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On their first afternoon together Yara had led Conlaodh down to the marshland and begun to introduce him to its ways. It was certainly a different world from his own. Whereas his world was one of dry, sandy, undulating forest lands, pockmarked by areas of poor grazing where the flame-driven clearances had been made, Yara’s world was flatter, reed-covered and boggy with a multitude of drainage channels criss-crossing the terrain like the roots of a tree stretching through the ground beneath it. The water in the channels was dark and forbidding, coloured by the rich peaty soil, and at the channel edges there were often stands of small willowy trees, straight branches sprouting upwards before fanning out above. In some places there were vast reed beds, half-in, half-out of the water and it was immediately obvious to Conlaodh that if he tried to traverse these lands he would rapidly lose his way and be consumed by the marsh.

As well as these soggy traps there were higher areas where the ground was firmer, grass covered and more inviting. It was on one of these ‘islands’ that Yara’s village was situated, but she did not dare to take him close to that one for fear that they would be discovered.

“You’ll need to know how to find the firmer ground and I’ll show you the tracks, although you’ll have to be careful when you use these. You can eat the rabbits and larger ground birds on the higher ground if you can catch them but you’ll need to learn to fish. I can teach you. And you’ll need a boat.”

The words tumbled from Yara’s mouth and Conlaodh thought how strange it was that this girl was making plans for him when he had none of his own.

“You can come down and make a new camp here and I can teach you what you need to know. After a few days you’ll be ready to move on. I can come with you as far as the big river but you’ll have to cross it alone and make your own way after that. If I stay out more than one night there’ll be hell to pay at home.”

“But I don’t know where I’m going”, Conlaodh responded hesitantly

“I know,” cut in Yara almost before he had finished his words, “it’s exciting isn’t it. I wish I could come with you. I’d love to have a real adventure.”

Conlaodh smiled to himself. She was so full of words, so full of excitement, and he found it hard imagine not doing exactly what she said.

That evening, Conlaodh returned to his camp up on the slope and Yara returned to her family. She had become quieter as the evening approached and he felt that some sadness, anger even, was falling over her like a cloud. Before parting she had given him the rice cakes and fish that she had taken from her home that morning and they agreed that he would meet her down at the edge of the marshes the following day. They had a lot to do and she didn’t want to waste time coming up the slope to bring him from his camp. She would get there as early as she could but he would have to be patient and remain hidden.

“I’ll whistle when I arrive so that you know it’s me”, she explained and with that she was off.

The next day Yara was true to her word. He had broken his camp, packed his things and wound his way to the appointed meeting place, tucking himself safely out of sight beneath a small group of low trees. He had been waiting perhaps a couple of hours when he heard the signal, a burst of soft, fast, alternating tones: ‘high-low, high-low’ and he gave the answering call ‘low-high, low-high’ as they had agreed. It was time for him to move into the marshlands. It was time for him to begin his training.

Over the next few days, once her morning’s work was finished, Yara proved herself to be a good teacher. She selected a small low island, tucked behind a larger one and well out of sight of the village and they had formed a shelter there by half cutting the branches from a small willow, bending them down to reach the ground level and using strong reeds, cut from the landward edge of a nearby reed bed, to weave between them to form the walls. She taught Conlaodh how to identify the firmer ground that made travel through the reed beds safe by looking for the tufted grasses and using these as stepping stones to cross the boggy areas. She showed him one of the tracks, built from woven reeds that wound their way between the islands allowing faster travel over larger distances but the obvious problem with these was the possibility of meeting others along the way.

At one point they had startled a great bird from its hiding place within the reeds and Conlaodh dived for cover as it scrabbled to get airborne, wings beating their way through the reeds as it rose in front of them. Yara explained that it was called a Bittern and that wherever there were Bitterns the reed beds were in good health, and she told Conlaodh about their low booming call, so unlike all the songs of smaller birds.

Conlaodh discovered that in this watery land food was easy to come by if you were patient. They had made spears by attaching thorns to long stout reeds and then lying quietly, over-hanging the water’s edge, with spear in hand, they waited for the larger fish to swim beneath them before jabbing quickly downwards with their improvised weapons. The first few times Conlaodh had been too eager and his movements had sent the fish darting away but with practice he became more successful, although never as adept as Yara.

There was, of course, one area where Conlaodh had the advantage, and that was with fire. Yara could light a fire, but it was always a struggle and it soon became obvious that this was one thing she should leave to him. She marvelled at the care with which he first sought and then piled dry leaves and tiny sticks and the skill with which he spun his fire stick in its base to generate heat and send the initial sparks leaping. It was almost as if Conlaodh could conjure fire from thin air. And he knew how to select fuel that would burn quickly and with little smoke before collapsing to form hot embers over which they cooked their catch.

On the fifth day, as Conlaodh looked out from is camp he spotted Yara weaving her way across the marshland towards him as he had done on each of the previous days, but this time she seemed larger and was moving less easily. As she drew closer, Conlaodh realised that Yara was carrying something on her back – it looked like a dome of woven reeds almost twice her size – and it slowly dawned on him that he would soon be learning about boats. The thought was not a pleasant one, for the idea of being suspended above the watery mass was not one that filled him with excitement.

He got up and walked reluctantly down to meet her at the edge of the island. By the time he had got there she had turned the woven bowl over and was sat with one hand grasping a rope tether as it floated in the water. In her other hand she held two short poles which flattened at one end to about twice the width of a man’s hand.

“This,” she said firmly, “is a corac. It might not look much, but it’s the only way you’ll get through the marshlands and across the great river.”

“Here, tie the end of this rope to that tree so that it can’t drift away and then you’re going in”, she continued.

Conlaodh followed the first part of Yara’s instructions readily enough, but the idea of getting into such a small, unsteady receptacle with only a thin layer of woven branches and the dark water beneath him was another matter.

“I can’t get in there. It’s not safe”, he stuttered and he stood feet firmly planted on the bank side arms folded, trying to strike a resolute pose. Yara could see that Conlaodh was terrified and she realised that whilst she had seen him being uncertain and she had seen him temporarily beaten she had never seen him display such inner fear. She tried to persuade him to climb in the corac but it soon became obvious that he was not moving. She would have to try another way.

“Okay, I’ll show you”, and with that she placed one of the paddles she was carrying onto the ground and stepped nimbly over the frame of the corac.

The small vessel rocked alarmingly for a few moments and Conlaodh noticed that with Yara inside it had dropped lower and no longer looked to be balancing quite so precariously on the surface of the water. She knelt down, her body almost square on towards the front of the corac and then with a deft sweep of the paddle she was moving away from the bank.

Conlaodh watched as Yara took the corac out across the water in a small arc and he noticed how she would occasionally switch the paddle to her other side to adjust the line of the craft. Once she had reached the maximum extent of the rope she paused and then with short strokes, the paddle barely kissing the water, she span the corac around and began her return.

“Small strokes to begin with”, she called, “and watch out for it spinning. You need to go both sides. And then once you are moving you can pull a bit longer and just use the paddle to steer and to maintain speed. If you try to go too fast you’ll spin out of control and it might tip”, and with that she began to move her arms faster, splashing the paddle in and out of the water more vigorously.

The small floating basket began to turn rapidly and then as Yara leaned back it reared up, flipped over and tossed her into the water. Conlaodh has horrified. He could see the corac bobbing innocently but there was no sign of Yara and then, just as he was thinking he would have to wade in to rescue her the corac began to rise upwards and there was Yara standing beneath it, lifting it above her and laughing as she shook the water from her dark hair. She quickly scanned the area around her and came a few paces closer to the bank to grab the paddle from the surface.

“Notice”, she said earnestly, “a corac doesn’t sink if it flips over, and the paddle floats. And notice also that the water isn’t deep, at least not close to the island and the reed beds.” and with that she began to laugh and wade back to the shore.

