Patrick: Son of Ireland Read online

  The fortress itself was made of wood, as were the low, thatched houses inside. The ráth was reached by a long, narrow trackway which passed through two sets of high timber gates separated by a deep ditch into which the tribe threw their refuse. The entire hillside reeked of excrement and the rotting entrails of butchered animals. A cacophony of carrion birds circled the fortress, filling the air with their cries.

  Miliucc’s people were a dirty, stinking rabble. How else? They all lived like animals. Lacking any civilizing amenities and possessing only the most basic of human necessities, they wallowed in their own filth morning to night, their crude existence little better than that of the beasts to which they owed their rough survival.

  Unlettered, unlearned, untroubled by any obligations of intellect, they went about their temporal activities gabbling like chickens and displaying the childlike love of ostentation and extravagance of appearance shared by barbarians the world over. If any possessed a trinket or bauble, it was worn with inordinate pride, be it merely a painted shell or a carved bone. Gold rings adorned filthy fingers, fine silver necklaces ringed throats begrimed with sweat and soot, delicate bronze bands gleamed on dirty arms.

  Their clothes, although grease-stained and muddy, were nevertheless woven of the brightest colors: gaudy orange and green stripes; red and blue checks; white-, black-, and yellow-patterned plaids—the more garish the better. The men wore loose, outsize trousers that they called bríste, wrapped knee to foot with long leather straps attached to their soft boots. Women wore shapeless, ankle-length mantles bound at the waist by wide, extravagantly woven girdles and fastened at the shoulder with brooches of wood, bone, bronze, or other stuff. Men and women alike wore a kind of simple cloak which they called a fallaing, made of the same heavy wool as the rest of their cloth and, again, striped or woven into closely worked checked patterns in audacious colors.

  Judging from the inordinate number of naked infants and dogs scurrying around the ráth, they seemed overly indulgent of children and animals, neither of which they bothered to discipline or husband in any way. And all, young and old alike, loved nothing more than listening to their hideous, screechy music—played by men given the task and made listenable only after numerous bowls of sour, heady beer, which they brewed in vast quantities in great wooden tubs and then drank until inebriation either put them to sleep or stirred their blood and made them contentious and brawly. Should the latter condition arise, as it usually did, they would fall out fighting. They would be singing and laughing and, but a moment later, bashing one another with fearsome blows—only to collapse in one another’s arms with pledges of eternal friendship and loyalty when the beating brought them to their soggy senses. A more tempestuous and belligerent people I truly never saw.

  Oh, they were barbarians through and through, vile savages in thought, word, and deed.

  On our arrival at Miliucc’s fortress, the other slaves and myself were fitted with collars; mine was a simple torc of twisted iron, much like those some of the servants and younger people wore, save that it had an iron ring at the back by which I could be tethered when the need arose. At the king’s command I was held tight in the grasp of two hulking brutes while a third bent the ring of still-hot iron around my neck. The heated metal blistered my skin, and though it hurt with a fury, I refused to cry out. As soon as the ends were closed, the torc was doused with water and I was led away to be fed: a thin gruel of fish and barley. Despite my hunger, the stuff was foul and I refused to swallow more than a few bites. The next day I was established in a shepherd’s bothy on the side of a mountain overlooking the Vale of Braghad and this because, of all the slaves, I was deemed most fit, and therefore most suitable to watch their precious sheep.

  A hut of timber and mud was to be my home. It was small, even for a hovel, measuring only a few paces on each side, with a roof so low a man could not stand upright. Even so, it was sturdy. The walls and roof were split logs, the chinks and gaps between them stuffed with moss mixed with mud. There was room inside to lie down fully stretched, but for little else. Nor did I have this bucolic villa to myself, for I was apprentice shepherd to an ancient, grizzled, half-wild pagan named Madog.

