Dark Burden

Scene 1

Donahue stared past his bloody hand at Boyne. Wriggling, fighting on the ground, the lump of a teenager took his last breath.

Beside his fallen comrade, Girvin scrambled backwards to get on his feet. "Murderer!" The bully only took a few more frantic steps before he, too, collapsed to the dirt to take his last breath.

In the darkness of night, Donahue couldn't tell how death had ensnared the two assailants. On the outskirts of the village, no one else had seen them attack him. No one else had witnessed their deaths.

He shook his left hand. Blood—his blood—splattered to the ground. The knife they had used lay useless beside Boyne.

He hadn't made it to the village well. Even the night threatened him. While everyone else slept peacefully in their cottages, these two idiots had lingered in the shadows just for him. Why hadn't they just left him alone? Why did the villagers always push him to hurt others?

He stepped back from the two corpses.

Self-defense, he reminded himself. The silent figures disagreed. A single thought, a single wish that had crossed his mind, had killed them. He had done this.

Confusion, fear ransacked his mind. He took another step. Something hit the back of his ankle. Turning, he watched the water bucket roll away in protest of his silent retreat from his own actions.

He lifted the pail. Blood trickled down his cuts to fill the wooden vessel.

What was the point?

He threw the bucket as hard as he could. As it slammed into a tree, a large pop announced its demise.

Yes, break, he thought. Everything else was broken.

His mother lay dying at home. His father had fled at the first sign of illness. His siblings had all been taken to safety in case it was the plague. Not him. Three years ago, when he was only ten years old, Donahue had been abandoned.

His family didn't want him. No craftsman would accept him. Staring at the lifeless forms, he knew the village wouldn't stand his existence any longer.

The brown locks and gentle smile of his mother begged him to stay. The pain in his left hand screamed otherwise.

He ran.

He broke into the only stable, saddled Rooney, and rode south into the moonlit forest. For two days he traveled through the thick woods and to the edge of the rocky prairie before the horse weakened.

As the first rays of dawn crested the horizon, he dismounted near a brook winding through the last cluster of evergreens. Rooney stretched his long neck to the cool water and enjoyed the reprise. He quenched his thirst then shook his reddish mane in the summer breeze. Kneeling, the beast finally gave in to the strain of running so long with minimal breaks.

Donahue dipped his left hand in the water. The wound had already clotted. Without bandages, he thought it would be worse. As the current washed away the dried blood, he saw the skin had completely healed.

He cupped his hands to take a few sips. The cool liquid washed over his cracked lips and trickled down his pale shirt.

With a deep breath, he considered Rooney's state. If nothing else, the villagers would track him for the horse. Resting in the moist ground, the beast appeared content.

The thought of leaving him behind brought a sense of relief. For once, he could do the right thing.

He rose to look for berries or anything edible. Rooney would be fine. He could stop to graze on his way home. Donahue, however, had nothing in sight. He scrapped up a few pine needles. The sweet sap wasn't much, but at least he had something to chew.