“We’ll begin with the rope really short so that you can get used to the feel of the corac and if you do go over – and you will – you’ll not have any trouble getting back.”

It took a while, but eventually Conlaodh overcame his fears and clambering over the side he found himself crouched down in the corac. He tried to remain absolutely still but every time he moved the corac swayed unnervingly.

“Kneel on one leg to get your body up”, Yara called, “it’s easier when you can see the horizon”, and slowly Conlaodh stretched himself upwards. The corac lurched sideways and he instinctively thrust an arm out the other way to steady himself. But his sudden movement only served to send the basket rocking violently the other way. Turning quickly, he grasped towards the other side but this only made things worse and then his face was hitting the water and he was in. His arms and legs flailed as he scrambled to gain purchase on the marshy bottom until, eventually, he drew himself upright, spitting out the foul water and cursing loudly.

“The secret is to be smooth and slow. No sudden movements. Imagine you are a fish gliding through the water. Go on, get back in”, Yara ordered him firmly, and the training continued.

By the end of that afternoon, Conlaodh could get in and out of the corac safely and had learned to position himself within it for maximum stability. He had even begun to work with the paddle. His first attempts at moving the vessel had resulted in him turning it round and around, but Yara had taught him how to paddle gently on both sides to prevent this spinning and to nudge the corac forwards.

The boat work continued on the next afternoon and the next as Yara gradually coaxed Conlaodh first to paddle out as far as the tethering rope would allow and then, tentatively, to repeat the same circuit without the rope. Conlaodh had received several more soakings along the way but he soon learned to close his mouth and cover his nose to minimise his intake of the water and to quickly right the corac when it had flipped. Climbing back in was more tricky but he learned to tip the opening of the corac towards him and to heave himself up over the edge, rolling down into the interior with a thud before waiting for the rocking motion to settle. He marvelled at the design of the small craft – a shell of woven reeds packed inside with tarry substance baked dry in the sun – watertight and so lightweight that it was possible for a child to carry. Between them they found a way to fix a thin line into the woven reeds, tying the other end to the paddle to make retrieval more easy for him. Yara did not need such adaptations to the craft so great was her confidence in the water and her ability to handle its movements.

On the third afternoon of boat training, Yara challenged Conlaodh to paddle the corac further out to circle around a distant reed bed before returning to the bank. Conlaodh accomplished the task well. As he approached her he wore a beaming smile that displayed his pride at his achievement. She raised both of her arms into the air in a gesture of triumph and Conlaodh instinctively returned the pose only to immediately unbalance the floating basket in spectacular fashion and dump himself into the water once more.

Yara laughed.

“Let that be a final lesson to you”, she called, “remember, pride comes before a soaking!”

They returned to the camp, Conlaodh carrying the corac on his shoulders with the rope and paddle tucked beneath one arm. It had been a hard few days of training but he was pleased with how much he had learned and he was impressed with Yara’s teaching. He had a fire burning within minutes and set about preparing two fish that they had speared earlier in the day. It was a little time before he realised that Yara was not beside him. He stopped working on the fish immediately, looked around him and realised that she had moved to the other side of his shelter out of view. He could hear her movements and gentle singing. It stopped him in his tracks and he listened intently, but the song was almost at an end:

“Over the marshes they did roam,

Over the waters far from home.
Land of fishes, home to men,
When would they return again?”

“Over the marshes they did roam,

Over the waters far from home.
Searching for the perfect place,
To be their own, their special space.”

There was a short silence and then Yara called out to him:

“Conlaodh, come around here, I’ve a surprise for you.”

He dried his hands on his tunic and walked around the shelter. She was sitting beside the corac but it had changed. Around the edge of the basket she had woven a spiral of red and orange threads.

“In my world, when someone completes their boat training they are given their first corac. The family always decorate the edge with coloured threads to symbolise the owner and to mark the corac as theirs. Every one is different. I’ve not had time to do much but I hope you like it.”, she explained.

Conlaodh almost stumbled, the corac was certainly smart and the colours were a perfect reflection of his background, but it was not these things that struck him most forcefully. He moved forwards, pulled Yara up from the ground and, before she could see the tears that had begun to wet his cheeks, quietly held her too him. There were no words he could use to express his feelings at that moment, for her actions and the word she had used had rendered him speechless – ‘Family’.

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Next: Chapter 7 – Curiosity
Previous: Chapter 5 – Yara’s World
Return to Empedocles’ Children (Home)

Throughout the hours of darkness a cold wind had swept across the low marshlands towards Conlaodh’s camp, striking the rising lands of the ridge and chilling him to the core. After Yara had left him he had gathered small branches to lay at an angle between the ground and the fallen branch they had moved to form a canopy that enclosed a nest-like space for him to tuck himself away. He had also had the foresight to pick up handfuls of moss and leaves to pack the area and provide some insulation against the cold. It was not enough. Several times he almost started the process of building a fire for warmth, but each time he remembered Yara’s warning. In any case, if he tried to find kindling and fuel in the darkness he would probably blunder away from his camp and become lost on the rough, sloping ground. Instead, he sat under the canopy, with his arms encircling his legs, drawing them in towards his chest, chin resting on his knees and bouncing up and down as shivers wracked his body. He sat and he thought.

Meeting Yara had only served to make him feel more aware that he was far from home and the familiar places, people and routines that had been the basis for his life so far. As he had crossed the scrubland towards the four trees on the bluff he had had a sense of purpose and that had kept his mind from wandering into the dangerous territory of ‘what if?’ questions. What if he was being followed? What if he was stumbling into danger? What if this was his entire life now – pushing his way across strange terrain as his body steadily weakened until it could carry him no more? Yara’s appearance had burst the bubble that he had constructed around himself and thrust him into a new phase of his journey in which he would be dependent on her kindness, and, he suspected, dependent on her skill.

It was no good. He was miserable, he was afraid, and although he liked Yara and thought that he trusted her, he was not certain that he wouldn’t be safer on his own, and so he made his decison. He would return to the bluff and then strike inland, skirting the marshland along the higher ground, moving towards the interior. He would start at first light, master of his own destiny. With that settled in his mind Conlaodh slipped into a fitful sleep.

He woke to find that the black of the night had been replaced by swirling grey mist. There were times when he could hardly see ten paces in front of him and others when the folds of damp greyness parted and he could look down the slope to see that the marshlands had been swallowed by a soft blanket of mist that lapped against the slope like waves arriving at a beach. That was another reason why he should not go down into those lands. He would be lost before he even started.

He was in the process of re-stowing his few possessions in his pack ready to strike off towards the interior when he heard a sound unlike any he had heard before – a soft booming sound that seemed to fill the air all around him. He could not pinpoint the direction of its source. There it was again, and then another but at a slightly lower pitch, like an answering call. Was this some kind of warning sound? Or perhaps a hunting call? If it was a hunting call, what was the prey? What, or perhaps who? Conlaodh froze as this thought occurred to him. If they were out there looking for him he could not risk moving from his current spot, and if he was not the prey then he should not risk blundering into a hunters’ trap. He realised that he had no choice, he had to sit tight.

As the morning passed the mist gradually began to lift but Conlaodh’s earlier indecision and the fear that it had induced held him at his camp. He had heard the booming sound many times more but over time, as the air around him cleared and normality returned, his thoughts became more rational. He realised that there was no reason for the marsh dwellers to know of his existence unless Yara had been loose with her words and, in any case, how could anyone hunt on this complex and sloping terrain unable to see a path ahead of them? He decided he would wait. Yara had said she would return and if she was to find him he must stay where we was.

