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    River God: An Irish historical romance
    River God: An Irish historical romance
    River God: An Irish historical romance
    Ebook345 pages5 hours

    River God: An Irish historical romance

    By Charles G. Dyer

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    About this ebook

    Life for Irish village people during the turbulent early 11th century is not easy for anyone. Against the backdrop of King Brian Boru's conquest of Ireland, it is even harder for a boy that is branded a fool. The blacksmith's son, Balor is one such fool. His father is ashamed of him and despises him for being a weakling. His mother is too busy caring for and spoiling his frail younger sister to see to his needs. His sister is a nasty malicious girl who adds to his misery.

    Without parental or sibling support, Balor finds solace swimming in the river.

    From a distance, the boy Balor falls in love with Fee, the daughter of a woodcutter and a healer. Fee notices him in the river. In her childish games, she thinks of him as a river god, but she doesn't encourage the smitten boy.

    While suffering abuse from village bullies, Balor endures his unrequited love of Fee. Will he succeed in winning her heart?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles G. Dyer
    Release dateAug 19, 2013
    ISBN9781301741526
    River God: An Irish historical romance
    Author

    Charles G. Dyer

    Charles Dyer is a consulting engineer, former senior lecturer and former technical magazine editor. He creates 3D models to help with visualisation and realism in his writing.

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      Book preview

      River God - Charles G. Dyer

      RIVER GOD

      An Irish historical romance

      Charles G. Dyer

      Copyright © 2013 Charles G. Dyer

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN: 9781301741526

      Smashwords Edition

      License

      Thank you for purchasing this book. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

      It would be greatly appreciated if you could post a review on the site where you purchased this book. If you have any comments about this book, good or bad, you can write to me at cgd@telkomsa.net.

      Contents

      Chapter_One

      Chapter_Two

      Chapter_Three

      Chapter_Four

      Chapter_Five

      Chapter_Six

      Chapter_Seven

      Chapter_Eight

      Chapter_Nine

      Chapter_Ten

      Chapter_Eleven

      Chapter_Twelve

      Chapter_Thirteen

      Chapter_Fourteen

      Chapter_Fifteen

      Chapter_Sixteen

      Chapter_Seventeen

      Chapter_Eighteen

      Chapter_Nineteen

      Chapter_Twenty

      Chapter_Twenty_One

      Chapter_Twenty_Two

      Glossary

      ABOUT_THE_AUTHOR

      Chapter One

      Most villagers regarded him as a fool but an adept swimmer; however, none of them could have foreseen what passion would lead him to do with that talent. His chosen playground was the deep water of the river that formed the western border of the village. Beyond the river were the common lands of a vast ancient forest where noble oaks reigned supreme. From the age of five he had been swimming for a few hours every day. To avoid torment, he swam, usually against the flow and often under water.

      The name with which his parents had unwittingly cursed him did not help to ease his existence. Balor was an unfortunate choice because of its legendary associations with evil. His blacksmith father had simply liked the sound of it and its royal connection. He knew nothing of the unpleasant legends of the one-eyed king of the Fomorians whose name he had given to his son.

      Balor was determined to prove his worth. He often silently swore to himself while he swam. One day, I'll show them all that I'm not a fool. He saw swimming as a means to that end. Quite how, he was not certain. He convinced himself that it was a valuable exercise and worked hard at improving his ability.

      During the summer of his sixth year, about a moon before the festival of Lugnasad, Balor had his first encounter with the village bullies. He had been swimming for a few moons and had finally toned his little muscles enough to be able to hold his own against the current for a short while. This small victory was about to be crushed into insignificance.

      Master Doran was a freeman who held a considerable acreage of wheat and had four sons. These boys were an inseparable scourge of the village. They waylaid Balor on his way home from the water mill where he had left the river. Their father's wheat fields began at the river and filled most of the land eastwards towards the palisaded enclosure of the clan's chief.

