Fantasy fiction; Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Mythology, Celtic -- Fiction
In a moment the troopers were gone, and before many moments they had
splashed across the river at what is now called Buckley's Ford, and
plunged into the woods. They followed a beaten track that wound along
the northern bank of the river. The boughs of the birch and quicken
trees mingled above, and hid the cloudy moonlight, leaving the pathway
in almost complete darkness. They rode at a rapid trot, now chatting
together, now watching some stray weasel or rabbit scuttling away in
the darkness. Gradually, as the gloom and silence of the woods oppressed
them, they drew closer together, and began to talk rapidly; they were
old comrades and knew each other's lives. One was married, and told
how glad his wife would be to see him return safe from this harebrained
expedition against the White Friars, and to hear how fortune had made
amends for rashness. The oldest of the five, whose wife was dead, spoke
of a flagon of wine which awaited him upon an upper shelf; while a
third, who was the youngest, had a sweetheart watching for his return,
and he rode a little way before the others, not talking at all. Suddenly
the young man stopped, and they saw that his horse was trembling. 'I saw
something,' he said, 'and yet I do not know but it may have been one of
the shadows. It looked like a great worm with a silver crown upon his
head.' One of the five put his hand up to his forehead as if about to
cross himself, but remembering that he had changed his religion he put
it down, and said: 'I am certain it was but a shadow, for there are a
great many about us, and of very strange kinds.' Then they rode on in
silence. It had been raining in the earlier part of the day, and the
drops fell from the branches, wetting their hair and their shoulders. In
a little they began to talk again. They had been in many battles against
many a rebel together, and now told each other over again the story
of their wounds, and so awakened in their hearts the strongest of all
fellowships, the fellowship of the sword, and half forgot the terrible
solitude of the woods.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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