Down in Yara’s village, people were begin to stir and go about their daily work. The men and older boys were loading the boats with fresh nets and readying themselves to cast out into the broader waters towards the ocean’s edge. Yara’s mother had already checked on the reed-woven traps and had returned with three juicy, fat eels that, with their tough flesh and slightly muddy taste, would be their meal that evening. Yara herself was itching for more adventure, to retrace her path back up the slope and to talk some more with the strange boy who had suddenly appeared into her life. First, however, there was a morning of work for her to do.

Yara and her mother sat together at the entrance to their hut. As Yara stretched a net apart her mother skilfully wove scraps of old thread to patch the broken areas. Sections that were too damaged for simple repairs were cut away, and once the edges were tidied up, the resulting holes became escape routes for the sacred river dolphins that glided through the coastal waters. It was bad luck to snag one of these magnificent beasts in your net. With the repairs completed, Yara was left with a pile of old scraps and it was her next job to untie knots and tease these apart to provide a fresh supply of threads for the next set of repairs. It was fiddly work and to most people it was boring work, but Yara found that she could her immerse herself in the task, allowing her fingers to operate with a well-practised rhythm while her mind dreamed of mysterious worlds and the adventures she would have exploring them. It was only when her work was complete and her mind returned to her immediate surroundings that she remembered that she would never explore those places, if they even existed, or anywhere for that matter. Her life was in the marshlands, repairing nets, preparing food and, one day, bringing up a family of her own.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother calling her.

“Yara, I need you to go down to the drying huts to turn and re-salt the fish. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, mama, and then can I play?”, Yara replied.

“You may, but don’t be out so late tonight, Amaru’s father is visiting and he will want to see that you are strong and healthy.”

Yara’s heart sank. She hated Amaru, but his family were important in the village and her own family could not ignore the interest that his father was showing in her, especially as there would be no-one else to support her mother and father as they grew older.

“Take some food with you”, Yara’s mother continued, “there are fresh rice cakes in the store.”

That was better news. Yara helped herself to three of the rice cakes and then, checking that her mother was looking the other way, pocketed another three and slipped in a couple of pieces of their dried fish.

“Good bye mama”, Yara called, “I’ll be back for Amaru’s father. I promise.”

The track to the drying huts took Yara a little distance from home, through the centre of the village and past the moorings where the boats were tied up overnight. As she passed, she could see that the boats had already departed but there was still a gaggle of boys close to the water’s edge. She could hear that Amaru was among them – his voice was always the loudest even when he had nothing useful to say, which, in Yara’s opinion, was most of the time. And she knew what was coming.

“Hey, Puddle-Face, whose boat is you pa scrounging from today then?”, came Amaru’s taunting words.

Yara turned and scowled at him before turning back and continuing on her way.

“Snake”, she muttered to herself. It was not her father’s fault that he had lost his boat in the storm three years ago and couldn’t afford to replace it. It was Amaru’s father who had insisted that some of the men went out that day even though the rising winds and dark clouds gave a warning to anyone who understood their ways that it was not a day for fishing. And the boat was not all that he had lost, that their family had lost. For it was on that day that they had lost her brother Malik. Oh how sorely she missed him.

Then, as expected, the missiles began to fall, clods of earth and stones, skidding off the track or plopping into the nearby water. She would not give him the satisfaction, that snake with his little bunch of slithering followers. She would not break into a run, even as a ball of clay, packed around a central stone, smacked squarely into her shoulder. She hoped they would have found some other diversion to amuse their simple brains by the time she had to return.

At the drying huts, Yara went quickly about her business. She lifted some of the pieces of fish down from the hanging rack, placed them on the bench and using a big ladle, spooned the pinky-white salt onto them. Then, carefully, she turned each piece while rubbing them all over before returning to the rack and selecting the next set to work on. It took her perhaps an hour to work her way through the entire stock and before she raked the remaining salt back into its basket. She was finished and finally her time was her own.

Yara was relieved to find that Amaru and his posse were no longer at their station by the moorings and she made quick progress back towards the village. But, of course, this was not her destination. Her destination was adventure, and discovery. Just before she reached the first of the living huts she paused to look and to listen. All was quiet and she could see no-one; it was safe to take the other path, the one that skirted inland and then up towards the sloping ground and the bluff beyond. The path twisted gradually upwards becoming narrower and more secret as it went and then she was there, at the place where she turned sharply into a slight gap in the vegetation and down towards Conlaodh’s overnight camp. She checked again, although she knew that she was alone, and then she was on her way, to meet the boy again and to discover some more.

---

Next: Chapter 6 – Marshland Training
Previous: Chapter 4 – The Meeting
Return to Empedocles’ Children (Home)

Conlaodh did not return the smile. He was furious – furious with himself for so stupidly dropping his guard and furious with the girl, for she had his pack and without his pack he had nothing. The thought flashed into his head that she might not be alone but the anger that boiled inside him was too strong to allow straight thinking. It was his pack and he would take it back.

He lunged forward, reaching out with his right hand to grab the strap, but his fingers closed on thin air. She had mirrored his movement, rocking backwards and twisting to her left before stepping two paces further away. She was still smiling. He tried again, this time feigning to take the bag before ducking down and charging straight for her in an attempt to send her to the ground. But she was moving almost before he was, spinning to her right and then away from him, timing her move perfectly to escape his outstretched arms. If he was furious before he was raging now. He reached forward, she shifted back. He moved left, she shuffled right. He moved right, she side-stepped left. It was like a dance in which he thought he was leading but where his partner was actually calling the moves and he’d always hated dancing when forced to do it at the gatherings. He tried trickery, seeming to relax and display an air of nonchalance before suddenly leaping forwards. He tried brute force, charging at her with all his might in an incessantly flurry of attacks and in these moments they were almost indistinguishable, a ball of activity twisting and turning over the dusty ground between the four trees. But it was no use, he was fast and he was strong but this was like fighting water, so fluid were her movements. She still had his pack and she was still smiling.

After a pause in their struggle during which he bent over, hands on his knees as he gasped to regain his breath and to collect his thoughts, he stood upright and looked her in the eyes.

“It’s my pack. Give it back”, he growled.

“Well hello to you too. Have you come far?” she responded mockingly.

That was it, he would take it from her if it was the last thing he would do, and he knew how. He was standing with his back to the marshy lands looking back towards the forest from which he had come and he started to shift his gaze away from the girl and look into the distance screwing his face up into a look of puzzlement. It worked. The girl seemed to become uneasy and more rooted to her position and she slowly turned her head to try to follow his gaze. She was almost looking back over her shoulder now and at that moment he launched his attack. He rushed forward in a crouching run arms outstretched ready to clasp her around the middle, but in an instant she dropped down to the ground and he was over her before he knew it. He felt her hands fix around his ankles and then thud, he was down on the soft, pine-needle covered ground and she was standing over him, one foot poised gently on his chest, left hand on her hip and right arm stretched high and holding his pack like a trophy. She had read his mind and used his own movement to bring him down.

“I think that makes me the winner”, she said, smiling even more broadly so that her white teeth sparkled like jewels.

She stepped back a couple of paces and then leaned forwards to place the pack beside him.

“Here you go. You only had to ask nicely. I’m Yara by the way”, she continued, and then after a slight pause as he pulled his pack towards him:

“But the interesting question is ‘Who are you?’”.

Conlaodh wasn’t interested in answering the girl’s questions, he felt humiliated and he was angry at how easily he had been taken by surprise. At least he had his pack back. Part of him wanted to run, to get away from this place and to be away from her constantly smiling face, but there wasn’t anywhere that he could run, at least nowhere that he knew he would be safe. Part of him wanted to stand up and fight her and to teach her a lesson, but he’d already seen how swiftly she could move and he’d already taken one beating of a sort from her. He started to relax and as he did so she spoke again:

“You’re thinking you could run or you could fight and that neither seems like a good course of action. There is another option you know.”