      Ho there, sirrah! Who are you and what are you doing on our father's lands? The eldest Doran boy loomed a head taller than Balor as he challenged him on the wheel-rutted track that snaked through the land from the mill to the chief's fortified compound. Pastures to the north and wheat to the south flanked the road.

      Nothing, I was passing through from the river. I am the blacksmith's son. My name is Balor Larkin. Balor said, thinking that there was nothing amiss. The boys crowded around him but still they did not seem to pose any threat.

      The fine whisper of rain glistened like dew drops on their brats. Balor's damp red leine was the only garment he wore. The soft donkey-grey mud of the road squelched between his toes as he turned to look at each of the boys. Around them, the wheat bowed its deference to the weather. The village buildings seemed more distant behind the pale grey gauzy vapours. The smell of wet grass mingled with fresh cattle and horse dung and the mustiness of settled dust.

      Stealing our grain he was, the little cretin, said the youngest and gave him a shove from behind. A fine spray of water loosed itself from his gleaming black hair as Balor stumbled into Seamus Doran, the eldest and turned to face his accuser.

      I was not stealing. The unsuspecting small boy retorted indignantly.

      Seamus was five years older than Balor and considerably better built. He smacked the back of Balor's head. Begorra, are you calling Uilleam a liar? He shouted angrily.

      Rubbing his smarting head, Balor turned to face Seamus and said, Nay but he's mistaken.

      Ha! The fool's only fit to mind mice at crossroads. Little Uilleam smirked and brought his knee up sharply against Balor's backside. The shocking pain of the cowardly blow brought tears to Balor's eyes.

      Nay, Balor of the baleful eye. Seamus pulled his lower lids down and rolled his eyes. You are mistaken and you are trespassing. His brothers laughed at the ugly face he made.

      Griogair and Cira each thumped opposite arms at the same time and lamed Balor. Seamus punched him in the stomach and Uilleam attacked his kidneys. The punches rained on the boy in quick succession before he sank to the muddy ground in tearful confusion. The bullies laughed coarsely and kicked him a few more times before leaving him.

      A bloody nose and two black eyes decorated his tear-stained face as he stumbled through the door of his home. Mistress Deidra Larkin was grooming his sister's dull brown hair. She looked up when Balor entered the house. Just look at the filth on your leine. She shrieked. Count yourself lucky that your clothes aren't torn. You dreadful little hooligan.

      His sister glanced sideways at him and sniggered behind a fat dimpled hand. The lack of concern or sympathy from both mother and sister stunned Balor and cut deeply. He taciturnly bemoaned his plight as he studied his battered face in his mother's polished silver hand mirror.

      The frequent illnesses that Balor's sister Temair suffered had prevented her from being a companion. Born prematurely a year and a half after him, she had required years of constant attention to survive. Although Balor was a tiny infant and a small child, his mother had neglected him for the weaker baby. From the moment he could walk Deidra Larkin told him. Go and play Balor. I've no time to talk to you.

      Whether or not she needed to spend as much time as she did nursing Temair's ailments is debatable. Deidra had a nervous disposition and she was petrified that Temair would die, and that she would be blamed. This fear was fed by the reality that so many other children in the village had not survived their infancy.

      Unable to understand why the boy was not a miniature replica of him, Gobban Larkin accused Deidra of adultery. Where did this runt come from if it weren't from your whoring? He couldn't have come from my loins to be sure.

      These allegations were never made public but the children heard them. The heavy boned and broad shouldered blacksmith knew in his heart that his charge was false. He also did not relish hurting his wife but his masculine pride had suffered severely when he came to believe that his son would never live up to his expectations. His son was just the kind of weak and placid fellow that he had despised as a boy and continued to detest as a man.

      The best thing Master Larkin ever had to say about the boy was not much better. He's always in the field when luck's on the road. He said it often, almost as often as Balor's name was mentioned in his presence. Most folk knew better than to talk about Balor in front of Gobban.

