Patrick (34 page)

Next day I made all the flour into bread and packed the remaining supplies to take with me, then watered and fed Boreas with more of the dry fodder. Thus prepared, I spent a last warm night beside the fire and departed the druid house at dawn. The sun rose bright in a clear blue sky, and though my breath hung in clouds before my face, the sun was soon warm on my back—a good sign, I thought, that I had chosen well.

Ah, but signs can be deceiving. The world is impossibly vicious and contrary, delighting always in the destruction of men and their dreams. This I know.

A
T DUSK, ELEVEN
days after leaving Tuaim Bán, disaster overtook me. As the short-lived sun faded, clouds had come in on a sharp northern wind and it began to snow. I came to a break in the wood where a stream ran through the forest and decided to halt for the night in a stand of tall pines just across the river; their branches, wide and low, seemed to offer a dry spot to sleep. The water, though fast, was not deep, so I urged Boreas into the frigid flow.

I was halfway across when the horse stumbled on an icy rock. But it was nothing serious; horses stumble all the time. It was a warning nonetheless—a warning which went unheeded. I should have dismounted then and there and led the exhausted animal the rest of the way across. But the water was freezing cold, and I was tired; I did not care to spend the night in wet clothes. So I kept my saddle and coaxed Boreas to finish the crossing and climb the opposite bank. Unfortunately, the bank was steeper than I realized. Snow and ice on the rocks made the footing treacherous; the horse stumbled twice, and I was just sliding from the saddle when the animal slipped again.

Unbalanced, I was thrown down onto the rocks, and Boreas, unable to find his footing, stepped on me, his hoof striking me on my left side. I heard a soft crunch and felt something give way in my chest. I let out a scream of pain, and the horse, frightened now, reared. I saw his forelegs pawing the air as his hind legs struggled, hooves skittering
on the ice-covered rocks. The poor beast went over backward and landed on his side in the stream.

Gulping air against the pain, I jumped up and plunged into the water to grab the reins, lest the frightened animal take it into his head to charge off into the wood without me. I snagged the reins and tried to calm Boreas and get him on his feet again.

The horse neighed and thrashed about, but try as he might, he could not rise; he had broken his right hind leg in the fall. There was blood in the water, and he brayed with pain every time he tried to get up.

There was nothing to be done. I could not leave him in the middle of the freezing stream all night, and I could not move him out myself—and even if I might have accomplished that somehow, I could not have bound and healed the broken leg overnight.

Taking my makeshift spear, I unstrapped the knife from the ash branch, and then, kneeling in the water, I got Boreas' head around and, speaking soothing words into his ear, calmed him, telling him how he had been my bold, good champion, my strong, brave steed, and how sorry I was that he had been injured through my willful negligence. I asked him to forgive me for what I was about to do and then, with a quick, biting stroke, drew the knife blade across the soft skin of his throat beneath the jaw.

Distracted by the pain of his broken limb, I do not think he felt the blade at all. I continued to hold his head and stroke him, filling his ear with kindly words as his life flowed from him. In a little while he slumped down; a quiver passed through his body, and he lay still. “Farewell, Boreas, good friend,” I said and, my heart aching with regret, I dragged myself from the ice-rimmed stream.

My own pain, held in abeyance until now, set in with a fierce, fiery throb. I lay on the frozen bank panting like a winded dog, until I realized the light was going. I had no choice but to return to my dead mount to get the supplies he carried behind the saddle. Wheezing like a broken bellows,
my side throbbing with every step, I slogged my way into the water and to poor dead Boreas once more. Working quickly, I loosened the knots and dragged the leather bag back onto the bank, then collapsed beside it in the snow, tears streaming from my eyes.

After a while I marshaled my strength and rolled myself under the low pine branches. It was dry there, and the pine needles were deep. I scooped out a hollow and, taking the flint and iron from the bag, soon had a tiny flame fluttering in the dry needles. I fed small twigs into the fire until it took hold, then lay down beside it and heaped masses of pine needles over me.

