He did not hear the sound of the Supreme Commander's sword being drawn or the sound of his own severed head hitting the cold stone floor. He heard only the thud of a fated rock, dropped on the ashes of a distant and dying night fire many miles away.
The execution was justified by sighting cowardice, lack of initiative, and for not knowing the exact direction of travel. In truth, however, the commander was undone. To hear the monk still lived, and was indeed a mortal man, exhumed the buried demons of his past, and hatred had driven him. He felt the pain again as if his wounds were fresh. His right hand squeezed the razor sharp sword tip that hung like a jewel from a chain around his neck. He stared back into the darkness of events long past, oblivious to the blood dripping from hand to floor and joining the dark pool forming around the sentry's headless body.
For every two eyes there is one mouth, and three full seasons would pass before a tale found its way to the ears of the commander. He listened intently to the story of a monk of great stature and a fair young woman far to the west claiming and transporting the human refuse of war's far-flung campaign. This thieving monk from first meeting had come away the victor. He had stolen his place as aspiring novice, robbed him of his greatest victory, and now purloined the spoils of war. The commander sat, a hollow disfigured leader in a command that he had not earned by deed or merit.
He waited impatiently over the next season for more information, but none came. Here the trail would grow cold, not a whisper not a rumor, as if the earth itself had swallowed them up. The commander found this silence deafening. He knew by instinct that where this monk rested the scrolls of the lost library would be found, and that his redemption in the eyes of his emperor lay in their recovery.
Amid the rugged beauty of the highlands, forge and stable were sheltered under one thatched roof. While most of the men were raiding, the orphaned child stayed with the smith and worked as best he could for a meal and a sleeping place within the straw. Not family as most would know it, but these were all he had.
Some were kind most were not, his survival hinged on mistrust. At night the boy moved well among the men, filling cups when most were too drunk to walk or pour. He had his niche, slicing gracefully through the darkness serving wine and listening to the rambling stories of the warriors. At an early age he knew well to be useful, but not visible. He could tell by tone when to attend and when to escape, for mood in camp could change with a swallow. The boy learned well how to seize opportunity, for in the company of brigands and mercenaries mead loosened purse strings as well as tongues.
The men had fought that day, a bloody skirmish if the talk was to be believed. When coupled with a full moon, the boy knew well to be vigilant. By firelight he felt the eyes of a tattooed warrior upon him and responded cautiously to the signal for more drink. The small boy did not like the way this one looked at him or the way that he smiled when his cup had been filled. He dodged the arm reaching drunkenly through the darkness and moved with haste to serve in the comfort of others.
The night concluded without event. The boy had done his work well and was the last to find sleep, for the men now lay snoring around the fading fire. He found a private place away from the group. Standing before the small tree, he felt the soft touch of its wet leaves on his face and shivered as he released his water. Tired from his long day, he looked forward to the quiet warmth of his nest.
From the blackness the man pounced.
The cry that would have issued was silenced as all wind was crushed from his delicate body by the weight of his foe. He could smell the man. Alcohol and sweat mingled with the stench of bad intentions. A tattooed hand gripped the top of his trousers and roughly tried to pull them down. The boy knew what was upon him, what pushed his face into the night mud drowning him silently beneath the mire. He knew what rape was.
He moved past the panic of his voiceless scream searching for a solution to a situation that seemed beyond his control. No one could protect him, he was truly alone. Small hands grasped at anything that they could touch until the fingers of his right closed around a dried and broken forest branch. They were called lossoughs, and he had picked them on many mornings, for nothing was better to start the fire of an early forge than these. The familiar feel brought comfort, and comfort brought hope. There would be only one chance.
His attacker turned the struggling boy over and fumbled with the task of loosening his own belt. He pressed his filthy hand across the small mouth as he reached down inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior's short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.
He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”
All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.
As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night's event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad's wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.
The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy's young hands he drew him near.
“Vincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”
His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child's foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.
By God's mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.
The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy's behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.
Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent's neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing reality would have to be filled in by others gradually, one painful fragment at a time. For now, however, he lay where he was dropped. Eventually he deployed tentative fingers to survey his damaged skull.
“A simple fracture, leave it alone,” the smith told him, while the soldier added, “You forgot about the shield.” In truth he had forgotten the entire encounter. The event, however, was not without lesson.
For a Celt the head is the seat of power, the house of the soul, and his would have to be rebuilt. He could not stand. His balance was undone, and there was no hearing on his left side. Fingers again explored, dipping into the clear brown fluid that leaked freely from his ear. It was the smell of it that disturbed him, for it seemed better suited to another orifice.
