Shea gets quite the shock
Despite the fact I continue to underestimate editing time, we made it to chapter 2! Let's see how Shea responds to such an unexpected awakening shall we?
A couple of pronunciation and context notes before we do though.
Roise is pronounced ‘ro-shuh’
A brat is an outer cloak type garment worn in early-medieval Ireland (by both genders)
Sidhe is pronounced ‘shee’. The sidhe mounds are the dwelling places of the Tuatha Dé and a kind of otherworld that could normally only be accessed by the god folk, fairies etc. The concept was well known in this time period, despite the fact that Ireland had converted to Christianity, these tales remained in the oral tradition for a while into the middle ages. The epics we refer to now were actually often written by monks.
The Tuatha Dé were known by quite a few different epithets and often weren’t explicitly named so formally, but rather would be referred to - amongst many others - as ‘the good neighbours’, ‘the fair folk’ or ‘folk’ in general.
Now then, lets get stuck in.
Shea wasn’t sure when he’d stopped moving. His mind recounted events from that morning; the little bird relishing in its breakfast, the startling cry of the Abbot. Descending the steps, the Norsemen, his own blood pooling on the sea sprayed rock. Most vividly he recalled the darkness, the numbing emptiness of it. He had been walking, or at least attempting to, and yet now he found himself lying on his back. Light forced its way through closed lids, warm and bright – nothing like the grey half-light of the Skellig islands. Shea compelled himself to breathe, the air filling his lungs with a slow rasp that whispered in ears.
His whole body ached.
A deep, dull throbbing worked its way from head to toe with every intake of breath. He had never felt such pain as this, even after the hardest days of training. For a long while he lay there, absently running the morning prayers over in his head. Despite the light fighting against his eyelids, telling him he was no longer in that vacuous dark, he couldn’t bring himself to face whatever was before him. Not just yet. It was as though he was a child again, convinced that when you close your eyes the world stops being able to see you just as you can no longer see it.
Inhaling again, Shea focused on the sensation of his breath, pushing the air back out through his nose and mouth. Blood rushed through his ears, louder with each beat of his heart. Forcing past the rising panic in his chest, he steeled himself for whatever awaited him. Refusing to let the fear sink any deeper, he said a final prayer and apprehensively opened his eyes. Blinking at the blur around him, his vision gradually adjusted to the light. He took care to keep his body as still as possible, the intense ache in every muscle warning him to be cautious with his movements. Turning his head steadily, he began to take in his surroundings. He was in a small room, lying on a bed pushed up against the wall on his right-hand side. To his left was a small wooden table, and further beyond that a door. Wincing with effort, he tipped his gaze forward slightly, peering down the length of the bed. His eyes trailed across the room, following the grain of the floorboards, and came to an abrupt halt when they landed on the far-left hand corner.
A large grey hound was curled atop a faded rug, a simple wooden chest sitting behind it against the wall. Shea froze instinctively, so as not to wake it, only to see its eyes open lazily and point straight at him. Gaping at the creature, it responded with nothing more than a huff of breath before readjusting its chin over its folded paws. With that, it closed its eyes and for all Shea could tell, fell back to sleep. Before he could muster his mind into some form of coherent thought, he heard a shuffling sound from somewhere beyond the room he lay in. The noise jolted him, serving as a reminder of the situation he’d awoken to.
Where exactly was he, and who’s footsteps could he now hear closing in on him?
The panic began to threaten again as he felt his pulse quicken, a wave of goose bumps rising across his arms. Hurriedly chanting a prayer of warding beneath his breath, he watched uneasily as the latch on the door began to lift. The hinges gave a soft moan as the door opened out into the room, and the face of a young woman appeared from behind it
Chestnut brown hair was pulled back from her face, though a few wisps and tendrils had freed themselves and fell about her deep hazel eyes. Her bronzed skin suggested a life spent basking in summer sun, leaving a peppering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. A long plait swung across her back as she turned to close the door. She wore common dress: a simple linen tunic with a blue brat about her shoulders, fastened at her breast with a circular bronze pin. The brooch bore a design unlike any Shea had seen before, fashioned in two halves; one smooth and one adorned with spiralled edging. Whilst nothing in her appearance was out of place, there was something about her that felt strange to him. Before he could explore the sensation any further, she crossed the room and placed the tray she was carrying down on the table beside his head. She pulled a chair he hadn’t noticed before up to the side of the bed and settled herself down on to it. She clasped her hands together and sat for a moment, an easy smile spreading across her face. When he said nothing, she shifted in her seat and lent forwards slightly.
“I’m so pleased you’re finally awake, Traveller. For a long while I thought I might not get to know the colour of your eyes” she said, her voice ringing out high and strong, filling the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Shea realised it was the first time he had heard a woman’s voice in more years than he could remember.