      The affection that Deidra lavished on Temair contrasted sharply with her treatment of Balor. In her heart, she would have liked to hold him to her bosom and nurture him. However, her fear of her husband and his attitude towards their son hardened her against the boy. She convinced herself that Gobban would punish her if she showed weakness by coddling Balor. Rather than compromise with her emotions, she opted to shut him out all together.

      At dinner, his father ate in glowering silence. Balor knew better than to speak unless spoken to and he waited in vain for an invitation to tell his sad tale. Pushing his empty trencher aside, Master Gobban Larkin smoothed his moustache, got up and stroked Temair's hair. Sleep well my little angel, he said and went out to the public house. Balor was sure that his injuries had not been noticed.

      Lying miserably on his lumpy horsehair filled pallet, sleep came in short churning waves. Balor was uncertain whether his thoughts were those of dreams or the restless interludes of self-commiseration that filled the night. He told himself that he could have beaten the Dorans and he acted out different scenarios in his mind. The bullies were beaten to senselessness and he walked away unharmed. Moments later, the scene was revisited and he was battered into a bloody pulp.

      When at last the dawn interrupted this medley of horrors, Balor's mind was more bruised than his body. The thought that he had entertained such violent ideas was as repugnant to him as the punishment he had suffered. He could not know then that at least part of the dreams would prove prophetic and that one day he would give Uilleam Doran his just desserts.

      Sundays were a family day when Gobban, Deidra and their children put on their best clothes and strutted off to church. Balor was still smarting from his family's indifference to his beating. He dressed himself in a new dark green leine and brown inar. Seldom aired brogs slipped with difficulty onto his growing feet. When he saw that everyone was ready to leave, Balor made an excuse about having to relieve himself.

      Walking out of the house he ducked behind the screen wall of the latrine pit and waited. Disappointment burned in his chest. He had really believed that they would wait for him and that his ruse would be to no avail. He watched his family depart with heavy heart. Well, he thought, if they can't wait for me then they don't want me anyway. God doesn't seem to want me either so the Devil sweep Him.

      The river was more comfort to Balor's deflated spirit than a stuffy church full of people that shunned him all week. At dinner, nothing was said about his absence from church. That hurt him even more. Begorra, so they really don't care what I do. He ate in silence and swallowed his earlier feelings of guilt. Balor never went to church again.

      ***

      Further up the river from where Balor usually swam was the healers house. Separated from the village by fields of barley and beans and a large pasture shared by cattle and sheep, a little girl named Fee was forced to make her own entertainment. Her name was actually Fionna Erainn but everyone called her Fee because that was how she had introduced herself before she could say her name properly.

      She was the second child of Timothy and Dana Erainn. Like so many other children, her older brother had not survived his first year. Treasured and cosseted by both parents, she might easily have become a spoiled wretch like Balor's sister. Instead, her demeanour was coloured by the nurturing example of her mother who was a dedicated healer and a loving person.

      Isolation made Fee a shy child who kept her distance from her mother's clientele. Besides the attentions of her parents, she revelled in the wonders of the garden that lay between the house and the river. None of its plants were ornamental. Each one was grown for a purpose. Most of them supplied ingredients for herbal medicines but there were others that were used for dyes or food as well. Fee made a game of keeping destructive insects and their caterpillars at bay and deadheading the plants.

      Encouraged by her mother, Fee called out the names of the plants as she cared for them and tried to remember the uses of each one. There was an abundance of rosemary and lavender. Both were used for floor coverings as well as medicinal and garnishing purposes. Mints like pennyroyal and catnip shared beds with scattered sage bushes and clover that lay to one side of the larger rosemary and lavender bushes.

      Garlic, onions and camomile were next and last was a row, perpendicular to the river, of elderberry bushes that formed the southern boundary of the garden. A bramble hedge linked a corner of the house to the end of the elder row. Saint John's wort, henbane and dandelions grew wherever they pleased. Foxgloves, weld and sorrel lay, out of sight from the river, behind the larger shrubs.

