With the day fast dying and a down hill trail, Lugh focused on keeping up.  There were plenty of sites to see, little ponds, forests, flower filled meadows, all bathed in sunset richness of color, and of course, Oatie.

Oatie would spring off the trail whenever she saw firewood.  Lugh’s burden grew as he struggled to keep up with her and balance the load while she kept adding dry stick after stick.  It wasn’t too long and she stopped by a little meandering stream.  The place was the remains of a silted in pool caused by an avalanche long ago.  The grass was lush and the ground, soft and forgiving.  Lugh lay his firewood next to where Oatie had dropped her’s.  She was already returning with some rocks and a few more trips had a hearth of stones laid with a fire merrily burning and the stars shining above them.

Oatie seemed accustomed to making camp and Lugh had no objection to letting her do the lion’s share.  Soon there was something cooking in both their pots.  Lugh lay on the thick grass and wondered if he could remain awake long enough for dinner.  The smell was enticing, but the deepening night, and the long day’s hike was a powerful sedative.  Lugh found himself dosing as Oatie tended the camp.

Oatie stirring up the fire and pulling the pots from the coals woke Lugh from his light slumber, “Hey there sleepy-head.  You need to eat.  We have another long walk tomorrow.” 

Lugh groaned and rolled onto his belly.  Oatie was fussing with the fire on the other side of the pit.  The light made her skin look golden and her hair glowed like fire itself.  Lugh shook off his torpor, “Hey, if there’s food to eat, I’ll eat it.”

“Well, come and get it.  The least you can do is come this far since I made it,” Oatie chided, but smiled as he approached, “I guess you aren’t used to hiking that hard.”

“I guess not.”  I do my share of walking, especially of late.  Truth is, I had to leave some fine horses when I came North. . .” Lugh realized he didn’t really want to broach the subject of his expulsion from his previous accommodations.  He was surprised by his embarrassment, he flushed hot, but the heat of the dancing flames served to cover his blush.  “What have you made?  It smells wonderful, better than anything I make on the road.”

Oatie beamed at his compliment, conveniently diverted from the sore subject of his infidelities.  “Taste and see,” she said, holding out a spoonful for him to sample.”

“That’s amazing.  What is it?  It’s delicious, how did you learn to cook so well?”

She was proud, but a little sad too as she explained, “When my mother died it was just me and Father.  My father was a hopeless cook, so I learned for survival reasons.  Do you really like it?”

Lugh nodded emphatically and reached for the pot. She playfully slapped his hands away.  “There’s enough for both of us.  Just wait a moment.”

Oatie hot handed a round loaf of fresh bread out of one of the pots and broke it in half.  One half of the loaf went on each pot lid. 

Lugh gasped, “Fresh bread? From a camp pot? How did you. . .”

Oatie playfully stuffed a small chunk of sweet warm bread in his mouth and Lugh was busy savoring it for a moment. “You don’t have anything else to work with and you learn, I guess.  Truth is I don’t usually bother, but I felt like showing off a little.”  Oatie laddled out hot stew into the bread bowls and there was quiet around the fire as they enjoyed the warm food.

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.

Smoke came to himself again to the sound of chanted prayers.  He drifted as he listened to the sing-song praises, and in bits and pieces he remembered. 

It was supposed to be just another death at sea like many others before.  There is nothing quite like being lost at sea for drawing another chapter, grown uncomfortable and confining, to a definitive end thought Smoke.  This time the end had almost been too definitive.

Having the bottom of his skiff torn out on rocks and being beaten, nearly to death, on the stony shore hadn’t been according to plan, nor the storm that had driven him to it.  Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite sure that he hadn’t taken a mortal hurt with the way his body ached, and he was thirsty.  He was hungry too, but mostly he was parched.

Still, there were worse things than being bruised and thirsty.  Smoke, for his part, had felt worse.  His youth had been an extended association with want closer than any partnership, or marriage.

