Reliving Katie Lacadie

HISTORICAL FICTION KATIE LACADIE FOLKLORE

RELIVING

Katie Lacadie is a senior WLP with minors in history and environmental studies. She wrote “Reliving” while in Ireland, and based the fort Áed lives in on an abandoned fort she visited in the Burren. When she’s not writing she can usually be found yelling about her favorite books or knitting while watching a movie.

[Caoimhe pronounced Keeva / Áine Pronounced Anya / Áed Pronounced aid]

Voices echoed over the hills, floating toward me in the air. I sat nestled against the fallen rocks, using the grass as a cushion, and dread settled in. Onto the ramparts they came, clambering over wobbling slabs of stone, trying not to turn their ankles in the spaces between. They stood on the ruins of my home with their peculiar clothes and spoke strange accents. I would not understand them even if I could hear every word over the howling wind. The man at the front with wisps of gray hair and a shawl that rustled like dead leaves suddenly spoke a few words just barely recognizable. But then he fell back into the staccato pattern entirely foreign to me.

I hated when they came here, droves hiking up my mountain, trampling through what they couldn’t have known was a graveyard. Stabs of pain rippled through me as they stepped on mounds of grass where my deep memory could see my fallen neighbors. They always looked around for a while, seemingly unaware that this was once a home, but never made it a home themselves. Only to see, never to stay. I could not understand it. For how much they took in with their eyes as they stood atop what used to be walls of

Reliving 15 defense now crumbled into uselessness, they never noticed me. A young girl did once, many years ago, but she spoke a smooth, lilting language I could not comprehend. When she reached out to take my hand, her arm passed right through me. It was the most devastating moment of my long depressing life. Or not-life, I suppose, since I’ve been tethered here to this landscape since the day my home was attacked and everyone I knew was ripped from the world.

Soon the unusual people were gone, laughing as they attempted to keep their balance among the limestone. The sun followed them shortly, as it always does, leaving me in a world of black I had no escape from. And, like most nights, my mind wandered. Scooting to the edge of the cliff, I swung my legs over the sheer chasm beneath. The ruins melted away, my mind clicking back through the years, the centuries. (Had it really been almost twelve hundred now?) Moss retreated, rocks lifted back up from their sad piles on the ground and added themselves to the ramparts, grass grew backward and was eventually replaced by the hard-packed dirt floor I’d known when there were only eleven years behind me.

My heart pinched, and my stomach grew heavy. I’d been watching this scene from my life-life every single night since the day I died.

“Áed! Get your skinny little ass over here!” Caoimhe shouted as she stirred the soup over the fire. “I need that meat hung up for drying before sunrise!” Little me (I still have the body of an eleven-year-old, even though now I’ve witnessed more than the tree growing just outside the fort—it only began its life about a hundred years ago) came running, iron knife longer than my forearm held precariously in my non-dominant right hand since the other arm carried a slab of meat.

Lirach, the disease as common as the rains, took my younger sister Áine from us just last month, as it did to so many of the people working in the kitchens. Not Caoimhe though, she was tougher than over-salted dried meat, and I thought if lirach ever tried to worm itself into her stomach, she would just use her breadkneading arms to punch it right out. Since Áine had been Caoimhe’s fastest runner, and the most diligent helper, it made sense for her brother—only a year younger—to take her place.

I really wanted to be with my father outside the fort, herding

16 Katie Lacadie cattle and then slaughtering them for future meals, but I was still too young. Besides, I was shorter than most boys my age, it would have been far too easy for the cows to simply run me over and that would be the end of me. (Maybe I should have pushed the matter more, that seems like it would have been an easier way to go.) But I was stuck with the burly Caoimhe, who enjoyed ordering me around like a sheepherder would to a member of their flock. I liked pretending I was more of a sidekick to her rather than some sort of indentured servant. It made me feel a little better about being left behind in the fort. Huffing and puffing under the weight of the knife and the meat (and probably the absence of my sister as well, though it was so long ago now, and there was still so much coming later that day, it’s difficult to remember), I waddled over to the thick wooden table to carve out slices thin enough to hang for drying.