      The first words Fee spoke were barely out of her mouth when her mother started impressing on her that she was different from other children and people in general. Although she practised enough Christianity to allay suspicions, Dana was proud of her druidic heritage that set her above ordinary people. Anxious not to lose another child, Dana's possessiveness of Fee caused her to use this perceived superiority to discourage contact with the rest of the village. This isolation would later serve to draw the two lonely children together in a peculiar way.

      ***

      Under the boorish influence of the Doran brothers, Balor's peers were soon bent against him. Many adults were quick to follow the lead of the cruel youngsters. Those were troubled times and Balor made a convenient whipping boy. Leaving the relative safety of his home for any destination was tantamount to running the gauntlet. There would always be somebody in the streets and Balor had no doubt that whoever it was, they would test his humour or his ability to evade their blows.

      Whenever he passed any men, young or old, the customary greeting was a harassing slap on the back accompanied by a well-timed shout of, Begorra, 'tis Balor of the baleful eye. As often as not, they would pull hideous faces at him too. Of course, the bullies hoped to catch him unawares to elicit a shriek of fright from him for their brash amusement. They had done so more successfully for a few moons after the brutish Doran incident. However, in time the joke had worn thin and Balor usually managed to avoid the childish hecklers. He became adept at evasion and found alternative routes around the worst of his tormentors.

      The women and girls spared him the indignation of slaps on the back. They were, however, cruel in their own way. Giggles and whispers dogged his footsteps past girls at play. Turned backs, dismissive gestures and stinging remarks were the typical reactions from many of the womenfolk of all ages. Others ignored him and only a few greeted him when it suited them, which was not often. The downtrodden are quick to snatch at an opportunity to give vent to their frustrations on a lesser creature and Balor fulfilled that purpose.

      The better health that Temair enjoyed allowed her to meet other children and spitefully denounce and denigrate Balor. If anything, his spoiled and pampered sister was the cruellest of all. By example, she goaded the other children to taunt him and spurn him. To add to his humiliation, after she discovered who had trounced him, so she befriended the ghastly little Uilleam Doran. Balor's life became one of abject misery thanks to the efforts of his fat sister and the Doran brothers. Between them, they set the village against him.

      His spiteful sibling also took great delight in condemning him, with exaggerations and lies about his daily activities, to his parents. For reasons best known to themselves, they hung on every word the little tattletale spoke. Balor soon gave up trying to refute her allegations because it was obvious to him that his protests were ignored. Fussing over Temair had become a way of life for Deidra Larkin so she continued to pamper the girl at Balor's expense. The lack of intervention by his father or mother was as good as a stamp of approval for his ostracism.

      The chaos of his childhood was not complicated by the grief of loss of any relatives. He never met his grandparents who lived several days walk to the west on the ragged coast of Munster. No aunts, uncles or cousins were accessible to lend a sympathetic ear or to offer a safe refuge. The only family he knew was his father, mother and sister. The hapless child was at his wits end.

      To escape the teasing and bullying, he swam for as many of the daylight hours as he could. When the water and the weather turned too cold for comfort, during the period between the festivals of Lugnasad and Oimele, he smeared his skinny frame with lard filched from his mother's kitchen. Seldom a day went by that he did not religiously swim in the river. At night, he avoided his unkind kinfolk by stalking around the village and eavesdropping on other families or the hubbub of the public house.

      Fishing was good in the river, especially below the mill. Some men used nets and others use hook and line or the cunning otter board. Thinking that the river was big enough for everyone to share it was a mistake on Balor's part. Fishermen were quite possessive about their particular patch of river and they got rather upset when anyone disturbed the fish.

      His skinny arms and legs were not yet strong enough to cope with the strong flow when Balor took to the water and decided to try swimming further out into the river. The current caught him and swept him into the waiting lines and nets. Amidst fist shaking, blaspheming and terrible profanities, the man with the net hauled him in together with the tangle of lines and fishnet.

