Knock Roe 2000 BCE
The Man
The Man carried his dead father and just felt numb. The old man was finally gone. He carried his dead weight from the booth of boughs down through the forest to the appointed place.
All the responsibility lay upon his shoulders. He could feel the corpse growing cold. He was the one left fending for the old man. His mother had died last winter, and they had carried her on this same journey together. They had stopped at this stream and the old man through his tears let slip the beaded necklace into the water. That beaded necklace, his first love token to her now a tribute to Danu and the waters of life. Devotion slipping too easily from one lover to another.
He reached the same stream. He lowered his father gently sideways onto the bank. Then, ignoring the cold, he reached beneath his clothing to remove his purse. Loosening the thong, he slipped the three gold nuggets into his palm. He went to drop the smallest one in the stream. He hesitated. Did Danú see all or was that just a lie? He picked out the largest nugget and prayed for his father’s spirit before dropping the gold in the stream. It wobbled to the bottom and settled glinting on the stony bed. Once given, never taken back. Once offered forever sacred to Danú.
He hoisted his father’s body and while stepping through the stream he made sure to grind the nugget underfoot so that its glint would not attract any greedy eyes.
Soon the ground levelled off and he was within the sacred grove. He stopped where the mouth of the cave opened. He thought of all the bones within. Warriors, wisemen, witches and his mother. Bones with no warmth. Only the breath of dawn carried their voices now. His father would join their company. Would they welcome him? Was his mother waiting there? Did the dead love as the living did? He shook his head at this uselessness and set about the rites.
He crouched beneath the lintel stone and lowered his father’s remains to the ground. He turned the corpse around and grabbed his father by the heels. Then he began to drag the body to the stone bowl and kindling set at the end of the passage. Tears stood in his eyes as he lifted and folded the old man’s body into the hollowed out stone bowl. He arranged kindling and wood over the body. He poured a clay flask of flammable oil over the remains. The rich smell of the oil calmed him.
No clouds prevented the soft grey light leaking over the eastern horizon as he exited the passage. He dribbled the last of the oil over a torch lying in the small circle of stones nearby. He was nearly out of time.
Between his palms he rapidly rubbed the hazel stick in the hole he had cut in the split rowan log. More light spilled over the horizon. He rubbed faster and faster. Some smoke began to smoulder. He fed it dry straw and leaves as he rubbed again. The world around him began to warm into colour and he thought he could see a line of gold peer over the horizon. He rubbed frantically and there was a blossom of flame. He thrust in more kindling and heard a snapping, crackling sound. Then ‘whoomph’ and the twigs took the tongues of fire which licked and consumed them. He grabbed the torch and held it in the dancing flames
He scuttled, half crouched over like a dog, back down the tunnel to his father’s remains holding the hot flames ahead of him. Thrusting the torch into the wood he saw the oil catch the fire and his father’s remains were alight. Crying, he turned his eyes away He did not know if it was because of the acrid smoke or something else.
The eye of the sun stared down the passage at him, at the offering, at the life laid there in the throat of earth between the teeth of stone, and along the shaft of sunlight, something slipped away, flew like the spark that had given him life to the eastern beyond. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Dropping his torch back in the fire he threw back his head to the warm blue sky and howled.
***
He must have been five or six years old when it happened. He was following the track his father had made in the woods This was a game to him but to his father it was no game. The hunter was waiting somewhere in the woods to leap out at him roaring and shouting to startle him. His father would be hiding up a tree or lying in the undergrowth disguised as a log. He hated such moments.
The killing was worse. His father made him sharpen branches and dig a pit for a wild boar or a deer. Then they would wait. ‘The trap is a hunter that never sleeps’, his father said. When they heard the animal squeals or bellows they came running with their long spears and killed the stricken animal. Sometimes his father would paint their bodies with blood to honour the spirit of the animal.
