“Not much to tell.”  Iamerge’s mind raced as he thought over what he should and shouldn’t tell.  The best course always seemed to reveal the least, “I washed up on the Skellig and Gospels was there to pull me out, care for me, feed me, such as there was on that bleak place.”

Jim Cooper nodded, knowingly, “Tis said there’s naught to eat and the saints perch there for months living on water and sea foam, then there’s some who say that their god gives them food, and others that say that they’ve a fat larder there and since they don’t eat here its there they go to eat.”

Iamerge laughed, “Well, as to the larder, I saw none, I ate no sea foam, and Gospels gave me bits of dry fish, some little leaves of green herb, and sometimes raw egg of sea birds on the isle, if it was his god that gave him that to eat then he isn’t a very generous god.”

“You make it sound like there is no fuel at all, nothing to burn.”

“Unless you can make wet stone burn there is naught of that at all.”

“Incredible, how did you live?”

“How did Gospels live before I came?  I’ll tell you I’ve never slept better than I did in their guest house last night.  Not because of any opulence, just not the austerity of the rock.  There are five men out there now.  I don’t know why they do it.”

“No wonder they have produce and more to sell, they don’t eat any of it,”  said Jim Cooper to himself as much to Iamerge.  “What do you know of their god?  I confess, they don’t have much truck with old Jim, but I’ve heard their bell and I’ve heard their weird singing a time or two.  They seem virtuous, but I’d say men that virtuous can only get in the way of a man’s business.  In the end.”

“To tell you the truth I can’t speak to the beliefs of the monks like Gospels, they are new to me as well.  But I can’t say anything against them, they seem virtuous, generous, and good to a fault.  I do take your meaning though, I think.  What’s a man to do who can’t live up to such a standard?  What must they think of those who don’t live as they do?”  Iamerge took another drink from his cup and cleared his throat, “Still, if I understand them, they serve the same God, the Lord they call him, who is served by the Jews that I knew quite well.  It seems to me that they are similar in their kindnesses and that it is their Lord who commands it of them.”

“So, these Jews grew food that they did not eat as well?”

Iamerge laughed at that, “Oh no, not so.  The Jews were adept at trade, at numbers, at drawing value from a thing.  It seems to me that the Jews took part in the blessings that their Lord brought them.  The monks like Gospels are prospered and they choose not to partake, indeed they take pride in denying themselves.  I can’t say if it is their Lord that demands that privation of one and not the other or what the truth of it is.”

“It sounds to me that you’ve travelled a far piece Iamerge.  I’ve never heard of these Jews.  Then again, I’d not heard of these monks either ’til I came here.”

“I would have thought to be the mayor of Rat Town you’d have had to be born here.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t born here, nor most of the rats for that matter.  They come on the boats, but I came from Cooperstown.  I’d be there still if there was one.”  For once Jim seemed a bit sad, “Mayhaps again.  But that’s nobody’s business.  Not yet.” The two men fell silent and they sat and nursed their drinks in the cool darkness.

“So, do you think that Ua Birlinn might have returned by now?”

Jim laughed, “Oh you and Ruaridh will get along famously, all business aren’t you?  I’d like to say that he’d be back by now, but I can’t. I figure you’ve got more of a wait than his returning.  Single minded he is, just like you.  I figure he’ll be about what ever took him out of here so fast a bit longer than it takes him to get there and back.  Don’t you?  Jim got up and moved back around the bar.  “A waste of a day I’d say.  Not like to be see’n visitors, since you’re ask’n me.”  Cooper refilled his ale and looked at Iamerge, “Can I get you a refill lad?”

Iamerge sighed, ”No, thanks.  I think I’ll get the lay of the land at least.  Perhaps I can find out a bit more about what’s happened and when I might speak to Ua Birlinn.  My thanks though, for the ale and the conversation.”

“Suit yourself.  Have a look, but come back by if you like.  I might have found a bit out myself by then.” Cooper winked and walked off toward the kitchen, “I do wonder where ol’ Mare has got to.”

Iamerge rose and went up the dark stair and out into the day.

Hunter Wilde was in trouble.  He was young and strong, he had travelled far and wide, but he’d hit a string of bad luck and it was looking like his travelling might be at an end.  He’d lost his horse and now his mule.  The solid little community he had hoped to Winter in was naught but burned beams and ashes.

There were dead too, things too awful to think on, so he buried the dead and most of his trade goods and headed for his last chance.  The snow was deep and fresh which made the going hard.  The Winter was early and strong, he could feel the icy fingers of cold stealing the life from his limbs.  There would be no one to bury him if he didn’t find a fire.