  Old Madog was, or had once been, a Briton. He had lived the life of a slave so long he could not remember whence he came to Éire. He could still speak a few words of the British tongue and some of the Irish, but could no longer tell the difference between them—a fact which, however frustrating, at least made our discussions blessedly brief. Not that he ever had much to say. His life was his flock: leading them out by day, gathering them in by night, and watching over them all the time in between—the only variation provided by the occasional sick cow brought up from the herd for special treatment.

  Gray, thin, tough as boiled leather, Madog roamed the mountain trackways barefoot, bounding like a ram over the rills and rocks, arms flapping in his sleeveless mantle of rags, his toothless whistle resounding from the crooks and crannies, his inane cackle echoing through the empty heights. Bare-headed in every weather, he stood out with his flock, his brain teeming with half-mad thoughts and queer observations that kept him chuckling to himself for days on end.

  He had a crook, which he had fashioned from a bound hazel sapling, a flint knife that he had also made, and a small iron caldron. His only other possession was a flint-and-steel striker tied to a leather loop, hung on a knot inside the door of the bothy and used only in the rarest circumstance to light the fire when the embers had gone out and could not be coaxed to life once more. Because the meadow was surrounded on all sides by thick forest, we enjoyed a ready supply of firewood and kept the fire going day and night—as much for warmth and something to do as to keep any preying animals away from the nearby sheepfold.

  Every so often someone would come up from the settlement and bring us bread—hard black loaves that we hacked to pieces with Madog’s flint knife and soaked in warm water to make edible—and other bits of food: a turnip or two, a few leeks or onions, some beer. This we added to our usual fare, which was, without fail, mutton. Madog knew his sheep well, and he knew which ewes were past bearing and which would not make it through the next cold season. These he culled from the flock, supplying the ráth and giving us a fair store of meat, some of which was boiled or roasted and eaten with sea salt and mountain thyme, and the rest salted and dried in the sun.

  Over the first few days he showed me what was expected of a shepherd in the keep of Lord Miliucc. I applied myself to the work and found it not overtaxing, but the pleasures of sitting on a damp rock watching sheep all day soon palled, and I began to yearn for other ways to occupy myself. Thus I swiftly turned my attention to planning my escape.

  Miliucc’s realm lay, as I say, in the northwestern part of Éire, no great distance from the coast. From the upper heights of our mountain perch I could glimpse the flat, iron-colored northern sea. Once or twice I even saw ships—small, coast-crawling vessels, but ships nonetheless—and reckoned that there must be a port or fishing settlement somewhere within reach. I need only locate the port, and I would find a ship to take me home.

  All that remained was to choose the right time. It would have to be soon, I considered, before the winds of autumn brought an end to sea travel. I had no wish to spend a cold winter on the mountainside in the company of Madog and his sheep.

  While I waited, I readied myself as best I could. Obtaining a food ration proved no difficulty; I merely helped myself from Madog’s store of dried mutton and hid it where I could quickly recover it again. Water was more of a problem. I would need enough for two or three days, I reckoned, but had nothing in which to carry it. I set about devising a container from wood. I made a hand axe out of a piece of flint recovered from a streambed and tried hollowing out a chunk of half-rotten log, but gave up after several inept attempts.

  As it happened, Madog saw what I was doing and misunderstood my purpose. One evening as we were sitting outside the hut by the fire, he rose and went in, returning a moment later with a thin,
white, misshapen leathery bag, which he gave to me, indicating with winks and pointing that I should hang it around my neck.

  I did so, and he cackled happily. “Da, da!” he said. “Da!” This outburst signified his approval. Then, winking and pointing, he began jigging around the water stoup—a large stone basin filled by the tiny trickle from a spring that welled up from an outcropping of rock beside the bothy. I could not make out what the old idiot intended until at last he pulled me up and, taking the bag, plunged it into the water. Then I understood: It was a waterskin. Made from the bladder of a sheep, it would hold, I imagined, three or four days’ scant ration of water.

  I filled the thing and was pleased to discover that it did indeed hold water admirably well. Grinning to signify my pleasure, I thanked Madog with a bow, which set the old addlepate chuckling and gurgling in delight all the rest of the night.

