akschool10 : 2005 words.
***
The hut was a lively, earthy place that smelled of mud and sweat and dogs and heather, and, most potently, of smoke. It was the centre of all activity for this particular stronghold of Pictish people, who lived not far from Inverness. In fact, every evening, the fire would (with great trouble) be lit, the smoke would rise to collect in the cone of the roof, the meat would be roasted, dogs be given the scraps, and a drink and a song would go round. Or, on special occasions, a story would be told.
That would be on the days that the storyteller arrived. He was an old man by now, weary with age, but was once a strong warrior who hunted and fished for his tribe. Now, he could not support the tribe in many ways, if at all, but was respected and revered for what he had done for them in the prime of his life. His wife had died many years ago now, but he had many children to comfort him, who were growing up to be fine fighters and craftsmen. In some ways, he was considered a little odd, but his stories fared all the better for it.
He spoke in a finer way than all of the other Picts, having been slightly more educated than them. The stories of how this education came about were now controlled entirely by him, and as no one older was around to correct these claims, the interpretations got jumbled in time. He had been a writer and a poet and an artist and a scholar and a hunter and a bishop and a champion swimmer all at once, if the young ones were to be believed – but frankly, nobody really cared where he learned to speak. Instead, they only cared for when as they sat round the benches, they got the chance to turn their heads eagerly as a heavy footfall sounded through the door. Then, the storytelling man with greying hair and the twisting smile would step through. He would claim a prize spot by the fire, engage in casual conversation with someone or other, and maybe hint to break open a barrel of something – preferably something with enough strength to knock you flat on your back.
Then the story would start. And, of course, everyone would sit and listen. It was only respectful, after all.
“August the 22nd, 546.” The man paused dramatically, and took a swig from his whiskey. He set the empty drinking horn down firmly on the bench-like table with a thump, and it shook the straw that laid strewn upon the floor of the silent hut. He cleared his throat.
“Let us begin.”
“At last!”
The mousy-haired storyteller frowned at the insulting stranger sternly, but started upon his tale anyway. He could not have afforded to stop at this point – the crowd were itching for a story. It had been a while since he had last paid a visit.
“It was a fine, late summer morning upon which my companions and I walked with the Irish over our ancient, green land, by the banks of the River Ness. Amidst those Irishmen travelled one extraordinary man – Saint Columba, the Monk who had come to this place to spread his teachings to the people of Pictland.”
A murmur spread through the crowd of Picts. The monk, the miracle-worker, Saint Columba, was of minor fame around these parts. It was down to him that many Pictish people had turned to Christianity. The old man, whose name was Nechtan, either did not hear or did not care about their whispers.
“Our journey along the River Ness was meant to be nothing more than a quick walk, in which we could allow our visitors to become familiar with our surroundings and to let them marvel at the untamed beauty of the natural landscape. But before long, a terrible image forced itself upon our now saddened eyes. There lay a crude wooden coffin by the shore; A man being lowered into it by grieving friends, with grave wounds gored into his body. That man, of course, was our dear Finten.”
Again, the crowd stirred, mutters swirling in the air like the smoke. Finten’s name had lived on through the years, and many of them remembered or at least had heard tales of the warrior. He had been stronger than most or all the other Picts, depending on who you listened to, and was a master of the fishing net.
“We aimed,” Nechtan groaned, “to shield the Saint’s eyes at once – “
“Frae wha’?” yelled one man from the back of the hut. “Are yous a' as feart as tae fall doon at the sight o’a wee bitty blood –‘
‘Haud yer wheest!”
A hush fell over the watching, waiting crowd. Nechtan huffed, took a swig of his drink, and continued.
“- but he insisted to come forward and bless the man on his parting to the next world. When he asked of the men what had happened to this poor fellow, they told him a terrible tale – one that made fear burn fast, dear friends, in the kindling of my heart.”
Silence ruled once more over the smoky hut. It did not matter to the Picts whether they had heard this story before or not – Nechtan, whatever his oddities were, was a good storyteller. Any of his hecklers were quickly shunned, and thrown out if necessary.
“A water beast, they told us.” Nechtan’s whisper was as deep and deadly as a loch. “A water beast had inflicted these wounds. Poor Fintan, innocent to the danger, had been out swimming out in the cold waters of the Ness, when a terrible bubbling arose around him on the surface of the river. Then, the water beast reared its ugly head – each fang as long as a man’s arm, eyes where pure evil festered and bubbled, and a snakelike body which thrashed and heaved in the pure, crystal water. The victim was dragged under, and even when his terrified friends rowed a boat out for his rescue, it was too late. They hooked his corpse in on a fishing line. The creature had wounded him too badly, and left his body to rot on the open waters. It killed for the sake of killing.
