Returning to Roots

Taken

   Braonan had been hearing about the evil Romans who wanted to take their land for months now, but his parents always hushed when they realised that he was listening. They were odd that way. So, when the day came that his parents told him that he was to go with the Romans, he was confused. Weren't they deamhans who spoke in strange tongues and slaughtered children and defiled nature? Was that who his athair and màthair wanted him to follow? Wanted Corraidhin to follow? Athair said that they'd lost the war and had to fight a new battle now. This didn't make any sense to him. They were fighting for their enemies because they'd lost?

Whether it made sense or not, it was still happening. The deamhans came, looking oddly human-like, if a little less hairy and encased in a bit more metal, to take them away. They shouted in a slippery sounding language, truly designed for deamhans, while a line of translators communicated roughly their meaning. They wanted the men and older boys to follow them. Those with horses were to bring their steeds with them. The sun was close to setting and shone in their eyes as they turned to the west. Braonan took a deep breath of cooling forest air to calm himself, the scent of birch trees and decaying leaves grounding him.

Athair had a horse and Corraidhin rode with him. He'd offered to let Braonan ride while he walked, but he could never do that to his father. And besides, he greatly preferred to move under his own power. Something about relinquishing control to another bothered him, and he could never control an animal the way his athair could. Their mare Tierney liked him well enough, better than most horses, but was quite clear about who was in control when he rode. He could hear màthair weeping when they left. It disturbed him. Màthair never cried. He even half believed the stories of her restraining from releasing a single tear or scream during his birth.

Could their departure truly be more painful than a birth, or more frightening than the death which could so easily follow one? He didn't understand until he asked his athair how long they would be gone. Athair asked a deamhan who said that military service was 25 winters and that they were not allowed to work in their village of origin during that time. Braonan didn't even realise that he'd stopped in his tracks until athair called for him. Could he have misheard through the deamhan's oily accent? Surely they wouldn't keep him from home for so long, would they? He had not yet even lived 25 winters, that was more than twice his bràthair's lifetime thus far! Would he really not see his màthair before becoming a man? He was only 14 winters, his brother 12. He must have misheard.

As he watched the sickle moon rise over the trees, he questioned his athair again. The answer was the same. 25 winters before he could return home. He wanted to turn and run back right then and there, away from the pity in his father's eyes. He wanted to comfort màthair and forget about it all. He looked at his brother's sleeping form in the saddle and knew that it would remain a wish. If it was difficult to leave màthair at home, it would be twice as painful to abandon his athair and bràthair beag. He looked around him at his clansmen, his bràithrean. As long as he had them, he would be fine.

He wouldn't have them for long, but he didn't know that yet. After a few days of walking, Braonan was almost ready to ride with Corraidhin before they came to a place where he'd only come once before. The sea. He'd come to the coast once when his cousin married into clan Jardine. He didn't think that this was the same stretch of coast. He wondered if she too was crying in her husband's absence. One big difference was the enormous wooden structures just off the shore. They looked as if they could fit fifty men easily, and there were two of them. He stood in awe of them, hardly noticing the morning sun driving the chill from his back.

Athair guffawed when he asked what the structures were. When he'd regained his wind, he claimed that they were boats. Braonan attempted to reconcile the floating buildings before him with the two-person canoe he'd ridden in at the wedding. Could one really apply the same word to two such vastly different things? He remembered the unstable swaying of the canoe and the dizziness of returning to land after. Would these be the same? He doubted it, these looked much more stable. Surely not even the sea could cause them to sway beneath his feet.