He wondered what his wife’s reaction to his reported death would be.  She wasn’t a bad woman, really, but then she wasn’t a very good one either.  Likely she would be delighted to have the freedom of her lovers, her children, his estates, and the full control of the portions of his business he hadn’t hidden and left in the care of his lieutenants.

It would be a relief for her not to have to worry about him discovering her infidelities, as if the children hadn’t told him, as if his spies were all blind, as if he hadn’t seen it all before.  Soon enough she would be dust, her brood would have squandered all his wealth, and all would be forgotten. 

Well, not everyone would forget, he remembered them all.  He was due a vacation, a forgetting time, renewal.  But first he must learn where he was, and get something to drink, yes, he was so thirsty.

His eyes fluttered open, there was dim light coming in the door of what appeared to be a stacked drystone room.  There was no ornament or furnishing save a ledge around the perimeter of the room that he assumed was where he lay.  It looked as if he was saved from death into poverty. 

He could hear the wind against his room, the sea not far away, and the voice that he had heard in the night, the voice of White Hands.  A curious fellow, White Hands, a prayer, a holy man it would seem.

                                          *     *     *

Smoke struggled against the weight upon him as he had the weight of the heavy sea.  But this was not the sea, it held him against hard rock unlike the wash of the sea that he had been unable to press against, then too, he was warm.  He ached all over from the beating against the rocks, but even pain meant nothing now that he was warm.  No need to fight, Smoke slept.

Where?  That question came to him from his fevered dreams or memories.  He had been thrown against the rocks enough times for him to have given up on land as salvation and come to terms with his death.  That he remembered.

He  had a vague memory of a calling for salvation from God, but that didn’t fit with his remembered resignation.  He remembered white hands, no, before that he remembered calling on God and then being hauled from the sea by one foot.  He remembered seeing the angry sea above him, falling toward him, but that was his perspective.  Then he was lifted by the sea. . .   

. . . and then white hands.

There was no light where he lay.  His bed was hard.  His battered body ached beneath some covering, heavy, warm.  There was music, or at least a voice in the dark that chanted words he could not quite catch.  Here and there in the chant, words came clear on the wind, praises to God, thanksgivings, strange as the sea falling from the sky, he thought, he was hearing the Psalms of the Hebrews in the trader’s tongue.

The cadence changed, the words became indestinguishable to Smoke in the night with wind and the distant roar of the sea and then only that.  Whorls and patterning burst on his retina, but there was nothing real to see in the night, nothing but the night to hear.

Then, as suddenly as silence, there was a presence.  Smoke heard a whisper of feet on stone, a sigh.  “Hello?” His voice sounded like the croak of a scavenger bird, meaningless except that he knew what he had meant to say.

“Oh, you are awake.”  There was shuffling, a trickling of water, and he could feel the radiant warmth of the figure near him.  ”You must be parched.”

“Yes. . .” he attempted an answer, but it was just crow talk again.

He felt fingers lightly brush his face, a thin arm lifted his head, and then cool sweet water filled his mouth and he swallowed.  A few more sips and he was laid back. 

The warmth moved away and he waited for more conversation that never came.  “How odd,” he thought or said but weariness carried him back to slumber.

Two Son’s of the UiNiall, Eremon and Crimthan, were returning from battle training on an island near Alba. These two had always been rivals, brothers they were, and always seeking to best each other and liking it not at all if his brother was viewed as superior in any sense. They had been sent to sharpen their battle skill, but ruth to tell also to see if one might better the other and so be clearly more fit to lead the clan.

The sly one, Crimthan, brought up the subject that runs thick between them, “At some point we will be forced to fight each other if one or the other does not yield.” Then followed a long recitation of all the arguments and counter-arguments that both know well and have heard all their lives, but always they lead to this impasse. “If only there was a way…” The sly fellow mused.