“We all listened to this tale with shock and horror, but while my companions and I tensed in fear, Saint Columba listened solemnly, with not a trace of terror on his face.
‘This river’s ghastly beast,’ he told us calmly, in the quiet voice that could silence a thousand men, ‘is a creature that must be cleansed from these pure lands.’
‘But how?’ we asked him, trembling in our boots and furs. ‘How can we? Not a thousand men with spears and arrows could harm that creature. It would kill us all!’
But the Saint, wiser indeed than all of us there, simply shook his head.
‘Dear friends, I fear not this creature, and indeed, you should neither. Let me show you that you have nothing to fear. Luigne moccu Min! Will you step forward?’
The Irish youth moved forward with such a stride I have not possessed since I were a young man. This young man shone through with life and enjoyment, yet it seemed that this gentle saint was willing to sacrifice him to the monster.”
At his point, Nechtan seemed to tire, and took another great slug of his whiskey. Noticing the enraptured faces of his listeners, his face twisted into what can only be described as a smirk – and thus, he proceeded with his tale.
“Then, the Saint said to him: ‘Luigne! My dear friend and loyal companion on this long journey we take together. You trust in me?’
‘I trust in you completely.’
‘Then swim across those crystal waters.’
The shock and horror on our wretched faces must have painted such a picture!” lamented Nechtan. “We daren’t defy the wise monk, but we fell upon Luigne with troubled words and fear in our heart. Yet the young man looked no more afraid as though he was going to simply step across a bubbling brook. He paid no heed to us, and proceeded to strip down till he wore nothing but his tunic –“
From across the bar, there was a mocking laugh. Promptly, the offending (and most likely exceedingly drunk) stranger was removed from the hut, and the reed-woven door shut firmly once more. Whispering apologies on behalf of their friend, the young men who had kicked him out tiptoed back to their spaces guiltily. Nechtan, who was thoroughly offended by this point, continued with some degree of snootiness.
“and jumped at once into the freezing waters. And then… And then..!”
He drained his whiskey, and the drinking horn was refilled at once. The tribe listened on with bated breath.
“The monster. This fearsome aquatic creature rose from the depths, like a snake from the pits of hell.”
You could have heard a blade of straw hit the ground.
“It coiled up around him, and when it gazed upon us, we, Pictish warriors, who would in battle look grim Death in the eye with pride, fell onto our knees in fear. Its eyes were more colourful than any weave or dye could replicate, in the most awesome of flashing blues and greens and sickly yellows. Its scales were each as big as your hand, and they clothed him like a knight from the King’s own table, shielding him utterly from any spear. When he roared – a horrendous sound! – the earth shook, and the water itself bubbled and frothed in the noise. The mouth that hellish noise came from, too, was bedecked with those terrible teeth, pointed sharper than a bone needle and undoubtedly coated in venom. No arms or legs did it have – only that long, writhing tail, like an adder’s. It snapped its jaws, and set upon the brave youth who swam the river till there was no more than a spear length between them – then, a miracle occurred.”
This was the good bit. Even the dogs at the fire must have been able to tell, as instead of barking or snapping, they lay still on their cowskin mat. Everyone in the hut leaned in to listen to Nechtan’s throaty, awed whisper, from the young warriors to the old weavers to the dexterous fishers to the swift-footed hunters to the steady farmers. Nechtan only sat upon an old bench, laid with reindeer skin, but to all there, he may as well have been sitting upon a throne of shining gold.
“That Monk, Saint Columba, stepped up to the banks and with his hand directed the snarling creature:”
He took a breath, and the room breathed with him.
“Thou shalt go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed.’” Nechtan’s tone was reverent. “And the monster did. It was like a wolf was suddenly changed into a newborn hound, blind and deaf to the world it has arrived into. It sped off, out into the depths, and with a flick of its tail it was gone as though ropes had wrapped around it and pulled it away. Luigne arrived back at the shore and had nary a scratch on his skin. And thus, Saint Columba saved us all from that creature.”
The crowd murmured appreciatively, and Nadbroicc, the wiry woman in charge of the whiskey, filled his drinking horn for no charge yet again. While gold and silver and colourful clothes were special to the Picts, not much was worth more than any story – and as long as Nechtan got his fill of the liquor, he would be content to tell more.
Did the crowd believe his tale? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps they chose to believe parts – like of Fintan’s death, which most certainly happened at some point or another.
They all, however, believed in that other terrible water-dwelling monster which skulks in the shadowy depths of Loch Ness – so maybe they did after all.
***
I'd have written all the dialogue in Scots, but frankly, I'll be impressed if any of you can fully understand the bit that I did include.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed ^^ And yes, this happened - or at least, is reported to have happened. Look it up!
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