Over the changing of the next full moon, the boy lay restlessly for the time of his healing. On the nights when he was alone, the buried memories of the tattooed menace he had butchered surfaced. These were now with him forever, his first express direction from Death. He wondered why his brain would haunt him with these, but not release the events of his own wounding, for surely they would have been more valuable in his growth as warrior. Then again he knew that his mind, no matter how noble its thoughts, floated in a stinking pool of clear brown fluid. Its fluvial discharge still dripped occasionally from his damaged ear. So how much was it to be trusted?
In time he healed. Although his body was weak from inactivity, his hearing and balance had gradually returned. The boy came to know that death would be his life's work, and he accepted this without a struggle. It was clear to him that life was brutal and his would probably be brief. He held the short sword in his hand and ran a finger along its edge. His broken head and temporary frailty were a blessing, for with this wound came the strength of resolution. Vincent sought the one that had saved his life and begged for any lesson that he could give.
The man was rough but not stupid. There would not be another carry home. He introduced the boy to the way of the blade, and Vincent returned the favor by applying the lessons learned with ever increasing skill.
I knew the dreams were upon me that first night, but after wakening to the sounds of warm conversation and the smell of the evening meal already beginning to cook, they quickly faded and disappeared. I heard a rooster crowing proudly over his domain, but continued to lie motionless pretending to be asleep and listening carefully for tones of treachery in a language I did not understand. For the next hour I lay with body still but ears active, expecting anything. Only when I was sure that there would be nothing did I stand up and walk into the main room.
Merlin and the Sea Lass greeted me warmly and bid me sit down upon the cushions that leaned against the thick stone walls. Together they examined and discussed my torn arm, obviously pleased by its steady healing. She held my wrist quietly with three fingers as if listening to much deeper rhythms, and then both looked upon my tongue as if it was a visual gateway to the inner workings of my battered body.
Finally and most strangely she steadied my head between her gentle hands and gazed directly into my eyes. I thought it might be her way of spell casting, but I had not the strength to resist and so stared back into the liquid brown beauty that were hers.
Her father interrupted tersely, indicating points on my body with a well-seasoned finger, and then smoothly she drew her pouch. My body was already jumping up and back even before my eyes told it the painless needles were coming. I would not bear this witchcraft again, and I braced myself for a fight.
The two were wide eyed at my agility, and their easy laughter rang in my ears. Sea Lass spoke for both as Merlin tried to collect himself. “Judging by your many scars, you have no fear of sword or spear, yet you are terrified by the small steel that will help to make you whole. Father, show him what he fears.”
Merlin, still smiling, held out the tiny shard to me as if presenting a flower, and I looked at it with wonder. It was a perfect round bladed miniature sword. I took it and pushed against it with my finger. It bent like spring grass on a windy day. Remarkably it rebounded back to its original shape. I had never seen metal so small, so alive, and so skillfully created. “My father made them,” the Sea Lass said, “He is a master.”
I quickly caught the beauty of her eyes and spoke strongly, “Just because he owns me does not make him my master.” She mimicked my tone and replied, “That is both honest and profound, but I was referring to his ability to create with metal.” I realized as they began to laugh again that both her statements were indeed true, and that I had misunderstood. I pensively allowed the needle treatment to continue.
Afterwards I was served a delicious breakfast of rice-gruel, fruit, and honey, and felt more an honored guest than a slave. As I feasted, Sea Lass offered a well-packed lunch to her father as he turned to me and spoke, “I go now to tend the land. You are still very weak, stay with Selah and help her with the household chores. We will speak more this evening.” With that he left, stuffing his lunch inside the chest of his simple work shirt, and I was alone with the one who had already begun to enchant me.
She moved with grace and lightness around the house, unconcerned by my presence and sometimes singing sweetly in her own language. I wondered why they trusted me, for even weak I am a dangerous man. As I stared at her back, I reasoned that she would not be hard to kill. She turned to me and smiled innocently, untouched by the darkness of my thoughts. Holding two buckets she invited me to follow her while she drew milk from the cows.
Outside she flung down oats for the clucking hens, stopped and stooped by the path, looking upon a bustling nest of large black ants. As we approached the fields, she walked to the hedgerow and seemed to speak to the briers. The cows came running to her like large happy pets, and soon both buckets were overflowing with their frothy white bounty.
As she looked up into the clear blue sky at the high flying birds, I found myself doing the exact same thing. “What is your forecast?” she asked softly. It seemed a strange question for such a beautiful day. “A fair and sunny spring day,” was how I answered. Smiling now, she said, “If we move quickly, we will be back to the house before the rains unleash.” No sooner were we inside placing the buckets of milk on the table, than the skies opened up and the heavy downpour began.