On that day as he stumbled down a strange cliff he heard a deep growl. He stood transfixed as a big brown bear emerged from a cave and rose on its hind legs. He lost his bladder control and stood rooted to the spot. The bear seemed to blot a out all the light and he thought he was dead. Then through the bear’s chest a spear emerged, catching him in the shoulder and making him cry. The bear toppled over and there was his father’s face where the bear had been. As the bear twitched and went still his father pulled him close and held him for what seemed the longest time. Then after packing his scar with moss his father swung him upon his own shoulders and carried him home.
***
The Wolf.
The howl disturbed the wolf. It had been two days since it had fed properly. The bitter winter winds were now biting through its thick fur. Strange scents haunted the wind like memories and threats. There was man’s sour stench overlaid with sweat, oil and piss.
And that other smell it hated. The dancing yellow shrub that burned. Man had tamed it and made it dance to his commands. He kept it like a pet. It lived in his hovels, shared his food and guarded his door. The wolf would never forget its evil bite. Savage, terrifying pain. It drew no blood, but its bite kept on biting long after.
Fire allowed man to see at night, with its flickering eyes throwing light here and so that even at night man was safe. He held it in his hand on a branch, perched ready to fly off into the trees or leap down to the dry grass and leaves. Fire and man were allies as man and the wolf were not.
Each little flame hid its own snarling pack, giving birth to its children instantly upon contact. There was no rutting in the night under the stars. There were no yelps and shying away to seclusion. There were no suckling or stumbling balls of fur to be protected. Fire bred suddenly and furiously. It raged through a burning forest to crack the trunks of trees and threw off great light and heat in its insatiable hunger.
The wolf had seen it consume a whole forest one unforgettable night. Running this way and that as a young wolf, confused by the leader of the pack’s inability to find a way out. That was the day when he broke from the pack. It happened when a great tree came crashing down through the flames in a clearing as they milled about surrounded by fire. The wolf spotted a pathway along the blackened bark of the trunk over the flames with a patch of light at the end. In desperation it leaped and ran towards the light through the tunnel of flame. The wolf heard the leader’s howl of despair when it could not follow. When the leader stayed the whole pack stayed. Stayed and died. He could still see them running to and fro, pelts aflame as the fire ate their living bodies. The wolf knew now that fire was its enemy.
The wolf had tracked the man carrying the body through the woods and over the stream. Now it lay in the furze a little way off from the passage grave. It had found the man’s lair. When he howled the wolf set up a low growl.
***
The Struggle
He scuttled, half crouched over like a dog, back down the tunnel to his father’s remains holding the hot flames ahead of him. Thrusting the torch into the wood he saw the oil catch the fire and his father’s remains were alight. Crying, he turned his eyes away He did not know if it was because of the acrid smoke or something else.
The eye of the sun stared down the passage at him, at the offering, at the life laid there in the throat of earth between the teeth of stone, and along the shaft of sunlight, something slipped away, flew like the spark that had given him life to the eastern beyond. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Dropping his torch back in the fire he threw back his head to the warm blue sky and howled.
***
He must have been five or six years old when it happened. He was following the track his father had made in the woods This was a game to him but to his father it was no game. The hunter was waiting somewhere in the woods to leap out at him roaring and shouting to startle him. His father would be hiding up a tree or lying in the undergrowth disguised as a log. He hated such moments.
The killing was worse. His father made him sharpen branches and dig a pit for a wild boar or a deer. Then they would wait. ‘The trap is a hunter that never sleeps’, his father said. When they heard the animal squeals or bellows they came running with their long spears and killed the stricken animal. Sometimes his father would paint their bodies with blood to honour the spirit of the animal.
On that day as he stumbled down a strange cliff he heard a deep growl. He stood transfixed as a big brown bear emerged from a cave and rose on its hind legs. He lost his bladder control and stood rooted to the spot. The bear seemed to blot a out all the light and he thought he was dead. Then through the bear’s chest a spear emerged, catching him in the shoulder and making him cry. The bear toppled over and there was his father’s face where the bear had been. As the bear twitched and went still his father pulled him close and held him for what seemed the longest time. Then after packing his scar with moss his father swung him upon his own shoulders and carried him home.
***
The Wolf.
