To Ride A Púca (2 page)

Snorting and shaking his head, Dubh moved along at a high stepping trot. People rushed to get out of his way. Children cried out and startled women scooped them aside while glaring at Neala. She bared her teeth and tried to use her fear to make her look ferocious. She was able to maintain a brisk trot with her da and the cart rolling steadily along behind her. Insults, threats, and curses were flung at them but Neala ignored them. She couldn’t blame these people, not when she knew what was coming.

The faces of the children, so innocent, fed the guilt that was growing inside of her. There were a lot of people in this town; chances were good they could fight off the Danes. But many of them would die, maybe even some of these children. Neala’s chest tighten at the thought and tears stung her eyes.

“Da, we have to tell them,” she called back over her shoulder. “Please.”

“Not yet Neala,” he called back, his harsh tone leaving no room for discussion.

Moisture filled her eyes as she bit down on her bottom lip to hold back an argument. The faces continued to assault her conscience while she pushed her way through the busy streets. People flinched away from her big, black horse, cursing at him and calling him names like púca. Even the insults to her horse couldn’t stir her ire today though, not knowing what was going to happen to these people. She didn’t have any more right to live than they did. The only thing that held her tongue was the need to get her da and Dubh to safety.

They soon left the busy main streets behind for the road leading out of town. Each face they passed sent a sickening wave of guilt through Neala. She was torn between wanting to stay and fight with them or flee to safety. Being a druid, she knew she was supposed to abhor fighting, but she didn’t, not when it was in defense of others. Every part of her ached to stay and fight. If her da knew how she felt, he would lecture her until she was an old maid.

Neala’s shoulders started to ache with the effort of holding Dubh back from running. She shifted her weight, cuing him to stop. He obeyed but stomped and tossed his head.

“Easy boy, soon,” she soothed him as her eyes scanned their surroundings.

To her right a woman knelt in a garden pulling weeds, and to the left a pair of men chatted as they leaned against a fence. Neala couldn’t just leave and let all these people be slaughtered, and she hoped her da couldn’t either. When she met his gaze there were tears in his eyes and his face was contorted with grief.

She knew he felt bad for these people but that his grief wasn’t for them. The impending attack probably reminded him of her brother, Lorcan. He had gone north to fight invaders three years ago and only his sword and Dubh had come back.

After an excruciatingly long moment, her da nodded. Neala was glad to turn away from the pain in his eyes but it followed her like a ghost, sinking its talons into her heart.

As her da called out to the men across the road, she guided Dubh up to the woman in the garden. The woman looked up with a pleasant smile that faded the second she laid eyes on Dubh. A big black horse with green eyes tended to have that effect on people. A mixture of caution and suspicion warred across the woman’s furrowed brow.

“Take yer family and flee, Danes are nearly at the shores,” Neala said.

The woman rose slowly and brushed dirt from her knees. Neala urged Dubh forward another step and the woman stumbled back from him.

“Are ye daft woman? I said go!” Neala yelled.

One hand went to her hip and she stared at Neala as if she were the one who was daft.

The racket of pounding hooves pulled Neala’s attention behind them. Three mounted people were riding hard in their direction. Dubh hopped on his hind legs a bit and spun in the direction of the noise. It took all of Neala’s strength to hold him back as the three riders thundered past them, leaving Neala in a cloud of dust. As the hoof beats faded and the dust settled, Neala saw people running through the streets, some coming her way, others just running to and fro.

“Danes are coming! Danes are coming!” people started yelling.

The woman turned and ran toward her home. Out of the corner of her eye Neala saw the men her da had been speaking to both take off running in opposite directions.

“Let’s go Neala, we’ve done what we can,” her da said. He slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps and hollered at them. They leapt into action, propelling him and the cart forward at a reckless speed.

Letting out an excited squeal, Dubh reared and pulled at the reins. Neala grabbed hold of his mane, squeezed with her legs, and released him into a canter. They caught up with the cart and passed it. She held him back as best she could, not wanting to get too far ahead of her da.

