A Song of Dark Beauty

Introduction

The prologue, A Song of Áine, was first published on Short-Story.me in February 2012. It was the first of three stories about Thon, of the People of the River. And the first to mention Áine, or a young girl she encounters as she leaves the village.

This is the story of that young girl.

A note about pronunciation:

The A in the name Áine sounds like the a in the word awe. The remainder of the name has the sound 'nyeh,' giving us Awe-nyeh.

The name Dubheasa has been anglicized throughout this story as Duvessa to approximate its sound. The root word, dubh, is the Gaelic for black, or dark.

KjM

Kevin J Mackey

Kansas City

December 2018

1

A Song of Áine

It had the makings of an evil day.

A stranger stood among the scattered houses of the village. A great bear of a man. A broad back and the two legs of him planted hard on the ground, like the trunks of great trees. A head full of hair, black like his brow. A face too hard for handsome. An eye too fierce for friendship. A great shield hung at his back, leather rimmed and bossed with bronze. A twist of gold on his right arm, and leather at his wrists. A black knife rode in his belt and a long-handled sword lay at his hip.

Through the village he strode. The mouths of boys fell open; the gaze of women rested on his thighs. Men stepped aside from his path as he passed.

He met the Elders in the grass circle at the center of the village. They asked him his business, their eyes on the blade at his hip.

I am Thon, he began, by way of answer, Thon of the People of the River.

They nodded, for they had heard of these People of the River. Fierce and proud they were said to be, their tales told in houses far and wide.

I am here because your enemy comes.

Again the Elders nodded, for they knew their enemy was coming. One of their number, head bowed with years and grayed with cares, spoke.

He comes, as he has come before. He will take some food, some of our young. And then he will be gone. What of it?

Thon stood tall, his eye on these tired, old men.

I have traveled long and hard, he said. I have raised my strong arm against evil men and sheltered the weak in the shadow of my shield. I am come here, to this place, now, at this time, and I shall deliver you from your foe.

Do you think us craven? the Elder asked, and continued before Thon could make answer. The ground beneath your feet is holy, watered as it is by the blood of our sons. By the tears of their mothers, shed for their passing.

You have fought, Thon said, as others have fought elsewhere. It is meet that evil be faced, be resisted. Else it will flood the world.

This flood, the Elder said, this tide, has carried away the youth, the promise of this people. Now we must do as we see fit to preserve what remains to us.

He looked up, holding Thon's eye.

Go, stranger. Leave us to our fate.

Thon drew his long-handled blade. The sunlight flashing on it blinded all who saw it. It sang as it cut the air in great sweeps.

I will meet your foe, and deliver you from your fate.

So saying, he left them and stationed himself at the entrance to the village.

In the cool of the evening they came. Two men, warriors, one with the great broadsword, the other, with the double-bladed axe of the Northerners. They eyed Thon while the one with the broadsword spoke to the Elders.

Our leader will be here in the morning with his host. He will take his tribute. Hide nothing and no one, and harm need not come to you. Make no trouble, and trouble will pass you by.

Thon stepped forward, blocking the path.

I too have a message. Pass this place by. Go elsewhere.

Man stared at man, two pairs of eyes meeting one. One man reached for his broadsword. Thon's long-handled blade flashed in the sun and cleft him from collar to hip. The man crashed to the earth like a felled tree. The axe blotted out the sun. Its blade cut deep along Thon's arm till it caught on the leather at his wrist. The long-handled sword flashed again, caught the handle of the axe and bit deep.

Thon twisted his sword, tore the axe from the hands of the other, and thrust. The point of his blade sank deep between shoulder and trunk. The man's right arm hung lifeless at his side.

You heard my message, Thon said to him. Go you now and deliver it.

Thon waited until the man was out of sight and then turned to the villagers. They stood—silent. He watched as the crowd parted like reeds parted by the prow of a riverboat.

She was tall. Face pale and hair red against the yellow of her smock. A wide belt hung low on her hips. Wide also the square-cut collar, showing a hint of swelling breast. Gold caught the sunlight at her throat and she wore a clasp of gold on each arm. She walked slowly, and the eyes of men followed.

An Elder raised his hand to stay her, but she stopped him with a glance. Strong and clear her voice. A sound to remember on many a long night.

Come, she said, I will tend your wound.

