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  A tortuous, upward walk for us on the last stretch to the summit. To keep our hands free for the climb, Beyveen and I have strapped the horses’ muzzle-ropes over our shoulders, so that we can lead our mounts on a short rein at our heels. We climb northwards from the lower knoll of Slieve Bhraan to the higher peak, where the battle-beacon will be lit. The ascent here is not as steep but strewn with boulders that block our path at every turn. Between the boulders there are sink-holes of bog-water filled by countless springs that seep out from the stony peat. The watery holes make our footing hazardous, and the horses jumpy. On occasions we move forward on hands and knees.

  ‘Better be worth it to reach the top,’ I shout ahead good-naturedly to Beyveen.

  She pauses, leans on a boulder; laughs down at me without reply. Her face glows with the effort of the climb, her cheeks coloured by the sun. Her dark hair is tousled and ragged. She reins in the dapple grey to her side. While his hoofs sink in the marshy ground, she offers him the knuckles of her hand to lick from. With an affectionate snort in return, and to show his trust, the gelding nestles his broad lips on her knuckles and licks the peat off her hand.

  *

  Without waiting to rest, Tioc’s daughter is off again. She hitches up her riding-smock and knots it to the linen cord at her waist. Barefoot and bare to the knees, she steps over tufts of reeds and scutch. I follow the marks, where the weight of her body has pressed lightly on raised clumps of turf. From these toe-holds of hers — with an eye on the hoof-prints made by her following horse — I hop across crevices of water, leading the mare at my shoulder.

  I was mistaken earlier not to have trusted Beyveen’s knowledge of the mountain. She knows the fell-side like the back of her hand. On this stretch to the summit of Slieve Bhraan I shadow her steps without question. For her part, as if knowing it might offend, she has made no mention of my stubborn, sluggish ride over the peat-sward.

  *

  Beyveen greets me at the higher hill-top. ‘Look around at how far we can see on all sides!’

  I look at the river-lands stretching south below us, look on my left at craggy tops to the east, then at grey mountains to the west, where the wilderlings have sway; and finally to the sunny river-vale of an-Uir and its passage north.

  ‘I can well understand,’ says I, ‘why people chose this place to light a battle-beacon.’

  Beyveen returns. ‘My grandfather used to say: “If it is not clear enough to see the beacon-fire when it is lit on Slieve Bhraan, men will see its smoke darken the cloud in the sky, and if the weather is so bad that they see neither sky nor smoke, they will have a sniff of war in the next shower of rain.”’

  ‘I was told you get a glimpse of the sea from up here, but I can’t make it out.’

  Tioc’s daughter laughs girlishly. ‘No wonder you can’t. You are looking in the wrong direction. The sea is to eastward.’ Tioc’s daughter tugs at my beard, pushes my chin to the left. ‘There! You can’t miss it! See the glint of sunshine! The arrow of light is where the estuary flows into the sea. Above the shore is the monastery of Kildobhan — not that you actually see it from this distance! But there is a trail of smoke above where it lies — maybe from monks’ cooking-fires’

  I think of M’lym, of her life in the monastery, confined to the cellar, scribing runes in holy books. I am still angry with the girl for rejecting my help — though I am angrier with myself, knowing how worthless my help might have been.

  ‘Well,’ repeats Beyveen, ‘Can you see it or not?’

  ‘Ah, yes, there it is, the sea and the headland at Kildobhan.’

  My eyes take their bearings from the glint of sun on the far estuary, and then scan inland from the headland, tracing the imagined shoreline at Criadain strand and the tidal waterway of an-Shuir, turning west to Vadrar-fiord.

  ‘Look, Beyveen. See the lines the two rivers take winding north. You can’t actually see the rivers, but they are there, hidden behind willows growing on their banks. The turnings of the willows mark the river-bends on an-Bharu, and there, off to the right, is your river — an-Uir.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘That is its shape of our river.’

  ‘An-Uir had so many ins and outs. When we came here at night on the ship, all we could see in front of us was moonlight reflected on river-bends between the willows.’

  ‘Until you saw our fish-traps!’

