The River
Eunan tumbled from the tower. Water exploded around his head. The pain, the pain! Water invaded his mouth. Panic! A light flashed above him, ripples left on a blue skin.
“Must swim towards the light!”
He flapped his arms but still sank, slowly, slowly. Panic! Water conspired with maternal memories to drown him in spirit, body, and mind. The survival instinct kicked in. What was weighing him down? He felt for his waist. The throwing axes. He would need them. He kicked as hard as he could. His lungs were shrinking. Panic! He kicked and flapped at the same time. Propulsion! He swam towards the light. He kicked and flapped again. He broke through the skin. He spat out the water from his mouth and bit the air. Lungs inflated, he slipped back into the water once more.
The tumultuous torrents propelled him towards the bow of one of the English assault boats. Eunan used his experience gained by growing up beside a lake. While his aquatic abilities saved him, his flailing arms and bobbing head became unwanted companions of the battle debris, trying to float away and make their escape. Bullets from the English boats pursued his flailing arms and rasped through air and water until they buried themselves in the river bed.
Eunan saw the lights and heard the shouts of angry men. He realised where he was, took a breath and dived into the murkiness, and swam under a boat. He hid until his breath betrayed him, a weak, so-called friend. He propelled himself forward, kicking against the bottom of the boat.
He swam as covertly as he could, peering over his shoulder to see if the English soldiers’ attention had settled elsewhere. Enniskillen gave Eunan a parting farewell gift, for its blaze distracted the soldiers long enough to provide him with a brief opportunity to escape. The bitterness of parting sunk Eunan’s heart to the pit of his chest. So many men had died horrible deaths, yet he, possibly the least deserving, still lived. Yet it may have been for a reason. He endeavoured to carry on, if not for his own sake, then for the memory of his dead comrades who would want him to live and avenge them. He turned from Enniskillen to make good his escape. Too late! The bow of a boat rammed straight into the side of his head! He lost consciousness. The bow drove Eunan’s body beneath the hull and discarded his body to float downriver with the other debris.
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Odin sat and stoked the fire. He positioned himself where Eunan’s father once sat as if he were him. He gazed outward over Upper Lough Erne, and he wished he was not there, as if he were Eunan. The village burned around him. Flames licked and kissed the houses, trees, and grass. Any love that may have once resided there instantly became ash. A circle of stakes surrounded Odin’s fire, and skewered onto each stake was the head of one of Eunan’s friends or relatives who had died in the village’s various destructions. But Odin held the best for himself as he poured his mead into Eunan’s mother’s skull until it overflowed its sides. Odin picked it up from the temples and downed its contents. Loki and Badu emerged from the fire and sat down beside Odin. Loki picked up the skull of Eunan’s father and Badu, the small and delicate skull of Eunan’s sister. Odin poured and they drank.
“How bodes war and chaos?” Odin asked.
“Our host lives, but our blood flows out onto the river, and we don’t know whether he will meet death,” replied Badu.
“His time will come, but not yet. The bad blood still gushes through his veins. There is much entertainment for us to enjoy yet!”
The Norse gods laughed as they slammed their skulls together and toasted once again. Fire devoured the village.
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Water no longer flowed over Eunan’s face. He awoke, half spat, half vomited. The pain of both smooth and jagged hardness penetrated his body. He opened his eyes to a blurred outline and a mouth that made no sound. His senses gradually recovered.
“Eunan?”
