A raid on the fat monastries of Ireland turns sour for three Norsemen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Curse of Summer

 

 

The door of the hut swung open. Wind howled in through the opening, blowing a swirling spray of snow into the dark smoky room. Bright yellow flames trashed wildly sending the shadows of the men hunched around the fire, dancing around the walls like a frantic, ritual dance of ghosts. Two figures entered, the last put his weight to the door and slammed it shut. Four of the five seated men looked up at the newcomers, who were now pulling off their heavy fur cloaks and caps and shaking the snow from them. The fifth, an old grey-beard, showed no signs of interest, his head remained bowed, his gaze fixed on the fire in front of him.

“Welcome, Bjorn,” one of the men said. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

Bjorn nodded his thanks and clapped his companion on the back. “This is Erik Olafson, a trader from Birka.”

“You are welcome to share all we have, Erik.” Plates of meat and bread were quickly passed around to the two men, along with drinking bowls filled with ale.

“Will you give us a tale for our guests, Harald, tell us of the old days?” the host asked the old man. At first there was no reply, for a long while he did not even move. Eventually he shifted, he sliced a piece of meat from the haunch he held on a plate in his lap. He crammed the meat into his mouth, juice dribbled down his chin disappearing into the thick wiry hair of his beard. He rubbed greasy hands into his breeches.

“A tale? You would hear of heroes and adventure, of raids and great battles?” Although he spoke quietly, without even looking up, his audience was captivated, mesmerised by the voice that sounded like rolling thunder.

“Aye, Harald. Tell us of the old days, of the Viking days.”

Harald rubbed a hammer shaped amulet at his throat. “What was it to be a Viking? It meant being scared a lot, scared and drunk. Wondering what it would be like to have your guts spilling from your belly, or to have some ersling split your head open from behind with a sling shot. Wondering was it your neighbour in the shield wall that just shat himself or was it you. The smell of war is the smell of piss and puke. I’ll give you a tale, a fine Viking adventure.”

“It was the time of Sigurd Skull-Splitter; we sailed with three ships seeking plunder and slaves. The fat monasteries of Ireland were easy picking, so much undefended treasure with only a handful of fat old men to stand in our way. They put their faith in their White Christ. For a while, he abandoned them.”

“We attacked a church north of Dyflin, killed all the priests and livestock. Before we could load up the treasure, word came to Sigurd from one of the scouts that a local lord had gathered his men at arms and was heading our way. Fighting unarmed priests was one thing, but few of us had the stomach for looking down an eight foot pike with an angry Irish peasant on the other end. The call went out ‘back to the ships.’ So it became a race.”

“Sometimes in the confusion of flight it can be easy to become separated. And that’s what happened to me and two others, Halldor Larsson and Hrodgeir Rolfson. By nightfall we had not caught up with the main party and started to get concerned, what if the ships sailed without us? What if we had to face the Irish on our own?”

“Just after dark, we found a house on its own at the edge of a wood. There was nothing else there, just this house. A typical structure made from wattle and daub with a thatched roof. We crept up with caution, nothing stirred. We kicked in the door and burst in, three heavily armed Vikings, shouting and roaring.”

“There was nothing inside, except one cot and one sleeping figure on the cot. A woman! Halldor grabbed her and dragged her outside. We all laughed when we saw her in the moonlight, she was beautiful… More than beautiful, she was a vision, beyond compare. A gift from Wodan, we thought. The Norns were truly laughing at us that night. Hrodgeir kicked her to the ground, while Halldor pulled at her dress. But to our horror and disappointment she fell down dead.”  

“We left her body where it fell and made a camp, none of us wanted to sleep in the house. That night I dreamed of her, she came to me and woke me, taking me by the hand she led me into the trees, the sun was shining, the forest teemed with life, the wildflowers where extraordinarily bright, the beauty of her face brought tears to my eyes. ‘Harald you watched while the Queen of Summer died. By Samhain your world will be forever in darkness.’ I fell to my knees for I knew I had been cursed.”

“When I woke my face and beard were wet from my tears. I looked over to where we had left the woman, her body was still there, just as we had left it. Although none of us spoke about it I knew the other two had had similar dreams.”

“One by one I lost the others, first Hrodgeir fell from a cliff, we could tell his back had been broken, we left him there hearing his cries for help and his curses. Then we were attacked by a bear, both Halldor’s arms were ripped from his body. I ran, his screams ringing in my ears.”

“But you made it, you survived,” Erik said, his words coming out in a whisper.

Finally the old man looked up, Erik gasped, when he saw the milky white eyes, two sightless orbs sunk into a deformed face of criss-cross scars.

“No one escapes the wrath of the gods, boy.”