  ‘Yes, they were lit on the river-bank like landing lights. But how different an-Uir looks now! How simple and direct the path of water seems now in broad daylight — even with river-bends!’

  From the summit of Slieve Bhraan we see at a glance the flowing and joining of the three rivers, the shape and contour of hill and vale that surrounds them. Beyveen rests her hand lightly on my arm and together in silence we share the sunlit peace of the three rivers. But then, sensing some slight trespass on her part, for having touched me in an intimate way, she pulls her hand away.

  *

  Our horses wander free on the moorland summit, grazing where they can find a bit of coarse grass; dropping dung and dribbling water on clumps of heather to claim the hill-top as their passing territory. An eagle hovers over eastern crags to our left. The hunting eagle closes wings. He drops like a stone from cloudless sky and soars out of sight to a kill beyond the brow.

  An ancient fire-pit has been dug at the highest point of Slieve Bhraan. The pit is wide and shallow, lined with stones charred black, and shaped like a huge circled hearth. According to Beyveen, battle-beacons to summon the clans of Osri have been lit on the summit for generations.

  No trees grow on open heathland. Branches of hazel, birch and beech have been carried from the wooded ravine below. They were gathered as slender windfalls or cut small to burn sharp and bright. The stock of firewood is green with mould, many seasons old. Weathered branches have split and shed their bark. Wood was brought here to light a beacon that was never lit, on the eve of a battle that was never fought. The ancient hoard of firewood was stacked with care in a cambered pile — stacked aslant to resist hill-top winds — but the upper layers of wood have toppled over under the force of a gale. They lie scattered and askew like the timbers of a shipwrecked hull.

  Beyveen is first to speak. ‘The firewood is old. It was cut before I was born. I have never seen the beacon-fire lit in my lifetime.’

  ‘Your father is not a man to rush to war,’

  ‘Can you blame him?’ she replies sharply. ‘Who wouldn’t rather be left in peace?’

  I nod in agreement.

  ‘But I am sure your father would never shirk his duty to the people of the Rath. Whether he has Dunchad’s consent or not, he would fight for clan and land — for family — in defence of the isle.’

  To my astonishment, Beyveen counters furiously. Her face darkens.

  ‘You speak of defence? Defence is not enough — we must inflict utter defeat on all invaders, on whoever comes to take what is ours. If we don’t, our enemies will run off to lick their wounds and return more ruthless than before. We have to see them off. Once they are on the run, we will be the hunters, and they will be our prey.’

  ‘Another of your mother’s sayings?’

  ‘Not this time, Ostman!’ She laughs. Instantly her face brightens. ‘You have a low opinion of me. Do you think me incapable of working things out for myself?’

  Chapter 36

  On our descent from Slieve Bhraan, Beyveen and I come to a patch of heathland — gently sloping below the bog and boulder-fields — smoother going and safe, where we can again mount the horses. The peat-sward here is soft and springy, drained by countless springs that burst forth from reed-beds and trickle away between clumps of heather, furze and bilberry. Springwater seeps and ripples under our horses’ hooves. Shallow and clear it runs over the sward. It fills up gravel furrows. It drips, brisk and brown, into peaty, pebbled becks, which have tumbled from the summit, carrying a scum of peat and foam into bigger streams. To our left, the biggest stream of all, fed by its smaller sister-streams, plunges i
nto a scarp and courses darkly towards the wooded ravine far below.

  Beyveen eyes a clump of bilberries growing on the sward, as though she might be tempted to dismount and gather the bitter, under-ripe berries. ‘Are you hungry, Ostman?’ she asks.

  ‘I am starving,’ I reply. ‘And no wonder. This morning, that grumpy sister of yours cleared away the bread before I could finish. But you won’t see me touching bilberries. It is too early to pick the fruit. It will give you belly-ache.’

  Tioc’s daughter leans back in the saddle. ‘I know where there is a feast waiting for us.’

  ‘Yes,’ I retort, believing that she has said it to tease me. ‘Tonight — at your father’s clachan — but trouble is we need to ride back for it!’

  ‘No,’ she returns with a sly smile. ‘I will find you something closer than that!’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath!’

