Her County: Part 1

I have a story to tell you.

On the dawn of the third day into my journey, I came out from a thicket of trees, finding myself at the very edge of a rugged and torn field. At first, I hadn’t realised it was tilled. The heavy, clumping balls of earthy dirt were indistinguishable from the jagged and sharp rocks that seemed to float atop the sprawling sea of muck. Patches were more stone than soil; black and grey sediments that crumples underfoot, yet scraped coarsely on my soles. I had lost my sandals the previous evening as I cross marshland. It never occurred to me to pack another in my satchel.

Looking back, as I continued across the dips and mounds, I saw the woods stretched for yards in either directly. I desperately squinted to the horizon, hoping, with the sunrise, to get my bearings. But even if the sky wasn’t swathed in a heavy, low mass of ever-present clouds, as had been the case for the last fortnight, an opaque fog blurred and refracted what little twilight was breaking. I was lost.

Continuing on, I was trying in vain to convince myself I could feel the south-westerly wind on my right. For all I knew, I may still have been in Meath. A dark, malicious voice in my head taunted me with the agonising prospect that I may have been walking in circles for days, and at any moment I would find myself right back at the monastery, forced to face my inevitable fate, when I was enticed to look up and strain to focus on an outline ahead of me, swearing and huffing.

“Fucking! Useless! Thing!”

I came to a halt and watched it for a moment, unable to make out what exactly was happening through the misty veil. There was a huge, deep face, snouting into the earth, yet two, kicking hind legs, grotesquely out of proportion. The crude huffs and puffs made this strange beast sound as though its very existence was nothing but pain.

I crept forward, hunching down, lowering my head, careful to walk into angled steps if I needed to sprint away. A mass of a man, burly but hunched, became clearer, taking me a few more steps before I realised the crocked, oblong, and jutting shadow he was a plough. There was no bull nor field serfs to aid him.

I was so immersed in this sharpening visage, his unbecoming calls, and in where I placed my footing, that I stopped abruptly, realising I was far closer than I intended. The thick mist around us had lifted, at least in the yard between us, so quickly it was as though someone had pulled off a cloak to reveal me.

The man, barely dressed in badly sewn and torn furs, speckled in dirt across his freckled skin and his reddish hair tinged with straggly strands of grey, pushed hopeless from behind the plough, a large, crudely hewn rock, chipped across the head.

“If this... is another... rock!”

The man repositioned his grip, and pushed down on the handles, his muscles, despite his age, bulged, as though swelling with strength. It was there, as his skin and face reddened with effort, did I notice, under his blemishes and encrusted dirt, he was covered in pale scars, coloured like the bland sky above us. The plough reared back and out from the murky, dark soil, as though rising from a fresh grave, came a solid, jagged rock bolder. It sank back down once the man had relinquished his might, pulled back by the sheer mass still submerged in the soil.

“Of course! Of fucking course! Another rock! Why am I surprised! Why else would that druid cur let me have this land!”

On the final insult, the man gripped the plough handles once again and threw it, amazingly, to his side, as effortlessly as though it were an empty sack. It missed me by a foot, brushing me with a gust, and sprinkled me with mud upon impact. I would have been dead had it struck me. Frozen in shock from this feat of strength, my eyes met the man’s, finally noticing me.

He surveyed me quickly, his chest heaving with a racing wheeze, staggering back oafishly, snorting and spitting out a thick, slug green wad of phlegm.

“Who are you?”

“Excuse me, my sir, but I was wondering if---”

“There are no sirs here, boy! There’s nothing here. Nothing of use, anyway. Rocks, and mud, and me. Be gone! I’ve work to be done.”

“Please, kind sir, I need assistance. I am---”

“I said there’s no sirs here! No lords, no sirs, no gods, nor God. Only me and that bitch cackling in the distance. Go home to your mammy, boy. She’ll be looking for you.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. Sir, if you’d allow me to explain, I can---”

“Call me sir, one more time, and I’ll bugger you in this field! I’ve done it to men twice your age, and I’m in no mood for restraining myself. I am no sir! Not anymore. Now go, or I’ll give you something to cry to your mother about!”