“How do you feel? There’s water here, and broth if you think you could stomach a few sips” she continued, gesturing towards the tray as she spoke, before leaning forward to lift the copper cup from it. She held it out to him, but Shea could do nothing more than stare blankly at her outstretched hand. A flurry of thoughts skimmed over his mind, but he was too stunned and confused to even acknowledge them. When he made no reply, she slid from the chair and came to crouch beside the bed.
“Here, this will help” she said, slowly bringing the cup to his mouth. Placing a gentle hand behind his head, she helped him steadily tilt himself forward to meet it. He wanted to protest, but the moment he felt the cool liquid touch his lips it felt like salvation itself, as if he were Jesus in the desert. Gulping down the first sip, he hungrily went for another, but the woman pulled back.
“Whilst I can only imagine the thirst of a man who has been sleeping like the dead for days, I think it best you take it steady, Traveller – ought you might choke yourself.” She laughed a little as she spoke, allowing him one more sip before setting the cup down on the tray. She shifted to move back into the chair as Shea forced himself to speak.
“Shea” he said, his voice barely audible as it scraped hoarsely out of his long dormant throat. She looked at him with her head tilted slightly to the side, his sudden speech catching her off guard.
“My name” was all he could muster in reply. To his surprise, her eyes lit up in response and she shot him a wide grin.
“And what a beautiful name it is. How rude of me to not introduce myself, my name is Roise – welcome to my home” she said with a bow of her head towards him.
As the word home left her lips, the haze that had held his thoughts at bay until now fell away and a torrent of his subconscious rushed over him. The dullness of his mind in those first waking moments livening to a deafening throng as the realisation of his surroundings truly dawned on him.
Where was he? How did he get here? What had become of his home? Why was he still alive?
Had God not welcomed him?
Sweat prickled his temples as the dread rose in this throat, threatening to choke him. His breath came in painful, panting gasps and the thud of his own heartbeat was a roaring wave over his senses. He tried to calm it, to pray, to cry out even but the force was too strong for him to push against. A firm grip on his shoulder jolted him, warm fingers eased his hands loose from where they had fisted the sheets. Roise’s face came back into focus before him, her concerned expression just as jarring to him as the foreign room where he lay. They stayed as such whilst Shea brought himself back under some semblance of control. She waited silently, her hand a constant pressure on his shoulder as she watched him compose himself. Eventually she loosened her grip and leant back against the chair.
“I cannot imagine how this must be for you, waking in such a state in an unfamiliar place. For whatever comfort it can give you, know that you are safe now. Whatever gave you those wounds cannot reach you here” she said firmly.
“How?” The word stuttered out of his mouth, but he pressed on “How did I come to be here?”
“That, I’m afraid, I do not know. I found you washed up on my beach, half dead and bleeding out. I brought you back here and have been tending to you ever since. You had life in you and occasionally you would stir a little, but mostly you were so still that I truly wondered whether you would ever wake.” She spoke slowly, as though she thought he may struggle to follow.
“Your beach? Is this the mainland?” he said, the words rushing out of him now. The questions fought their way through his mind, voicing themselves without his permission. “Have you heard any news of a raid on Skellig, of the fate of my Brothers?”
As he spoke, he tried to sit, pushing himself up on his elbow. Roise stood immediately as he did so, carefully placing her hands on his shoulders to press him back down into the mattress.
“I will answer any questions you ask of me, but you must be still a while longer and not stress your body. You’re healing well but are still a way off being fully recovered. You’ll reopen your wounds trying to move like that.” she warned, holding his gaze.
When she seemed satisfied that he wasn’t going to try and move again, she released him and sat back down. His shoulders tingled at the absence of her warm palms against them.
“I know only a little of the names men give their lands, I’m afraid this Skellig is not familiar to me. I am sorry to hear that your family has been in peril, and even more so that I can tell you nothing of their fate” she said quietly.
“This is the mainland, then?” he drove on, trying to piece together whether he’d somehow survived being washed to sea.
“It is both without and within your mainland” she replied, pausing a moment before continuing. “You are familiar with the sidhe?”
A long moment stretched out between them as he watched her face, but there was no hint of deceit in her eyes. She had spoken plainly, yet her words made no sense to him. Adamant his fuddled mind had misheard her, he tried again.
“Where exactly is Shee? We must still be on the southwest coast, perhaps near Portmagee?” he pressed, his voice pitching.
She watched him for a time before she responded. “The sidhe are the lands of my people, they exist both as part of your world and of the other. Perhaps you come from a place where they do not speak of the good folk in their tales?”
Shea turned from her and stared up at the thatch of the ceiling. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, and opened them again. He dragged air through his nose and felt it push its way through his body. Trying to ground himself in that sensation, to convince himself that this was not another strange dream that followed the darkness. He looked back towards her, meeting her eyes again.
