Chapter 2

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Future

“Ba. Bla. Pehw,” Eoin grumbled, spitting out a mouthful of snow. Even by the time he was halfway to the sheep pens, Reithe by his side, he still seemed to find bits of the white stuff in new places.

“I can’t believe I did that,” Eoin complained to Reithe. The ram bleated in commiseration.“Well, at least I was able to check her hooves for The Rot, since she escaped the flock.”

At this, Reithe looked up at Eoin questioningly.

“She’s fine,” he replied - knowing what his companion wanted to ask.

It didn’t take long for the pair to make it across the field and to the sheep pen. The small square of stone walls, whose stones had been placed by Eoin’s grandfather's hands, was stuffed to bursting with wooly white bleaters.

“Morning Pa,” Eoin called out to the man just in front of the gate. He was letting one sheep out at a time and checking their hooves before letting them run off. Eoin’s greeting was accompanied by a “Baaa” from Reithe which startled the ewe, whose foot was aimed at Eoin’s Pa’s face. With practiced skill, Eoin’s father pushed the leg up and ducked down in his crouched position to dodge the kick.

“Ye Finally up!” Sean, Eoin’s father, exclaimed with cheer - as if he hadn’t nearly had his teeth knocked out. Now that the man was sure the sheep was clean, he let go of its leg. The startled animal scurried away.

“Yeah,” Eoin replied, reluctantly opening the gate and coaxing out a sheep, handing it off to his father, then getting another for himself.

“Hmm,” Sean said as the pair got to work. Eoin’s father was a man of few words so, once the greetings were over with, the pair worked in silence. Checking the hooves for The Rot.

Occasionally, one of them would have a stone that had become lodged deep in the foot, or another sore of some kind. In those cases, one or the other of them would alleviate the pressure with their knife then bandage up the hoof - sometimes placing a wooden block under the good toe so they couldn’t stand on the bad one, until the block wore away.

When only a few sheep remained, and there had been no signs of The Rot this year, Eoin finally spoke up. He had been trying to hint at his discontent for some time, with a weary sigh or a wistful exhale. Eoin had no idea why, there wasn’t a chance in uffern that his Pa would pick up on something so subtle.

“Pa,” Eoin began.

“Yes son,” Sean replied distractedly, slapping a ewe on the arse to send her on her way.

“Why are we doing this today?” Eoin asked.

“It’s been about a year and it needs doin’,” Sean replied simply, not looking up from his work.

“No, it's been…” Eoin trailed off and looked at Reithe who crossed his legs to make an X, “It’s been ten months, not a year. Why are we doing this today, of all days?” Eoin pressed.

“I know what ye were askin’, you wanna know why I’d have ye doing ye least favorite job the day before ye leaving,” Sean said.

“I don’t know if I will leave on my seventeenth birthday,” Eoin replied, looking down at the ground.

“And that’s exactly why ye should,” Eoin’s Pa insisted, surprising the lad. “Look,” Sean went on, finally setting aside his work and looking at his son. “It’s been tradition in these parts for a man on his first birthday as such, to leave for a year and see the world. I can tell you how great ye has it here, but ye ain’t gonna be believing me till you see it for yeself. Ye are unsure now, you’ll forever be unsure, it’ll eat you up for the rest of ye life,” Sean finished, smiling at his son as he checked the last of the sheep.

“That’s… surprisingly smart… for you,” Eoin said, ending with a cheeky grin. He dodged the playful swat that came for his head and the pair laughed.

“You’re not wrong, those were ye mother’s words - nay mine,” Sean confirmed.

“Eitherway, it made me feel better,” Eoin reassured.

“Now, I had Michael work something up for you down at the village - I think you should go an’ pick it up.”

“Michael, the Blacksmith?” Eoin asked, confused.

“Aye,” his father replied, getting to his feet with a groan and looking off up the hill, “I have somin’ needs be doin’ so ye better hurry - days is short this time a year.”

Eoin shrugged, though he would usually feel inclined to ask questions, and indeed he still did, he thought better of it. It would be his birthday tomorrow and whatever his father was doing was no doubt related. He wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.

“Come on Reithe,” Eoin said, nudging his pet who was lying on the snowy ground with his legs tucked under him. The Ram didn’t respond. Eoin looked closer and found that his friend was gently snoring.