Not waiting, she turned and made for a small house set apart from the others. Thon followed her. The eyes of the crowd followed them.

A single room, hearth, stool, a small table for meals and a bed for sleep. This was all she had. She nodded to the stool by the table.

Sit, she said, and turned to pour water on a cloth.

Thon remained standing, hand on the hilt of his sword. She looked at him, tall and strong in her house, his head reaching towards the thatch. She smiled.

I am Áine. You may rest your sword, Warrior, and your shield too. Sit. Your wound needs tending if you are to face them in the morning.

Thon nodded and let his shield slip to the floor. He sat and stripped the leather from his wrist. Áine examined the arm, tracing the length of the wound with her finger.

The cut is deep, but clean. You will fight another day, Warrior.

She wiped the blood away and dressed the wound with herbs. She bound the arm.

You will carry the memory of this day, she said, but for how long, I wonder.

Thon looked at her as he flexed his arm.

So long as I have my two feet beneath me, so long will I carry the memory of this day.

More will come tomorrow, Áine said. You have only two arms. What then?

I will fight their leader in single combat, he answered. The rest do not matter.

Áine looked at Thon.

Brave words, and honorable. But, do you know the man you will face has honor? You might do well to have another by your side.

And who would that be? You, woman? He reached to grab her.

Áine turned into his grasp. The silver blade she carried in her belt rested at his throat. Thon twisted and made to hold her arm. The knife bit into his neck. A single drop of blood ran down the blade. Thon stayed his hand.

A challenge must be tested, he said.

But wise is he who stops when his blood is bright on the blade, she countered.

That is more the wisdom of man than woman, Thon said.

Áine shrugged. I take wisdom where it may be found. You would do well to do likewise.

Thon nodded and again made to grasp her hand. Áine stepped out of his reach. Her blade was back in her belt before his arm had completed its journey.

And now, Warrior. Let us see how you do in other trials of strength.

Thon stood, and he filled half the room.

Should I pour out my strength on the night before a battle?

Should you face a battle tomorrow, tense and without exercise?

A low rumble sounded in the breast of Thon of the River People. He moved to her.

Is that the wisdom of a woman?

Áine's laughter filled the whole room as she pulled him down to the bed.

Take wisdom where you may find it, Warrior. This night, you may find it here.

It was not yet morning when Áine rose from beside him. The air was cold on her body and she dressed hurriedly, wrapping a cloak about her.

Thon stirred on the bed and reached for her. She placed her hand on his breast, pressing him back.

This fight is not for you, Warrior, nor can it be won your way.

Thon struggled, but her hand on his breast kept him pinned to the bed.

Listen now to the wisdom of a woman. Stay here, for they have need of men. The Elders have lost their will and way. Forging spirit in them is a battle that will take all your strength and all your courage.

Her voice lowered as she continued, And you, sing songs of me. Remember me.

These words spoken, she pressed her hand against him and sleep overcame him. Out into the graying day she walked, the mist rising off the grass as she made her way from the village.

One girl, of but ten and four years, saw her go. Áine stopped, placed her hand on the girl's brow for a moment, and went on her way. The girl watched her leave.

When the morning came the villagers beat upon the door of the house where Thon yet slept. He rose and rushed to the door, fastening his tunic and shield as he went.

They're gone, they cried. Gone!

And so it was. There was no sign of those who had threatened the village. Not that morning, not that year, nor in the years that followed.

Thon stood in the doorway, the memory of Áine in the marrow of his bones, the loss of Áine carved on his face. Those near him thought they heard a sound, as of the splitting of a great rock under heat and pressure.

Thon remained in that village and became a leader of men. Often in the night, when the air was cold and mist rose off the grass, the villagers heard the sound of singing.

2

Her Parents

Duvessa lay awake in the dead of night, listening. Her parents were talking, as they often did after sex. She'd learned to recognize the look her father gave her mother as night drew in. As she'd learned to recognize the look her mother gave her father when she consented.

She'd lain awake, face turned away, as the sounds let her know what was happening. The initial rustling of clothes, the creak of the bed as her father moved over her mother, the rhythmic sounds of the two bodies together, the hiss of her father's breath through his teeth, the softer sound her mother made sometimes, the labored breathing of the two after they finished.

It's time, her father said, and past time. You know it.