He had to admit it to himself, she was a smart one, this smiling girl whose movements flowed like water who called herself Yara. Perhaps he should see what she was about. Perhaps she would be able to help him. He drew his pack towards him and shuffled backwards until he was sitting against one of the trees and looked at her properly for the first time. He guessed she was about the same age as him but she was different in so many ways – instead of his pale and freckled skin hers was a smooth dark olive colour; instead of his blue eyes hers were dark brown; instead of his straight red hair hers was shorter, slightly curly and almost as black as the night. Yet she spoke the same language and she was a child, just like him. Perhaps she would even be a friend. That thought made him smile and noticing this, she began to laugh quietly, not in a teasing way but in a gentle encouraging tone that relaxed him further. He found himself laughing too, and in that instant the connection was made.

“I’m Conlaodh, I’ve come from my lands over there”, he said, raising one arm to point back along the dune ridge behind him, “I’ve been travelling for days.”

“I know”, she said, “I’ve been watching you, and in any case, looking like that you’re obviously not from these parts. I often come up to these trees to look out at the world. I saw the smoke from the fires you lit as you came this way.”

As she said those words she saw him tense and look around and she instinctively knew what concerned him.

“It’s alright, no-one else will know you are here. No-one else from my village ever comes up here and we hardly ever get travellers in these parts. It’s just me here. Why have you come?”

Conlaodh opened his mouth to answer her question but found that he didn’t know what to say. Why had he come?

Before he could begin to answer his own question she was talking again:

“A week ago I saw a huge smoke cloud filling the far horizon. Then a couple of days after that I saw that someone had lit a small fire near the dune ridge and I’ve watched each night as the smoke from the fires has got closer. I knew someone was coming and today I picked you up as you came up the rise towards these trees. I call them ‘The Sentinels’ by the way because they stand here looking out at the world, just like I like to. When I saw you I knew you weren’t a danger to me as long as I made the first move and because you had no idea I was around that was easy. You should really look after your belongings better.” She winked playfully at him.

“Where are you going?”

“Away”, he responded, “away from there”, and his arm waved back towards the dune ridge and forest again, “But I don’t know where, just away. I can’t go back”.

“Well you won’t get anywhere if you keep going in the direction you were. My people will find you and they don’t welcome strangers. And if they don’t find you you’ll only get lost in the marshes or drowned in the channels”, she replied.

“Well you’ve welcomed a stranger” Conlaodh observed

“I’m different from most”, she responded, “I like to look outwards not inwards. I don’t really fit either. I can help you.”

And with that she walked forward a few paces and held out her arm towards him. He reached his own arm upwards and felt her hand clasp around his arm just above his wrist. He closed his own hand around her wrist and with that contact made he allowed her to pull him off the ground and into the clearing. She released his arm and he hers and she bowed slightly towards him:

“Yara Ribiero-Sorriso at your service!”

It was beginning to get dark and that meant that to avoid suspicion from her family Yara needed to return home, but before leaving she led Conlaodh away from the exposed position where The Sentinels stood and part way down the slope towards the marshy lands below. The path she took was windy and Conlaodh wondered how he would have found his way without his newly acquired guide.

“You can’t come all the way to the huts with me, it’d be too dangerous. But there’s a good sheltered spot just off the track that I can take you to where you can camp for the night”, she explained, “There’s a stream nearby for water and you’ll be completely out of sight if anyone did come this way. But they won’t. My people don’t like to roam far unless they’re in a boat on the water.”

About half-way down the slope she stopped and after taking a quick look all around she plunged off the track along an almost imperceptible path that was never wider than the length of his forearm. Not long after leaving the track they came to a small grassy flat area next to a tiny stream that tumbled down through a rocky crevice and she stepped back and drew her arm in a sweeping motion as if she was a market trader displaying her wares on the ground in front of her. She was right, he thought, this was a good spot to camp.

“I’ll come back tomorrow with food. In the meantime you can have this.”

She reached into a pocket at the back of her breeches and drew out a piece of rubbery material and handed it to him. He raised it to his nose and sniffed it, jerking his head back strongly as the pungent aroma entered his nostrils and a scowl came over his face.

“It’s fish. Dried and salted. It’s good food, but if you don’t want it you can always go hungry.”

He nibbled at a corner and found that once he had overcome his initial instinct and broken the chewy flesh in his mouth the taste was okay. He was not used to the saltiness and that made him cough a little, but as he had not eaten much but shellfish and berries for days anything was better than nothing.

“No, thanks. It’s good, just not what I’m used to.”

They spent a few minutes exploring the area together. She showed him an easy place to drink where a stone formed a small overhang causing the water to flow out and down in an arcing path and they dragged a fallen tree branch onto the bank, propping it up against some nearby rocks to form the backbone of a shelter. He would gather smaller branches later to lay across as a roof. The area was not overlooked, but Conlaodh didn’t like the fact that this meant that he could not really see out either. He would just have to trust her when she said that no-one else knew about this spot.

“I’ve got to get going now. Don’t move from here – we’re pretty close to the village now so you might stumble into danger. You’ll be safe and anyway, if you do move I might not find you again.”

Conlaodh thanked her for her help. In truth, he was looking forward to being on his own again. Once the initial shock of her appearance had subsided he’d enjoyed having her company, but he needed to think, to take stock of where he was and where he now seemed to be going. Moving away from the danger of his own home and his own people was one thing. Moving into another person’s world, a world about which he knew nothing, holding dangers he had no experience of was quite another.

She moved away from him and started along the small path back to the track. At the last moment, before she disappeared from his sight, she looked back over her shoulder, smiled at him and gave a small wave of her hand.

“There’s one more thing… Don’t do anything stupid like lighting a fire will you?”

With that she turned and was gone. Conlaodh was alone again.

---

Next: Chapter 5 – Yara’s World
Previous: Chapter 3 – Conloadh’s Journey
Return to Empedocles’ Children (Home)

It took Conlaodh six days to cross the terrain that brought him to within striking distance of the group of trees that were his target; six days during which the bruises and cuts on his body slowly mended and his aches and pains subsided. At the same time, the fear that had clawed at his insides every time he thought about what lay behind him and how he had come to be in these barren lands was gradually replaced by growing apprehension about what lay ahead. He knew nothing about that but could only think that as an outsider he would not be welcome.

On the first evening he had not dared to stop long or allow himself the comfort of building a proper camp and a fire. He wanted to put distance between himself and his past as quickly as possible. He had risked moving out into the open only once, to take himself down to the ocean’s edge for an unsatisfactory attempt to splash the mud, smoke dust and dried blood from his arms and face. Later, he had found a place where the water came close in to the dunes forming a slightly enclosed pool and here he had stripped his clothes from his body placing them in a neat pile together with his bag in a hollow beneath some undergrowth where the vegetation on the dune ridge started. He was not confident in the water but once he had forced himself into the sheltered pool and found that it was never more than chest deep he relaxed and allowed the salty water, warmed by the sun’s heat through the day, to ease his aches and pains. Carefully, he rubbed his body with his hands, helping the loose matter that clung to his skin to detach and float away. In places his movements caused cuts to re-open and the sudden stinging sensation as the salt entered his wounds made him wince and close his body up in discomfort. Finally, placing one hand over his nose and mouth and screwing his eyes shut he bent his legs to plunge his head under the water, holding it there for as long as he dared before bursting up again to gasp for breath. Once out of the pool he used his hands to scrape as much of the water from his body as he could and to smooth his hair away from his face. Then he stood with arms outstretched and allowed the sun’s rays to drive the remaining droplets from his skin, cooling him gently as they departed.