  *

  ‘Listen!’ says Beyveen. ‘Can you hear Cluddy falls in the ravine?’

  She dismounts, drops the reins and walks onto a rocky outcrop, which overhangs the tree-covered stream and the scarp below. Tioc’s daughter moves boldly with no thought of the dizzy height under her feet. She walks to about half-way over, where the outcrop narrows to no more than a ledge. Rock crumbles away. Loosened stones plunge over the precipice onto tree-tops that stretch skyward from the ravine. We hear a rumble and rustle of leaves as stones fall through branches to the bottom of the scarp and come to rest in a hidden, rocky stream far below.

  Beyveen peers into the ravine. ‘We will cross here and come down on the other side of the stream. That’s if,’ she adds, ‘you are bold enough to lead your horse over the ledge.’

  ‘It is your woodland feast that we are going to!’ I reply. ‘If you cross first with the grey, I will follow with the mare.’

  *

  We walk our horses under beech and birch on the far side of the stream. Under the canopy of trees the ground is mulchy and soft, with layers of leaf-mould and beds of withered beechnuts. At times the sun gleams through gaps in the tree-tops, sending darts of shifting light on stream and woodland floor. As we move through the sunbeams, light falls with a brief flash on our faces and on the horse’s manes. The horses are smart. They keep eyes and heads down, plodding over roots and windfalls of twigs at the water’s edge. The stream gathers pace; widens its banks; skids over rocks. A roar of torrents downstream. The noise of rushing water fills the air. Our horses’ necks are lathered with sweat. It is warmer under the trees than on the heath. Neither Beyveen nor I have said a word since we led our horses across the outcrop.

  *

  Our passage at the water’s edge is blocked. The broad stream ahead hurtles off a mossy rock into unseen depths. Two huge uprooted trees lean across the gap, bark and upper branches brightened with sun, but throwing the under-fall into shadow. The pool at the head of the torrent widens to an overhang of waters, dark and smooth. At the very verge of the waterfall, before it drops from mid-air into the dark abyss, the pool is combed with fine ripples. After the plunge, the waters turn black; they lose their smoothness, they curl and tangle as they fall, like tresses of untied hair from a woman’s brow.

  *

  We take the long way round and make a wide detour down the ravine. The scarp on this side of Cluddy water is not a tough climb for Beyveen and me, but the leafy ground is skiddy under hoof for the horses. It slows our passage. We retrace our steps — up, at first, and around birch woodland, and then down — leading the horses to the foot of Cluddy falls. While within the dense woodland, we lose sight of the waterfall. We hear its insistent roar behind the trees. Ouzels and thrushes aplenty forage on the wet woodland floor close to the falls. We hear a flap of wings, see a feather fall, but the birds pick out their grubs and midges without chirp or chatter, and fly off soundlessly, as if birdcall and birdsong is unequal to the shout of rushing water.

  With the mare close at my heels, I stamp through undergrowth of birch saplings, nettle and bramble, walking over lush beds of green garlic, now white-topped in flower. I stride out ahead. I judged it more discreet for me to take the lead. Moments before, Beyveen discarded her riding-smock. She wrapped the smock around her head to keep off the midges. One tail of her smock hangs behind to her waist, and another at her breast, but neither far enough to hide the outline of her womanly shape under her damp shift.

  As we descend the bank and return to the stream, close-growing saplings of birch give way to ancient trees of hazel and beech. They stand alone, outspreading stout branches, shunning the closeness of neighbouring trees. Low-hanging branches shut out the sunlight and darken the dell with an arching roof of leaves. The trees with the heftiest branches grow close to the water’s edge, where their gnarled roots entwine below water with pebbles and stones, and disappear under the bubbling stream.

  *

  Our horses drink without lifting their heads. Upstream from their noisy muzzling — and to escape a cloud of midges that gathers at their tails — we quench our thirst in the pool at the bottom of the waterfall and splash water on our faces. Beyveen and I stand thigh-deep in the pool at the foot of the waterfalls. We look up at Cluddy falls. Spray rains down through fallen trees and drips from an overgrowth of hazel and birch. Seen from below, from under the falls, the two huge uprooted tree-trunks at the head of the overfall appear small and insignificant.

