Chapter 2-3

433 Words
Run. Paddocks pock-marked with rocks, divots from sheep, cows, tree roots, tussocks of grass, all drenched in the downpour, and each sitting in stinking, marshy bog-mud. Stars obscured by cloud, the moon a ghostly presence above. Run. She was soaked through within minutes. Water trickled down her thighs, indistinguishable from the dirty water that splashed up her skirt with each clomping step. The clash of arms rang in her ears, drove her onward. Sheriff’s men or witch-hunters? She only knew that she must flee and hope that her brothers could protect her mam and granny from whatever ill was about to fall upon their heads. Run, Mam had told her. Follow the shoreline to Old Artair’s wharf. A silver coin for passage across the loch. A cousin will meet you at the old fort, help you on your way. Run. The ruins of Dún Ringall, almost invisible in this miserable blackness, loomed overhead and she struck her hand out to drag her fingers along the slick rock. Not far now. She crossed the headland, saw the post marking the path down to the wharf and rushed onward. Halfway she misstepped and slid the rest of the way on her backside, mud and pebbles lodged in her clothing, but she made it to the bottom with nothing more than bruises. Her possession clutched to her breasts, safe for now. Ahead, a protected rush light showed where Old Artair waited in his boat. ‘Artair!’ ‘Just yerself then, lassie?’ he asked, taking her hand and helping her aboard. ‘Aye. Mam says to give you this, n’ would you please take me across to the old fort?’ Artair winked, folded her fingers over the coin, and pushed her down to sit in the bow. ‘It’ll be a miserable trip in this weather. You keep this. You’ll be needing it more than I soon enough. I heard there was trouble and knew someone would be along. Hunker down and hold on. Likely to be some unsettled water between here and Dún Scáith. Mark my words, lassie. Unsettled, indeed.’ Halfway across the loch she twisted in her seat for a last look at home. A fire had been lit. Dún Ringall looked like a stubby black finger at the centre of a conflagration. For a scant moment, she caught her breath and tears formed as she feared for home and family, but no, it would be the signal fire. A warning beacon for the opposite shore. She turned to Dún Scáith hoping for an answering flame, a sign, anything. The night remained unyielding. Only Artair’s strength and knowledge of these waters would see her to safety. From Dún Scáith, no flicker of hope appeared.
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