He made his way back to his pack and began to dress. He had a soothing ointment that his mother had made to ease burns and he gently massaged a small amount of this into the tender area on his temple. His ankle was swollen and he knew that he needed to strap it but he had nothing suitable for the job so that would have to wait. He would just have to be extra careful with it. Looking around, he could see that a little further inland the open grassy vegetation of the dune gave way to larger shrubby plants and small trees. That could mean berries and it would certainly offer some shelter so he decided to head that way, but once he arrived he found nothing that offered any sustenance. He was tired. He was hungry, He was disheartened. And he was alone.

There was a clump of small trees on a slight rise and in the midst of these the ground hollowed slightly to form a natural bowl. This would have to be his resting place for the night. It offered him a little shelter, a natural place to lie down and a reasonable view of the land immediately around. He sat with his back to one of the trees looking back towards the dune ridge not far away and the forest from which he had emerged further back. Digging into his pack he pulled out his remaining provisions. He still had a handful of dried fruit and tree nuts and he had one piece, about the size of his palm, of his mother’s seed cake, freshly baked at the start of the day but now squashed, dry and rather battered. He took one of his remaining pieces of dried fruit and counted out six nuts and as he didn’t know when he would next find food he carefully broke the cake apart into three approximately equal pieces and after re-wrapping two he replaced them and the rest of the fruit and nuts back into his pack. One small piece of seed cake, one piece of dried fruit and six nuts – it wasn’t exactly a feast but it would have to do, and anyway it wasn’t so much his lack of food that worried him but his lack of water. He wanted to shove the food straight into his mouth and savour the feeling of energy flowing into his body but he had grown up with little and so he knew how to make the most of things. He laid the food out on the ground to his side and forced himself to take things slowly, picking up each individual morsel, examining its form carefully with his fingers, raising it to his nose to draw in its smell, turning it every way before his eyes and then placing it gently onto his tongue. He allowed the taste to spread through his mouth, chewing slowly to prolong the sensation before swallowing. He managed to turn his scrap of cake into six mouthfuls, alternating these with the fruit and nuts. When everything was gone and he had methodically licked the crumbs and fragments from his fingers he sipped just enough water to rinse around his mouth before tipping his head back and allowing the liquid to disappear inside him.

By now the sun was slipping over the dune horizon and the sky was darkening rapidly. He would allow himself to sleep soon but first he needed to think. If he was where he wanted to be he would be thinking first about locating the best spot for building a shelter close to a source of water and with food accessible, but he wasn’t far enough away from danger yet so he pushed these thoughts out of his mind. In any case, the area immediately around him was not exactly blessed with water or food. Movement was what he needed and for that he needed to fuel himself, so tomorrow he would start to head towards those four distant trees and he would just have to search out food and water as he went. He might need a bit of divine intervention for that, if such a thing existed. He sat looking back towards the forest for a few minutes. The air was still and apart from the muffled sound of the waves lapping against the shore on the far side of the dune it was quiet. The light had gone and he began to see stars appearing, but back towards the forest the star light was struggling to emerge as the smoke from the fire continued to drift in front of them. In other directions the small points of light were like beacons lit to guide night-time travellers and it occurred to Conlaodh that he was a traveller now, a traveller who knew nothing about his destination or the length of his journey. With that thought he patted his pack into as smooth a shape as he could and lay down to let sleep take him.

He woke with a start. It was half-light and a little misty and he could only see dim shapes around him. There was a noise and whatever was making it was close by. His body tensed and slowly he lifted his head and slipped his pack quietly over his shoulder. If he needed to run he would be ready; he had his knife. He listened intently. Whatever was making the noise was behind him and as far as he could tell it just below the hollow, and, he realised with relief, it was not human. Even his brother didn’t make snuffling noises like that. Slowly, he turned himself onto his front and edged forward cautiously before raising his head a few inches to peer over the rim of his sleeping bowl and immediately he found himself looking into another set of eyes. It was a young deer. Their eyes remained locked for a few seconds and then with a sudden kick of its legs the deer had turned and was away. Conlaodh sprang up and was immediately into a sprint, following the animal as it twisted and turned through the bushes. It was fast and he was struggling to keep up but he knew that an animal like that could not survive without water and water was the thing that he needed above anything else at that moment. He was able to keep the deer in view for perhaps five minutes but then he lost sight of it and shortly afterwards he stopped hearing the sound of it running too. He would have to continue the search by following its tracks. That turned out to be easy, for the soft sandy ground clearly showed the deer’s path. Calming himself he began to follow the trail and it was not long before he discovered what he was looking for. As he breasted a slight ridge he found himself looking down on a small lake, well really hardly a lake at all, and at its edge was a group of about ten deer, some lapping at the water with their tongues. In theory the deer could be food but this was not his priority and, anyway, he was not really equipped to bring down and prepare such a large animal so he did not need to approach with caution.

Before dropping down from his vantage point he gave himself time to survey the land and he could see that he had come further away from the forest and somewhat inland from the main dunes. As he looked ahead, beyond the lake, he could see that the terrain continued in much the same form, ocean, dune ridge, scrubby undergrowth and then, in line with his present position, a series of small lakes dotted at fairly regular intervals for as far as he could see. This was perfect, well almost perfect – a possible food source at the oceans edge, a clear path and direction along the dune ridge, cover from the low plants and trees of the scrubland and water from the lakes, all stretching towards that distant clump of four trees. Filled with renewed confidence he trotted down to the lake, scattering the deer as he approached. He made his way further around to the far side of the lake away from where the deer had been gathered and cupping his hands he ladled the cool water into his mouth to quench his thirst. There was, of course, a chance that the water might be foul, but it tasted clean and refreshing and that was just a chance he would have to take. After all, the deer seemed perfectly healthy. He removed his bottle from his pack, filled it to the brim, stowed it safely away before scouting around the lakeside and was overjoyed to find whortleberry bushes. It only took him moments to gather two large handfuls of the sharply-flavoured berries and he deposited these into a square of cloth, tying the corners carefully and looping it onto the outside of his bag.

The next five days passed smoothly and all the while Conlaodh’s body mended. Most of the time he remained on or close to the dune ridge, moving purposefully towards his target using the ridge as his guide. It was tough going on the sandy ground but what he lost in effort he gained in direction. In the hottest part of the day he would drop down from the ridge into the more sheltered scrubland pushing further inland to the small lakes to replenish his supplies of water and berries each evening and towards the middle of each day. Sometimes, when he came inland he would find no lake and although the dense vegetation in this area made progress more difficult he knew that if he pushed a little further on, parallel to the shore, he would always find the next one – they had glistened like a string of pearls stretching away into the distance when he had first seen them after his chance encounter with the deer. At night he had stayed close to the dune. There was good shelter behind it for his camps and he had found shellfish readily abundant in the muddy sediments close to the ocean’s edge. On the third night he allowed himself to light a small fire using the driest sticks he could find to limit the inevitable trace of smoke and he found that if he warmed the shells in the embers they were easier to crack open and the soft flesh inside became less chewy and easier to eat. It was not exactly his favourite food, but there was plenty of it and in the undergrowth near the ridge he found fragrant plants, the leaves of which he gathered to sprinkle onto each morsel.

Initially, he had been worried about his ankle, but he gave it a relaxing soak in the water each day and found that, although sore, it was soon bothering him less. Each night he sat on the ridge watching the sun slip below the horizon and the stars blink to life in the sky and thought about what had happened to him since he had set out with his brother and the men that fateful morning. So much could have gone wrong – the fire or the dogs could have caught him, his ankle, shoulder or head could have been seriously damaged, he could have struggled to find food and water, the water he found could have been foul – but miraculously nothing had.

