The shanachie
The Shanachie sat in the marketplace
and sang an ancient song of his own devising. He was ancient, himself. How old nobody knew, not even he had kept a
count of the years. He was simply
grateful that he could still sing, as his voice carried a ballad of love and
honor. He was pale and gray, wrinkled
and spotted with age and weather, with the twinkle in his sky blue eyes
standing as the last remnant of youth.
He sat on his crossed legs in one of the corners set aside for begging,
with his hat in front of him. Today,
only sparse coins rested in the stiff, leather cap, as the market was not
crowded. The market was the center of
the obscure coastal town that the wandering storyteller had come to rest in,
after years of traveling over his island homeland. His voice mixed romance with the excited calls used by the
sellers in the booths around him as they offered fish, beer and trinkets
brought by the trading ships. The
singing invited people to gather around.
It was a slow day at the
market. His neighbors had either stayed
at home or put to sea on this day and he knew why. It was because they were here. They roamed the marketplace,
flaunting their shining suits of armor covered by the banner of the crusader, a
red cross on a background of pure white.
The local bishop, of course, had given them permission to seek out new
conscripts for yet another crusade, but the friar who led this village had
voiced his congregation’s thoughts and had advised the people to hide any stout
young men of their family, so that they would not be taken, never to be heard
from again. The crusaders were spread
through the market, shining armor and white finery dulled by the overcast
weather. Through their helmets, they watched for any who were suitable. One of them had made a show of giving
generously to the pitiful-looking beggar who sat nearby and pretended to be
crippled, while ignoring the Shanachie.
As the elderly man continued to
sing, children began to gather. They
were all too young to be taken by the crusaders, not a one of them over a
decade old. The Shanachie finished his
song and one child dropped a penny into the hat.
“And what can I do for you, lad?”
“A story?” The small boy averted his gaze, suddenly shy. He wore humble clothing, had raven hair and
sky blue eyes, and had the look of one who would grow to be a strong man. “A story of ancient heathen magic,” the boy
requested, innocently. Others behind
him whispered as the Shanachie had their attention. “A story.”
The Shanachie spoke in a loud voice,
so that the crusaders could hear. “The
lad wants a story of the ancient heathens, so I shall give him one.” He had not wanted the Christian knights to
hear only the middle and accuse him of spreading the pagan beliefs.
He cleared his throat. “T’was long ago, perhaps more than ten centuries, when Nachlil became a man. The time before Christ and salvation it was and the ancient chiefs ruled the families of our island, led by the heathen monks who worshipped the mighty trees of the forest. This island and its chiefs were part of a vast empire, fighting a war in a far-away land. The war was against the troops governed by Caesar and a vicious, unrelenting struggle it was, heathen against heathen with no gentle chivalry to be found. Nachlil became a man in a time when men were being slaughtered. He was a simple farmer who had enjoyed the trade of his fathers. However, Nachlil was a strong man, larger than most others and the plow had made his body strong and his hands hard. His chief decided that he was suited more to fighting than growing and herding.
T’was on the night of the autumn
festival, when his work was finished, that the heathen monks came to fetch
him. Told his folks, they did, that he
was to be taken. That night his mother
wailed, reminding the neighbors of the banshee, and his father took comfort in
ale and bent any ear that would listen regarding his sorrow, as though his son
were already killed. But to refuse the
monk was to refuse the gods and taken their son was.
Nachlil was taken into the forest,
along with the others chosen. Run them
till they dropped, the heathen monks did, and then pulled them to their feet
and made them to swing the heavy swords of iron and throw javelins with all
their might. Nachlil’s hands grew
harder, along with his heart, as he learned to kill in every way, from the
mundane to the creative. Those heathen
monks did meet and discuss their soldier charges. They chose the hardest, and the strongest, to receive a gift only
the truest friends of the Gods could bestow, and Nachlil was among the
chosen. The heathen monks did pen the
chosen behind a stone fence that they had consecrated, as they feared what they
would create. Day and night the heathen
monks prayed to their queen of the gods, their mother-dragon, while Nachlil and
a dozen others languished in the pen, with neither food nor sleep. They became mad and quarrelsome, but the
heathens did nothing for their comfort.