      The three fishermen were furious. The swearing and cursing began long before he was landed on the riverbank. One of them was quite prepared to gaff Balor before one of the other equally irate men grabbed his raised arm. Don't be daft man. If you kill him 'twill be more than a fish and line that you lose. Then he turned on Balor. You stupid little bastard! He bellowed. Look what you've done. 'Twill be hours before the fish settle down again.

      The third man arrived on the scene panting and flushed with anger. Humph, what can you expect from the village idiot?

      What do you mean? the net man asked.

      'Tis Balor Larkin, the blacksmith's son. He spat his disgust. Haven't you heard the boy's a fool?

      Nay but now I've seen it for myself. He cracked Balor on the back of the head. Keep still fool! Begorra, how do you expect me to undo the mess you've made when you keep on squirming like a pregnant salmon?

      It took some effort to extricate the whimpering boy from the fishing gear. One hook had embedded itself in his shoulder. Hold still boy! Here, you'd better bite on this. The net man shoved a stick in Balor's mouth. This will hurt a bit. 'Tis the only way to get a fishhook out. He deftly twisted the hook until the barb poked through Balor's skin. Then he slipped a thin-bladed knife into the wound alongside it and pulled the hook free. You'd best get that looked at by a healer before you get wound fever.

      At last, the miserable boy was freed. I'm truly sorry. He whined as he stood naked and shivering before the scowling men. One hand covered his groin and the other pressed onto the shoulder wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

      Aye and so you should be. The river's no place for fools. Go on be off with you and don't try swimming below the mill again, the kindest of the fishermen said. The others muttered curses under their breath.

      Later the fishermen were instrumental in sullying Balor's name when they told their tale in the tavern. As the ale flowed, the story grew. Far worse than the exaggerated size of a fish, the yarns that were spun about Balor put an irrevocable smear on his reputation.

      The challenge of the river became Balor's reason for living. Choosing a spot near a bend in the river, upstream from the mill and outside Doran's lands, where the current was weakest, he began his conquest in earnest. Tentatively trying the water, he swam near the bank and edged into the mainstream, until it beat him back. Every day he struggled with more determination.

      It became at last, a matter of personal honour and a compulsion to prove to himself that he could achieve something worthwhile. At least he thought it was a worthy goal. As he swam, he tried to empty his mind and concentrate on beating the river. This single-mindedness and conviction that he could and would eventually defeat the river helped him to overcome or, if nothing else, to suppress his mental anguish.

      The boy knew that he was not a fool. Why 'twas not that long ago that I saw Uilleam Doran trip over his own feet and fall flat on his face. Balor told the river. I didn't know his name then but even his brothers laughed at him. And there've been others that have done silly things. I'm not the only one to have upset the fishermen. If I were a fool then to be sure I wouldn't know enough to think that I'm not one.

      ***

      One day Temair followed Balor at a discreet distance. She was determined to find new ways of humiliating him. To that end, she realised that knowledge of his movements might be helpful. He walked through the village to the river. She anticipated his destination and was thus able to easily conceal her presence from him.

      Peeking out from her hiding place, Temair saw him strip off his leine. She sniggered into her pudgy hand as he carelessly tossed his clothes on the grassy bank of the river. She giggled. Ha! Now to find Uilleam. They returned a short while later while Balor was still swimming.

      Are you going to wait 'till he gets out of the water to thump him? Temair asked.

      The little coward balked at the thought of tackling Balor without the support of his brothers. Nay, I've a better idea. Uilleam Doran laughed. Let's steal his clothes.

      Temair snorted with laughter. Aye, 'tis a grand idea.

      On top of suffering the indignation and embarrassment of having to run home naked, Balor received a whipping from his father. The treacherous sister could not wait to tell the thief how well things had turned out. Her reactions gave her away and Balor suspected her complicity in the theft.