“Hypocrite!” Eoin declared, pulling a disgusted face. Reithe didn’t wake.

“What! Where?!” Sean asked, looking around the sky frantically. Still, Reithe didn’t wake at his outburst.

It took Eoin a moment to catch onto what his father was doing, “Not hippogryph, hypocrite - it means someone who does what they say not to do,” Eoin explained, calming down his father.

“Mmm,” Sean coughed, as if he hadn’t just been panicking, “yep, well, one of ye mother’s fancy words - I told her nothing good could ever come of the sort a language… don’t tell ye mother I said that,” Eoin’s Pa pleaded.

“I won’t,” Eoin laughed, before turning back to his companion. Reithe still hadn't woken. It was time for a little payback. Pulling his foot back as far as it would go, Eoin let loose a full-force kick aimed squarely at the Ram’s backside.

✯

Eoin decided it was about time for a run. He took off at full speed, blazing across the field - chased by his father's laughter, through the open gate, down the mountainous parth, and along the river. This sudden want for exercise was a decision made entirely by him and had nothing to do with the enraged sheep which nipped at his jacksy the entire time. At least, that is what he told himself.

It wasn’t until the pair made it to the gap, a scar in the earth that was twice Eoin’s height across and many more times in length (resembling the sword strike of some giant), that Reithe finally gave up the chase. As much as the ram would like to get back at his friend, he was the one to start it, and ramming into someone this close to the gap was a recipe for disaster.

Eoin also recognised the chase was over and collapsed into snow angels as he took the opportunity to catch his breath - that was until Reithe, seizing the opportunity, jumped on top of his chest - knocking the wind out of the lad.

After a spirited bout of wrestling, which nearly ended with an unfortunate drop into the gap, the pair both disengaged and let bygones be bygone.

Eoin, picking up and retrieving his tie, walked over to the fallen tree which spanned the gap, ready to cross. He couldn't count the number of times either Ma or Pa had told him not to use this slippery and half rotted shortcut - but it was just that, a shortcut.

If he followed the parentally approved route to Shearford, it would take far, far longer. What with all the twisting and turning the river, and accompanying path, did to get down the mountain. The gap was quicker.

Eoin balanced on a fallen tree that spanned the mountain’s scar, arms outstretched, and began to walk with speed and confidence.

Reithe, who was far more stable on uneven footing than the clumsy human, nearly rammed into the back of his companion when, out of nowhere, Eoin stopped in the middle of the log - directly over the seemingly bottomless crevasse.

The nearly-a-man froze. Something felt… well he didn’t know how to describe the sense as it was unlike any of his other five and he had never felt it before. His eyes, locked dead ahead, only saw the stump of the tree on the far side. His nose only picked up the scent of fresh snow and the edge of the pine copse that surrounded the gap. His skin only felt the biting, twisting, whirling winds that almost cal…

Eoin’s ears heard cracking and, remembering where he was, he finished his short walk with haste. Whatever feeling had momentarily paralysed him was gone, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it felt like, let alone guess at what had caused it.

Reithe, who had remained silent while they were crossing the gap, “Baa”ed questioningly at his owner.

“Hmm, what? Oh, it was nothing,” Eoin replied distractedly. The memory of the event faded fast and, with a shake of his head, the questions in Eoin’s mind dissolved. Eoin would have had a thousand questions, and might have dived right into the gap just for answers if all recollection of the event hadn’t just blown away on the wind.

The Blacksmith, he has a surprise for me, Eoin reminded himself, feeling out of sorts but not knowing why.

The rest of the journey to the small highland settlement of Shearford was uneventful. Reithe kept a close eye on his companion but nothing more happened. Still, the ram was suspicious.

He hadn’t felt what Eoin had, but there was something about the gap today that hadn’t sat right with him - though he couldn’t say what. Well, he couldn’t say anything but that was by the by - all the ram knew was that his wool had stood on end when they were over that impossibly deep cressent.

The pair entered Shearford from the south. Calling the collection of squat buildings, made from hand placed stone, thatched with reeds from Hoofstuck Marsh, and stinking of the greyness which coloured both them and the rock that surrounded them - huddling these shops and homes in close to the river and protecting them from the harsh Caorah weather - a village, may be an insult to the name.

The structures were short, half their height dug into the ground; protected from the elements. The village lacked colour because all of its vibrance was internal. The homes and shops were decorated with a myriad of colourful fabrics on their insides - showing the great wealth the sheep of Cosrah brought to the island, but not doing so openly.

