Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening

Donal O’Connell woke once more with a curse. His head was sore, as if he had spent a long night in an opium den in Acre, and his thoughts were hazy and disoriented. He remembered the desert, the heat, the pursuit, the charge, the spears, but now, though flames again flickered before his eyes, they were no longer the lacerating rays of the desert sun, but a rather kinder, more gentle warmth. Sitting up and looking around in confusion he found himself lying by a well-tended campfire, with a tall man seated opposite him; the man was regardinghim evenly.

As a reflex Donal felt for his sword, although the man seemed unarmed and too relaxed to be a captor; there was no implied threat in his stance. The sword was not there; instead he was sitting on a finely woven rug and underneath it the ground was soft and grassy and the air was chill but not uncomfortable. Night largely obscured the rest of their surroundings, though the stars were bright in a clear sky, and he could hear the liquid sound of running water close by, and the rustle of a soft wind through unseen branches.

“Water,” he murmured - that most scarce and precious of desert commodities now seemed freely available. Yet his mouth was no longer dry and filled with dust and sand, and as he stood up to stretch his legs, his aching head cleared as if it had been doused in a mountain stream.

“So you’re awake at last,” said the other man, in a curious accent, but with an unmistakeably friendly tone, “You’ve been asleep all night.” He leaned over to the fire and lifted a bubbling pot. “Here, sit down again and have some coffee, it’ll wake you up while we talk – and it sure looks like we have a lot to talk about.”

He filled a steaming tin mug and offered it to Donal.

Donal sat down again but eyed the brew suspiciously.

“Who are you, tall man?” he said, “And how did I come to be here?”

“Beats me,” said the other, shrugging, “One moment I was up the mountain, sick as a dog, no chance of getting better, ready to shoot myself, I pulled the trigger - next thing I knew, here I was, with you snoring like a grizzly beside me. Fortunately I still had some supplies with me so I put a blanket under you, rigged up a fire, put the coffee on to boil and the beans on to stew, and waited for you to wake up.”

“This could be sorcery,” said Donal, “Infidel sorcery; you could be a demon or a djinn summoned by Allah to torment me - a punishment for my years of struggle for the Holy Crusade.”

“Take it easy, man; do I look like a devil to you? Have you ever seen one wearing a check shirt and cowboy boots?”

“Your chosen garb is of no importance; it could be a sly trick;” Donal spoke hesitantly, aware of the hypocrisy of his own words, as his religious beliefs had waned to nothing during his adventures in the Levant.

The other man’s laughter rang out in the night.

“A churchgoer! Here I am stranded in God-knows-where, and I’m stuck with only a preacher for company.”

Donal began to feel more at ease - his commonsense as well as his instincts told him that his companion was no cleverly disguised demon.

“Be assured, I am no preacher, nor indeed, I must admit, could I be accounted a believer anymore.” He recounted his last memories.

“And look up,” he continued, “the stars are not different to our world.” There they were, all the old familiar constellations - Orion with his sword, The Plough. No, not different, he thought, but indifferent, cold.

“So are we in heaven or hell?” Donal asked finally.

“Heck,” said his companion, “If it’s heaven, I’d hoped for a heck of a lot better. If it’s hell, well it don’t seem so bad, but I guess we ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Anywhere else than the desert and the permanent thirst and threat of death seemed satisfactory to Donal. Then a movement outside the firelight attracted his attention.

“Parsifal!” he shouted gladly, jumping up to greet a familiar friend in a strange world. He stroked the stallion’s mane reassuringly, and it turned it’s big head, nuzzling him affectionately, it’s breath warm against his cheek.

“Yeah, and my old hoss is here as well,” said the stranger. “We have our horses and our supplies and, fortunately, our clothes too. Whoever it was brought us here has been very thoughtful and considerate. Wouldn’t have been nice to have arrived here buck-naked.

“And you have your sword and spear,” he said.