In the pen they stayed, until the
night of the full moon. Made to sleep
under the round, blue orb they were, though they had already been mad.”
“My Mum says never to sleep under a
full moon,” I small girl interrupted. “T’will make of you a sickling.”
“And mind your folks, you should,”
The Shanachie instructed her. “T’is
dire to sleep under the moon and the heathen monks did use that power that
rules the night to their own ends. For
the warriors in the pen became berserk and did howl, leap and fight each other
with fury. One by one, as the monks
chanted, they did transform to something not unlike a wolf, but larger and more
formidable than any wolf of God’s creation. They surged against the wall and,
were it not for the consecration, the beasts would have leapt over and set upon
the monks even as they prayed to their heathen gods. Come morning, the beasts were overcome by sleep and transformed
back into mortal men and women as they lay.
Come noontime, the heathen monks did rescue the Berserkers from the
stone pen that had been their prison, singing joyfully as they rolled open the
entrance and let the warriors out.
Nachlil and the others were given a feast in celebration, as well as
time away from their warrior training to rest.
The heathen monks told them that they were now very special and were now
Berserkers, the highest ranking and most formidable fighters in the Empire’s
army. As the sun went down, the Berserkers were placed back in the concentrated
stone pen, along with a single sheep. They
were told to work together, to vent their beastly fury upon the helpless animal
rather than on each other. This they did and the beasts became a pack, chasing
the lamb and toying with it as they howled to each other in the pen, before
devouring the creature. On the third
night, they were not penned, but permitted to roam loose in the forest. They hunted a stag, as wolves do, by
surrounding it and running it until it fell and then setting upon it together.
From that time on, Nachlil spent his
days training to fight as a man, in armor and with sword, shield, bow and
javelin, and his nights learning to fight as a beast, with tooth and claw, and
the sneaking ways of the hunting animal. Under the heathen monks’ patient
tutelage, he and the others learned not only to act as a single pack, but to
control the actions of the beast they became, so that they could achieve the
transformation when it suited them and the beasts would follow commands given
them before. In this way, each warrior
did choose the actions of the beast that dwelled within.
When the heathen monks decided they
were ready, the pack of Berserkers was sent away to fight. The battle was underway when they did
arrive. Warriors of the local chief,
with the support of warriors called up from around the Empire, were facing
Caesar’s soldiery. The soldiers had dug
trenches and erected walls made by bags of earth, while the chief’s army worked
up a fury. A forgotten herb, which had
once been a familiar secret to the heathen monks, was passed around and the
warriors did partake of it. They also
whipped themselves with chains and danced a ferocious war dance until madness
overwhelmed them and they roared like animals and chewed on the edges of their
leather shields. Only then had they
swarmed forth.
To their dismay, the army of Caesar
was prepared. The soldiers did set
lances against the maniacal horde, allowing them to impale themselves with
their own fury. The warriors had
withdrawn and the soldiers came out from behind their fortification and formed
a line of overlapping shields. With
swords ready and javelins thrown, they did march forward. T’was then that the pack of Berserkers was
delivered onto the battlefield, as the moving wall of soldiers was advancing,
pushing into the din of warriors. The
Berserkers saw this and shrieked, forsaking their armor and rushing forth even
as they became wolves. Around they ran,
with the speed of four legged monsters, and they did sneak into advantageous
positions behind the enemy soldiers. As
the furthest beast howled, the pack advanced, falling upon the soldiers from
behind, as they held off the horde of warriors before them with their oaken
shields. The wall of men crumbled as
the beasts made holes for the ocean of maddened warriors to flow through and
surround the soldiers of Caesar’s army.
A great victory it was! A portion of the invading foe had been lost
and their engines of war captured for use against them. The chief who commanded in that place did
declare celebration, while he and his warriors praised and thanked their
heathen gods for sending the Berserkers.”
