were kind most were not, his survival hinged on mistrust. At night the boy moved well among the men, filling cups when most were too drunk to walk or pour. He had his niche, slicing gracefully through the darkness serving wine and listening to the rambling stories of the warriors. At an early age he knew well to be useful, but not visible. He could tell by tone when to attend and when to escape, for mood in camp could change with a swallow. The boy learned well how to seize opportunity, for in the company of brigands and mercenaries mead loosened purse strings as well as tongues.
The men had fought that day, a bloody skirmish if the talk was to be believed. When coupled with a full moon, the boy knew well to be vigilant. By firelight he felt the eyes of a tattooed warrior upon him and responded cautiously to the signal for more drink. The small boy did not like the way this one looked at him or the way that he smiled when his cup had been filled. He dodged the arm reaching drunkenly through the darkness and moved with haste to serve in the comfort of others.
The night concluded without event. The boy had done his work well and was the last to find sleep, for the men now lay snoring around the fading fire. He found a private place away from the group. Standing before the small tree, he felt the soft touch of its wet leaves on his face and shivered as he released his water. Tired from his long day, he looked forward to the quiet warmth of his nest.
From the blackness the man pounced.
The cry that would have issued was silenced as all wind was crushed from his delicate body by the weight of his foe. He could smell the man. Alcohol and sweat mingled with the stench of bad intentions. A tattooed hand gripped the top of his trousers and roughly tried to pull them down. The boy knew what was upon him, what pushed his face into the night mud drowning him silently beneath the mire. He knew what rape was.
He moved past the panic of his voiceless scream searching for a solution to a situation that seemed beyond his control. No one could protect him, he was truly alone. Small hands grasped at anything that they could touch until the fingers of his right closed around a dried and broken forest branch. They were called lossoughs, and he had picked them on many mornings, for nothing was better to start the fire of an early forge than these. The familiar feel brought comfort, and comfort brought hope. There would be only one chance.
His attacker turned the struggling boy over and fumbled with the task of loosening his own belt. He pressed his filthy hand across the small mouth as he reached down inside his tunic. Here the boy struck. The thick, pointed stick found an eye. The cry of pain cut through the darkness. It was the sound that should have come from the lad but could not. With a kick of both legs, he was free and snatched the warrior’s short sword away in both his tiny hands. He did not stop.
He hacked the kneeling giant savagely. He smelt the blood and felt its warm wetness paint his face and body, and still he slashed. The rage that was his life drove him onward, unaware of when the man no longer knelt or when the man had perished. The boy was still cutting with all his might when the others broke upon the scene. It was the smith that wrapped him gently in mighty arms and whispered soothing truths, “Vincent, stop now, it is enough.”
All stood quietly in the forest, taken by the scene that they had come upon. The boy was blood soaked but unhurt, the warrior did not fare as well. His corpse was stretched upon the ground recognizable only by its heavy tattoos. The chest was open and hollow, and in the small clenched fist of his left hand, the boy held the dripping heart of his adversary.
As is common in the world of war and atrocity, nothing more was spoken of the night’s event. The smith held the boy closely as he led him towards the stable. He saw the look in the lad’s wild eyes and knew that this one now had the taste of blood. That would serve him well he thought, as would the short sword the warrior no longer needed. By midday he had finished sharpening it anew, and this small one had joined the ranks of men. The civil world of fire and straw was now behind him.
The smith was impressed with the sharpness of his own handiwork. This child is different he mused, and as he placed the freshly honed weapon into the boy’s young hands he drew him near.
“Vincent, may the force that made you guide and protect your path, and may God have mercy on your enemies.”
His first foray into the world of men was less than successful, and his first skirmish did not last long. With a child’s foolishness he thought it would be the most memorable, but in fact, he was left with almost no memory of it at all. He picked his target, a large lowlander with a wooden shield, and attacked with all the spirit of a full grown Celtic warrior. That was his only surviving recollection.
By God’s mercy a large mercenary had befriended the boy and kept a watchful eye. He was skilled enough to finish what the boy had started, fast enough to pull him from where he had fallen, and kind enough to bear the wounded boy home. Vincent had been unconscious for the two-day carry, the first and only casualty of this excursion. He was laid groaning upon the familiar straw and held down throughout the night as he thrashed violently against enemies that only he could see.
The one that had hauled him stayed with him, watching to see which way the lad would go. The soldier wondered to himself why he had worked so hard on the boy’s behalf. The smith assured him that this one was worth saving, and that he was right to intervene.
Like the worst hangover, morning light brought agony and confusion. The dull ache in Vincent’s neck contrasted with the sharp pains shooting down from his head. This sobriety was not a pleasant state, and his missing reality would have to be filled in by others gradually, one painful fragment at a time. For now, however, he lay where he was dropped. Eventually he deployed tentative fingers to survey his damaged skull.
“A simple fracture, leave it alone,” the smith told him, while the soldier added, “You forgot about the shield.” In truth he had forgotten the entire encounter. The event, however, was not without lesson.
For a Celt the head is the seat of power, the house of the soul, and his would have to be rebuilt. He could not stand. His balance was undone, and there was no hearing on his left side. Fingers again explored, dipping into the clear brown fluid that leaked freely from his ear. It was the smell of it that disturbed him, for it seemed better suited to another orifice.
Over the changing of the next full moon, the boy lay restlessly for the time of his healing. On the nights when he was alone, the buried memories of the tattooed menace he had butchered surfaced. These were now with him forever, his first express direction from Death. He wondered why his brain would haunt him with these, but not release the events of his own wounding, for surely they would have been more valuable in his growth as warrior. Then again he knew that his mind, no matter how noble its thoughts, floated in a stinking pool of clear brown fluid. Its fluvial discharge still dripped occasionally from his damaged ear. So how much was it to be trusted?
In time he healed. Although his body was weak from inactivity, his hearing and balance had gradually returned. The boy came to know that death would be his life’s work, and he accepted this without a struggle. It was clear to him that life was brutal and his would probably be brief. He held the short sword in his hand and ran a finger along its edge. His broken head and temporary frailty were a blessing, for with this wound came the strength of resolution. Vincent sought the one that had saved his life and begged for any lesson that he could give.
The man was rough but not stupid. There would not be another carry home. He introduced the boy to the way of the blade, and Vincent returned the favor by applying the lessons learned with ever increasing skill.
I