Donal’s sword lay on the ground, the weapon which had carried him through many a tough and bloody campaign. It had been both a symbol of his rank as a warrior of the Crusade, and at times his only defence. Yet lying there on the sward it seemed rude and coarse, for beside it he saw a spear, a weapon of true beauty, it’s exotically carved handle of freshly polished ivory and ebony glistening in the firelight like a triumph of craftsmanship, a stark contrast to his own brutish weapon. He lifted the spear, studying it’s design critically.

“I wield no spear,” he said uneasily.

“Well, wherever it came from, there it is now,” said the stranger unhelpfully.

“It is a Saracen weapon,” said Donal, suddenly comprehending it’s origin, “But no less honourable for that; it must have belonged to one of the Janissaries.”

On a sudden impulse he turned to the stranger.

“You should take it, tall man,” he said, “I was trained mainly with the sword and had never any great skill with the spear; bear it, and may it bring you good fortune.”

He handed it over quickly, finding it’s touch unsettling. His companion hefted the spear and eyed it closely, admiring it’s weight and balance.

“If it works half as well as it looks, it’ll be a hell of a pig-sticker,” he said, taking it over to the fire and peering at it in the dim light.

“And it looks like it was used recently,” he said, pointing, “There are bloodstains on the blade.”

Donal stepped back, his disquiet increased.

“The blood might indeed my own; perhaps even my death-blow,” he said.

“Well, don’t let it get you down, friend; remember, lightning never strikes twice,” the stranger reassured him. “By the way, that’s a helluva big sword you have there; why is the blade curved so much?”

“For a very good reason, Tall Man,” said Donal with palpable pride, holding up the great sword and inspecting it admiringly, before sweeping it through the air with a practiced hand, the air seeming to sing at it’s passage, “I learned much of the arts of warfare from the Saracens - the speed of their strikes, the skill of their defence, the subtlety of their strategy. I saw the way our own blades would slide off their scimitars, leaving our guard wide open for a riposte. The curve also seems to make the edge sharper, more keen. So sharp were their blades that often our knights would be cruelly injured, even mortally wounded, without realizing it. But, even so, the scimitars were too light for my taste, more suited to smaller men, so I had my own blade fashioned - strong and true as a broadsword, yet elegant and swift as a scimitar. Godfrey de Bouillon’s own blacksmith forged it for me, but to

my own design.”

“Very impressive,” agreed the stranger, “Just don’t point it at me. By the way, I’m getting kinda tired of being called “Tall man”; you’re just as big as I am. Shall we introduce ourselves?”

Donal bowed formally.

“I am named O’Connell, Donal O’Connell,” he said proudly, “knight of the Holy Crusade of Godfrey de Bouillon.”

He stood tall in his silk tunic and light mail, the metal rings glinting faintly in the firelight. A pale wool mantle, which had been his only shade against the desert sun, draped from his shoulder, and on his chest he wore the Cross of St. John, the symbol of the holy crusade. Though clearly no callow youth, the dark hair which fell to his shoulders betrayed only a single silver lock.

“From Ireland, I’d guess, with a name like that, though I should have known it from your brogue,” the other man smiled, “I knew Ireland well, and I spent many happy times there. Hell of a little country it was; the island of saints and scholars, so they called it.”

“It pleases me greatly to hear that,” said Donal, “And your name?”

The other man appeared to deliberate for a moment, and then smiled again.

“Ethan,” he said, with equal pride, “Ethan Edwards, just an ordinary citizen of the United States of America, but just as good for all that; we didn’t have any knights or royalty where I came from.”

“America” he repeated, seeing the puzzlement on Donal’s face, “No, I didn’t think you’d have heard of it. It seems like I was born about a thousand years after you; doesn’t make any sense, does it? Looks like I’ll be giving you history lessons for a while. But there’s too much to tell right now, so, since we’ve been introduced, Donal O’Connell, let’s have that coffee and wait till the sun comes up so we can see how the land lies and how much trouble we are in.”

“I look forward to enlightenment, but if it tastes a good as it smells, Ethan Edwards,” said Donal, sitting down beside the fire, offering his mug to the pot and relaxing at last, “At least we have a little bit of heaven already.”

