Scotland's Great King Arthur - Sword in the Stone Epic The Sword of the Western Seas Chapter IV-1: Seaside Days
Autumn was a time when rain began to pour down upon the islands of the Western Seas with ever growing melancholy among the people. Few were the songs that people sang on such damp, drab days that populated the rainy season. Yet one of the songs that were sung was that of the great Wolfram warrior who was said to have rescued the southern town of Igraith.
Dáire was his name and he was a warrior who was said to have been raised in the lands of Balkrenia far, far away to the east on the island of Bretwealda. A warrior who had lost his family to the invading Svartálfar he was to be raised by his kinsmen who raised him to fight against the Svartálfar.
It was he who was said to have a generation before the arrival of Cormac sought to rally the people of Bretwealda. He was of the line of Griogair, the dynasty that was by right the ruling Wolframs of Bretwealda, and therefore of a nobler characteristic and nature than most people could imagine. The song itself had arrived west many centuries before and was one that the local people sang if in slightly more subdued tones than they might otherwise have done.
Their ordinary enthusiasm for it was rooted in how the song was also called the Hymn of Gwermaen. The fortress had been one of those that Roparzh King had built many centuries before the Wars of Darkness, and it was this fortress that served as something of a bastion to the northern people who lived just south of the Highlands. Therefore a great many of the people of the island had fled there in the hopes that they might find safety. Most had suffered losses, pains and torments unimaginable event to those miserable of inhabitants of the fair island of Kull! Year after year the depredations had sunk their once beauteous island into the mire, until none could remember a time when it had not been so.
They had for this reason fled there, and had prayed for a protector. It was for this reason that moved by the suffering of those of the island, even those who had long since opposed his own people the hero Dáire had hurried forward to come to the rescue of the people, fighting through the tide of Dark Elves. His heroics had seen him pincer between the men of the great fortress that belonged to one of the only claimants left to the throne of Roparzh King, who it was that had arisen to the rallying cry of the Wolfram warrior. Together they had slaughtered the invaders and might well have rejoiced, were it not for how the warrior-laird had fallen in the battle and Dáire was injured. The Svartálfar had soon received reinforcements while the Wolf-Men took refuge behind the fortress’ walls.
The song therefore was that of the great siege, and the manner in which the Wolfram had endured all that could be endured for the people of the island, ere he charged the enemy. It was a song that a great many remembered singing as children, so that now they sang it with their sons’ on their boats while the rain poured down with all the fury and wrath of a beast unchained.
“Behind green stones,
In their ancestors’ homes
They hid,
Fearful that all wouldst bid
Farewell to flesh and love,
Nervous as doves,
Bright as a star,
Rode Dáire the Wolf,
Eager for war,
Dressed not in wool
But hauberk, his mane
Black as midnight,
Great was his fame,
Sword uprais’d and bright,
Dark were the fallen Elves,
Deep into the keep walls,
They didst delve,
Arms and siege craft both fell,
Behind green stones,
In their ancestors’ homes
They hid,
Fearful that all wouldst bid
Farewell to flesh and love,
Nervous as doves,
From o’er the hills,
Rode Dáire the Wolf,
Spear long and blade tipped
Upwards that he rebuff,
Darken folks from those hills,
Bright as a star in heaven,
Unrivall’d under the suns’,
Swift as an eagle was his spear-thrust,
And true as any son’s
Virtue, he spill’d untrue men’s blood!”
“Simply glorious!” Artuir burst out, thinking it his duty to revive the spirits of all those present as he looked all about him. Though he had felt lonely and unhappy since his father had departed, he had promised himself that he would do his utmost to prove himself a worthy heir to his beloved sire.
Those around him smiled tightly. Few if any could quite bring themselves to take to the song with the same joy, and enthusiasm as he could. It was thus, with more than a little unhappiness that they joined in the singing of it.
It was during this time, the time when months had begun to pass them by that the first whispers began to be made of the dire fate that had visited itself upon the men who had gone away whither to the north. They might, some whispered among themselves have been devoured by a Carcolh, who was said to take a full year to digest people and have tendrils that grabbed at people that it might pull them deep underground. Or mayhap he had been captured by the Dwarf-King Zwergonir who was said to still dwell deep within the confines of the mountains of Bretwealda. Quite how a Dwarf could well have survived for nigh on a millennia was not really known to the people of Kull for millennia old was liable to be the age that the King would find himself if he were still alive.
If most were full of despair some strove to restore the spirits of those all around them, those such as Artuir remained determined to stay hopeful for the future. His friends might lose heart and might well cease believing that their fathers or brothers would return, but he would not.
Hope he had discovered early in his life was not something that nurtured itself, or so he was prone to saying, “It requires much in the way of watering and caring for.”
Most had taken his words seriously in younger days when he would mutter this phrase to any who cared to listen to them, yet now all regarded his words with either pity or derision. It was a mixture of these emotions that caused Hòmair to one day burst out as they sailed near Ailpin’s ship after Hòmair had complained of missing Ailpin. “Wherever did you discover this notion about hope young Master?”