“... My mother is dead... I am an apprentice scribe.”

“... A scribe? From where?”

“Clonard, by the Boyne.”

“Clonard? In Meath? Your king will be Cholmain then, correct?”

“Yes, si-- yes. He is. Long may he reign.”

The man’s high, scrunched shoulders eased, and a smirk cracked his face.

“Aye. Long may he reign. Because he has nothing else, especially in his chambers, or so his queen told me.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that. Your king would have you killed for speaking ill.”

“My king knows better than to kill his own father.”

“What? You’re...”

A change came upon the two of us, in flashes of a second. The man, realising what he had said, dropped his wry smile, and his nostrils flared, as the whites of his eyes swelled, pushing back his heavy, hooded eyelids. And I watched as the man’s figure suddenly became familiar, as I could now recall all the crude depictions I had seen the elder monks painstakingly ink onto the many scrolls and loose sheafs back in the scriptorium. I had seen this fiery, burly man depicted in a meeting between all the kings of Ireland. I succumbed to my reflexes, and kneeled, bowing my head.

“Hail my lord, King Fincath Mac Garrachu of Leinster! Please, forgive me for my intrusion, my lord. I wasn’t aware who---”

“Get up! Get up, you’re crushing the soil! Took me ages to till this far!”

“Oh! My lord, forgive me. I’m just surprised. I was taught that you had passed away some years ago.”

“Insolent child! I told you to go on home!”

“Yes, my lord, you did. But I can’t. I... I was sent by the monks.”

“The monks? The monks sent you all the way into Kildare.”

“Yes. They... I am in Kildare? Have I made it?”

“Made a mess of my field, that’s what you’ve made.”

“But is this Kildare? Am I in Kildare?”

“... Who are you, boy?”

“My lord, I am---”

“I’m not a lord. Not anymore. You may call me sir... for now.”

“Sir, my name is Pól. I am an apprentice scribe for the monastery's scriptorium. My uncle is my mentor. I’ve been sent on an urgent quest.”

“What business do you have here?”

“I seek an audience with the holy woman, the miracle worker they call Brigid Ní Dubhthach.”

Once again, a change befell the former king, but, unlike the other times, it was not a change of levity, but of fear. His eyes once again grew, but now quivered, his gaze faded away, looking passed straight my small, boney frame, and through our world into another, one made of terrors I couldn’t imagine. His eyes transferred their shakey energy into his hands, as they shook and curled up into fists, with his fingers twitching and jolting. His right foot bounced nervously. His vision was still unfocused as he spoke again.

“Go back to your masters. Tell them you failed. Take your penance and never return.”

“...N-no.”

“You don’t know what she is, boy!”

“She’s a holy woman. She’s a miracle worker. She will be ordained a saint. She is---”

“She’s a witch! A druidess! She is no more holy than I am! I’ve seen what she can do! I’ve seen the monster she is, and have still heard of her doing worse!”

“You’ve seen her? You know her? Please, my lord, I must---”

“I am no lord, how many times do I have to tell you! ...She made sure of that... Now go back. A boy your age shouldn’t know these things.”

“... What happened? What did she do?”

A sigh fell from his lips as though dropped; heavy, fast, and loud. He stared at the head of the plough, still stuck in the earth, with the boulder peeking out like some huge, grey shrew burrowing up for air. He then looked up, straining to see through the dewy haze, and raised an extended, soil caked finger towards the distance.

“If you travel on in that direction, for about another day, you’ll find yourself in the ports, trading goods with the Britons and the Picts. Every month, for those ports, I would have got my tribute as king. Gold. Mead. Girls. I would have got so much I gave what I didn’t want to my fellows, including your king.”

Turning to his right, he continued to point.