They were still awake and deep in conversation as a pale morning sun peered over the jagged peaks rising behind them. They were in a clearing on a small wooded hill-top, and skirting the clearing was a tiny waterfall which leapt over tumbled rocks into a deep pool before forming a little stream and scampering down the hill in front of them. At the end of the clearing stood a towering yew, it’s huge branches spreading out like the naves of a cathedral. The other trees were also

familiar to Donal; mainly beech, their leaves green and in early bloom. Further along the valley a meadow ran down to a small lake. Beyond stretched darker forests towards the sunrise, and beyond them again the hills grew higher to the limits of their vision. The sky was pale blue and pristine, as if newly rinsed and after rain, and the air was vibrant with life.

Donal took a long satisfying breath. After the arid desert he had left behind so recently, this verdant land was like a healing balm to his sun-tormented eyes.

“Like Ireland,” he mused, “Maybe even greener”.

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” said Ethan, laughing.

“Kansas?” questioned Donal.

“Oh, in America, somewhere way out west,” said Ethan, gesturing vaguely, “Come on, Irish, and let’s check out this place.”

Donal followed his new companion; it was not in his nature or training to trust a stranger, and the stories he had heard during the night seemed scarcely believable, yet Ethan seemed as familiar and easy-going as a foster-brother.

In the centre of the clearing stood an upright rectangular stone, obviously set there for some purpose. About man-high, it was scarred and eroded, and covered with moss and ivy, though it’s margins were still keen. They circled it, Ethan running a hand over the rough surface.

“Feels kind of warm, doesn’t it?” he said, surprised.

Donal touched it respectfully.

“In my land there were many such stones. They were put in place before the first of our kin had ever set foot in Erin. None knew their reason, nor understood their mystery, but they were revered, and the land around them protected. See how rough and weathered it is, though the rock is hard; wind and rain have scoured it for many ages. It is indeed very ancient.”

They walked then to the brow of the hill, watching as the morning sun shimmered on the lake.

“Well, Donal, what do you think of it?” asked Ethan.

“A fair land,” said Donal, “It is good to look on, but I fear that tells us little of it’s true nature. Spring is a pleasant time in many lands.”

“Well, at least that water looks good enough to bathe in,” said Ethan, already shedding his boots, “I could sure do with a swim.”

Donal looked around; everything was calm, all was peaceful.

“Too peaceful,” he murmured, his soldier’s instincts making him wary, “If this is Eden, we had better find the serpent before he finds us. Beware of still waters; there could be dangers lurking below the surface.”

“Dangers? In a little pond like that? You’ve got to be kidding; I used to have a swimming pool that was bigger than that!” Ethan scoffed.

“We have company, my friend,” said Donal. Not far from their camp, at the base of a tall beech tree, sat a hooded man; a pony was tied up close beside him. As if realizing he had been seen he rose and approached them slowly, holding up his hands to indicate he presented no threat. He was of medium height and lean build, and dressed in grey shirt and breeches; over them was a darker grey cloak, and his boots were well-made but travel-worn and muddy. His steps were measured and confident. At a respectful distance he stopped.

“A bright morning to you, strangers,” he said, “I’ve been watching you through the night, and I am bewildered. You obviously don’t understand just how dangerous this country is. I could have taken your horses, your packs and your weapons, and then slit your throats without you noticing.”

“Would you like to try it now?” invited Ethan, clearly annoyed by the studied casualness of the newcomer.

“Against two mighty slayers such as you? After having already warned you?” The tone was only half-teasing. “While you were asleep, perhaps; but then this is such an intriguing mystery, I preferred to learn a little more about you, rather than just exploit the situation for personal gain.”

The stranger threw back his hood, revealing a young man, probably not yet twenty years old, with dark brown hair and quick, lively eyes.

“I’d just pitched camp last night - without a fire, you will note, strangers – when I felt the wind suddenly get up. A traveller learns to be wary of such things. The noise of the wind grew fiercer, building to thunder, and my horse became restless and skittish. I went to calm him, and when I came back I saw you two sleeping like babies in those bizarre and impractical clothes. As I was curious - always a vice I have suffered from - rather than leave you to your fate I thought I would remain to see what happened.”

