warrior but the other two aren’t. And the children are too young to fight. Tiernan’s trying to make it sound like we need them, that they can make a difference. But really they’re just looking for sanctuary. Taking them in would be a mercy, not a merger.
The men of the rath are sitting in a circle around the newcomers. I’m on the outskirts, only allowed this close in case any magical matters arise. I see doubt on the faces of most. We’re already cramped. We’d need to expand the fort again to comfortably hold eleven more people. That’s hard to do when you’re under attack from demons most nights.
Tiernan senses the mood and speaks rapidly. “We could build our own huts. Our women are skilled, the children too. We’d depend on your hospitality for a few weeks but we’d work every hour we can to set up on our own. We wouldn’t be a burden. And when it comes to fighting, we’re stronger than we look. Even the youngest child has drawn blood. We—”
“Easy, friend,” Conn interrupts. “We’re pleased you came to us when there are so many other clans you could have gone to. It’s an honour to receive you. I’m sure you will be of great help.”
Tiernan blinks. He hadn’t expected such a gracious welcome. After the years of feuding, it’s more than he dared hope. Tears well in his eyes but he shakes them away and smiles. “You’re a true king,” he compliments Conn.
“And, I hope, a true friend,” Conn replies, then barks orders for beds to be made for the MacCadan. Some don’t like it—Connla’s face is as dark as a winter cloud—but nobody’s going to argue with our king, certainly not in front of guests. So they obey without question, shifting beds, clothes and goods from one hut to another, bunching up even closer than before, squashing together, making room for the new additions to our demon-tormented clan.
THE BOY
Preparations for the feast are at an advanced stage, and the sun is close to setting, when there’s a call from another lookout. “I see someone in the distance running towards us!”
Conn raises an eyebrow at Tiernan. They’ve been talking about their battles with the demons. I’ve sat in close attendance. Our seanachaidh fled not long after the attacks began, so I’ve been charged with keeping the history of the clan. I’m no natural storyteller but I’ve a perfect memory.
“It’s not one of ours,” Tiernan says. “We brought all our living with us.”
“Is it a demon?” Conn shouts at the lookout.
“It doesn’t look like one,” comes the reply. “I think it’s a boy. But the speed at which he’s running… I’m not sure.”
Conn returns to the rampart with Tiernan and a few of our warriors. I slip up behind them. I normally avoid the exposure of the higher ground, but a lone demon in daylight can’t pose much of a threat.
As the figure races closer, we see that it’s a boy, my age or slightly older, running incredibly fast, head bobbing about strangely. He lopes up to the gate, ignoring Conn’s shouts to identify himself, then stops and looks at us dumbly. Dark hair and small eyes. He smiles widely, even though Conn is roaring at him, threatening to stick a spear through his heart if he doesn’t announce his intentions. Then he sits, picks a flower and plays with it.
Conn looks angry but confused. “A simpleton,” he grunts.
“It could be a trap,” Tiernan mutters.
“Demons don’t send humans to lay traps,” Conn disagrees.
“But you saw how fast he ran,” Tiernan says. “And he doesn’t look tired. He’s not even sweating. Maybe he’s not human.”
“Bec,” Conn calls, “do you sense anything?”
I close my eyes and focus on the boy. Demons have a different feel to humans. They buzz with the power of their own world. There’s a flicker of that about this child. I start to tell Conn but then something strange happens. I sense a change in the boy. Opening my eyes, I see that the light around him is different. It’s like looking at him through a thick bank of mist. As I squint, I realise the boy is no longer there. Instead, I’m staring at my mother.
There’s no mistaking her. I’ve seen her so many times in my perfect memories. She looks just like she did on the day she gave birth to me—the day she died. Haggard, bone-thin, dark circles under her eyes, stained with blood. But love in her eyes—love for me.
As I stare, numb with wonder—but no fear—my mother turns and points west, keeping her eyes on mine. She says something but her words don’t carry. With a frown, she jabs a long finger towards the west. She starts to say something else but then the mist clears. She shimmers. I blink. And I’m suddenly looking at the boy again, playing with his flower.
“Bec,” Conn is saying, shaking me lightly. “Are you all right?”
I look up, trembling, and think about telling Conn what I saw. Then I decide against it. I’ve never had a vision before. I need time to think about it before I discuss it with anyone. Focusing on the boy, I control my breathing and try to calm my fast heartbeat.
“I th-think he’s hu-human,” I stutter. “But not the same as us. There’s magic in him. Maybe he’s a druid’s apprentice.” That’s a wild guess, but it’s the closest I can get to explaining what’s different about him.
“Does he pose a threat?” Conn asks.
A dangerous question—if I answer wrongly, I’ll be held responsible. I think about playing safe and saying I don’t know, but then the boy pulls a petal from the flower and slowly places it on his outstretched tongue. “No,” I say confidently. “He can’t harm us.”
The gate is opened. Several of us spill out and surround the boy. I’ve been brought along in case he doesn’t speak our language. A priestess is meant to have the gift of tongues. I don’t actually know any other languages but I don’t see the need to admit that, not unless somebody asks me directly—and so far nobody has. I keep hoping he’ll change and become my mother again, but he doesn’t.
The boy is thin and dirty, his hair thick and unwashed, his knee-length tunic caked with mud, no cloak or sandals. His eyes dart left and right, never lingering on any one spot for more than a second. He’s carrying a long knife in a scabbard hanging from his belt but he doesn’t reach for it or show-alarm as we gather round him.
“Boy!” Conn barks, nudging the boy’s knee with his foot. No reaction. “Boy! Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The boy doesn’t answer. Conn opens his mouth to shout again, then stops. He looks at me and nods. Licking my lips nervously, I crouch beside the strange child. I watch him play with the flower, noting the movements of his eyes and head. I no longer think he’s a druid’s assistant. Conn was right—he’s a simpleton. But one who’s been blessed in some way by the gods.
“That’s a nice flower,” I murmur.
The boy’s gaze settles on me for an instant and he grins, then thrusts the flower at me. When I take it, he picks another and holds it above his head, squinting at it.
“Can you speak?” I ask. “Do you talk?”
No answer. I’m about to ask again, when he shouts loudly, “Flower!”
I jump at the sound of his voice. So do the men around me. Then we laugh, embarrassed. The boy looks at us, delighted. “Flower!” he shouts again. Then his smile dwindles. “Demons. Killing. Come with.” He leaps to his feet. “Come with! Run fast!”
“Wait,” I shush him. “It’s almost night. We can’t go anywhere. The demons will be on the move soon.”
“Demons!” he cries. “Killing. Come with!” He grabs my hand and hauls me up.
“Wait,” I tell him again, losing my patience. “What’s your name? Where are you from? Why should we trust you?” The boy stares at me blankly. I take a deep breath, then ask slowly, “What’s your name?” No answer. “Where are you from?” Nothing. I turn to Conn and shrug. “He’s simple. He probably escaped from his village and—”
“Come with!” the boy shouts. “Run fast! Demons!”
“Bec’s right,” Connla snorts. “Why would anyone send a fool like this to—”
“Run fast!” the boy gasps before Connla can finish. “Run fast!” he repeats, his face lighting up. He tears