“Follow the coast for one week by foot, two to rest and feast adequately, and you’ll come to the sudden most tip of my kingdom. The fisherman are spoilt down there. They have to stop themselves from drowning beneath the weight of their squirming, wriggling catch. Bass, eel, shark. The guts are wretched out by hand and mixed with the fertile soil. The meat wafts the sweet scent of the sea for miles on the spit. And the eyes are gouged out and pounded into paste for wounds and newborns. Many a summer I spent in those southern beaches, recuperating from battles, the stink of hot globs of eyes fill my nose as I lay down and let the women tend to my stinging sores.”

Again, Fincath turned, sweeping his hand over my head. I ducked, flinching, expecting to be struck. I followed his finger, pointing out to where the trees were stretching width ways. I waited for him to speak. His hesitation, coupled with a tremulous inhale, attracted my attention back to his gaunt, lost face. His eyes were beady and rocking, as if staring at many memorable faces from afar. He swallowed the knot in his throat and spoke, struggling against simmering thoughts.

”And in this... about an hour further... is the heart of her county. “Cill Dara”. “The Church Of Oak”. They say she hides out in amongst the trees... waiting. All this land... bordering the kingdoms of Meath and Osraige... all this land she stole from me.”

“How did she steal your land?”

He continued to stare out into the distance, but he let his hand drop. He seemed so distracted by his past that I couldn’t help but ask him to go on. The harsh, threatening veneer was wiped away. Even the hulking, bespeckled shoulders had sloped, shrinking his wide frame, aging him by years.

“Some forty years ago, I would have been a young man. A young king. Youth is a curse; it’s a gift you’re given without effort and taken without cause. I imagine those monks beat the youth out of you... Pól, was it? I wish my father had done the same. We had heard tales of this “miracle worker” you’re looking for. They say she came from your kingdom, up by Linns. She was a healer, a fortune teller, a messenger for the dead. Women paid her handsomely to hear from their departed husbands. Men paid her to never utter a word of what their dead wives had to say.

“Eventually, she comes into my kingdom. My brothers and I, fools, really, we laughed, saying we’ll take her and sire children who can win bets for us. I would trade all but one year of my life just for the comforting embrace of ignorance once again. Little did we know, she was seeking us out. She arrived at my court one morning in February. She was taller than most women, with a long, strong, slim face, but a small, thin frown. Her hair, even beneath her dark green cloak, made of frayed, dyed wool, was blonde and thick, filling and shaping her hood strangely. But those eyes... those eyes... they were so dark, as if they were bottomless. I stared into them, feeling my stomach lurch, as if I stood at the edge of a deep pit and had been pushed in from behind. I looked away, we all did, and I asked what she wanted. Oh... I wasn’t keen on prolonging our exchange... But I was still a fool to laugh when she told us.

“She requested land. She wanted sanctuary. She wanted me to host her and her... “church”, as she called it. And I laughed at her. My brothers, mercy on their souls, mocked her. We thought she was mad. We thought she was a liar; someone fooling farmers and children with tricks and tales. But those eyes... they stared back at us, gurgling the very bile in our depths. And of course I, the king, feeling weak, had to make an example of her.

“So I brought her, along with my brothers, out to the field, about half a day by horse and cart. All the while, she waited, silent. We ebbed between jeering her and making sincere inquests into her intentions. But she said nothing. She just stared at us. Finally, we arrived, and I thought I was so clever, so witty, so wise. We stood in a grassy clearing, just at the foot of a steep hill and thicket. And I said to her that she can have as much land of my kingdom as her cloak will cover. Oh, the roars we let out, the howls and calls of laughter. We stumbled around on the spot, shoving, and pushing, and slapping each other; we were boys teasing an invalid, or drunks groping a hag. Oh... but did we ever simmer down as she unsheathed her brooch, uncovered herself of her cloak, and lay it softly upon the ground. Our laughs were tempered into confusion. There was one final chuckle of amusement before we saw it... a corner of the cloak twitched.