The snow continued through the night. I lay in agony, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, listening to the thin wail of the wind sifting through the trees, and waiting for daylight, when I crawled from my crude nest to survey the damage. Slowly, carefully, I opened my robe, pulled up my tunic, and looked down at my side. The sight which greeted me brought the gorge to my throat. From hip to chest the entire left half of my body was a virulent, deep-colored bruise. That was bad enough, but the sight that alarmed me most was a crescent-shaped bulge of dull, angry red just below my last rib.

With trembling fingers I brushed the hoof-shaped bulge lightly with my fingers and felt that it was hot to the touch. Picking up a handful of wet snow, I pressed it gently to my side. The intense cold made my flesh writhe, but it gradually leached away some of the pain.

Closing my robe, I got to my feet and edged my way down the slippery bank to the stream; I cupped freezing water to my mouth, swallowing as much as I could hold. Then, with a last farewell to my dead horse, I hefted the leather bag and, taking up the ash pole for a staff, resumed my journey on foot.

By my closest reckoning I was at least seven days' ride from Bras Rhaidd—on foot, eleven or more. Allowing for the weather, I would be fortunate to reach the druid house in
twice the time. Indeed, injured as I was, I would be lucky to reach Bras Rhaidd at all.

My best hope, I decided, was to find a nearer settlement. True, I had passed very few on the journey north, and thus the chance of finding one now seemed particularly remote. Even so, Tarian's rudimentary map identified a road to the south—one of those serving the garrisons north of the Wall. If I could reach that road, I might soon find a settlement along the way. In the bag was food enough for another three or four days—after that I would grow hungry. But I was used to hunger. And cold, too. Neither of those hardships worried me. I had endured them often enough on Sliabh Mis, and I could do so again.

Thus, with confidence banked high in my heart, I set off in the certainty that I would soon reach a settlement where I could get help and wait out the worst of winter.

For two days I walked south and east, following Tarian's chart as well as I could. The way was rough and wild and made more difficult by snow and ice. I stumped along through the wind and cold, half frozen, dragging the leather bag of rapidly dwindling provisions behind me. At night I slept in the driest places I could find—usually under low-lying pine boughs, huddled beside a small sputtering fire. Often I heard wolves, sometimes close, and once I even saw one; but as it was early winter and he was not so hungry yet, he was content to leave me alone.

At the end of the third day, I finished the last of the food. Taking the empty bag, I split it down one side and along the bottom to open it up. This I tied around my head and shoulders to give me better protection from the wind, rain, and snow. I could do nothing for my injured rib, however; the perpetual pain deepened to a fiery ache that throbbed with every step. I wheezed when I drew breath now, and there was an ugly gurgling sound deep down in my left lung which I did my best to ignore.

For the next two days I stumbled on, head down, suffering with every step. My hands and feet felt like lumps of ice
on the dead ends of my limbs, and my chest burned with a low, angry fire. I could no longer walk upright but held myself crooked to one side to appease the pain. My steps grew slower, my rests more frequent. I drank from icy pools and ate snow to ease the pangs of hunger, but as the unrelenting cold sank into my bones, I could feel my strength dwindling.

I dragged myself up the side of one hill and down the other so many times I lost count, and then, toward the end of the fifth day since losing the horse, as the last lights failed in the west, I glimpsed a thin, dark line snaking through a nameless valley below: the road.

In a crevice between two rocks, I spent the night and at sunrise climbed back onto unfeeling feet, took up my staff, and moved on, keeping the undulating line of the road in my sight for fear that if I looked away, I would lose it—and that would be the end. Step by step I willed the road to come closer, and as the sun made an all-too-brief appearance at midday, I finally reached the flat, stone-paved track. I paused to rest while the sun shone, and I read the last milestone, which indicated that the nearest garrison was Banna, sixteen miles away. When the sun disappeared once more behind the dark clouds, I stood and shuffled on.

The road rose up and over a ridge and descended into a treeless moor, and though it was flat and easy underfoot, the wind whipped sharply out of the north, slicing through my perpetually damp cloak to freeze my already numb flesh to the bone. The bite of the wind caused tears to well up in my eyes, yet I struggled on, half blind, wheezing and gasping like an old man, dragging one foot in front of the other, and vowing with every step that if I reached help alive, I would never stir beyond sight of the hearth again.