“I also,” he smiled in mock apology, “eavesdropped on part of your conversation, and so I know your names, Ethan Edwards and Donal O’Connell. That is an unfair advantage, and no rudeness was intended, so I shall also introduce myself, if you will permit me. I am called Jac.” He bowed slightly.

“You seem as perplexed by these peculiar events as I am,” he continued, “These are strange times indeed; a brief and unlikely storm, and out of nowhere appear two tall strangers - almost like twins!”

Startled by this idea, Donal and Ethan looked again at each other. Donal noticed that Ethan had the same green eyes, and more startlingly, the same single silver lock as himself, although it was harder to see as the American’s hair was cut much shorter. His skin was also darker and his teeth perhaps whiter, but in all other ways, they might well have been just what Jac said – twins.

“I didn’t realize you were such a good-looking fella,” said Ethan.

Donal approached him, and they stood face to face. Their eyes were at the same level. Ethan stretched out his arms, and Donal did likewise; their fingertips met exactly. Jac came forward and took, first Donal’s hand, then Ethan’s. He inspected them closely for a moment, then nodded.

“Your palm-prints are also most alike,” he mused.

Donal drew his hand away and regarded the stranger with suspicion.

“Strange times, you say; is it not also very strange that you happened to be here just at this time? It seems an empty country,” he said.

“It may not be co-incidence,” Jac replied, “but be assured it was none of my doing. This is dangerous country, very dangerous, and my intention had been to slip as quietly as a mouse through these hills, not cause a ruckus to turn every unfriendly eye towards us. We should leave as soon as we can.”

He turned to Ethan; “You will have to forego your swim, my friend, this is not a good place to stay too long.”

“Why should we go with you?” said Donal, suspicious of the young man’s presumption.

“Because you don’t know where you are and you don’t know where you are going, because you have no-one else to guide you, and because the three of us together just might have a decent chance of surviving,” he replied.

Ethan waved a hand at their surroundings.

“It seems peaceable enough,” he said, “Say, Donal, what if this is uncharted territory; we could stake a claim - there could be gold in them thar hills.”

“As ever, looks may be misleading,” said Jac, “There are shrikes in the forest. I had been worried that they were on my track, so I was very careful - at least until meeting you two. I now believe that they had another, more urgent tryst to attend - with yourselves. They have no woodcraft, but the smoke from your fire will have been seen for many miles around, and by many unfriendly eyes.”

Ethan looked reflexly upwards, and grimaced at the tell-tale streak of blue smoke spiralling directly above them high into the sky.

“Yeah,” he said apologetically, “But it’s not all my fault; I didn’t know we’d be hiding out, and anyway, they’d have heard Donal’s snoring for miles around as well. I think we should go with him, Donal; it’s not as if we have any other offers, and if we don’t like it we can always split and go our own way.”

“I would first like to know where we are, and where you are taking us,” said Donal.

As Jac began to answer his eyes fell on the standing stone.

“A summoning-stone,” he whispered, in a surprised tone, “I did not know there were any of them so far south.”

He walked over to the stone and placed his hand reverently on it’s rutted surface.

“And it is still warm!” he exclaimed, “This could explain much of what has happened.”

“What the heck is a summoning-stone? And what exactly does it explain?” demanded Ethan.

“Summoning-stones act as foci for the earthpower. No-one knows how they were created; some suggest they may even be a natural phenomenon, though I do not consider this likely. Great works of magic can be performed using them – that is obviously how you have been summoned from your own world. We now know how you came to be here, but not why.”

“Look,” he continued, rubbing gently with his sleeve at the surface of the stone. Ethan peered closer and saw an intricately carved aperture, shaped like a bird in flight, etched deeply in the rock. Jac stood back for a moment in deep thought, then clapped his hands as if suddenly understanding something and ran around to the far side of the stone, a curious Ethan following. There Jac inspected the surface closely before pulling aside some overgrowing ivy to reveal a similar carving, this time slightly lower down the stone.

