Read Online Warrior's Daughter by Holly Bennett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Holly Bennett
Tags: JUV000000
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It was, in any case, better than wandering alone among the crowds of people filling the settlement.
It was an eerie sight, my father laid out on a pallet amidst the bristling paraphernalia of war. The walls were hung with shields of bronze, leather and wood, each painted or embossed with its owner’s device. Spears and swords thrust out from barrels. Certain weapons were given pride of place, carefully displayed: I recognized Conchobor’s famous shield, and my father’s massive barbed spear, the Gae Bolga. Those lethal barbs, hidden within the shaft, had killed Ferdia, and as I looked upon it I imagined for the first time, not my father’s prowess to wield such a thing, but the ruin it must make of a man’s body. The house was utterly silent—yet it seemed the air rang with the clash and riot of fighting. And there was Cuchulainn, his face so pale but for the livid wounds, the rents in his body hidden by the rich coverlet tented over him.Servants felt it too, that eeriness. At dinnertime they brought our food in silence, eyes averted, and all but bolted for the door.
It was a raw windy day, the gusts stripping leaves off the trees and bringing sudden spatters of rain that blew over as quickly as they began. There would be neither star nor moonlight this Samhain. As darkness fell and people made their way to the hillside fire, the busy noise of Emain Macha was silenced. Now we could hear the soughing voice of the air and feel its chill as it whistled through the cracks in the heavy door and seeped in between wall and thatch. My mother lit candles and set them at my father’s head, and our shadows jumped and shrank in their wavering light.
My father’s lips moved, and he muttered in his sleep. My mother bent patiently to hear, as she had done so many times before, but there was no message for her in his restless whispers. She slipped her hand under the coverlet and wrapped her fingers around his shield-hand—the one place that had been protected from all injury.
What would she do when the time came to kill the summer light, I wondered. She would not want to leave my father to the dark—but how could we relight our lamps, sitting here alone? The ritual was both a promise to the people and a reminder to the spirit of the sun, that the dark season would not last forever but turn again to light and warmth. It was an act of faith, and I could not guess what might happen if we refused it.
“Cathbad will send an apprentice with a torch from the sacred fire,” my mother remarked, as if I had spoken aloud. Her voice was calm, her face peaceful as she turned to me. “You needn’t fear the dark time, dove. Cathbad has woven spells of protectionabout this house, and we are strong and full of life. The spirits cannot harm us. My fear is only for Cuchulainn. Many strong warriors are dead on his account. He killed in honor, but there may yet be some restless dead who hunger for revenge.”
A gruesome picture came to my mind: the shriveled trophy heads that hung in the House of the Red Branch coming to life, calling my father’s name.
The night wore on, and my mother sat now with a blanket drawn about her against the cold, and I snuggled into the little bed that had been made for me, though I was determined not to sleep. At last the gong rang out, signaling the End of the Light, and my mother blew out the candles, the faint light fading to thickest black as one by one they died.
Eyes open, eyes shut; it made no difference. The dark was a dense shroud that seemed to muffle sound as well as sight. But as time passed, and no disembodied heads appeared, the tension strung through my body gradually gave way to fatigue. My eyes closed, and I drifted.
The oak door banged open with a force that thudded through the entire structure and rattled the shields. I jolted upright, crying aloud, and heard my mother’s voice ringing out with mine. Hearts thudding, we strained our eyes into the black as a cold wind swirled around
It was an eerie sight, my father laid out on a pallet amidst the bristling paraphernalia of war. The walls were hung with shields of bronze, leather and wood, each painted or embossed with its owner’s device. Spears and swords thrust out from barrels. Certain weapons were given pride of place, carefully displayed: I recognized Conchobor’s famous shield, and my father’s massive barbed spear, the Gae Bolga. Those lethal barbs, hidden within the shaft, had killed Ferdia, and as I looked upon it I imagined for the first time, not my father’s prowess to wield such a thing, but the ruin it must make of a man’s body. The house was utterly silent—yet it seemed the air rang with the clash and riot of fighting. And there was Cuchulainn, his face so pale but for the livid wounds, the rents in his body hidden by the rich coverlet tented over him.Servants felt it too, that eeriness. At dinnertime they brought our food in silence, eyes averted, and all but bolted for the door.
It was a raw windy day, the gusts stripping leaves off the trees and bringing sudden spatters of rain that blew over as quickly as they began. There would be neither star nor moonlight this Samhain. As darkness fell and people made their way to the hillside fire, the busy noise of Emain Macha was silenced. Now we could hear the soughing voice of the air and feel its chill as it whistled through the cracks in the heavy door and seeped in between wall and thatch. My mother lit candles and set them at my father’s head, and our shadows jumped and shrank in their wavering light.
My father’s lips moved, and he muttered in his sleep. My mother bent patiently to hear, as she had done so many times before, but there was no message for her in his restless whispers. She slipped her hand under the coverlet and wrapped her fingers around his shield-hand—the one place that had been protected from all injury.
What would she do when the time came to kill the summer light, I wondered. She would not want to leave my father to the dark—but how could we relight our lamps, sitting here alone? The ritual was both a promise to the people and a reminder to the spirit of the sun, that the dark season would not last forever but turn again to light and warmth. It was an act of faith, and I could not guess what might happen if we refused it.
“Cathbad will send an apprentice with a torch from the sacred fire,” my mother remarked, as if I had spoken aloud. Her voice was calm, her face peaceful as she turned to me. “You needn’t fear the dark time, dove. Cathbad has woven spells of protectionabout this house, and we are strong and full of life. The spirits cannot harm us. My fear is only for Cuchulainn. Many strong warriors are dead on his account. He killed in honor, but there may yet be some restless dead who hunger for revenge.”
A gruesome picture came to my mind: the shriveled trophy heads that hung in the House of the Red Branch coming to life, calling my father’s name.
The night wore on, and my mother sat now with a blanket drawn about her against the cold, and I snuggled into the little bed that had been made for me, though I was determined not to sleep. At last the gong rang out, signaling the End of the Light, and my mother blew out the candles, the faint light fading to thickest black as one by one they died.
Eyes open, eyes shut; it made no difference. The dark was a dense shroud that seemed to muffle sound as well as sight. But as time passed, and no disembodied heads appeared, the tension strung through my body gradually gave way to fatigue. My eyes closed, and I drifted.
The oak door banged open with a force that thudded through the entire structure and rattled the shields. I jolted upright, crying aloud, and heard my mother’s voice ringing out with mine. Hearts thudding, we strained our eyes into the black as a cold wind swirled around
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