  The next day dawned clear and bright, and I decided that the time had come. As soon as Madog had gone to take the sheep to the meadow, I gathered my provisions and set off walking toward the coast, keeping to the sheep trails until I was out of sight of the valley, then made my way down to the river and followed it to the coast, reaching the shore a little after midday.

  Now came the difficult part of my plan, for I had no clear idea which way to go. I had hoped on reaching the coast to be able to see the port or some other settlement, but this was not to be. I looked long in either direction and saw only the rough, rocky shoreline and the towering headlands beyond, and no port in sight. So, lacking any better guide, I decided to take my chances and head north.

  Following the craggy coast, I walked quickly and steadily, pausing every now and then to look back in case I should be followed and laughing at the ignorance of my barbarian captors. That escape should be so easy showed how utterly unthinking they were.

  The day passed without my meeting anyone or encountering any settlements. With the gathering twilight, clouds sailed in on a keen northerly wind, and it seemed best to find shelter for the night. I chose a hollow in an outcropping of rock at the base of a cliff a short distance up from the shore. From my shallow cave I could see a fair distance down the beach in both directions and would have plenty of time to hide if anyone should come along.

  As darkness fell, so did the rain; in great, gushing torrents it fell. My hollow in the rocks kept out most of the water but none of the wind, which scoured the cave the whole night long. Sleep was all but impossible, and I did not wait for the dawn before setting off again as soon as the storm had ceased. I walked until sunrise, and then stopped and ate a bit of dried mutton and drank fresh rainwater from a pool in a rock.

  A great deal of seaweed had been heaved ashore on the waves during the night, making the rocky shingle slippery. Skirting the worst stretches and proceeding with care over the rest, I at last reached a sheer rock wall that had its foundations deep in the sea. The strand on which I had been walking came to an abrupt end. I had no choice but to cross over the top of the headland. Although it cost me considerable time, I retraced my steps until I found a place to climb up without too much difficulty, and so began the ascent.

  My effort was crowned with success; from the high ground the shoreline stretched out below and, a short distance to the east, settlement. A small place, little more than a handful of huts set above the high-tide mark on the edge of a wood, it seemed a very haven to me. What is more, there were three boats on the beach. I hunkered down to watch the dwellings for a while, to see what might be learned.

  When no one appeared, I moved down the hill for a closer look. After a time a woman came out of one of the huts accompanied by a child. They walked to the edge of the water, where the child splashed in the shallow sea while the mother gathered seaweed. When she had collected enough, she called the little one to her, and they disappeared into the hut again. No one else appeared after that. So, taking my fate in my hands, I went down.

  Warily I approached the settlement, passing the first huts without rousing any attention. When I came even with the hut in which the woman and child dwelled, I paused and called out in a loud voice, “Pax vobiscum!”

  I shouted twice more before I saw the woman’s thin face peering out from the low doorway. As I had no weapons and was obviously a stranger, she eventually came out, advancing hesitantly and looking around to see if I might be accompanied by anyone. I smiled and talked gently to reassure her and, pointing to the boats, made gestures to indicate my wish to be taken up the coast to the nearest port.

  She frowned mightily, shook her head, and jabbered at me in her incomprehensible tongue, then flung her hands at me as if to drive away a bothersome dog. I persisted in trying to make myself understood, but to no avail. Finally she pointed out toward the sea, where a boat was just then making for shore. There were three men in the boat, and the foremost of these leaped out and waded to meet us as soon as the keel touched the shingle.

  A tall, gaunt, weather-beaten son of the sea, he greeted me, presumably—it was difficult to tell from his rough speech—and I repeated my greeting and indicated the boats. Thus, by means of pointing and gestures, I conveyed my wish to be taken to the nearest port. To my immense satisfaction, the ignorant fellow agreed. He called to the others, who were pulling the boat onto the shingle; they stopped at once, and the fisherman beckoned me to follow. They held the boat while I climbed in, then pushed off once more.