The sun was peeking out from behind the cliffs in the distance when I finally wiped the sweat from my brow and left the gory knife on the counter. “Ah, ah, ah,” Caoimhe stopped me with the wave of her spoon. “Where do you think you’re going, Áed? I need you to do a run to the smiths. Tell Lon we’re expecting merchant visitors in the coming week, one of their scouts just arrived this morning.” This excited me, I’d seen the merchant enter the fort on my way to bring my mother her breakfast and I had hoped more would follow—visitors were always fascinating. “They’ll be needing changes for their horses and will likely need to trade for supplies. Take these as well,” she shoved a basket of kitchen knives into my arms, “and put them in an order for the whetstone. They’re duller than the pile of rocks in your head, boy.” For some reason the older woman enjoyed insulting me on the excuse that it gave me a thicker skin. I think she just had a sour disposition that found landing on anyone who happened to be in her path the moment something irked her.

I didn’t mind so much, though, because it was always exciting to make a trip to the smiths. Lon Mac Loimhtha had his own stone cottage on the next hill, and it took half the day just to walk there and back, so I brightened at the prospect of getting out of the fort for so long. On top of that, merchants would be arriving the next week, and I always loved the traders from around the world that passed through our home. So, on the whole, I was having a wonderful morning. I carried the basket of knives out of the kitchens, passing a man outside his stone hut in the throes of lirach. Yellow leeched into his eyes and skin, and it reminded me

Reliving 17 too much of Áine, so I had to look away before the memory of her could seep into my mind. Adding power to my steps to get more space between me and the suffering man, I left the fort swiftly.

The limestone was slick from the night’s rain, but sunrise steamed most of it away quick enough, so I could skip between the stones without the worry of slipping. Bróg made of rawhide protected my feet from being cut by the rough stone or getting a rash whenever I attempted to jump over a patch of stinging nettle climbing up from between the stones and was a centimeter or two short. Though my mother would say I was too old for such antics now, as I skipped from rock to rock, I pretended to be a merchant from a far-off land, trudging through sands higher than my head and swinging a wicked sword through the air. This is the only part of my replayed memory that I watch fondly.

The pounding of hooves rumbled the ground to the left, and I looked up to see a flock of sheep. They stopped, eying me warily, and then a few ran in the opposite direction, shy of human attention. It was nearly lunchtime when I saw the smoke rising from Lon’s hut in the distance. When I came up to the door, grunts and strikes of metal on metal greeted me. There stood Lon Mac Loimhtha, the strange man who seemed to have always been here. Stories from great-grandparents tell about him in this hut, looking exactly as he does today. His left hand held the iron fire poker he worked on in place, while his right hit it over and over again, sending sparks flying. The third arm protruding from the large man’s chest held a giant anvil in place. I knocked on the stone, causing Lon to turn my way. He only rotated his torso because all his weight was supported by a single leg. When he sent a smile my way, it stretched the long scar marring his face. (No one knew the origin of it then, and I certainly haven’t figured it out in my solitude since.)

“Áed! Good to see you kid! Caoimhe send you over?” He asked, nodding to the basket in my arms.

I nodded. “Yes, sir. She asked to put this order in for the whetstone.” I lifted the basket as I said this. “And she wanted me to let you know there are merchants on their way that will be needing changes for their horses and that you’ll be able to peddle supplies with them as well.”

“Wonderful!” His gruff voice made the word sound more ominous than excited, but the man still had a welcoming quality to him despite the brutishness of his attitude and appearance. I wiped my woolen sleeve over my face, scratching my chapped cheeks

18 Katie Lacadie more than mopping up the sweat. It was a muggy day, and the walk here had caused some sweat to drip down my back, but now that I faced the smith’s fire, the increased heat made me all the more uncomfortable. “Cup of ale?” Lon asked, and I nodded as I took the seat farthest from the fire and closest to the open door. I sipped the drink he handed me in silence as he got back to work, hammering away at the poker. When he finished with that, he started on the kitchen knives. I couldn’t stand the scraping of the whetstone, and I’d already finished my ale, so I went for a walk outside the cottage, continuing my imagined storyline from the walk there.

