To Dust You Shall Return, Page 2

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  When this thing is done and the sun stains the sky the same color as Tadhg’s cheeks on his first winter day, you lean heavily on your sword. It is possible to hear the labored breathing of the warriors who are visible only as silhouettes against the gray dawn. Everyone is stained with blood from the birds. The dark ash sticks to it. Cuan’s breath is hot when he kisses.

  Dichu, the chieftain, calls everyone together. Only Meallán is missing and though the pile of dead bird is searched he remains missing. Dichu cries, “Victory!” but it is without joy.

  Cuan leaves to aid in the cleansing of the demon ship. Perhaps this is only the first wave. Perhaps there is a second wave waiting for a second nightfall. Waiting for complacency. His hand is hot against your cheek. Mothers and fathers rush to the barn where the children were hidden. They come into the daylight laughing, for to them this is only a game, but when they see their parents many of them are sick. Tadhg’s arms are tight around your waist. His cheeks are warm and red.

  One of the children takes a torch to them before he could be stopped. The birds explode into flame as if they were oil. A foul, black smoke covers the ground. There is fear that the child has set more than the birds afire, but when it has burned itself out the only grass that has been charred is that which was under the birds. This frightens everyone more than they will admit.

  Pádraig says, “This is the Hell I have spoken about.”

  “Truly?” says Dichu, clapping the priest on the back. “Then why am I filled with such happiness?”

  “Because you aren’t,” says Pádraig. He is right. He looks away from Dichu towards the shore of the eastern isle. He sighs, his breath a white cloud, and he wraps his arms around himself. “Do you think this is done? That island is thick with them. They will come with a fleet of ships next time. We will die.”

  “Speak plainly, priest.”

  “You must rid these islands of them.”

  Dichu’s eyes widen. Then he laughs.

  Lommán stands before the priest. His thick arms are covered with thick black hair. His knotted hair flaps in the wind. “They are your demons, made by your gods. You brought them. You get rid of them.”

  The priest shows no fear though the other man could snap him as easily as a child snaps a twig. It is good that he shows no fear.

  Lommán says, “You were bitten. They hunt you. That is why they have come to Eire, for that reason and no other.” He is leaning on his sword.

  Pádraig’s eyes are blue and very sad. He says quietly, “Don’t be a fool. They make themselves from men, women, even children with no thought beyond the moment. We are their food. When they are hungry and there is no one left where will they turn?”

  The priest said he had been attacked while praying. He had a pair of livid marks on his neck as proof. He said he had despaired, had lost his faith and thus had struck with the only weapon nearby: a crucifix. He had only to touch them for them to die; but he had defiled his god.

  “You came here,” says Dichu. “They followed. How do I know you aren’t simply their agent?”

  The priest turns an ugly color. “I told you they were coming.”

  “Yet you lifted no sword against them.”

  The little man studies the ground between his feet. “I am afraid of them.”

  Lommán bares his teeth when he laughs. “Then why should we help?”

  Without moving his head, the priest kicks the sword from beneath Lommán’s hands. He falls to the ground heavily and within a moment, the priest has the point against the bigger man’s neck.

  The priest says, “There were some wicked wolves in the pastures. I am afraid, I admit as much, but what if I lead? I offer my sword.”

  “I lead,” says Dichu. “And for me to accept your sword you will need one.”

  Pádraig says, “It is Lommán who needs a sword.” He makes a show of touching the blade. “I need only to hone mine.”

  Lommán laughs, then grunts as the motion pushes the sword-tip tight against his neck. “Your god is weak yet you have strength. If you will fight as a man then I can do no less. I swear to stand beside you. I give to you my sword.”

  “If that is your idea of gifting, then God has gifted you with the handsomest of faces and the greatest of minds.” The priest holds out his hand. You see how easily he helps a man twice his weight to his feet.