silence and contemplation. I saved someone’s life!” Bradán cried out, beyond jubilant.
“Very well, how did you do this when you were supposed, to be busy with your prayers?” Lyr demanded with a raised brow that belied his disapproval.
“You see, all the rumours about the lady Ríonal and Eibhlin are wrong. Because, of how grief-stricken she is, Ríonal attempted to end her life by drowning herself. But Eibhlin and I saved her,” Bradán explained happily, not just a little pleased with his own role in the widow’s rescue.
For one long moment, Lyr stared the boy down, slowly, ever so slowly a scowl climbed its way onto his face. “Enough of your lies, Bradán while I do enjoy gossip, it is not a hobby I wish for you to indulge in. Especially if it means you intend to do so, to aggrandize yourself at the expense of others.”
Indignant at how Lyr refused to believe him, “But I swear to you, it is the truth! I did save her life!”
“You have cried wolf too many times in the past,” Lyr grumbled wagging his finger at the young boy who pouted furiously, in response to him. “Now for your lies, I shall not use the switch, but you will see to washing the dishes, for two months rather than simply three weeks. I do believe, that that should be fair even to your mind.”
“Nay,” Bradán grumbled unable to believe his own ill-fortune, he had done something good that day, and yet he was to be punished for it? He was quick to let the older monk know of his unhappiness. “This is unfair.”
“‘Tis your own fault,” Lyr insisted determined to be harsher with the lad, he had previously coddled.
The aforementioned lad was to let loose a great roar of fury, and kick over a pile of dishes, ere he raced out from the kitchens and across the fields back to yon beach-side.
In the days that followed immediately, after Ríonal was saved from her own grief, Bradán was almost too busy with his chores to go see the widow. He heard nothing of her until three days later when Eibhlin, visited the monastery as it was the seventh day.
Alms were gathered in a relaxed manner, whilst Brien lectured those gathered on the nature of the virtues of song and generosity. He also spoke, of the vices of greed and wrath, which he considered to be the source of all wrongs in the world, after pride.
Eibhlin approached the lad at the back of the temple, praying to the left of Colum, unable to overcome his boredom but not brave enough to defy Brien. She pulled on his sleeve, and then leant over to murmur into his ear. “Ríonal does well and wishes to see you.”
After the end of the sermon on virtue and vice, he raced before he could be halted. Not wanting to be impeded by the other monks and given more chores by Brien or Lyr.
He had caught up with her, just as they reached the apple tree that heralded the edge of the lands of Eibhlin’s family. The old lady turned to face him, with a frown on her lips that did not encourage him. Just as her nod made him, wonder what he was doing there, following the orders of a woman who had previously, barely tolerated his existence.
“You said that Ríonal had recovered?” Bradán asked curiously.
“Aye, though she remains weary in spirit. She has certainly recovered enough, to be able to be around the knives though I remain sceptical, of her being near the river.” Eibhlin explained signalling him, to follow her into her home. “It has not escaped my attention, how you saved my son’s widow. Therefore, I wish to thank you for your part in saving Ríonal’s life.”
Bradán’s cheeks turned scarlet as he felt embarrassed by her show of gratitude, as he had never done anything to merit such strong sentiments from anyone (save Colum). Bradán glanced down at his booted feet, earning him a short snicker from the old lady. Whom, he was fairly certain was in the midst of mocking him. Glancing up, he met Eibhlin’s gaze, to find warmth there that silenced him.
The hut in which the women lived in, was a small building. Made from as much thatch, as it was from wood and mud, it was delicate in the face of strong winds. There was a small fire-area inside the house, where a spit lay, used for cooking while the tools and equipment needed for cooking lay on a sheet to the rear of the hut. A small table stood to the left side, which was the largest side of the building. Ríonal was wrapped in a series of furs, her breathing even, a clear signal that she was asleep, next to the fire.
The widow was asleep, which caused Bradán to wonder about those stories about the widow wandering the local woods at night. The lad suddenly felt a great swell of pity for her, he also prayed that he would never be subjected to how she currently felt.
“Ríonal, wake up,” Eibhlin cried as she shook the girl, and pulled at her, “Wake up else I shall see to treating you as the child, you seem intent on imitating.”
Ríonal stirred, groaned and rose from her corner of the house, reluctantly. Evidently still extremely tired, seated herself next to the old lady, still dressed in her black that seemed bonded to her flesh, in recent days. She did so with a dead look, and wiped at her face to wipe (or attempt to) all evidence of sleep.
“I invited young Bradán to visit us, so as to properly thank him for having saved your life, Ríonal.” Eibhlin explained showing for the first time doubt, as well as hesitancy.
Ríonal stared the child in the eye, her lips thinned in a show of dislike, “For what? How did he save me?”
“From yourself, fool girl.” The old lady snapped furiously, “Thank him, my dear.”
“Thank you, there may I go see to the sheep?” Ríonal shot back, as impatient as her husband’s mother.
“Ríonal, please be reasonable,” Eibhlin pleaded only to be ignored as the younger woman got up, then left to go take care of their small herd. “You could at least attempt, to make it up to us for, the troubles you caused.”
“I thanked him, already did I not?” She retorted.
“Forgive her, she is merely-” Eibhlin began only to be interrupted by the now impatient boy.
“Ungrateful,” He grunted furious, and weary of Ríonal’s lack of appreciation for those around her.
He left the old lady without any sense of joy, or relief at no longer being in her good-daughter’s grim presence.
Once he was outside though, he was unsurprised to find Ríonal in the field, what did startle was when she called out to him. “Bradán, come here, I wish to speak to you.”
“About what? Not thanking me once more?” Bradán snapped bitingly.
“No, I-I wished to,” Ríonal sucked in a breath only to glance to the sea, she then returned her eyes to her feet. “I am sorry. I realize you are but a child and that I, and my grief are not easy to- I just feel lost. I have nothing; you shan’t understand how that possibly feels…”
Bradán felt his chest tighten and his brain throb almost painfully so, with pain, which was followed by rage. “I know it better than you! So be silent!”
It was by no means a brilliant choice of words, but as is ever the case when anger or emotions seize hold of the hearts, minds and tongues of men, eloquence typically fails them. It took a heartbeat before the young lad, realized this, only to shout once more. “You at least still have Eibhlin yet you do not value her goodness, or her love. I may not know love, but I do know its absence so what would you know about, loss?” He turned to run, then halted to add over his shoulder. “Also, you have a home, and a husband who will someday return at least!”
It was not in Bradán’s nature to be of an optimistic mind, he knew that what he said was true. Ríonal’s love would someday return, it was not as though she’d likely remain all alone forever, unlike Bradán. Who was trapped in a life he held, no desire for and surrounded by those with even less love for him.
It would be days before, Bradán saw her again or anything all that remarkable happened to him, with the morning Session of Ziusday being the next time he saw her. It would be on this day that, the widow arrived panting and gasping, having obviously run some distance in order to convey something of some importance to the group of gathered monks.
“Is something the matter, young Ríonal?” Brien asked caught between irritation and surprise at her sudden arrival.
“There are fires nearby, a large number of them nearby and it seems that there are several of the men, from this camp on their way here.” Ríonal announced worriedly, leaning against the door to remain upright.
“An army? Here?” Brien gasped unable to keep his mouth from opening and closing in shock.
Bradán could not believe it, nor could he blame the Abbot for his fearful reaction to the news of an army, being nearby. In the boy’s opinion this was the worst and most unexpected possibly news.
He only wondered if these feelings of dread were those everyone on their way to the block felt before, the final swing of the blade fell.