“Just as I suspected,” he said with delight, “Ethan, look again.”

Ethan bent down, squinting into the aperture. As he did so a flash of light burned brightly into his eye and he stepped back with a cry of pain.

“What happened -;” Jac’s concerned enquiry was interrupted as he and Ethan quickly understood. On the bronzed trunk of the ancient yew which stood directly behind the Summoning Stone, at the rear of the glade, a golden silhouette of a bird in flight appeared, seeming to flutter and swoop, as if alive, on the unevenly grooved red-brown bark.

“The sun must be shining directly though the carving; and only once in the year would it have the exact angle to do so,” said Jac, his tone hushed with admiration, “The stone must have been placed and the aperture cut with great craft and precision. And did they mean the image to appear on the yew? If so, the yew must also be ancient indeed, far more so than it seems. But why? And why now, when you two suddenly appear? What can it mean?” he said, looking at Ethan

appraisingly.

“Ethan, Jac!” Donal’s voice broke in, the tone compelling and urgent, “Stay out of sight!”

Alarmed, Ethan and Jac edged to the corner of the stone and carefully peered around. At the far end of the clearing the light had begun to shimmer and warp, the trees behind becoming gradually obscured. Donal stood alone on the grass in front of this disturbance; Ethan thought the big man suddenly looked small and vulnerable. Slowly a shape appeared within the shimmering, moment by moment

forming into a proud, aquiline face, with blood-red lips curled in a mirthless smile, black fierce eye-brows and a beard as dark as a forest, a sharp contrast to the hairless scalp.

The vision regarded Donal for a long minute, inspecting him up and down, then looked around, dark eyes piercing each corner of the clearing. Ethan and Jac ducked momentarily behind the stone, then looked again as the vision began to speak, the tone deep and rich with disdain.

“So, you are the warrior. I had not expected the old fool to try again. Had he not learned enough from his last mistake? He must truly have become desperate while he skulked in his island hideaway. At least now he clearly understands the inevitability of his defeat and of our triumph and dominion. You look strong enough, for sure, but I doubt if you will be strong enough to pass the test. I have arranged a welcome for you.”

“Who are you, and what do you want of me?” shouted Donal, running forward with his sword drawn defiantly, but the shape whirled into a cloud and disappeared in an instant, and, as if a signal had been given, a series of ugly, excited howls came from the forest, still some distance away, but with an unmistakable threat that made Ethan shiver. What had seemed so pleasant only a few seconds ago now seemed full of menace, full of hidden danger. What kind of hellish place had they been brought to?

“Shrikes,” Jac answered their unspoken question, “They move quickly and are close behind. I had thought they were following me, but obviously they were coming to this glade - lucky for you they chased me here first, otherwise I would have passed far to the north and they would have come upon you in the night; you would have been caught unawares and your bare bones would surely be lying on the grass as we speak. We have no time for stories now,” Jac was impatient, “Let us leave at once and I will tell you more as we ride.”

They left the clearing hurriedly by a small path which led further into the hills.

“What manner of creatures are these shrikes you speak of?” asked Donal, as they rode at a fast trot.

“Like wolves,” said Jac, “But bigger and fiercer; they are bred to kill and maim and their breeding has been very skilled.”

“Why do they threaten us?” asked Donal again; in all his travels he had never encountered such a thing.

“Any living creature they will kill; any, that is, that they can overcome. But they may not find us such easy prey, as long as there are not too many of them. There may be only two, as their master was apparently only expecting them to have to deal with one dazed and confused warrior. Now that there are three of us, we might have a chance – if there really are only two of them,” Jac repeated, then flashed a wicked smile, “Ethan looks a bit soft, but I would wager that you, Donal, from the way you carry yourself, are a hardy and experienced soldier. If we

encounter them, you can ask the shrikes their purpose yourself, if you can find the time while you are fighting for your life. If we do encounter them, remember, remember at all times that they have only one vulnerable spot; the back of the neck, under the crest. Not hard to hit - if you can avoid their jaws. Whatever they are, whatever fell intention drives them, we should shun them if we can.”