It was about mid-morning of the seventh day when he realised that the ground around him was changing. He had just refilled his water and stocked up with berries and as he made his way back towards the dune ridge he found himself veering more towards the right and up a broad tree-covered rise that culminated in the bluff he had first seen some days before. The four trees were really clear now and he decided then to cut across straight for them. It was a nervy moment, not because he felt any threat or danger but because reaching those trees had been his singular objective since he had broken from the clutches of the fire chase and once achieved he had no idea what he would do next. He felt an inner temptation to stop or to slow his progress and prolong his journey. Perhaps he should make a camp and rest for a few days. Perhaps he should turn inland and battle his way through the vegetation beyond the lakes. Perhaps he should just lie down for a bit and see what happened. He pressed on.

He arrived at the bluff about an hour before sundown and almost immediately he realised his mistake. Up here he was away from the ocean’s edge and the lakes and that left him without fresh food and a supply of water. The position was relatively exposed, at least in terms of lighting a fire. Smoke from this location would be seen for miles around. He made his way across the bluff. It was a high vantage point considering the lie of the land around. The four trees, pines, stood tall, not on the ocean end of the bluff but perhaps halfway along its extent and the ground around them was clear. He placed his pack down beside the nearest of the four trees and wandered over to stand between two of the others. For the first time he saw the new land below him and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Ribbons of water stretched as far as he could see, interspersed by small green islands, if they could be called that. Straining his eyes, Conlaodh peered further, as much as he could, and yes, there were huts. He could see what looked like tracks or pathways, bridges perhaps, linking some of the islands and he could see tiny dots moving around on the larger areas of water. This land was not like his land, a dry, smoke-filled land, blackened by the fires that were set to clear the ground. This was a land of water. He gave a long breath out, almost a sigh, and realised that things were about to get really difficult. But he had survived so far and he was in a good place to decide his next move.

He turned back to retrace his steps towards his pack and realised with horror that it was not there. He had definitely placed it next to that first tree and, in any case, it wasn’t next to the other one either. It couldn’t have been taken by an animal. Apart from the fact that he hadn’t seen one for two days, he hadn’t heard a sound and the trees were only yards apart. Fear spread through his mind and terror consumed his body. Where had his pack gone? Rooted to the spot he moved his eyes side to side scanning for a clue. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then a crunch; from behind him; not loud, but unmistakably the crunch of a foot on the pine needles scattered beneath the trees. He froze, half expecting a violent explosion of movement and a sudden stab of pain, but nothing came. Instead, words, a strange voice, but words nevertheless and the first he had heard for days…

“You took your time”

He span around and standing before him, right between the two trees where he had been looking out at the watery land beyond just moments before, was a girl with dark skin and jet black hair. She was holding his pack in her hands and she was smiling.

---

Next: Chapter 4 – The Meeting
Previous: Chapter 2 – The Sentinels
Return to Empedocles’ Children (Home)

The fire and the dogs were behind him now but he knew that he was not yet safe. Perhaps he would never be safe. Perhaps his life would be one long run from danger. He knew nothing about the land beyond the forest other than from the tales of danger that they had all been brought up on, tales spoken as they huddled together around the communal fire. There were people here quite unlike his own, people who would not take kindly to a stranger in their midst if the tales were true.

It would be evening soon and then his first night alone in this strange land. His head told him that he needed to find shelter. His stomach told him that he needed to find food. His body told him that he needed to rest. His fear told him that he needed to press on, to put distance between himself and his past. It was the fear that called to him most strongly.

He looked about him. Behind, he could see only trees, pressing together like a dark wall, and the sky above filled with dark clouds of smoke obscuring the land behind. He knew what lay that way of course – home, or at least the land that he used to call home. He was lost to that now. A small shudder ran through his body. He didn’t spend long looking back. To his left, the hummocky terrain of the ridge, dotted with grasses waving gently in the breeze, dropped down to the sandy plain, and beyond that was the sea. There was nowhere to go in that direction and there would be precious little shelter, but there would be food. To his right, the sandy hills, if you could call them hills, reached inwards almost as far as he could see before giving way to distant mountains; the same mountains that as a young boy he had sat and gazed at in wonder when he should have been helping his brothers with their work. He’d received a few smacks around his ears for indulging in those moments of contemplation. He certainly could go inland, but to do so would keep him close to the forest and having worked so hard to escape its grasp he felt that he needed to keep moving away from it now. Besides, he knew that it wasn’t unknown for scouts to be sent out to the forest’s edge or even sometimes a little way beyond it to spy into this land and he couldn’t risk being seen. No, he needed distance, and that meant turning his back on the forest and continuing forwards along the coastal ridge.

His escape from the fire had brought him up to a high point and so he was able to see that the ridge stretched for miles ahead of him, sea on one side, sandy hills pockmarked with clusters of green on the other. As it stretched ahead, the ridge curved slowly and steadily to his right, seeming to wrap its way around the interior lands. It was not easy terrain, but where the landward side of the ridge dropped down there were trees and greenery and in one or two places he thought he could see the silvery glint of water. The natural undulations would offer him some shelter, the trees some shade and there was a good chance that there would be seeds and nuts, perhaps even a rabbit if he could trap one and risk lighting a fire to cook it over. Staying up on the ridge gave him a clear route to follow, easier ground to move over and by dropping down off the ridge, access to this safety. It also gave him the option to forage on the shore and at the higher points a chance to scout ahead; and, of course, to check behind…

He looked down at his body. His clothes were smudged black from the smoke and in a few places the deep red of his blood showed through. He would have to take a proper look at the damage, but that was a job for later – he couldn’t afford to linger too long. He stood up and carefully lifted each leg in turn, testing each joint as he did so. There was a burning pain in his ankle which was worse when he flexed it but it was holding his weight and he could walk without too much discomfort. He would strap it when he got a chance. There was blood on his leg seeping through his leggings and a sharp pain if he pressed the area but it was bearable. He would have to deal with that later too. He stretched over to one side and then the other and reached his arms upwards. His left arm was fine but it was a struggle to raise his right arm above his shoulder and both arm and shoulder on that side throbbed painfully. He knew he’d been lucky to slide under that tree but his shoulder had certainly paid a high price for that luck. He lowered his arms and looked at his hands in front of him, first opening and closing his fingers to check their mobility and then turning his palms downwards to inspect the slicing cuts of the thorns. There were still several embedded into his skin and he gently plucked these out with his fingers and placed them in a small metal tin taken from the pocket of his pack. Thorns that sharp could scratch a mark or serve as a fish hook and he certainly wasn’t going to throw them away. He couldn’t, of course, see his face and his head, and so this was another job for his fingers. Carefully he ran them through his hair feeling the curves and bumps of his skull, checking for places of pain and apart from one tender area just above his right temple everything seemed okay. He already knew that there was blood on his face, he’d tasted it in his mouth as he had come through the thicket and now he could feel the slight crustiness on his nose and cheek. But whatever holes had been punched into him seemed to be minor and his body had already set to work closing them up. He would wash the dried blood from his body when he felt safer and could find a pool of water. So there was certainly damage – his ankle, leg and shoulder would need some attention – but he had been lucky, miraculously lucky in fact, and he couldn’t quite believe it.

Crouching, with his pack on the ground in front of him, he reached in and pulled out a small cloth bundle. Holding it in his left palm he unfolded it carefully and took out a small handful of tree nuts and a couple of pieces of dried fruit. It had been a last minute decision to grab these supplies from his family’s stores and they would not last long. He had not imagined that he would be running so far; they had driven him here. He was grateful now for his foresight. He tried to take his time and to savour the tastes but he was hungry and it was impossible not to just rush the morsels down. Then he slid his wooden bottle from its holder on the side of his pack, twisted open its lid and peered inside. It was perhaps half full and he allowed himself two swigs only before sealing it up and pushing it carefully back into its home. He would need to find water before nightfall or certainly before striking out the next morning.