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This attitude was reflected by the people who lived there. To an outsider, they may be callus and harsh and appear poor in their simple wool clothes. But to an insider, the folk of Shearford were both loving and open, always willing to help out a neighbor. And since Eoin lived on a farm only half a mountain away, he was considered a neighbor.

Folk smiled at him as he hopped over the knee high wall that protected Mr. Thread’s cabbages, wove between the greens in question, and vaulted the second to make it to the back entrance of the Blacksmith’s shop.

People would scratch the uncommonly friendly ram behind the ear as he trotted along. Eoin blushed as he passed Milka, a milkmaid who lived on a dairy farm not too far away. She had a new hoof-pick and a smile on her face and a wave in her hand as she looked back at the Journeyman Blacksmith, Michael’s son Mitch.

For a time, Eoin had had a bit of a crush on Milka, though it never would have worked so he didn’t tell her. Still, he would blush whenever she was near. Milka was seven years his senior and everyone expected her and Mitch to wed. But despite that, Eoin had formed somewhat of an infatuation, mainly because there was no one else to ogle at.

The generation to which Eoin belonged was all older by, on average, a decade. So, as a child, he never had anyone to play with, until Reithe came along. Despite that, he had a passing friendship with the previous generation that fit in an odd sort of category.

When he was younger, as the child of the group, Eoin was never a part of the inevitable inappropriate banter and mischief the older kids got up to. When the next generation came along he had no one his own age to engage in that self same shenanigans with - save Reithe.

This meant, while Eoin, Milka, and Mitch were friends, there had always been a level of distance between them and him.

Milka gave a greeting as she passed but seemed to be in a hurry. Mitch looked up from his hammering and said:

“You’ll be being here about that thing that be being made by my father; he’s be been being making that for near a fortnight now.”

“Yeah, I imagine it’s not easy, what with all the engraving,” he said, fishing for a clue as to what his father had sent him here to collect.

“You ain’t taking me for a fool, I might be older than you but I ain’t a has-been yet,” Mitch said, laughing. Eoin sagged, having gained nothing from the ploy.

While the pair went back and forth; making small talk and waiting for Michael the Blacksmith, Mitch’s father, to return, Reithe looked around the smithy - silently studying the place. The ram had been there a number of times over the years, and through watching the Blacksmith and his son at work, he was able to ascertain a relationship between the tools and what was being made.

Laying across the anvil was a flat-headed hammer, so whatever had been made for his friend's birthday had flat edges, not the best clue.

There was a smell of burnt wood in the air that seemed strange to Reithe. The forge burned charcoal which had a completely distinctive aroma. Reithe assumed that whatever had been made somehow involved burning wood.

He recalled this scent from when Eoin and he had watched Mitch make Eoin a new knife after his broke. The oak handle charred and smoked when the Journeyman Blacksmith had pushed the red hot tang into the wood to get a perfect fit.

Reithe noted that the whetstones were still wet. They had also been used in the making of Eoin’s knife.

After an examination of the evidence, Reithe was fairly sure that the most likely thing Eoin was going to get for his birthday was a knife. Quite possibly a very fancy one given the time and effort apparently put into it. The ram couldn’t understand why they didn’t just use horns for their cutting, opening, and chopping needs but each to their own he supposed.

When Reithe was younger, he would have butted into Eoin, incessantly trying to get him to understand his findings and summations but it was frustratingly difficult without the ability to speak. With a few years on him, he was content to sit in the warmth of the smithy and see if his conclusions were correct.

After the usual topics of small talk - the weather, the price of bread, and one’s health - were out of the way, Eoin returned to his normal style of conversation. For the next few minutes he bombarded the villager with new questions about his trade and blacksmithing tools. An impressive feat, since he had asked a thousand questions of Mitch before.

“What’s the price of iron at the moment?”

“Six and three per–”

“How many ingots can you carry?”

“Well, that depends–”

“What’s the specific heat capacity of steel?”

“...What?”

Finally, the Journeyman was rescued by the return of his father.

“Eoin, ye’ve got perfect timing ye ‘ave,” Michael said, entering through the front door.

“Why’s that?” Eoin asked, not missing a beat. Mitch let out a sigh, finally given a break from Eoin’s interrogation.