Curves of limestone hills and swaths of land cleared as fields for grazing and farming stretched out across the landscape. I always enjoyed the view from Lon’s cottage and felt an overwhelming sense of home when I took it in. The fort was important, it kept us safe, I knew that. But sometimes I wished I could just live out here among the rocks and the plants with only the hills and the wind as company. (What’s the saying? Be careful what you wish for?) The wind brought to me scents of the earth with a hint of the sea. I spent the next hour or two breathing in home, and I felt at peace.

Step. Thump. Step. Thump. Lon exited his cottage, using a hazel rod as a right leg as he walked over the limestone. “Caoimhe’s knives are ready.” He had the basket held between his left and middle arms.

“Thank you, sir.” My parents taught me to treat my elders with the utmost respect. I took the basket from him and was ready to head back to the fort before he stopped me.

“Oh, and Áed, let her know I’ll be coming down next week to sell to the merchants.”

“Of course, sir.” I nodded, he waved, and then I departed.

The sun made its steady slide to the west as I clambered back through the landscape. At this rate, even my father and the other cattle herders would be in for the night by the time I arrived home. The darker it got, the more difficult it became for me to navigate a path back home, so my steps were even slower the closer I came.

Our fort was finally in sight, but the air carried a sense of wrongness. There weren’t the usual torches lighting the entire half circle of stones. Even from this distance, I could hear shouting and the faint ringing of metal despite the fact that the darkness should lead me to believe everyone was asleep. Creeping carefully, I got as close as I dared when I saw strangers on horses surrounding the east side of our fort. Were these the merchants? The horses looked

Reliving 19 far too well-rested for them to be nearly a week early. They also didn’t dress like merchants, and when the metal armor on their chest flashed in the moonlight, my stomach turned to iron. Vikings.

My eyes flickered between the fort and the people outside it. They weren’t looking at the western entrance, and I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. (I really should have, in hindsight.) I was the only moving figure on the hillside, so now the darkness was my ally. I left the basket on the ground, but took one of the newly sharpened kitchen knives, just in case.

Inside, the fort was just as dark without any of the torches lit along the walls. In the center of the ring of huts, I could see fire flickering, likely handheld torches. My first stop was my own hut, and that look inside would haunt me as I haunted the fort over the centuries. There on the floor were my parents, both with iron swords in their hands. Both with fatal wounds, blood turning the dirt into mud. Every part of my body shook, but I knew I had to keep moving. The kitchens. If anyone could survive this attack it would be Caoimhe. I couldn’t understand why the world went blurry until I felt a tear drop from my cheek. Shaking my head, I tried to blink back the deep sadness.

Strange and terrifying words from the throat of a soldier came from the left, so I ducked right. They couldn’t know this fort the way I did—a child who liked to find the most obscure hiding places. I ducked into a niche in the stones when three Vikings passed, their torches flickering over the gore splattered across their faces and armor like war paint. Cringing and shaking as if it was the middle of the winter, I pressed myself even further into the black of the stone until they turned around the next hut. Then I made a wild dash for the kitchen, trying to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible.

The fire from dinner was in silent embers, but it was enough light to see the carnage. There was Caoimhe, along with anyone who’d been helping her clean up after supper, slit from stomach to throat. I wretched, spewing out the ale from Lon’s along with the dried meat I’d brought with me to eat on the day-long journey. But my body wasn’t done, the stench of death making my stomach cramp, knocking me to the floor. Nothing but bile and a bit of blood dripped from my mouth, but still I coughed and choked, trying to dispel the odor and the memory all at once. I knew I’d been loud enough for someone to hear, so I fled from the kitchen, trying to find anyone to tell them I was here to help.

A terrible thought nagged at the back of my brain: what if I’m

20 Katie Lacadie the last one left? (This is when I should have run back across the hills, to Lon and the warmth of his cottage and the hospitality that oozed from him despite his brusque demeanor. But denial kept me going, thinking I just couldn’t, I couldn’t be the last one left. I wish I could slap myself in the face and say, you are.) I shook that thought away as fast as it came and made my way along the wall until I got to the edge of the cliff that we’d specifically built our fort on for its defensive advantages. (So much for that.) This is where the Vikings had chosen to congregate, yelling at each other in their language that sounded like stirring an iron bowl of rocks. I noticed the rider who had arrived at the fort to tell Caoimhe about the merchants soon to arrive, now dressed in the same armor as the rest of them. It had all been a trick to get a man on the inside. The dread inside me congealed as denial melted away. If they’d had a man on the inside, it was even more likely I was the only person left to defend my home.