Shush, her mother whispered. She may hear us.

She'll not hear us. She's asleep.

Duvessa heard her mother snort in response to this. She didn't believe Duvessa was asleep.

We'll talk with her before the moon turns, she said. Time enough then.

We were wed and you a year younger than she is now.

And you got me with child so young I almost died. You want the same for her?

You know what will be said of her if she's not wed soon. There's more than one man of the village who would make a good match for her. And who would be good for her. Who could tame her.

And it's tame how you like your women?

It was her father's turn to snort.

It's no surprise she's untamed. I remember your mother, and the look on her sister's face and you in childbed. A wild one she was.

She got me through a difficult birth. I'd not be here still warming your bed were it not for her. Nor would you have a daughter who concerns you so.

Duvessa heard her mother pull the heavy blankets over herself and her husband.

We'll talk with her before the moon turns. Sleep now. Time enough for talk later.

Duvessa lay in her bed, listening to the sounds of the night. Her father, soon snoring as sleep took him. Her mother, quieter, falling asleep finally. For herself, sleep was longer in coming.

She listened to the muted sounds of the night. The soft whisper of an owl's wings was familiar to her. Its low call. The high pitched noise a mouse made. Its final sound as the owl took it.

She remembered her mother's aunt, Irenna, a woman who'd never married. She'd lived in the village till her final days there, a close presence in her childhood.

Now gone. Just as Áine was gone.

It was early when she woke. Duvessa looked toward the doorway. The night had not yet fled. She could barely see the outline of the door. Later, light would frame it. But not yet.

She rose, straightening her clothes, which had twisted around her in her sleep. A glance back towards her parents told her it would be a while before they woke. Her mother was turned towards her father's back, nestled against him. He still snored.

Duvessa stood a moment longer, trying to imagine herself sharing a bed with someone. Her father believed it was time she was wed. Girls her own age, some younger, not friends exactly, but those she'd known growing up, most were already wed.

One…Eithne…already a mother.

That would be her fate. No, her duty.

Duvessa turned from her parents' bed and slipped through the door, out into the early morning.

Dew covered the ground in front of her home, coating the grasses. A scattering of light reflected the fading moon. She looked towards the center of the village. A thin mist blocked her view of the ring where the Elders met.

She made her way, staying off the pathways, to the edge of the village itself. Off to the right, standing by itself, was the house. His house now—or at least he stayed there.

Duvessa wondered if he was waiting for Áine's return. She wondered if she waited for the same thing. A sudden chill swept over her. She pulled her clothes more tightly about herself. It was not yet late in the year. The cold of the night would linger only till mid-morning. Later in the year, it would be colder.

She made her way out of the village, retracing the path the whole village had taken almost two years before. It was one she'd taken often since. She followed the bank of the river that provided water and food for her people and then crossed at the ford, heading for the edge of the forest that ran south to the mountains.

In less than an hour she was there. The place where the bandits had made camp. Where those who'd sought tribute from the village had stayed. It now lay empty.

Duvessa stood in the center of a circle. Its soil was stripped, exposing the bare rock. Standing within it, she listened intently. Silence answered her. Outside the circle the larks were heralding the coming dawn. Inside, nothing of their song could be heard.

Duvessa sat. The stone on which she rested was neither cold nor warm. She placed her palm against it. It was hard, but smooth to the touch. It did not leach the heat from her body as would any other stone at this time of morning.

She looked around. The circle encompassed the entire encampment site. Fifty men, if she were to believe the stories of the numbers that had been here in other years, had lived here for a time. Had died here?

That she didn't know. No one did. What had happened to the bandits was a mystery. She remembered the anxiety in the months after it happened. But the bandits didn't come back.

The same anxiety had gripped the village the following year. No enemies came. There'd been less anxiety this year. Still, anxiety or no, their enemy had not returned.

Duvessa suspected the bandits were passing into legend. The village storyteller would soon be making tales of the time, long, long ago, when the enemy of the village had come seeking tribute. And how they had been struck down by their protector.

Duvessa's mouth twisted. A man. Him. He'd be the one they'd make stories of. Not her. Not Áine.

She stood, looking at the sky. The sky in the east was now lighter, much lighter, than the rest of the sky. Day was coming. She wrapped her clothes around her again and made her way back through the