Reithe studied the large man who had just entered and noted that both his hands were behind his back.

“Your ‘er cause yur old man told yous I’ve been bayed a make somethin’ fors ye. Ain’t that right?” the Blacksmith asked, with a great big sooty grin. It took Eoin a moment to pass Michael’s uncommonly thick accent but when he puzzled it out, he answered:

“Yeah, he said you were making something for me. Is it a present for my seventeenth?” Eoin asked, enthused.

“Well, what with ye bein’ a man tomorrow and having ta spend a year aways from here, out in the dangerous world, ye father wanted yous ta’ave summin’ what ye could protect yeself with…” Michael ended leadingly, waiting for Eoin.

At the mention of his year long leave however, Eoin’s head dipped and he didn’t ask the expected question.

“Wats a matter?” Michael asked, surprised by the change in mood.

“Oh nothing really,” Eoin began, convincing no one, “it’s just, everyone says this is something I have to do. To become a man. To appreciate what we had here on Caorah and to learn what’s out there. They seem to think I should be thrilled at the idea, and don’t get me wrong a part of me is but…”

“Oh lad,” Michael said sympathetically, taking one hand out from behind his back and ruffeling Eoin’s hair. The overly large hand smeared his curly hair with oil but Eoin appreciated the sentiment.

“I wus more nervous than ye when I went out on me journey. My Pa had a drag me from the forge kicking and screaming and drop me off in Yarnmouth without no way back, but ye know what?” the Blacksmith asked.

“What?”

“I is thankful to ‘im for that everyday. Yes, I learned more of me craft. Yes, I better appreciate what we ‘ave ‘ere but there was a more important reason for going.”

“What was that?”

“I found out who I am. Stayin’ here, safe and warm never tested me like life out there in the rest of the world. Only when ye press yeself, when theres danger, can ye find out who ye is. Who ye heart make ye,” Michael said, poking Eoin in the chest to emphasise his point, “Now, speakings o’ danger - that’s wa this is for,” the Blacksmith concluded in a lighter tone, whipping his other hand out from behind his back and displaying the item Eoin’s father had asked him to make.

A sword was presented to Eoin, and what a sword it was. At first glance there was nothing too special. The scabbard was plain but supple brown sheep’s leather, with oiled wool inside. The guard was a simple bar of iron with slight points at either end that were vaguely reminiscent of the points of Reithe’s horns. The grip was ordinary oak neatly wrapped in strips of supple lambs leather dyed dark blue. Still, there was a sense of mastery in its simplicity.

Eoin took the weapon with reverence and slowly drew the blade. It was slightly longer than a one handed sword but much shorter than a longsword. The handle had room for one hand comfortably and two with the other partially on the ram’s head pommel.

Just holding it in his hand, Eoin could tell this was special. Though he knew nothing about swords, the balance felt such that he could swing all day without feeling at all tired. There was something about it, the way it sat in his hand, it was just right.

“This is…” Eoin began but for once, found himself at a loss for words. Seeing this, a beaming grin of pride bloomed on Michael’s face. Eoin hugged him.

The Blacksmith warned the young man not to draw it unless he felt there was no other choice and tied the scabbard closed before Eoin belted it on. Michael advised him to learn how to use it safely before unknotting the binding he had placed upon it.

Eoin hugged the big man once more then shot out of the shop, eager to thank his father. Reithe followed after, content in the knowledge that he was right. After all, what was a sword if not a big knife?

Eoin bounded back up the mountain. He couldn’t believe his father had actually gifted him a sword. No one round here had one, he was surprised Michael even knew how to make them - let alone one so good.

The lad moved with lots of energy up the slopes and out of Shearford - getting appreciative looks from the locals as he passed, sword on belt. Although he seemed to bounce from rock to rock up the mountain, Reithe kept up with no apparent effort - the power of a home field advantage.

Several times the ram tried to hurd the boy back towards the river but Eoin insisted on taking the shortcut over the gap. Reithe didn’t force his friend to use the other route as there was no real reason to do so. Still, he couldn’t help but feel there was something wrong with that place.

When they came to the scar in the earth, Reithe was proven correct once more. Eoin vaulted the roots and jumped onto the fallen tree, intending to scamper across.

He never got the chance. A great cracking filled the woods. Eoin cried out and disappeared from Reithe’s sight, falling into the gap as the fallen tree split in two.