  Taking up the oars, the two others applied themselves to rowing while the third man steered, and I sat on the small bench in the center of the craft with my waterskin on my knees. They rowed with solid strokes, proceeding up the coast as soon as we gained deeper water.

  The sea was still somewhat high after the storm of the night before, but they stood to their work, and we soon rounded the headland to the north of the settlement. There in the distance, beneath the sheltering brow of a high promontory, lay the port.

  With each strong pull of the oars, our destination came nearer. I sat on my bench exulting in my shrewdness and mastery. With the first fair wind, I would be on my way home once more.

  The little seaport was an untidy aggregation of hovels and houses large and small, all of which seemed to encircle the standing stone that marked the center of the town. Despite its diminutive size, the holding boasted a sturdy timber wharf for larger boats and ships; as we came nearer, I was pleased to see that there were two of these tied up there. Many other smaller vessels lined the pebbled shingle, and we soon joined them.

  As the boat touched the shore, the foremost fisherman called out to a group of men standing on the wharf. These, I reckoned, belonged to one of the ships, and as they took an interest in me, I addressed them politely and asked if anyone spoke Latin. “Latinum loquamini?” I asked several times. They made no reply, so I pointed out to sea. “Britannia,” I said, repeating the word until the light of understanding dawned on them.

  They regarded me closely, talking among themselves the while. They seemed to come to a favorable conclusion, and two of the men ran off toward one of the larger houses, where, at their summons, a white-haired man emerged. He looked out to where we were standing and beckoned us to attend him.

  That this old rogue was head man of the town I had no doubt. He looked at me, nodding with satisfaction at what he saw. “Pax vobiscum,” I said, offering him a bow of deference. “I give you good greeting.”

  He grunted and, lifting a hand, pointed out to sea. “Prytani?” he said.

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes, Brittania. My home. I wish to go there.”

  He smiled and nodded in return. “Prytani.” He spoke to the fisherman and the others, who replied, and, dismissing them, beckoned me to join him in his house. I supposed it was to observe some formality of hospitality, so I agreed, hoping we would soon come to terms regarding my passage.

  The house stank of dogs and rotting fish, but I followed him in; a table and chair stood next to an open hearth in the center of the single room. He bade me sit in the chair and poured out a drink of sour beer. He drank
and passed the wooden bowl to me. Not wishing to offend him, I held my breath and took a drink, quickly relinquishing the bowl when I had finished. He pointed to my waterskin, so I unslung the strap from around my shoulder and offered it to him. He examined it approvingly and tried a drink, grinning as he returned it.

  An old woman came in, and he sent her scurrying away; she returned a short time later with a small round loaf of bread, which she put on the table, and hurried off again. The man indicated that I should eat, which I reluctantly did, for although I did not like to make myself beholden to these barbarians, I was hungry and I could not risk offending them in any way.

  I ate, tearing off pieces of bread, chewing slowly, smiling, and drinking from the beer bowl. Meanwhile, the old man busied himself at the hearth and soon had a fire kindled. The old woman reappeared with a dish containing three cleaned and gutted fish. With practiced efficiency the old man spitted them and set them to cook over the fire. Fearing to interrupt their meal—and not wishing to stay in any event—I stood, thanked my host, and started for the door. The old man jumped up and, with smiles and nods of reassurance, led me back to my place at the table.

  He sat me down, pointed to the bread, and made eating motions. He poured more beer and placed the bowl in my hands. I drank, and he went back to tending the fish on the fire. In a little while the food was cooked, and he brought the plate to the table. He selected a fish and offered one to me. We sat down together then—he on a stone by the hearth, I in his chair—and ate our simple meal.

  The fish was a change from mutton; it tasted good and, with the bread and beer, made a passable meal. Indeed, I would have welcomed another morsel or two but for a commotion that commenced outside just then. There came a shout and then the sound of voices and people running. The next thing I knew, there appeared in the doorway a huge, black-haired warrior with a sword in his hand.