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/artiomp/4149503957/">Artiom Ponkratenko</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

 

Re-Writing History

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wrote this story a year ago... no, two years ago! How time flies. It was an entry to a flash fiction contest hosted by a good friend Mandy Ward (Mandy is also the editor of the e-zine, Welcome to Wherever always looking for submissions).

 

In Ireland we are very proud of our heritage, obsessive some might say, and some would be right. We cherish our past. Unfortunately that also includes tresspasses against us that should probably be consigned to the mists of time. Long forgotten slights by people to people long dead. Anyhow, I believe there was once a time of heroes and magic. When legends came to life!

 

 

 

 

SNAKESTAFF

 

 “Master! Master! Come quick,” a youth burst through the door of the hut. “Please, Master, hurry. The sky is on fire.”

 

An older man with iron-grey hair and a bushy beard looked up from where he was sitting, staring into a fire that smouldered in the centre of the room. Silver wisps of smoke drifted through a hole in the thatched roof above.

 

 “What is it, boy?” the man asked irritably.

 

 “Please, Master, you have to come,” the boy’s face quivered in fear.

 

 The man hauled himself up with the aid of a staff. Topped by a carved snake’s head it was cut from a single piece of ash, intricate runic symbols were etched along its length. Man and boy emerged together from the hut to stare at the roaring sky caused by an angry rising sun,  blood raw against the black mountain range it rose over.

 

 “See, Master. I told you. Why are the gods so enraged?”

 

 “Hold yer whist, boy. Lest I feel a need to sacrifice a young druid apprentice to appease them.” The boy stared wide-eyed at the older man, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

 

 “Master Crannmór!” The druid and his apprentice turned to see who had hailed him. A mail clad figure hopped down from a chariot, while the driver held the snorting team of twin black horses steady. The warrior strode purposefully towards the druid.

 

 “The mighty Cormac does us great honour by visiting our humble abode.” The druid inclined his head. The warrior paused, unsure whether he was being treated respectfully or mocked.

 

 “The king requests your presence.” He decided it was the former.

 

 “And he sends his champion as a messenger?” One bushy eyebrow rose on a wrinkled forehead.

 

 “He would really like to see you.”

 

 “Very well, so he shall.”

 

“Good.”

 

 “Right after breakfast.”

 

 “I am instructed to bring you immediately,” the warrior protested.

 

 “And so you shall, once I’ve eaten,” the druid turned with a flourish and disappeared into the hut. With a groan and a shake of his head the King’s Champion followed.

 

 The two men had wooden bowls filled with a thick porridge and cups of cool spring water served to them by the young apprentice. When he was satisfied both men had their fill he hunkered down in the corner with his own breakfast, eyes darting back and forth between druid and warrior.

 

“So tell me Cormac, what has Laoghaire so anxious he needs to send his best warrior out to find an old man, when the sun has barely risen above the mountains?” Crannmór asked, dribbling golden honey into his bowl.

 

 “You’ve been away too long, Crannmór. The Christ priest, Padraig has his feet firmly planted in Laoghaire’s hall. He spouts his nonsense about one true god to any who will listen.”

 

 “And do they listen?” Crannmór looked up sharply.

 

 “Most just laugh, but he does have some followers.”

 

 “Perhaps I have been away too long.”

 

 The dún of Laoghaire King of Leinster was a collection of wattle and daub roundhouses each topped with a conical thatched roof, the whole settlement was surrounded by a wooden palisade and a six foot high earthen rampart. The feasting hall of the King was the largest building in the fort.

 

 “Welcome, Crannmór, druid and keeper of lore, your wisdom has been missed,” the King stood to greet his priest, his arms spread wide in welcome.

 

 “So it would seem,” Crannmór responded, a slight inclination of the head indicating the leather cross hanging from a chord around the King’s neck.

 

 “Ah… I would be a foolish King not to seek the protection of all the gods, don’t you think.”

 

 “A foolish man to the neglect the god’s that have protected you thus far,” the druid retorted.

 

 Laohgaire turned away and snatched a cup of ale from a nearby bench. “So, Crannmór, what message are the gods sending us by lighting up the heavens with their fiery wrath?”

 

 The druid’s eyes narrowed as he looked from face to face of the assembled men, strong brave men… all like frightened rabbits waiting for him to speak and tell them all was well in the world.

 

 “They are angered. They spoke to me in a dream, they wanted to know why the people of Leinster were turning their backs on them, why they have forsaken them and listen to the words of a false prophet, once a slave who tended their flocks, they are….”

 

 “He lies!”

 

 Crannmór’s head snapped around at the interruption, astonished that anyone would dare.