“Sgiathgorm told me this proverb that has been passed down through her family for a great many generations,” Artuir explained with a shrug of his small shoulders.
“I have never seen Sgiathgorm,” Hòmair replied quietly.
“Because you have not paid attention to her and her people,” Artuir replied, “She will only visit with those who wish to see her.”
It was with more than a little confusion that the fisherman asked of him, “If such is how it is, does that not mean I should already have seen her?”
“Bah you do not understand,” Artuir grunted sharply as he shook his head as though the other man were particularly slow, and a child and he the adult. “You choose not to see her, just as I choose to see her.”
“I do not understand.”
“That is precisely what I just stated!”
Hòmair opened his mouth to speak up once more, and repeat how he could not follow the youth’s line of thought when he was suddenly interrupted by Ràild. “Oy the two of ye best not be wasting time there doing little more than chattering about fairies again! I will have ye know that there are more important things than they at present, especially as we have fish to catch!”
“Aye, Ràild,” both younger males agreed at once, neither of them keen to draw out more of the old man’s ire.
“Bah, ye are incorrigible,” growled Ràild full of impatience and anger.
Neither of the youths could quite understand the source of his ill-mood. Not that Artuir was at all interested in the inflexible old man’s sour humours. His dreamy eyes going to the waters below he could not resist beginning to whistle in the manner his father had shown him.
Life thus resumed as though naught had changed. Only the absence of sixty or so men served as a noticeable metamorphosis or sign of decline. And decline this was regarded as, since most of the men who had left were among Kiernan’s finest warriors.
This then was the cause for why where they might otherwise have greeted the sails that appeared on the horizon with considerable joy, this year they regarded those of the Island of Ervan with little more than sullen disinterest. The island in question was one of those nearest to the Emerald Isle, and was the source of some of the finest mead in the region and wool. A moderately well sized island it was overrun by sheep and beehives which were used to produce the honey the village there of the same name depended upon to make their mead. Positioned perfectly between a number of islands Ériu, it was a popular anchor-spot for ships coming and going throughout the Gerwruan Straits.
The people had used their natural advantages of geography and natural wealth to allow them to buy lumber from nearby Ériu so that they had also become natural sailors. Their strength as go-betweens among the islanders and their affable natures had it was rumoured even succeeded in helping them to craft distant ties with the people of the lands on North-Agenor and among the Romalians who ruled over the south-lands of Bretwealda.
The fact that Artuir was back to work under the watchful eye not of Ailpin, but that of the fisherman’s father and good-son was something that greatly pleased him. The former was as severe as always, where the latter was stumbling about, and constantly squealing out excuses or apologies. It was a source of great irritation to Ràild who became ever more aggravated the more the younger man apologized. This was how Artuir liked things; to be hard at work on Ailpin or Hòmair’s ships. So eager was he to contribute to the catching of fish was always something that worked to soften the likes of Ràild, who grunted that the lad was doing good work.
The three of them just as with the other dozens of ships out at sea were, set to work pulling in what fish they could to feed the largest village in the whole of those islands nearest to Bretwealda. This pleased the likes of Hòmair who was to work with a greater deal of confidence and joy thereafter. Part of him had after all fretted after the child, more than he had after himself.
It was when the day drifted to an end that Artuir was to glance up from the nets and the other tasks he had been assigned on the ship, to find his stepmother waiting for him by the shore.
“You must go home with her,” Ràild instructed sternly, and when the child went to protest he growled, “Not a word to the contrary lad! She is now thy mother so you will do as you are told, and stay with her as is proper.”
“She is not my mother,” Artuir protested no less sternly.
The old man exasperated hissed, “No matter, she is now.”
The lad might well have persisted in arguing on this point if it were not for the ship’s sails suddenly catching a great gust of wind that sent the ship forward thither to the coast. Falling over he was reminded to hold fast to the rigging in the future.
Cursing beneath his breath, the youth was to be pulled back to his feet not long thereafter, wherefore he was to against his will do as he was bidden. It was not as though he could resist them, if none of them would take him in for the night.
The lady Seònaid herself greeted him with more than a little enthusiasm, smiling wanly at him, “I have begun making thy favourite Artuir; heron and beef stew, mixed with potatoes and with carrots and onions thrown in. I do hope you will like it.”
“Bah, mayhaps,” he grunted only somewhat mollified by her offer of his favourite meal.
That most of the village had carried on with their lives and gone home, with the likes of Artuir and his stepmother largely ignored as they returned home together. Neither one of the two speaking up against or to one another, with the young woman eager to do just that, he noticed. Troubled by this and by her attempt to become friends of sorts with him Artuir was to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at her once more.
He had no wish to like her, nor did he have any wish to make her sob and thus attract more criticism from the other people of Kiernan. None of them could possibly ever comprehend how it felt he told himself, for they had mothers and fathers that were present at all times. They had not been asked to replace the absence of one, with a kind of bronze statue. This was how he regarded Seònaid; as a kind of statue that had been installed in his home with the intention of replacing the hole in his life.