The howl disturbed the wolf. It had been two days since it had fed properly. The bitter winter winds were now biting through its thick fur. Strange scents haunted the wind like memories and threats. There was man’s sour stench overlaid with sweat, oil and piss.
And that other smell it hated. The dancing yellow shrub that burned. Man had tamed it and made it dance to his commands. He kept it like a pet. It lived in his hovels, shared his food and guarded his door. The wolf would never forget its evil bite. Savage, terrifying pain. It drew no blood, but its bite kept on biting long after.
Fire allowed man to see at night, with its flickering eyes throwing light here and so that even at night man was safe. He held it in his hand on a branch, perched ready to fly off into the trees or leap down to the dry grass and leaves. Fire and man were allies as man and the wolf were not.
Each little flame hid its own snarling pack, giving birth to its children instantly upon contact. There was no rutting in the night under the stars. There were no yelps and shying away to seclusion. There were no suckling or stumbling balls of fur to be protected. Fire bred suddenly and furiously. It raged through a burning forest to crack the trunks of trees and threw off great light and heat in its insatiable hunger.
The wolf had seen it consume a whole forest one unforgettable night. Running this way and that as a young wolf, confused by the leader of the pack’s inability to find a way out. That was the day when he broke from the pack. It happened when a great tree came crashing down through the flames in a clearing as they milled about surrounded by fire. The wolf spotted a pathway along the blackened bark of the trunk over the flames with a patch of light at the end. In desperation it leaped and ran towards the light through the tunnel of flame. The wolf heard the leader’s howl of despair when it could not follow. When the leader stayed the whole pack stayed. Stayed and died. He could still see them running to and fro, pelts aflame as the fire ate their living bodies. The wolf knew now that fire was its enemy.
The wolf had tracked the man carrying the body through the woods and over the stream. Now it lay in the furze a little way off from the passage grave. It had found the man’s lair. When he howled the wolf set up a low growl.
***
The Struggle
The man heard the wolf. Immediately the howl died in his throat. He held up his torch. The growl seemed to emanate from where the furze was thickest. He cursed himself for coming without spears or an axe. All he had was his father’s iron dagger tucked in his belt. One small dagger against wolves. His heart hammered in his chest beating a tattoo in his inner ear, an overwhelming thud counterpointing that low guttural growl.
He spied a low dark shape crouched below the bushes. He searched around in the soft light of dawn for the rest of the pack. He could not see them. If it was a lone wolf his chances were considerably improved. He considered himself a match for a single wolf, especially one as thin and hungry as this one appeared. Thankfully, he still had the torch in the fire, and everyone knew that wolves were afraid of fire.
Then for whatever reason, he knew not why, he began to growl back at the wolf with the burning torch held in front of him. In his mind he spoke to the wolf, “You picked the wrong place and the wrong time wolf. This day my father’s spirit leaves the earth. I stand guard and as witness. If you come hunting me in my grief, I will make a no meal for you.’
The wolf started up and crept forward legs bent and tensed, hackles raised, crouched in predator mode, canines bared and the low insistent growl. It was clear to the man that the animal must be desperate to approach him with the flaming torch in one hand and his ready dagger in the other. Yet he dared not leave the entrance to the passage behind him. It was his duty to guard till the end, so he stood his ground.
He asked himself what the arrival of the wolf could mean? Was it some vengeful spirit for all the wolves his father had killed? Had come in his hour of vulnerability to claim revenge? The wolf’s eyes never left his and he felt scared. Was the wolf come for him with its hatred of men who hunt its kind? The wolf advanced to within a body length and the man tried to guess how far it could spring.
As he did the thought struck him that there was nobody there that would miss him if he died. There was no help that was going to come. The difference between his living or being dead was a thinner line now at this moment with no generations ahead of him and no generations left behind. His death would flow out like a silent ripple in a still pool and quietly disappear. He meant nothing to anyone now except to the wolf.