 

 “Who speaks these words?” he bellowed, his eyes blazed as they fell on a sorry looking figure. He was dressed simply in a knee length tunic, thread bare and in need of a wash, his hair was filthy and matted in clumps on his head.

 

 “He lies!” the stranger repeated.

 

 “Begone from these halls, charlatan…slave,” Crannmór roared, striding towards the Christ priest. He beat him with his staff, pushing and chasing him from the hall and out through the dún, a laughing crowd following.

 

 “Close the gates,” he shouted at the guards. “If he comes back spike him with your spear.”

 

 King Laoghaire watched anxiously.

 

 “That’s the end of that,” the druid growled.

 

 “Master, your staff.” Crannmór looked at his ancient symbol of power, passed down from the ancients. It had split, the snakehead had snapped off. He looked at the barred gates, he felt a cold shadow grip the pit of his stomach as a vision of a wooden cross crept into his mind.

 

 

 







Euro 2012

Some people may have noticed there is a small football tournament underway at the moment, most probably haven't. Well, Ireland has qualified. The first time since 1988, so this is a pretty big deal for us over here. Okay we're probably the weakest team in the whole tournament, we're in one of the toughest groups along with Croatia (no8 in the world) Italy and Spain (World and European champions) Our first game was last night, it didn't go too well, so we'll move swiftly on. Back in '88 we weren't fancied either, but we managed to beat England in the opening game, drew with Russian and lost to a single freak goal to the mighty Holland. In the opening game against England we scored in the 8th minute and what followed for the next eighty odd minutes was like the siege of the Alamo. A personal duel between Gary Lineker and Packie Bonner ensued, with the big Donegal goalkeeper coming out on top.

Anyway, win, lose or draw we'll have a party. Here's a story I wrote for the last World Cup, I think it's apt for now too.

                          

     World Cup Dreams

Billy Heffernan sat in the dressing room surrounded by the noise of his teammates, his coach, the muffled sound of the crowd whipping themselves into a frenzy of anticipation and excitement. He heard none of it, his legs shook, his hands would have too only he was sitting on them. He sat with his head bowed, his eyes closed, a muscle in his face twitched. Behind him, hanging on a peg was his jersey, it was green with a large ‘10’ printed in white on the back, above the number, his name, ‘Heffernan’.

Billy could not help living in the past, a different time, a different place, a different Billy Heffernan. Eight years previously he was the next big thing, his club, Liverpool, had just won the Premier League title for the third year on the trot, thanks mainly to his goals. His international team Republic of Ireland had qualified for the World Cup Finals, again thanks to eight goals he scored in the qualifying rounds. He had the world at his feet, fame, money, anything he wanted.

He brought trembling hands up to wipe the sweat from his brow. He glanced up, looking at his teammates, a collection of journey-men professionals and promising youngsters. They were a unit, goading and encouraging each other in equal measure. Except him.

At the age of twenty four, Billy had felt himself invulnerable. The immortality of youth heightened so much more by legions of adoring fans and a multimillion Euro bank balance. Followed around by a collection of glamour models and would-be pop starlets, and a posse of hanger-ons feeding his ego.

He could feel a knot tightening in his stomach, he was sure he would either cry or vomit. He needed a drink and a smoke, neither of which he had touched since arriving at Camp Ireland for the summer festival of football.

Ordinary rules and laws do not apply to the young, rich and famous, blind-eyes are turned, discretions ignored, excuses made. That is, until the world unravels. Until suddenly you are a liability, an outcast.

The voice of his coach penetrated his thoughts. “Keep it tight, hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em often… You okay Billy?”

Billy looked up and nodded, wondering not for the first time, what the hell he was doing there.

He had always loved cars, even as a small boy he had had posters of Ferraris and Porches on his wall. High-powered sports cars were a must, an accessory to his lifestyle just as important as champagne and beautiful girls.

The team lined up in the tunnel, the opposition dressed in yellow and blue beside them. A team mate clapped him on the back. The referee, flanked by his assistants pushed his way to the front. The roar of the crowd echoed around the ground as the official led the teams onto the pitch, sending a shiver down his spine.

He still could not remember what happened that day. He had picked up an award the previous night, voted player of the year by his peers. The celebration went long into the night and through the following morning, there was booze, cocaine, girls. Of course he should never have driven. Every day for eight years he wished he hadn’t. Cried himself to sleep every night trying to replay what happened, in his mind. All he knew was, his Aston Martin had mounted the footpath, a mother and child were waiting for a bus. The mother had at least survived.

He missed the World Cup that year. Couldn’t even bring himself to watch it on the small television in his cell. After his release from prison his club tried to release him, but he was under contract, so binding even the death of a child could not break it. In his first game back he broke his leg. He still was not sure had he gone into the challenge recklessly, on purpose. A self inflicted punishment.