He placed the small metal tin back into the pocket of his pack and slung the strap over his left shoulder before reaching across with his good arm to feed his injured arm through its own strap and pull the cords tight. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, drew himself up to full height and scanned the terrain ahead. There was only really one way he could go but he knew he’d move better if he had a target to aim for. Far ahead, pretty much at the point where he could see no further, the ridge seemed to lose its identity and the lower land to the right was lush with small trees. At its end, he could see an area of higher ground, a kind of bluff, and on top of this were four trees, tall pines that stood like sentinels over the surrounding ground. It was a long way, and it would take him days to reach that point, but it felt like those trees were calling him there. He would respond to their call.

---

Next: Chapter 3 – Conlaodh’s Journey
Previous: Chapter 1 – Fire Chase
Return to Empedocles’ Children (Home)

It felt like someone had reached inside him and was tearing his lungs from his chest. His heart was pumping so violently that he could feel the movement of blood pulsing up through his neck and into his head. He could almost hear his skin hissing with the heat. Every part of his body was screaming at him to stop, to give up, but he knew that to do so was to die.

For an instant, he allowed himself to sink into a momentary calm, allowing the cool breeze, inexplicable amidst the devilish heat of the inferno, to take hold of him like his mother’s embrace. Deeper and deeper he sank, his mind reaching for clarity and a vision to guide him. Slowly, he seemed to rise, drifting upwards above the trees, higher and higher until the sight of the coastal plain opened up below him. To the right he could see the village, small columns of wispy smoke rising from the cooking fires, but it was too far to see his people, so far had he run, so far had he been chased. His eyes followed the winding track out of the village up onto the low ridge and down into the dune forest and here there was nothing to see but destruction. Dark smoke filled the sky above, billowing from the flames below. Such flames, clawing upwards as if trying to pull the sky and the earth together, to render everything one. He could see the flames leaping from tree to tree, announcing their advance in a series of triumphant, vicious cackles. And the trees fell, smashing into the ground to send up great showers of sparks that rained down on everything below. He turned to look over his right shoulder and could see that the fire extended all the way from the ridge to the coast beyond in an enormous swathe through the dune forest. Senseless destruction, all because of him. He could not go inland and he could not go south.

He turned to look left. He was perhaps two miles from the dune ridge beyond which the great ocean lay. He could not escape that way but there was hope to the north. Looking ahead he could see that the fire was racing toward the coast like an arm reaching out to slam the gate shut before he could reach it. They were driving it that way, desperate to hold him in their grasp. As each tree fell and as each flame leapt to its next prey the gap was reducing. He knew he had little hope. He knew that he could stop now, sink into the earth and the pain would soon end.

Then he heard the sound, the blood-curdling, manic yelping of the dogs. They had unleashed the dogs and they were moving fast. He snapped awake and with barely a moment’s hesitation leapt forwards, driving for that single point where the dune broke out of the forest into the land beyond. If he could make it there he could be safe from them. They had lived all of their lives deep in the forest lands. They would not follow him beyond the edge.

He ran like he had never run before, stilling his mind to focus only on each step. One trip and it would be over. One wrong turn and he would not make it. He gulped the air down, feeling it tearing at his lungs. It felt like his heart would burst. ‘Dance’ they had taught him, ‘dance to the beat of your heart and the rhythm on the land beneath your feet’. He threw his head back, looking at the top of the rise ahead and drove his arms back to counterbalance the swift movement of his steps as he climbed steadily upwards. Then down he raced, over the brow of the hill, the land tumbling away before him. It was like flying, each step striking a stone, or a branch and projecting him up and on, his body swaying, his arms windmilling about him as he sought the perfect balance that was the only thing that could save him.

The dogs were louder now and their barking was not just coming from behind him but from forward to his right. Were they driving the dogs ahead of the flames? Were they so desperate to stop him that they would risk losing them? He could hear their bodies crashing through the undergrowth and their constant yelping, a mix of desperation to reach their prize and to tear him limb from limb and fear of the flames. He was not the only one being hunted now, the flames were not choosy about their food.

On and on he drove himself. He knew that if he allowed himself to think about how far he had come and how far he still had to go he would fail. There was nothing useful to be gained now from pondering his position. He just had to keep going – it would either be enough or not. Probably not. He was on a wider track now which ran roughly north, parallel to the coast and the dune ridge to which he would have to cross. He would have to leave the path at some point but he knew that the ground between the path and the dune ridge would be dangerous ground – a tangle of branches, pitted with holes dug by the night creatures. The path was a good surface, fast and even. It was sensible to use it while he could even though it meant he was out in the open. That mattered little now, they knew where he was and they had sensed where he was heading. It was a straight race – not with the men, but with the fire they had set and the dogs they had sent. He had to keep running. He simply had to keep moving forwards, no matter how much his body was screaming at him to stop.

He could see the forest clearing to his left, the spaces between the trees were lightening, no longer filled with yet more forest but showing the sky beyond. If he had stopped, and if he could have turned off the incessant roar and snap of the fire and the howling of the dogs he would have heard the ocean’s waves slapping onto the beach. But running that way would not bring safety and now to his right the darkness of the forest was progressively giving way to the orange glow of the fire as it spread its embrace around his path. He had to keep driving forwards.

He sensed the dog in the trees to his right and his heart stopped for an instant. He could not fight it – they were bred to be such savage creatures. It was tearing through the undergrowth, like a bullet of flesh and teeth hurtling towards him, and he knew it was going to strike its target at any moment. Out it came, just a few paces ahead and he slammed to a halt, jarring his ankle with a surge of pain unlike any other he had ever felt. Instinctively, he braced himself for the attack, but something was wrong. The dog was yelping wildly and spinning, and he saw that it was on fire, it’s tail and now, even as he watched, its hind quarters flickering. Over and over it tumbled, desperate to free itself of the orange knife that stabbed it again and again, before crashing into a bush on the left of the path and unleashing a cry of defeat as the needle-like thorns tore into its face and throat. How had the dog got so close to him? Were there more? He didn’t have time to answer his questions. Flames leapt up to his left as the forest on both sides of the path erupted.

He put his head down and sprinted as fast as he could. This was the final surge. He had to get far enough ahead of the fire that the dog had brought with it to give himself the time he needed to cut across to the dune ridge. A hundred paces more.

Ninety.

Eighty.

Seventy.

He knew that when he went he had to go with full commitment. He knew that if he hesitated he would fail. He would probably fail anyway. He had to trust his instinct and let his feet lead the way.

Sixty.

Fifty.

The flames were right upon him now as the whole forest to his right burned, a wall of orange from within which arms of flame reached out desperately to grab him. He could feel the heat and the dryness of the air. When he drew the air down into his lungs it tore at him from the inside and he choked on it at every breath.

Forty.

Thirty.

Twenty.

His eyes were scanning to his left, searching for a place to leave the path. He had little choice.

Ten more paces.

The flames were almost on him, flickering at his right side and curling overhead.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

In an instant, he turned his right foot slightly, pushing hard against a smooth rock and leapt across the gully at the side of the path and into the undergrowth. He screwed his eyes shut and threw his arms across his face to protect it from the brambles as he crashed through. Thorns tore at him – arms and legs, face and head. He stumbled – once, twice, three times, each time wondering whether his ankle would snap as his foot slipped into a hole. But he was almost through. He opened his eyes as he emerged from the dense thicket and saw a branch ahead, about waist height, blocking his route. Everything depended on the ground before it. He needed a firm footing to launch himself upwards and over. He pushed down hard and began to bring his hands up to grasp the branch to vault over it but the ground gave way and rather than rolling over the top of the branch he was now heading straight for it and a deadly impact. Instinctively, he dropped his right shoulder and threw his head back and to his left. His body clattered into the branch and he felt his right ear scrape hard against the bark and then his cheek dashed against the wood. But his legs continued forwards, ramming his body through the narrow gap between the branch and the ground and crashing him into a rock.