He had already come to prefer, he told himself often enough on those days when he was left alone, the lady Sgiathgorm as a kind of surrogate mother. She had at least treated him better than any other lady, and had not suddenly appeared it seemed to take his father away, as had Seònaid.
“Fine, but I do not much want to speak with you,” Artuir told her sharply, pouting as he followed after her.
“Of course,” Seònaid replied more than a little hurt by his rejection of her.
Watching her, he had to cast aside his gaze lest he feel all the worse. He did not wish to pity her.
The meal that they ate that night was one of the quietest that the ordinarily ebullient Artuir had ever enjoyed. So that in this way he was to show a colder side of his person than he had hoped to, so that he missed more than ever before his father.
It was with a start as he cleaned his plate and goblet that he was to make for his bed full of hay and blankets that he realized how badly he missed his father. Repressing a sniffle, he was to force himself to turn about and fall sleep. Not far away in the other room, Seònaid prayed for quite some time for the precipitous return of her husband.
She did not know how much longer she could endure Artuir’s hostility, and the coldness of her bed in the kitchen where she had decided to settle herself so as to not instigate his temper any more than she already had. As she slept it was after having wept ever so slightly. If her waking hours were unpleasant, her dreams gave her some sort of comfort in the form of Adomnan.
*****
Night must always fade. Always and since ages long forgotten it has always vanished with the wind, and with the fall of the moon that the suns might rise. Twilight must inevitably give way to the dawn. The same must be said of bad times as Seònaid was soon to discover, just as Artuir soon did.
The ill times as represented by the previous day were to be cast aside thanks entirely to the likes of Raonaid who was to be found as always thereupon the shore in the early hours as always. Her presence there one that served to soothe the concerns of the young lad as it had before.
Forgetting their previous quarrel, Artuir was to take his place by her side without a word, which startled her. “Artuir! You ought to be asleep still.”
“Bah, why should I sleep more than I need to?” Artuir replied quietly, with a snort.
“Because, Artuir it is early.”
“No earlier than when we met a few days prior.”
Raonaid huffed a little, of a mind to swat at him. Likely he would only take it as a game of some sort. Once more she was ignored while the blond haired child stared at the distant sunrise. Soon all the lands of the Western Isles were tinged with pink, orange and crimson. The great trees still half-covered in darkness began to cede ever more ground to the suns. It also happened that as the two children sat near to the south-eastern shore of Kiernan they saw a number of birds take flight.
The vision of a great many birds taking flight as dusk metamorphosed into dawn drew a great gasp of aw from Raonaid.
She could never quite grasp how it was that the two might quarrel one day, only to make peace just as the suns were rising or setting. Her father had long considered her habit to slip out to the southern coast where east met west to stare out east one of her strangest habits. He once said that, “All ills are forgotten as the suns rise precisely because the suns are doing what all wish they might do; heal the ills cast by the night and the prior day.”
It was a sentiment that Raonaid had long pondered over, and while she had initially disagreed with him, she now wondered if there was wisdom in his words. Artuir for his part, she imagined might disagree with them.
Curious as to his perspective on it, she was to ask him so that he to her surprise shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose, but how can the suns heal the ills of the world? The ills remain and the suns by themselves have no great power beyond giving us warmth and light.”
“Is that not a gift in and of itself Artuir?” She asked him with a small smile on her lips.
“I suppose,” Artuir replied in the sort of voice that indicated he had not thought about such a thing before, hitherto then. “Should I have concerned myself with such musings?”
“Perhaps, but what sort of musings have in the past occupied you when you look out to the east to the rising suns?” Raonaid asked of him impatiently.
Artuir looked from her to the distant spheres to the east of them. He pondered them, and how their light struck all the craggy rocks. Some of those stones that were to be found in the middle of the seas were ones that he had painted little images upon as a child with his father. They had stopped doing so two years prior, when they had nearly hit some of the rocks with their ship when the seas became too difficult to manage.
The memory of those times, of painting dragons and sea-monsters and Elves with his father brought a smile to Artuir’s lips. At that moment, though he did not say a way, nor did he do more than look out east Raonaid was struck by a moment of realization. That of what sort of man Artuir would someday be, and it made her stare at him as his face became even more golden and orange from the radiance of the suns’ than it previously was. The vision she saw was of a man bearded, laughing and always with flashing blue eyes and a stolid figure and nature.
It was just for a moment… and it served to inspire and move the young woman as nothing else in recent memory had or could.
The momentary glimpse of what Artuir might someday be was broken when the lad suddenly leapt up to his feet again having seated himself but briefly, he surprised her. “Sgiathgorm! It is just a little past sunrise I must see her to report to her what has happened in recent days! Take care Raonaid, I am away!”
“What? But later, what of dinner will you join us to-night?” Raonaid cried out only for him to wave his head behind him, without answering her question. Cursing him, she very nearly gave chase before she remembered her duties to her grandfather and other kindred. “Someday that lad will learn some measure of duty!”
“Raonaid! Raonaid!” Ràild shouted from some distance away, within the village, “Whither have you gone you fool lass, lest I beat some sense into thee for forgetting thine duties!”