      The next time he swam, he wore his clothes but found it too cumbersome and tiring. After that, he made certain that he was not followed. A safe place was found from which he could start and end his swim. On arrival at this landing stage, Balor had a ritual that he followed with an almost sacred devotion. The place he had chosen was behind a low stone wall that separated the village from the grazing lands that lay between the last house and Master Doran's wheat fields. Before climbing over the wall, he ensured that nobody was looking his way and then he crouched down and waited to listen.

      Usually all he heard was the gentle whisper of the river tugging at reeds or swirling against the banks and the sounds of birds, insects and the constant thumping and grinding of the mill. Sometimes there was the splashing of a trout or a salmon that had found its way past the threshing paddles and sluice gates of the mill on its way to a spawning pond. On the few odd occasions that he thought somebody had noticed him, he continued on his way and pretended to be going to the water mill.

      When at last he was satisfied that he was alone, he breathed deeply and gazed upon the river. The tarnished silver ribbon seemed to him always to reflect his moods. When the weather was fine, the water was clear but the depth gave the river a black look that was streaked with glassy shades of grey and green, reflections of sky and forest, while molten shards of obsidian drifted by to mark the passage of insults. After heavy rains fell in the mountains, the water became opaque like strong tea due to the minerals and organic matter that washed out of the peat bogs. The boy was amused that he could not see his legs in the shallows after storms made the river murky.

      Having calmed himself, he would retrieve his plank from its hiding place and carefully fold his leine into a tight bundle wrapped with his belt. Two steps and he was in the water. Pushing the plank bearing his clothes ahead of him, he swam to a thicket of reeds on the opposite bank. There he secured his belongings and began swimming in earnest.

      In the still waters amongst the rustling reeds, Balor had seen his first frog. To start with he was scared and repulsed by the ugly creature. Curiosity led the boy to watch and study its movements. He soon realised that he could learn from it. When he tried to mimic the strokes the frog used to propel itself through the water, he found that his swimming was much improved. In stages, Balor varied his style of breaststroke until he felt comfortable and sure that his energy was not being wasted.

      By way of a change, Balor was exploring the outskirts of the village. He ventured near Crimthan's fort and found the midden heap. The stench of rotting meat and vegetables and other indescribable refuse was enough to make him gag. Boyish curiosity is a powerful force, a drive that is stronger than mere unpleasant smells. He waited a moment for his queasiness to pass and for his nose to adjust to the vile vapours.

      The mound of rubbish was a treasure trove of amazing items. Bones, some recognisable and some not, stuck out of a multi-coloured mush glued together with oozing fluids. Seething and squirming maggots and worms made the whole midden seem to be alive and breathing. The monster's breath huffed great black clouds of flies and other insects. The boy was spellbound and horrified by the spectacle.

      Holding his nose and breathing through clamped teeth, Balor edged around the periphery of the midden. An ell long stick caught his eye. He picked it up and poked the mound, half expecting it to grunt from the discomfort of the jab. The grinning skull of a sheep stared at him. He stared back and suddenly he screamed and fell back. A rat had stuck its head out of the eye socket. Begorra! he whispered as his scrambled to his feet.

      Broken bottles, smashed pottery and bits of rag were some of the more interesting things he saw. Rats scurried about in short jerky movements to disappear into the veritable warren of holes and tunnels. Balor moved on more warily, stick at the ready. A mangy cur gnawed a bone and growled menacingly as he approached. He knelt down. So is this your home then? he said softly. Don't worry, I'll not steal your bone.

      The scruffy nondescript dog had a dirty pale brown coat that looked as though it should be discarded. Balor laughed at the thought. Wouldn't you prefer to run around naked then? The dog stopped growling and wagged its tail. It worried the bone for a few moments longer and then barked at Balor.

      So would you like to play then? Balor mimicked the bark. "Come on

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