No Plan of Gods

A Fighting Man: Part One

It was illogical to bet against him. Six foot ten, nineteen stone, unbeaten. Cillian had heard rumors that he'd been beaten in the past, but people tend to spin stories solely to hear the sound of their own voices. He looked at him now, towering over his group on the opposite side of the sheep pen. His head was like a boulder, his chin low-set and undoubtedly hard as granite. It had to be illogical to bet against him. A complete and utter waste of money. But what if he won? Killian thought. What if?

There were a few dozen men who'd turned out to the contest, excluding the four fighters from each of the two clans. A generous turnout, considering this particular farm was in the arse-end of nowhere. He'd traveled to Strabane a few weeks ago, a riverside village up north. His townsmen were beaten brutally, all four of them, and Killian still hadn't shaken the feeling of losing his last few pence. It felt like a kick in the gut. With a steel-toed boot.

Truth be told, he had wrestled with the idea of galloping all the way here, knowing he had a moral duty to bet on his own village folk. The miserable bastards couldn't hit a barn door with a rifle, never mind hit the evasive chin of a skilled boxer.

The men were gathered around an old wooden stable. It rattled and shuttered even in the calm of the morning. No man fancied stepping under its roof, even with the biting tailwind whipping around them. Killian had helped drag a workbench from the farmhouse which loomed up the road, and now the bookie sketched bets on yellowing paper and tumbled coins frantically as the final two fighters wrapped their hands in old leather straps. The sheep were rounded out of the pen and led up the road by the farmer, whose pockets drooped with the weight of the coins the clans had donated to him. A small, trampled dirt square lined with a twisting barbed fence, the makeshift ring had already caused a dire injury to one of Cillian's own. Raymond, who Cillian had urged not to fight solely based on his age, had caught a right hook square on the chin and fell face forward into the wire. He was unconscious for a few minutes, so the realization that he'd lost sight in his left eye had only dawned as he was being carried up the road towards the farmhouse. He was too old. Cillian nodded. Too old. He looked at his own village man, Paul, who'd been matched up with John Donaghey. You're getting old too, Paul, aren't you? He watched as Louis, sitting on the grass as his hands were strapped, grunted to his feet with difficulty.

'Final bets now', Conor nudged him, nodding towards the workbench.

'I can't call this one', Cillian said.

'That man there, John Donaghey, hasn't hit the deck in his life. Best fighter I've seen in many-a-year'.

Many-a-year, Killian thought. Many-a-year, as if you've seen more than 3 fights in your life.

'I can't bet on the other clan.' Killian looked around. The fighters were bareback now and stretching their arms.

'I did', Conor said, smiling.

'Is that right?' A gruff voice from behind the boys. They turned and met eyes with Christopher, whose face was swollen and ripped to shreds. Just an hour prior, Christopher had had to wrestle himself from the tangle of wire after a twenty-minute beating. He looked at Conor, up and down, and laughed. 'I'll make sure the other fellas know of this.' He turned around and began towards the sheep pen. 'Fucking little idiot.'

Conor shrugged, not a care in the world. 'The way he saw it, money was money. See how angry they'd be with him once he's buying the rounds in the tavern later.'

Cillian rushed towards the workbench, pushing past the group of men who were now looking at the pen as the fighters stepped inside. 'John Donaghey to win', he pushed a handful of coins towards the bookie, some rolling off the table.

'Hmmph. A ballsy move. Betting against your own man.'

'No need for the pep talk. All on John'.

The bookie shook his head, smiling, and passed Cillian an old crumpled strip of paper. Cillian rolled it tightly into a ball and placed it in his chest pocket.

The men herded around the pen in a wide circle. Big John Donaghey looked calm, rolling his neck and loosening out his freakish jaw. Cillian's fellow village man stood across the pen from him, and his half of the group were shouting words of encouragement. He was at least four inches shorter, and a hell of a lot lighter. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Conor was by Killian's side again, leaning into him. 'He's shitting himself, our Paul.'

'Looks that way.'

'Which way did you bet then?'

'The wrong way, apparently'.

Conor tutted. 'See how wrong it feels when you've a sack of coins slung over your shoulder in a few minutes.'

A young, skinny man emerged from the crowd and shushed the commotion. He squeezed into the sheep pen, adding another small rip to the myriad of holes on his flannel shirt. 'Our final scrap this afternoon, folks. Paul O'Neill, against the unbeaten Big John Donaghey.' Unbeaten. Let's keep it that way, you big ugly bastard.

'Fight away, gentlemen'. The young man backed away and exited the pen, this time opting to leap over the barbed wire.

Paul held his hands high, guarding his chin, and kept to the outer portions of the confined space. Big John marched forward, slowly, an intense focus in his eye. The behemoth threw a rapid jab, which seemed disproportionately fast for a man of his stature, but Paul slipped his head to the side and avoided it.

'Keep dodging, Paul, that's it!' Frantic voices from the crowd.

'Keep your head moving. Hands up!

From the other clan, they were calm and composed, watching on knowingly. They knew all it takes is one shot and had absolute confidence in their man to deliver it. 'Pressure John', one of his men said calmly. 'The opening will come'. It better come, or I'll have a lot of explaining to do, Killian thought.

John began forward, lining up a looping right hand, but Paul read it like a book, ducking under and pivoting away into space.

'Yes, Paul! Three or four misses and he'll be blowing out of his arse'.

'He'll tire soon Paul!'

John stepped forward again, his icy eyes fixed on the smaller man, this time throwing a winding uppercut that whooshed through empty air, and Paul ripped two quick punches to his body. It sounded like a pathetic mallet hitting a heavy wooden beam, and Big John smiled, unphased. Conor stepped forward. 'Again, Paul, again!'

Paul ducked down again, zoning in on John's abdomen, but the giant had read his move. He fired another uppercut, perfectly timed, and it connected on Paul's chin with a dull thud. Paul flopped back onto the ground, dazed. Conor slapped Killian on the back, constricting his urge to celebrate. But it wasn't over. Paul scrambled to his feet, his legs flailing for balance like a newborn deer. Big John, who'd begun to make his way out of the pen, looked back.

'One more shot, John! He's ripe for the taking!'

Big John was breathing hard now. Long, labored breaths. He swore he never used to get this tired. Used to fight for an hour without breaking a sweat. But that was years ago.

Paul's head seemed to clear, and he was back on the periphery of the ring, swaying left and right, avoiding the oncoming cannons that John was throwing at him. Cillian looked towards the other clan, and there was some uneasy movement and muttering now beginning to brew. I knew it. Why didn't I just follow my gut? He's knackered!

For the first time in the fight, John was now in retreat, looking for a break. But Paul wasn't willing to give him one. The smaller man walked him back against the barbed wire, right into the corner, and let a straight right-hand whisp through the air. It caught John clean on the chin, his flustered face snapping back and sending him onto the wire. He was on all fours, his vision blurry and ears ringing, and blood seeping from the wire marks on his back. The scrawny, flannel-shirted man shouted a ten-count over the crowd, and John failed to rise to his feet, tumbling forward onto the dirt. Cillian closed his eyes, sighing.