Step after step, each one a fight for life.  Now the wind howled, sure of a kill.  He couldn’t see for the snow and ice blowing into his face.  One more, and one more, keep stepping or die.

Step and step, the wind was less.  Something barred his way.  He pounded at the portal, a door, light, a fire.  Heat and light and the sound of merrymaking smote him like a blow.  Salvation.  He stumbled across the threshold.

He had found the fire of Murchadh, a minor lord in a confederation of such small kings.  However, Murchadh was a man on the make who fully planned to be Rig of a Tuath and maybe Ard Rig, and why not?  Warmed by fire and ale young Hunter was brought.

Murchadh sat a throne, with the furs taken off and the lord not sitting there it might just be a chair, but a throne it was that night.  “Who is it that enters the feasting hall of Murchadh?  Speak if you be friend then welcome.” Murchadh laughed glancing around his inner circle, “If you be enemy then we will have to figure out what to do with you.”

“My name is Hunter,” Hunter drew breath, there were many Wildes who roamed the west, he had no idea what truck this lord may have had with his folk, so he hesitated.

“Your name is Hunter or you are a hunter?” asked the lord.

“Wilde is my name from my mother.  I have never lived near another of that name.”  He added quickly, nobody seemed the least perturbed by his name or his bastardy so he added, “I can hunt, I do as I travel, but I sing better and play.”  Hunter drew his lute out of its case.   

A grumpy looking codger in worn motley spoke up, “We’ve no need of a minstrel, I am bard to lord Murchadh and I have my own harper.”

“Yes, yes, of course Barnen,” Murchadh soothed the skald, “We don’t mean to replace someone so valuable as you.  But this fellow may give you a bit of a well earned rest. . .”

“I need no such. . .”

“Surely not, it isn’t need of which I speak, I only speak of rest that you have earned, that you deserve, dear Barnen.” Turning back to Hunter, Murchadh smiled broadly, “Did you say you travelled?  Perhaps you could tell us of your travels.”

“Indeed I could.  I would be happy to regale you with stories of distant lands and songs from a hundred halls in dozens of kingdoms. . .”

Murchadh glanced over at Barnen who was fuming, “uh, do you compose, say, satire?  Barnen is most adept at satire.”

“No lord Murchadh, I sing mostly ballads and write that sort of thing.” So that was it thought Hunter.  The up and coming lord Murchadh had his every action praised in song and his enemies skewered in satire, but he feared that the poison sword of Barnen’s tongue might turn against him.  Barnen looked smug.

“Welcome to my hall.  Rest for the moment and we will see what can be done to earn your keep later if that is agreeable?

“Yes, most agreeable.”

“Find a seat at my board then, and Barnen, let’s have a tune.”

Hunter found a way to a bowl and a cup and a place near the fire to warm the cold from his bones.

   *   *   *

Hunter Wilde stayed as inconspicuous as could be and still get something to eat and drink.  Several days went by and he gathered no attention at all from Murchadh or any of his inner circle.  Still better, the attention he did garner came from the serving girls.  He became something of a favorite among them and found a better place to rest than the feast hall floor on a couple occasions.

It came as a bit of a surprise when the call came.  Marta elbowed him as he was lost in his own world gently playing his lute at the end of the bench farthest away from the head table.  “That’s you they’re call’n for Handsome.”

It was late and there weren’t many still awake enough to bend an elbow much less listen to him, but Murchadh still sat his throne, his inner circle passed out around him, and no sign of Barnen at all.

“Wake up Hunter Wilde!” Murchadh thundered, “I’ll have that song now, and news of the wide world.” 

The hall, for the most part, slept on, but Hunter played and sang, servers and the temperate few were treated to a few lovely songs of love and loss, of heroes and their deeds and then when even this audience was sent away happy, though eager for more, Murchadh got his news.

“Well lad,” said Murchadh, ”I would love to keep you here for the sing’n and to gather what news I could shake loose that you haven’t passed yet.  But Barnen won’t have it and truth to tell, I’ve more than enough mouths to feed.  This Winter came soon and hard so better than song is meat, not just for me, but for everyone.”

“I could tell that Murchadh was uh, not comfortable with me.”

“Don’t take offense Hunter, I think old Barnen would rather that nobody else sang in the world.  It’s just. . .”

“No no, I expected this when you mentioned satire.”

“You see my position?”

“Indeed,”  Hunter sighed, resigned to what he expected would come.