The wolf was flying at him now through the air the moment his gaze had dropped. Its teeth snapped shut on his wrist where he had grasped the torch. He felt the canines clamp down on his clenched hand and he roared in pain dropping the torch. The creature was surprisingly strong and bore him backwards to the ground. Now the wolf had its four feet on the ground and was vigorously shaking his wrist back and forth with its powerful neck nearly breaking his bones.
The dagger was still in his left hand and he plunged it towards the wolf’s eye but the wolf saw it coming and released its grip and averted its head only to receive a gash to its thick fur on its neck drawing a little blood. It spun away and circled back to within the length of a second bound. It resumed its low growl.
He saw with dismay that the torch he had dropped had rolled and gone out. He went to seize it anyway to use as a club. As he went to pick it up the fingers of his right hand refused to grip, and he dropped it. His palm glistened with his blood and his fingers cramped and refused to grip. Some damage done right there, he thought. Another attack like that and I will be done for. I am down a hand and the torch and that was on the first attack.
‘Up,’ he commanded himself ‘it isn’t finished yet’. The wolf stalked back and forth presenting a more difficult target. He backed himself up against the passage and held the bloodied dagger in his weaker left hand towards the closing wolf. He saw it staring at the moving dagger. ‘I will get one strike’, he thought ‘but I dare not wait until it is ready. I must surprise it with my own speed.’
The wolf stopped pacing and once again crouched as if to spring. The man leaped. He saw the wolf rising in the air to meet him. They collided in mid-air and he wrapped his arms around the animal's neck and pulled it over his shoulder. Then they hit the ground with a thump and he could feel the wolf shuddering and shaking violently to get free but he gripped and held on to its body keeping those teeth snapping uselessly over his shoulder unable to bite. Its paws scrabbled for purchase. Then he rose to his knees and bashed its head against the overhanging passage lintel stone. The animal went limp in his arms. He had won.
When the wolf woke its feet were tied some distance from the grave. The man was squatting nearby watching it. He tossed over a lump of rabbit meat to within reach of its jaws. The wolf gobbled down the meat. He threw over the rest of the animal. The wolf gobbled the rest then looked at him licking its chops.
Then the man lifted the device he had made. It was a long pole with a hole bored through the end. Through the hole was a long leather noose which ran the length of the pole and back into his hand. He approached and slipped a leather thong over its neck and bound it to the pole before cutting the wolf’s restraints. The wolf jumped up and went to snap at him and tried to run away but because of the thong and the pole the wolf could neither attack nor flee.
He spied a low dark shape crouched below the bushes. He searched around in the soft light of dawn for the rest of the pack. He could not see them. If it was a lone wolf his chances were considerably improved. He considered himself a match for a single wolf, especially one as thin and hungry as this one appeared. Thankfully, he still had the torch in the fire, and everyone knew that wolves were afraid of fire.
Then for whatever reason, he knew not why, he began to growl back at the wolf with the burning torch held in front of him. In his mind he spoke to the wolf, “You picked the wrong place and the wrong time wolf. This day my father’s spirit leaves the earth. I stand guard and as witness. If you come hunting me in my grief, I will make a no meal for you.’
The wolf started up and crept forward legs bent and tensed, hackles raised, crouched in predator mode, canines bared and the low insistent growl. It was clear to the man that the animal must be desperate to approach him with the flaming torch in one hand and his ready dagger in the other. Yet he dared not leave the entrance to the passage behind him. It was his duty to guard till the end, so he stood his ground.
He asked himself what the arrival of the wolf could mean? Was it some vengeful spirit for all the wolves his father had killed? Had come in his hour of vulnerability to claim revenge? The wolf’s eyes never left his and he felt scared. Was the wolf come for him with its hatred of men who hunt its kind? The wolf advanced to within a body length and the man tried to guess how far it could spring.
As he did the thought struck him that there was nobody there that would miss him if he died. There was no help that was going to come. The difference between his living or being dead was a thinner line now at this moment with no generations ahead of him and no generations left behind. His death would flow out like a silent ripple in a still pool and quietly disappear. He meant nothing to anyone now except to the wolf.