A year later he was out of contract and on the move. Eight years, eight different clubs in five different countries. He was currently starring in the Belgian second division. His career, his life washed up…An unfulfilled potential.

“We’re going with five across the middle, I need you to hold the ball up, keep it for the on-running midfielders. I need that famous Heffernan touch.” The words of his coach echoed in his mind as he stood with the ball at his feet in the centre circle. The guy must be completely off his rocker, he thought.

So what had happened?

An old teammate and international colleague had secured the job as coach of the Republic of Ireland. Billy had followed their progress, from his flat in Bruges on satellite television as a team made up of Premier League reserves and lower division players played beyond themselves. A team far superior to the collection of individual parts had somehow clawed there way to the World Cup Final. They were drawn in the group of death, Brazil, England and Nigeria. They of course were the bottom seeds.

The last thing he expected was a phone call.

“Ronan Morgan is out, cruciate ligament. Peter Murphy can’t play – hamstring. Joey Butler’s got a virus. There’s no one else. I need you, your country needs you.”

Billy had put down the phone with tears glistening in his eyes. He was not the Billy Heffernan they wanted, he was not a twenty four year old arrogant superstar. He was a thirty two year old has-been. It was his latest girlfriend, a twenty year old Belgian air stewardess who had convinced him to go.

“Do it for you, not for them.”

The ref brought the whistle to his mouth, with an eruption of noise from the eighty thousand spectators the game was under way. Billy was more used to playing in front of crowds of a couple of hundred, these days. The roar was deafening.

He tapped the ball to his teammate and sprinted towards the Brazilian half.

The game went pretty much as expected as wave after wave of Brazilian attacks assaulted the Irish goal, a thin green lined battered by a yellow sea. Only luck and some brilliance from the goalkeeper kept the scores tied 0-0 at half-time.

“We’re doing well,” the coach paced the dressing room while the hard breathing players took a much needed break. “Let’s try and get Billy on the ball a bit more. Let’s give him the ammunition he needs.” That’s a laugh, Billy thought, he’d hardly had a kick the whole game. It still hurt when he heard a snort of sarcasm from an unknown teammate.

The second half began as the first finished with more dazzling skills from the Brazilians and dogged defending from the Irish. But, with ten minutes to go… Disaster.

The Brazilian striker, Romario sprung the offside trap, he sprinted clear, rounded the goalkeeper and calmly placed the ball into the net. 1-0 to Brazil. Ten minutes of Brazilian keep-ball followed with the Irish unable to even get a look at the ball. The referee signaled three minutes of injury time.

Billy drew up alongside Mick O’Dea, the Irish captain and central midfield player, the play-maker, the man that made the team tick.

“One chance, just give me one chance,” Billy panted, his chest wheezing. O’Dea regarded him skeptically, but nodded.

Ireland had a kick-out, thirty seconds left on the clock, surely this would be their last chance. The ball was played out from the back through midfield, Mick O’Dea took possession of the ball, he looked up. The full-back had sprinted down the wing to his right, Billy made a diagonal run to the left. O’Dea hesitated, changed direction and launched the ball towards Billy. It came at him fast.

In his day, when the name Billy Heffernan was splashed all over the back pages of Europe’s newspapers Billy played on instinct, there was no thought necessary, he was like a predator, he knew when and how to hit the ball or to let it hit him, which angle how much power.

Give the man a ball and a yard of grass.

He let the ball glance off the outside of his left boot, it looped up in the air. He spun on his heel rounding the Brazilian defender who tried to stop him by grabbing a handful of his shirt.

Time slowed down, suddenly he was alone, no teammates, no opposition, no screaming fans…No guilt. The ball dropped in front of him and he hit it on the volley. It flew straight as a bullet, the onion sack bulged.

Time stood still, now. Billy stared open-eyed at the Brazilian goal, the crowd were stunned. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. Then the ref blew his whistle and the place exploded. Fifty thousand green clad Irish fans leapt in the air, yelling at the top of their voices. Billy realized what he had done and he ran.

He had scored against Brazil in the World Cup, he ran towards the screeching fans, he could hear his name being chanted, Heffo-Heffo-Heffo. Out of the corner of his eye he spied his teammates running towards him, like wolves chasing a stag, but this pack just wanted to kiss and hug their quarry.

Heffo-Heffo.

He ran the length of the pitch, his arms outstretched, his head back soaking it in, the adoration of the crowd. This was his moment, his hour… His life.

Heffo-Heffo.

He was a gladiator, a hero, a god.

Heffo-Heffo.

Only one thing could top this.

Bring on England!