Soon the day ended. As twilight gathered, I saw ahead the edge of a wood where I might find shelter for the night. Dark spots floated in my vision; my head felt as if it were stuffed with wool. Though I gulped greedily, I could not seem to get enough air. Still I hauled myself forward toward the wood as
if it were my salvation. Over and over the words screamed in my brain:
sixteen miles!

I would never make it.

Step by aching step, the edge of the wood drew closer. The light was going, the day leaving me straggling far behind. Holding the promise of rest and shelter before me, I stumbled on toward the wood and had almost reached it when I saw, emerging from the trees, a great, misshapen beast. The animal had a low head and high humped back, and it heaved itself slowly onto the road with six or more short, stout legs.

I stopped and stared, unable to believe the thing that passed before my eyes. The old pagans told of strange creatures inhabiting the ancient forests, but I had always accounted it rank superstition of the most ignorant kind. Yet here was one of those tales come to lumbering life.

As I stood looking on, the beast turned and proceeded down the road away from me. It was then, in the last glimmer of daylight, that I saw the wheels and realized that what I was seeing was not a monster but a high-sided cart pulled by an ox with a farmer walking beside it.

I tried to call out to him, but it hurt me so to draw breath that I could make no sound above a whisper. I started after him, hurrying as fast as I could: not fast enough, however, for it was soon clear that I was falling behind. My side hurt; my legs were numb and unsteady. I could hardly breathe, let alone run, and the farmer with his slow ox and cart were leaving me behind. I stopped to think what to do.

It came to me to try the briamon, the word of power. Standing there in the middle of the road, I closed my eyes, raised my staff, and stretched forth my left hand. I drew a breath deep as I could and held in my mind the word I meant to speak.

“Unite word and will together,” Datho had taught. “Let your command gather volition and power before sending it out into the world. Above all, believe that what you say has
been ordained from the foundation of the world and that all creation stands ready to uphold your bidding.”

Concentrating the entire force of my will into the word, I did as Datho had taught me to do, drawing heart and mind together into a single weapon—as if mind were the bow and heart the string. I bent both to my will and held the word taut.

Then, when I could contain it no longer, I released it and let it fly.

To my astonishment the shout resounded in the wood and echoed from the surrounding hills. The farmer stopped. I saw him turn. He saw me. I waved my staff at him and started forth on unfeeling legs. I took but half a dozen paces, and the last of my strength gave out. I stumbled on the uneven stone and fell headlong onto the road. The fall awakened the fury in my side; I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and held on to consciousness until the farmer could reach me.

Presently I heard the clomp of his wooden-soled shoes on the paving stones and raised my head. A heavy man, wrapped in rags and fur against the wind and cold, stood looking down at me with mild brown eyes.

“Help, me,” I gasped. “I am hurt.”

He made a reply in speech I could not understand and then bent to pick me up. I felt his hands under my arms, and he lifted me up like so much grain in a bag. The movement brought a cry from my lips, but the farmer seemed not to notice. He did, however, observe my robe.

“Derwyddi?”
he said.

“Yes,” I told him. “Filidh.”

“Ahhh…,” he said, as if this answered a long-suspected but never-revealed secret. “Filidh.”

“Cymorth,”
I said, my tongue tripping over the British words. “Help. I need help.”

“Ah,” he said again, and gathered me under his arm. Without another word he all but carried me back to where his wagon and ox were waiting. The wagon, open at the back,
was filled with bits and scraps of dead wood he had collected that day. A long-handled ax lay safely tucked against the side. He shoved some of the wood to the front of the box to create a space and then picked me up and set me in the back.

He returned to his place at the head of his ox, and a moment later the wagon juddered on, the heavy wooden wheels rumbling over the stone road. Each lurch and bump brought agony to my side, but I no longer cared. Whatever came would come. All other concerns fell away, and I clung only to one last thought:
At least I will not die alone on the road.