Why was he following her? The scenery changed rapidly as they walked, Oatie silent, Lugh following.  Sad to say he really had no place else to go, certainly no place better.  He was a wanderer who roved until he stuck, stuck until his habits cast him out, and then wandered again until some opportunity or curiosity or woman caught his fancy.

At first they’d strolled through fields and arbors, the land always falling slightly away.  They had crossed a marshy place, keeping to a causeway that showed the hand of man at points that would have otherwise fallen into the swamp.  Lugh shuddered to think that they might be headed back into the hell of biting flies he’d endured. If Oatie meant to be rid of him that was a sure way to do it.

Lugh was forced to wonder, Is it this woman that has caused me to stick?  Why should I?  She cares nothing for me.  Less then nothing, she is hostile. Not long after the causeway they began to climb a ridge that hid the land beyond.  The way became more and more difficult leaving thoughts of the swamp and its flies behind.

Oatie led them up through new forest, winding in and around young trees.  At last they topped a rise and looked down on a naked indent in the land.  There was some water gathered in the swale but little else.  Oatie dropped her pack and drew out her sling.

Lugh fumbled for his bow and looked around for some danger that would require killing, but Oatie calmly rummaged through her pack, unconcerned.  “What’s the problem?” asked Lugh, confused.

“No problem.  Opportunity.” Oatie placed one of the five balls she had set out into her sling and with a few efficient whirls flung it down into the depression where it plopped in the water at the edge of the puddle. “You could probably throw a few basics down around that water too.” she said and then went back to hurling balls down into the swale.

Lugh grabbed his sling, dug out a ball and hurled it.  The thing bounded off the rocks at the edge and made a big splash in the middle.

“Uh, don’t waste those things.  I thought you knew how to use a sling?” Oatie chided.

Lugh glanced over, ready to snipe back about how she’d hit the water too, but he saw the smile on her face and decided to be happy that she wasn’t mad anymore.  “Where should I put them then, oh wise one?”

Oatie laughed, “I told you, at the edge.  I’m putting some water lovers at the front of that puddle and hopefully they will stop it up a bit so that the water will rise. . .”

“Well, I aimed short, hit short, and the thing bounced in the water.  Not my fault.”

She laughed again, music to his ears, “Try aiming long so that if it bounces long it won’t be in the water.”

He spun a ball quickly and sent it to strike just beyond the water and skitter a bit farther.

“Very nicely done.  Good job Lugh,”  Oatie teased.  She squealed when he swung his sling, threatening her flank, and she laughed and laughed.

Oatie finished what she was doing and stood waiting for him.  Lugh dropped one last ball at the head of the swale and stowed the sling.  Oatie winked at him and marched off up the hill.  What was that? thought Lugh and followed her.

This continues a story titled:  The Deer Riders

“The first time I watched outside myself I put down to a dream, but it was not the last time. Always I saw true, so I think now these are no dreams, but true seeing though it be without eyes.”

The boys looked solumnly attentive, this was an admission of a fact that they knew, that their grandfather was a seer, that he knew things, had seen things that only a seer could have beheld. “What did you do Grandfather?”

“In fact, when I looked down on the wooded vale from the stone knob that morning, I did not see the glitter of water. This reassured me somewhat that I had dreamed, not flown out of my body. Still, there was a hump, a rounded hill, in what appeared to be clear land within the circling wood and though I could not see them, I knew the wood was surrounded by brambles.

I remembered the little stream I’d stumbled into in the dark. Now, if I had known that my dream was true I would have feared to go, but because it seemed a little different my curiosity was fired, not my caution. The stream seemed a likely approach so I decided to see if I could explore the vale and look for food or other material that we could use.

The stream gathered small rivulets as it went and the stream bed sunk into a bit of a gorge. I followed it down the ridge and into and then under the bramble-wood.

The little gorge became a tunnel, roofed over with bramble vines. I was becoming nervous because everything seemed so un-natural. Still, I went on to see what was around the next corner and the next until having waded a broad silty section I rounded a tight turning and found my way barred by something undoubtedly un-natural, a wooden grill-work.

This was no accidental crossing of roots. The grill was of evenly sized and spaced timbers neatly joined, though old and somewhat rotted at the bottom. I edged close enough to peer into the valley. I could see the sky and sunlight and trees in the distance, but nothing of the grill-work’s makers.

The stone work that held the grill was mortared stone, finely worked and solid.  I strung my bow. If not before there was no doubt now, this place was crafted, not a place of nature at all having been shaped by someone’s hand. I did not know them, nor them me, so it seemed prudent at that moment to retreat.

As I recrossed the pool of silty water, I noticed a branching off the way I had come. It may have been that I had not seen it at all, but I could easily have thought it was just one of many jointing of small rivulets along the way. As I drew closer and faced, as I was, to see into it, I saw it for what it was, a path up out of the gorge. Some of the work, stair and wall, looked like the mounting that held the grill.

What to do? I confess I stood for a long time in the muddy pool staring at that passage. When I began to shiver I was moved to action. I decided to get out of the stream and see if the passage presented emediate danger. It did not, to me it seemed abandoned, clogged with old leaves.

I was uncomfortably wet, there was no place in the stream to take off and dry or even reason to do it. I followed the stairs or the side path up and out. The path through the wood split, one way going toward the valley, the other to an old campsite. It was clearly long abandoned, with a fallen shelter against a dressed stone hearth. It could have served as a lookout watching the gorge approach from above, but nobody had stayed here for a very long time. The wood pile, for there was one, was rotted. There was a spring flowing from a pool well dressed and very clean. I tasted and then with confidence filled my water skins. All was overgrown giving me confidence that I  could rest there and let my things dry.

I slept, and longer than I had intended. It was the dark of night when I woke in pitch blackness beneath the trees. I could feel the hard stone beneath me else I would have feared even more. I was sure my things were dry, but I could not navigate blind. I let sleep claim me once more.

This is the end of the second part of “The Deer Riders”