“And who was that guy that spoke to Donal back there? He was up to no good, I’ll bet,” said Ethan.

“It’s a shame he didn’t stay a bit longer, so you could have asked him yourself, isn’t it?” answered Jac. He spurred forward, ending the conversation, and Donal and Ethan looked at each other.

“Sounds like we should shoot first and ask questions afterwards. These shrikes sound real charming, real cuddly little guys; I can’t wait to meet ’em,” said Ethan.

“We must watch our backs; it’s a new world, Ethan,” said Donal, “A new world where something could happen at any time.”

As they followed Jac through an undergrowth of tall ferns and thorny brambles Donal wondered about the vision that had appeared to him. In the world from which he had come, to talk of such an apparition would have seen him branded as a heretic, or even worse, locked away forever as a madman. Yet in this new world, such bizarre things seemed almost normal, and Ethan and Jac had also seen it, yet they had accepted it without any skepticism or disbelief of their own senses. As a boy, what now seemed like centuries ago, in the gentle mist-enshrouded plains of Royal Meath, Donal had longed, beyond all imagining, beyond all hope, for adventure; and his wish had come true, all too true and all too often, on the Crusades, where his childhood dream had become an arid and bloody nightmare.

And now it appeared that this wish was to be granted all over again, long past the time that his heart’s desire had become simply the company of friends, the stars in the sky and the promise of a lover’s touch. It seemed that adventure would not easily let him go.

After riding for an hour, they turned off the path, Jac leading them more slowly and carefully through a densely overgrown part of the forest. Now and then he would stop and listen, then call them on. At noon they stopped in a small clearing, and shared a meal from Ethan’s pack.

“Cold beans and no coffee,” said Ethan. “This could be hell after all.”

“We dare not light any more fires; remember the trouble the last one caused us,” Jac reminded him.

“Perhaps you could now tell us where we are,” asked Donal, seated with his back to a tree, still watchful, his sword close at hand.

“You rest on the Hills of Absalom; once a land where men travelled freely and in safety, but now a dangerous and uncertain place. To the east is the land of Kiris and to the north the Glass Mountains. South is the desert, which stretches in a great curve both east and west, and beyond that.... beyond that we do not go. We travel north-west, across the western rim of the mountains towards the sea,” he finished firmly.

“Well, of course, that makes everything quite clear,” said Ethan.

“And why were you travelling in these lands, Jac, since you say they are so dangerous?” said Donal.

“I am going home, Donal,” said Jac softly, his eyes shining and boyish, his casual air all at once shed like a cloak, “I have been away for seven years and now I am returning to my home and my family; and neither shrikes nor forests nor deserts, nor wind nor storm nor sea shall deny me.”

They found a beaten path which they followed for the rest of the day, their guide stopping less often and seemingly more relaxed. As they continued in a westerly direction the forest began to change in character, dark green conifers appearing amid the beeches and oaks. Donal took some pine needles and crushed them between his palms, delighting in their fragrance. They stopped for the night by a tiny stream; the freshness of the water more than made up for the bother of the almost invisible flies which hovered over it’s surface, as these disappeared quickly as soon as the sun went down. Jac now permitted them the smallest fire and they sat down to a more congenial supper.

“Let us share the night watch,” he said, “And sleep with our weapons handy. I believe we have eluded the shrikes for the moment, but they travel quickly, and there are other perils in these forests. We need to be ready for fight or flight at a moment’s notice, whichever is more prudent.”

“I’ll go first,” said Ethan, “This is a whole new deal to me and I’d rather get it over with. But I’m bound to say that, despite all the bother and being hunted and chased and whatever, now that I think of it, I haven’t felt so good in years.”

“Which is undoubtedly due to the invigorating company you keep,” said Jac.

Donal slowly drifted off to sleep beneath the finely woven blanket Ethan had given him. As he reflected with mild surprise on his complete lack of weariness at the end of what should have been an exhausting, frightening day, his last sight was of Ethan looking up at the stars, humming a tune. Donal strained to make out the words.

“Round her neck she wore a yellow ribbon,” sang Ethan softly.