He was dazed. Nothing seemed to make sense. He shook himself and gently pressed his fingers against his face. There was obviously some blood but everything seemed to be in place. He tested his arms and legs. To his amazement everything still seemed to be working, and he was almost there. Gingerly, he stood up and started forwards, not rushing now but carefully drawing himself out of the undergrowth and up onto the dune ridge. He could not hear the dogs but the fire was still there. He could see it and he could feel its heat but it was behind him now and unable to bridge the gap through which he had launched himself. He knew he couldn’t stop; there was a chance they would send someone through after him. But it would be a while before the flames had subsided enough for anyone to follow and, anyway, they would surely assume he had perished. He had a little time now. Time to think and time to dust himself down and catch his breath. He was through.

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Next: Chapter 2 – The Sentinels
Previous: Prologue
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The old man had been away from the Peoples for many years, more years, in fact, than any ordinary man’s life, ever since the ruptures had begun. Too long.

He sat on the rock and looked out at the world below. From his vantage point there was no world above – no physical world at least – for his seat was at the very highest point of the island. He peered forwards and his eyes scanned the lands below.

It was taking a long time and he wondered whether he had stretched his powers too far; whether they were fading as he himself was fading. There was not much time now. Not much time for the Peoples but also not much time for him.

He had sent out his calls – a sense of adventure in the waters of the mountain streams, kindness through the vibration of the soils, curiosity via the electric bolts that flow from air to ground and bravery carried by the winds. Now all he could do was wait.

A few days previously, looking almost to the edge of the land far to the west, he had seen a great cloud of smoke emerge with the unmistakeable orange glow of fire beneath it. Something was happening down there and he wondered whether this was the beginning.

But he could not know.

All he could do was sit, gazing out on the four lands below him as he had done for so much of the time since he had come away, up into the high lands to the great mountain at the very core of the island. He had done all he could. It was up to others now.

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Next: Chapter 1 – Fire Chase
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Emepedocles’ Children is a children’s adventure story that I think/hope can also be enjoyed by older readers. I have been writing it on and off for several years and at the time of writing this introduction (early March 2024) I have ~60,000 words and around 70% of the story written. To help push myself over the finishing line I thought I would start to put the story here on the off-chance that someone might read it and enjoy it. I will add further chapters over the coming weeks with the goal of completing the whole book before the end of May 2024 . There, I’ve said it now…

Many years ago, after a period of argument and war known as The Division the population of a large, far away island fractured into four separate peoples, each occupying a different island quarter. Over time, the four Peoples grew ever more isolated and less trusting, blaming the others for their own misfortunes and difficulties. As each of the Peoples focused only on their own needs, taking what they needed from the island in their own way, the natural systems of the island slowly began to sicken. With the island growing close to an un-recognised breaking point an old hermit, long forgotten by the rest of the island population, makes a final, desperate plea starting a sequence of events that brings together four children for an odyssey that leads them to the high mountain that stands at the island’s core. But before these children can reach their destination they must first overcome many dangers – born of fire, water, earth and air – and in the process they discover much about themselves and each other and form ties that will bind them together forever.

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Prologue

Fire
Chapter 1 – Fire Chase
Chapter 2 – The Sentinels
Chapter 3 – Conlaodh’s Journey

Water
Chapter 4 – The Meeting
Chapter 5 – Yara’s World
Chapter 6 – Marshland Training
Chapter 7 – Curiosity
Chapter 8 – Waters Rising
Chapter 9 – The Crossing
Chapter 10 – The Race Commences
Chapter 11 – Rescue
Chapter 12 – Escape
Chapter 13 – Departure

Interlude

Earth
Chapter 14 – The Boat
Chapter 15 – Storm and Sickness
Chapter 16 – Food and Herbs
Chapter 17 – Rock Giants
Chapter 18 – The Hole
Chapter 19 – Recovery
Chapter 20 – Catch-Up
Chapter 21 – Awakening
Chapter 22 – Tales
Chapter 23 – Heartbreak
Chapter 24 – The Heartstone
Chapter 25 – Memoriam
Chapter 26 – Aid
Chapter 27 – Shadow
Chapter 28 – Above and Below
Chapter 29 – Rendezvous
Chapter 30 – On The Rails
Chapter 31 – Emergence
Chapter 32 – Together Again

Air
Chapter 33 – The Long Trek
Chapter 34 – Blocked
Chapter 35 – Across The Gorge
Chapter 36 – Disintegration
Chapter 37 – Flight To The Interior
Chapter 38 – Arrival

The Old Man and The Mountain
Chapter 39 – Up The Twisting Path
Chapter 40 – Seeking Balance
Chapter 42 – Survivors

Epilogue

Note: The above contents page lists all of the chapters that I have written to date as they are currently arranged (1-31) along with some placeholders chapter titles that will bring the story to its conclusion. It’s quite possible that as I work through the existing chapters to publish them here and/or write the remaining chapters I will end up combining some of the shorter ones, adding one or two more and changing some of the chapter titles. We’ll see…

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(c) Tim O’Hare, March 2024

Elements of this story of are loosely based on various real locations, events and people from our family life in the mid-2000s. For example, the house in the story is our family home at that time; there was a run-down house opposite; we painted numbers on snails to track their movements; the lady in the newsagent gave my younger daughter packs of football cards; we had a trampoline in the garden and there was an old chap who was a little like the character ‘Old Shuffler’. Whilst some elements of the story are imagined, it is rare that a day passes without me seeing a (my) blackbird and thinking of my father. In truth, the letter writer in the story is me, writing through the persona of my elder daughter (Kate in the story). Some of the references in Kate’s letters to her parents and her sister Annie definitely capture attributes displayed by my wife and I and our younger daughter.

Eventually I would like each of the letters in the story to be accompanied by a picture of the kind that might have been drawn by the child writing them. At present, only the first three letters have such pictures – these have been created by my elder daughter who was always drawing when she was younger and now works as a Graphic Designer. We have talked about her producing the full set of pictures but she has enough going on in her life without me continually badgering her to do so!

(c) Tim O’Hare, February 2024

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The girl sat absolutely still. She was holding the last letter tightly in both of her hands, her head bowed, eyes on the page. She was concentrating hard with furrowed brow, eyes screwed up and a slight twist of her nose. The old lady sat quietly beside her.

Eventually, the little girl put the letter down, stood up and, still silent, took a few paces towards the wall of glass at the back of the conservatory. She looked out at the garden, first at the grass and then, with a slight tilt of her head, up at the tree.

The old lady rose more slowly and treading softly came to stand beside the little girl. She looked at her young face and followed the little girl’s gaze towards the branches of the cherry tree towards the back of the garden. He was there, as she knew he would be, with his black feathers shimmering in the sunlight and his bright orange beak like a small flame illuminating the space around him. He was always there for her, even after all these years.

She waited.

She felt the little girl’s fingers reaching out and inter-twining with hers. There was a sadness there but also a feeling of peace.

At last the little girl spoke:

“There he is Granny. Just like in your letters.”

“Yes dear”, the old lady replied, “There he is. Always.”

There was a pause and the little girl shifted her gaze, scanning the branches and the bushes; searching carefully. Then she stopped and raising her hand pointed to a bush on the other side of the garden said:

“What’s that bird called?”

“That bird? The pinky-coloured one with the small triangular beak?”

The little girl nodded.

“Yes, that one. What’s that one called?”

“That’s a lovely little bird”, the old lady said, “They’re very friendly and chirpy and they’re quite happy to be around people to pick up scraps and crumbs to eat. And they look so pretty don’t they?”

“What’s it called?”

“That one’s a Chaffinch.”

She felt the little girl relax her grip and heard her breathe out heavily like a weight was lifting from her. She turned and looked and there was a tear running down the little girl’s face, but her eyes were bright and she was smiling.

“Chaffinch”, she said

“Yes. My Chaffinch.”

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