  ‘Now where is this rich feast that you promised me?’ I ask cheerily.

  *

  We stuff our faces with black underground fungus. The round tubers taste, not of mushrooms, but of chewy rye-breads made from spent yeast. Beyveen has dug under an ancient hazel with roots stretching deep into the chalky soil. With her fingernails she scratches out each fat prize, sniffs it, and holds it to my nose.

  ‘See, I told you,’ she says. ‘A feast!’

  Beyveen and I eat them straight from the ground, chalky earth, root fibres and all. We season the tubers in our mouths with leaves of garlic. We fill our starving bellies and laugh uncontrollably. We savour the pleasure, childlike and innocent, of chomping our black, secret feast, crushing lush garlic in our hands; gulping both down without reserve. The musky flavour of tubers, the bitterness of green herbs, the breathless laughter, the sudden filling of our bellies makes us giddy. Our horses stop muzzling in the stream. They stare at us, blink with their wide horses’ eyes, and then, satisfied that nothing is amiss, return to their drinking.

  Beyveen jumps to her feet; she unwinds the smock that has served as her makeshift head-cover. Once she has the smock untangled from her hair, she throws it to the ground. ‘Do you see that overflow to the right of the falls? The water slides down over steps of rock. It is an easy climb. I’m going to clamber up. Will you come with me? We can make it to the head of the waterfall.’

  *

  Reluctantly — after much chiding from Beyveen — I pull the serk over my head and stand naked to the waist. Beyveen eyes the scars left by Drafdrit’s whip on my chest and back. She steps back in dismay. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Sorry for making fun of you. I had no idea. Now I understand. No wonder you didn’t want to take off your serk.’

  ‘The marks of a slave.’ I sit on a tree-root and shake off my boots. ‘I am ashamed of the scars, though I know I shouldn’t be. It is not as if I did anything to deserve them.’

  ‘Come.’ She offers her hand. Her gaze rests for a moment on my neck, on the mark left by the iron collar, and then on the cockle-shell. ‘No,’ she adds almost to herself. ‘No — I will ask no more questions of you. Climb with me on the rocks. You will see. The waterfall washes everything away.’

  *

  A chute of water, guided into a separate course by a toppled pillar of rock overflows from the head of Cluddy falls. It floods over boulders to the right of the plunging torrent and splashes into a pool at the foot of the waterfall. From there it re-joins the main flow. In its rush to the bottom pool, the chute turns this way and that; spills and gushes through pebble-filled cracks, glides over boulder-tops; flashes
into countless tiny torrents. The boulder-tops have a marbled look, white veined on grey, and are free of moss. The surfaces are stepped one against the other, descending to the pool and ascending to the lip of the falls like a random stairway of stone.

  I would have gone first on the chute, ahead of Beyveen, in our climb to the head of the waterfall, but she insists in taking the lead. She has the front hems of her shift tucked back between her loins. Two ends are pulled up over her hips, knotted at the waist, leaving her thighs naked. Her linen shift, wet from a heavy spray off the falls, clings to her skin, revealing all her womanly shape. She clambers, moving on all fours in front of me, her lithe limbs braced against the chute of running water.

  ‘What’s keeping you?’ she shouts against the rage of the torrents. ‘Stop lagging behind.’

  Up here, beside the falls, green, silvery light penetrates the trees and fills the dell. Beyveen sits astride a boulder near the falls, water dripping off her hair, face and shoulders. She waits there until I join her. She pulls a fern and rubs it on her grazed knee.

  Beyveen lets me take the lead. Three giant steps get me three boulders higher, and I pull her onto a final narrow plinth under the pillar of rock at the head of the falls. We are perched on the edge of the torrent. Any closer to the main rush of water and we could not resist its force. The falls would cast us down into the abyss.

  ‘What now?’ I yell into her ear. ‘Can’t stay here. Careful! No farther! It will pull you over.’

  Her face shapes to a laugh. So great is the noise of thundering falls, that I cannot hear her laughter. She yells something. I can’t hear a word.