The Viking that seemed to be in charge threw his torch onto the roof of the nearest hut, the thatch immediately catching fire. His face was illuminated on one side by the orange glow but shaded by night on the other. The rest of the Vikings followed his lead, setting fire to the rest of the homes inside the fort. Smoke made my eyes water, or were they tears of mourning? Then the chief Viking bent down, lifting something off the ground. Bile burned again at the back of my throat when I glimpsed the hook in his hand and the head at the end of it. It was Dithorba, the man who organized our defense patterns and trained men to fight. He must have been the one to lead the attack against the Vikings, but not even Dithorba could save our people from a surprise attack. The Vikings cheered, and the chief dropped the head down the side of the cliff. Shortly after that, another Viking climbed up from the place he’d dropped it, making me think they had hung Dithorba’s head somewhere on the side of the cliff. (I’ve been down there, they left it in a small cave dug into the limestone. If I could have thrown up after death, I would have.)

I was frozen. The kitchen knife handle was slick in my sweaty palms as I watched my home burn. I had to take a stand, I was the last one left, the only defender of our fort. Running with the rage and sadness bellowing out of me in a war cry, I jumped up onto the nearest Viking and slammed my kitchen knife into the joint between his neck and shoulders. He went down with a cry, grappling for his neck, but my knife was already gone, back in my

Reliving 21 hands once again. The rest of the Vikings had been alerted, and they surrounded me quickly. I was vicious, a wild animal set loose, swiping my knife at anyone who came near.

But I was still just a child.

One of the Vikings came up from behind and stabbed me straight through. I looked down to see a weapon sticking out of my stomach before it was ripped back out. Pain ricocheted through my entire body, and I cried out with a scream so wretched, so full of anguish and despair, before collapsing. I fell forward into the already bloodsoaked mud, never to lay eyes on my murderer. I listened to the crackling fire and the raging of Vikings as they destroyed the fort. The pale light of morning caught the corner of my eye, illuminating my fallen knife, given to me by Caoimhe just this morning and sharpened by Lon this afternoon. It all seemed so far away, so long ago. The absence of the people who slaughtered everyone I knew left the sounds of birds far too loud in my ears. I bled out before I could even see the sunrise. By the time I realized I was to leave my body behind, to walk aimlessly among the carnage, the sun was shining brightly above me in the sky. How cruel for the land of clouds and rain to decide to let the sun shine on the massacre of my people.

Everyone’s bodies around me were empty, their souls having risen and moved on. My soul tried to follow them, but my homeland— the limestone and grassy hills, the trees and sheep, and a fort of stone—held on tight. I was its last defender, and even though I failed, or maybe because I failed, it didn’t want me to leave. So, from that day forth, I remained tethered to this place, unable to meet my family, unable to wander the rest of the earth. Here I stay, my land’s friend and protector.

The night was already beginning to turn gray with the early tendrils of dawn light by the time I resurfaced from the terrible memory. I tried to tell the grasshopper jumping by my knee a few jokes to lift my mood, but it would take an hour or so for the stupor to truly dissipate. And then I would endure the same pattern tomorrow––but that was a problem for later. For now, I would enjoy the company of this grasshopper, and hope no foreigners came to desecrate my family’s grave. A week after the massacre, Lon showed up only to be greeted by carnage and silence. The big man

22 Katie Lacadie with three arms and one leg spent three days burying everyone. I saw him cry when he lifted my small body from the earth and placed me in a shallow grave—it is a memory I am glad not to be forced to relive every night.

I looked out over the chasm before me, legs still swinging over the edge of the cliff. The sunrise was beautiful, a bright orange unmarred by fog or rain as it usually was, eerily similar to the sunrise that day twelve hundred years past. As the last defender of my home, the land kept me here to watch over it forever. Perhaps it knew the abandonment to come and merely wanted someone to keep it company.

I smiled up to the sun knowing that had I still been alive, tears would have been streaming down my face, hoping that, having had so much time to heal, my people up in heaven were smiling back.