“My Brothers in God, not by birth”. Why he’d settled on this point, he couldn’t say, but something about the way she had spoken of family bothered him the most. Her brows pulled together in confusion as she waited for him to continue.
“You spoke of my family. They are such by faith, not because they were borne by the same mother on this earth. I am a monk, one who has given their life to God. I serve Him alongside my Brothers. Surely this much you understand?” He pressed.
He waited, adamant she would come to her senses – it wasn’t possible she had lived so long and never received the word of God. The calm expression never left her face, yet Shea thought he saw the hint of something else flicker across her features.
“Monks are like priests, then?” she said “To serve a god is a concept I know well enough at least. Tell me who it is you are sworn to, I can perhaps ask for their aid on your behalf.”
Shea stared at her aghast, reeling at her words.
“You ask me which God? Even the poorest peasant child know there is only the one Lord, who rules over all things. Your words are that of a madwoman. I am being tested, He seeks to see me prove my devotion. So be it”
Spurred by the heat of his outrage flaring within him, he forced himself up from the pillows. Pressing his weight into his forearms, he pushed down hard – determination and fury driving past the warning calls from his body. A sharp, searing pain ran through his abdomen and up his side. Wincing, he bit down on his lip and managed – just - to hold himself still. The woman watched him struggle, her expression turning cold. Rising from the chair, she leant over him and once again pressed him back down onto the mattress. This time, there was no kindness in her touch.
He tried to push against her, refusing to be subdued but was met with another bout of white-hot pain. It raked over him, the impact of it nearly hurling him back into unconsciousness.
“Did you in fact wish to die?” She hissed as she pinned him to the bed. “I understand you are in shock, Shea, but if you continue to try so desperately to undo all my hard work to keep you alive, your soul will regret it”.
His vision swam as her face hovered over his. Concentrating hard to focus, her features sharpened before him, so close now he could make out the ring of gold around her hazel irises. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to breathe through the pain. Roise kept her hold, waiting to see if he would maintain his fight.
“Well, will you continue this fool’s effort, or will you let yourself rest?” she asked, her voice low. “Talk of God or gods can wait for your strength to return, then I will hear your tale and perhaps you will humour mine.”
Shea had never been afraid to die, for death was to go to God and such held no threat over him. Yet when such a time had been upon him, had he truly faced it without fear? Was that why he was in this place now, rather than sitting with the Father and His host? The memory of his dying breaths came back to him, nausea rising in response. Forcing it from his mind, he considered his situation and what it meant for him now. If he truly wasn’t dead, then he must find a way back to Skellig. His duty was to God and His people, and he owed it to his Brothers. All was God’s plan, and he would accept the challenges laid in his path as faith demanded. Drawing in a breath, he finally relaxed against her palms and settled his weight back into the pillows. Roise’s eyebrows rose slightly in response, clearly having expected more resistance.
“I must return to my people, and to do that I need to be whole. I accept your hospitality.” He said solemnly.
“My, how gracious of you.” She drawled in reply, lifting her hands. “Your wounds need redressing, and you need to sleep. Rest now, monk Shea”.
With that, she stood and turned towards the door. Exhaustion washed over Shea. By the time Roise returned with a bowl of steaming water and strips of clean linen, he was already lost to a deep sleep.
***
Sometime later, when Shea managed to open his eyes again, the room had fallen into near darkness. The faintest hint of light filtered in through the shuttered window; though, whether it meant dawn or dusk, he had no way to tell. The house was quiet, the distant sighing of the sea somewhere beyond his room the only sound. He ran a tentative hand over his side and stomach, relieved to feel only dry fresh bandages beneath his fingers. Thinking of Roise dressing his wound brought the memories of their exchange back to him. His mind reeled at the strangeness of her words, of this place, of her. There were no lands within Ireland’s shores that had not converted to God’s truth. It was not possible that he could have travelled beyond its shores.
Her words floated back to him;
“Perhaps you come from a place where they do not speak of the good folk in their tales?”
Staring up at the ceiling, Shea resisted against the memory of being curled on a woman’s lap by a cook fire. Woodsmoke filled his nostrils and could no longer hold the echo of her at bay. The soothing tones of her voice whispered in his ears, regaling him with tales of great warriors blessed with divine strength and power. Of fairies and sorcerers, who walked among the god people. He dragged a hand over his face, the callouses from the years of work and training scraping over his skin. The sensation was grounding enough to push the other thoughts from his mind.
The good folk were fairy tales to keep children from wandering too far from home and to stay in their beds at night. This woman must be mad, to speak as though such stories were reality. He knew he must humour her, though – he must do everything he could to return to God.
Well folks that’s all for now, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and it’s left you wanting to hear more. I’ll be back with more life commentary in a couple of weeks to keep you updated on how all things novel and beyond are progressing.