The rolling green hills in the distance swallowed the road and promised a safe escape. There was no doubt in Neala’s mind that she and her da would make it. She couldn’t stop thinking about how many innocent people in town were going to die, though. Riding away from that battle was the hardest thing she had ever had to do.

2

Neala hated seeing her ma cry. There was nothing she could say to make this better so she remained silent as she carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen. She removed a bucket of water from the top of the wood burning stove and poured half of it into the sink. Being as quiet as she could, she started to wash the dishes while trying to listen to her parents discuss the invaders.

They talked about how the ships coming so far down the coastline was a sign the Danes were spreading across Ireland. Upon hearing that Neala shivered despite the fact that her hands were submerged in warm water.

“But we’ve been so careful. No one knows there are druids here,” her ma said.

“They know, they always know. And they always come to try and wipe us out,” her da said, sounding exhausted and defeated. Soft footsteps padded across the wooden floors.

“
Nil
, me dear. Don’t think that way. We can’t feed into the fear,” her ma said.  

Leaning out around the wall, Neala peeked into the room. Her ma was kneeling beside her da’s chair, clutching one of his hands in both of hers.

“Two days ride and the Slieve Bloom Mountains separate us from the port. Surely, no one there knows we exist, or that we’re here. Our own village doesn’t even know what we are,” she said.

The last words made Neala cringe. Her parents were terribly naïve if they let themselves believe that lie. The children knew she was different, they had always known.

Listening to her parents talk about how the Danes wouldn’t come inland made Neala’s power burn. It was all she had heard her da say over the two days it had taken to return home. Her parents had talked about this all night after she and her da arrived. The fact that her ma had focused long enough to make them breakfast was a miracle.

Neala was tired of talk. People were threatening their land, it was time for action. Her parents were healers. She understood that and didn’t expect them to fight. But her power had never worked like theirs. She couldn’t even heal a scratch. All she seemed to be able to do with hers was push or pull on things. She wanted to be useful; she wanted to fight for her country like her brother had. It was more than that, she
needed
to.

Their conversation had gone so deep into the night that whispered bits of it had entered Neala’s nightmares. There had been talk of power and fighting, of her fighting with her power. Her ma had cried and argued that she didn’t want her baby fighting. Her da had insisted they tell Neala something but her ma forbid it. How much had been actual conversation and how much had been part of her dreams, Neala had no idea.

When she was finished with the dishes she went around the wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and watched her parents. Their meager home was small enough that she could hear every hushed word they said even though they were across the room. They must have felt the weight of her intense gaze because they stopped talking and turned to look at her. She knew they would feel it because her gaze carried the press of her useless power.

Tears had turned her ma’s beautiful green eyes red and it looked like she hadn’t even pulled a brush through her long, light brown hair yet. Looking at her was like seeing her own reflection in a pool but Neala felt pale and lacking in comparison. She wasn’t the powerful healer her ma was. That had always bothered her even though she had little interest in healing. It just didn’t feel like healing was in her. But today her ma looked like nothing more than a frightened, frail woman. Neala refused to let her vulnerable appearance deter her.

“It’s time to let me learn how to fight,” Neala said.

Her ma’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Absolutely not,” her da snapped. “And don’t ye dare breathe a word of this to anyone. It would only create a panic.” 

Though she was prepared for an argument, his quick dismissal set her afire. “If the invaders come here someone has to defend our home. They could be here with a sizable force in a little over a week. I must be able to fight,” she said.

Her ma flew to her feet and shook her head. “No. Not ye, not me
beagcailín
.” 

The near hysterical look in her ma’s eyes wasn’t enough to stop her. Not this time, this was too important to give up on. Calling her a little girl in the old tongue didn’t help. She pushed away from the counter and took a step closer to her parents.

