Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 2

5 minutes

General Audience

The Accursed

For two days of nights he pressed through the brush, thinking naught of the paths he took; only continuing. His twisted sword was ever in his hand, for he could not sheathe it. Now he dragged it behind him, without thought of its honor or its name, for these were tainted too. His shades pursued him, and even beyond the borders of Foraoise Cailleach, they would not let him be. At turns, Mac Brón rested till he saw them, always coming over the last rise, or round the last bend, floating above it, leaving no tracks. Finally he spied White Rock, jutting backbone of these mountains, and made for it.

At the mountain’s crest, the black trees pulled back, as if they feared White Rock. Gray pebbles littered the floor here, and Mac Brón’s dragging sword left a jagged path behind him as he made for the peak. White Rock was an unnatural thing, five knives of white stone reaching toward the open sky. They curved together, making a roof over a flat white plane.

On the plane was an old structure, said to be a chapel fallen to ruin. Only a few stones were left standing, making a vague outline that pointed toward the four winds. The plane itself was not whole, but formed of the seams of four massive stones. No one knew whether fate, or chance, or the arts of ancient men, had caused the stone-tops to fit so cleanly, but these also made two crossing lines. The overhanging fingers of stone made windows north, south, east, and west. Standing there, Mac Brón scanned the four corners of the earth. He could see all passing things, but not hope. Suddenly the journey overcame him. He stumbled backwards, into the center of the ruined structure, and dropped to his knees. The shades would soon find him, but Mac Brón laid down upon the seam, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, he saw them. Three shades stood on the White Rock, just outside the plane. Their faces — if they had them — were concealed, but he felt their eyes, portals of hate, and inevitability. Yet they didn’t approach. Couldn’t, he now surmised. Something in the plane frightened them, or else held back their power.

“So, the White Rock is sanctuary,” he said aloud.

But he was hungry, and must leave it soon. He could feel the rage boiling up inside the shades; how quickly they would pursue him were he to leave now, and in such weak condition. What, he wondered, were hope and goodness for? They were but respites from the endless dark, this breaking and grinding formlessness that always came in life’s wake, and smothered it. Hope was a mocking thing. Yes, he could keep his shades at bay here, but to do it he must starve. Mac Brón faced the sky, but could not bring himself to cry out for help. Such a prayer would make him hope again, and hope was but a trick of the gods.

Help came anyway. A flash of brown and red caught his eye from the eastern window. As Mac Brón stared, wondering, a tawny bird passed through the gate of stone, and alighted on the plane. It hopped toward him, and seemed to bow its head. ‘Twas a bread bird, the food of the peasants in hard times. Its meat was said to be bitter, but nourishing. In a flash, he fetched his sword from the rock to hew its neck. But his speed had been without purpose. The bird stood still, and, head bowed, crept still closer. Almost with regret, he slew it.

An hour hence, he’d plucked and cooked the bird, and chewed it to the bones. Fresh life crept in his veins and sinews. In his old life, through a hundred royal feasts and easy meals, never had he been so renewed. And never before had Mac Brón been conscious of what it was to eat. The life of one thing passed into another. One died that another might live. But nothing, in a sense, was lost. Life itself was preserved. Was this the way of creation? What a strange thing.

The shades still tarried beyond the fingers of stone. Their desire for him had not ebbed, but the bread bird’s life had made him strong. He looked out the western window, and wondered, half-melancholy, if this new strength was for anything. What was there, but more aimless wandering in a world that had no place for him? As if in answer, his eyes discerned two forms creeping on the western road far below. At this distance, they were only blurs of blue and white, a woman and her child, perhaps. Their path took them into dark woods. Mac Brón traced it through the trees, and saw, miles ahead of them, a company of men on horseback. They were armed, but bore no standard. Something like a tail trailed them east, as they entered the woods on a course that would lead them to the woman and her child. It was not a tail, after all, but a line of bound men. Some stumbled, while others, too tired to stand, were cruelly dragged along the rocky path. Brigands, then. Slavers.

He sighed. There was sanctuary here. Down there, only death. But he was strong now. Mac Brón glanced behind him, at the shades. He could not outrun them forever. Yet perhaps he could return. Yes, and when he did, he would bring his nourishment with him. Until then, he must do what he could. If he could not find purpose, he could make it. At least for one more day. Mac Brón set his face in stone, gripped the pommel of his black, twisted sword, and descended the mountain.

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