✯

“Baaaaa,” Reithe cryed, galloping to the edge and skidding to a halt. Peering over, he expected the worst. Thankfully, Fortuna - the lesser goddess of luck and the daughter of Leå the goddess of life and Magus the god of magic - was on Eoin’s side. When Reithe looked down he saw his friend, not tumbling into endless darkness, but dangling from a rock that jutted out from the edge; hanging from a strip of fabric around his neck.

As Eoin flailed around for a grip, one hand holding onto his scarf and trying to stop it from strangling him to death, Reith fetched a fallen branch. Holding the larger end in his mouth, the sheep lowered the other over the precipice.

Eoin grabbed on, though he didn’t pull himself up with it, fearing that would only serve to pull his friend to his death. Instead, Eoin used the stick to push against and swing himself back over to the wall. When he was close enough to grab on, he did so, grasping the rocky protuberances for dear life.

While Eoin was sucking in air, he ripped the scarf off his neck and let it dangle where it was caught on the rock. His neck was red, sore, and would probably bruise but at least it hadn’t broken.

Reithe, shaken by the ordeal, kept prodding Eoin with his stick, trying desperately to get him to climb up. After a moment to take a breath, he realised he wasn’t helping the situation and let go of his branch; watching it fall into the abyss as the tree had before it. Rather morbidly, the ram noted that there still hadn’t been any sound to indicate that the tree had reached the bottom; all he heard was Eoin’s panting.

As Eoin clung to the rock, slowly getting his breath back, it finally hit him - he had almost died. If not for the scarf his mother had made him wear…

It was in that weird surreal state of mind that comes right after a near death experience, before it has truly set in, that Eoin remembered. He remembered the feeling he had when he crossed the gap earlier that day.

He remembered because it had returned, but far stronger. He could even see where it was coming from… well almost. A strange haze of transparent green whipped about a nook in the rock next to him, moving with the mesmerising wind - as if it were attuned to the element.

Eoin clambered up the gap. As soon as his top half was over the edge, Reithe bit the back of his leather coat and dragged the boy about a tree's length away from the gap, making a line in the snow.

For a time Eoin didn’t say anything and Reithe thought he was in shock. The ram paced back and forth, trying to walk off his nerves, and that was when he saw the real reason for his friend’s silence.

Eoin had pulled himself up to sit, leaning on a tree. In his hand there was something invisible to Reithe that captured Eoin’s entire attention, his eyes seemed glued to this ineffable thing that whipped the wind around it tussling his hair.

To Eoin’s eyes, with each second that passed, this hazy green ball which the winds loved, became more and more visible. It solidified in his sight, taking the form of a green sphere whose edges were wind made manifest. As the invisible became visible something changed forever in his mind; something had been unlocked and he swore he would not forget this. He could never forget this feeling again.

The green thing moved about in his hand, or it tried to. Now that this creature was fully visible to Eoin, he could see there was a shard of something black embedded within it. Slowly and carefully, as Eoin might pick a thorn from a sheep’s hoof, he plucked this black shard from the green ball.

The effect was immediate, the little ball of green darted about, zipping around Eoin’s head several times, bumped into him, then disappeared - carried away on the wind somehow making Eoin think whatever it was, it was grateful. The black shard also disappeared, seeming to seep through the layers of reality until it was completely gone.

From Reithe’s point of view, Eoin had been staring at his empty hand fixedly, pinched that emptiness, then the wind picked up out of nowhere and his friend whipped his head back and forth; his eyes moved as if tracking something. Trying to get his friend back to his senses the ram did the only thing he knew how to, he rammed.

After sitting back up and looking at Reithe accusingly, Eoin explained what he had seen. Reithe, assuming the shock of his near death experience was still in control, rammed him in the side once more.

Eoin, without truly understanding what had happened, gave up on trying to explain it to his friend. Instead, he just hugged the ram, pulling his wooly warmth close.

After some time to gather themselves, the pair continued up the mountain, taking the longer path. By the time they made it back to the field in which their house was situated, the sun was nearly set. The winter days were short and cold. The bite of the wind - which Eoin now seemed to possess a greater feeling for - was sharp on his already painful neck.

Tired, but regaining the excitement that had previously overwhelmed him, Eoin placed his thumb on the latch and opened it. As he pushed the door wide he was greeted by a chorus of:

“Surprise!”