“I’m hardly a little girl anymore. I’m of marryin’ age, in fact. If ye won’t let me learn to protect our land then let me learn to protect meself. Ye know what they do to women and girls,” Neala said.

Horror filled her ma’s eyes before she turned away to hide her face in her hands. Guilt traced hot fingers across Neala’s heart. Her ma knew very well the horrible things invaders did. Her family was originally from the north end of the island and they had fled here when the Danes landed on their shores.

When she saw her da’s clenched jaw and felt the heat of his angry power, Neala started to question her choice of words.

“How dare ye speak to yer ma that way. Remember yer place girl,” he warned.

His attention shifted to his wife as he grasped her arm to help support her. “Sit down Cecily, take it easy now,” he soothed as he led her to a chair. He sat beside her and patted her head as she laid it on his shoulder.

His words fanned the flames of Neala’s anger until it felt like her skin was burning. “Me place is on the battlefield. If Lorcan were here he would teach me how to use a sword,” she snapped.

Just saying her brother’s name made it feel like someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn’t help it, it had just come out. It was true, he would have taught her. In fact he had, to a point. Since she was little he had been teaching her hand-to-hand fighting so she could protect herself. But he’d never had the chance to teach her how to use a sword.

“Neala O’Carroll, how dare ye!” her da said as he shot her a dangerous glare.

His power prickled along her skin like hot coals but it was easy to banish by calling up her own. She thrust her chin up. Her pride faltered when her ma lifted her head from her da’s shoulder and Neala saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“But he’s not here. Lorcan is dead, and I couldn’t bear for ye to end up the same,” her ma said.

A frustrated cry wrenched from Neala as she bolted for the door. Her da must have moved to follow her because she heard her ma call after him. “Ardal, just let her go. She needs to be alone to think.”

She slammed the door shut behind her and plunged into the bright light of morning. Despite the warm sun cowering below the clouds on the horizon, a thick mist clung to the grassy meadow where her home was nestled. The sweet, cloying scent of wet grass and clover filled her nostrils. Tall evergreens reaching like pillars toward the sky loomed close to their little meadow, holding the mist in. The feathery, cool touch of wet grass brushed her ankles as she ran for the barn.

The sight and sensations of the misty morning only upset her more. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing the place where she had grown up with Lorcan. What did he die for if they gave this up?

She threw the barn door open wide, making Dubh and his brothers jump in their stalls. While his brothers calmed and went back to eating, Dubh rushed to put his head out the stall opening. Not even he could comfort her right now. She ran past him, rounded the aisle that went between the stalls, and fell upon the hay bundles stored in the corner. Through her weeping she could hear Dubh pacing and nickering. After a moment she wiped her eyes and sat up. Crying would do her no good, she knew. Like she had told her parents, she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

Shoving hay aside, she exposed a floor board with a notch in it that allowed her to lift it out of place. The dark space was cool and clammy but the object she drew from within it was warm to the touch. It was a long box that pulsed as if what it held within was alive. Neala opened it and removed a bundle that was four feet long and heavy. Handling it carefully, she clutched it to her chest. Though it was secure in a leather sheath and wrapped in a blanket, she could still feel the energy that clung to it; her brother’s energy. It was his sword and aside from Dubh, it was the only thing that brought her any measure of comfort lately.

Today holding the sword only fueled her anger. It was ridiculous that her parents wouldn’t let her learn how to fight. Plenty of Celtic women fought to protect their homes and families, some even fought alongside the men in battle. She was really good at hand-to-hand fighting, she had to be. The other children of the nearby village didn’t like her. The thought made her lift her hand to her shoulder to touch the tiny scar there. Some part of them sensed that she was different.

Tears dripped onto the black wool blanket that encased the sword. The sight of them intensified her anger. They made her feel weak. Frustrated, she thrust the sword back into the box, put the lid on, and put the floorboard back in place. She jumped to her feet and dashed to Dubh’s stall. He ceased his pacing and bobbed his head up and down, making his long, black mane and forelock bounce.