The ship master feared to land his boat lest it be dashed on the rocks and they all be lost, so they ride at anchor on a storm tossed sea. And such a ride, even the sailors, veterans all, looked a bit queasy. The two sons of clan Niall are impatient. Their training and their pride will not let them show anything but exasperation at the delay.

“What if we agree to a race?” Crimthan eyed his brother, gauging him, “First one ashore will rule the clan?”

Eremon sighed, “Truly? A race? Is that a fit way to decide so great a question, I wonder?”

“Isn’t it as good as any? Better than most, for I do not have to raise a hand against you my brother, and you do not have to raise a hand against me.”

“What if we both perish in this fool contest? “ asked the stronger.

“I’m surprised by you, Eremon, I’d have not thought you would give into fear. I’ve never known you to lack courage.” And this he said knowing that whether geas or just willfulness his brother would die rather than have his courage put in doubt.

Eremon growled deep in his throat, “Courage…”

Crimthan fought hard to hide his excitement as Eremon mulled but for a moment, “If we do this fool thing, and I win will you support me? There can be no turning from this course if we decide, this is far too important a thing. I know you think you are wiser than me, but I think you trust yourself too much. I will want your advise, but I do not think you would be the best to rule. Will you swear to support me if I reach shore before you?”

“You know that I will.” Crimthan promised.

“Let us have witnesses then, Ferdiad, Eochaid come witness.”

The witnesses gathered with the brothers, “Let the one who’s right hand touches shore first lead the clan with the full support of the other, setting aside concerns and trusting to fate and blood. Swear it Crimthan as I swear it now before these witnesses, the one who’s hand touches first will rule.”

“I swear it. The one who’s right hand touches first will rule.”

Prepare you then, I will speak to the captain and ask him to carry us closer into shore that we may not both parish for your impatience.  Eremon turned to the captain, but his brother was already in motion.

“You should prepare, but as for me I have prepared all my life. Wit should lead bravery. He ran to the rail dropping his cloak, revealing his body stripped for swimming and greased against the cold. With not a word more  Crimthan dove into the heaving sea.

The boat approached as Crimthan labored in the waves and for a moment he feared he had miscalculated. Had Eremon taken command and decided to dash the boat on the rocks? It sounded like the kind of direct action that he would favor, but Crimthan didn’t think he would risk so many lives.

The boat turned parallel and the waves crashed over him so all he could do was fight for his life. As he thrashed he felt the sand beneath him, then the wave slammed him into the bottom.

Crimthan struggled out of the surf. His body was numb he was shaking, and his teeth chattered, but that meant nothing. He was elated, he had done it.

“Save my hand!” The shout rang out over the roar of the waves, but the words meant nothing to Crimthan until he staggered out of the surf and  saw the ghastly lump, like a fat white spider, on a smear of red.

“That, is the right hand of the chief!” shouted Eremon.

Crimthan crawled to the hand. He’s mad he thought. Crimthan grabbed the cold dead thing and clamored to his feet. An urge to throw the thing into the surf came and just as soon left him, washed away in peals of laughter. Exhausted he collapsed, but couldn’t stop laughing. “I have it!” He laughed and couldn’t gather himself for a moment. “That was a long reach my brother, but I think you will need a new right hand!”

“You always were the wise one, good thing for me I favor the dexter. But a chief ought to have a strong right hand,” Eremon called from the boat.

“I have what you lack my brother,” He waved the grizzly trophy above his head.

“Instruct me. Do I lack wisdom?”

“No, not that. Now I see you are wiser than I am.”

“Surely not courage.”

“No brother, I risked my life to cheat you, but no one can doubt your courage this day.”

“Strength then?”

“You know as do I, you are the stronger.”

“You will have to tell me then, what do I lack?”

“I told you, but perhaps you need ears.” Crimthan could hear his brother Eremon laughing, “You will need a strong right hand, and that I have.”

“Better at my side than at my throat! eh brother?”

And ever after that clan wore the hand gules as a badge of courage.

This is an adaptation or reimagination of a legend that explains the Red Hand on our arms.

LSO