Brendan by Morgan Llywelyn

Author:Morgan Llywelyn [Llywelyn, Morgan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: History, Historical Fiction, Ireland, Celts, Sea Stories
ISBN: 0312860994
Amazon: B004IK9E1O
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2010-02-16T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Wherever Brendán’s peregrinations took him, he heard music, soaring above the valleys and floating like mist around the mountains. Birds sang the day awake and sang it asleep again at night. Hunters sang around their campfires; farmers sang as they ploughed their fields; women at their looms sang weaving songs; youngsters at their play sang game songs. Traders even taught their children counting songs.

One cold, starry night a single human voice, unaided and pure, was carried on the wind to Brendán as he slept. Singing of love with a passion that permeated his dreams. Singing a lament that broke his sleeping heart.

The Gael fought. But they also sang.

Although Brendán tried to avoid warfare during his pilgrimage, in time it came to him—in the form of a red-haired, freckled man with a hawkish face, a young warrior who had been knocked unconscious during combat.

Colmán awoke to find that the tide of battle had rolled on without him. He lay flat on his back on trampled grass. Leaning over him was a clean-shaven man of his own age, holding a wooden staff.

“Hit me with that stick and I’ll kill you,” Colmán growled.

“Not from your present position,” observed Brendán. “But don’t worry, I’m not a warrior.”

“I’m not worried. You’re the most harmless creature I’ve seen today.”

“Is that meant to be an insult?”

“Do you take it as an insult?”

“I take it as a compliment. I am Brendán, son of Finnlugh.”

“Well then, Brendán, give me your hand, will you? My head’s still ringing. I am Colmán, son of Lennán,” he said as an afterthought while Brendán helped him to his feet. “Have you seen my sword around here? Or my shield?”

“What does your sword look like?”

“A bit longer than your forearm, with a leaf-shaped blade. Who are you that you know nothing of swords?”

“I’m a pilgrim,” said Brendán. “I don’t fight.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Colmán retorted. “The shoulders of you belong on an ox. You have to be a warrior.”

“I don’t have to be anything other than what I am. If a man’s future was determined by his origins, no bird that comes from an egg could fly.”

“I think I’d better lie down again,” said Colmán.

Brendán put an arm around him and helped ease him to the ground. The warrior sat with his knees raised and his head lowered, breathing raggedly, while dizziness came in waves. Brendán went away. Returned. Pressed a wad of moss soaked in water to his forehead.

Colmán said hoarsely, “I’m in your debt.”

“I’m a Christian, I give my help freely. There’s some blood on your tunic; I have a small assortment of herbal cures if you need them.”

Colmán looked down at the crimson smear across the saffron cloth. “I don’t think that’s mine.” He ran one hand over his body. “No, definitely not mine. Some other poor fool’s.” He gave a crooked grin, his teeth very white in his freckled face. “I’ll be all right, just let me sit here awhile.”

He sat. Brendán sat down too, and waited. After a while Colmán spoke again.

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