“It quivered. I would have thought it was a gentle breeze, but then it quivered again before arching up, high into the air, like the rising chest of a started horse, stretching out and digging into the dirt. The next corner did the same, and then the other two. Before we knew what was happening, the first corner repeated the action, only now faster. We staggered back but we couldn’t tear our eyes from this bewitchment. We watched as the cloak grew; each inch claiming the sod beneath. Odhrán, my youngest brother, tripped and fell onto his back. His ankle was snatched by corner, coiling around his leg, snapping his bones as though they were kindling. Odhrán’s screams rang out only for a second before he was pulled in under the dark woolly abyss.

“We ran. May the gods help me, we left Odhrán and tried to run. I was his king. His brother. And I screamed like a wailing child as we ran for the thicket, but it was no use. The shadow of the cloak washed over the sky, enshrouding us in the frigid darkness, swallowing us whole. The cloak fell upon us, as heavy, as loud, and as consuming as a rush wave. What little light was seeping through the fabric made no sense to me, as it gave the appearance of a sheer, green haze, as if it was fog woven into being, yet it was heavy, taut, and strong. The coarse texture burnt my skin as I scrambled, still retreating, fumbling for the edge that was only moments ago before me. On my hands and feet, I crawled, calling out to the others, who I could only hear by their muffled screams. I’ve never known pain and fear like this. Eternal. Enduring. Prolonged agony.

“I must have gotten turned around a hundred times, desperate to find some way out from those depths. And then my hand landed on a writhing, convulsing limb. I was so scared I almost left Odhrán again before I recognised him. It took a moment more before I fully absorbed the horrid, grotesque sight before me. The cloak was plunging itself into his mouth, smothering him from the inside. His eyes bulged, his skin purpled, his hands dug into the dirt, and his body arched wildly, possessed by the abomination slithering inside him. I tried... I tried so hard to pull that unholy monstrosity out of him. I tried to stand, I tried uprooting the cloth from his broken jaws, but every time I was pushed and held down by the overwhelming strength. I watched, helpless, as Odhrain, only a few years older than you, had the life forcefully squeezed out of him. Satisfied, the cloak gave up, and slowly, almost mercifully, retracted from his limp corpse.”

Fincath stared at the ground, holding his hands down before him, with a slight tremor. He caressed the air, still lost beneath that cloak all those years before.

“As I wept over his body, with the ruffle and rumble of that cloak stretching and growing over me, I finally felt relief, as the cloth was lifted. I looked up, and standing over us... was her. She stared down on me with those cold, heartless, empty eyes. She took her share of land and left us there, to mourn our loss.”

For the first time since he began his tale, Fincath looked at me. His eyes scanned my face, my body, and my robes. His eyes, so stern and angry before, looked upon me with pity, reddened with tears.

“When my son came of age, I abdicated my crown to him, under the pretence that he never tells anyone of what had happened to me. My subjects believe me dead. I don’t have that good fortune. My son gave me this land to till, but it is barren, despite the good soil that was here before... one final punishment from Brigid for my youthful transgression.”

“... My lord? ... Where will I find Brigid?”

“What! Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said, boy! I lost my brothers that day! I lost my kingdom! I lost my senses; I scream out night, I shiver from the cold because I can’t bear to feel covers upon me! She has done terrible things to others! I’m telling you this so you know not to look for her.”

“My lord, I am sorry, but I must find her. I can not return without finding her. If you do not wish to assist me, than I will continue on in my journey. But nothing will stop me from finding her.”

Fincath stared into my eyes. He didn’t diminish his glare as he lifted his hand, pointing once again to the horizon.

“Face the winds and walk for a day, go to a township called Oughter Ard, and you’ll come to a burial field of cairns. You will meet a man there; Dubhthach. Maybe he can convince you to retreat.”

“Thank you, my lord. I bid you well.”

“...Boy!”

“My lord?”

“... I still do not understand... what could possibly cause you to search for such a wicked being.”

“I can not say, my lord. But if I do not find her... I fear I will never see my uncle ever again.”