[COMPLETED] The Vixen and The Thief

Chapter 2

Praying that her eyes deceived her, Béibhinn tumbled off the pony, running across the springy turf to the fallen man.

On approach she saw that it was not Ruadhán. But the realisation did little to lessen her terror. For the curly haired man she also recognised. 

"Gearóid!" she cried, getting no response.

An experienced warrior who often rode with her father. Himself the father of her dear friends. He had gone with Ruadhán this morning, as full of merry jokes as ever, and now....

 Béibhinn knelt on the sodden earth, the smell of mouldering damp rising from the wood.

A Mhúire Máthair, don't let him be dead...

There was no blood, and his eyes were closed. In her experience death usually left the eyes open.

B'fheidir..perhaps...Yes! Thanks be to God..

His heart was still beating faintly. but now what could she do? In dismay she realised thaat  she could not stay. if help was to be summoned she would have to fetch it.

"Cabhair!" she shouted, her voice sinking into the dripping blanket of woods.

Useless.

She cried out agin, voice rising almost to a scream.

If Ruadhán was but nearby. But what if he too was inured? Dying? Dea -  

Once more Béibhinn cried aloud, fury and fear mingling into a wail. 

No reply came but the echo of her own voice.

A rustle between the trees. She started up in fear. Wolves!  But no - her pony yet remained calm. A deer perhaps. Or a fox. Oh that it  was but a fox...Then flashing back into ther mind came the memory of the fleeing riders, riding in a direction that led only to wilderness. 

The shadow of his name slid over her thought, like the dark hulk of mist veiled mountain.

An Beitheach.

Béibhinn ran back to her grazing pony, vaulting onto his damp back. The startled animal sprang forward and with leg and voice she sped his flight back. Home to summon help. She glanced back through the rain at the rapidly receeding forest edge.

Just hope no wolves came.

****

The cattle were in for the night by the time she cantered up the hill to the ramparts of her family's fort, but the gates were yet open.

"A Bhéibhinn!"   as she scrambled off at the entrance to the ring of dwellings a dark haired boy hailed her. Odhrán, her cousin.

"Where have your wanderings led you?" he said, "Your Mham seeks you this last age. As cross as a bag of weasels she is!"  His freckled face lit with a grin.

"Quickly!" ordered Béibhinn, ignoring his words, " Gather everyone that you can find. Gearóid lies by the edge of the forest. Just below where the river comes out and I know not if he be alive or dead." her words were all tumbling together.

Odhrán looked stunned. "What happened?" 

If she could but keep her words apart and make all clear. There was no time to spare in repeating. "Of Ruadhán there is neither sight nor sound. Quickly Odhrán! Ye must recover Gearóid before the wolves find him. I believe they were attacked."

"By whom?" he demanded.

Béibhinn's face set hard. "An Beitheach." she spat.

With that she ran on, leaving him to see to the rescue. Of all her cousins he was the finest hunter, knowing the forests far better than even she herself did.

Her pony she abandoned as she ran across the turf, leaving him dash back to his companions, bridle swinging.

Smacking aside the hide curtain, she barged into her own dwelling; the smokey warmth falling about her like a cloak after the chill damp of outside. Several of her siblings were within, looking up in surprise at her violent entry. Uncail Fiach also, and Mham, and Aunt Gobnait, the latter two occupied by a great black pot over the central fire which emitted a wonderful smell.

Mham turned, fair hair swishing. Her keen-featured face bent in a frown, her mouth opening for  rebuke. But Béibhinn burst into the story, her own words trampling over those of her family, until they gave up and listened to her instead. Alarmed perhaps, by her dishevelled appearance. By the time she had finished, Uncail Fiach had risen to his feet, his face hard. Despite the dimness Béibhinn could tell that her Mham had gone very pale; whispering prayers that became progressively more tearful as Uncail Fiach, without pause for pleasantries, started firing questions.

"Where were these horsemen Béibhinn? And what did they look like?" he demanded, voice blade-sharp with urgency. "How many were they in number?"

"The mist left it difficult to tell," she replied, "I should say about seven or so in number. They rode into the forest towards Sliabh na bhFian." Uncail's frown deepened as she said their direction. But he pressed swiftly on with his questions.

"Where is Gearóid now? Was he much hurt?"

"I know not. I saw no blood - though that indicates little,"

Uncail Fiach nodded agreement.

"Odhrán has gathered some of the others to seek him. By now I hope they are well there."

" 'Maith agat Béibhinn, I shall go after him," said Uncail Fiach, turning towards the door.

"A Uncail!" squeaked her sister Bridghid, "What if An Beitheach should find you all?"

Their uncle stopped at the entry, hand moving to the knife at his belt. "Then the lives of all about here shall become peaceful again," he said, "But I do not think that he is like to come this way. Not if he has done what I well believe.  Béibhinn - you saw not sign of Ruadhán?"

Béibhinn shook her head slowly, a strange nubness settling in her chest as Uncail Fiach turned and left. To think that it was so short a time since she had raced over the hills with thought for nothing. Yet here now grief had fallen, faster than the coming of a winter night. With Mother and Aintín Gobnait occupied with comfort of the younger ones, the dinner began to make burning noises. She wove between her distracted sisters to stir it. As they passed her their  questions and fears Béibhinn answered  without hearing them. He whole mind bending before God now, asking - nay, begging, that Ruadhán and Gearóid might return. And return alive.

Well, seo dhuit.

This is in fact only half of chapter two, but I can't type it all up tonight!  I apologise for the standard of the writing and interactions between characters (i.e. rushed and under cooked!) but you have the pleasure of  the first draft in its unedited glory!

Heidi