The wolf was flying at him now through the air the moment his gaze had dropped. Its teeth snapped shut on his wrist where he had grasped the torch. He felt the canines clamp down on his clenched hand and he roared in pain dropping the torch. The creature was surprisingly strong and bore him backwards to the ground. Now the wolf had its four feet on the ground and was vigorously shaking his wrist back and forth with its powerful neck nearly breaking his bones.
The dagger was still in his left hand and he plunged it towards the wolf’s eye but the wolf saw it coming and released its grip and averted its head only to receive a gash to its thick fur on its neck drawing a little blood. It spun away and circled back to within the length of a second bound. It resumed its low growl.
He saw with dismay that the torch he had dropped had rolled and gone out. He went to seize it anyway to use as a club. As he went to pick it up the fingers of his right hand refused to grip, and he dropped it. His palm glistened with his blood and his fingers cramped and refused to grip. Some damage done right there, he thought. Another attack like that and I will be done for. I am down a hand and the torch and that was on the first attack.
‘Up,’ he commanded himself ‘it isn’t finished yet’. The wolf stalked back and forth presenting a more difficult target. He backed himself up against the passage and held the bloodied dagger in his weaker left hand towards the closing wolf. He saw it staring at the moving dagger. ‘I will get one strike’, he thought ‘but I dare not wait until it is ready. I must surprise it with my own speed.’
The wolf stopped pacing and once again crouched as if to spring. The man leaped. He saw the wolf rising in the air to meet him. They collided in mid-air and he wrapped his arms around the animal's neck and pulled it over his shoulder. Then they hit the ground with a thump and he could feel the wolf shuddering and shaking violently to get free but he gripped and held on to its body keeping those teeth snapping uselessly over his shoulder unable to bite. Its paws scrabbled for purchase. Then he rose to his knees and bashed its head against the overhanging passage lintel stone. The animal went limp in his arms. He had won.
When the wolf woke its feet were tied some distance from the grave. The man was squatting nearby watching it. He tossed over a lump of rabbit meat to within reach of its jaws. The wolf gobbled down the meat. He threw over the rest of the animal. The wolf gobbled the rest then looked at him licking its chops.
Then the man lifted the device he had made. It was a long pole with a hole bored through the end. Through the hole was a long leather noose which ran the length of the pole and back into his hand. He approached and slipped a leather thong over its neck and bound it to the pole before cutting the wolf’s restraints. The wolf jumped up and went to snap at him and tried to run away but because of the thong and the pole the wolf could neither attack nor flee.
“I will call you Cú and you will be my new right hand.” He announced to the struggling wolf. “down Cú,” he repeated but the wolf just struggled. He wondered what his father would have done as he still pulled and struggled to tire the wild animal out. He was glad he offered Danú the largest nugget.
***
The Dream
That night he kept the fire lit between himself and the wolf. Through the flickering flames he could see the animal’s two eyes watching him. As he fed the flames the wolf growled, and he noticed that the flames were distracting the wolf’s gaze. He had tied the animal securely, but he was still on edge. This was a wild creature he had decided to trap and use. Was he making a mistake?
The flames slowly died, and he listened to the crackle of the dry wood in the fire. Then his eyes began to droop, and he fell asleep. He dreamed that beautiful young woman clothed in dark blue crept into his camp. She wore a thin crown of gold and she stared at him with deep interest. She pointed a rowan wand at his chest and uttered some words. Then she disappeared. His chest opened and two wolves leaped out. One was a muscular grey male with thick fur and a black tip to its tail. The other was white female with pink eyes and a bright and glowing coat. He felt scared. The grey wolf turned to attack him but the white wolf rushed between them and snarled viciously baring her teeth. The male ducked his head and flattened his ears before wheeling around and running off into the woods. The white wolf relaxed, turned to look at him and then leaped into the fire and disappeared.
When he awoke the next morning, the fire had burned to a white ash. The wolf was wide awake with its head in its paws, watching him. Sitting near the ashes of the fire there was a young boy of about six years of age dressed in a brown bearskin. The boy had pure white hair and pink eyes. He had a small scar on his left shoulder. They were no longer alone.
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