The old storyteller paused. His audience had grown and some of the
sellers had abandoned their booths to come and listen. He reminded himself to be cautious, as a
crusader stood on the outer reaches of the crowd. The Christian soldier showed no interest, and his helmet covered
his face, but the Shanachie’s instincts told him the man was hearing the
tale. The man had strayed closer as the
details of the ancient battle were told.
The old man waited, expectantly, and one of the adults tossed a gold
coin into his hat. He licked his lips
and continued.
“The pack of Berserkers did aid
their heathen comrades against Roman forces and achieved many a victory. However, the soldiers were too many in
number and did keep returning in spite of defeat. New ways they did try in conquering the stubborn land. They brought engines of war with them, great
walls of stone on wheels, as well as Greek fire, that mysterious burning jelly
that was made to fly from their catapults. Hardest of all to fight, the
invaders did consult the seeing witches of their temples, to find the best time
and place to attack. Using these clever
ways did the invaders conquer that land in the end and make the Berserkers to
return home.
T’was said that not all had been
lost, as Caesar’s victory was costly and his soldiers never conquered this
island. Nachlil had a home and his
father’s land to return to. The young
Berserker was welcomed as a hero and marriage to a fine woman was arranged for
him by his family. As was his desire,
Nachlil returned to the farming life and began to raise a family. Soon there was gossip, though. T’was said that Nachlil had a harsh temper. Also, when the full moon gave its light to
the green hills of his homeland, Nachlil disappeared from his marital bed and
the wail of the beast could be heard out doors. Soon, Nachlil’s neighbors did shut themselves away from the
night, when the full moon rose, for fear of that hunting beast. They did arm themselves and avoid Nachlil
and his family.”
“How lonely he must have been!” a
small girl in the audience exclaimed, interrupting the Shanachie.
The old man squirmed, adjusting his
thin legs. “Yes, yes. Lonely he did become and less than
prosperous. To whom could he sell his
produce? Only to the wandering
merchants, who would pay, but would not pay well. In this separation from neighbor and friend, Nachlil’s wife did
become temperamental. Any small problem
could light the fire of her fury and her husband’s anger did often match
hers.” Adults in the audience exchanged
knowing looks.
“One evening, Nachlil’s wife and
only son were found wandering in the village and taken in by a local merchant,
who felt he had nothing to fear from the woman and boy, without the husband
around. Injured the woman was and the
merchant’s servants tended to her. She
told her tale. She and her husband had
quarreled over the proper way to cook a meat pie that afternoon, when he had returned
from the fields. During the quarrel,
her husband suddenly fell to the ground and ordered her out of the house. Thinking him childish, his wife refused and
before her eyes he became the beast. A
swipe of his claw had knocked her against the wall of her humble cottage and
she had fled, locking the door behind her, carrying her infant son. The next day, a shepherd found the burned
remains of the cottage they had shared.
Nachlil was never seen again. His wife and son did sell the land and
retreat to another town, where they were not known. Some say that Nachlil died in the fire, having knocked over a
lantern as he raged in the form of the beast. Others say that he fled to the
places known to the heathen monks. That
they restrained and cared for him.
Still others believe that he haunted the wilderness, more beast than
man. There are some who have told
tales, that when two lovers quarrel without cause, a sad howl of warning might
be heard.” The Shanachie ended the tale
there, pausing as some of the audience members donated coins. The children stayed.
“T’was such a sad tale about poor
Nachlil”, the boy who had asked for the story spoke up, sounding disappointed.
“Aye, T’was,” Answered the
Shanachie. He whispered just loud
enough for the children to hear. “Sad
and frightening, but a lesson it has.”
He threw a conspiratorial gaze around the marketplace. The crusaders had found their conscripts and
were taking them away. The children
gathered around. “Beware those that
would make a killer of you for their own ends, for even when the battle is
decided, that making cannot be undone.”